 
# The Singer

## By Jessica Law

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 Jessica Law

_The singer was young, his heart was full of fire,  
He sung as he'd never sung and only could inspire._

– Traditional

## The Singer

I'm writing you my story now because there's no other way for me to tell it. You can make what you like of it, I'm not trying to teach you anything, really—it's up to you to make your own decisions. I just thought I owed you an explanation, that's all—for you to finally understand what's been going on in my head all this time (as much as I can understand it myself). And who knows, maybe you'll be entertained by it along the way. You can think of it as a cautionary tale, if you want; or you can simply imagine yourself as an outside observer of some interesting scientific process that you can use somehow to further the advancement of knowledge—after all, all experience counts for something.

But you weren't just an outside observer, were you? You were right in the middle of it, the cause and the cure for it, and I hope more than anything that I haven't done anything to harm you. Because I love you, more than anything else in the world, and I always will—and I hope nobody else will disappoint you like I did. I always loved you, all along, despite what I did—I hope you realise that. So these words are for you, every one of them, for you to do with as you will.

## Grace

I wonder whether it's possible to fall in love with a voice. I think it must be, that's the only way I can explain it.

The first time I heard it, we were all in the Robin club one night as usual, and I wasn't really paying much attention to what was going on. We were sitting in one of the dark corners, and the fibre optic light was casting a dim glow across the middle of the room, leaving the edges in shadow. Nobody had bothered to light the gas lamps that lined the walls, and consequently I was having great difficulty demonstrating to my long-suffering friend how to fold an empty crisp packet into a perfect origami swan shape (an invaluable life skill). So, it was with some considerable relief on her part that I became distracted by the band that had just started playing.

The band itself wasn't that special, really—just another of those modern groups trying to seem all traumatised and misunderstood. They cringed from the audience, hiding behind their hair, and stumbled haltingly over a few nonsensical monosyllables to introduce each song. It was only the lead singer that stood out. In fact, his voice was almost unbearably good, with a haunting and ethereal quality to it, and an incredible smoothness and richness, like melted chocolate. He had an extraordinary range, seemingly achieved without effort, and a vibrato that sent shivers down the spine. But coupled with this was an incredible integrity, as if the voice he was using was nothing but his own—free from affectation and completely unostentatious, it was a voice with a very true beauty that was indisputable, and would transcend fashion and context to sound potent in any era.

In contrast to this, his appearance was rather unprepossessing. He was quite small and slight, making the voice that emanated from him all the more improbable, and dressed relatively conventionally compared to the other band members (who looked like spring-heeled Jack on a bad hair day). In the dim light, I couldn't quite make out his features. All I could really take in was the voice echoing out from the tiny stage and filling the room, without amplification (except, of course, the back wall that was, as they all were, specifically designed to magnify acoustics). I kept wondering why everyone around me was acting so normally, carrying on as if it was just another night. Why was nobody making a fuss? How could they stay so calm? The person with the most beautiful voice in the world was in this very room!

Before I had realised it, they were finishing their set and sidling offstage to slightly baffled applause. I found that I was standing right at the very front, surrounded by people. Disorientated, I made my way back to the table in the corner. Above me, the fibre optic flickered—someone must have walked past the gaslight at the other end.

## The Singer

I've never wanted to be anything else—ever since I was a child, it was all I wanted to do. When people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, that's what I'd always say: a Singer. Their reaction was invariably the same—shock and dismay, tempered with incredulity, but also a little awe. "A Singer? Are you sure? But _why_? Do you realise what you'd have to go through? It's a pretty huge sacrifice to make—very few musicians decide to go through with it in the end." But I was adamant. I'd never really had anything important to say anyway—singing was the only thing I was good at, so for me it didn't seem such a huge sacrifice. In fact, singing was the greatest joy I knew, and to be able to do that, and only that, for the rest of my life seemed to me a wonderful possibility. To use my voice to awe and inspire people, and for it to be heard by thousands, maybe millions across the world—well, for that, I'd do anything.

Even so, very few believed me. Although mechanical modification was, at the time, no longer new and controversial, it still carried with it the doubt and strange sense of cheating nature that it had when it was first used in the 1970s on early Singers like Elvis Presley and Freddie Mercury. You see, I'd done my research, I'd listened to the records, and I'd heard how music had changed throughout the last century—combining with African influences to become louder and more insistent, to be played to huge halls of people, to rebel against adults and the establishment and everything that was staid and orderly in life. At first, pianists had placed tintacks on the hammers of their pianos and trumpeters had bought bigger and brasher instruments to compete with the crowds. By the 1960s bands with guitars were on their way out, and their delicate sound was replaced by that of raucous melatrons and giant organs. But there has always been one unsolvable conundrum that has been the bane of many a musician's life: how to amplify the human voice.

With all the other instruments, today, the process is relatively simple. One option is simply to make them bigger—giant drums can fill an entire stadium with their sound. Keyboards and keytars, evolved from the necessarily strident organs, can be augmented pneumatically, and now almost any instrument can be fitted with an internal hydraulic resonator that, when coupled with a cone speaker, can amplify the vibrations from the sound it makes. But none of these can be done to a human voice. Yes, there are ways to magnify it to a certain degree—by acoustics or megaphones or, like many of the modern bands, by simply shouting tunelessly. But to fill a stadium or concert hall or festival, none of this is sufficient.

Nonetheless, once a band has sold enough records, and become successful and famous and popular enough, this is what the audience wants. Once you reach this point, you can go one of two ways: you can either carry on as you are, playing to small crowds and being reasonably successful until you go out of fashion and descend into obscurity; or you can become a Singer.

## Grace

After that, wherever the he went, I went. Not that he ever saw me, that is, but I managed to find his address on the library register and with the help of my zoom lens secured some pretty good likenesses of him to carry round with me when I couldn't be near him. Luckily, being as the band were still quite small (although constantly increasing in popularity), they didn't venture far outside Cinderford. But then, once something is successful in Cinderford it rarely fails to spread elsewhere. That's what's so great about living in such a big city—there's never any shortage of new and exciting things going on. Of course, the crowds can be a bit of a nuisance sometimes.

By the time I finally met him in person, the band were really beginning to take off. They'd got a new manager, the renowned Erasmus Endoplasmic-Reticulum, and signed a record contract with Portobello Junkshop, which was rumoured to be snapping up all the good bands at the time. They were even beginning to build up a bit of a following. It was actually quite funny to observe the other fans as my long-suffering friend and I stood in the crowd (she didn't really mind at all—she had her eye on the golden-haired keyboard player, along with half the other people in there). The male fans, we noticed, were all fragile and insecure, desperately delighted to find a band they thought they could finally relate to, who might actually be able to understand and identify with their inner confusion and turmoil. The girls were predatory, with darkened eyes and red lips, scanning the room and waiting to pick off the ones with the least resistance, the unsuspecting broken boys with so much potential for repair. They knew what they were doing alright.

A wave of excitement went through the crowd as the band finally came on stage. They had reached that point in popularity where coming on a bit late actually increased the audience's anticipation. The support and support-support bands, on the other hand, still had to maintain a precise punctuality, as they were so obscure that nobody knew what they were missing, so just got impatient and annoyed.

They played the first few chords of their opening song and the crowd went 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, flailing 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 flickering glow across his features, which I had never seen properly before. It transpired that he possessed what boys are incredibly annoyed to hear described as a "pretty boy" face, with high cheekbones and a pointy chin, and an incipiently cheerful expression.

"Haven't I seen you before, at some of the other gigs?" He asked, as if noticing me for the first time.

"Probably. Actually, to tell you the truth—" I paused.

"What?"

"Well—I go to all of them. I think you've got the most beautiful voice I've ever heard."

"What, really?" He said, his face lighting up.

"Of course. It's just so... well, what I mean to say is—I think that to create music is one of the most beautiful things a person can do. To create something that can entrance so many people, and inspire them and make them happy—well, I can't think of anything better than that."

He seemed to like that a lot.

We walked to the end of the high street. Slogans and images continued to flash across the sky above us. When we reached the junction, he stopped.

"Where are you from here, then?" He asked. The last sky train had gone an hour ago.

"Only a few streets away," I replied, "I can get back OK from here."

"I'll walk back with you." He said. "I might as well. Besides, I wouldn't want anything to happen to you."

"But what about you, then?" I replied, remembering the abandoned steam bike by the side of the road. "Walking back on your own from mine. What if those punks get you? I don't want anything to happen to you, either."

In the end, we reached a compromise—he walked me back to my house, and then I walked him back to his, where we both stayed. That seemed the most logical solution.

### Information: Turbine Bikes

These machines are used almost exclusively by the infamous Steam Punks, due to their incredible performance. The power of these machines is awesome, but the more modern diesel engines are much more practical and economical to produce.

The most prestigious of the turbine bikes is the Megawatt Rocket as owned by Sticky Harry, the leader of the dreaded Cinderford association. The Megawatt Rocket is the ultimate, the most efficient of the bikes currently available, using a modern Bowman heat exchanger, Parsons turbine and ultra efficient condenser system; it also has an exhaust steam after cooler, reducing the need for frequent water stops. In spite of all the refinements the petroleum generator still has to be hand pumped prior to flint ignition and there is a wait for the boiler to build up to full pressure, giving the punks even more time for mischief. The flints have to be replaced frequently, so it is quite a common sight to see them being lit with a glowing cigarette end, the trademark of Sticky Harry.

The Characteristic of the Megawatt range, apart from the large brass winged M emblem, is the ostentatious array of fibre optic lighting fed from a single acetylene lamp source.

Although almost entirely paid for from the proceeds of crime, not all the members of the association can afford a Megawatt. A few have old ageing models, although powerful, their turbines are little more than a glorified version of the turbochargers used on the latest generation of diesel engines. The frequent water stops enraging the short temper of Sticky Harry.

## The Singer

I remember when I first broached the subject of becoming a Singer to the rest of the band. We were on tour at the time, and getting quite popular by then. Our album, Modern Synthesis, had been selling really well—to the extent that they were considering releasing it in the most up-to-date form, the digital micro-punch card that looked set to be the next big thing. We'd just come offstage from a particularly successful performance—the place was packed to bursting with as many people as the hall's limited size could allow. I remember that all through the set, I could see you there on the floor in front of the stage, dancing around like crazy, infecting me with your enthusiasm. You were always there, watching me, supporting me, and the sight of you never failed to reassure me and fill me with confidence. I'd started to love you properly by then, of course, as I'm sure you could tell, and I'd reached the point where everything I did, I did for you.

Our final reprise wound to a close and I mumbled a broken "thank you" in my stage voice, before sidling bashfully off stage. In the wings were waiting a couple of reporters from one of the magazines, waiting to interview us as the "next big thing". We obligingly stood around stiffly in near silence, creating as much taciturn awkwardness as possible while still managing to provide a few mournful and senseless answers to their questions. Avoiding the first interviewer's eye, we shyly informed her that we wrote what we felt and were glad to see that other people felt the same way too. We assured the second interviewer that, yes, our lyrics may be poignant and introspective, but they were the truth, and there was no point in pretending life was wonderful and happy when, in reality, the world was far from perfect. I think I remember mentioning at some point that love was full of pain and sadness, as I thought that might go down well. Inspired, Reese added that life was just a pointless trial and you can't avoid getting hurt. The other two just lingered about at the back, trying to look pensive and fragile, as if someone even speaking to them would cause them considerable emotional anguish (thus avoiding having to think up anything to say).

This seemed to satisfy the reporters sure enough, and soon they were merrily on their way, their notepads brimming with enough material to induce awed empathy and pity in a thousand readers' broken hearts. Drained by our encounter, we slunk rapidly to the haven of our dressing room, stopping briefly to hastily scrawl signatures upon various proffered objects in a spidery hand. Finally, we reached the room and hurried in, slamming the door behind us.

"Is that it? Has everyone gone?" I asked.

"I think so." Replied Reese.

"Thank God!"

The release of tension was tangible. I breathed a sigh of relief and flung myself down contentedly on a handy chesterfield. Reese removed his black bondage leather jacket to reveal a t-shirt with a duck on it and what appeared to be a girls' scarf—it had sparkly bits in it and everything. I wondered whether he realised he was wearing it—maybe I should tell him.

A loud jangling noise came to my attention.

"Er - you can put that down now," I said to Richard, who appeared, inexplicably, to be holding a large wind chime. I hoped to God he hadn't used it on stage, although I'm sure I would have noticed of he had. Happily, he relinquished it and went off to play Frisbee with the other one. Meanwhile, Reese had opened a large tin of cakes and was offering them round.

"Would you like a cake?"

"No thanks," I replied, automatically, without actually stopping to think whether I wanted a cake or not. It turned out I did, and I immediately regretted my decision.

"Hot chocolate?" He said, handing me a mug and pouring me a copious amount out of a checked tartan flask.

"Er... thanks." I said, taking it from him and viewing the room, wondering how I ever managed to get myself landed with such lunatics.

I suppose by now this calls for a proper introduction. Well then—hello, welcome to the band, pleased to meet you. There are four of us, obviously, and (as was the fashion at the time) each of us has a profound and impressive-sounding stage name. Allow me to introduce the members of the band: Numb Prospero, Yellow Emperor, Bazooka and... Richard. (He didn't want a stage name—he said he thought it was "silly"). You know me, of course—the famous front man Numb Prospero, real name Alex Young. Then, of course, there was the keyboard player, Yellow Emperor, AKA Reese. Strangely to us (we knew him), he was the one who got all the girls, apparently on account of his sickeningly blue eyes and wheat—coloured hair. But if they were to really get to know him, they would think he was a bit weird. He was very quiet and liked baking, and had a copious appetite for sweet things. In fact, he was always to be seen eating one thing or another, and seemed to maintain the required "fetchingly undernourished" look through sheer determination alone. In truth, I'd never seen anyone quite as calmly happy and content as he was. And although he could seem quite guileless, he was actually fairy practical and was usually the one responsible for looking after the rest of us and keeping us in order.

Yellow Emperor and myself usually wrote most of the lyrics, but the band's musical prowess could be more or less entirely attributed to the "twins", Bazooka and Richard. Out of all of us, these two were by far the strangest. Nobody knew where they'd come from or who they really were (although it became obvious pretty soon that they definitely weren't real twins—in fact, they weren't even related), and their eccentric demeanour more than equalled the curious circumstances under which they were found. There are, in fact, two alternative stories concerning how they joined our band, and it is up to you to choose which one to believe.

The first one would be better if it was truer. In this version, Reese and I were walking through the streets of Cinderford one morning when we discovered two wraithlike forms underneath a bridge, clinging to each other for warmth, frozen and half-starved. Being in need of a bassist and drummer at the time, and not having much else on that week, we decided to take them in, and, after we had fed and cleaned them and waited for whatever nameless substances they had taken to leave their blood system, they regained a certain degree of coherence and proved grateful and willing pupils, fast learners who were able to turn their hand to any instrument they were given.

It would be nicer if the second story was the true one. This version recounts the hopeless and arduous task of auditioning for other band members. By the end of the day, Reese and I were at our wit's end and tempted to simply settle for the weird mandolin girl and the man sweeping the floor, who happened to play the kazoo. We were just about to act on this injudicious decision when we heard a polite knock on the door. On opening it, we were presented with a pair of rather singular individuals. The first thing that struck us was that they were negative copies of each other. Whichever item of clothing was black on one was white on the other. Beneath their huge hair (one dyed black, one bleached) they wore enormous film star sunglasses, as if they were already famous, making it very difficult to make out their features. One of these curious beings spoke, to tentatively ask if they were "allowed" to audition for our band. Once we had assured them that our initial negative response was a phenomenon known as "sarcasm", a concept which they are still unable to grasp, they proceeded to perform such skilled musical feats that they had uttered a polite "thank you for having us" and were nearly out of the door before we recovered sufficient speech to tell them they were hired.

In the band, Richard was usually the drummer (and now, apparently, wind-chime operator) while Bazooka played the melatron, unless he was needed on the saxophone, double bass or euphonium. Occasionally, they would get bored and swap over, or sometimes just dance around for a whole song instead of playing anything (which could be a bit annoying) but, as it was hard to tell which one was doing what most of the time, it was best to leave them to it. The twins were, in fact, rather an enigma to us. We found it very difficult to comprehend how they could skilfully operate so many complex instruments (although, to be fair, the saxophone is one of the easiest wind instruments to learn to play) and yet be incapable of tying their own shoelaces. After we'd tucked them up in their bed at night, Reese and I used to speculate on what the deal was with them. Reese thought they'd just never grown up, but I knew they had, and I suspected they knew a lot more than they let on. One thing was for sure - they definitely weren't real twins.

Now, with them cheerfully engaged in a game of scrabble, I attempted to broach the subject that had been on my mind for some time.

"Reese?"

"Yes?" He said, looking up from his seventh cake.

I sighed. "Well, I've been wondering what direction the band is going to take from now on. I mean, we're pretty successful now, aren't we? Our album's selling really well and we'll get plenty of money from this tour –" I broke off. "Look, this is really distracting. Do you realise you're wearing a girl's scarf?"

"No I'm not." He replied defensively.

"Yes you are, I can see it—it's round your neck right now. It's got sparkly bits and everything!"

"Oh, this... no, this isn't a girl's scarf, it's a very dashing and stylish accessory for the modern man about town. Definitely a man's scarf."

I looked concerned. "Who told you that? You haven't been taken in by those shopkeepers again, have you? Remember what happened with the pink jelly sandals?"

"They were the latest in practical hiking attire!"

"Exactly."

"Anyway," He continued, "I didn't buy this one."

"Oh no, you haven't stolen it from one of your girls again have you?" I asked apprehensively.

"No, of course not! Actually I found it."

"Ah, right. Might I ask where, exactly?" I enquired with increasing trepidation.

"Well, actually it was... kind of... on the pavement outside."

I sighed. "So basically you picked up some old scarf off the floor in the street and wore it for the whole show, without even washing it? An old man might have died in that."

"But you said it was a girl's scarf!" He retaliated. "Besides, it looked so useful somehow - I thought it would add a certain _je ne sais quoi._ "

" _Je ne sais quoi_ what you're on, mate, but you know you can't go about doing that! We've got appearances to keep up here—we're in a band, we've got to look cool and edgy, not go prancing about in some girl's scarf you found on the floor. I will have that cake, actually." I added, distractedly.

"OK." Replied the famous pin-up Yellow Emperor, eagerly sorting through the tin of cakes.

I pressed on. "Well, we've kind of reached the point where we can't get much bigger unless we start playing to more people—you know, festivals and things. Think of it—Reading, T in the park, maybe even Glastonbury—just think of how successful we could be! But to do that, well..."

Reese cut in at this point to enquire whether I would prefer a fairy cake or a butterfly cake.

"I don't know, anything!" I blurted exasperatedly. "Anyway, to do that, I'd basically need to become a Singer."

For the first time since we'd entered the room, there was silence. Reese looked at me with a shocked expression, properly paying attention now. Unfortunately, before he could react, I started choking quite violently. It appeared that, in my nervousness, I'd crammed the whole cake in my mouth at once and was now finding it very difficult to breathe. Reese came to the rescue by hitting me quite hard on the back, which, although providing no help whatsoever in dislodging the cake, did act as a very effective distraction from my imminent suffocation. After a few minutes, I had regained the capacity for speech.

"So, what do you think, then?" I said, gasping for breath.

Reese stared at me worriedly. "Why, aren't you happy with the group as it is?" He asked, concerned. "Does this mean you're leaving the band—do you want to go solo?"

"Of course not!" I reassured him. "I need all of you—I couldn't do anything without you lot. We've got to stick together. But it's just something I've always wanted to be, my whole life, ever since I can remember. That's my whole purpose in life. Besides, it'll be good for all of us—just think of how successful we could be!"

Reese's relief was tangible. "Well, I'm OK with that." He said. "If that's what you really want to do, then I'm all for it. I mean, you've obviously thought about it properly and, if you're prepared to go through with it, then I'll support you."

"Really?" I asked. I wasn't expecting such a calm reaction as this.

"Of course. I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how difficult it is, what you'd have to go through. But to be honest, we've suspected for a while that that's what you were planning. I mean, nobody's as devoted to singing as you, and if you're that determined, there's nothing we can really do to stop you."

I grinned, relieved that he had taken it so well. "Thank God!" I said. "I suppose all we need to do now it break it to the twins."

"Yes," Said Reese, glancing over at them huddled together in the corner, their arms round each other, playing a particularly contentious game of scrabble ("I tell you, wernut _is_ a real word!"). I felt a sudden jolt of pity and hoped the news wouldn't upset them too much. It was very difficult to break something like this to people who still did each other's hair every morning and held hands when they crossed the road. It was probably going to be even harder than explaining to them what Reese did with those girls. But it had to be done.

And of course, at some point, I'd have to tell you.

### Information: Hydraulic Resonator Device

A relatively new invention originating from the late fifties, this is a great advancement on the horn amplified gramophone. The original sound, be it from a gramophone stylus or a specially modified musical instrument such a a Keytar or a Melatron, is amplified to the highest degree by a hydraulic resonator which is powered by a small remote diesel engine, finally driving a huge cardboard cone speaker in massive wooden cabinet.

The Hydraulic Resonator Device (HRD) is a simple diaphragm under high pressure from a hydraulic oil or air feed. The amplifier using complex hydraulics accurately amplifies the signal and transfers it to larger diaphragm device, which powers the huge speakers. As the HRD is relatively small and comes in many forms, some can be attached to string instruments such as a double bass, but they are not as efficient as the direct feed versions.

Pneumatic versions are becoming increasingly popular after audiences and performers were often sprayed with hydraulic fluid when the pipes burst.

The direct feed instruments such as keyboards are by far the most efficient, followed by the HRD attachments used on string instruments, which are less than 50% as powerful.

In spite of the advanced technology, there is no way of externally amplifying the voice. By the nature of its design, using high-pressure fluid, the HRD is just not sensitive enough to amplify the weak vibrations of the human voice.

The only way it can be done is by using the same technology used in the direct feed instruments such as keyboards, keytars and melatrons. This can only work by incorporating a device which can drive the HRD from within the voice box.

## Grace

At last, it had come, the news I'd been dreading.

"I won't let you!" I said, tears misting my view of the city laid out before us.

Alex shielded his wide eyes from the sun and spoke with more conviction than I had ever heard before. "Grace, my mind was made up years ago—it's unavoidable." He looked at me as if he was explaining the simplest thing in the world.

"Look, I _have_ to devote my life to what I love. It's part of me—I wouldn't even be myself if I didn't do it. And you know you couldn't live with yourself if you knew you'd stopped me from fulfilling the entire purpose of my existence."

Even though I knew it was inevitable it still came as a shock, and I couldn't help trying to plead with him, persuade him not to do it, if only for my sake; but I knew that it was useless.

"I'll always love you, Alex, but I'll miss that part of you—I know you never thought you had much to say, but I listened, and I thought what you had to say was just as important as anyone else. I feel as if I'll be losing you, and I'll never see you again—at least not that part of you anyway."

I wanted to tell him, I'll miss your infectious laugh, your sense of humour, and your occasional weirdly insightful comments. I'll miss the incredibly annoying way you hum almost constantly while I'm trying to concentrate on something. I'll miss your funny accent, the way you swallow your words, your incongruous confidence, and I'll miss... well, just you.

I stared out across the wooded hill, wondering if I could see his province from here. I felt a deep poignancy which I could barely articulate to myself, let alone to him. I felt as if I'd be losing something that contributed to the essence of what he was, and somehow, that would make him less complete, broken in some way.

But I was being selfish, of course. How could I let the wonderful talent he had go to waste? Surely it would be just as much of a crime not to make the most of such a rare and distinctive gift. I knew he'd say that singing was the only thing he was good at anyway, so it was the only thing he _could_ do. This wasn't true, but in the end I still wanted him to do it. His beautiful voice was what had drawn me to him in the first place, and it was still the thing I loved about him the most. And this way he could spread it across the world. I _wanted_ everybody to hear it and to find the beauty in it that I did. I _wanted_ him to be rich, successful, and famous, to have his name remembered after he was dead and everything else he dreamed of—I wanted all these things for him if that was what made him happy. But also, selfishly, part of me just wanted to keep him to myself, for things to just stay the same. But I knew from the start that that was never going to happen, and I knew I'd stand by him whatever he decided to do. I loved him that much, you see.

But I didn't tell him any of that. Instead, I took his hand and we retraced our steps down the steep hill, drawn towards the black metropolis of Cinderford by our own momentum.

## The Singer

The Portobello Junkshop headquarters was the shiniest building in Cinderford. The plate glass windows reflected the sun in a blinding silver glow, constantly maintained by an armada of abseiling window cleaners in a perpetual battle against the smog and soot that had settled in triumph upon the surrounding buildings. This was Endoplasmic-Reticulum's domain. In his lurid checked sporting jacket, he moved among his surrounding minions like a trawler cutting through an ice flow, the only solid and corporeal figure in an industry of frail and insubstantial waifs. He stood like a calm island of sense in a sea of artistic temperaments, neuroticism and emotional turmoil. And such was the secret of his success—without his stalwart and businesslike anchorage, all those talented wrecks and divas would have drifted into beautiful decay and obscurity long ago. His philosophy was that there was nothing wrong with tortured genius, as long as it could be harnessed. As such, he had generated a considerable revenue built on the flighty foundation of beautiful freaks and fragile egos.

As we entered his office, four boys passed us on the way out. They were even younger than us, and looked as if they could be knocked over in a light breeze. When they saw us, they stammered and stared at their feet as they stumbled past us. One of them was wearing white winklepickers with silver heels. It stands to reason—if you're going to spend your whole life shoegazing, you might as well wear nice shoes.

We pushed open the door of his office. He was sitting with his feet up on the desk, smoking an awful black cigar.

"Ah, there you are," he said, motioning for us to sit down. There was only one other chair so Bazooka sat cross-legged on the floor, while Richard perched on the desk. Reese contented himself with balancing the rim of a large potted plant by the door.

"Who were they?" I asked, pointing to the corridor outside.

"The Lost Boys? Oh, don't worry about them." Said Endoplasmic-Reticulum dismissively. "It's _you_ we need to be talking about right now. And if what you've told me is true, then we've got something big on our hands. Now, before we go any further, I must confirm: is it truly your intention, after this current tour is over, to become a Singer?"

"Of course it is!" I replied. "I wouldn't be here otherwise."

"Yes, but plenty of artists _say_ that—it's those that go through with it that are the special ones. Now, as you must realise, it's a very complex, lengthy and, above all, expensive process. It's going to take a lot of money—not to mention recovery time, and the upheaval it will be to your career. If you're going to go through with this, I'm willing to finance your transformation—but I need to know it's going to be worth it."

"Of course it will!" I said.

"No—I mean it. There are hundreds of other artists out there, just clamouring to be in your position. I need to know that I'm right in putting my investment in you. I need to know that you'll work hard to live up to such a prestigious position, and that you won't let me down. I'm giving you this chance, and you've got to make the most of it. I'm thinking, a concept album, a tour of Europe, even America—once you've broken in there, you'll have the world at your feet. I can make you immortal. I can make you a star—but you've got to work hard for me in return."

"Of course I will," I protested. "I'll do it all and more—I wouldn't want it any other way. It's my dream too."

"Well, I'll put you in for a consultation with Doctor John Doe next week. He's got to make sure you're fit for the operation. Now, I'm sure you're aware of the consequences - "

"Yes, I am—and I'm ready for that. It's worth it. But just one thing—perhaps I could arrange to meet another Singer first, just to know what to expect?"

He looked serious, just for a moment. Then he smiled and shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sorry, but that's not usually our practice here at Portobello Junkshop. All the other Singers are usually so busy all over the place it's hard to get hold of them—but that shouldn't matter, surely?" He looked at me slyly. "You're not having second thoughts, are you?"

"No, of course not!" I replied. I suppose meeting another Singer wasn't that important. But I would have liked to, just to put my mind at rest.

"Good. Well, here are some forms for you to sign to confirm your acceptance of the risks, and to place your responsibility in our hands. And here's a contract signing you over to Portobello Junkshop for another five years. And this disclaimer needs too be signed to confirm that you're in good health and state of mind. Here's another giving Portobello Junkshop control of any revenue earned by the band..."

Reese shot me a worried glance, but I took them distractedly and hastily signed them all. I didn't care about any of that—Endoplasmic-Reticulum had given me the go-ahead. He's given us all a ticket to stardom. He was going to turn me into a god, and that was all that mattered.

* * *

We were standing in a new hotel room, in another town, more or less the same as all the others, save for a few token differences. It doesn't matter where—after a while, the places all blend into one anyway. We'd just come back after another performance, to another packed hall of people. The tiredness was beginning to set in. I'd stared at the same crowded dance floors, every night, for so long that whenever I closed my eyes the image was still imprinted on the inside of my retina. We'd started improvising, changing the songs, adding new lyrics and swapping the instruments around, but you can only travel around for so long before the repetition begins to take its toll. Luckily, we were never bored for too long.

Things were beginning to get serious for the band, and when you go on tour you see a lot of things, you're exposed to a lot of new people and experiences. You grow up fast, and before you know it you've become a different person, doing things you never even dreamed you'd get to do. People tell you you're good, and you believe them, and you think you can do anything and live forever. You begin to gain confidence in yourself, and at the same time you're terrified of when it'll all come crashing down around you. It's sad, really, how quickly and easily that naïve innocence can be worn away.

Reese had invited some of the girls back, and was trying to proffer them Madeira cake, which they politely refused—they weren't here for Madeira cake. The twins were sitting in the corner by the mini-bar, drinking a pint glass of beer between them out of a couple of straws they'd stuck together into another straw to make a kind of double-headed, Siamese twin straw - just like they'd share a milkshake in the old days. (We used to take them for little outings sometimes as a special treat). I stood there looking pensive and wistful as required, except this time I actually was feeling rather pensive and wistful, as I was getting nervous about the operation and my imminent transformation into a Singer. I was distracted from my musings, however, when I noticed that a couple of the girls had gone over and were bothering the twins, who were looking politely baffled. That sort of thing would only confuse them, so I went over to Reese to tell him.

"You've got to go and explain to them about the twins—that Richard and Bazooka don't know what's going on most of the time."

Reese rolled his eyes. "Can't you do it?" He replied exasperatedly. "I'm sick of explaining—I don't know what to say. Besides, we can't protect them forever. We don't own them—they're going to have to learn about real life sooner or later."

But I didn't want to do that yet—I still felt responsible for them. We were the ones who'd found them and rescued them, so it was our duty to look after them, as they were plainly incapable of looking after themselves. If you took your eyes off them for one minute...

"No, Richard!" I shouted—I could see he'd got his hands on something again. "That's not sherbet!" Too late. I sighed exasperatedly. "Damn. We'll never get them to go to bed now!"

"It's OK, we can get some more from the Midnight Paperboy. He should be coming round in a minute." Replied Reese.

"That's not the point!" I protested, defeated. No wonder they didn't know what was going on most of the time.

I carried on trying to write lyrics for my new song. It wasn't going that well. Time passed. The Midnight Paperboy dropped in for a cup of tea, but was soon called away again on business (none of his papers were newer than two weeks old, but they were all extremely expensive and contained very interesting free gifts). Bazooka ran up to present me with a picture he'd drawn before retreating to his corner to tend to Richard. More time passed. Reese and the girls disappeared. Richard passed out in Bazooka's lap and was carried tenderly to bed. The flat grew quiet and cold and still I stood there, not being able to rid my mind of worry. I wasn't having second thoughts—my mind was truly made up—but I couldn't help feeling anxious and nervous. It was only natural. Everything was going to change soon, and I knew I should be making the most of things as they were while I could, but I couldn't help feeling a little sad and wistful about what I was going to lose. I was worried in case something went wrong. I was sad because I knew I'd miss talking to you, and I hoped I'd still be able to tell you how I felt, and that things would still be the same between us. But mainly I was just scared.

I'd lost track of time by the time Reese tiptoed out of his room again, closing the door silently behind him. He switched on the kettle and began rifling through the cupboards to retrieve some Madeira cake.

"Can't you sleep either?" He asked in sympathy.

"No—I keep worrying about the operation." I admitted.

"That's not like you, worrying. Here, I'll do you a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake and you'll feel better in no time."

"No, I'm fine, honestly." Cake was Reese's solution to everything. He sometimes couldn't sleep and would stay up all night baking cakes, which was rather surreal. Then he'd spend the whole day eating the damn things.

"You know how, sometimes, you just feel kind of...numb?" Speculated Reese. It was one of those one-sided conversations that could only take place very late at night, reaching momentous and profound proportions, the darkness filling the silence between words.

"You know," He continued, "When no matter what you do, it doesn't really make you happy—not truly, deep down. You just kind of feel...nothing."

He handed me a mug of tea anyway. He'd settled for hot chocolate, no milk—a useful drink for him as it could easily pass off as businesslike black coffee when trying to keep up appearances. He began to dip his Madeira cake in the hot chocolate, which always infuriated me.

"What are you up to, anyway?" He asked, spotting my favourite notebook on the table (a green and yellow herringbone pattern on a cloth covering—it seemed sufficiently arty and important-looking for the purposes of writing profound and meaningless lyrics in, and would, hopefully, at least lend them some credibility).

"I was just trying to write the lyrics for this song, but I can't think of anything."

"Surely you just make up stuff until you've got enough words to fill up a track."

"Yeah, that usually works, but this time my heart's just not in it."

"I tell you what I really want to do," Opined Reese. "I think we should write a song about something nice—something we like and we think is fun."

"Hmm...I don't know," I said sceptically. "What like?"

"How about...cats?" Hazarded Reese.

"Cats?"

"Yeah, cats are nice. You know—all warm and furry and that. We could write a song about how much we liked them."

" _I_ don't like cats." I replied.

"Yes you do."

"I don't!"

"You must do," He insisted. "It's written on your mug."

I turned round the mug of tea I was holding. Sure enough, it was emblazoned with the brash legend "I ♥ CATS", and the statement was supported by a series of naïve art diagrams of different cat breeds and the superfluous subscript: "lovely cats".

"This is _your_ mug!" I told him, enraged. "You just gave it to me!"

"Oh, all right then." He conceded.

Reese possessed a lot of things of that genre. So far, he had accumulated a series of t-shirts, mugs, key rings etc. that imparted an enthusiastic and favourable attitude towards New York, Paris, cats, cake, tea and, inexplicably, Whitesands (wherever that was). Indeed, he "hearted" a lot of things—but I wondered whether there was anything he actually loved.

## Grace

It was one of those weird, disjointed days that couldn't be placed—as if it didn't really fit in with the context of whatever else was happening at the time. We'd all gone on a day trip to the seaside—their tour must have finished and I suppose it was a kind of holiday to take the band's mind off what was to come. Alex was to begin his transformation into a Singer very soon, and in his trepidation had descended into almost complete silence, as if in anticipation of his imminent fate. We were sitting on deckchairs (thoughtfully provided by Reese) on the beach, absorbing the weak sunlight and watching the twins as they attempted to build a sandcastle whilst also being terrified of water, seaweed, creatures and the actual sand. You could tell when you got close up that they didn't actually resemble each other that much, in fact, it was obvious that they weren't really related at all. I suppose most people would find this a disappointment but I thought it was intriguing—I wondered when they had met each other, where they'd got the idea to become twins and whether they had realised straight away that they could make something of their similarity.

Reese was having a tremendous time in the sea. It turned out that he was actually an extremely good surfer, and used to have a summer job as a lifeguard at Whitesands bay in Pembrokeshire before he'd moved to the city. I was surprised that Alex didn't already know this about his friend's past. Anyway, Reese didn't seem to mind the freezing sea, despite the fact that it was March and his collarbones jutted out. Alex was lying back on the deckchair with his eyes closed in a vaguely worried frown. I thought he was asleep until he spoke hesitantly.

"It's all going to be OK, isn't it?" He asked.

"Of course it is!" I told him, although I was far from certain. "I'll miss you though."

I already missed him. I didn't like the way he was becoming the tortured soul he'd pretended to be but always secretly scorned. I didn't like his long silences and serious expressions, or the way his buoyant confidence seemed to have been dampened. He was being given his dream—this was what he'd always wanted, and because he'd wanted it, I wanted it for him too, despite my selfish desires to the contrary. But I suppose it was understandable that he should worry that it wouldn't be all he had hoped for. It was a huge gamble and a huge sacrifice, and I could only hope that after it was all done he would return to some semblance of his former self.

"I won't be gone that long." He said. "And once I'm out, once I'm better, well—just think of it."

He turned, and smiled, and I could see that familiar excited glint in his eye—and all at once he was the same old Alex again.

"Endoplasmic-Reticulum's planning a tour of Europe, maybe even America—and if we can make it there, well, we can make it anywhere. Just think of the possibilities!"

I thought their manager was planning a little too far ahead. I hoped he realised Alex wasn't just a moneymaking franchise. He'd need time to recover, surely, time when we could be together again for a while, and I hoped Reticulum wouldn't push him too hard, and that he wouldn't have to go away again so soon. I felt as if I'd only just got him back and he was already being taken away from me. But then, of course, I was also excited for him about the tour—I just wanted time to stop for a little while beforehand, that's all.

I was awoken from my reverie with a jolt by a 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 certainly 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 more closely. At first the jar seemed empty, but then I noticed a tiny cube of flesh, no larger than a thumbnail.

`SECTION OF HEART DEVOTED TO TRUE (AKA "ROMANTIC") LOVE`

`REMOVED 14/02/08`

`REPLACED BY BRASS PLATE SECURED WITH MICRO-RIVETS 15/02/08`

It was inconceivable. I just couldn't take it in. he'd never mentioned any of this to anyone, not even given a hint. But why would he, of all people, have this done to himself? He'd never loved any of those girls, it was true—and it now became clear why he was able to move so quickly from one girl to the next. But did it make him truly happy? A sudden jolt of pity overcame me as I imagined what must have happened to him, that he should be driven to such measures to prevent ever having his heart broken again. It made me realise that we should be grateful if we find someone we truly love, who would never break our heart, as others are not so lucky.

The Twins, for example, had found each other, and who was I to stop them? It all became so clear to me now, who they were and why they needed one another. Each a slave to their own fears and neuroses, together they made one whole, unbroken person, each one acting as a buffer to the other against an imperfect world that was difficult to understand. Their minds wiped by drugs and god knows what else at the age of sixteen, when we found them they had made a fresh start, and together found refuge in their own world, keeping everything innocent and safe, blocking out the harsh realities of anything that might worry or confuse them. They'd done exactly what Reese had done, but to their minds, not their hearts. Some things they had chosen to remember, others they had chosen to forget, and together they could hide from them forever if they wished to. They helped each other get on, and, with strangely narcissistic tendencies, had turned themselves into one another's image—each had transformed himself into the thing he loved, until you simply couldn't tell them apart. And it didn't matter if everyone thought they were strange, because to each other they were perfect. Who cared if they knew what they were doing or not? And why should I care what other people would think, or what it would do to the image of the band? Maybe the band wasn't the most important thing in the world after all.

But then Doctor John Doe called me into the surgery, and I remembered that it was.

## Grace

My lover has no voice. Even as he sleeps beside me his breathing is disconcertingly silent. Ever since they let him out it's been that way. The metal annealed well but he's still quite weak, and I can tell that sometimes it hurts him. It makes me feel angry that they've made him ill and caused him so much pain. And that's not all. It seems like they've taken something away as well—there's a kind of deadness behind his eyes where there used to be so much spirit and life. How dare they do this to him? They've taken him from me, broken him, and given him back to me incomplete and half-machine. I know I can fix him though. I love him and he needs me to look after him while he gets better—at least he won't be going away again for some time.

His metal hand is icy cold and sends shivers down my spine. I have to make an effort not to shudder and shrink away from it—instead I reach out to hold him in my arms, and lend him some of my warmth.

* * *

It seems far too early to put him back on stage. Things are moving far too fast. I haven't had time to fix him yet. He's barely better, and I know it still causes him some pain. But Endoplasmic-Reticulum seemed impatient to get him working again, eager to try out his new toy. Alex didn't mind too much anyway, so here I am again, an achingly familiar feeling, standing at the front of a seething crowd and waiting for Numb Prospero to take to the stage.

## The Singer

I felt tired, and sick, and dizzy. My throat hurt with the unaccustomed strain and the stage lights shone too brightly into my face. I still wasn't strong enough to be up here. I swayed slightly as the band set up around me. All I'd had all day was three bottles of Buttercup cough syrup—after all, I suppose you could call this the sore throat to end all sore throats. The stuff was basically liquor, but with a comforting, nostalgic kind of taste that reminded me of being ill as a child, and was worryingly addictive. In fact, I had no idea why they still allowed people to give it to children—or other impressionable people, come to that. I made a mental note to keep it away from the Twins. They seemed to be able to sniff out anything even mildly addictive or mind-altering from a mile off.

The music started up around me. That, at least, sounded marvellous—although with the amplifiers you couldn't really make out exactly how it sounded to the audience. They seemed to like it though, by their reaction. We'd had to buy in a whole new set of instruments, of course, suitable for stadia and larger venues. All of them had internal resonators like mine. Tonight they weren't turned up very high, though, as the area wasn't much larger than where we used to play. This was just a sort of pre-tour concert before heading off to do the festival circuit, followed by our tour of America, but it seemed like the whole of Cinderford had turned out to see me off. I suppose they all wanted to see how I was as a proper Singer—rumours about my new hand must have spread too. At the sound check, I'd tried it out, and it was indeed very good, playing my keytar with much more skill and finesse than my old one. It had, of course, been designed specifically for this purpose, but I still imagined sometimes that it was not entirely under my control.

The introduction to this particular song sounded like a hyperactive four-year-old let loose on a Casio keyboard with all the sound effects turned on. That was the Twin's influence, of course, resulting in a song with incredibly sad and poignant lyrics (written by me) and a ridiculously catchy, happy tune (written by them). The Twins were having tremendous fun playing with their new instruments, and Richard was really laying on the wind chime ("It's _not_ a wind chime, it's a _bar_ chime!" He'd corrected me petulantly earlier). I didn't have the heart to stop him—he looked so happy. Both of them did, all the time, of course—except when they looked confused. But lately it seemed more heartfelt than substance-induced, and their eyes were shining, even though, I noticed now, they both looked incredibly scruffy. This was strange for people who were usually neat to the point of neuroticism. Surely they hadn't looked like this when we'd arrived for the sound check. Half of Bazooka's hair was sticking up and he was missing his tie, which, I realised, Richard was wearing in addition to his own, neither of which properly hid the livid bruise on his neck.

Yellow Emperor, in contrast, looked incredibly pale, and had in fact run off to be violently sick before the show, presumably due to nerves. I didn't feel nervous at all. I felt ill, and dizzy, and faint—but I don't think I could have waited one more minute to get back to the stage. This was where I felt most at home.

The introduction had calmed down a little. This was where I came in. I started to sing, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

## Grace

A reverent hush seemed to fall over all of us as his voice filled the arena. Everything else I had been thinking flew from my head. It was absolutely sublime—to describe it in mere words could never do it justice. It was still his voice, of course, still intrinsically and inimitably Numb Prospero, but there was a new edge to it now—it was stronger, more haunting and ethereal, it insinuated your bones and invaded your mind. It seemed almost detached form Alex himself, more like some sort of wonderful instrument or machine—but at the same time it imbued his fallibility and humanity. At times he stumbled, sounding rather choked and halting, like it still hurt him slightly to sing—but that was good, that was the fashion, to the extent that many modern bands were known to imitate the voice of a recently transformed Singer. I'd heard records of other Singers too, of course, even gone to see one or two live, but their voices just seemed loud and robbed of subtlety. There was no Singer on earth whose voice suited the changes and enhancements of transformation that Alex's did—he could control and manipulate it perfectly, effortlessly, so that it sounded human, but also not so—superhuman in fact, almost godlike.

Around me everyone was dumbstruck, staring in awe at the stage. He had this power over all of us, to make us forget who we were and where we were, until only the music mattered. He had all of us under his spell, and I was no exception; and it made me remember why I had fallen in love with him in the first place. It was his beautiful voice, pure and simple—I was in love with a voice. That was all there was to it, and I didn't care whether it was possible or not: it was a fact, and it was inescapable.

## The Singer

One of the things I realised was that, if I never got the chance to say anything, I was going to have to write songs that actually made sense. This was rather a challenge for me, having previously written pretty but meaningless lyrics such as the following:

_Words, mellifluous like honey  
Flow over me, this vulnerable currency  
Falls precipitously into the dark of my heart._

Being as my voice was basically a beautiful instrument, it didn't matter if the words meant anything as long as they sounded nice, or at least evoked intriguing images in what they described. Now, however, there were lots of things I wanted to say, and I was going to have to put them into the only form people would pay attention to.

_Paradigm Shift_ was the name of our new album, and unlike _Modern Synthesis_ , it actually had a coherent theme. It was about a new set of ideas, about seeing things in a different light—a new world view, you might say. At least, most of it was, and the songs we happened to write that didn't fit in with this concept we just stuck in anyway, and hoped people wouldn't notice (or would somehow forge a tenuous link to the rest of the album). It even had a "narrative arc", according to the critics, although I can't for the life of me see where they got that from.

In short, this, at least, was something Endoplasmic-Reticulum would approve of—a real life concept album that had some sort of deeper intellectual meaning, marking me out as a proper, thoughtful artist rather than just another modern band, trying to get rich and famous. The trouble was, he didn't approve of the nature of the deeper meaning. It was rebellious, disillusioned and a lot angrier than before. The twins enjoyed this tremendously, of course—they always enthusiastically seized any opportunity to improvise and come up with new musical ideas. But Endoplasmic-Reticulum had seen the real meaning behind the songs, and didn't like it. He knew I didn't want to be owned by him, but he didn't want the fact to be broadcast to the world. He'd given me what I wanted, hadn't he? He'd done me a huge favour, so I should be grateful for all the opportunities he'd provided for me. But the truth was, I didn't have much say in the matter. Endoplasmic-Reticulum had now become our full-time manager, and as such could control us in anything we did. He decided where we played, when we played and even what we played—and he didn't want us to go performing anything too new and radical that would alienate our previous audience. I could tell that all I was to him was another money-generating scheme. But not only was I physically unable to argue with him, I also knew that I was in no position to have any say in what I did—I'd signed the contract, after all.

And so the tour was a tiring one. He worked us hard, with constant shows and interviews every spare minute—by the end of it there wasn't a single corner of America that hadn't heard of us. And this was good, I wouldn't have minded at all, if I'd had any say in the proceedings. Even the set list he controlled, retaining much of our old music and even consigning some of our newer songs to the musical scrapheap, striking them even from the album. One song in particular, he hated—"Paradigm Shift", the title song of the album:

* * *

#### Paradigm Shift (Fausts' lament)

Take away these chains so I can be free  
We ignored the prophecy  
I misread the terms to my soul  
We were just a sacrifice  
It drew us in and swallowed us whole  
Now pistons grind  
In the machine  
The teeth of cogs  
They click and whir  
The springs uncoil  
To claim their spoils  
Like those before us  
We never learn  
So take away these chains so I can be free  
Now I have all I desired  
Now I see that nothing was real  
Soon to be consumed by the fire  
Soon to pay my part of the deal  
Now rivets buckle  
And levers scream  
I made a bargain  
I got my dream  
But with it too  
Came something new  
A paradigm  
A new world view  
So take away these chains so I can be free...

* * *

His control was a shame because, although I loved to perform, I liked to do so on my own terms. Nowadays, I truly did sing what I felt, and I was only at my best when my heart was fully in it. Of course, I often felt guilty and ungrateful for not being happy, even though I'd been handed my dream on a plate. But nothing ever turned out how you expected it to be—I was beginning to realise that now. Sometimes I wondered if I could just escape somehow, just run away—but what would I do then? As long as I was a Singer, Endoplasmic-Reticulum owned me. I owed him and would never be free until my debt was repaid. Besides, the call of fame and fortune was just a little too strong for me to even consider turning away from it now. So if I couldn't escape, I'd just have to assert myself—I was a star now, worshipped across the whole world, I was far more important than he would ever be. He couldn't control me—I was Numb Prospero, for God's sake!

Besides, I had the rest of the band to think of. What would they do if I jeopardised our chance at success? As it was, none of them really seemed to mind the new setup. The twins were oblivious, as usual, lost in their own little world, which was becoming more and more unreal as their fame increased.

Reese had concerns of his own to worry about. Something seemed to be eating away at him. He was even quieter than usual and, although he never missed a show, he was more frequently ill—he was sick all the time, and he tried to hide it but I could tell. It was strange, as he'd never suffered from nerves or anything like that before. What really worried me was that he hardly ever ate cakes anymore. Instead, to fill the time, he threw himself hedonistically into the rock and roll lifestyle, a champion of every form of excess. He was fast on the track to self-destruction, and I couldn't help thinking he was trying desperately to distract himself from something. But I didn't have time to worry about that right now.

All in all, we were in a pretty dire state. You knew things were getting bad when you had to get the _twins_ to give an interview—but we were desperate. Obviously, I couldn't do it, and Reese was ill and had had to give so many interviews himself he'd descended into a state of traumatised silence due to a surfeit of unaccustomed dialogue. As a result, since I couldn't speak, Reese wouldn't eat and Richard never seemed to sleep anymore, only Bazooka was in a fit state to talk the slightest sense to anyone. Even so, the interview was... unusual, to say the least.

The man from the magazine cam into our hotel room and introduced himself almost reverentially. Richard, jumpy with unnatural energy, considered it apt to launch himself onto the interviewer's knee and giggle hyperactively. Lying supine on the floor, Bazooka attempted to stare daggers at his twin. However, having the attention span of a small duckling, his glazed gaze soon slid away and was presently distracted by a sparkly object a few inches behind the interviewer's head.

With one twin in slow motion, and the other on fast forward, the poor man looked understandably disconcerted. I could tell this didn't bode well, but didn't have the means or the energy to intervene. And so the interview proper started:

**INTERVIEWER:** Can I just say what an honour it is to speak to you today.

**RICHARD:** Heeheehee!

**INTERVIEWER:** Er... so, how are you finding America?

**BAZOOKA:** It's really fun... today they let us have some ice cream, and it was just like normal ice cream but... _better_... and it had maple syrup on it... and _waffles_...

**RICHARD:** And then they let us go to the park! And there was a sand pit! But I'm scared of sand.

**INTERVIEWER:** Er... right, good, well—are your American fans any different from the ones you're used to in England?

**RICHARD:**... and there was a duck! Oh, er—no, they're not that different except that they wear different kinds of hats.

**INTERVIEWER:** I see. Now, your second album, _Paradigm Shift_ , is coming out soon. In what ways does it differ from you previous album?

**BAZOOKA:** I don't know, Alex writes the songs.

**RICHARD:** Ooh! Ooh! I know! It's—um—more fun, because we get to use more instruments and stuff and play them in a different way.

**INTERVIEWER:** And what influences do you...

**RICHARD:** My shoe's come undone.

**INTERVIEWER:** What?

**RICHARD:** My shoelace has come undone. Look!

**INTERVIEWER:** Oh yeah—well, anyway, what influences does the...

**RICHARD:** Will you help me to tie my shoelaces for me please?

**INTERVIEWER:** Er... OK then. There. Now, what are the band's influences?

Luckily, in a manner that would later be alleged to "post-modernist naïve charm", the twins continued to prattle on harmlessly without causing the interviewer too much consternation. It was a close call though, and I vowed never to let such an instance occur again. My head was full of appropriate answers that would have really impressed the press with our sensitivity and depth of thought. But I supposed I'd just have to put that into my songs instead.

Naturally, they'd been clamouring for written interviews with me as soon as I'd been let out. Everyone seemed to want to know what it was like to be a Singer. But of course, under Portobello Junkshop it was strict company policy not to divulge anything to the press—none of the Singers were allowed interviews under any circumstances. There were hundreds of things I could have told them about what it was like to be a Singer—the frustration at not being able to communicate the simplest of things, of being casually ignored in conversations and being unable to assert myself, of knowing how to resolve the most idiotic of arguments but being incapable of intervening. The inconvenience of having to scribble everything down onto a notebook round my neck, the resignation and sense of defeat when I realised it was all pointless, the eventual retreat into complete silence, the relinquishment of communication. The terrifying, inescapable feeling of being trapped inside my own head. I could have told them how strange it felt to be hooked to a machine, to feel its mechanisms working within me, and the agonising pain it took to sing a single note. I could have tried to explain the utter joy of hearing my voice ringing out across a huge 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 noticed 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 and meaningless—I almost recoiled at their superficiality and pretension. Why had I ever written them? This time, just this once, I wanted the chance to sing something I actually meant.

Richard wandered in, looking dazed and confused.

"Ah, and you two!" Added Endoplasmic-Reticulum, seemingly oblivious to the fact that only one of the pair was there, "We'll have no funny business on stage tonight, eh? Don't want any of our fans to get the wrong impression."

Richard looked acutely upset and embarrassed, defenceless without the support of his twin. I suddenly realised how scared and insignificant he looked on his own. He stared at the floor, flushed magenta as his hair, mumbled something incoherently and left the room hurriedly.

It was as if my eyes had been opened to the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. In any other industry such treatment would seem completely unacceptable. Yes, I didn't think the Twins' public displays of affection would do the band much good either, but I wanted to be able to tell them that myself, in my (hopefully more tactful) way. This was _my_ band; I should be the one in control, and here he was, acting as if I didn't know how to run the show myself. And I'd taken it all lying down, because it gave me renown and success in return. I'd considered it a fair sacrifice. But I shouldn't have to make any more sacrifices—I'd made the ultimate sacrifice, surely? I was a Singer, cultural royalty, notorious worldwide for my charismatic and enigmatic stage persona—I'd given up my words, but with it, I realised now, I'd relinquished the reigns of my own career. And now I wanted it back.

I picked up the fountain pen hanging round my neck and started crossing our songs, adding new ones to the end of the list. One of them was Paradigm Shift.

"What are you doing?" Yelled Reticulum, as if I'd gone completely mad.

I wrote my answer at the bottom of the page:

_I'm changing some of the songs on the list._

When he read my reply, his face darkened. He snatched the page off me and tore it to pieces in from of my face.

"You're in no position to make any changes. You'll play what you're told." He snarled, and swept form the room in a flurry of garish tartan.

Before I could even think about this, I became aware of the sound of a massive row that must have been going on for some time. There were screams and bangs, and ominous noises of breaking objects. Presently, the door burst open and Richard and Bazooka entered, tearing at one another in a wild rage. Reese ran in behind them, and eventually we were able to separate them. Bazooka had a black eye and what looked like scratch marks down one side of his face. Richard's nose was bleeding. They were both breathing heavily. But in addition to this, there was something odd about them that I couldn't put my finger on right away. I looked at Reese and shrugged. He rolled his eyes. I don't think he liked having to do the talking.

"Look, what's going on?" He said, resigned to the fate of having to take charge. "You two never fight! You... well, you love each other." He seemed to find the word very difficult to pronounce.

"That's why we fight!" Said Bazooka, wild-eyed. "We love each other, but what is there for us to do? I love him, but I hate him too because I resent not being normal. Having to hide away, like I should be _ashamed_... ashamed of _love..._ "

Reese flinched at the word.

I was dumbstruck (no irony intended.) I'd never heard Bazooka talk so eloquently (and coherently) before. But whatever he was on (and there was no question that he was not on anything), had made him want to speak out. And it was the first time I'd heard him refer to himself in the singular. He continued:

"There has to be something more. We kiss, and then we hurt each other because... because I just want to... I don't know. Because I don't know what else to do. I just love him so much. I wish there was something more..."

"Don't worry," Said Reese. "There is."

(Oh, why had we put it off so long?)

Richard still hadn't spoken. And then I noticed the difference between them. While Richard still had his massive head of black bird's-nest hair, Bazooka's was cut very short.

_What happened to your hair?_ I scribbled. I showed it to him.

"It was getting in my eyes."

"But we're a shoegazing band—that's the point!" Cut in Richard. "It was so selfish of you. Now I'm going to have to cut mine off too, and I don't want to!"

"How many more times?" Exclaimed Reese, exasperated. He seemed very tired. "You don't _have_ to be the same! You're two different people! Just because you love something doesn't mean you have to _become_ it. Being different makes life more interesting—liking different things, having different...er...skills. You can complement each other, rather than clash."

"What would you know?" Said Bazooka. "You never stay with any one girl for more than ten minutes."

(Fifteen if you're on form, I thought.)

Reese was suddenly silent. Bazooka's comment seemed to have saddened him. He let go of Richard and I let go of Bazooka, tentatively. Luckily, they did not attempt to tear one another's throats out. They walked up and stood in from of one another, like flawed mirror images.

"Actually, I quite like your short hair." Said Richard, quietly. "I can see your face, and it's quite nice, even though it's different to mine."

I though I was going to take a leaf out of Reese's book and vomit.

I glanced around me at the wreckage that was my band. Richard had blood on his shirt and Bazooka's clothes were torn. Reese looked drained and had broken into a cold sweat. And I hadn't even changed into my stage outfit yet.

Just then, a stage hand stuck her head round the door.

"This is your five minute call." She said.

I decided I'd give them something worth waiting for.

## Grace

Just as I'd finally got used to missing him, he was back. I hadn't even seen him yet—he'd gone straight from the airship to the hectic, insane preparations for the homecoming concert. (Yes, it was a "concert" now, never a gig, he was too big for that.) I was thrilled and terrified. I hadn't seen him for so long—would he have changed? Had he missed me? Had he kept my letters? Would he still want me, or was he too important for that now? There must have been plenty of distractions in America. That would explain the brief postcards I had intermittently received but treasured as a sparse collage across my wall. My job stacking library shelves, all I was good for, was scarcely enough to distract me from my musings. Did he ever think of me? Had he been with other girls? To be honest, I didn't really care what he'd done as long as he'd take me back. Such was the extent of my blind, idiotic devotion.

The crowd were growing restless. We'd been here for quite a while now—every extra second seemed like agony. But I knew that as soon as I saw him, as soon as I'd heard his voice, my worries would float away. I was only hoping it would have the same effect on the increasingly restive crowd.

## The Singer

I could hear the tumult of voices in the auditorium from backstage, and the knowledge that you were out there waiting for me gave me a heady thrill of excitement and confidence.

"Are we going to go on?" Asked Reese, restless.

I'd already been wired up, so I didn't risk opening my mouth. Instead I hastily scrawled a message:

_Just go along with what I say, OK?_

The twins nodded, looking excited. They loved improvisation.

I looked down at the metal links fixed round my ankle. I was generally kept chained to the drum kit. This was used as a kind of gimmick, a representation of the tortured life I'd chosen as a sacrifice to my art (but also had the functional purpose of preventing me from ranging past the length of my wires and inadvertently unplugging myself.) But I felt as if, this time, I needed something more. Just before we were about to walk on, I was struck by and idea. I pointed at Reese's scarf.

"Give me your scarf!" I mouthed silently.

"What?"

I gesticulated wildly. Reese shook his head, nonplussed. I was usually far too dignified for ungainly mimes and charades, but this time I was desperate. In the end he got it.

"But why do you want it?" He asked, confused. "You always hated it. You said it was a girl's..."

I snatched it off him impatiently and tied it over my mouth as if I had been gagged. If they didn't get the message from this, they never would. Without his scarf, I could see Reese's collarbones jutting out, and I thought I could make out the scar on his sternum where the surgery and been performed.

Finally we took to the stage. I heard the roar of excitement hit me like a wall of sound. It sounded different, somehow, rowdier, more violent—but I trusted you, and the thought that you were out there, watching me, was enough to silence any doubts I had about what I was going to do. The air of rebellion seemed to have infected the twins, too—they took to the stage with linked hands, their fingers interlaced. The stage was so massive it seemed to take aeons just to reach our places. Through the pyrotechnics that marked our entrance and the blinding stage lights I could make out the sheer, immeasurable vastness of the auditorium.

I took my place. I removed the gag from my mouth, and I spoke out.

## Grace

I had absolutely no idea what was going on. They were acting like complete lunatics. Alex was ranting incoherently at the audience—there were some impatient yells from the stands. Eventually, they struck up a song, and the crowd relented—but there were a few catcalls mixed in with the cheers. The song itself was nothing like anything I'd heard before. After a while I recognised it as one from their latest album (which, to be honest, seemed to have gone over most people's heads), one of the many they'd never performed—but it was barely recognisable. It was louder, wilder, more frantic—and Alex seemed electrified with some sort of insane power—you could almost see the sparks flying off him as he sang with glorious abandon.

He looked completely mad. Gone were the days of his relatively conventional outfits and inconspicuous appearance. Instead, he seemed to have become some sort of decadent caricature of a rock star, with enormous, tangled hair, skin tight leather trousers and massive, terrifying boots covered in chains and metal spikes. His vest displayed most of his machinery and his metal arm. He had transformed himself, like his voice, into something unreal and superhuman, embracing this aloof persona of larger than life proportions. I didn't mind, of course—he could make any image look compelling. And if this is what sold in America, so be it. But I was sure there was something else going on here.

I didn't expect the band to have changed so much either. One of the twins (I could never tell which) still looked like a shocked ghost, but the other one looked almost normal now—in fact, I thought they'd brought in someone else at first. And as for Reese, well, I barely recognised him as the good-looking pinup boy they always put at the front in daguerreotype shoots. My long-suffering friend would have been dismayed at the deterioration, had she not by now transferred her fickle affection to Pete from the Lost Boys. As it was, she barely seemed to notice. But it was indeed a very sad demise, and I wondered what had happened to him. He had finally overstepped the narrow line between "fetchingly malnourished" and "worryingly emaciated", and now just looked unhealthily gaunt and ill. His eyes looked huge in his deathly pale face, making him seem very young and fragile. He was, after all, only eighteen. And, worst of all, his beautiful shiny hair the colour of butterscotch had lost all its lustre and now hung dull and lifeless across his face. I had absolutely no idea how Alex had allowed his friend to get into such a state—hadn't he noticed? Was Reese ill—and wasn't there anything Alex could do to help him?

My attention was drawn to the words Alex was singing—there was something not quite right about them. And then I realised—they actually made sense. He was singing, and his words sounded real, and serious, and heartfelt—this wasn't like Alex at all. It made me wonder—was it still just an act, or did he now really believe all that tortured soul stuff? I always thought he was just tricking us all, giving us all what we wanted—but I knew that look on his face and it certainly didn't seem ironic anymore.

By now the song had stopped and Alex was speaking again. I remembered his lovely halting, boyish voice from the old days, with that familiar accent from the Provinces. I'd forgotten how wonderful it was to hear him speak.

"This feels incredible!" He was saying, his voice ringing out across the cavernous interior of the Royal Albert Hall. "I feel like I can breathe again. Just being able to say things—I don't get the chance to talk much, for obvious reasons."

There were a few laughs—he smiled, encouraging them.

"So I just thought I'd say this while I had the chance." And although I was far away, just a face in an enormous crowd, I could have sworn he was looking straight at me.

"I just wanted to say thank you for being so fantastic, for supporting me through all this—I've been gone for so long and I've really missed you. I couldn't have done any of it without you. I love you. I really love you, and I know I don't say it often enough, but it's true."

I felt as if I was floating upwards, above the teeming crowd, above everything—I just couldn't contain my joy. He'd said it! He'd finally said it—at last I was sure that he felt the same towards me as I did to him. Nothing could have dampened my happiness right then. The knowledge that someone loves you, has been thinking of you, cares about what happens to you, feels so secure and comforting it's like being wrapped in a warm blanket, insulated against the rest of the world.

But he hadn't finished.

"I Know I shouldn't be saying this." He continued, confidently. "But I don't think it's right, or fair, the way I'm being used—manipulated, like a puppet. I bet you didn't know that, did you? That I, Numb Prospero, am little more than a slave to this ruthless industry I'm in. I signed my free will over to them when they made me into a Singer. And now I have to sing for them forever until I've repaid that debt."

The audience was in shocked silence. Alex glanced distractedly to the side of the stage and I saw movement there. Some sort of scuffle seemed to have broken out in the wings. Hurriedly, he pressed on.

"But we're all slaves, in some way, aren't we? None of us have our full freedom. And this is what the next song is going to be about. It's called Paradigm Shift -"

The band struck up, fervently, and he began to sing:

"Take away these chains so I can be free -"

Then, suddenly, three things happened all at once. The first was that Alex's voice abruptly cut out, and he was left mouthing silently into thin air, shocked. Evidently, the backstage struggle had won out and somebody had pulled the power cable on Alex's amplifier. I though I caught a glimpse of lurid checked tartan from behind the large boxes. But we were given no time to react to this because, barely seconds later, a grinding discord of minor keys sounded as Reese collapsed onto his keyboard, then keeled over in a dead faint. The twins took advantage of the distraction by choosing that moment to embrace in a passionate kiss of Hollywood proportions.

At the sight of this incendiary diorama, the already edgy crowd broke out into a full-on riot. I tried in vain to make my way towards the stage, desperately forcing a route through brawling fists and panicked shrieks. Pointlessly, uselessly, I kept yelling out Alex's name, over and over again, until the word seemed to lose all meaning.

## The Singer

It didn't take long for Reese to come round. No one could find anything wrong with him except that he looked like he was starving to death. But he was refusing all offers of food. Someone took me aside.

"If you can't get him to eat anything, he's going to die."

This was interesting. I'd never know anyone who was gong to die before.

Once things had calmed down a bit, and people had stopped blustering around him, I went and sat down where he was. I took out my pen and scribbled furiously. I was glad I had a captive audience for once, and he couldn't just walk off and ignore what I'd written.

_What the bloody hell is going on? You've got to eat something._

"What's the point?" He replied, dejectedly. "If I eat, I'm only going to throw it up again, and then the whole vicious circle will start over. I don't want to have to do that anymore. I'm tired of it! So tired..." He buried his head in his hands.

This was ridiculous. It would be highly inconvenient if Reese was to die. I needed him to play the keyboard, for God's sake! I tried to persuade him.

_Can't you just stop yourself?_

"I don't want to—why should I? Besides, I think I've gone too far for that."

_Nothing is irreversible._

He seemed unconvinced. But if nobody could make him eat, I couldn't see what else I could do. Maybe I could find another keyboard player somewhere. Then I remembered his favourite drink—hot chocolate, with no milk, to look like black coffee. Surely he wouldn't be able to resist that.

A few minutes later, I set his favourite "I ♥ CATS" mug down beside him.

_Drink this. Don't think about what you're doing._

He picked up the mug cautiously and took a tentative sip. He grimaced.

"You make really terrible hot chocolate." He said, smiling wanly. But he continued to slowly drain it nonetheless. I started scribbling again.

_Do you have a death wish?_

"I'm fine, honestly!"

I don't think he even believed me that he was killing himself. He was much too deep in denial for that. But he opened up a little.

"I wanted to be perfect." He said. "All this attention on me, once the band had taken off—I felt the pressure to be as ideal as I possibly could. And if I was perfect, maybe it would help me find someone who I actually felt something for..."

_I know about your surgery._

He didn't look too surprised. Instead he came clean.

"When I had it done, it was fine to start with. I felt wonderful, free, like a burden had been lifted off my shoulders—I could do exactly as I wanted. But after a while the coldness and loneliness sets in, and it's agony, like a physical pain—I just couldn't bear it anymore. All I had to think of was me, and my appearance, and I began to obsess about myself and—well—at least doing it made me _feel_ something. I was desperate—and now I don't know what to do. I just want to go back to how I was before."

_Surely the feeling will pass?_

"I used to think that." He replied. "All of it was bearable, even enjoyable, not having any attachments—as long as I kept moving on, quickly, so I never got bored, so I always maintained hope—but then something made me stop and think. I met a girl who I thought I could love, if I had a heart."

_Who was it?_

"What does it matter? It'll never happen. It was just one of Grace's friends—but she was perfect for me. She was really funny, and nice, and she liked the same things as me -"

(Twee and cake, that's not hard, I thought to myself.)

"– and she seemed to be interested who I really was, rather than, you know, what I could do to her..." He coloured. It always amazed me how, given his extensive experience in matters such as this, he could still be so awkward when it came to talking about them.

"It was like she saw me as an actual person, not just some famous rock star eye candy she could say she'd "met". And I tried to be able to love her, I really did—I searched deep inside me for that extra spark, but there was nothing. I felt nothing at all—just kind of numb, and empty."

_And now you want your heart back so you can fall in love with her?_

I wished I could express vague incredulity in writing. It seemed like a lot of fuss to be making over just one person.

Reese nodded. "I suppose I do."

Just then, a resounding crash echoed through the room as Endoplasmic-Reticulum flung the door open. He stood in the doorway, a picture of ill-contained irate rage.

"You." He said, choked. "Outside. Now."

* * *

I went. What could I do?

He was pacing outside the door, puffing on his black cigar, his face still a florid shade of vermillion. As soon as he saw me his eye took on a steely and determined glint. He stepped right forward, trapping me against the wall. I could smell the foul reek of the cigar and fought my utmost not to cough.

He knew I hated the smell, and he knew I'd had a sensitive throat ever since the transformation. He'd been witness to the ridiculous lengths I'd had to go through to preserve my voice. Bottle upon bottle of buttercup cough mixture, honey and lemon tea (which I hated—Reese always made it too sweet), avoiding chocolate or milk or anything that could ruin my precious voice; remembering to close all the windows at night and the ridiculous amount of vitamins and supplements I had to take to prevent my newly weakened throat from becoming infected.

I knew he meant business. Soon enough, he spoke.

"What the bloody hell was that?" He asked. "Look what you've done! Do you want to go and ruin everything? You ungrateful little bastard! You don't care, do you? As long as you cause a commotion, get plenty of attention—you don't care if you destroy everything I've built..."

_He'd_ built?

I tried to shout, losing myself, forgetting I could make no sound.

"Enough of your mummery." He smiled. "Unless you toe the line, you're out."

_What?!_

"See, you're listening now, aren't you? What would you be, if I dropped you? Nothing! Nothing at all. I can make your name muck. You think you're the only one with talent? There are hundreds of others just waiting to take your place. And none of the other labels would hire you—I have them all under my influence. You'd be cast out, a nobody, unable to speak, unable to sing, unable to do anything at all."

Of course, I realised later that he would never have done such a thing. I was such a great money-spinner that I could have taken up gangster rap and he would have been forced to go along with it. But at the time, with my vision clouded with anger, I felt trapped—I would have done anything to escape. If only I'd waited a while, given it a few more months, calmed down and thought about it pragmatically—but that had never been one of my strong points. And it's too late now, anyway.

I took the notebook hanging round my neck (yellow and green herringbone, the one that I used to love so much) and scribbled my answer desperately:

_Then what if I don't want to be a Singer anymore?_

"Restoration?" He laughed cruelly. "That's a risky process, Alex—even more precarious than transformation. You could die from it. And returning your voice costs money—money that you don't have."

I didn't understand. I was rich, wasn't I? Rich beyond my wildest dreams...

He continued: "You haven't even finished paying for your transformation yet. And you must remember that I have complete control over your revenue. You can't have access to it unless I want you to. Don't you recall that document you signed, all those months ago when your heart was full of fire?"

Months? Was that all? It seemed like years.

He shook his head. "No, you're just going to have to deal with it."

All of a sudden, the sight of his ugly, sneering face filled me with murderous rage. Before I could think what I was doing, my metal arm had shot forward with the fountain pen I was holding, aiming to stab him straight in the face. But before I could do anything he'd grabbed my wrist and knocked the pen out of my hand.

"You wouldn't dare." He mocked. "I'd break your wrist if it wasn't made of titanium." He pushed me a side roughly and strode down the corridor. "Now for the others. I've got a bone to pick with them too, and no mistake."

Endoplasmic-Reticulum strode round the corner in a businesslike manner, a look of cruel anticipation on his face. But seconds later, there was a resounding crash and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. I ran to see what was going on. Grace was standing above him, wielding my keytar with a wild and vicious expression on her face that I'd never seen before. She looked absolutely terrifying.

## Grace

I'd heard everything, of course. And I couldn't believe it! No wonder Alex had acted the way he had. I had never, in my whole life, heard anyone speak to him like that. He was Numb Prospero: how could anyone treat him with such disrespect? This was what had been making him so distant all this time, I realised. It had nothing to do with me. It was this man that was making him so worried, keeping him from me and working him too hard—well, if Alex truly didn't want to be a Singer anymore, I didn't see why this dreadful man should stand in the way of that decision. I would support Alex in anything he tried to do—and if he became just another ordinary person again, I'm sure in the long run he'd be far happier. With fewer distractions, he'd begin to appreciate the other good things in his life.

I knew Endoplasmic-Reticulum should be taught a lesson. I was going to negotiate with him, persuade him to let Alex have the money, but when it came to it I just couldn't control my anger. Still, when he came round he might think twice about treating people the way he was accustomed to. And at least it had bought us some time to decide what to do.

But Alex didn't seem to agree at all. He ran up and forced the keytar out of my hand.

_What on earth did you do that for?_ He mouthed silently. _You could have killed him!_

He looked at me coldly, without a hint of sympathy or understanding.

"I'm sorry!" I sobbed. "I was thinking of you..."

_Grace, please._ He mouthed. _Please, just go._

"But-"

_Please, for me. I'll be back soon, I promise._

I nodded, although I didn't understand. I didn't feel like I understood anything anymore.

## The Singer

I didn't really know when I'd be back at all. And I was still worrying about what all this would do to my reputation. Not that it mattered anymore—not with what I'd decided to do. And I'm sorry to you for doing it—but it had to be done.

I stepped over Endoplasmic-Reticulum's prone, groaning form and into the dressing room, only to see Reese emerging from the bathroom, wiping toothpaste from the side of his mouth. My heart sank.

I reached for my backup pen.

_You did it again, didn't you?_

"I'm sorry!" Replied Reese, looking anxious and contrite. "I can't just stop."

_You'll die!_

"So what? I don't care anymore, I really don't!"

_Right, you're coming too._

"Where?"

_Doctor John Doe._

Together, we might be able to persuade him, I thought. And I needed someone to do the talking.

"But he can't do anything. He can't restore either of us—not without the money."

I didn't care. I was still going to try. I'd do whatever it took to get my voice back. After all, what had I to lose?

I glanced around the room, searching for the twins, but they weren't anywhere to be found. In fact, I now realised, I hadn't seen them since the fracas on stage. They were probably just off in a corner somewhere, doing stuff. They'd be fine, I thought. I didn't know at the time, of course, that I'd never see them again.

Time was running out. Endoplasmic-Reticulum could wake up at any point, and then our chance would be gone. I gestured for Reese to come to the door, but he shook his head, leaning heavily against the wall.

I didn't have time for this. Before he had chance to protest, I'd picked him up by the legs in a rugby tackle and thrown him over my shoulder. Even though he was taller than me, I managed to lug him quickly and quietly out of the back door of the building.

The moon was high, and cast silver shadows over the towering buildings. In the alleyway behind the theatre, it was eerily quiet, but I could still hear the remnants of the riot going on in the street in front. In fact, if anything, the shouts and screams now seemed even louder and more desperate. Then I spotted the reason why.

A shaft of moonlight reflected off the gunmetal of a lone steam bike, parked up against the wall. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I realised to my horror that the shadows behind it were full of them—row upon row of the dreaded vehicles, more than I'd ever seen before, glinting malevolently under the full moon.

Damn. How could I have overlooked this? We were sitting ducks here, dead meat—it only needed one of them to notice us and we were done for. I never usually had to get myself out of situations like this on my own. What we needed was a plan... a foolproof plan...

* * *

Ten minutes later we were speeding down the highway on a stolen steam bike, closely pursued by a gaggle of irate punks.

"On second thoughts, I don't think this was a very good idea!" Shouted Reese over the screech of the engine.

I was too busy trying to work out how to drive the bloody thing. If I could only get the controls to work, I could steer it out of the way of that massive road barge that was looming towards us...

And then we were in the Thames.

"At least we lost them!" Yelled Reese cheerfully as he slowly sank.

* * *

"Has it crossed your mind that neither of us know where Dr. John Doe's surgery actually is?"

We were sitting in a café, drenched to the bone, and I was attempting to force feed Reese with fruit. I think they assumed we were vagrants.

Reese had a fair point. The location of Dr. John Doe's cave was kept under strict confidence. Patients were escorted there in a car with blacked–out windows by one of the very few who knew its true location, and who were sworn to secrecy.

I scribbled with Reese's eyeliner pencil (!) onto an old piece of newspaper.

_We have to find someone who knows._

"But who?"

We pondered this for a while, staring into space. I managed to feed Reese a couple of apple slices without him noticing. Then I continued staring intently at the grains of sugar spilled over the surface of the table. I licked my finger and collected the grains on my fingertip, then put it in my mouth. The sugar had been mixed with salt and was sharp and sweet at the same time. I absentmindedly toyed with one of the jam sachets. The compote was a deep shade of vermillion, hardly a natural colour at all.

Then I had it.

Excited, I jumped up and started putting on the old parka I'd found to conceal my machinery and metal arm. Reese waited for me to drag him off the table and load him into the old shopping trolley we'd found.

"Wait, where are we going? Who is it?" He asked.

I spelled out her name in the spilled sugar:

_Vanessa Jones._

* * *

The flat didn't look that different from the outside. In fact, at first we wondered whether we'd found the right place. Reese kept checking obsessively, convinced that his wasn't it, but I could tell that he was just playing for time because he was scared. And he had full reason to be—very few people would voluntarily come here to do what we were about to do now. Even I hesitated slightly as I caught sight of her name beside the bell for her flat. My finger hovered over the bell chord for a second. Then I decided to get on with it and pulled it decisively.

Although the hour was late, I heard a voice issue from the speaking tube almost immediately. It was saccharine, but with a sharp, slightly unnatural edge to it.

"Hello? Who is it?"

I pushed Reese forward and threatened him with a Tunnock's teacake until he hastily mumbled our names into the mouth of the cone. I could hear the barely concealed glee dripping from her voice like clear honey as she spoke once more.

"Please, come in. The doorman will show you up."

When she opened the door to us I nearly turned straight round and ran down the stairs again. Her appearance was just about as terrifying as her reputation. Her hair and eyes were raven black, and her lips were scarlet. Her dress was claret velvet and her shoes were like polished rubies. The imagery was scarcely subtle. Even the lampshade was red, and cast an infernal glow throughout the room.

She welcomed us in. I threw Reese into a disgustingly upholstered chesterfield and sank into another beside him. The room was oppressively hot, and I quickly removed the horrendous parka that I'd found abandoned on the café floor. I noticed to my horror that it was from a women's clothing shop.

"So, boys," She drawled, "to what do I owe this extreme pleasure?"

She sauntered over to the desk and flicked aimlessly through the scattered papers. In the half-light, I thought I saw the bracelet round her wrist move—then I realised that it was not a bracelet at all, but a living creature: a livid red and black striped millipede that raised its antennae and glanced at us, bored, before coiling itself once again around her arm. Reese was staring aghast, open–mouthed. I took this opportunity to insert the Tunnock's teacake, which he chewed instinctively.

"Please, tell me." She said, raising in impeccable eyebrow. "There's no need to be scared."

She used to be beautiful, apparently. But years of ruthless social climbing had caused her features to harden and sharpen, and there was no hiding the cold, calculating glint in her eye. A heart that was once so open to love and possibility had hardened over the years as, one by one, her naïve expectations of human nature were disappointed. Instead, cynicism had seeped in like limestone into a fossil, until only a vague impression of the shape was preserved. There was no need for her to do what Reese had done: she was already completely heartless.

Vanessa Jones was now the most popular socialite in London, treacherous informer to every tabloid gossip column party to the secrets of even the most high and mighty. As a young woman, she had been a ruthless journalist, a back-bench politician and at one point, rumour had it, a private investigator. If anyone knew where Dr. John Doe's cave was, she did. Unfortunately, once Reese had haltingly informed her of the purpose of our visit, she didn't seem as forthcoming:

"It's true that at one time I was sent to check up on Doe, to find out the secret of his discoveries. The rival medical research groups were very interested in him at one point, I seem to remember. But I never found anything in the end—he's far too sly for that. I could certainly draw his cave on a map, but I'm being given a lot to keep this information confidential. I can get any modification I like for free—although you couldn't tell by looking." She smiled slyly. "I'd be giving that up if I told you. I'd need something really special in return."

"I'm sorry." Mumbled Reese. "We have nothing—we're broke. We don't have anything we can give you."

"Then I'm afraid I can't help you." She sighed, disturbing a large, colourful scarab that I'd assumed was a brooch. It ran out as far as its chain would allow it before realising the futility of its task and returning to its place. "Such a pity. It would have made a magnificent scandal."

"Well, I'm sorry we disturbed you." Said Reese hurriedly, jumping up and making it halfway to the door before he collapsed onto another god-awful chaise longue.

"Ooh," Said Vanessa, her predatory eyes widening. "Poor thing."

She looked him up and down, from his sheet of blonde hair to his thin ankles. Then she smiled.

"On second thoughts, maybe there _is_ something you could do for me."

I was horrified. I took her fountain pen and scribbled a message for Reese in blood red ink.

_You don't have to do this if you don't want to._

"No, it's fine." Said Reese. "I don't mind."

His eyes were dull and lifeless—I don't think he cared either way. It was the look of someone who didn't mind anymore what happened to them, or even whether they lived or died.

"Then it's settled." She said languidly. "One night with the lovely Reese in return for the address of Dr. John Doe."

She glanced at the watch face glued to the back of a beautiful goliath beetle.

"It's getting late. Come on, Reese."

She picked him up with surprising ease and flung him over her shoulder. "We're going to my yacht."

She turned and glanced at me, almost forgetting I was there. "You'll be alright here, won't you?"

I nodded. She smiled.

"Bye then".

She walked out with Reese still hanging over her shoulder, and locked the door behind her.

* * *

Looking back, I can't believe how stupid I'd been. There were any number of things she could have done while she had us in that position. But the following morning, almost to my surprise, she returned as promised and handed over a labelled map along with Reese, who looked clean, smart and close to death. She stood behind her desk and started relaying a plan of action.

"Now, it's not that far, but I recommend you divide the journey into three parts—that way, no one will know..."

The bell rang, interrupting her. She walked over to the speaking tube and listened intently.

"Post boy's bringing up an urgent message, apparently. Better get behind the sofa, just in case."

"Er...OK then..." Said Reese, bemused. I rolled him over the back of the chaise longue and jumped behind it myself. There were all kinds of things back there but I kept my eyes on her brutal stiletto heels as she moved to the door, collected the letter and closed it again. I peered round the edge of the sofa. She was reading the message with a look of avid glee in her eye, which was quickly replaced by an expression of businesslike seriousness. She spoke to us again with added urgency.

"On second thoughts, I'll get my chauffeur to take you in my car right away. Come on now, quickly."

I wondered what the news was. She hurriedly bundled us into the vehicle and packed us off with half the contents of the breakfast bar. I sat in the back of the luxurious quadruple turbo-charged Bentley, frantically attempting to feed Reese strawberries, orange juice, anything I could think of with vitamins in that might hold back the blackness closing in at the edges of his vision. I didn't know much about this, of course, and now wished I did—why did I leave school so early? Well, I knew why, obviously, but I never thought I'd need to know how too revive a dying male strumpet to a fit enough condition to be operated on.

It didn't seem to be working. By the tie we reached John Doe's cave, he had completely lost consciousness and I had to carry him down the deserted corridor over my shoulder. Doctor John Doe wasn't at his desk when we burst in. I could hear a noise behind the door of his surgery—a strange, crackling noise I'd never heard before, like the fabric of the air itself was being torn apart.

There wasn't really anything I could do to alert him to my presence so I just sort of hung around awkwardly, waiting for him to return. In the meantime I tried to compose what I was going to say—well, write—to explain why I was there. But I was too nervous to think of anything at all. It was completely ridiculous. After a while I kind of got a bit tired just standing about. It was quite exhausting having to carry Reese around all the time. There wasn't a chair in front of John Doe's desk and it would have been out of the question to sit in his throne-like seat behind it. So in the end I just sat on the floor. But it was a bit cold there, and I'd lost my vile parka somewhere along the way. I almost missed it now.

I glanced at Reese's prone form, splayed out across the cold stone slabs and breathing weakly. It looked so... comfortable. If I could just drag him against the wall and lean on him...

No. I was not going to sit on Reese. I was not going to use the unconscious and possibly moribund form of my keyboard player as a handy cushion. It was completely unquestionable. I needed to retain every scrap of dignity I had left.

On the other hand, I _had_ done him the favour of carrying him around everywhere. And being as he was now in no fit state to do the talking for me, he might as well be made useful...

I was saved from this exacting dilemma by Dr. John Doe himself, who chose that moment to saunter absent-mindedly through the door. I stood up instantly.

He started when he saw me, but didn't seem too dismayed.

"Alex Young... how on earth did you get in here? Who told you where I was?"

I started scribbling down the persuasive and emotive speech I'd thought up, but Dr John Doe seemed to be too preoccupied with Reese, who he's just noticed sprawled across the floor.

"Dash it! What's happened to him?"

I rolled my eyes. How could I explain?

_He won't eat. He's lost the will to live. But the real reason we're here is-_

"He's lost the will to live?" He tossed my notebook back to me. "Damn. I should have foreseen this eventuality. It's a very risky business, removing someone's capacity for true love. It's no surprise that this has happened. But they always insist so urgently, and who am I to refuse them? It's my job. I'd be living in poverty otherwise..."

I started writing again in my notebook. Maybe if we could get Reese's case out of the way I could move on to more urgent maters.

_Is there anything we can do to restore him?_

John Doe sighed regretfully and shook his head.

"I could have done, a few months ago. It would have been free, too. Reese was an experiment, the first to have surgery of this nature done. When I did it he was very young, and it was a delicate operation. I didn't have a full idea what the consequences of this would be, so I gave him the chance to be restored, if it didn't work out, at no cost whatsoever. But he seemed to be doing so well, and he never asked for anything at all..."

_So why can't you restore him?_

"I sold it. That piece of his heart. I implanted it into an investment banker who'd been born lacking one. He's become a conceptual artist now—left his wife and run away to Bodmin Moor to live in a commune and make ceramics. But even if I'd known Reese would need it, I don't know what I'd have done. You can't turn down a profit like that, especially when I need all the funding I can get for my new research. Do you realise, I've found that the life force which innervates our muscles can be made artificially, and run through a metal wire. Soon aspiring Singers might not even need surgery. Not if we..."

I didn't have time for this.

_So there's nothing you can do?_

Doe looked genuinely remorseful. I'd never have thought someone so wildly rich and successful, responsible for so many binding and life changing contracts, could still be so human. But why shouldn't he have a heart? He was just a scientist: the one who did the transformations. It was the rest of society that exploited the magic he could work.

"I'll put him on my respirator for now. Who knows? We may be able to revive him anyway. But if not, well... Oh dear, if any of this gets out..."

He lifted Reese's body easily with his pincer and forcep arms and deposited him in the surgery. When he returned and sank into the chair behind his desk, I made sure I had prepared what I was going to write.

*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 contract, 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 was successful, and with his will to live restored, he slowly began to recover. He had relapses from time to time but, being naturally greedy, gradually began to look less like a frightened shoe gazer and more like the lifeguard he'd once been; although it took him a long time to get used to his reflection. As for the girl he thought he could love—well, it didn't really work out with her. But with the next girl, it did. By that time he'd moved back to Pembrokeshire and they opened a surf shop together, the best one in town. But old habits die hard, and he was still unfaithful. I began to realise that maybe the reason he'd wanted that section of his heart removed in the first place was not, as I'd thought, to prevent it from being broken, but rather so that he didn't have to feel guilty about the people's hearts _he_ broke.

As for the twins, well—I never saw them again after that fateful night at the Royal Albert Hall. There are two different accounts of what happened to them after that, and I suppose it's up to you to decide which is the true one.

Either way, they ran off with all the instruments. Which they were entitled to, I suppose. They were in charge of the musical side of things and we always gave them an allowance to buy the equipment, then just left them to it.

The first rumour seems to imply that they sold it all to get filthy rich. They then squandered all the money on drugs and ended up back where we'd found them: on the street, freezing and half-starved, clinging together for warmth underneath a bridge.

It would be nice if the second story was the true one. In this version, Richard and Bazooka went on to become successful song producers for a wide array of bands, offering their musical services to the Lost Boys, Sleeping With Anemones, NSOH and The Teddy Boys' picnic. Stamping their name, Lovers and Fighters, like a barcode into the introduction of each song they produced, they managed to use their creative skills to great success, becoming the famous musicians they'd already planned to be the day they came to audition for us.

As for Grace—well, I never heard from her again.

### Information: Diesel Culture

During the 20th century, internal combustion diesel engines rapidly took over from steam, resulting in a boom in industry and personal vehicle ownership. Most transport and household devices are now diesel-fuelled, and diesel is liquid gold. By 2010, fuel supplies are almost depleted and the affluent society is in denial, trembling on the brink of its own hedonistic downfall. As a result, the cultural atmosphere of the time has become faster, more decadent, more desperate, more frantic to make the most of the situation while it is still possible, because sooner or later everyone knows in their heart of hearts that the whole lot will come crashing down.

## Grace

I can't say I ever really got over him, but once I'd had my revenge, the burning anger was replaced by smouldering resentment and, eventually, a kind of numb indifference. I moved on, after a while, with Pete from the Lost Boys, then Capricorn, then Peregrine Falcon Smith—but none of them have lasted very long. Needless to say, I'm the talk of every tabloid column, especially those by Vanessa Jones. I'm actually quite good friends with her now. And maybe I'm getting to like the attention, the fame, of a sort, associated with these high-profile boys. Still, I can never be sure whether my attraction to them is real, or whether I just make it up to keep me going. Maybe I'm just trying to find someone as wonderful as I fooled myself Alex was. One thing's for sure, I'm going to keep making the same mistakes again and again until one of them turns out right.

## Cinderford Herald 13/12/10

#### **A NEW NATURAL FORCE - CAN LIGHTNING BE HARNESSED?**

Earlier this week scientists in India discovered a way to capture the power of lightning through a metal wire "conductor". According to the National Energy Lab, Mumbai, this natural force has always existed, but can also be generated artificially by passing a magnet close to metal wire.

Dr John Doe contests the novelty of this breakthrough, claiming to have already discovered that the energy running through nerves, causing muscles to contract, is the very same force found in both lightning and friction sparks. However, as none of this work was published prior to the discoveries of the National Energy Lab, the recognition must fall on Mumbai for this intriguing finding.

"Vitality", as this substance has been dubbed, is also alleged to float through metal like water and leap from one object to the next in the form of sparks. All of this sounds a little far-fetched, and further research needs to be undertaken before these extraordinary claims can be confirmed. However, if it is to be believed, "Vitality" looks set to be an amusing novelty that will provide entertaining children's toys for years to come.

**—James Vickers, science correspondent**
