Trackman

by Catriona Child

  Jamesy stirs again. You're fucking nosey aren't you? Very interested in my private life.

  I stand up and pack the book away into my rucksack. That text has ruffled me. I need to move, to be out doing something. I need another hit of Trackman.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg, one nod of the head, keep moving.

  I leave the cemetery and just start walking. Only instead of my usual, blinkers-on walk, I pay attention to the folk that pass me. I look at them, try to guess if they're happy or sad. Do you need a song? Do you? I spend my whole life surrounded by other people, but I never take the time out to look at them.

  His face kept changing, line by line, page by page.

  It's fucking interesting, the facial expressions folk make, even when they're out and about. They talk to themselves, bite their nails, pick their noses, plait their hair. I don't even think they know they're doing it. I never realised how funny we all look. It's like even though we think we're in control of our bodies, it's really our bodies that control us.

  There's lots of different things we can try, we'll get you better, don't worry. I've been reading up on music therapy and I think that might work for you.

  I don't know if Jamesy could have helped me back then, back when I was seeing Dr Richmond. I think I might have needed a whole album, not just one song. Or one song on repeat, looped over and over and over again. I can't think of any song that would have helped me. I was beyond even the power of music.

  What's that, Jamesy? There's nothing as powerful as music. Well, you would say that wouldn't you? I know what you mean though, music is fucking amazing. It can take you places without you having to leave your room. Bring people and places to life in your head.

  Five songs which had meant something to Lewis and could never be heard again without stopping Davie in his tracks.

  It's so powerful, gets inside you, makes you do all sorts. Not always nice though, it can bring you down, even make you kill.

  I think you're right up to a point, Jamesy. I just don't think you could have helped me if you'd met me back then. All that shite about getting it out never worked. I'm better hiding it away in a part of the brain where I never go.

  I don't even know what song you would have played to me. I suppose that's the point. You don't choose, you just listen.

  Sounds like a fucking catchphrase, doesn't it?

  You don't choose, you just listen.

  It looks like a Caramac bar.

  We should put that on our business cards.

  I guess anyone can go and put on a tune that lifts them up. It's the extra boost that you give them, Jamesy, that's what makes it so fucking magic. It's like when you hear a song on the radio which reflects your mood, and it's like the DJ played it just for you. But you do play it just for them, don't you? You know exactly what song to play. It's not even the lyrics that mean something, not all the time. It's the song and what that song means to the person. Where it takes them in their head. How do you do that? It's fucking amazing. You're fucking amazing.

  It makes my brain ache to think about it too much. There's, like, what? Twelve notes? But people are still coming up with brand new tunes. And those tunes can make you laugh, make you cry, make you want to kill someone. How the fuck is that possible? I'm telling you, they better make sure they pack a lot of music into those spaceships or those arcs. When the planet goes down the shitter, the folks who are left will need music as much as they need food and water.

  Davie unpacked a bag of his clothes. It felt weird moving out of Susan's but he needed his own space. Plus Alfie seemed like a sound guy.

  He turned the volume up on the radio. Common People by Pulp.

  For the next six or seven minutes, Davie was possessed by Jarvis Cocker. The clothes were thrown aside as he danced like a madman around his new bedroom.

  Using a pen as a microphone, he slid around on the floor boards doing that crazy Jarvis style dancing.

  He felt amazing, like he was someone else.

  It doesn't matter who you are. Everyone has a favourite song. I bet in every single house there's at least one tape, one record, one CD.

  Everybody hurts.

  I walk past a woman dressed in the full burka. The whole works. Black from head to toe, with just a slit for her eyes, and yet she's still listening to her iPod. I watch the headphone wire as it rises up to her ears from some unseen pocket.

  You were the last high.

  Everyone is into music.

  They let him choose a song for Lewis's funeral. The minister was pretty cool. He told them they could choose anything they wanted. Songs which meant something to Lewis. He said it was different when it was a kid's funeral. Not like when Davie's grandpa died. They wanted to play his favourite hymn, but the organist refused to play it because it was too 'happy' for a funeral. Davie thought that was the biggest load of bullshit he'd ever heard.

  It took him ages to decide which song to use. He was hollow; everything that used to hold him up had been eaten away, and it wouldn't take much for it all to collapse inwards. Thinking of a favourite song was hard, because it meant thinking of Lewis. When his cat had died, Davie couldn't look at a photo for ages because it hurt too much. This was his fucking brother and it had only been a couple of days.

  He finally built up the courage to go into Lewis's room. He thought it might help him. Remind him of something. He was scared that he would pick the wrong song, that he wouldn't do Lewis justice. What if in months to come, he heard a song on the radio and was, like, fuck, I should have used that?

  In Lewis's bedroom, he walked round and round in a circle. He ran his hand over all the surfaces in the room, trying to feel closer to his brother. Lewis touched this once. His hand touched this. His bookcase, his trainers, his toy koala. Davie ran a hand over the old tape player they used to record themselves on when they were younger. Make up their own radio shows. Radio Watts. He pressed Play to see what Lewis had been listening too, but it wasn't plugged in.

  It didn't feel right. The room was different. The police had been in here searching. They'd been respectful, but something had changed. It was a waste of time too, they hadn't found anything. Taken his diaries away though. That was the thing that pissed Davie off the most. Lewis would have hated someone reading his diaries.

  I'm not afraid to die.

  I'm afraid of staying alive.

  Davie only stayed in the room for a few minutes before it started to overwhelm him and he had to leave. It was like one of those Indiana Jones movies where the walls and the ceiling closed in. He never went back in there, but sometimes stood outside with his palms flat against the door.

  Between them they managed to choose five songs. Five songs which had meant something to Lewis and could never be heard again without stopping Davie in his tracks.

  Man in the Mirror by Michael Jackson.

  Everlong by The Foo Fighters.

  The Haughs of Cromdale by The Corries.

  Run by Snow Patrol.

  Everyday by Buddy Holly.

  My phone beeps again.

  bookin tix 4 oz this wk, let me know x

  Leave me alone, Susan. I can't afford to go to Australia. I don't want to go to fucking Australia. Jamesy and I have got stuff to do here, don't we, Jamesy? Let me get through Scotland's lost souls, and then we'll see about heading off somewhere new.

  not goin 2 make it

  Best cut her off now or she'll keep texting me until she gets an answer.

  Oz.

  If Mum really wanted me to go out and visit her and Aunty Chrissie and Uncle Mike, how come she's never asked?

  Oz.

  Davie's dad used to make Oz juice for Davie and Lewey when they were younger. It was a secret recipe, he'd always hide in the utility room where they kept the juice bottles while he made it. He'd emerge a few minutes later with two glasses of Oz juice. It never tasted the same and was always a different colour, but Davie and Lewis loved it. It was only when Davie got older that his dad told him what Oz jui
ce really was: the dregs at the bottom of all the juice bottles mixed together. His dad didn't like things to go to waste.

  We're off to see the wizard.

  The wizard was a fake. Floated off in his hot-air balloon and left Dorothy behind. Fuck the wizard and fuck Harold Bishop and fuck Australia and fuck Oz.

  Sorry, Jamesy. I'm not getting at you. I just get worked up sometimes. I can't help it. Aye, I know. One finger, one thumb, one arm, one. Try what? What other mantra?

  Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackman Trackm

  I can't believe what time it is. The day's flown by. Jamesy and I have been wandering. We haven't even stopped for anyone. We've just been watching people. Watching people, and I've been trying to guess who needs a song and boring Jamesy with my shite. It's easy talking to him about stuff though, he seems to listen. Some things I didn't even have to tell him, it was like he already knew. The day has gone past in a blur.

  Maybe this is part of the process. Part of the Trackman training. I've really been paying attention to the folk I've walked by today.

  I'm like Luke on Dagobah though. Screw the training, Yoda, I just want to get to the Jedi bit now. I want to feel that buzz again. You're addictive, Jamesy.

  It's getting late, so I start to head on home. I've ended up in town, so I wander up The Mound, past the National Library and then down onto Victoria Street.

  Nice one, Jamesy. Okay, okay. I'm game if you are.

  Which one is it then? Oh aye, I see him.

  He doesn't need to spell things out for me anymore. I can feel it.

  The lad looks about fifteen. He's sitting on the wall outside the Liquid Rooms, playing with his mobile phone. Above the door of the venue there's a sign up:

  TONIGHT – TRAVIS

  The lad actually reminds me of the guitarist out of Travis. A bit short, a bit scruffy, a bit out of place. Not the one the lassies would normally go for, but there's something cool about him.

  I stop in front of the venue and sit next to him on the wall. There's a mess of torn-up paper at his feet. I catch a glimpse of one of the scraps: RAVI.

  'Alright?' I say.

  He nods at me and edges along the wall.

  'How come you're not at the gig?' I ask.

  'Those fuckwits wouldn't let me in.' He points at the bouncers.

  They're standing at the front of the Liquid Rooms with their backs to us, chatting up whoever is on the box office. One of them's holding a mug of tea.

  'How not?'

  'They said it's for over eighteens only, and I don't have any ID. Let my pals in though.'

  'That's shite.'

  'I ken. I've come all the way from Perth for this, and now I'm stuck outside on my own like a right prick. I don't even know where I am, and my pal's dad isn't picking us up till after eleven.'

  'That really is shite.'

  Poor kid. I'd be pissed off too. Some of the bouncers round here can be total wankers.

  Alright, Jamesy, alright. I'm getting there. You keep me hanging on all day and now you're rushing me.

  'Do you want to listen to a song, to help cheer you up?' I ask.

  'Nah, you're okay, likes.'

  The lad edges along the wall a bit more and his eyes dart over to the bouncers. A breeze blows up Victoria Street and picks up the scraps of paper. They swirl around our ankles.

  'I'm not being funny or that, just trying to help.'

  He's a tricky one. I thought I'd started to get the hang of it, but Jamesy has thrown me a curve ball. Keeping me on my toes.

  'It's cool, I'm okay.'

  'Come on, I'm in the support band. Let me play you a song?'

  'Honestly?'

  'Aye, I just came out for some air.'

  'What's your band called?'

  'Trackman.'

  Don't let him know what the actual support band is.

  Don't let him know what the actual support band is.

  'I've not heard of you.'

  'That's why we're the support.'

  'Can you not get me into the gig then? That would cheer me up more than a song.'

  That's what you think.

  'Sorry, my band's not that good.'

  The lad looks at me then turns back to his phone. I pass him Jamesy's headphones.

  'Come on. If you think it's shite just chuck them back over at me.'

  'Aye, alright. It's not like I've got anything else to do.'

  'That's the spirit.'

  He puts the headphones on, and Jamesy warms up in my hands.

  by Travis Happy (recorded live at the Edinburgh Liquid Rooms) by Travis Happy (recorded live at the E

  Fucking hell, Jamesy. You're good.

  I can smell Lynx deodorant mixed in with sweat and spunk, and there's a purple shimmer around the lad like a heat haze.

  Dear Fran,

  Remember how for the last few days I've been counting down? Well, it turned out the countdown was a waste of time. I couldn't believe it. I've been waiting months to finally see you live, and then I get KB'd at the door. They let everyone else in too. That made it even worse, getting KB'd in front of Jools.

  Man, it was so shite. Just had to sit outside on the wall while everyone else got to go in. Jools gave me a look, but I just shrugged my shoulders. No point us all missing it.

  Ever since I heard my sister listening to you, I've loved you. I'd sit in the hall outside her bedroom door listening, because she wouldn't let me in her room. If she was out I'd sneak in and listen to you properly; look at the CD cases, at your picture, learn all the words.

  I thought you were like me for a while, Franny, and it made me really happy. Then I found out you were married, and I was, like, man; but I didn't stop liking you. I know you get me. When you sing that line in As You Are, I know you understand how I'm feeling. You're the reason I started to write this diary, the reason I'm teaching myself guitar. Nobody knows me better than you, Franny. Man, I was so upset. I ripped up my ticket and chucked it on the ground, and then I felt even worse because I could have kept it and put it on my wall. Then this guy came along. From far away he looked just like you, all scruffy and skinny. I got a total fright. I thought it was you. Then he got closer and I realised it was just some random, and my heart started to slow down again. Then in my ear I heard your voice. 'Come on, Edinburgh.'

  And the guitars kicked in and you were playing Happy, and I was inside watching you play. I could see you.

  I can't hear that song without feeling happy. Sounds dumb, I know. It's like what you said about songs being bookmarks though. That song reminds me of when Jools and I went to Hampden, and Scotland won and at the end they played it. Man, that was such a good night. Jools and I were sat next to this drunk guy who fell over when Scotland scored and couldn't get back up. It was so funny. Then Jools' big brother came and got us in the car afterwards with his girlfriend, and Jools and I sat in the back together all the way home to Perth. I love being with Jools; he makes me feel all funny. Warm and tingly and fuzzy and all sorts. He fancies Chloe and I know I've got no chance with him, but just being around him makes me feel amazing. I'd die if he ever found out; he'd probably never speak to me again. It's just our secret, Fran, okay?

  After that guy played me Happy, I got a call from Jools and he was holding his phone up from the gig so I could hear you play. And guess what? It was Happy you were playing. Man, it was so weird. But Jools was thinking of me from the gig and I had the whole car journey home with him to look forward to. He said he'd give me his gig ticket too seeing as I'd ripped mine up, and I almost felt good that I'd been KB'd.

  'Cheers, that was great,' the lad says.

  As he hands me back the headphones his phone starts to ring and he answers it. I move away and head down the hill into the Grassmarket. Disappear before he talks to his pals and realises what a lot of shite I've been telling him.

  The mysterious Trackman.

  I like it.

  That kid was great. I got a real kick out of helping him. Made me remember what it wa
s like to be a teenager. All that wanking and fancying pretty lassies and being fucked-up and angsty. That kid seemed to have a lot more angst than I ever did though. Wonder what his deal is?

  Man, to feel like that all the time again. I know a lot of being a teenager was shite, but the highs were extreme highs. Teenage kicks. Back at that age when you believed your dreams would come true. You were going to do something with your life, make a fucking difference. Before reality got a hold of you and ground you down. Fuck, what I wouldn't give to feel like that a bit longer. One Trackman hit isn't enough.

  It's gone right to my head.

  Man, I'm so wired. I could do anything. Astrid.

  I scroll through the phonebook in my mobile.

  hi davie here wonder if u fancy meetin up sumtime

  Send.

  I start to pick up my walk.

  One finger, one thumb, one arm, one leg.

  Onefingeronethumbonearmonelegonefingeronethumb

  Step. Step. Step. Step. Step. Stepstepstep.

  I'm running along the cobbles of the Grassmarket like a complete twat. There's groups of folk looking in shop windows, and sitting outside the pubs having a drink and a smoke.

  runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun

  They're all a blur as I sprint past. I couldn't give a shit what they think of me. I turn onto King's Stables Road and keep going. I've not run like this for years. I'm out of breath and I've got a stitch but I don't stop. The breeze blows in my face; it makes my eyes water and ruffles my hair. I'm not touching the ground anymore, I'm running on air.

  sky.

  ET on the bikes. Pavement, pavement, pavement,

  runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun

  runrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrunrun

  When Davie was in Primary two, he believed he could fly. He would practise all the time when he had the living room to himself. He'd stand on the arm of the sofa, and think really hard about flying. Then he'd go up on his tiptoes and lean forward until he was just about to fall off the sofa. At the last moment he'd jump, arms outstretched. He could fly. Each time he did it, he would make himself stay in the air for a fraction longer than the last time. If he could learn to walk and to ride a bike, he could learn to fly. His goal was to make it to the other side of the room without touching the carpet.