The Singer

by Jessica Law

wild. But only when the singer started did I feel that overwhelming sense of what can only be described as relief, as if there had been something wrong before, and only now that the music had started was everything right and as it should be. The words of the song didn’t really mean much—they were just like a simple nursery rhyme, really, almost as if he was making it up as he went along—but he sung them with such conviction and sincerity, as if he was putting his whole heart and soul into it, that they took on a meaning and beauty they didn’t really deserve. Then just occasionally, between verses, he would look up and simply laugh, as if overcome by the sheer carefree joy of being on that stage and singing to all of us at that moment in time.

  Halfway through the second song, however, we heard a sound in the distance that we had all been dreading. We’d been pretty lucky so far, actually, but we knew they’d come sooner or later. The low, droning sound of high-performance petroleum-fuelled steam turbine engines reached our ears and struck terror into our hearts.

  Information: Steam Punks

  As always in uncertain times there are many youth subcultures. Some of the worst and most violent of these are the Steam Punks, so called because of their love of the dated steam turbine motorcycles now only in limited supply due to their complexity and excessive production costs. Modern diesel engines have almost completely taken over from steam, but the petroleum fuelled steam turbine bikes certainly have the edge on acceleration and speed, but lack the range due to frequent stops to fill their huge water tanks, which are usually accompanied by violent interludes on any unfortunates around at the time. The Steam Punks will go to any lengths to obtain these much sought after machines and cherish them almost as much as their own lives.

  The unmistakable loud whirring drone of the turbine bikes intimidates the ordinary law abiding folk, the police tend to conveniently disappear on their arrival, police force wages being a current issue. A blind eye is turned to their disruptive raucous rallies, festivals of drunken debauchery and drug abuse. These illegal events usually take place on industrial waste land and attract undesirables into the area leaving a disarray of litter and detritus which are never cleaned up due to the cut backs in public services.

  We could hear them coming closer every second, zooming past the normal diesel cars and buses, the fastest thing on the road and the terror of every law-abiding citizen. Panicked whispers filled the room:

  “It’s them…”

  “They’re here…”

  “Steam Punks!”

  Then we heard the engines stop.

  The music ground to a halt, and the panic heightened. There were screams at the back of the room as people fought to reach the exits, some making a run for it, some simply trying to hide. The band just grabbed their instruments and jumped straight offstage, into the crowd. Nobody noticed them now. Then we heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and saw movements in the dark shadows of the entrance—they’d arrived.

  As menaces to society go, they were certainly natty dressers. Gold-topped canes in hand, they towered formidably over us in their leather tailcoats, looking about seven feet tall, their silhouettes strangely distorted by their mock-opulent attire.

  “Watch out for the one in the purple Doc Martens,” I’d always been told. “Whatever you do, stay away from him. That’s Sticky Harry - their leader.”

  I caught sight of him now, and I could see why he evoked such fear. His clothes were ripped and stained—with what, I didn’t want to know—and his mutton-chop sideburns gave him a disconcerting wolfish appearance. He snarled, revealing a mouth full of gold teeth. As I watched aghast, he took his cane in hand and, almost nonchalantly, swung it like a club, the golden top colliding with the side of a man’s jaw—the man went down in an instant, and Sticky Harry turned away, almost bored, leaving his victim to the mercy of the Steam Punk’s steel toe capped brogues. One of them had a cane sword. Through a rip in his waistcoat, I thought I could make out the tattoo of a pocket watch on his side, on the exact spot where the real one would be.

  I stayed there, glued to the spot with fear and horrified fascination, until one of our frenzied number collided with me and brought me back to my senses. I ran out into the corridor, trying to find my friend—but she’d already scarpered, along with the rest of them. Then I spotted a kneeling figure through the running legs, and pushed my way over.

  It was the singer. He was trying to pick up the broken pieces of his keytar. It had fallen out of its case, and he was scrabbling about, trying to find the neck that had become detached from the main body of the instrument. The crowds were thinning and, by the sound of the screams, the Steam Punks were getting closer. Impulsively, I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him across the corridor.

  “Quick, in here!” I hissed, and pushed him through the doors of the girls’ toilet. We rushed to the cubicle at the very end and locked ourselves in.

  “I don’t know why I bothered,” He said, with a kind of hysterical bravado, wistfully fingering the broken remains of his hand-held keyboard. “I could hardly play the stupid thing anyway. I only have it to give me something to do in the bits when I’m not singing - I’d be standing around like a right idiot otherwise.” He broke off, sighing. “I think the others have got out OK. They told me to leave it - but it was bloody expensive! I don’t think we can afford a replacement, unless we can get this one fixed.”

  “Shush!” I told him. “Those punks will be having a field day if they find out you’re here. It’ll be like Christmas come early for them!”

  “I don’t see what they’ve got against us anyway,” He complained. “What have we done to them?”

  “I think they’re just against everyone who doesn’t believe in sticking with steam power like they do. So, basically, the whole world, really.”

  “But we’ve offended them especially, somehow, I’m sure of it—our lot, I mean.” He said, perching himself on the cistern. “I think it’s just because we’re too sensitive—it annoys them that we’ve got a soul, and we don’t believe in doing destructive things like they do. Things like laying waste to acres of land with those terrible debauched steam rallies they have - did you hear about those? I think they’re just angry about the way the world’s gone, really.”

  I was surprised at his verbosity, and the ease and confidence with which he spoke—which seemed quite uncharacteristic, given that he acted like a rabbit caught in the headlights when he was on stage. His voice was boyish, with the typical choked accent of the provinces, as if he was swallowing each word as he said it. I was about to reply to his unexpectedly articulate tirade when I heard ringing footsteps coming closer in the corridor outside. The door of the toilets crashed open and the heavy tread of steel toe capped boots echoed round the walls. We watched in silent horror as the boots moved along the gap under the doors and came to rest outside ours.

  “Oy!” A rough voice shouted. “’Oo’s in there?”

  Stupidly, as if it would help, we drew our feet up out of sight.

  “I know you’re in there!” He shouted, throwing his weight against the door. “You can’t stay in there forever!”

  There was a tiny window halfway up the wall of the cubicle. Quickly, I clambered up on top of the cistern and forced it open.

  “Quick, through here!” I hissed, dragging him up. He stuck his head and arms out and began to wriggle through, as the punk continued to launch himself against the door, whose lock was now under some considerable strain. Then I heard sirens in the street outside. A voice called out in the corridor and the banging stopped. I heard his boots echoing against the tiles as he turned and retreated, followed by several pairs of running feet as they tried to leave the scene.

  “It’s OK, they’ve gone now.” I told him. “You can come back in now—you don’t have to go out that way.”

  “I can’t come back in, I’m bloody stuck!” He exclaimed. “You’ll have to push me out.”

  I turned round to see a pair of disembodied legs sticking comically out of the window, flaili
ng desperately. I gave an exasperated sigh and grabbed him by the ankles, pushing him through. Then I picked up his keytar case and threw it out after him, before clambering out myself.

  I landed heavily on the gravely tarmac of the car park and turned to see him on the floor beside me. He’d cut his hands on some broken glass and was trying to hide how much it hurt.

  “Damn!” He exclaimed, “I hate blood!”

  I though this rather funny, given the gruesome nature of some of his songs.

  We made our way round the back of the building and out into a side street, which we wandered up onto the main road. Occasionally, out of the darkness, there loomed the ungainly silhouette of an abandoned steam bike parked on the pavement, with its characteristic pair of tanks—one for petrol, one for water. The police must have seen them coming from the Camera Obscura Towers and collared them while they had the chance. The sky, as always, was white with smoke from the houses’ diesel generators, and the clouds flickered with advertisements and news updates projected onto the opaque sky. The whole of Cinderford was laid out beneath us, and seemed to go on forever. We strolled aimlessly down the high street.

  “Thanks for rescuing me.” He said, grinning sheepishly and looking up from beneath his stylishly matted hair. A streetlight cast a