Club27

by Karl Bourdiec

  The mole woman looked up, her eyes like dinner plates. She’d looked up to tell Mr. Bishop the price. She stared at him for seconds, just a few seconds she looked, reaching over with one hand.

  ‘Yes, its me.’ Bishop went into the smug celebrity persona, he shot her a little smile, the smile he shot to people who recognised him. To many had been shot today.

  Her arm stopped reaching, they were short and useless to her, behind that counter everything was always inches away.

  ‘There’s no need for this.’ Bishop yelled, his hands tied behind his back with iron ropes. He swung his shoulders around, fighting his restraints. Two police stood behind him, pushing him out of the shop and towards the parked car outside. The engine still ran, people stood outside around the car, folks got arrested every day, most of them got into the newspaper. Individuals who got attacked by seagulls got into the papers for that matter, but they weren’t celebrities. When celebrities got in the paper, they sold well.

  Bishop sat in a small brown box, it was only brown on the inside, it sat next to another three brown boxes. This was simply a box made up of other smaller brown boxes. This was how police stations were built, boxes inside of boxes, if you were unlucky, you’d go to a bigger box. A bigger box with small boxes in it, and if things didn’t go well you would leave in a smaller box, a wooden one.

  Bishop always considered himself lucky.

  Cameron rubbed his wrists.

  ‘Somebody’s pulled some strings for you, you’re a lucky boy.’ An officer pulled at the large gate which held Bishop in his little room.

  ‘I know I’m lucky.’ Bishop rubbed at his wrists.

  ‘Somebodies here to pick you up.’

  ‘You could have given me something to wipe the blood off.’ He stepped forward, they were small steps, he’d not slept in more than a day. A mousy man stood at the end of a hall way, he wore a suit which was loose around the shoulders but snug around the waste.

  ‘You’re not my manager, where’s my manager?

  Chapter 1

  ‘Music, man, it gets in your veins, then after the music the coke, drink, and morphine gets in your veins, makes you do stupid stuff, stuff you’ll regret later.’ The twenty-something rocker said, he was explaining his actions to somebody who didn’t care. He quickly changed the subject.

  ‘Somebody once sang that they didn’t want to set the world on fire.’ He said to the doctor as he sat on the cold, blue, fake leather that covers all nineties hospital beds, the doc smiled.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you who it was, and that’s kind of important don’t you think.’ He drummed his fingers on the worn wooden desk,

  ‘My world's going to be frozen, maybe there's a song in that.’ The doctor grinned at him,

  ‘You can grab your stuff, Mr. Bishop,’ with his pen the doctor pointed over to the pile of loose fitting

  clothing, all in black other than a smidge of white and red, Cameron was dead, now legally at least.

  ‘Of course, you won’t be frozen.’ the doc swung his tongue around his mouth, looking for the words, popping sounds clicked from him as he did so. The idea of being legally dead is somewhat a privilege.

  ‘It’s more hibernation, you’re defrosted every ninety days to keep you active and to stop you going into.’ he trailed off, Cameron had heard this before from his press manager, false death, blah blah blah, frozen up, blah blah blah they better not let you have a heart attack, blah blah blah. As Cameron got dressed, nothing fit well and everything looked second hand, that sold records. The doctor searched through his draws on the gray cabinets he called a desk. Out came a CD.

  ‘Could you sign this,’ The Doc asked, with instinct to Cameron’s fingertips he reached into his jeans for a thick felt pen, the nib had been worn down so when Cameron signed his name it became as thick blob of lettering, he kept the pen in a pocket that was designed for hammers. he swung it around his finger like the drumsticks he would never get to use again, and in a single movement signed the copy of his second album, or should he say his last album. That album is going to be worth a lot of money now that he was dead. He’d signed in short curled letters like he had millions of times, Cameron held the box at a distance. The last chance to see his name the way he liked it.

  It was common for guitarists to know the drums, drummers to know the bass and bassists to know, we’ll just the bass if bassist could play more than the one they could they wouldn't be playing it in a band.

  Cameron thought about all those he was about to join, he’d heard a rumor, more whisperings, about a place celebs could sneak away to, most of the ones he’d heard of private island and planes which never landed, not a place which put you on ice till everything had blown over. For some reason at this point Cameron started to hum, he did this often when he was inside his head, it was Fleetwood Mac, he didn’t know which song.

  Cameron was given a file, a gray one, with lots of colored tabs down the right-hand side, the type you always had to carry with you through hospitals, although this was a hospital as much as a plastic surgery was, the normal was there, medical records, dental, death certificate. No man should be able to look at his own death certificate.

  A separate dental record that was his kind of but not really, with a large gap missing from them, followed by an x-ray of a skull that was his, with a couple of coughs and a wink here and there, this was also missing and large part of its normal anatomy, per the press Cameron had bitten the bullet, literally.

  Most of the press believed this, others were stating he was using a magnum as a bong and lit the wrong barrel, but they all said he was dead, his manager had gotten that word out well enough. Being that Cameron was alive and would be kicking if his jeans allowed it. Neither of these cases of head disfiguration was, in fact, true. The doctor's nurse walked three steps in front of Cameron. She did this on purpose. Not just to lead the way but also so the artist could see her rear end. The nurse could see herself becoming a groupie if nursing didn't pay so well and she didn't find stupid people revolting. Dirty artists like Cameron had a natural way with women, and women thought that all dirty artists were stupid. Bishop was only dirty.

  ‘Mr. Bishop; this is your room.’ she flicked between sheets on her clipboard as a young greasy haired Indian looking student past her a clipboard which she placed on top of hers and signed. Three feet from where he had to put his own clothes on he was asked to remove them and step into blue coveralls with slits cut throughout the cloth.

  Michael Hassan was the kid's name, it said so on his badge, badges had little reason to lie. Cameron stored it away in the special place where celebrities store names to pull out at a moment's notice and make the little people feel big, he imagined a large yellow notepad in his head, each name laid out in lines, some, crossed out when that name had become useless. Mikey was a little person, literally as well as figuratively. At the age of seventeen he was promised a growth spurt which was never delivered. The kid shuffled around Cameron trying not to make eye contact.

  ‘How long you been working here kid?’ at the age of twenty-seven, the word kid was sneaking into Cameron's vocabulary.

  ‘Quiet type aye?’ Cameron's arm was lifted against its own will. Cameron found it best to in force his accent when he first spoke to people, mainly to gauge how people reacted to genius.

  ‘Daint blame you. Too many talkers and not enough listeners in the world Mikey.’ Cameron looked down at the welling eyes, the quivering lip. Nothing at all, he'd pulled out his ace and it fell flat. Cameron's grin he didn't notice he was making, dropped back down the stubble, which had begun to gray way before its time, on his face moving around his jawline.

  ‘Arms down.’ Mikey pulled down Cameron's arms in much the same way a barber moves your head around, way too much aggression for the situation. Out from the blue coveralls hung white wires strung from the monitor which now draped willy-nilly from his body.

  ‘Want me to cough while you hold my balls?’ Cameron said with that glint in his eye, he thought he
was funny, sadly Mickey didn’t agree.

  ‘Perhaps not.’ said Mickey with the most British accent you could imagine, even the queen would be proud of, although this was only in comparison to Cameron’s very thick Newcastle Geordie. The accent sat thick in his throat but the local words fell away quickly. Handing over the file with a few more pieces of paper with other records he’d received. From there Cameron was led into another room, the hallway was cold and his ass was bare this time the nurse walked behind him with a Cheshire grin cutting through her red lipstick.

  ‘Ha. Very funny. You never saw a genius’s arse before?’ he questioned without reply. Like all artists. Somebody once called him a genius in a news article so from that point on those words were carved into the back of his mind in thirty-foot large letters if they could fit around his ego. The accent fell away now, it was a lie he didn't have to hold up in front of women.

  He was allowed his loose-fitting sneakers, which squeaked along the plastic flooring of the facility, laces dragged gently across the ground making the sweeping noise which echoed around a little but could only be heard between squeaks. The nurse following close behind him held a silver tray with the rest of his ill-fitting clothing. A red plaid shirt a black tee shirt with a white symbol on it and black jeans with the cuffs all torn due to wear and tear. He may be rich but he was still the kid born and raised in income support and as if it isn’t broke don't fix it and if it is broke don't replace it mentality, plus it was part of the rock and roll image to not care. Other than the wheezing which resonated from his shoes a steady scratching noise followed as wires dragged behind him in a conger of cabling. A fist full of wires was tugged occasionally but they quickly re-joined the line again.

  The door was pushed open with a single arm of the nurse, it was one of those bi-fold doors which swung when it released, comically hitting people on the bottom as they do in those carry-on movies. As Cameron walked through it with the nurse, which he still hadn't caught the name, she gently let the door close to a standard still, no camp sounding men yelled catchphrases on her watch. Cameron tugged at his cords to release them from the under door.

  ‘What's up doc?’ Cameron asked miming a cigar in his hand and raising his eyebrows repeatedly like a Marx brother, the comedy Marx, not the communist.

  ‘Yes. Indeed.’ said a British accent, swinging around in a swivel chair. It was Mikey again. This place was becoming a little too ridiculous for Cameron's liking.

  ‘You ready?’ he said standing, throwing his tie over his left shoulder and turning on his heels.

  ‘Due to your medical state. Ee gee dead in the eyes of the law. You strictly speaking don't have rights, but here in Somnus we liked to give you a bit of a briefing if you'd like.’ Mikey spoke as all doctors do. Three steps in front of you so you had to strain to hear and with their hands behind their back. Cameron listened nodded when he felt he should and let the young doctor speak.

  ‘Remember this isn't freezing.’ Peopled loved reminding him that, it may as well of be the business motto, Somus, this isn’t freezing. Bishop thought to himself, a small smirk crawled across his face like a freshly scraped scab.

  ‘It's a short hibernation. Ninety days of deep sleep then you're woken up to be tested. Make sure everything is where it should be and how it should be. Followed by six hours of free time. Followed by enhanced gym time. Not moving for three months has a way of lowering your muscle dystrophy.’ The doc stopped he heard a squeak from Cameron, not resonating from his sneakers.

  ‘Enhanced? Like steroids? I didn't sign up to that.’ He hadn’t signed up too much, not much he read anyway, he shut up being he probably had signed away his right to choose.

  ‘I’m in the.’ Cameron had to take a deep breath he was getting heated, he let his mind cool and began to explain, it was one of his steps.

  ‘I am in the program.’ A more relaxed version of Cameron stated. Mikey pulled the file from under Cameron's arm. Looked it over and coughed too clear his throat. There was a script and now he was off it.

  ‘I can see that. It's part of your alibi.’ He recited with a little stutter in his voice. Cameron's face went white. He wasn't in the program anymore he guessed, he'd cashed his chip in on the night his friend died. The report had stated that Cameron was covered in blood found outside his own house. The blood was Ronnie's but Cameron hadn't caused the death, a barmaid he was shagging in the red lion could vouch for him there and in nine months she'd have the DNA to prove that too. Sometimes Cameron's way with women had their bad turns too.

  Both seemed like decent reasons to be frosted he thought, kids don't go with the lifestyle and there's not much of a lifestyle to ride when your lead guitarist is dead and you're being blamed for it.

  Cameron walked on without saying anything after that. Along with another hallway passing room after room one with a gym in it, another which looked as if it was transplanted from a prison, a cafeteria esk mess of tables and chairs, in which he glimpsed rows of books next to a writing desk and what he could have sworn was his guitar. After that came an impressive number of stairs. Cycling higher and higher each floor at a room circling a large landing with equipment in it then came a floor with huge tubes in it hibernation chambers. For an underground facility, not much of it was underground. A floor full of what looked like large white coffins with round black blobs down the side, these were tiny speakers so outsiders could hear the insiders breathing. At first glance, Cameron thought they must be plastic or fiberglass, everything he knew was made of one of those two things now. But as he ran his finger over the cell that was selected for him he felt a cold solid surface, he'd describe it as smooth if it wasn't for all the gentle hairline fractures veining throughout the case.

  ‘Is this made of China?’ asked Cameron the sensation from touching it reminded of him going to see his Grandmother and her giving him tea even though he was much more of a coffee drinker.

  ‘Bone china to be exact.’ said Mikey filling out some documents and looking at a computer monitor that didn't really fit with the decor of the room. The overhanging lights gave an orange hue, which blanked out Mikey's eyes and gave the room a deadly feel. Like not many people got out very often, medical places had that sensation, more likely because of the lack of windows and more the suggestion that windows where was there.

  ‘These things are older than you and me and older than most of the people in them.’ Mikey stated without thought. It was rare that he could talk about what he did at work. Every day he had to sign a form which stated that if anything got out about the facility that there would be serious consequences. Mikey didn't like serious consequences so he signed the paper and shut up about his job.

  A few steps along and after a few machines which beeped, a lot another China jar with a person in it sat, Cameron could tell there was a someone in there because through the little black circles you could hear the gentle breaths of a person.

  Possibly a woman.

  ‘I wouldn't touch a used cell if I was you. Not good for the content.’ Mikey said without looking up. If he never looked up the confidence stuck steadily to him.

  It was eye contact, he couldn't consider Cameron thought to himself.

  ‘Okay then.’ he stepped back away on tip toes. Mikey stood up still looking at his file.

  ‘Thirty days to set you up.’ Mikey pulled a sheet from the center of the file without looking through the file or looking at Cameron. He ticked a few boxes, flipped the paper over and signed on a dotted line.

  ‘Thirty? I thought you got me in there for ninety.’ said Cameron stepping back the statement was intended as a question but didn't fall that way. He had a habit of not speaking in the right terms.

  ‘See that one at the end. She's a bit of a cook. When you wake, she'd be on her four hundred and twelfth day.’ Mikey pointed out, pushing Cameron into the casket and veining the wires to the instrument inside.

  ‘That doesn't seem that bad.’ Cameron spoke between the whizzes and pops of the cabling.

>   ‘That's about one hundred and three years.’ Mikey pulled straps from the coffin. Black thick Velcro things which tied around Cameron's wrist.

  ‘Shit the bed.’ He never thought about it like that in a little more than a year to her the whole world had twisted itself into a mess.

  ‘What she in here for?’

  ‘This isn't a cushy prison option for some of these guys. To her, it was a choice, to wait till the world turned. She stayed in there a little longer than she should have. Now the world's turned too much.’ There was a beauty that Cameron saw in Mikey's words too bad they were her words, not his.

  ‘And cycles that are why you're going I'm for the short freeze. For one we need to do a short-term test see if you can make it. We've seen some good guys go out like this and two, sanity, you're in a secret and expensive hibernation facility you guys get to hang out for twenty-four hours. You're in for thirty days’ cause that's the next defrosting.’ explained Mikey continuing a conversation Cameron thought had finished a few minutes ago, leaning on the side of the coffin Mikey had relaxed a little. Maybe it was the fact that Cameron was strapped down but he was getting more and more uneasy with the whole process.

  Mikey adjusted his postures so he was stood again. An old device with black dials and golden inked numbers on it sat next to the coffin, on top a glass desk with dots on it lay over the dials and through copper wires plugged into the black box the dials sat on, as if somebody had Jimmy rigged new technology to old, like when you see universities sticking new buildings to old ones. Mikey rubbed his finger over the dots, black ink surfaced in dots and line which formed words. All with his right hand, he typed away.