Escapade

A pleasant chime rang in the room, and a digital voice followed. “Breakfast is served.”

Gemma stared at the ceiling. Breakfast. Her mind was a swamp. She’d startled awake as the sun rose, but here she’d chosen to lie, rather than face another morning of Caroline. The water glass at the bedside was empty, but her expertise in dry-swallowing pills meant the pain in her ankle had stayed under control.

“So!” Caroline conspired with her full English. “I was thinking, for today, we should play some music. Or you could play some of yours. I’m not sure you’d want to hear me, miss, I’m dreadful compared to you.”

Gemma poked at the pile of mushrooms on her plate. An uninteresting meal. She couldn’t recall the last time she had a full English. She couldn’t recall much of anything this morning. But for some reason the smell irritated her, and the idea of chewing anything was bothersome. “Pass.”

“Oh.” Caroline frowned. “Don’t you like it?”

“I’m not hungry.” She stared at a puddle of brown sauce. It had an interesting, almost chemical pattern on the surface. Shimmering rainbows reminded her of an oil slick or a gasoline spill.

“Music, I mean.” Caroline was a wind-up toy. She had to go until she stopped. “I don’t play guitar very well, but I have a violin. It was my mum’s. She insisted I learn how to play it. My father thought it was pointless, of course. But I thought since she’s out of town, I could play for you. Saturday is recital, that’s all. Every Saturday. That’s today.”

“Music.” Gemma nodded. The words had made it to her, but they’d been discarded before she could process most of them. “I don’t like to be told to play. I’m not a music box. I also don’t like being held captive.”

Caroline wrinkled her nose and her face dropped through the floor. She looked twice her age when her worry lines appeared. “You’re not captive, miss. But you should eat something. I’m not sure if you’ve got food in your room, but I don’t think you’ve eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.” She sighed. It was irritating, the way this porcelain doll tried to look after her.

“You must be.”

Gemma pushed back from the table. It felt overwhelming, being subjected to this questioning. “I’m going to get some air.”

“Miss!” Caroline shot out of her chair. “You have to take care of yourself! You won’t heal if you don’t eat. I can’t force you, but I really think you should.”

“Why!?” Gemma slammed her hands down and stood straight up. She ignored the terrible pain in her ankle as best she could, even as she felt herself grimace. “Why me? Where are your parents? How fucking old are you, Caroline?”

“I told you, they’re in Saudi Arabia. And I’m not sure how old I am.”

“Right, okay.” She shook her head and tried to wake herself from this. “That’s insane.”

“Is it? I don’t know! I’ve never thought about it!”

“How many bloody birthdays ‘ave you had!?”

“We don’t celebrate birthdays in my family!”

“How long ago did you graduate university, then?!”

“I was homeschooled, miss.”

Gemma let out a guttural scream. “I’m going outside, Caroline.”

She was already barefoot in the garden when she heard Caroline’s reciprocal scream from upstairs, followed by the slam of her bedroom door. Bloody child.

The grass felt nice between her toes, at least. It was a typical overcast day, grey as could be. The morning mist left everything a bit dewy and the dirt a bit moist. Gemma was startled by the silence. No mysterious ticking of an unseen clock, no hum of an air con, no Caroline muttering to herself or to Aida. Just the occasional rustling of branches and leaves from a light breeze, which left goosebumps all over her arms. It reminded her of a night in Wales, years ago, her guitar case a pillow, her daft friend Mike at her side, neither speaking at all. It was a specific kind of moment, a kind she had never given its due in the before times. But it lacked something.

She plodded across the grass to the garden house, to Caroline’s treasure trove of CDs, her accidental shrine to Gemma’s past. The door was predictably locked. As she headed back to the house, the gate to the front garden looked a far more attractive option than headed back into the house with her ill-tempered jailer.

She remembered the way to town, and her feet carried her there with minimal fuss. She hadn’t bothered with her obnoxious period garb, though the moment she saw another person she felt underdressed in her black track bottoms and stretched UWL hoodie.

The high street did seem a tad more grounded now that she had a passing familiarity with it. Shop fronts with unprotected glass windows were a lavish indulgence, one she hadn’t seen in quite some time. Even as a child they would’ve been covered with metal shutters, lest some hooligan like herself pitch a bin through them on their way home from the club. She did let her eyes drift around as she walked, curious if any unsecured bins were around. It was important to have options. But before she could trigger any insurance payouts, she felt she could do with some coffee.

The crowd at The Town Centre was lively, and to her relief there was no sight of the proprietor, Alastair King. Armed with a fuller understanding of the place she popped herself right up onto a stool at the counter, and with a Stepford smile ordered herself a long black.

“That’s six pounds, miss.”

“Ah, uh, one second.” She thrust her hand into her pocket and produced the ring she’d found in Caroline’s parent’s room. It slid onto her index finger and, to Gemma’s relief, fit fairly well. “My good man.” She waved it over the black pad in the counter and smiled again as the ring vibrated angrily on her finger. The pad flashed red and the man narrowed his eyes.

“Too fast, miss. You need to hold until it flashes blue.”

“Allow me,” came a frail sounding voice to her left. A bony finger hovered the pad until it glowed a pleasing cerulean. “Not often we see such a beautiful fawn in our meadow.”

Gemma burst out laughing, a proper goose honk of a laugh that dislodged a bit of stubborn phlegm. “Oh goodness me, you’re a live wire, aren’t you? Gen X, still problematic, still under the radar.”

“We keep to ourselves,” he said with a wink. “Never cancelled, myself.”

Another voice shouted from across the room. “You know how to make a lady miss the Coronavirus lockdowns, don’t you, lad? Ignore Gaz, he was raised by hand-mades.”

She spun round, unsure who’d now joined the conversation. “Hand… maidens?”

The room erupted into uproarious laughter. Gemma believed she’d soon be in the midst of a bar brawl that would make a Tamil movie look unambitious.

“Hand-made television shows,” the barista whispered. “Old shite.” He shrugged. “Stick around long enough, you’ll start to pick it up.”

The cafe did seem to be a bit of a museum exhibit, near-fossilised people all around her sipped their coffees whilst reading newspapers, physical books, one even writing into a paper notepad using an old pen. “What the hell is going on here,” she muttered. “Land of the lost.”

“I just assumed you were someone’s partner, or sister, if I’m honest.”

“Assume nothing.”

“These guys, they’re all retired scientists and engineers.”

She smiled and shook her head. “‘Course they are.” Her face fell. “Not anything weird, right?”

“Weird?”

“Missiles, bio-weapons or summit.”

“No, nothing like that. They all worked at Magenta.”

“Are you serious,” she whispered. “Are you fucking serious,” she repeated at maximum volume. The sound of cups clattering against plates and newspapers folding made her snort. “Oh, absolute scenes. The scandal. You lot! Just in here hiding away from what you’ve done.” She spun round on the stool and hopped down to the floor. “Shame.”

“I beg pardon,” said the lecherous old Gaz. “Hiding?”

“Hiding in your bloody Potemkin Village, yeah? You collaborated with the fucking enemy, made all this terrible shit, ruined the world, then used the proceeds to squirrel yourself away in here.”

Discontent rumbled around the room. Gaz piped up again, the group’s unofficial spokes-creep. “Bit reductive, wouldn’t you say? Bit of a jump.”

“Oi, fuck off, ya vile cunt.” She slammed her cup down on the counter. “Wretched little men.”

Gaz was indignant. “Real mouth on you, lass.”

“A Potemkin Village would be to show off to a visiting monarch,” rose a voice from the back. “Are we hiding, or are we showing off?”

She flung her hands up with a grunt, and let off a loud “Oi!” from the back of her throat. “Right, okay. All of you belong in the fucking Hague for what you’ve done to this country, innit. Nuremberg trials. Real pieces of work, all of ye. Bunch of coffee-swilling teetotal tiny-pricked,” she inhaled, “Tottenham supporters.”

“Excuse me!”

She backed her way toward the door. “Oh, don’t deny it, I lived in Crouch End, posh Cocks the lot of you, I can spot it, can fucking smell it.” She fumbled around behind her and managed to pull the door open. “And in Brum, the shame of it all. Just man up and support Villa, you twats.”

Before any other protests could be lodged, or pants could be dropped, she was back on the street, alone with her rage and miserable embarrassment. She paced around to the side of the building and caught her breath against the wall. Retired Magenta engineers, she repeated as she shook her head. Cunts.

At a shop just a few hundred metres from the coffee shop, her attention was caught by a strange artefact. The shop itself was shut, but they’d seen fit to leave the lights on in their window display. It was an archaic laptop, decades old by the look of it. Open and off, but with a small spotlight shining on the keyboard. Gemma couldn’t help but grin as she studied it. Each key had been meticulously painted over in white, with the letter hand-drawn back on in a variety of pinks, blues, and reds. The palm rest bore a large hand-painted face, stylised with fabulous eyelashes and a mischievous grin. It was marvellous. She leaned in to read a small plaque on the pedestal just below:

”Spunky Vaio. Acrylic on plastic, artist unknown. c2000s. This Vaio captures a portrait of the child-like innocence with which we approached technology in the early 2000s. Not for sale.”

Gemma smirked and took a couple steps back. What was this place? A sign hung above the door to the modest shop front: Alice’s Trove of Curiosities. Through the glass door and past the display she could indeed make out a trove of ancient junk. Piles of decaying magazines, old media, broken stereos and televisions, and stacks of crumbling computers. Along the far wall hung a single electric guitar. It appeared to have quite a bit of wear and tear, with a faded wood-grain pattern and chewed up edges on the inlay. But Gemma recognised it for what it was: a Revelator, hand-built, made to look vintage even when it was brand new. It was at least twenty years old, but far newer than the fifty or so it was pretending to be. The leather Levy’s strap that hung loose behind it was properly broken in. She could feel the weight of it on her shoulder, the neck in her hand, like a phantom limb. Her fingers itched for want of the strings. She gave the door handle a couple of strong tugs, but the shop was locked tight. If it was even a shop at all.

“I’m not sure if it’ll be open again,” came a gentle voice from behind her.

She jumped with a yelp and braced herself against the door. “Christ.”

“Sorry to startle you,” the man said. He was older, maybe early sixties, with a cherubic face and a pale complexion. For this town he had dressed rather plain, in a white linen shirt, dark slacks, and a charcoal flat cap. “I still like to come look in the window from time to time, and clear my head.”

“Bit of a tip in there, innit.”

The man chuckled. “Dear, yes. I used to enjoy a bit of a rummage through the old copies of Radio Times, though. Husband wouldn’t let me have any more around the house, but Alice didn’t mind me reading them here.”

“Alice?” Her eyes looked upward. “Right, Alice. You said the shop won’t be open?”

“I can’t imagine how.” The man removed his cap and sighed. “It’s so unfortunate what happened to her.”

“What happened?”

“My apologies, dear.” He cleared his throat. “I really must be getting home.” He nodded and placed his cap back on. “Good evening.”

Her walk brought her to the end of the road, and she came face to face with the gate through which they’d driven in days prior. It was brutal and imposing, at least fifteen feet high, with multiple layers of fencing and a door across the pavement that would be at home in a bank vault. There was no handle as such, but the usual black pad, and a sickening light that blasted down in a circle just above. With the ring still on her finger, she approached the door and held up her hand. The angry vibrations started at once, and the pad flashed a harsh red.

“Hrm,” she grumbled, and tried again. Same result whether she waved her hand, held it there, and there was no response at all if she attempted it while just holding the ring between her fingers rather than wearing it. She let out a scream and pounded her fists against it.

“It won’t open,” said the faint voice of a woman from far away. If she squinted, she could see someone in the far distance, standing at the opposite door across all the layers of fencing. “We’ve tried, trust me.”

“Have you now?”

“Nobody’s ever gotten in unless they were let in.”

“Great. How about out?”

“Why would you want out?”

She pounded her head against the door and screamed.

“We’ve tried everything,” the woman shouted. “Ladders, digging, even ramming it with cars. Never thought it would be the same on your side. The bits are on your side.”

“The what?”

“The bits. That.” Gemma squinted again to see the woman’s gesture. She pointed at a large box sat just to the side of the pavement near the fence.

“Right…” The box was nondescript and metal, with a handle to remove the outer covering, and bore several large lightning bolts and some scary warnings about a risk of death. Shit, she thought. This was the electrics for the whole gate. “Interesting, thanks. What’s your name?”

“Don’t got one.”

“Right, well, thanks. I’m Gemma.”

“Know you are. Seen you in Walsall.”

“Oh?” Gemma gave an awkward smile. In spite of her best efforts, memories of Walsall were still happy ones. “You were just passing through?”

“No,” she answered. “Had to leave. Here now.”

“Right, well. Thanks. Again.”

A plan had started to brew in her mind, but it was far too dark, and she was unequipped. For now she made her way back to the high street, and eventually took an interest in a lively little club called Decibel. The din of live music and drunken conversation rolled out onto the street, as did the green and purple strobes.

A woman at the door smiled and got her attention. “It’s open tone tonight, that alright?”

“Open toe,” Gemma said quizzically. “Like the shoe?”

“Open tone,” the woman repeated, though Gemma could scarcely pay attention. The juxtaposition of a modern club atmos with everyone’s manner of dress was shorting out her senses.

“Love, I have no idea what that means. Pretend I’ve been in jail for five years.”

“We’re playing the music out loud on the speakers.”

Gemma cackled. “Are you bloody serious? That’s got a name now?”

“It’s a twenties theme night. Here’s your earplugs.” She held out a small pair of earplugs in plastic wrap.

“Don’t worry about it, love. Thanks for the warning.”

“I can’t make you wear them but I have to see you take them.”

“Fine.” Gemma put on a brave face as she snatched the packet out of the woman’s hands. “Been to a thousand bloody shows, never in my life I’ve worn these buggers.”

“Maybe that’s why you couldn’t hear me.”

Zero-percent beer was many things, but it was also ineffective at helping Gemma find the strength to tolerate a situation like this one. She had her back to the wall opposite the bar, looking askance at the room, as if to remove herself from the situation. If she could float above it all, she would’ve chosen to do that. To allow this all to pass directly through her, to observe it as if she were a ghost.

It was cramped, much more so than she first thought, and could hold about fifty people including the staff. She noted that number didn’t need to include the band. Ruddy holograms. The stage was so small it could never have accommodated a real band. When they converted these places into auto-gig venues they would tune the projection to be three-quarter scale, or even smaller if needed. With the right size and angle of the stage, and the right bars in place to ensure nobody could access it, the illusion was convincing enough. Any random cocktail bar was suddenly big enough to host a gig. It was enough to make her puke.

“It was a changing of the guard.”

Gemma recognised the voice, and the move. Mr. King had joined a long line of sleazy men in her career that sidled up to her at a bar and tried to chat her up.

“Alastair King. Can I call you Al?”

“I know who you are, as well. Gemma Thomson. Music industry extraordinaire, rep to the stars.”

“Congratulations.”

He gestured to the auto-gig, which was half-way through Queen at Wembley Stadium, a set Gemma had seen fifty times. “Perhaps it’s a good metaphor for yourself, Miss Thomson. We can still observe you, even after you’ve died. You’re just a trick of the light. Convincing to those who don’t look too closely.”

“Prick.”

“No need to be churlish. It was a musical changing of the guard. That’s all it was. Nothing was lost or gained. It’s different now. Your kind couldn’t adapt. Empires rise and fall.”

“I don’t have the energy.”

“Come now. A woman of your background, your proclivities, you must remember how it all went down with Queen. The band, I mean. Their last album was so celebrated, heralded as such a triumph. It was because Mr. Mercury passed away. But Queen would’ve died whether Freddie did or not. Nobody was listening to that bombastic, operatic, theatric nonsense anymore. It was a changing of the guard. Tastes change. The taste has now moved on to the computational precision of auto-gen. It’s not a shameful act, or some sign of societal decay. You prefer the slow pace of a horse drawn carriage, and that’s quite alright. But the public taste has moved on.”

“Nice speech. Wanker.”

“It’s nice to see all the pills and drink haven’t dulled your wit.”

“Sit and spin, you fucking fencepost.”

“The evidence mounts.”

“What is all this to you anyway, Al? Grandiose speeches, Hamilton lyrics, terrible takes. It’s special, how you stalk me around doing these things.”

“Just someone who had a hand in what you’d call the downfall, I suppose.”

Gemma rolled her eyes. “No, I understand. Money could never buy cool. People like us, people who could write a song, carry a tune, make a crowd full of people bounce. We’re cool. That could never be you. So you had to take it away.”

“Have you made something then? And here I thought you were just a talentless executive like myself.”

She gave his shoulder a condescending pat. “Thanks for the chat. Enjoy hiding from the monster, Dr. Frankenstein.”

“That ring you’re wearing,” Mr. King said as she walked away. “It won’t get you out.”

“Fuck off.” She hesitated. “I’ve seen it work.”

“It’s got a fingerprint reader on the inside of the band. It knows you’re not whoever you’ve nicked it from.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve had to pay for your Heineken Zeroes twice now, on account of your payments not going through.”

Gemma’s mouth contorted into a grimace. “Shit.”

“Some coffees earlier, as well.” Mr. King did not seem pleased. His words came through gritted teeth that Gemma strained to hear over the replicated gig. “If you’re going to be living here, I’d appreciate it if you could simply avoid my establishment.”

“Aw,” Gemma grinned. “Word got around. I’m right chuffed.”

Alastair groaned. “I don’t want to spend all my time there guarding the door to prevent your entry.”

“Luckily, you can’t discriminate.”

“I’m afraid arsehole is not a protected class under the law. In fact, I suppose if I want you dealt with, all I need to do is phone the Works Minister and let her know where you are.”

“Excuse me?”

Mr. King got even closer. His voice was hoarse, and he spoke as if he was unpractised in the art of making threats. “Madam, I’m fully aware not just of who you are, but of your situation. You shouldn’t exist in the first place, not as a free person.” He punctuated his speech with sharp jabs at the air. “You, Miss Thomson, are misplaced property of the state, and I am happy to have you removed properly. But I have no interest in bothering or upsetting Miss Caroline. Unless of course you continue to cause trouble.” He turned to leave.

“Oi,” yelled Gemma as she grabbed his arm, and the battle for who could leave first continued. “Look, I didn’t ask for this, okay? I tried to leave, I can’t.”

“I suppose that’s true, on your own. But Miss Caroline could let you out. Simply ask her in the morning.”

“Yeah, she’s not gagging for my departure, if you understand.”

“She’s… ah, oh my.” Alastair nodded. “Dreadful business. I do wish you luck. And I apologise for the implication that you aren’t welcome, but I really must go.”

“Oi! What do you mean?” Alastair made it to the street with Gemma close behind. He took note of her and seemed to speed up. “Oi! I’ve got nothing on, mate, I’ll chase you every inch of the high road.”

He kept his stride, though Gemma had kept pace enough to stay right next to him. “Haven’t you found it odd you’ve not met her family?”

“In spite of what you might think of me, Al, I do take an interest in her. We do talk. Her parents are in Saudi right now.”

“They’re dead.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Murdered, I’m afraid. By escaped itinerant workers. Connies, I believe is the less savoury word they’re using now?”

“Fuck. When?”

“It’s not important.”

“Wait,” Gemma said, as rusty gears began to grind in her head. “Murdered by a connie. In West Brom? ‘Cause my life got a lot more fucking difficult as a result of someone getting murdered by a connie.”

“I’m sure many people get murdered by itinerant workers, madam.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, do me a favour.”

“Fine.” Alastair sighed. “Yes, it was them. Arthur and Alice Newman. Arthur was one of the chief scientists at Magenta UK. It was a monumental loss.”

“And Alice?”

“Alice was his wife.”

“The patriarchy is alive and fucking well.”

Mr. King finally stopped, and turned on the spot to face her. “I apologise for being crass, but Arthur was my dear friend. I was never particularly close with his wife. If you must know, that was her dalliance.” He gestured across the road, to the antique shop. “Her… trove of curiosities. It was how she wiled away the time as a kept woman.”

She found herself back in front of the shop once more, this time with Alastair at her side. “I was struck by this place earlier, I will say.”

“Yes, it would rather appeal to someone of your nature. Locked up forever I suspect. No one’s been able to locate the keys.” They once again stared in the window. On the opposite side, away from the guitars, books, games, the more interesting paraphernalia, were metal racks of vintage clothing—rammed from one end of the store to another and filled with old flannels, jean jackets, sun dresses, and the like. Gemma stared at the disorganised assortment with a raised eyebrow.

“There’s just one problem with this story, Al.”

“And what’s that?”

“The closet.”

Alastair had put his back to Gemma, but now he looked at her over his shoulder. “The closet?”

“Caroline’s parent’s room. The mother’s clothes were all still there, all still hung, undisturbed. And the father’s were gone.”

“I’m quite sure you’re not implying anything. You’re not that ghoulish.”

“Why don’t you tell me what I’m implying then?”

“I really must be off. You have a good night, madam. And welcome to our little village.”

“Well!” Gemma shouted after Alastair’s retreating form. “My mates at The Town Centre can help me understand!”

He paused for a retort. “I’m certain you wouldn't want to damage your standing in town by asking such an indelicate question so soon after you've arrived.”

“Well, maybe you want to let me out then, so I don’t go shooting my mouth off.”

“Goodnight, Miss Thomson,” he shouted back as he disappeared into the evening fog. “Be seeing you.”