Expiration Day (14 page)

“Growing up? There's more to growing up than a bit of padding…”

“A bit of
padding
? You were happy enough to ogle my
padding
an hour ago…”

At which point Siân screamed, “Shut up! Both of you! You're both behaving like selfish children.”

Spoilsport! I was just getting into my stride. But she killed our argument before we managed to say something unforgiveable.

So John and I stood glowering at each other, panting with emotion, while Siân kept up a flow of soothing words, assuring John and me that it was just another song, and it didn't matter if we made a mistake, and it wasn't worth spoiling a friendship for …

Well, Siân might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she had a knack for smoothing over an argument. Before long, John and I were holding out a hand to each other. With rueful smiles, we shook.

“Sorry, Tania. I overreacted. And I do get a bit bossy.”

“Sorry, John. So did I. It was the wrong time to experiment.”

And Siân having told us what to say, we repeated our apologies to each other, almost meaning them.

Still, when Siân wasn't looking, I stuck my tongue out at John. But I added a wink. And John stuck his tongue out at me and winked back.

The second take was a lot better. Then we finished off with a couple of runs through “Coils.”

 

 

It was time to go. All the gear was packed away. Next time we met would be at the gig.

Dad was outside, in the car, ready to run the boys back to the station.

There was a moment when I was alone with Kieran.

“You did really well, Kieran. There were a couple of moments when we were really cooking. We could be a great rhythm section.”

“Th-th-thanks, Tania. S-s-s-see you at the g-g-g-gig.”

“See you, Kieran.”

Then I got my moment with John.

“Hey, Boss-man, crack that whip. Keep us serfs in order.”

“Hey, Paddy, you're pretty mouthy. But your bass playing ain't bad, and you've hidden behind your last lamppost.”

Paddy. It's a name, I suppose.

“John Czern. Do you remember a little girl who was all knees and elbows who gave you a kiss to the sounds of a Slade tribute band?”

“What's this leading up to, Miss Paddy?”

“This…”

“… now run, or you'll miss your train.”

 

 

Well, that didn't go too badly, Mister Zog. We had our first row and our second kiss, and he didn't suspect a thing.

I'm worried about the gig, though.

Saturday, May 4, 2052

Saturday night.

Driving through London in Mr. Fuller's car—a spacious people carrier, with room for my bass gear, the drum kit for Kieran, Siân, me, and Dad.

Yes. Dad.

I managed to persuade him to come. Well, I think he wanted to come, but he just needed to be asked.

“You'll need someone to help carry all the gear, won't you, Tania?”

“Yes, that would be nice, Dad.” Never mind that I've been lugging them by myself to each practice, or that Mr. Fuller will be there, looking after Siân.

“Mum won't be coming though. It's not really her scene, and she's a bit tired.”

“Yeah. You can tell her all about it, though.”

So, there we were, wending our way through the labyrinth of London. Dad in the front seat, trying to find some common ground with Mr. Fuller, Siân's offensively rich dad. Somehow he was managing, though. Unusually, Mr. Fuller was not a member of Dad's “flock.” Maybe with a real live daughter, he didn't need to be, though Dad would have said that everybody needed to be, however blessed their lives seemed to be. Anyway, Dad knew most of the people in the village, and Mr. Fuller knew a fair few of them, so as Mr. Fuller gossiped and name-dropped, Dad kept his side of the conversation going.

London's a right mix, especially since the Troubles. Mostly because of our Sabine Wars. South of the river was a major battleground; there are a lot of places you just wouldn't want to go. Red Zone, mostly. A bit of Yellow, here and there. But Black, too. Even the north has its rough spots, and John lived in a Yellow Zone, rather close to one of them. So a lot of the houses were derelict, or were basic shells, the dwellings of those on the fringes of society. In the rain, it would belong on the set of
Blade Runner
—another banned movie, but one I'd found on the TeraNet easily enough, with the aid of John's technology to mask my identity.

The school loomed into view, brightly lit and standing out from the dark streets around it. It had high brick walls, topped with razor wire, and looked more than faintly like a prison. John, is this really your
school
? I saw Mr. Fuller glance back at Siân, as if to say, is this really something you want to go through with? Beside me, Siân stared back at him—a hard stare that said “We've been through this all before.”

We were reassured by the guards at the front gate. Mr. Fuller asked why this security was necessary.

“It's gangs from the neighboring zones, sir. The folks around here are decent enough, though they're none of them well off, but the school is a bit of a target for thieves. So we have to have just enough security to make them go elsewhere.”

Theft, then. Not violence. Or Yellow Zone, not Red, if you want to put it that way. So somewhat reassured, we proceeded to unload.

John met us at the stage door, with Kieran beside him.

“There's a little problem. I'd agreed our spot with the organizers, but apparently they forgot to tell the people running the disco. The disco people say they've programmed their music already and can't change. I managed to find one of the organizers and there was a bit of an argument, but the disco people have backed down a bit. They've agreed we can play for twenty minutes, max, and the only place they can fit us in is in half an hour from now. There's not going to be any time for a sound check, I'm afraid.”

So. Frantic unloading, setting up the drum kit, the amps. We'd not have done it at all without Dad and Mr. Fuller to help, but we managed it in twenty-five, which left no time to change—we'd have to play in our street clothes. Just a few minutes to tune up.

I nearly blew up when I saw the set list. No “Coils,” no “Tell Me” even. Just covers. John was waiting for my outburst and tried to forestall it. “The organizers changed their minds; they said it had to be stuff the audience would know. That's the way it's got to be, or we don't get paid, and they pull the plug on us.”

That didn't please anybody, but we'd put so much into the preparation that we weren't going to pull out.

We had two minutes.…

Two minutes passed, and the stage curtains stayed shut. The disco continued to the end of the track. Another began. John looked glum.

“They're not going to stop, are they?”

“Maybe after this one. Maybe their watches are slow.” But I didn't believe my own words.

We waited. The track finished. Another began. “Hanging on the Telephone.” Our opening number, and they knew it. Don't tell me they couldn't reprogram their decks.

There was a sudden squawk, and the music stopped. I heard footsteps from beyond the curtain, and a familiar voice announcing.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. The moment you've all been waiting for, the brightest talent in a generation, burning for you tonight. Put your hands together for the fabulous foursome. I give you F.D.C.”

There was a faint smattering of applause, and a few ironic cheers. F.D.C.? Oh, yes, “Fuller, Deeley, and Czern.” And Kieran, I suppose. But I didn't even know his surname—I don't think anyone had asked.

The curtains stayed closed, though. Then they started to draw back, and I saw that indeed it was Mr. Fuller announcing us, and hauling back the curtains. They stuck, not being designed to be pulled back from the bottom. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Dad march over to where one of the disco cronies was standing, arms folded, by the winch that operated the curtains.

My dad is a vicar, I reminded myself. He's not going to get into a scuffle, is he? He'd be sacked, he'd have to leave in disgrace.

But the crony faded away, fast. My dad turned to look at me, for a moment, and I saw the look on his face. Yes, I'd have scarpered, too, if I'd seen that face coming toward me.

Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mr. Fuller.

And then Siân marched up to the front of the stage, the curtains parting before her. Even in her street clothes, she looked fabulous, but that's Siân.

“Hi, everyone. We're F.D.C.R. and if there's time, I'll introduce the band, but right now, we're here to play some rock and roll.”

A few isolated cheers.

Siân looked around, searching for one of the cheerers. She pointed.

“Well thank you, friend, for your applause. This first song's for you. Anyone else want to be my friend?”

That got a
much
better response.…

“Well, then, this one's for all you lonely guys out there in disco land. Just in case you weren't listening to the spoiler, this one's called ‘Hanging on the Telephone.' Okay, guys, hit it!”

So we hit it.

More or less.

In fairy tales, and Hollywood movies, after an intro like that, the band plays a storming set, the crowd is converted from disco to rock and roll, and the evil DJs suffer humiliation.

Back in the real world, Siân started in the wrong key, because John forgot to give her the ghost note. Or maybe he did, and she didn't hear it. Siân recovered at the second verse, but some of her confidence was gone.

But we reached the end together, and at least Kieran remembered his instructions on how to finish the song. We got a smattering of applause—just barely encouraging—when all's said and done, we were hardly as good as the classic recording we'd just followed.

Siân took a deep breath.

“Thank you, friends. This next one's for our drummer, who's a great admirer of this classic band. It's called ‘Message in a Bottle.'”

That was a lot better, and the applause showed it. Maybe it was just Kieran's friends in the audience, but I don't think so. Kieran and I had started to click, and it showed in the music. And because we were cooking, John was able to relax and stretch out.

Two numbers passed, and the audience stayed with us, but then I saw one of the organizers signing to Siân. “One more, one more,” he mouthed, unmistakably.

We wrapped up “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and over the applause Siân called for a G. She picked up the note, pretty cleanly, held it and dropped into the first verse …

“You wrapped me in your coils.…”

Hang on, what's she doing? This is “Coils,” not “Satisfaction.” And I need to be playing … now!

Hastily, I scrambled my long glissando diving D-down-to-G, just catching it in time. Kieran looked at me, horrified, but somehow came in on cue as I reached the G on a count of four, along with John. Even just these few bars in, I could sense the audience's puzzlement. John had rolled his eyes heavenward—I guess he could see our fee disappearing—but he stayed with it, and then we were in the groove. It's hard to describe any piece of music, except by playing it, but “Coils” has got this really weird feel, oh, never mind. It's no classic rock and roll song, and the audience knew it didn't belong. But I could also see a few figures out there, swaying in time, trying to make sense of it anyway.

I could also see the organizers were also trying to work out what was going on, and what they should do about it. We weren't sticking to the script, but, hey, the disco guys hadn't played it straight, either. There was an argument starting up, between the DJs and the organizers, and maybe Mr. Fuller was part of it, too.

Two verses in, and I was feeling that maybe this was the best moment of my life. On stage, with a band that was really hot, playing a song that we'd created ourselves. If Amanda could have been there, I think she'd have smiled.…

Into the bridge, and suddenly everything cut out. Lights, sound, all gone, except for Kieran's drums, lapsing into confusion as the rest of us faded with a last electronic squawk.

They'd pulled the plug.

For a moment, I thought I heard a few boos, and a scattered clapping, but then the disco kicked in, loud, with “Satisfaction.” So they'd planned to do the dirty on us there, too.…

 

 

Can you imagine the rest, Mister Zog? I'm not sure I've got the heart to write it all down. Angry organizers, throwing us out. How dare we perform original material? Loading the equipment back into Mr. Fuller's car.

But then, stopping just outside the gates, to say good-bye to John and Kieran. It was drizzling then, a sort of Hollywood touch to try to kill our spirits. But I'm so proud of John. It was his reputation that had been destroyed, and for sure we'd never get another gig at that school again. He should have been raging at us, at Siân for breaking the agreement. But John was glowing.

“Brilliant, Siân. Brilliant, Tania. Brilliant, Kieran. We did it. For two glorious verses, we did it. If I die tomorrow, I can say I've been there, on the high mountain. With you guys, the best band in the whole damn universe.”

We were nodding. We knew. We'd all been there together. I promised myself I'd treasure the memory of those thirty-two bars until the day I died. And if you've never been there, Mister Zog, I pity you.

INTERVAL 5

You pity me, Tania?

How do you know what I've done, or what I've been, that you should pity me?

I know I have been an artist and a performance director in one of my memory cycles. Art, for the People, is the spatial and temporal arrangement of sensory inputs—we can choose to have more than you, or fewer—to elicit sequences of emotions, to tell a story or to convey a message.