The Singer

by Jessica Law

stadium to thousands of clamouring people, of finally being able to tell you I love you, and wondering whether this sublime sound really is my voice at all—of almost being possessed by the sheer power of it all. Of feeling inhuman, more than human, part of something bigger—not being able to remember where I ended and the machine began as I got lost in the utter joy of the moment. The pain and exhaustion as the band packed up and I was detached from the device, my only comfort being the anticipation of seeing you again.

  But of course, I couldn’t say any of that. Still, I suppose it was a good thing—the mystery and intrigue was good for publicity, and only made me seem more interesting.

  In the same way, bands, I’d come to realise, were full of contradictions. How can our music be so full of intelligence and skill and yet, in interviews, we’re unable to string a sentence together? How can Reese be loved by so many girls when he’s such a loser, and when he hasn’t the capacity to love any of them back? How can the twins be so selectively naïve in the face of such a corrupt industry? It was you, I realised—you project these things onto us, and really, we’re just human, like everyone else. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do out utmost to hide it. I’d given you what you wanted, and you’d fallen for it hook, line and sinker—and I’d even believed some of it myself towards the end. But what I had to remember was that it was all just an act, none of it was real—until now. I can’t believe you lapped it up, unquestioning—surely you realised nobody’s actually like that? But it was time to throw out that whole traumatised introspective routine, and sing what I actually felt—after all, you can only shoegaze for so long before you get absolutely sick to death of your shoes. There were only two solutions for that—buy new shoes, or sing what you mean, even if they happen to be the same traumatised and introspective thoughts you lied about to start with.

  If you think Cinderford is dirty, you haven’t seen New York. The soot is so dense in the air you can feel the caustic sting in your lungs. And the noise is incredible. The houses on the street level are cast into darkness by the layers of bridges, roads, aqueducts, viaducts, trams and sky trains, all overlapping one another and reaching high up into the opaque sky. Disorientated, we dragged our cases out of the taxi and stared in absolute dumbfounded disbelief at the skyscraper hotel that towered over us. Even through our enormous sunglasses, the mirrored glare of the glass plates left black marks behind our retinas. I felt my pupils contract painfully as a sky train rattled past, flashing its sharp reflection in the side of the building. This—this place—was where we were staying. We’d finally made it. In honour of the situation, the Twins appeared to have purchased with their pocket money a couple of enormous fake fur coats, one black, one white, which they wore with obvious pride, finally realising their rock star dream.

  A few hours later in the hotel suite, and things seemed to have settled back to normal. The Twins were off on their own somewhere, probably lying in bed, fully clothed, with the covers pulled up over their heads. (This was quite a common occurrence—they were often to be found with their shoes poking out of the bottom of the bed, giggling and whispering conspiratorially to one another for hours on end.) Reese was avidly devouring a cheesecake that would probably remain in his system for no more than fifteen minutes. He was wearing his “I  WHITESANDS” T-shirt with the little heart on the left, just over where his real heart would be. After a few minutes of contemplative silence, he gave that characteristic sigh that always meant he was about to say something.

  “Alex -”

  Quickly, I held up the cardboard sign I had prepared for situations such as these. It read:

  No, I don’t want any cake.

  “No, it’s not that.” He replied.

  I turned the card round to show the second most common response:

  Make Bazooka do it.

  “No, I don’t need you to hold my hair back either. It’s just—there’s something I need you to help me with.”

  I looked up. He sounded serious—this wasn’t like him at all.

  My silence and inability to interrupt seemed too egg him on and give him confidence. He continued:

  “I’m in a real mess. I just don’t know what to do -”

  Just then, his words were cut short by a piercing scream issuing from the direction of the bathroom, the sound reverberating off the white tiles. We both jumped up and ran to the door. Panicked, we scrabbled at the handle and flung it open.

  The room looked like a bloodbath. Everything was red. It was splashed across the floor. It dripped from the bath and ran down the sides of the sink. There were red handprints on the wall. Bazooka was sitting on the edge of the bath, his head in his hands, red dripping down the side of his face and over his fingers.

  “I’m so sorry!” Richard kept saying. “Oh my God, what have I done? I’m so sorry.”

  “What’s happened?” Yelled Reese, panicked. He ran up and tried to prise Bazooka’s hands away from his head. “Bazooka, are you alright? Can you hear me? Speak to me!”

  Then he paused. He drew his hand away from Bazooka’s arm and stared at the red sticky liquid with obvious puzzlement. He brought his hand up to his face and, tentatively, sniffed.

  “What is this stuff?” He asked. “And why does it smell of -”

  “Candyfloss!” Wailed Bazooka. “Candyfloss pink. He’s gone and dyed it candyfloss pink…”

  Bazooka sat up and, slowly, drew his hands away from his head. His hair, I could now see, was dyed a vibrant shade of magenta.

  “What am I going to do now?” He moaned. “I look absolutely ridiculous. I can’t have this hanging over my eyes all the time. It’ll give me a migraine.”

  “I’m sorry!” Repeated Richard, contrite, as if he’d done it to himself. “I’ll bleach it back again, I promise.”

  “I can’t believe you got them mixed up.” He said. “I still don’t understand how you did it.”

  “The dyes are the same colour!” Richard bemoaned. “Blonde dye looks red when it’s in the bottle. Besides, I was kind of—distracted when we bought it. There were colours everywhere…”

  “Anyway, it’s too late now.” Sighed Bazooka. “The damage is done. There’s no time—I’ll have to go on like it tonight.”

  “Oh God.” Exclaimed Richard. “What’s the opposite of pink, then? I’m going to have to dye mine…I don’t know…cerulean turquoise, or something. And then there’s our outfits. Oh…” He buried his head in his hands, and sobbed silently to himself.

  Reese viewed the room with mounting exasperation. “Look, we can sort this out.” He said, trying to take control of the situation. “You don’t have to have oppositely coloured hair, you know…”

  “Yes we do!” Wailed Bazooka.

  “Yes, but, just for tonight, can’t you just be…well, different?”

  “I don’t know.” Said Richard, helping Bazooka up and wrapping a towel protectively round his shoulders. “I really don’t know…”

  “Well, good, that’s sorted then!” Reese jumped up and started ushering us all out of the room in a businesslike manner. “Come on, everyone!” He said. “Let’s get going then. Come on, get out, GET OUT!”

  Hurriedly, he slammed the door on us and slid the bolt. A few seconds later, and we heard it—the sound of the shower being run, and, behind that, the horrible, heart-wrenching coughing and retching noises we had become so accustomed to these past weeks. I still found it very difficult to listen to.

  I was glad the hotel walls were soundproof. Anyone rude enough to eavesdrop would have been under the impression that several murders had been taking place.

  Compared to this, our homecoming to England was quite a relaxing prospect. Although, to be honest, I never thought I’d be referring to the Royal Albert Hall in those terms. This was a big deal, and Endoplasmic-Reticulum was there, as always, to make sure everything went smoothly. He came into our dressing room (which had light bulbs round the mirror—something I had always dreamed of!) wearing his hideous lurid checked sports jacket, which (I noti
ced to my horror) he had coupled with a differently checked shirt and tartan tweed trousers. The stench of his cigar was about ten times more caustic than the New York smog had been.

  “Right, I hope everybody’s present and correct?” He asked, scanning the room. I nodded.

  “Good. Here,” He said, handing me a piece of paper on which the set list was written. Then he noticed Reese curled up in the corner of the room, and looked faintly disgruntled.

  “You!” He said. “What’s up with you?”

  Reese was, now I came to notice, incredibly pale and appeared to be shivering.

  “Nothing—I’m fine.” Reese replied, attempting hurriedly to get up. The consequent head rush sent him staggering to a chair.

  “Hmm. You don’t look too good. You’re the pin-up, remember? You’re meant to look perfect.”

  “I know!” Countered Reese, desperately. “You keep telling me. And I’ve been trying all this time to be as perfect as I can. But I don’t think I can get more perfect than I am now.”

  “Well, try.” Said Endoplasmic - Reticulum, dismissively.

  Reese wearily staggered out of the room in search of the nearest sink. I felt a rising anger towards Reticulum. He certainly wasn’t doing Reese much good, making him obsess about his appearance. And increasingly I resented his control over the set list I now held in my hands. All the songs I saw written before me now seemed vacuous