Polonaise

The first time Gemma busked in West Brom, she spent most of the time resenting Mike for making her do it. This is reckless, she’d argued. Busking wasn’t just unfashionable, it was illegal. And as she’d reminded Mike, the two of them were technically escaped prisoners.

“It’ll be good for you,” he’d insisted.

She had sighed, slung the guitar on her back, and off they went.

That afternoon, from her makeshift stage, she saw the first passers-by take interest. It was more a curiosity than an interest, as much as she was on a couple of crates rather than a stage. But it was a relief that people wanted to see what she was doing and didn’t ignore her. They looked young. It was possible they’d never seen a human playing a guitar. Or they hadn’t seen a gangly, greying woman doing it on milk cartons in front of the coffee kiosks. She was strumming a few chords over and over, and it made her feel like that git at a house party who saw a guitar on a stand and decided to ruin everyone’s night with it.

The man who orchestrated this was perched to one side, hands in his pockets, in his ageing hipster uniform of dark double denim and a tight flannel. The sight of him in this moment made her regret having learned to play guitar. Strum, strum, strum, she played her role, as another handful of zombie children shambled up and stared at her with their expressionless faces.

The second time was a few weekends later. Gemma’s reluctance was still there, but she’d only put up a bit of a struggle. An extra song, a little less moaning, and she even helped Mike carry one of the boxes on the walk back.

“How did you find it,” he’d asked in a way that made clear he believed he already knew the answer.

She’d clucked at him and dropped the box.

Today was the third time, the very next weekend, and she’d been up half the night putting together a set list. It was also only the third time they’d left Walsall in a year. It was sobering how much more conditions had deteriorated each time—more barriers, more temporary fencing, more construction on checkpoints. Word on the street was that a man had recently been murdered, and although they had no suspect, it was strongly implied that the perpetrator must have been a conscript who lived in nearby Walsall. In response, the local government had justified all sorts of draconian measures under the guise of making people feel safe. As such, Mike and Gemma’s journeys into town had taken on a flavour of adventure.

“A latte wouldn’t go spare,” Mike muttered. The biggest hurdle for Gemma was Mike’s constant irritating asides. They’d carefully navigated the demilitarised zone between their bohemian outpost and the high street, and now that they stood at the edge, fear pounding in her ears, this bellend had stopped to gesture at a Nestlé kiosk.

“How the fuck are we going to pay for a latte, Mike? We don’t even have phones, let alone money.”

“I don’t know.” He shot looks around at a few passersby, every one of which had taken care to avoid eye contact as they passed. One couple hurried. Another turned and went the other direction.

“Mike, remember our conversation about drawing attention to ourselves in a negative way? Since we’re not supposed to be here?” Gemma closed the gap between them. She scolded him like a puppy through gritted teeth. The straps of her guitar case dug into her shoulder, and a dull throbbing pain radiated up from her lower back.

“It’s frustrating.”

“It’s how it is.”

“It shouldn’t be. It’s fucked up.” Mike was pouting.

Gemma pinched the bridge of her nose. This was a mistake. She tried in vain to shift her bag to a comfortable position. “I don’t know what we’re doing here. Come on.” She’d think it was a kindness that Mike had lugged the makeshift stage on his back for over three hours, but it was the least he could do.

They made their way to a wider section of the thoroughfare, an area where you could imagine a healthy amount of busking in years past, and with little fanfare Mike popped the boxes on the ground. He approached all this with an uncharacteristic matter-of-factness. Was it deeply ingrained entitlement, or a failure to grasp how serious it would be if they were caught? Whichever it was, he’d gotten them this far.

Now she stood, she strummed, and she hesitated to begin. Mike had worked his way to the back of the crowd, but as she caught his eye-line, he smiled and gave the dorkiest thumbs-up he could’ve mustered. Followed by, lord almighty, a closed-eyes nod. If she didn’t start she might have to step down and beat him senseless with the guitar, which would ruin the show.

“Walsall, my love, my jewel of the Midlands…” she began to sing. Why not start with a local calling card, she thought. She still had memories of playing on the street a lifetime ago in London, mostly of getting shoo’d away or moved along by the British Transport Police. And if she did manage to play, it was stunning how little people cared. They’d hurry past, they’d roll their eyes, a stray American would throw a dollar bill in her guitar case. It was therefore surprising on this occasion when she realised people were staying to listen.

Not loads of people, and not for long, but it was noticeable. A young boy and his mother, a few students, an elderly couple. And at the back, she saw a figure she’d noticed each time she had performed here. Her vision wasn’t what it once was, but she would swear it was a rather rotund girl in a Victorian polonaise. Perhaps a ghost, Gemma thought, here to usher me into the English afterlife, were I to take a fall. The girl’s presence was haunting and so out of place, but there was a soothing familiarity in her being the only person who had attended every one of Gemma’s pop-up shows.

All of this was invigorating in a way she didn’t expect. Each time she performed here it reminded her not of her youth, but of the pub in Wales just a few years back. Surrounded by a handful of her fellow conscripts she had done her first public show since she was a twenty-something loser. She’d planned to do one song that night, if that, but she’d found herself rolling straight into a whole set. And now, on her third appearance here on the West Brom high street, she felt like she could perform forever.

She swayed and the crates creaked and cracked beneath her feet. She knew her next song was sure to be a crowd-pleaser — With A Little Help From My Friends. The Beatles were cliche for good reason. Who can resist singing along? But much to her bemusement, as she reached the chorus, nobody did. They stared up at her with their same doe-eyed curiosity, save for the elderly couple who smiled. Had the English finally grown out of this bloody act?

She scanned the back of the small crowd for Mike, and assumed he’d similarly be shaking his head in disbelief. But he wasn’t there. She missed a chord or two as her stomach did a somersault. She looked around again. And again. Let her eyes wander further afield, out to the far side of the street, to the metal shutters covering a long-defunct charity shop. Nothing. And that’s when she noticed her: a stocky woman in an oversized cap, clad in the classic yellow-and-blue of the police.

Brrrrrrrranngggg. A guitar string snapped, the guitar itself slipped from her hands soon after. It clattered to the ground as she stepped backwards off the crates. She could hear a mild commotion, short-lived, as she spun round and put her back to everyone. Her feet carried her quickly round a corner and down a small alley between rows of shopping kiosks. She couldn’t find her way back to anywhere that resembled the path they’d taken to get to the town centre.

Dead end alleys, ruined shops and collapsed houses, the husk of a massive Tesco Extra hollowed out and turned into a warehouse which she’d briefly stopped to mourn. She had to keep moving. There was nothing she could do for Mike if he’d been picked up, the poor bastard. If she’d just let him go down to London to find his ex-wife Elizabeth two years ago, he’d be away from her by now. Someone else’s problem. Elizabeth’s problem, to be specific. Why did I keep him here? Why do we have to be joined at the hip?

After circling round the back of a row of old shops, she emerged back out onto the broadway in the middle of the town centre. Unbelievable. She was drenched, her thin white t-shirt clinging to her under the leather jacket, and her legs were on fire. She held herself against the rough brick, her chest heaving, her hands shaking. Christ, she couldn’t catch her breath. Across the way she could see her broken guitar lying next to the crates, a couple of teen girls milling around nearby, the rest of the crowd having dispersed. She squeezed her hands into fists, clenching them harder, her jagged nails cutting into the skin of her palms. And that’s when she saw Mike round the far corner.

“What the fuck…” she barely whispered. He came more into focus as Gemma squinted. Was that a goddamn latte in his hand? He noticed her and gave a confused wave, then gestured her over. She threw her head back against the brick, sending fresh pain shooting through her neck and down her spine. She closed her eyes and her lungs boiled. A hand clasped her shoulder and she jolted with a gasp.

“Hey, what happened? Are you okay?” Mike didn’t sound terribly concerned. Gemma slid her eyes over to catch a glimpse of him in the periphery. But she said nothing. “Your guitar is on the ground. I’m sorry, I didn’t see what happened, I loitered near the kiosk til someone took pity on me and hooked me up with a latte. Want some?”

She reached out. Mike popped the cup in her hand and she took a sip. My god. The delicious frothy latte immediately worked magic. But as the panic submerged, up from the depths came a rage.

“Where the fuck were you, Mike? What the f— I thought you got arrested.”

“I didn’t. Gemma, what are you talking about? I’m sorry I wandered off, I’ve heard your set before. You know? I’m sorry.”

“I could swear.” She tried to grip onto the memory. Her hands shook. Mike closed his around them to steady her.

“Let’s see if we can salvage your guitar.” She let Mike lead her to the stage, hovering nearby as he picked up the two crates and lashed them together with nylon rope.

“H-hello,” came a quiet voice from behind Gemma.

Play it cool, she thought. She was wracked with terror. She looked over one shoulder, only to see the same girls who had been lurking nearby. “Hi.”

“You’re…” one of them started, then quickly looked down at her shoes. She seemed in her early twenties, but could’ve also been fifteen—everyone looked like a child to Gemma at this point. She was dressed in a style that must’ve had a name, if only she knew what it was: a garish blue blazer, bright red trousers, and huge platform boots that looked like cartoon bricks. It was as if the girl had stepped directly out of an anime.

The other girl interrupted. “You were streaming here, we were trying to stream it again. What was the prompt?” This one was dressed far more plainly in a baggy grey shirt and jeans.

“Streaming?” Gemma stared past the girl. In the distance she once again saw the apparition, her Victorian ghost friend. She stood in shadow against some shop shutters in an olive coloured polonaise, her strawberry hair tucked under a matching fascinator. They made eye contact, and to Gemma’s surprise neither of them looked away.

The plainly-dressed girl coughed and waved to regain Gemma’s attention. “With the, um…” She pointed at the guitar on the ground, which Mike was kneeled next to, presumably to conduct the autopsy.

“That?” The garishly-dressed girl also pointed at the guitar, nodded and smiled from behind her thick-rimmed glasses. “What was the prompt?”

Gemma shook her head and once again looked for the ghost, but it had vanished. She sighed. All of this, bizarre as it was, had taken up enough mental energy that she’d forgotten to panic. But she now realised the cartoon girl was wearing a ridiculous sort-of phone built into glasses. Oh, Christ. The girl took them off and gestured them toward Gemma.

“Can you prompt it? What’s the vibe?”

“Uh.” She reached her hand out to take the glasses, but instead found them being thrust right onto her face. The view was instantly overwhelming. Flashing icons, text, weather, a load of notifications Gemma could barely understand. Her eyes went wibbly and she felt like she’d get a migraine if she looked at this for too long.

“Are those Magenta Spex?” Mike shouted as he came lumbering over, the stage on his back, the guitar disrespectfully in his hand. “Wow, I love those things.” He noticed Gemma’s new friends and gave an awkward smile. “Hello.”

“Salam,” replied the anime character with a small wave.

“Hello,” replied the other. “Sorry, we were watching your partner earlier.” Mike’s eyes immediately darted toward Gemma, but the expected denial didn’t come. Instead, Gemma looked as if her head were about to explode, her eyes being made unnaturally large by the glasses.

“Gemma, what are you…”

“How the hell do these bloody things…”

“Aida, open Trax.” The plain friend shouted past them. The glasses cleared and an annoyingly-familiar interface appeared in front of her, floating over the world. It was Magenta Trax, their goddamn music app. She recognised it from a thousand meetings, slide decks and unfortunate encounters with it from her years in the music industry.

“None of my songs are gonna be on here. I’ve never recorded them. But I can at least show you The Beatles. They’re your birthright. How do I…”

“Just say Aida, then tell it what you’re looking for. Speak clearly, she’s using a really old pair of Spex.”

“It’s vintage,” the shy girl said.

“Aida, can you show me music by The Beatles.” Her vision flashed red around the edges and she pulled her head back instinctively.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” replied the flat American voice.

Gemma shivered. She knew that voice. Aida. The voice of all Magenta products, the ever-present and soulless collaborator in their war on culture.

Aida let out a cute giggle that made Gemma want to vomit. “I can stream something based on your current mood or vibe.”

“Play something by The Beatles. Anything.” She tried not to sound annoyed. She’d learned the hard way that Aida was sensitive to your dislike, and would waste your time apologising. Or if you crossed the line, refuse to respond until you apologised.

“I’m not sure what you mean. I can stream something based on how you’d like to feel. How would you like it to make you feel?” Gemma shook her head.

“How do you make it go by artist or title?” She looked between the pair of children, not sure who would know. She ignored Mike, even though he’d know. She could not with him right now.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said the plainly dressed girl. “Can you describe it?”

“Can’t you make it play recordings? Like, a song, or an album. However you bloody say it.” The situation had a serious language barrier, with the energy of a dinner party they all regretted attending. The rainbow coloured one whispered something in the ear of the monochrome one. Gemma shot a few arrows through Mike with her eyes. He stared back at her with a sort-of longing. He wanted the Spex, didn’t he?

“My friend wants to know if you live in the colony nearby,” said the drab one.

“The… colony?”

“Oi loves, careful talking to that lot.” An older man crossed the square, late fifties, dressed like he’d shop you to the cops for putting your bins out on the wrong day. He looked straight through Mike and Gemma as if they didn’t exist. “Itinerants, focking ex-connies, turn your back and they’ll have your stuff, and you’ll be lucky if that’s all. I’d run along home.”

“Excuse me!” Gemma shouted back at the man. “Right fucking cunt you are!”

“Stay safe, loves. Year of our lord 2045, and we’re still dealing with this.” He rolled his eyes and kept walking, with a brief look back over his shoulder.

“Fucking unbelievable.” Gemma growled. She took the Spex off and held them out toward their owner. “Here ‘ya go Nami, sorry, can’t bloody work ‘em. Ye better toddle off before we abduct you.” The girl looked down at them with a frown. Mike stepped forward and took them from Gemma, much to everyone’s surprise.

“Hang on, one second.” Gemma leaned back in horror as she saw his eyes through the lenses. She knew them well, and those were not them. They were disproportionate, for one, and almost… sketched? Like a watercolour version of his eyes? Christ, she realised. It’s projecting cartoon versions of his eyes. She loathed the young.

“He’ll give them back, I promise.”

“Inshallah,” the cartoon girl whispered. She crossed her arms tightly.

“This is crazy,” Mike said. “It doesn’t let you search or browse at all. No artists, titles, nothing. Does she have Trax Plus?”

“She has Diamond,” snorted the drab girl.

“Yeah, I’m stumped. Let me try…” Gemma yanked them off his face mid-sentence, and he cried out as if he’d been expelled from paradise.

“Give the baby her bottle. We need to get back to the colony.” Her tone, and her exaggerated eye roll, made clear what she thought about their home being referred to as the colony. She slid the Spex back onto the cartoon girl’s face, and rolled her eyes as both of them exhaled. She started to head off, and heard Mike shuffle along behind her. “We’ll be back next weekend if you want to hear more,” he shouted back to the girls.

“It comes natural for you.”

“What does?”

“Lying to young girls. Like you’ve been doing it your whole life.”

“What?”

“I’m never coming back to this shit-hole.” Her words dripped with contempt.

“Please don’t take this out on me.”

“Take what out on you?”

“It’s not my fault they can’t listen to The Beatles.”

Gemma let out a guffaw as she pressed onward. She’d now decided that their three-hour walk home would be better in silence. Mike obliged without needing to be told.