Stoic

Eleven years ago.

The trip to London earlier that year had left Samir with a near-insatiable appetite. He’d set to work before they’d even returned, digging up every scrap of information he could about how to get a job, an internship, day labour, any sniff of anything to do with London’s music scene. And he’d felt it was only natural to start by applying at Normal Island Records: label home of his favourite band, Turk’s Revenge, and the one music executive he’d ever spent any length of time with, Gemma Thomson.

To his surprise, and Virginia’s chagrin, he’d been accepted almost immediately as a summer intern. And not in the label’s local offices in his hometown of Los Angeles, but a trip straight back to the UK.

“Three months, including luxurious Zone 1 accommodation, with a small stipend for expenses.” Sam had presented it to his girlfriend Virginia with what he felt was an appropriate level of enthusiasm. It had stirred an unusual sensation in him, the thought of returning so soon. Back to that world, back through the curtain. It was hardly possible for him to hide how he felt about the notion.

“I don’t understand why it has to be back in London.” And his girlfriend was unamused by the prospect.

“I guess that’s just what they decided.”

“Did you request London?”

“No, of course not. I applied in person at their office in Hollywood.”

“And that’s why I don’t understand. Don’t they have British people to give those internships to?”

“V, I don’t know.”

It was true that he hadn’t requested London, insofar as you weren’t really able to request that sort of thing when you were begging for an internship at a boutique record label owned by a mega-conglomerate. He might’ve mentioned London in his application of course, in particular his night at The Roundhouse. Though embarrassment might’ve led him to be light on the details. And he might’ve also managed to name-drop someone.

“Mr. Whitechapel.” At his orientation meeting, he recognised the man from that night at the Magenta demo, the man whose name he’d fished from the depths of his memory. He looked just as breezy and effortless in the daytime.

“It’s Eamon, mate. Never got on with being called Mr. Whitechapel. It’s not my real surname.”

“Right, sorry. Eamon.”

“Hits the ear wrong as well, I’m afraid.” Eamon tutted. “Best not refer to me at all.”

The summer of ’32 was a whirlwind. Virginia was able to get sponsored for a tourist visa through proof of relationship, and she joined Sam in his luxurious accommodation—big enough perhaps for one of them. Their groceries piled into the tiny refrigerator in their micro-kitchen, to be prepared on the hotplate atop the square of laminated plywood which served as their countertop.

They stacked neatly in the single bed each night. Virginia had defined a rota for use of the bathroom sink each morning, which was most comfortably accessed while standing in the tub. She would finish her shower at one end whilst he brushed his teeth at the other. It was her constant search for these efficiencies that kept things as tolerable as they were. If tempers flared or elbows bumped, often literally, he could rely on her cooler head to prevail, which he appreciated immensely.

Virginia spent her days at a nearby café wiling away the hours on her tablet looking for jobs back home, to prepare for their inevitable departure from Neverland. This isn’t a viable career path, she’d insist to him as they sat on the hard grey sofa in the corner by the window. You might as well be interning at a post office the year after email was invented. But he was intractable, and she was unwilling to take his spirits down to crush depth. So they’d stay near the surface, near the buoyant good vibes, and she’d make their real plans for their real life.

She would’ve preferred to find work in London, something she could do while Sam was off at his. Something that could perhaps let them both, for now, achieve their aims. But it had been made clear how illegal that would be, not to mention how much of a practical impossibility it was. Unemployment in the UK was nearing twenty-five percent, and not for lack of trying. Virginia struggled for weeks to explain this to Samir: there was simply no room in the British economy for high numbers of people working in the creative arts. Streaming music and video had become so thoroughly commoditised, the only money in it was flowing straight into paying for server farms, power plants, and full-time staff at the Magenta Corporation.

This hadn’t come close to deterring Samir, even as it made itself somewhat apparent in his day-to-day on the job at the label. Eamon worked hard to cultivate a presence larger than life, and the trappings of success were still abound. It wasn’t evident in raw money or fame, but in the eccentricity of everyone involved. These people would act this way even if they were anonymous and dirt-poor. Until now, Sam’s source of insider knowledge had been his friend Sebastian. But Seb’s “chill California guy” attitude hadn’t prepared him for the sheer bloody-mindedness of the London music scene.

Most days were normal enough: sat at his desk in the office, answering calls, arranging access, assembling guest lists. Others around him were having the knock-down, drag-out fights over who got through to speak with Eamon, who got access to which artists, which names went on the lists. He simply had to do what he was told, observe, and absorb.

The nights were a different matter. When he’d fought to bring Virginia along on his internship—and it was indeed a fight, on both sides—it wasn’t just because he thought he’d miss her, or because he thought she’d enjoy it. Those were both true, he’d felt, and he’d also felt those were the reasons worth saying to both Virginia and to the Intern Coordinator at the label. But his real reason was because he needed his person by his side. He’d been so nervous, so excited, and needed someone there not just to help him cope, but to have a frame of reference for everything he was about to go through. It’d been such a relief when both sides had agreed.

After just one whiff of the life, she’d called a permanent moratorium on further nights out. “That’s your world, Samir,” she’d said. “You should enjoy it while you can.”

“I was hoping it would be our world. I thought you loved gigs.”

“I enjoy the occasional concert. I don’t enjoy whatever that was. I don’t like being pushed. I don’t enjoy getting covered in bruises. And having beer spilled on me by disgusting men who are grabbing every part of me.”

“I’m sorry, V, I know you had a bad time at Underworld…” Sam had regretted bringing her along the moment they’d arrived. Eamon had given him the extra pass because he said he wouldn’t go anywhere near Camden when Shitweasel were playing. In hindsight, Sam thought, perhaps it had been a clue.

“Getting crushed in the crowd, then trying to leave, and not even being able to get up the stairs from everyone huddled in them vaping. More disgusting men catcalling me, telling me ‘oh, it’s okay, love, if you can’t handle it.’”

Sam’s shoulders had slumped at this point, and he’d refrained from any further arguing. It was all valid, of course, but also such an unfair thing to do. Would she really judge all live music against a single bad experience? He’d spend his entire career now just attending these shows unaccompanied? He’d change the subject any time he was asked by Mr. Whitechapel whether he wanted to bring anyone—though aside from those dodgy nights in Camden, Mr. Whitechapel himself was always guaranteed to be there. “Can’t resist watching a shit band,” he’d said. “Never pass up an opportunity to see what utter excrement we’ve decided to put on a stage and claim it’s art. Even bad music can be a good time when it’s being played live.”

The nights Sam came to cherish, then, were the ones where he got to meet people. It wasn’t as often as he might like. People tended to keep to themselves or their cliques at gigs. He’d hoped to find solace with the other interns, but they’d cliqued up by the end of day three, and Sam had somehow missed out on that as well. He figured it was by virtue of the rest of them being from the same post-grad programme, or perhaps just because they were all British, or because they were all of Bangladeshi descent. He wasn’t sure if it was any of these reasons, really, or none of them. But he had long nights to wonder as he watched bands alone from the backs of rooms.

By month three, relations with Virginia had crumbled. She’d taken an internship back in California, and she’d agreed to come back early and start it now, rather than see out the rest of their time in London. This left Sam baffled, which in turn left Virginia even more baffled.

“One of us has to start building the future,” she’d explained. “How can you be against this?”

“You’re abandoning me because you’re not having a good time,” Samir had replied. The argument played out all night, first sat on the plain grey sofa, then sat on the edge of the bed. “And you won’t even tell me where?”

“Los Angeles. Back home.”

“But where is the job?”

Virginia had sighed deeply and contemplated before responding. “It’s at Magenta.”

Samir wanted to respond in a rational and collected manner, so he’d taken his time as well. Virginia believed the lengthy silence to be his response, so she sighed again and laid down.

“I thought we never went to bed angry,” Sam asserted.

“That’s a silly rule,” Virginia answered. “And it’s two in the morning. I have to rest before my flight.”

So for the final three weeks of his time in London, Samir had found himself alone.

As the newest member of the team, and as the least liked, he’d spend those weeks as he’d spent the last few: behind check-in tables. It was the lowest role you could have — sat with a list of names, distributing wristbands, letting people into the show who were invited by the label, and were too cool or too disinterested to buy their own ticket. Sam had hoped to learn exciting behind-the-scenes secrets during his internship. He had to settle for learning that label interns, not venue staff, were responsible for this task.

This, Sam had decided, was the perfect middle option. He got to meet everyone, he got to be visible to everyone at the event, but he was spared the shame and desperate awkwardness of drinking alone at the back of the room. Once everyone was checked in he could remain at his post. If someone asked why, it was a credible answer that he needed to be ready for late-comers. Everyone knew VIPs in this business, in any business, loved to arrive late. He could remain stoic, facing out toward the door, live music blaring from the room behind him. It also helped him stay sober, because he wasn’t able to get himself a drink, and nobody seemed keen to bring him one. He’d found his niche. And with just a few weeks before he was due to head back to America, not a moment too soon.

Every time he sat down at his post, whatever venue it happened to be at that night, he’d be presented with a tablet containing the list. As each person approached, he’d either find their name on the list and tap it, or if they were one of the increasing numbers of people who’d gone all in on Magenta, some device on their person would tell the tablet who they were, and the name would appear automatically. And each night, he’d get through about three-quarters of his list. If you’re cool enough to be invited, you’re cool enough to ignore the invite and not turn up. He’d watch as the names appeared and were ticked off, night after night, wondering which third of them would wind up not arriving. And each night contained a small disappointment, because there was one name guaranteed to be on the list, and guaranteed to remain unticked. It was, of course, Gemma.

He’d felt the rush of sweet validation the first time he saw her name on the list. So it was worth it, he’d thought at the time. The naivety of youth, he’d realise later. Of course it was foolish to think she'd come to these. But he still held out hope every night, even as he wouldn’t dare ask Eamon again. He’d tried once, the second time she was a no-show, and he’d make a weak show of it being somehow related to his job.

“It’s a nice try, lad,” he’d said with a wink. “Everyone wants face time with her. She relishes not giving it.”

As much as he hadn’t expected to be sent to London for this internship, he hadn’t expected to somehow avoid running into Gemma the entire time. She worked in the same building! How was it possible they’d never even seen each other in the hallway? But they hadn’t—or at least, he’d never seen her. Over six months since their encounter on the floor of The Roundhouse, and she’d passed into almost mythical status in his mind.

The nights weren’t without their share of enjoyable moments, backstage encounters and green room banter that few would experience and fewer would appreciate. It was Samir’s musical education, and it proved more valuable than four years of university study.

“Mate, jazz piano, jungle, drum & bass, it’s all one fucking incestuous family,” crowed a solo drummer between lines of cocaine.

“We accidentally headlined the Barrowlands,” shouted another, “because our pal bought up half the tickets through our link as a fucking prank. And they chose headliners based on ticket sales. And we were shite, and the other bands were all real fucking bands. We hardly got out alive, dude, such was the fucking fury.”

“The support were bloody racists,” howled a singer through wheezing laughter, about a gig long ago. “We walk out to a sea of fucking St. George’s crosses and disinterested white faces, and start our bloody chune about loving each other. Fucking crickets, bruv.”

But soon summer was over. “Sad it’s the last one of these?” Eamon had already been waiting for Sam when he arrived at the Brixton Academy. He leaned next to the old ticket booth in his double denim, his arms crossed tightly, one foot on the wall, devilish smirk on his face. “The time’s flown by.”

“I am a bit, I suppose.” He felt so far from home at that moment. The internship would end next week, and he’d, what… fly back to Los Angeles? To see Virginia, who abandoned him? But he couldn’t stay either, for reasons too numerous to count, most of which involved laws or money.

“Chin up, son. You’ve done well in the face of all the hazing.”

Sam couldn’t hide his surprise. “I figured you didn’t know that’s going on.”

“I just assume it is. We’ve all been through it, or we’ve been the ones that did it.” Eamon gave a wink. “It’s a small industry. You’ll be with these people the rest of your life. It’s a trial by fire.”

Sam forced a smile. He wasn’t ready to be outwardly happy, but the flicker had thawed a small part of him.

“Who’s playing tonight?” Eamon cut through the unexpected sincerity. It was the most British thing he could’ve done.

“Christ, Eam,” came the voice from behind Sam. “It’s your bill.”

“Oh, your grace,” Eamon spit with a roll of his eyes. “Lovely for you to descend and walk among us. There you are, Samir.” He gestured to the person behind him, and gave Sam the tacit permission he needed to spin around and look. Towering above them both, clad in a red blazer and dripping with condescension, was Gemma Thomson.

“Gemma, hi.” Samir bumbled and stuttered. He stuck his hand out and took a step forward, but it hadn’t been far enough. He retracted his hand and popped it straight into his pocket. Gemma’s eyes darted to one side as she sidled around him. Later in life, he’d find himself haunted by this moment in his quietest hours.

“It’s Geordie Scouser supporting, by the way,” Gemma said as she joined Eamon in front of the booth. “Bloody stupid name.”

“It’s post-collapse sludge metal, Gemma. It’s about deconstructing the English identity.” Eamon replied through gritted teeth. “And it’s sold out.”

“It’s fucking noise, mate. Five men screaming nonsense, not an instrument between them. And the lyrics make no bloody sense.”

“It depends on when you hear them.”

“What? Whachu mean?”

“The lyrics are being prompted during the song. And their AJ injects news and social reactions as well. It’s a dynamic…”

“Prompted? It’s bloody algo? They didn’t even fucking write the songs?! It’s a… who the fuck is AJ?” Gemma was emphatic, borderline unhinged, her limbs flailing around as she shouted down at Eamon.

“Christ Gemma, read your briefs for once, or the trades, or bloody show up to something. It’s an algorithm jockey.”

Sam was cemented in place, mesmerised by the industry chat unfolding in front of him. He realised this was exactly what he’d been missing the past few months.

“I can’t, Eamon.” Her hands sat on her head, her elbows akimbo. The stress caused by Eamon’s description of the band Geordie Scouser appeared to have stripped a decade off her life. “Christ, I just can’t.”

“Sam,” Eamon said with a clear of his throat. “I’ve left the wristbands back at the office. Would you mind?” He tossed the keys and Sam caught them, a small mercy. After the events of the past five minutes, he would not have survived if he’d dropped or missed them.

“Which car is yours, Mr. Whitechapel?”

“I’ll take him.” Gemma gave a wry smile. “Gives us a chance to catch up. He’s been on our miserable island for months now, earning our shit pay, listening to our shit bands, I’ve not said one word to him.”

Sam tried to keep his cool. Gemma would run an errand with him, just to spend time together?

“Right…” Eamon smiled back, his face covered in suspicion. “Sam, you indulge me for one moment before you dash off?” Gemma rolled her eyes as Eamon pulled Sam aside.

“Lad,” he said in a hushed tone as he put their backs to Gemma. “If you don’t want her to join you, you can say no.”

“What do you mean?” The aside confused Sam. He’d never heard such a concerned tone from Eamon.

“You’re a good looking lad, smart, loyal. Clearly she sees something in you. Listen.” Eamon rubbed his temples and sighed. “I don’t want to interject myself, if it’s an intrusion. But I can protect you if that’s something you need.”

“I honestly don’t know what you mean, Mr. Whitechapel.”

“Right.” He patted Sam’s shoulder. “Just look after yourself, lad. If it’s a no, say no. She’s not a monster. So far as I can tell.” He straightened, his voice returning to the usual volume. “Right, okay. Be quick, if you please.”

Gemma nodded. “No bother, Eam.”