The Singer
Page 7
piercing scream issuing from behind the twin’s sandcastle (which, incidentally, resembled a worryingly precipitous Gaudi-esque Gothic confection, like Salvador Dali’s version of the Notre Dame). It appeared that Bazooka had encountered a marine isopod the size of a small hamster, and was finding the idea of a woodlouse of such gigantic proportions a little too much to take in. Reese, who had just returned from getting changed, distracted them by suggesting going on a nice walk along the promenade. He appeared to be wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the legend “Welsh water” and a series of little pictures of bulrushes, rivers and all the different kinds of wildlife that inhabited Wales’ freshwater ecosystems. This surprising ensemble was coupled with a red and white polka-dot neckerchief, apparently as a “disguise” to avoid recognition by members of the public. Despite this, a disproportionate number of girls seemed to be milling around behind him as we made our way down the promenade. They conferred in a group as he paused at a stall to buy the twins some candyfloss. Richard stared at his with vaguely worried bafflement. Obviously he was finding the idea of filamentous confectionary difficult to cope with. Bazooka recoiled from his in abject fear, terrified that it would get in his hair. Reese sighed exasperatedly. It was plainly something that would take a lot of getting used to.
I took Alex’s hand in mine and smiled reassuringly. Behind us, the twins copied our actions exactly, grinning and swinging their linked hands between them as they carried on along the sea front. Alex looked worried and shot them a warning glance.
The sun cut sharply through the cold air and glanced off the wavelets, making them sparkle. We walked to the end of the pier and leaned over the edge, watching the Navy-escorted oil tankers drift silently along the horizon. Everything was perfect, and I just wanted to freeze time and stay like this forever. Alex was looking out to sea with a distant expression in his eyes, completely lost in his own thoughts. He smiled to himself about something he was thinking of. His hair fell across his face, which usually absolutely infuriates me but right now just made me love him even more. I brushed it out of his eyes and kissed him gently. Everything was right and as it should be. Reese was earnestly consuming a large ice cream, the twins were playing and…
I did a double take. The twins definitely weren’t playing. They were copying our actions again—and with a great deal of enthusiasm. I stared at them and laughed in surprise. Eventually they broke apart and grinned at each other, their eyes shining, as if they had discovered something wonderful and new. Alex looked worried.
“Reese’s let them have sweets again—they’ve gone hyper. They don’t realise what they’re doing, they’re just copying us. I should have explained to them earlier –”
“Let them!” I told him. “It doesn’t matter.”
“But they don’t understand why they’re doing it—they’re just playing. It’ll only confuse them if I let them carry on.” He looked to Reese for support, but he was avidly devouring a Chelsea bun. Meanwhile, the twins continued devouring each other.
“Right, well, I’ll just go and explain.” He said.
Alex went over and spoke to them quietly.
“Look, I know you’ve been watching me and Grace, but you’re not to copy us, OK? You’re not in trouble-” he interjected hastily, as Bazooka’s eyes had grown wide with worry, “but if people see you doing that they’ll get the wrong impression. I don’t want you getting all confused and mixed up in something you don’t know about. It’s not wrong, but I don’t think you understand what you’re doing. It’s usually just something boys and girls do, not you. It’s not a game-”
“But it’s fun!” Protested Richard.
“I don’t want to kiss a horrid girl!” Added Bazooka, his lip trembling.
“You don’t have to,” Said Alex hurriedly, predicting another upheaval. “You’ll probably get bored of it soon anyway.”
But as we made our way back along the pier, I caught them out of the corner of my eye copying us again, their arms round each other’s waists, and Richard’s head resting contentedly on Bazooka’s shoulder. With the cold sun behind them, it was an image of pure, untainted happiness—of two people who had found refuge in each other against a harsh and bewildering world.
The Singer
I was so nervous I felt as if my heart was going to explode. I had that feeling you get on the sky train when you drop two feet unexpectedly. It was finally going to happen today, and I was so terrified I could hardly turn the handle of the door to John Doe’s surgery. In the end I got in somehow, but after I’d closed the door behind me I had to pause in awe for several minutes to take in my surroundings.
The room was a vast cavern, with an arched roof like that of a cathedral, although no light penetrated into this subterranean catacomb. There was something claustrophobic about not being able too see the sky, and the cloying scent of chloroform permeated the air and made me dizzy. I looked around me. Row upon row of labelled jars lined the walls from floor to ceiling, each housing nameless fleshy objects suspended in formaldehyde, floating ghost-like beneath the underwater glow of the fibre optic. At the back of the hall Doctor John Doe sat at his desk, casting an eight-armed shadow against the wall. As I made my way up to him, I passed the Theatre. The door was slightly ajar and through the gap I glimpsed white surfaces and glittering, steely objects.
When I cast a shadow over him he looked up from his microscope.
“Ah, Alex Young.” He said. “Do take a seat.”
His normal eye studied me intently as I sat down. Who knew what the telescopic one was seeing.
“Your health checks are all in order You’re a little malnourished, but I know that’s the fashion in your profession so it can’t be helped.” He said, leafing through a pile of documents on his desk with his normal arms. The other arms continued to click and whir around him, completing six tasks at once with ferocious efficiency. He perused the forms and sighed to himself.
“You seem pretty determined—and at just eighteen. You know what you want alright.”
I nodded, still not trusting myself to speak.
“Now, I’m going to go through the process with you now to make it clear exactly what’s going to happen. Right?”
“Er…yes.” I replied, trying hard to concentrate on what he was saying. It certainly took a while to get used to his arm’s numerous and chaotic activities.
“Once you’re under anaesthetic, I will make an incision into the epiglottis, or voice box, to insert an internal hydraulic resonator.”
I tried to guess how many modifications he’d had done. He’d certainly practiced enough on himself. I wondered whether there was a single organic bone left in his body.
“I will then bind the fibres of connective tissue to the resonating device by biological electroplating.”
One of his arms ended in a sinister-looking tweezer apparatus. Another had a sharp, probing spike on the end—I didn’t want to know what that was for.
“To make this possible, I will have to remove a section of the epiglottis…”
His scalpel arm glinted.
“And at the base of the voice box I will insert an aperture to which the amplifier cable can be attached.”
“Like an instrument.”
“Exactly. But that is the point, you see—you will only ever be able to vocalise when plugged into a mechanical amplifier of the variety built into modern music venues and stadia. In normal day-to-day life you will not be able to make any sound at all, as part of your voice box is missing. In short, you will not be able to speak—only sing.”
I knew all this already. Now I just wanted to get it over and done with. Of course I was willing to trade my voice for renown and royalties, even if it hurt with every note I sang. It was my singing that drew people, siren-like, towards me, and for that, being mute the rest of the time was a small price to pay.
“While you’re here, I can throw in a few more modifications if you want.” Added John Doe. “A clockwork right hand is very fashionable at the moment, and will certainl
y improve your dexterity in operating musical instruments.”
“Well, I can only play four notes…”
“And a few pistons in your left leg would certainly complete the image.”
“That does look quite good…”
“Then I think that’s all we have to discuss.” He got up in a flurry of whirring cogs and clicking levers. “Please wait here for a few minutes while I prepare my equipment.”
He closed the door of the Theatre behind him and I was left alone in the vast cavernous room.
I walked over to the shelves of jars and took a closer look at them. Each one was carefully anatomically labelled with a name and date. Some of the names looked familiar, and it slowly downed upon me with a sickening certainly that I what I was actually looking at was some sort of sinister wall of fame. High up on a shelf I spotted the voice box of David Bowie, who was now almost entirely mechanical. Soon mine would be up there with him. Lower down I noticed some names that surprised me—well known politicians and public figures. I wondered what they had had replaced. Then suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a familiar name:
REESE WILLIAMS—KEYBOARD PLAYER
I stared in disbelief. I didn’t know he’d had anything done—why had he never told me? I was sure it couldn’t be real. But that was Reese’s real name alright, and there weren’t any others. I leaned in to inspect it