The Singer
Page 15
*I need my voice back. *I wrote. I’m completely under their control. I’m trapped. I’ll do anything…
He read my words with interest.
“Well, I can restore you, if that’s what you want. Don’t think I’d sell your voice off to some yuppie upstart in a hurry. But it’s a very complex procedure, I’m afraid, and it’ll probably cost even more than becoming a Singer in the first place…”
It was as I’d thought.
But I haven’t got any money. It’s all under Endoplasmic-Reticulum’s control. Couldn’t you-
“I’m afraid it’s not my policy to get involved in anything like that. If I don’t have the money, I can’t do it. I’m sorry.”
This was terrible. What could I do? I thought fast.
Isn’t there anything else I could give you? You could have all my instruments, they’re worth thousands. I could work for you for the rest of my life. You could use me to test one of my new experiments…
He stilled my hand, preventing me from writing more.
“Alex, look. Your voice is an incredibly valuable thing. It’s just sitting there, waiting on the shelf for the right buyer. What if someone else wanted it? New additions to my collection are very hard to get hold of. And if they offered the right price…”
An idea struck me.
I’ll give you something else in return. Something for your collection. You can have anything—any part of my mind, my heart, my eyes…
At last, it looked like I’d caught his interest. His manifold arms ceased their clicking and whirring and looked me straight in the eye. I could almost hear the cogs in his mind ticking over. (In fact, that was probably exactly what it was.) Eventually, he spoke, almost to himself:
“Well, it certainly wouldn’t do to have a death on my hands. I’ve had a one hundred per cent survival rate so far—imagine if that changed and it got out!”
What do you mean? I scribbled. What do you need me to give you?
He glanced at me quizzically. “Isn’t it obvious?” He asked. “I need the only thing that’s lacking from my collection at the moment. The only thing with which I can save the life of your friend over there. I need the section of your heart devoted to true love.”
I shrugged. Fine, I wrote. It wasn’t too much of a sacrifice. Its loss wouldn’t affect me the way it had Reese. I’d never had much use for it, after all.
Grace
My long suffering friend could finally say she told me so. Not that I could take in anything she was saying when I finally found out the news, not from his mouth but from the page of a filthy tabloid discarded across a café table. Obviously, I knew all along that he’d never loved me. Why should I expect any different? He stayed with me because I was there, because he might as well, because it was easy. The only thing he appreciated about me was the way I was always praising him, contributing to his already considerable ego. But I couldn’t help it. He was marvellous, and talented, and I deluded myself into thinking that the feelings I had for him were reciprocated. It was such a desperate, earnest hope, and I grasped onto even the slightest hint that confirmed it. I had myself fooled the whole time. But I think that, deep down, there was always a part of me that knew I would never be as loved and appreciated as his fans, his audience, the newspapers and record companies and magazines: anyone that, in any way, had contributed to the massive empire built around Numb Prospero. And Numb Prospero had always been his main devotion, of course. But to give up the capacity, the very ability to love me—well, that was the most selfish thing of all. We had no future at all now.
But even so, I found that I couldn’t yet truly hate him. No, that would come later.
The Singer
I’d just like to tell you I’m sorry. I know it doesn’t mean anything now, but I truly regret what I did. I’ve done a lot of things, but I never thought I’d let down you—you, the ones who have made me who I am, who have listened to me and loved me and helped to make my name persist. I needed every one of you. You were the ones who gave me my identity. Like a mirror, you reflected back at me who I was, who I should be. Without you I’d be lost.
I know you all loved me and I know what I did was selfish, and that it would stop you from ever being able to see me again. But you don’t understand what it felt like—I just had to be free.
Don’t worry, you’ll forget me all too soon. There’ll be plenty of other Singers. My restoration to just another ordinary person, the loss of my ability to perform and astound and inspire each and every one of you—soon this will all just be a vague memory: that boy with the voice, who was once quite popular. What was his name?
Numb Prospero. You’ve given me that, at least. The name alone will endure.
Apart from that, all I have are my words, my testimony. Don’t think I did any of this because I didn’t love you. I loved you all, right from the beginning. I loved you all before you even knew who I was. So these words are for you, all of you, for you to do with what you will.
Information: Camera Obscura
The Camera Obscura is an ancient device which allows an inverted image of the outside world to be projected onto a screen in a dark room. With the use of adjustable periscopes and zoom lenses it is possible to keep an eye on what is happening in the whole of the city using strategically placed towers. Manned Camera Obscura towers can be seen across the city to monitor crime. Communications to the central police station usually take the form of colour Morse code. At night a large gas lantern is flashed through colour-coded filters, and by day a semaphore system is used. In smog, communication can be achieved by the hydraulic rod system, however pressure can only be maintained over short distances.
The news came just after we’d been discharged. It hadn’t taken him long to operate on us both: he was well practiced, after all. We’d been sent to one of his off-site rehabilitation clinics to recuperate. But it wasn’t long before the police and the press were swarming around the door.
I’d expected the press, of course; but I hadn’t expected them to find us so soon. And as for the police—well, that only became clear when they took me into custody.
There’d been a murder, they said. Erasmus Endoplasmic-Reticulum was dead: hospitalised by a blow to the head, then dying of a brain haemorrhage the following day. They’d been looking for me ever since. On the murder weapon they’d found two sets of fingerprints: Grace’s, and my own. Forensics pointed the blame at Grace, and she was going to get life - but they needed me to testify against her. Unless I had any confessions to make to the contrary?
Well, of course not. I’d tell them exactly what I saw her do, if it got me in the clear: why shouldn’t I?
Grace
When my lawyer told me the news, I gripped the glass of water in my fist with such fury it shattered. I sat oblivious as spots of hot blood punctuated the legal documents, grinding the shards like gravel into my palm. How could he betray me like that? I’d done it for him! The worst of it was that he didn’t even notice, or recognise, or even understand my love for him. He didn’t respect me at all, not even in an objective sense. I was nothing to him. And why should I be? I wasn’t talented like him. There was nothing I could have done to further his oh-so-precious career. And he hadn’t just acted like this because he’d lost his heart—he’d never used it. It’s a good thing they’d put it into Reese or it would have frittered away from neglect. No, he’d been like this all along, I could see it now. It was all so clear. Why had I been so stupid?
What was once love had been replaced by burning hatred. Now I would do anything, anything to see him fall.
The Singer
I began to regret my restoration almost immediately. It took me a long time to recover—much longer than after my transformation. The operation had had some complications and I was bedridden for weeks (in fact, I’ve never truly recovered). All this free time gave me the chance to think over everything that had happened. Without the blinding rage brought on by Endoplasmic-Reticulum or the cloying sense of entrapment I got from my co
ntract, I could take a step back and look at the big picture. And I didn’t like what I saw.
Why had I been so stubborn? I should have waited until I could think my actions through clearly. There was no reason why I couldn’t have stayed a Singer and still got my way. I could have started out on my own, I could have done anything—but I’d done this.
And what kind of existence was it? I could speak, just about, but I couldn’t sing, not even quietly; I’d had too much surgery for that. My beautiful voice was gone and there was nothing I could do to get it back. My only talent, my only ticket to success, I’d thrown away like an unwanted Betterware catalogue. And I didn’t have any other skills. I was beginning to wonder why I’d even bothered to testify against Grace.
It was all pointless anyway. An anonymous witness (we all knew who it was, of course) came forward and overturned the trial, denouncing me: saying I’d arrived with Reese drugged into a torpor and threatened to kill her unless she hid me and took me to John Doe’s surgery. Maybe she was afraid of what Dr. John Doe would do if he knew she’d revealed his location voluntarily. Most likely, she just wanted a scandal.
But whatever the reason, I was convicted. I had a far better motive than Grace: why should she want to kill him? And my plea of “not guilty” didn’t go down very well either.
Reese’s operation