Dear friends,
Way back in 2017, I wrote my first ever short story and somehow it got itself shortlisted in the Hammond House International Literary Prize. Clever thing. It was subsequently published in Hammond House's short story anthology Eternal. Since that was an awfully long time ago, I thought it was time to share it with you all as a little mid-week treat, so it can show off a bit before it retires.
Here it is...
SIREN
The pub was kind of sleazy. The furnishings were all glass-ringed dark wood, casually wiped with a damp-smelling cloth; and redundant glass ash-trays—the type that are used as murder weapons in cheap crime novels. The carpet, which looked as if it had been ripped straight out of a hotel lobby, had been inexplicably upholstered onto the booth seats and bar stools. Bald men nursed beer bellies in shady corners, as they discussed euphemistic business ‘down the market’, and a television, mounted precariously on one wall, relayed the latest football match in mute flares of colour. In a lone corner, a fake-retro jukebox and fake-retro pinball machine flashed showily. The landlady, who was a frizz of blonde perm, neon-pink lipstick and a jaw that never stopped chewing invisible gum, plopped a pint in front of Paul and shook her head when he offered his card.
“Machine’s dead.”
Paul rummaged in his wallet for a note and smiled to himself as the landlady tottered off to the till. Yeah. The pub was sleazy, and dated, and harbouring the odour of smoke from days before the ban, but it was the last place anyone would expect to find an Indie rock star, which was exactly why he had chosen it.
The landlady returned, placed Paul’s change in front of him and went back to reading her magazine at the far end of the bar. Paul slipped the money into the back pocket of his jeans and sipped his drink. The pub might be tasteless, but the beer was good. This was just what he needed to clear his head. It had been an intense week. The album was coming along nicely, but being stuck in a basement studio with six other people sometimes got too much for him. Today, after eight hours of recording, unproductive discussions, and the repetition of ‘let’s just do one more take’, he just had to get out, find some fresh air, and have a few feet of space to himself.
He rested his elbows on the bar and rubbed the back of his neck. A movement to his left caught his attention and he glance across to see a girl sitting along the bar from him. Paul hadn’t noticed her come in, but she had a drink in front of her already. A second later, the jukebox clicked on and music started blaring out of the speakers. Paul winced at the tinny quality, but appreciated the song choice. A classic: Soundwave’s ‘Didn’t See You Coming’. Spent twelve weeks at number one in ‘86. Winner of five awards. Covered countless times by almost every famous artist. Somewhere, he had a recording of his own version, from before the band got together.
Paul eyed the girl with mild interest as Davis Sunday’s voice soared through the pub. Her shoulder length, strawberry-blonde hair was tucked behind her ear, revealing three piercings, which winked at him as her head bobbed a little. She was wearing black jeans, boots and a black bomber jacket, which was open to show a simple white t-shirt underneath. A silver charm bracelet jangled against her slim, pale wrist, as she tapped her thigh.
She didn’t look like she belonged in this sort of pub.
She took a sip of her drink and then turned her head and caught Paul staring. He smiled awkwardly. “Nice choice,” he said, trying to indicate the music.
She smiled back. It was almost a conspiratorial look, as if she appreciated that he shared her good taste. “One of my favourites,” she replied. “Though you should hear him live.”
“Yeah, I wish I had,” Paul admitted. “I bet he was amazing. So sad that he got throat cancer.”
She gave a single nod, as if in agreement, and that seemed to kill the conversation.
Paul took a long slug from his beer and tried to wriggle the knots out of his neck and shoulders with one hand. He needed a hot shower and about ten hours sleep. As the track came to an end, he looked round to find the girl had shuffled up next to him. Up close, he could see grey-green irises and a delicate dotting of freckles on her nose. The scent of warm sea air and honey perfumed the air between them, reminding Paul of a meadowed island in the Mediterranean Sea.
“Your turn,” she said with a lift of one eyebrow. “Pick a song. Make it a good one.”
Paul glanced behind him at the jukebox and then at the other six punters in their dark corners. He shrugged and slid off his stool. Pulling the change from his back pocket he critically eyed the options on the jukebox. He felt like he was being tested: should he play it safe or go for something a little more out there? Too predictable and he’d come across as boring; too obscure and he’d come across as pretentious. He threw the girl a look over his shoulder and she raised her eyebrow again in a challenging manner. With a quick, nervous smile, he slipped a coin into the machine and hit a button.
The girl began nodding her head in approval as the track started. “Jazz,” she said. “Nice choice.”
“Sadie Terrone is probably my all-time favourite jazz singer.”
“Favourite song?”
Paul thought for a moment. “Summer Tears,” he said eventually. “Or Romance the Moon.”
“Perfect songs,” she agreed. “Romance the Moon isn’t that well known, but definitely one of her best.”
“The sax solo is something special.”
“Mmm…” she mused. “But I like it best when it’s just her voice and the instruments are pulled way back. Honey, Hold Me always makes me cry. Sadie’s voice is so pure and there’s this beautiful vulnerability to it—like she really means the words and isn’t just performing.”
“Everyone thinks that song’s about a love affair,” Paul said automatically, “But it’s actually about her younger sister…”
The girl smiled, parting her nude-pink lips to show small creamy-white teeth. “You’re right,” she said, as her eyes widened with surprise. “She lost her sister to a genetic disease. They were really close and it broke Sadie’s heart, like no romance ever could.”
“I guess that’s why her songs are so full of sadness,” Paul added. “You can hear it through all of them—somehow it’s just there—this underlying poignancy.”
The girl flicked her hair slightly as she looked at him with a curious gaze, and then held out her hand. “Agla,” she said. “Nice to meet you…?”
“Paul.” He took her hand and hoped she hadn’t noticed his blush.
“Well, I didn’t expect to bump into another music nerd here,” she grinned.
“Do you come here often?” Paul asked.
She wriggled her shoulders vaguely. “The jukebox has some great tunes on it. After a crappy day, I like to come and listen to some decent music.”
“You don’t have decent music at home?”
She laughed. “All right,” she conceded. “I like to come and have a proper pint and listen to some decent music. And sometimes meet other geeks.” She swivelled round on her stool and her knees lightly bumped his. “I bet I could out-nerd you though,” she said with dry playfulness.
“I accept that challenge.”
And so they began a game of music mastermind. Sometimes the jukebox was utilised, sometimes their phones, as each of them tried to impress the other with obscure artists, song lyrics and cultural references. They were fairly evenly matched, but at one point she had him on a Molly Joy song.
“I’ve never heard of her covering that song,” Paul admitted reluctantly. “She only did two albums, didn’t she? Before that thing happened…”
“She definitely covered it,” Agla insisted. “Right at the start of her singing career, before she became famous. It’s how I discovered her—” She stopped at Paul’s gentle laugh.
“Discovered her?” he said. “You weren’t born then.”
She just smiled. “It was the first song I heard her sing: So Sighs the Wind. It’s a really old folk song.”
“Written nearly two hundred years ago,” Paul said. He inwardly winced at his own obnoxiousness. Why did he have to come across as such a know-it-all?
She slapped him lightly on the arm. “All right, smart-arse. Molly Joy did this totally original arrangement of it—completely acapella, but like you’ve never heard before. It’s one of the most enrapturing things I’ve ever heard.”
“I’ve never come across it.” Paul shook his head. “But I wish I had. I can’t believe she never sang again after… you know… There’s obviously a recording of So Sighs the Wind?”
“I have it,” Agla said, starting her third—or fourth?—pint. Paul wasn’t really keeping up with the numbers… or the time. Agla pursed her lips as she savoured the beer. “You’ll have to come and listen to it,” she added casually.
“Well,” Paul said, flushing a little and confused as to why he should suddenly feel so self-conscious. “You’re a real connoisseur of vintage artists, but are you up-to-date on the latest talent?”
“Who’ve you got in mind?” she asked.
Paul slid his phone towards her and brought up a track on his playlist. “This guy,” he said. “They call him the Soul Man. He’s been doing the small gig circuit for a while now, but he’s just picked up a record deal. We did a collaboration with him for our new album—” He stopped. He genuinely hadn’t meant to mention the band. When he glanced up to check her reaction, she was giving him a half-cynical, half-questioning look.
“I knew you had to work in music,” she said. “I thought I recognised you. You’re a musician?”
“I’m in a band.”
“Called?”
“In-Dependence.”
She grinned, obviously a little amused. “Of course! I’ve heard of you guys. I liked your first album.”
“But not the others?” Paul joked, a little embarrassed by her apparent indifference.
“I just mean that the first album is great. First albums are always the best.”
“I could think of a few artists who would disagree with you.”
She wrinkled her nose and waved a dismissive hand so that the charm bracelet jingled. “Real artists,” she clarified, “Always produce their best stuff on the first album. It’s when they mean it the most: when singing is still a personal, raw act and when it’s not become about record deals, or fans, or trying to stay ‘fresh and relevant’.” She met his gaze, which was fixed on her with a sort of charmed interest.
It was rare to meet such an enthusiast: someone who seemed to know everything there was to know about music across such a broad range of history, genres and cultures. Her main obsession seemed to be with singers and from what he had heard, she had impeccable taste. He wondered what her voice was like.
“Anyway,” she continued, with a slight twist at the corner of her mouth. “First albums are the best. Second, third and sometimes even the fourth are usually satisfactory. But artists should stop after that. It’s all downhill from there.”
“Davis Sunday recorded five more albums after he left Soundwave,” Paul argued, “And all of them reached the top ten in the charts.”
Agla rolled her eyes a little, but the reproach was friendly. “The charts are hardly an indicator of true art,” she said. “Which songs of his do people still dance to at parties? Which ones get requested the most? Which ones do people choose as their ‘couple song’? Or play on repeat when their hearts get broken?”
“His Soundwave stuff, I suppose.”
“Exactly. And they’re primarily from the first album.”
Paul nodded thoughtfully, went to take a swig of beer and realised his glass was empty. How many had he had? How long had they been sitting here? He looked at Agla, who was running her fingers through her hair, and a sudden thought occurred to him.
“His last single was worth waiting for though.”
“Grey Horizons?” Agla’s smile became a little dreamy. “Possibly his best.” She sighed. “When I heard it for the first time, I felt like…”
“You’d been waiting to hear it all your life?”
She nodded and, for a moment, Paul was tempted to believe in kindred spirits.
Agla gave him a little sideways smile. “But you know when he wrote it?”
Paul narrowed his eyes. “When?”
“Before he even formed Soundwave.”
Paul laughed at her triumphant look. “All right, you may have a point,” he conceded. He tapped his phone. “But you should hear this guy, the Soul Man, and tell me what you think.”
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, hunched over his phone, and reeled in, like fish on a line, by the sonorous tones of the Soul Man. There was a time-stopped moment, after the track had finished, where they both continued to listen to the melody as it travelled beyond their ears and into their consciousness.
“He’s incredible,” Agla breathed eventually. “That voice!”
Paul felt a wave of pride, tinged by a touch of jealousy, as she turned shimmering grey-green eyes on him.
“Thanks,” she said. “I will definitely check him out.” She downed the dregs of her pint and then arched her back in an elegant, feline stretch. She tugged at her jacket and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I reckon I owe you that Molly Joy song now.”
“Yeah?” Paul watched her slide off the stool. Another waft of honey-sweet air tingled his senses.
“Yeah. Come and listen,” she said casually. “I’m only round the corner.”
Paul hesitated slightly, but she was already walking to the exit. He had to make a snap decision. He was a little worried for his own safety and reputation. Going home with girls was a precarious business these days—which was why he never did it. Such seemingly simple situations became complicated and fraught with danger when you were famous. Not that he was really famous. The band was well known and so was their music, but he rarely ever got recognised on the street. That didn’t stop people taking advantage of you though. You’d think that a certain amount of fame would provide security, but since they’d ‘made it’, he felt increasingly vulnerable.
But he didn’t have time to agonise over that right now.
He joined her out on the street. Perhaps the drink had softened the edges of his inhibitions, but he felt quite excited and daring. It helped, somewhat, that Agla hadn’t been impressed by his Indie rock star status. And she clearly wasn’t attracted to him. It was easy to relax in to conversation with her because their interaction was purely platonic: just two music nerds, sharing an obsession.
He felt a moment of nervousness, though, as Agla opened the door to her flat; but she gave him that same conspiratorial look as before and he shook off the feeling.
“Have a seat,” she said, indicating the sofa.
Paul forced himself to sit all the way back in the depth of the sofa, hoping he looked nonchalant, though he seemed unable to put his hands anywhere except his lap. Trying to distract himself, whilst Agla took off her boots and jacket in the bedroom, Paul glanced around him at the interior of the flat. It was a streamlined place of neutral hues and plush textures. There didn’t seem to be any electronical devices or CDs, but Paul guessed those were probably neatly hidden in the wall cupboards. On the wall opposite the sofa was a delicate little wooden cabinet of tiny square drawers and a shelf, which had a collection of white crystal-like stones lined up on it. Paul shifted self-consciously and smiled as Agla came into the room. She smiled back, touching a gold chain that peeped through the neck of her t-shirt.
“Before you hear Molly Joy,” she said, with a teasing raise of her eyebrow, “I have to admit something.”
Paul widened his eyes slightly.
She smiled and tossed her hair. “I was a bit coy earlier about your band. I did know who you were and I’m actually very fond of your music.”
“But mostly of the first album?”
Agla laughed lightly as she turned and ran a hand over the line of crystals on the shelf. “Mostly of your voice,” she admitted.
Paul felt his heart jump a little at her honesty.
“And I was wondering—before you hear Molly Joy—if you would sing something for me?”
Paul’s eyes widened even further and he shifted uncomfortably. He was glad that she still had her back to him. “Sing?” he repeated. “Now?” He laughed nervously. “Here?”
Agla picked up a crystal and turned to face him. She bit her lip as she idly rubbed the white stone between her palms and then raised that challenging eyebrow again. “I dare you.”
Paul shrugged. “Okay. What do you want me to sing? Something old? Something new?”
“From your fifth album?” She wrinkled her nose.
“I know. It’s all downhill after the fourth...”
“The last song,” she suggested, “On your first album.”
Paul’s forehead furrowed slightly as he thought. “Shipwreck?”
“Yes. It’s indescribably beautiful.”
Paul was embarrassed and amused. That song was always a fan favourite. They had never released it as a single and it was right on the end of the deluxe version of the album; it wasn’t even on their set list for tours, but, if they were ever taking requests at a smaller gig, that was the one guaranteed to come up. He was pleased; it was one of his personal favourites.
“Well,” he agreed tentatively, “I’m not sure I’ll do it justice without the rest of the band.”
“It’s your voice that makes the song.”
Her frankness made him feel hot all over with abashment. He hoped he wouldn’t disappoint her. He nodded, swallowing a little and suddenly very aware of the fragility of his throat. The silence of the flat seemed to intensify and that usual twist of nervous excitement, which he got before any performance, gnawed at his stomach. He tried to focus on the first line and let his eyes flutter shut as he found the melody in his memory. As usual, when he opened his mouth, his voice did not let him down and struck out into the expectant air with clarity and ease.
Feeling his body begin to relax, Paul opened his eyes and locked them on Agla, who was staring at him as if he were an exotic, mythological creature. As he started the second verse, she stepped forwards, her eyes never leaving his and her hands still moving softly over the stone. Paul caught a flicker of golden light flaring between her fingers. Her shins touched his legs, and then she leant forward and planted her knees either side of his lap, sinking down into the luxurious padding of the sofa until they were eye to eye. Even though his pulse kicked up a step, Paul kept singing. It was as if his voice had become a separate entity from the rest of him and would finish the song, even if he pressed his lips shut. He couldn’t draw his gaze from the grey-green eyes, even when he felt something cold touch the hollow at the base of his throat. He felt as if he were in a spell, where time had stretched and he had lost connection with reality. His body became perfectly still, in some sort of stupor, but he didn’t feel frightened.
As he started the last chorus, Agla pushed herself back up from the sofa and stood with her neck stretched back, allowing the dying wave of his voice to wash over her. Paul stared at the line of her lovely white neck, and his eyes skimmed irresistibly down to where she held her hands to her chest, like a prayer. He felt a sudden, unnerving twinge as he saw the golden glow of the crystal between her fingers. As if waking from a dream, he realised something strange had happened to him.
He tried to move and speak, but discovered that he could do neither. His body had become like lead, though he was alert to all the usual sensations: the press of the sofa on his back, the cooling air on his neck and an itch on his right wrist. But worse than that, when he moved his lips to speak, no sound came out, even though he could hear the last of his voice trailing to the stone at Agla’s breast as it finished the song. He tried a couple of times, feeling the panic rise, as Agla lowered her head and watched him with the same fire she’d had in her eyes when she had talked about her favourite singers. Paul attempted to find even a sound, and managed to send out a strained cough from his throat. That was it.
“It’s all right,” Agla said matter-of-factly, but not unkindly. “You’re going to be okay.” She turned to the cabinet of drawers and placed the crystal inside one of the tiny boxes, closing it with a sharp snap.
Paul felt something inside of him evaporate. His eyes, the only part of him that could still function normally, followed her as she went in to the kitchen. For a minute, there was a clattering sound and then she reappeared, sliding something that glinted thinly into her back pocket.
Paul was still trying to move and the effort was making his eyes nearly pop out of his head. Agla went back to the cabinet, opened another drawer, and took out an identical glowing, golden crystal. She saw Paul’s frightened look and gave him a gentle smile as she walked back to the sofa.
“Oh, sweetie,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes—so many questions! But there’s little point in explaining it; you won’t remember any of this in the morning: not this place, what’s happened to you, or even me.” She caught his gaze flickering to the cabinet. “It’s gone, Paul. I have it now. It’s so perfect, I just had to have it.”
The reality of what she was saying hit Paul like a punch in the lungs, and he couldn’t stop the tear that rolled down his cheek. Agla came forward and settled herself back on the sofa, with her knees either side of Paul’s thighs. Paul wanted to shiver as she ran a hand through his hair, down the back of his neck and over his collar bone to the dip at the base of his throat. But his body made no response. Her hand cradled the side of his head as she stooped to catch the trickle of tears with a compassionate kiss.
“You’re going to be okay,” she said again. She pulled back to look at him whilst her thumb stroked his cheek. “When people realise they’ll never hear you sing again, their appreciation for your music is going to double. Trust me. What-might-have-been is so much more desirable than what-has-been. You’ll live forever now, in your music. And you’ll still write songs—you write beautifully. You’ll be offering a new generation of talent the chance to fill the void.”
Paul could feel his heart breaking. The bile rose in his throat as he began to fully understand their earlier conversations in the light of this moment. Sadie Terrone, Molly Joy, Davis Sunday. Countless other artists. And now him. How many of those drawers had glowing crystals in them? And there was still that whole shelf of white quartz…
“I am sorry about tomorrow morning though,” Agla continued with her typical bluntness. “I like you, Paul, but I’ve had to become quite creative these days. It used to be simpler: no one needed a medical reason to lose their voice. And then there was the smoking. When they clamped down on that, I had to find other convincing reasons. So, I am sorry. When you wake up in hospital, it’s going to be a shock for you. It’s horribly tragic that the tracheotomy that saved your life also irrevocably damaged your vocal chords. You just shouldn’t walk home alone from the pub these days…” She pulled on the chain around her neck to reveal a shell-shaped locket hanging on the end. She gave him a brighter smile. “But I did promise you that Molly Joy song. It’s the only thing you are going to remember.”
Paul willed his muscles to resurrect themselves. He tried to lunge forward, push her off his lap and run for the door. But his body remained inert and the tears flowed more freely. He could do nothing: nothing at all but watch as Agla slid the glowing crystal into the shell and ran her hand over his hair again. Then she parted her nude-pink lips, showing those small creamy-white teeth, and a melody, so haunting that it stabbed Paul straight to his heart, flowed into the stillness of the room. His vision started to swim. The achingly beautiful sound began to fill his whole body and the world merged quickly into a strawberry-blonde halo, swirling with a golden flame. And then, eventually, there was nothing but Molly Joy’s voice, singing him into sweet oblivion.
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