Kzine Issue 9

by Graeme Hurry et al.

  “Tell me… do you treat… everyone… like this?”

  “Nah, just those who deserve it.”

  Reef’s retort silenced Doyle. Maybe his helper had a point. Being a quadriplegic didn’t excuse self-pity. Dammit, if Reeve could raise money for charity and Bauby write a book…

  “Feeling better now?”

  Reef had evidently observed his change of expression.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  “Want her?”

  The woman had reached the junction of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road. Any second now the traffic lights would change; she would cross the road and disappear from his life.

  “Yes, but…”

  “No buts,” said Reef.

  Before Doyle could reply, the lights changed. The woman stepped into the road. By the time Reef had wheeled Doyle to crossing, the lights had changed back again. Doyle could no longer see her.

  “Too late,” he sighed.

  “Let’s go home,” said Reef.

  Doyle glanced at the sky, which was glowing a sickly shade of off-white, as if a giant golf ball had swallowed London. Rain soon, thought Doyle. With a bit of luck it might mask the smell of piss. Centre Point tower loomed over him like mortality. He was on the point of gasping a request to go back on the ventilator when he saw the woman standing on the other side of the road, impatiently pushing the light-change button. Doyle watched, bemused, as she crossed the road. Perhaps she had originally intended to buy a DVD for a friend’s birthday, but had been side-tracked by GearZone’s attractions.

  His puzzlement turned to outright amazement when she halted in front of the wheelchair, leaned over him and planted a lingering kiss on his lips. Then she stepped back and shot a bemused look at Reef, before turning smartly and running off.

  Her lips tasted like chocolate.

  It took several minutes for Doyle to recover his composure sufficiently to speak. By then, Reef had parked the wheelchair at a bus stop on Tottenham Court Road.

  “You set that up!”

  “Kind of,” said Reef.

  “I knew it!” Doyle hated being manipulated, hated also the fact that his voice couldn’t adequately express his anger.

  “But only kind-of.”

  Doyle frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Well, I don’t know the woman and I didn’t hire her.” He grinned at Doyle. “But it was a set-up.”

  Doyle pondered Reef’s answer but could make little sense of it. Was he like that Derren Brown guy on television? If so, he’d presumably done a similar number on Sarah.

  “How did you… plant the idea… in her mind?”

  Reef chuckled. “Sorry, trade secret!”

  By the lightness of his tone, Doyle judged that Reef was yanking his chain. Which came as a relief, since the implication that he had used some kind of hypnosis made Doyle feel uncomfortable. But still, how had he done it?

  “How many… suggestions… have you planted… today?”

  For once Reef looked serious, as if he’d been called to account by a customer. “Well, let’s see now.” He paused, as if mentally ticking off entries in a log. “There was that woman just now. Earlier, I suggested positive thinking to you. And while we were sitting in that coffee bar I channelled Flat-Line Fiancée to the guitarist.”

  “Oh, come on!” Doyle was gasping for breath, but could not let Reef’s claims go unchallenged. “How likely is it… that you suggested… that song… to him?”

  Reef leaned over the wheelchair, so close Doyle could smell his peppermint breath.

  “What are the odds I didn’t, my friend?”

  It would have been a huge coincidence, Doyle realised. MegaMedia’s radio station hadn’t played the song while they’d sat in the coffee bar. Only when Reef prompted him had the song entered his head.

  “Hard to believe,” he muttered.

  “Not as hard as bucking those odds.”

  “Maybe,” said Doyle, uncertain whether it was genuinely harder to believe in coincidence than telepathy, or whatever trick Reef used. Still, it appeared he had little choice except to believe him. Assuming of course that Reef hadn’t planted that suggestion too.

  Reef patted Doyle’s right forearm. “That’s the spirit. So, why don’t we head back and see if I can persuade some wannabes to play your music?”

  Doyle didn’t know whether to nod or shake his head. If his helper’s powers were genuine he would have access to a foolproof way of communicating his songs to musicians. The idea intrigued him. Yet he hated seeing other people manipulated almost as much as he hated being manipulated himself.

  Reef raised his eyebrows. “Is that a yes?”

  Doyle conceded defeat by looking down at his hands.

  “Let’s give it a try.”

  Reef wheeled Doyle to the same table they’d occupied earlier.

  “The guitarist is still here,” Reef noted.

  “Yeah,” said Doyle, deliberately non-committal. The youth was strumming basic chords. Could Reef actually channel songs to this guy? Doyle doubted it. But he had managed the trick with Flat-Line Fiancée, apparently.

  “No sign of the keyboard player,” said Reef.

  Which was no bad thing given her lack of talent, thought Doyle, and unsurprising given what Reef had made her do; nevertheless he would have liked the chance to apologise.

  A nervous-looking man in his mid-twenties, sporting blond-dyed dreads, a grubby Prodigy tee shirt and ripped jeans, sat down at the Roland. He smiled to himself, tentatively prodded a few keys and then began playing a complicated arpeggio.

  “Looks like… we won’t be… needing her,” gasped Doyle. Turning his head, he sought other candidates.

  A gangly black woman played a bass guitar as though she were plucking a chicken, while a squat, shaven-headed man of indeterminate age pounded four-four on a Premier drum-kit. Not great, not even so-so. Could Reef really “persuade” such unpromising specimens to play his music? They seemed more likely to set a new benchmark for in-store cacophony. And who, exactly, was going to sing his songs? So far, none of the dozen or so men he’d spotted had shown signs of stepping up to a microphone stand. Maybe he’d have to get the group to play the instrumental version of Game of Life he’d worked on last year.

  “Here, you’ll be needing these.” Reef pulled a pair of headphones from his daysack and plugged them into an iPod-sized gadget.

  Doyle frowned. “How will- “

  Reef placed the headphones over his ears before he could finish the question.

  “Noise cancelling,” Reef mouthed, then added, “Close your eyes,”

  Doyle obeyed. Ignoring the tightness in his chest— just tension, he told himself— he let the song form in his mind. He began with the rhythm, initially just a gentle tap on the snare, then adding tom-toms and hi-hat, finally bass guitar that rumbled like an earthquake. Next he imagined the propulsive build-up to the first verse, with the lead guitar stoked on adrenaline. Yet despite a surfeit of decorative piano, the piece begged for vocals. He knew the words by heart. If only someone would sing them for him!

  He felt Reef remove the headphones. The music pounding in his ears instantly swamped the music in his mind. Reef’s pick-up group were playing Game of Life. Playing it for real. The song’s intro sounded ballsy, hard-edged and above all live. This was music of sweat and sinew not bed-sit dreams.

  Then came the first verse, his words sung as if by an angel: a plangent, sky-scraping, heartbreaking sound.

  He opened his eyes. The woman who couldn’t play keyboards clung to the microphone stand as if her life depended on it. Doyle gaped at her, astonished by what he was hearing. She whooped and growled her way through the song, somehow managing to blend Debbie Harry’s sass with Dolly Parton’s sweetness, while simultaneously evoking Polly Harvey’s primal raunch. No, he thought, even that combination didn’t do her justice.

  Without warning the song collapsed into aural chaos. The band members stopped playing and looked at each other in bewilderment. Doyle star
ed at the singer. He had never imagined Game of Life sung by a female vocalist; or any of his songs, for that matter. Was this what had been missing all these years? He glanced at Reef. His helper’s face showed signs of strain for the first time Doyle could recall.

  “Sorry, wasn’t easy holding that lot together,” said Reef. “I could give it another go.”

  Doyle gave a tiny shake of his head. “No,” he gasped. “You won’t.”

  “But I thought this was what you wanted?”

  “Yes… and no.”

  “What is it you want, then?”

  “An apology.”

  “What for? You agreed to this!”

  “It’s not for me.” With a Herculean effort, Doyle jerked his head at each of the band members in turn. “Apologise to them.” He paused, gathering his strength. “Explain what…you did… Say you’re sorry… then ask whether… they’d work… with me.”

  Reef gave Doyle an appraising stare before shrugging his acquiescence and wheeling him to the nearest bemused-looking musician.

  “Piss off,” was the guitarist’s response, while the rhythm section fled without saying a word. The keyboard player considered the offer before giving a sad-eyed shake of his head.

  He was a big loss, Doyle thought.

  But the singer listened.

  “Maybe,” she said, peering at him through her fringe. On seeing Doyle’s expression, she grinned. “Oh, what the hell. Definitely! And don’t worry about finding a new band. I know Will, the keyboard player. He’d sell his soul to play songs that good. You never know, he might sweet-talk the others too.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Valerie,” she replied with a smile no less lovely than her voice.

  “I’m Patrick,” he said.

  To his surprise, she walked round to the rear of the wheelchair and gave it a push.

  “I think I can man—” The wheelchair juddered; Doyle felt her hands let go of the handles.

  Doyle turned his head to glare at Reef. “But you’re not…in this band.” He paused to catch his breath. “No more messing… with my head… or Valerie’s… Got that?”

  Reef steepled his hands beneath his nose; finally he nodded, seemingly to himself, and walked away.

  As he watched him go, Doyle felt his heart begin to palpitate. Trying to think calming thoughts didn’t help. Carry on like this and he’d be lucky to make it home, never mind survive long enough to record some songs. It was not as if he could expect Valerie to know how to care for a quadriplegic.

  Panicking, he glanced up the stairs that led to the ground floor and spotted Reef on the first landing, staring down at him. He grinned at Doyle before shifting his gaze. Moments later, Valerie knelt next to Doyle and began inspecting the wheelchair.

  “I think you’d better go back on the ventilator until I can get you home,” she said, flicking the switch.

  With the machine regulating his breathing once more, Doyle felt his panic subside. As Valerie wheeled him towards the lift, he glanced at the stairs. This time, Reef really was gone from his life, doubtless already seeking someone else who needed his specialised help. Doyle shuddered at the thought, not because of the benefits Reef might bring, but because of his methods.

  By the time Valerie wheeled him out of MegaMedia, he was smiling again. In truth, he couldn’t wait to get started.

  “That’s it, I’m out of here!”

  Valerie threw the microphone to the floor. The noise from the speakers was so loud Doyle would have raised his hands to ears if only he could. He glanced at Will, who shrugged, flicked a switch on his Roland and followed her out, accompanied by the Goth-lite guitarist. Tears pricked Doyle’s eyes.

  For all the evenings they’d spent in the rehearsal studio, for all his pleading and cajoling, he could not make Valerie sing as she had in GearZone. She had the raw talent, but lacked the expertise to apply it.

  Or was he simply a useless teacher?

  Come to think of it, he’d never managed to get anyone to sing his songs the way he wanted. And now, it seemed, he was on his own again.

  Panic gripped him. His heart raced while he fought for breath. He dreaded going “on pipe” again, but what choice did he have except to surrender to the machine?

  Only now there was no one left to switch it on.

  He gurgled ironic laughter. So was this to be the end? Dying in a studio, unable to finish a single song. It seemed apt somehow.

  “Need a hand?” The voice was familiar.

  Doyle nodded and Reef flicked the switch. Now he couldn’t even thank him properly.

  “You need a helper, right?”

  But not Reef, never Reef.

  “And you need someone who can sing.”

  It was a statement not a question.

  He nodded again.

  “How about her?”

  Doyle’s eyes flared wide as Valerie walked through the studio door, followed by Will and Jake.

  “And we need him,” said Valerie, inclining her head towards Reef. She stood with hands on hips, daring Doyle to challenge her assertion.

  Desperate to avoid any possibility that Reef would manipulate him, or Valerie, ever again, he tried to shake his head but failed. Exhausted, he let his chin drop. He had no choice but to submit.

  Reef smiled. “It will be okay; trust me.”

  Trust Reef? The idea made Doyle cringe.

  Then Valerie sung a line from a song he’d written only the day before, sung it beautifully too, even though he hadn’t mentioned it to her yet. Doyle scowled at Valerie, then at Reef, but he couldn’t maintain the pretence. He mouthed a request to Reef to switch off the ventilator.

  Summoning all his strength, Doyle gasped, “We need… a name… for our band.”

  They argued for hours, until Valerie proposed The Vessels.

  Reef smiled but denied making the suggestion.

  DEAR SWEET ROSIE

  by Danielle N. Gales

  I’m not so good with my words like Katy is but Doctor Meadows says everything takes time and practice and I should try writing my words down every day. He says I should spend more time listening and less time as a hummingbird because work comes before play, but I’d rather be a hummingbird because words are confusing.

  Doctor Meadows teaches me my words because he says words are important for expressing ourselves, and I should learn to use them so I’ll always know who I am and what I think. I don’t understand because I remember everything that’s happened to me and I can be anything I want, but words are just funny sounds and scrawls.

  But he says No Rosie, words are like magic, feelings given form, but if I can be any form I want then I could be a sound. I’ve never tried that before and I don’t think I can, so I don’t think words really have a form. But that’s strange because words are sounds too and how can something be real without form? And that makes me want to know words better so I form a mouth-hole with a funny little tongue to make my words. Tongues are all thick and slick and slimy like the slugs in the garden, and I like words like those because they taste all wriggly when I say them.

  Doctor Meadows says I’m getting better, that I’m coming along faster than the others, and he says that makes all the other doctors jealous, and They don’t like that, no sir, not one bit. Not-one-bit, not-one-bit, I like how Doctor Meadows chomps and chews on his words like sticky toffee.

  You’re making me proud Rosie he says. I ask him why do you keep calling me Rosie and he says it’s because I look like a Rosie, but that doesn’t make sense to me because I can look like anything, so maybe he means I Should look like a Rosie. So I become a bright red rose for him, all delicate and pretty petals without thorns, but he just laughs and says that’s not what he meant.

  So I make myself a rosy-red apple like the ones on Katy’s tree, and he laughs again and calls me a Dear Sweet Thing, and apples are sweet so I suppose that’s not so bad. Pies are sweet too, and chocolate and sugar and cherries and the people here like those things, so sweet is a good
thing to be. I’m always sweet now and all the doctors like me for it.

  I wonder if Katy looks like a Katy, and how she learnt to do it? What does a Katy look like? How did she know?

  I like the garden, it’s so nice and pretty and brown and green and filled with wild scents and little streams with bulrushes, and has so many fun things to be. When I’ve been good I’m allowed to play there, and I can be trees and leaves and fruit and dirt and rain and mist, or a buzzy bee or a big-eared rat with a snuffly little nose and a slinky wormy tail scampering in the grass, or a big fat toad all rough and ugly, because ugly shapes are so much fun.

  The doctors with their seekers and night-eyes and sensors laugh and clap as I play, writing their little words on their clipboards. But the other men in the grey suits with the glowing nets and shock sticks and stun beams and tracer guns don’t laugh and clap at me, just look on with their sullen eyes, and I don’t like them, no sir, not-one-bit.

  They say I have a true form that I have to find, and I really like being a hummingbird the most so maybe that’s what they mean, so I become a hummingbird and fly all around the gardens. I’m always careful to stay well away from the sky because the sky hurts when I try to touch it, but it’s really hard to stay away because the sky is so blue and free up there beyond the invisible walls.

  Doctor Meadows says No No No, he didn’t mean it like that, so I try on my little spider form for a time and that’s so much fun, but not so easy to make all those little legs move well together. It took me lots and lots of practice but now I can clamber up the walls and posts and branches and spin my pretty webs and hang from the ceiling and look down on everyone with all my eyes. Doctor Meadows smiles and says my webs are all pretty but that that’s all wrong too, and that I should try being a person like him.

  But I ask Why, because there’s already so many people everywhere, and I don’t think it sounds like a lot of fun. People are easy and boring and I’d much rather be a hummingbird.

  Because otherwise I’ll scare people, he says, and they might get so afraid that they’ll hurt me, and I don’t want to get hurt do I?

  I don’t want to get hurt like when the grey men use their glowing nets and shock sticks and stun beams and tracer guns. So I try to be a boring old person, with only two arms and only two legs and a pretty dress and heeled shoes and hair and teeth and colourful make-up, just like some of the lady doctors at the institute.