Broadcast

by Liam Brown

  As David talks, Alice finds herself zoning out. She sets down her pen, takes off her glasses and screws up her eyes, massaging her temples with the tips of her fingers. It’s been a long day. A long month. Of course she’s already watched the chicken video. That and another five hundred just like it. She’s spent entire nights sitting with a notepad, staring square-eyed at the screen while the man she is professionally obliged to shadow grins and gurns, an endless screed of inane nonsense dribbling from his mouth and bubbling from her tinny laptop speakers.

  ‘That sounds great, David,’ she says, slipping her glasses back on and taking a deep breath in an attempt to re-centre herself. ‘I’ll try and include a section about the chicken in the book. However, what I’m interested in right now is providing some background. I want to show them the real you. Not just the guy we see on the screen every day.’

  David shrugs. ‘I don’t know what to say. The person on the screen is me. That’s the whole point. I live my life, I share it on video. I’m an open book. Hey, do you want to go somewhere else and grab another drink? I’m not sure I can face any more sake.’

  At this, Alice’s frayed patience unravels entirely. ‘Look. I appreciate you’re not interested in going over this stuff, but can you please at least attempt to trust me when I tell you that it’s important. You have to understand that you’re going to be a character in a book. Every character needs context. The reader has to know where they’ve come from, what they’ve been through. I’m not saying you have to be likeable. But you do have to be believable. You need substance. Dreams and desires. Hopes and fears. Emotional heft. You have to feel like a real person rather than some two-dimensional cypher – otherwise why would they possibly care what happens to you?’

  David stares at her, his mouth puckering as he digests her words. ‘Likeable, huh? That’s an interesting one. I wonder how many “likes” I’ve had since we began this stupid conversation?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. That came out wrong …’

  ‘No, really. It’s fine,’ David replies, snatching up his phone. ‘Oh, will you look at that? My last video has got fifty thousand thumbs up in the last half an hour alone. Not bad. Especially for someone who isn’t even a real person.’

  ‘Come on, David. I’m just trying to give you some sound advice here. I’ve been writing stories since I was five years old. And even if no one wants to publish my books, my last three biographies have been international bestsellers. Believe it or not, I actually know what I’m talking about. And as much as it kills the frustrated novelist in me, it’s all just a formula. Boxes that need ticking. Rags to riches. Triumph over adversity. Laughter through tears. You churn it out and the public lap it up. It’s a money factory. But only if you do it right. Which means, you need a strong personality underpinning the whole thing. All I was saying …’

  ‘I know perfectly what you’re saying. You think I’m boring. You think that just because I’m lucky enough to come from a happy, functional family and I’ve had a bit of success it makes me inferior somehow. Or at least makes me less interesting as a “character”. Well guess what? I don’t care. You might not respect or enjoy what I do, but there are evidently lots of people out there who do. I’m an entertainer. I don’t pretend to be high art, or whatever it is you’d rather be writing about. I just do my thing. If people choose to watch it, they can. And if they don’t like it, well that’s fine too. No one’s making them.’

  A sticky silence passes while Alice picks absentmindedly at a splatter of wasabi on the table. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says eventually. ‘I wasn’t trying to …’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ David says, gathering up his things to leave. ‘I don’t need you to like me.’

  ‘Come on, that’s not fair. I never said I didn’t like you.’

  ‘It’s fine. We’ll pick this up another day. I’ll get Sarah to schedule something.’

  He stands, throws a couple of creased bank notes onto the table. ‘You know, it’s funny. Considering it’s your job to get inside my head, you don’t actually know the slightest thing about me. You might think I’m not very interesting, but just yesterday I got offered a project that’s going to change everything. I’m going to be massive, Alice. The whole world’s going to be watching me. Then we’ll see who’s got nothing to say.’

  ‘David, come on. I thought you wanted to get another drink? What project are you talking about? David. David …’

  He heads for the door, ignoring her calls. He intends to get a taxi home, yet as he slips his hand into his pocket to retrieve his phone, his fingers brush against something else.

  A small plastic bag.

  Discreetly, he fishes it out and opens his palm. Two chalky tablets stare up at him. Lavender blue. He hesitates. He has things to do in the morning. Videos to shoot. People he’s supposed to meet. He runs his thumbnail along the seal of the bag, opens it. He glances over his shoulder. He half expects Alice to have followed him out. But no, she’s still sitting at the table, staring helplessly at her notepad. He empties both pills out into his hand. Tips back his head. The bag flutters to the floor.

  The night rushes by like an endless black river, the city lights streaking like spooked fish as David’s head vibrates against the window of the taxi. He tries to make out the time but the numbers on his phone don’t mean anything. They’re just shapes.

  It’s late. Early. Whatever. He’s not ready to sleep yet. Not by a long shot. His shirt is wet, soaked with beer, sweat. He’s been out, though he doesn’t remember where. A bar? A club? It doesn’t matter.

  Nothing matters.

  He looks back to his phone. He wants to send a message. He wants to talk to someone. He’s having trouble unlocking the screen though. The taxi driver asks him a question. He tries to answer but it’s difficult to speak. His back teeth don’t seem to want to open wide enough to let the words out.

  He swallows hard, tries again.

  This time the words do come. Lots of words. It’s hard to make them stick together in coherent sentences though. Each one seems to spin off in a different direction every time he opens his mouth, spawning new thoughts that need to be explored before he can move on. After a while he gives up. The driver doesn’t seem to understand what he’s talking about. In fact, he looks a little frightened in the rear view mirror. It doesn’t matter.

  Nothing matters.

  He tries his phone again.

  This time the screen unlocks. He starts to type a message but he can’t focus. He closes one eye, but it’s still no good. Then he has another idea.

  He opens the camera.

  He holds out his arm.

  He hits Record.

  He starts talking.

  ‘You’ve made the right decision. I mean, I would have preferred you’d told me before you announced it to the world. But it’s fine. I’m just happy you’ve made up your mind. And Xan is delighted, obviously. I’ve already spoken to his people. They’re sending over the paperwork as we speak. They want to know if you’re free this Friday to have the implant fitted? David? David …?’

  ‘I …’ David begins, his eyes scrunched tight, his voice no more than a whisper. ‘Hang on.’

  He lets the phone drop to the floor. Even with his eyes closed, he can tell that something is wrong. Something about the texture of the air. The quality of the too-bright light. This is not his bed. This is not his room. He takes a deep breath, then forces back one raw eyelid. Gradually the world swims into focus. Even then it takes him a few seconds to understand that he is sprawled fully dressed on his living room floor.

  ‘Hello? David, are you there?’

  Somewhere nearby Sarah continues to talk, her voice a nasal whine. A wasp trapped in a jar. He turns his head slightly, wincing in pain. A nebula of stars crashes across his vision. Everything hurts.

  ‘David? David?’

  His fingers crawl the floorboards until at last he locates his phone.

  ‘I’m going to have to call you back.’

  Twe
nty minutes later, David has made it to his feet and into the shower. He stands there motionless for what seems like hours, molten needles pummelling his wretched body. He is sore and tender all over, his muscles aching as though he’d lunged his way through an aerobics class. He tries to piece together the events of last night. There was the disastrous interview with Alice. Nadeem’s pills. And then …

  Nothing.

  He scratches at a dark stain on the back of his hand. A stamp from a nightclub he doesn’t remember going to. On his thigh there is a large, blueberry coloured bruise. Again, he has no idea how it happened. From midnight onwards, everything is gone.

  Eventually he manages to drag himself from the scalding sanctuary of the shower and gets dressed. Staggering around his apartment, he finds cryptic mementos from the night before. A full bottle of beer on his countertop. A broken glass in the kitchen. His keys and bankcard lying in the hallway. A phone number scrawled on a scrap of paper in handwriting he doesn’t recognise. He begins to make a coffee, but the smell makes him retch. He settles for a glass of water instead, before finally working up the courage to check his phone.

  Ever since Sarah’s early morning call, he’s been delaying this moment. One of the first – if not only – rules of video making is not filming yourself wasted. While makers like him weren’t exactly required to provide PG-rated content, a large proportion of their demographic was nevertheless teenage, and on a slow news week it didn’t take much for a desperate journalist to twist an off-colour comment into a full-blown moral panic. Even deleting a video was no guarantee of escape – if anything it was more likely to draw unwanted attention, encouraging an inevitable series of suspicious-looking screen grabs to resurface from the bowels of the Internet. Over the years he’s watched far too many friends crash out of business after having their unguarded drunken remarks picked up by mainstream news vultures.

  Logging in, he sees that three videos have been uploaded, all between four and five am. His stomach lurches. The first two are only a couple of seconds long, bleary interior shots of a club. An abstract smear of neon lights and dry ice, a distorted bass line drowning out whatever insanity he was rambling. The final video, however, is shot inside a taxi. Mercifully it’s too dark to make out his sunken cheeks or saucer-like pupils, though his voice is distressingly slurred as he rambles about meeting Xan to his viewers, telling them that he is looking forward to taking part in a new show, that more details will be coming soon. The video ends. It has thirty thousand likes. He takes a deep breath. There is nothing incriminating here, beyond perhaps a slight breach of confidentiality. The main thing is that it’s out there now. It’s decided. He’s doing the show. Everything else will fall into place, of that he’s sure. He resolves to celebrate by going back to bed. There is no way around it. Today is not going to happen.

  He has hardly heaved himself to his feet when his doorbell rings. He freezes. As far he can remember he isn’t expecting any parcels. And none of his friends would call round without ringing first. He glances at his phone. Already he has received a dozen or so congratulatory messages about the show. Not one of them mentions visiting him in person though.

  The bell rings again, shrill and insistent.

  Swallowing down a ball of anxiety, he goes to the hall. He takes a deep breath, rearranges his face into something he hopes looks half-human, and peels back the door.

  ‘Oh, hey David. Sorry I’m a few minutes early.’ Alice pauses to take in his dishevelled appearance, the look of confusion on his face. ‘You did say twelve, right?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Shit. You don’t remember do you? I knew you were drunk. You left me a voicemail at some ridiculous time this morning. You said you wanted to tell me about this new show you were doing while it was still fresh? And then I saw the video this morning and … Look, don’t worry about it. You’re obviously still … It’s fine. Just a mix up. We can do this another time if you like? When you’re feeling more …’

  ‘No, it’s cool,’ David says, forcing a smile. ‘Now is good. It’s very good. And I totally remember calling you last night. Totally. Come in, come in.’

  He takes a step back, then changes his mind.

  ‘On second thoughts, maybe we should go and do this outside somewhere? It’s such a nice day.’ His composure cracks. He grins awkwardly, a child caught telling a lie. ‘And also I think I’m probably going to pass out if I don’t get some fresh air.’

  ‘Where the hell are you taking me?’

  Still too delicate to make any decisions, David trails Alice blindly through the bustling carnage of the midday streets. Though he has lived in Central London for over three years, today the sights, smells and sounds are overpowering. The air is heavy with a rancid fug of exhaust gases and cooking oil, the takeaways that line the road already doing a brisk trade in carcinogen-fried chicken. The incessant growl of traffic sets his teeth on edge. As they weave unsteadily through the crush of pedestrians, he is repulsed by the scum-flecked tide of humanity pressing down on him. Street vendors hawking fake Ray-Bans and Louis Vuitton handbags. Businessmen yammering into their Bluetooth-headsets. Overweight teenagers glued to their iPhones. They all walk too close to him, intent not just on invading, but colonising his personal space, contaminating him with their bad breath and their body odour. It takes all of his inner strength not to curl into a ball and weep.

  After a couple of sharp turns, they leave the crowd behind as he follows Alice down a deserted back alley which runs parallel to the main road. Despite his fragile mental state, he is alert to the fact that they seem to be heading into an increasingly unsavoury spot, the dark walls of the passageway daubed with blood-red graffiti, the cobbles glittering with broken glass. As he often does when travelling around the city, he pictures himself as a blue dot drifting across a satellite map. Right now though, the blue dot seems to be perilously close to falling off the edge of the screen.

  Before he can voice his concerns, the alley opens unexpectedly to reveal a green wasteland, fringed by a thick knot of trees. The open space makes him nervous.

  ‘Seriously, what are we doing here?’

  ‘What do you mean? You said you wanted some fresh air.’

  ‘Exactly. I didn’t say I was a serial rapist-murderer looking for somewhere to dump my latest victim.’

  ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. My dad used to take me here all the time when I was little. We used to call it the Secret Park. Although I have to admit, it’s looking a little unloved these days.’

  ‘Understatement of the year? This is literally the creepiest place I’ve ever been.’ He nods towards the trees. ‘I feel like I’m being watched.’

  Alice grins. ‘As opposed to every other moment of your life?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  They keep walking, picking their way through the long grass before eventually coming to a stop before a large, brown lake. They stare out in silence for a moment, a lone swan cutting its way across the water, leaving half a dozen brown ducks bobbing in its wake.

  ‘Look, joking aside, I’ve been thinking about last night,’ she says. ‘The meal. Some of what I said was unfair. I didn’t mean for you to think …’

  ‘To think you were a complete bitch?’

  Alice holds her hands up. ‘I deserve that. I mean, there I am getting snippy with you for not answering questions on the minutiae of your life, when you don’t know the slightest thing about me. It’s hardly surprising you don’t feel like opening up to a stranger.’

  ‘It’s fine. Forget about it.’

  ‘So you accept my apology?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Okay good, because I have an idea that I think will help us get back on track. How about for every question I ask you, you get to ask me one back? That way, instead of me just grilling you endlessly, it turns it into a two-way process. You get to know me and I get to know you. So what do you say?’

  He closes his eyes. He feels hollowed out, his stomach burning, his thoughts slow a
nd tangled. ‘You want to do this now? As in, today?’

  ‘Come on David. You know I’m up against it here. We’re both contractually obliged to drag this book into existence – we can at least try to make the experience as painless as possible.’

  A deep sigh. ‘Fine. We can do it now. But I can’t promise I won’t vomit. So, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Actually, why don’t you go first? I still owe you one from last night.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ He sighs. ‘Fine. Tell me about your family. Have you got a family?’

  ‘Yes,’ she laughs. ‘I have a family. Parents. Both alive. Early sixties. Hate each other’s guts but haven’t got the imagination to call it a day. They like to brag about my job at parties but openly resent the fact I’m yet to provide them with grandchildren and secretly wonder if I might be a lesbian.’

  ‘And are you a lesbian?’

  ‘Sorry, but that’s another question.’

  ‘Damn. Okay, okay. I’ll stick to family. What about siblings?’

  ‘Two. I’m a middle child. You know, the forgotten one? Starved of attention, destined to a lifetime of hopping up and down, waving my hands in the air and all that crap. I have an older sister, Rebecca, who is totally fine. She’s a teacher. Couple of kids. Drives a four-by-four. Lives with her dentist husband in the leafy suburbs. Just a living stock image titled Happy Functional Family. And I am absolutely not judging her for it. Not at all. Oh, and I have a younger brother too.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Nick? Yeah he’s cool. Or at least he was. He’s kind of broken at the moment. He’s supposed to be getting married this weekend, though who knows if he’ll actually make it seeing as he nearly died on his stag do last month. He’s currently in hospital recovering from double pneumonia.’