It’s A Big Island

“The power that a performer could have over an audience was incredible. Bringing everyone up to the edge. Waiting. Smiling. Then pushing them over with that first chord. It was so emotional, so raw. I might miss gigs most of all.”

— Elizabeth Marsh, “What We’ve Lost”

February 2044.

Wales Site F, Trawsfynydd, Wales.

Somehow, Mike had gone a month without actually leaving the facility. It wasn’t like he was required to stay inside, something people had increasingly pointed out to him. There were other buildings, there was a whole town even, all within the fence. And supposedly there was even a little neighbourhood with real, proper terraced housing that the blue badges lived in. But Mike was a creature of habit, or so he told everyone when they’d go off to their jaunts. He went to work, he went to his bunk, he went to work. Sometimes he’d even go to the bar down the hall.

“We ready?” Cian leaned on the door impatiently. The streak was about to end. Cian had finally convinced Mike to come out, proper out-out, to the one pub in town. “You gonna change?”

“This is, this is what I changed into.” He looked down at his tight tee and skinny jeans, complete with vintage Chuck Taylors.

“Christ, you really need to update your look. This probably worked a treat for you in 2015.”

Mike shrugged. “Are Gemma and Bertie coming?”

“Just us, friend. Don’t get so pissed you can’t walk, I can’t carry you back all by myself.”

And so they stood at the shuttle stop with little to say. Mike had started opening up a bit more, or at least he felt like he had, but the two of them seemed to have so little in common. He honestly wasn’t sure why Cian wanted to bring him out at all, except that maybe he just found it grim to drink alone. But it was a good excuse. And Gemma not joining them would be a relief. She hadn’t really let up on her offensive. Indeed, it had mostly just escalated. Nothing was off-limits. His thinning grey hair, his crooked yellow teeth, the way he sometimes chewed with his mouth open because of his deviated septum. And of course, his shit banter. She was a full-on psychohazard.

The shuttle glided to a stop, the doors opening automatically. They both boarded, Mike behind Cian, and that’s how he noticed there was a small paypad just inside the door. His stomach dropped. “How much is this?”

“Don’t know, maybe 10 credits? 10 or 15.”

The paypad stared at him, looming. “There’s no one else aboard. Will it even know if I don’t pay?”

“It literally won’t shut the door if everyone hasn’t paid, it certainly won’t drive.”

He sighed and tapped his mobile to the pad. It deducted 17 credits. Mike winced, almost feeling physical pain from that one. The door to the shuttle slid closed and it started its dutiful journey into town.

The ride into town would’ve probably been quite scenic if it weren’t pitch black outside. Aside from the lights on the facility and the dim headlights on the shuttle, it was just inky void until they reached the town. It made Mike uneasy. Cian, on the other hand, was drumming on the seats and pacing up and down the aisle.

“Come on, man, get with it, get pumped up. We’re going out! First time for you!”

“I’ve been out before.”

“Not here! What will it be like? You don’t know!” It was admirable how Cian could self-motivate.

“How much are drinks at this place?”

Cian shook his head. “Another money question. I’ve no idea, friend. I just tap and go. You’ll be fine.” Mike nodded, but his feeling of uneasiness only grew. He wondered how anyone could be so cavalier about this.

It turned out the answer was 15 credits. Mike stared at the pint, the unbelievably expensive pint, the pint of some weak English lager that tasted vile. His anxiety was distracting him from his first time setting foot in The Harp, a modest little pub that was clean, sufficiently dim, with a forgettable but mood-setting soundtrack playing gently in the background. They posted up at a small table near the front, where someone was setting up an amplifier and microphone.

“This place is shit, but they do live music, which I appreciate.” Cian sipped their ale. “Nobody else feckin does, I guess.” The room was mostly empty, with a few random groups scattered around at a handful of tables. “You’ve gotta keep it alive though. You know? What’s the point otherwise?”

Mike nodded. “I was just thinking I like the music here. It’s a good vibe.”

“This feckin’ procedural trash? Don’t break my heart Mikey, I’ll have to kill you and leave you for dead. Hey!” Oh god, they’re shouting across the room at the bartender now. They’re not even one beer in. “Turn this shite off! Off!” They shook their head and turned back to Mike. “I’d honestly rather hear my mum getting railed than hear another note of this fake shite.”

The music abruptly stopped, the bartender perhaps expecting Cian to ask for it. Instead he clicked on a TV in the corner. The dulcet tones of a virtual news presenter filled the room instead.

“Marginally better. It’s still fake, but it always was,” Cian said. Mike sipped his pint and wondered if Cian’s offer to murder him was still available.

“So where’s Bertie and Gemma?”

“Bertie’s not so much into leaving his precious Magenta. Gemma, I expect will be along soon.”

“Oh? You said she wasn’t coming.”

“Yeah, I feckin’ lied, friend. Keep up.”

The sound from the TV dropped back down. A light came on, illuminating the empty stool on the stage. Mike heard some sparse applause behind him, and turned just in time to see Gemma walking up to the stage holding her acoustic guitar.

“WOOOOOOO!” Cian screamed and whistled, pounding the table. Mike smiled wide and started clapping. This was surprising! He knew she played, he always saw the guitar sat there, but he didn’t know it was like this.

She strode onto the stage and hopped up on the stool. Her look was a stark contrast to her usual work attire — boots, dark blue jeans, a University of West London hoodie with a black leather jacket over the top, and her usual black-ring-on-a-chain necklace. Her hair was down and, shockingly, washed and brushed. She threw the guitar strap over her shoulder and smiled out at them, briefly making an ‘oh no’ face at Mike and Cian. “I see some familiar faces here tonight. And a lot of empty tables. Good, less pressure.” Her voice boomed out of the speakers and through the pub. It had been so many years since Mike had seen any sort of gig, and many many more since he’d seen a little acoustic pub gig like this. The whole vibe – the pints, the stage, the dim room, someone on a stage with a guitar, the friend of a friend who frankly terrifies you – felt like such a throwback in the best possible way.

“I’m just gonna play a few songs tonight. Just a warm-up really. I haven’t done this in a looooooong time. This first one’s an oldie but I’ve been listening to it a lot lately.” She gave her guitar a little tune, plucked a few strings, and an odd silence came over the pub. People actually pausing their conversations to listen. It gave Mike chills, remembering all the times he’d been at a gig, the room falling quiet just before they started. She raised her pick and started to strum. It was fast, intense. It took him by surprise.

Da da, da dadadada, da da, dadada, da da…

He knew this song! He didn’t remember the name. But the way she sang it was so powerful. She swayed back and forth, practically growling at times, beautifully melodic at others, her eyes mostly closed, moving in time with the music, that movement flowing back into the music. Her foot pounded the stage to the beat as she sang and rocked, the light of the stage catching her hair, making her glow, bouncing off the cracked, worn-out shoulders of her leather jacket. She struck the last chord and the room fell silent again. She opened her eyes and looked out at the pub in a sort of daze. The dozen or so people burst into applause, sending Gemma into a brief giggle. Her eyes welled with tears.

“Thank you, so much. God. Thank you. That was Ignorance by Paramore, by the way. That song means the world to me, thank you so much.”

A few folks sat at tables in the back shuffled up toward the front as she rolled into another song, a downtempo acoustic version of “Alone in a Room” by Asking Alexandria. Her playing wasn’t perfect, but it was energised, passionate. Mike stared up at her in awe, watching her fingers move up and down the fretboard, plucking the strings with a practised fury.

He hadn’t thought about these songs in probably a decade or more – he’d been a kid when some of them came out – but suddenly he was right back there in university, on his bed in the dorms, headphones on. Before conscription, before Elizabeth, when A.I. was just a mediocre Spielberg film. He closed his eyes and disappeared, listening as she played, letting it fill up his mind.

Her next song was one he didn’t recognise, and she didn’t introduce. It was quiet, plucky, a bit funny, with a haunting melody.

Dreaming of you, my jewel of the Midlands,

Walsall my love, my jewel of the Midlands.

She seemed to pour a lot of herself into it, her voice breathy and low.

Filled with regret, you’re mine for the taking,

Can’t get you back, my heart still broken,

I’ll ruin your life, and I won’t let go.

It made him feel quite down, though he couldn’t get his head round the idea that there was some depressing love ballad about a town in England that, as far as he knew, was mostly abandoned and a bit shit.

Finally, she finished with one he did know, “Who I Am Hates Who I’ve Been” by Relient K. Also a downer, but beautifully so. She finished up, grinning ear to ear, letting her guitar drop and dangle from the strap. She was breathing heavily, sweat starting to run down her forehead, as the gathered few people applauded.

“Thank you again, really, thanks everyone. I wish I had more, I’m already going hoarse. Hopefully again soon! Thank you!” She gave an awkward wave and tried to hop off, at first forgetting to unplug her guitar, which stopped her right in her tracks for a moment. She let out a quick “wahh!” and unplugged it then finally bounded off the stage, the light dimming, the sound of the TV fading back up.

Overall quite a sad set, though each song beautiful in its own right. It was the surprise of the day, the month, probably the year, to be here for this this. He was lost in a sea of feeling. Cian brought him straight back by pounding loudly on the table and yelling “Woo!”

“Fuckin’ right! It’s good, yeah? She’s good. I saw her once before, in someone’s flat. A few of us crammed in there, sweaty as hell. Someone tried to get into the room during it and slammed the door right the fuck into me. Had a bruise for a week.”

Mike went to answer, but Cian had already jumped up and headed back to the bar for another round. He secretly hoped they’d finish these and leave before it was his turn to pay for one. He turned to watch Cian order the drinks and saw he’d already met Gemma at the bar, her guitar slung on her back, drink already in hand. Her and Cian were both animatedly freaking out. They gave her a huge hug. She threw her arms up and played like she was screaming. They were both too far away for him to hear, especially over the sound of the news. He hoped they’d call him over to share in the joy, but they didn’t. He felt his mood start to float back down. Isolated, anxious. He wondered if he’d done something wrong.

“Oi! You waiting for an invitation?” Cian was shouting at him. He looked over to see Gemma waving too.

“Aloof wanker!”

“Sorry, sorry. Was uh, thinking,” was Mike’s mealy-mouthed excuse as he sprinted to the bar. “Gemma, that was fantastic, really.”

“It was! Remember that, Mike. Remember how fantastic I am. They applauded for me.” She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of her drink. Mike just nodded.

“What was that song? The one about Walsall? I’ve never heard that one.”

“You’d heard all the others had you?” Gemma laughed and poked him in the chest. “I just assumed you’d have shit taste, Mike, I apologise for thinking it.”

“You ever wonder where everyone is?” Cian gestured around the pub, which had only gotten less full since Gemma had finished. “Like. Are they all just at home? You wonder? I mean really, where is everyone? In general. There’s what, 70 million people in the UK? They say over 60% of them are unemployed now?” Mike nodded along as Cian talked faster and faster. “And 500 supposedly work here? And here we are, and there’s what, fuck all else going on, and maybe ten other people in here? Where is everybody?”

“It’s a big island,” Gemma suggested drolly. “They’re about.”

“The uh, the Walsall song though?” Mike didn’t want to let it go.

“I wrote it. It’s one of mine. I shift supervise and I write songs. I’m a woman of many talents, Michael Fernsby.”

“Are you from Walsall or something? I thought you were—” Unff, Cian’s hand slammed into Mike’s chest. Patpatpatpat, Cian tapped him repeatedly on the arm.

“Look! Look! Oh shit! Hahaha!” They were losing it, going between wailing on Mike and pointing at the TV. There she was: Elizabeth Marsh. On the BBC News. Stood amongst a load of protestors waving signs, a microphone shoved in her face, the screen declaring “Protest at Magenta Health facility ribbon-cutting ceremony.”

“Great, thank you Cian, thank you for showing me this.”

“It’s yer ex! On the telly! Look⁠—”

“—I’m looking⁠—”

“—he’s looking.”

“You ever read her book?” Cian asked.

Mike bounced his head back and forth. “I, erm, I skimmed it.”

Gemma laughed. “What’s she on about?” They all got quiet and strained to hear. Something about Magenta, something about health? After listening for a few seconds Mike knew roughly what he’d already read on the screen.

And then, suddenly, there seemed to be a huge flash of light, of orange, of black. Everyone lurched forward, spinning round. Arms thrown up to shield faces. And then the screen went dark. It stayed that way for a moment before cutting back to the presenter, who generically apologised for the technical difficulties, then sat quietly, eerily. Staring into the camera. Breathing but saying nothing. A new caption appeared and the virtual character began again, in an off-putting upbeat tone.

“We are receiving reports that there has been an explosion at the ribbon cutting ceremony for a new Magenta Health facility in Central London.”