Cataclysm

Five years ago.

Samir felt sure his chest would cave in with every breath. The bartender, oblivious to his plight, lined up another four shots. Gemma Thomson licked her lips and splayed herself wide along the bar, her back against the brass handhold. Her satin blue top shimmered under the stage lights and her eyes were alight with mischief.

She can’t fucking expect us to… Sam’s mind sputtered. No more. But the words didn’t reach his lips. Instead his eyes wandered all over, between the bar-top, the rotund man with his bald head and denim shirt, the AJ on the stage in the distance. Anything to avoid looking at her.

“I don’t think Virginia and I want more shots,” shouted Carlos over the algorithmic drone. Colleague of Virginia’s and occupier of the top spot on Samir’s shit list, Carlos been quick to intervene all night if he thought it might make him look good. “We’re just not drinkers like yourselves.” He wore a Magenta staff t-shirt, to ensure even strangers knew he was insufferable.

“You heard the lady,” Gemma replied with a smirk, her head drooped low. “The lady’s keeper has spoken. Or, whatever this one… is to that one.” Her bony finger waggled between Carlos in his ridiculous leather jacket, and Samir’s wife Virginia who stood just a bit too close to him.

“Honey,” Sam simpered to Virginia. He felt embarrassed the moment he did it. “Did you want another drink?”

“Carlos is right,” Virginia deadpanned in reply. “I think we’ve had enough alcohol.”

“Woof,” Gemma said. The automated music seemed to be getting louder with every beat. “Gang, I’m out.”

Sam emerged from Koko to see Gemma already in the far distance, and the gap widened by the second. Fuck, her legs are far too long. He sprinted to keep up, perhaps a bit recklessly, as an auto-cab slammed its brakes at a cross to avoid him.

“What the hell,” Sam sputtered out of breath as he caught her. “Why did you leave?”

“Maybe because you brought your teetotal girlfriend to our gig. What is she, four feet tall? Terrifying, like that ruddy Annabelle doll.”

“Partner, not girlfriend. And she’s five foot one.”

“So where is she? On her way out to meet us? Or back to the shire then?”

“Gemma, enough! I told her we had a showcase and I wouldn’t be able to get her in. She understands that.”

“Right, basically handed her to that co-worker of hers then, did you? They’ll be off for a quick go.”

“She’ll just go back to the hotel. Carlos isn’t like that.”

“Are you mad? Are you actually mad, or are you just blind? Did you see the two of them? Did you see his slavish devotion to her all night?” She stopped her retreat and spun around to face him. Her long arms flailed, as if controlled by strings. “You could do with a bit of that, mate! If I’m honest.”

“That’s not fair!” He took a couple of steps away, fearful he may get inadvertently struck by swinging limbs. “Again, I have a partner!”

“Are you serious? Devotion to her, you fucking mailbox! Not to me!” She gave him a shove, her reach inescapable. “Christ. Would you look at the state of this city? Look at all this.” A helicopter swooped overhead, and the sound of the blades gave a temporary reprieve from the scene unfolding around them. Maybe a hundred metres ahead of them was a mass of what appeared to be protestors massed across from a building striped yellow and green, the tell-tale colours of a government Job Centre. Signs and placards waved, too far away to read, and incomprehensible shouts came through a tannoy held by police opposite them.

“Jesus,” Sam mumbled.

“Heard on the BBC there’s going to be a rolling blackout again tonight.”

“A blackout? Like, no electricity?”

“When they said the government wanted to take the power away from the people nobody knew how literal they were being. Yeah?”

Sam chuckled at the terrible joke. It felt nice to break the tension, he thought. “I suppose I should head back. It’s getting bad out here.”

“Nonsense,” Gemma replied. “Standard night in London, innit. Besides, we’ve arrived.”

She pointed to a door just ahead, a rather standard Victorian entryway, up a few stairs, painted all black, and otherwise unmarked. Sam would’ve assumed it, like every other door around on this street, led to yet another mansion block converted into flats.

“The Thin Veil,” she nodded. “Cracking little club. Always some dreadful noise on stage. If you don’t have tinnitus already, you will now.”

She turned the knob and stepped inside, then descended straight down a steep flight of stairs into an expansive, low-ceilinged basement. Fairy lights strung along the brick walls gave just enough glow to see, and some clamp lights pointed directly at a wooden riser in the corner. Sam assumed it must be the stage, as through the dense crowd he could see a woman setting up some kind of equipment. The crowd was dense, and the bar consisted of a metal table, a scowling man, an unmarked keg, and a stack of clear plastic cups.

Gemma beamed at Sam as the man poured their lagers. “Fun story about this place love, if you care, I’ve had to go to A&E on two separate occasions.”

“Lovely.” As the cup touched Sam’s lips he was struck by an odd feeling, one he couldn’t place. He took a sip and looked around at the crowd, all dressed in various shades of black, most cradling a beer, and all standing apart.

“Quiet in here, yeah?” Gemma once again tried to chat with the keg man. “Anyone on soon?”

“Whatchu mean?” He spoke, startling himself.

“Whatchu mean, what I mean?” Gemma rolled her eyes. “I mean a fucking band.”

“She’s on now, ya fucking minge muncher. You blind?”

“Oi! Fucking leave it out, mate.” Gemma spun round, and they both again tried to squint through the crowd to the stage. “It’s quiet as a fucking church though innit, so tell another one.”

Sam turned around to find the nearest punter and gave a smile. “Excuse me, eh, sir. Do you know when the music starts?”

“She’s on now, mate. Vyreena Frisk, from South London. Fucking legend of algopop. Her models are a decade ahead of the scene.”

Sam blinked, his mind struggling. “But I can’t hear it.”

The punter just laughed. “Right!” Sam kept staring. “Oh, you’re serious! Your first b-y-o show? You need to pair.”

“Pair?” It was becoming too much, Sam thought. He might need to just pretend to understand whatever the man said next.

“It’s b-y-o? Bring, your, own?” The man reached up and popped out an earbud, which Sam hadn’t noticed he was wearing. “You got any on you?”

Sam started to get it, though he wished he hadn’t. He turned to see Gemma’s reaction, but she had vanished.

“I wish you would’ve told me you were leaving,” Sam shouted at Gemma as he stepped out onto the street. “I searched the whole crowd for you.”

“Oh bloody hell Sam, did that take thirty seconds?”

“Still.”

She pointed at the door in disgust. “That is not… no, fuck that. That’s not bloody on, that.”

“It’s a lot. It might be worth staying, we should…”

“No, absolutely not.”

“It’s our industry.”

“That is not my industry. No, come on.” She lifted her head and scanned around. “The George is just up the way.”

She took him by the hand and dragged him to ensure compliance, and before he could get his bearings they’d arrived outside a very traditional looking pub. Gemma seemed determined to normalise the scene unfolding around them. As they arrived at the door, another auto-cab rolled past, this one distinguishable by the way it was engulfed in flames.

“No please.” The pub had a man on the door, and that man was not keen on letting them in. “Close early. Too much happen. Power off later.”

“Just nipping in for one, we’re no trouble.” Gemma flashed a polite smile. Her incorrigible brashness could be shelved on a moment’s notice if she needed to negotiate with pub security.

“They’re fine,” shouted the barkeep just inside.

A police car crawled down the lane, and a low tone came from the loudspeaker. “This is a message from the Metropolitan Police.” A curt voice boomed from behind the tinted windows. “Please remain inside, or return inside if you are able. Thank you.”

As they entered the pub, the door man followed them inside and shut the door behind them, throwing the deadbolt. “It’s a lock in, boys and girls,” said the barkeep with a wink. “Hope that’s alright.”

“Mate, it’s lovely.” Gemma dove forward, squeezed the barman’s shoulders and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you.”

The pints chained together as the night wore on. “It’s over.” And much to Sam’s chagrin, Gemma had gotten real about the situation at work. “It was barely possible to get you over this time. Ohh, why are we bringing anyone over ‘ere? Don’t we have enough people?”

“Yikes.” Sam polished off his lager and stared at the foam in the glass.

“The label’s finances are fucked, visa restrictions have gotten impossible. Take one last look at London, sweetie.”

“What I don’t understand…” He knew better than to ask Gemma anything that might be construed as questioning her decisions. Years from now, he’d surely blame the alcohol for his poor choice in this moment. “How did the catalogue deal with Magenta even go through when you were so dead set against it. I read about that new law…”

“I wasn’t.” Gemma tapped the bar and gave a nod. The barman likewise nodded, and put two shot glasses in front of them.

“I don’t understand.”

“I signed the deal personally. This week. You saw the man, the man you keep catching me backstage with, that gorgeous, soulless, horrible man. Head of Legal for Magenta. Some bloody stupid name, very American, you’d love it. No bloody point fighting, anyway. We might as well get some money out of them now. They don’t need us, this just makes it a little easier for them.”

“That’s it. Just the full rights to our entire catalogue. Free for them to auto-gig, to base their algorithmic bullshit on. You collaborated. You just… you just collaborated with them.”

“They were doing it anyway, what part of this do you not get?!” Her shout rattled the glasses on the counter. “Wake the fuck up, you bloody child!” The bartender had placed another pair of shots in front of them with nary a glance. “Did you know the top twenty most-streamed songs last month were generated? Did you, Sam?

“No.”

“No! You didn’t, you fucking crybaby ideologue. Did you know we had to lower the value of our catalogue in the contract three times over the course of these negotiations?”

“Gemma, I’m sorry…”

“Did you know in the last quarter, over half of Magenta’s streaming minutes were of procedural streams? Just noise, Sam, it’s just audio wallpaper, to drown out people’s intrusive thoughts between snippets of chat with made-up people. Do you get that?”

“I don’t…”

“These are serious people, Sam. And they will stop at nothing. Nothing! They fucking hated this industry and everyone in it, top to bottom. That’s me, and, you.” She let out an exhausted sigh and took one of the shots between her fingers. As she downed it, she made eye contact with Samir. His eyes welled with tears.

Stupid fucking baby. He scolded himself as tears ran down his face. So fucking embarrassing.

“Christ,” she muttered. “Come on then, take your medicine.” She seemed to coax the liquor into his mouth and down his throat. It loosened him up, which just made more tears come. He thanked himself for not sobbing, at least. “We’ll be fine. It avoided a buyout. We’ll stay independent, alright?” We’ll keep signing artists who want nothing to do with all this. We’ll tour it for people like us. It’s fine. You know that, right?” She placed her hand gingerly on his shoulder. “There’s still going to be a market for hand-made. There always is. People still wear hand-knitted mittens, for Christ’s sake.”

Sam thrashed around. Every cell in his body rejected her touch, this foreign element, this toxin on his shoulder. He needed it gone before it penetrated the skin. “Fuck, no. You’re so drunk you don’t even understand what you’re doing or saying.” The resentment rose up from his stomach, and it was all he could to not to vomit it directly onto her. “No! Stop. Don’t touch me. D-do you even know what it feels like to be sober? Do you?” His hand flung upward and struck her wrist to knock her hand off him. She stared, expressionless. “Look at you. Just tossing back a whisky at 2 p.m. then signing a deal with that fucking pretty boy from Magenta.”

“Oh. You jealous little shit.” Her scoff was devastating. “Did you not just hear me? Is that what this is? You think I mortgaged our future because some fit lawyer put his tongue on my clit?”

“Stop!” Sam’s resentment turned to rage, and the threat of vomit loomed larger than ever. The sight of her repulsed him: her ridiculous fucking blue leather jacket, her smeared lip gloss, the huge bags under her eyes. Human disaster. He stared around the bar in hope of some kind of approval from anyone. The bartender held court with the dishes.

Gemma chuckled. “What business is it of yours if he did?”

“So he did.”

“I’m asking why you’re asking, you pissy little man. You’re not allowed to be jealous, love. Are ye? No. Not with little miss waiting for you at home. Finishing up with Carlos about now, yeah?”

“Right, bye.” Sam slapped his hands on the bar and sniffled. For a moment he was gripped with a fear that he might not be able to leave. But with quite a physical push off the bar he had given himself enough momentum to break from Gemma’s orbit and launch toward the exit.

“Sam, are you serious?” Gemma once again scoffed as Sam arrived at the bolted door. He yanked at the handle and received a stern rejection. “It’s a sign, love. Come on. Stay. It’s mayhem out there.” He ripped and pulled so hard it was a wonder he didn’t shatter his wrists before the bartender arrived to undo the locks.

“Cheers,” Sam muttered as he slipped out of The George and into the night.

It had taken him moments to become lost. Coloured smoke stained the air as protestors launched flares, and a tannoy blasted announcements made inaudible by the constant explosion of fireworks all around. Chants rang out in a half-dozen languages and people scattered and spilled through every cross and out of every alley. Police barricades had been set up and abandoned, and graffiti covered the few road markers Sam could make out.

“Hey!” Gemma’s voice cut through the chaos a few paces behind him, out of breath. He walked faster, his hand extended to cut through the crowd. “Sam! Where are you going to go? The tube’s shut!”

He ignored her and pushed himself to move even faster. Her voice was a blade that scraped against him, cut through to the bone, drew as much blood as she wanted. He needed away from her before he had nothing left inside.

“Listen!” She stabbed through gasps. “Christ. Forget it all! Pause the row, okay? I’ll give you a ride yeah?”

He stopped dead, hands straight out, as the outline of a police car appeared just ahead of him through the thick smoke. Fuck.

“Dead end, yeah?” She’d come for the last drops. “Let’s go.”

“I’ll figure it out!” His voice had found a new octave and he sniffled every third word. “Go! Go back inside!” He leaned forward and rested his palms on the side of the car. The cool metal seemed to centre him, and he let out a long sigh. “Go. Celebrate your victory over the fucking arts. Celebrate getting laid and paid.”

“Sam! Please. Would you look at me? Please. This act doesn’t work for you.”

He steeled himself against her and spun around, his back pressed against the car. “I’m looking at you.”

“Do you really think there was anything I could’ve done? If it wasn’t me it would’ve just been someone else. There’s too much… I don’t know. There’s not enough of… Sam, it never mattered. Nobody cared. Okay?”

“I cared.”

“You’re not enough, Sam! I’m not enough! We were never going to be enough.”

“Bullshit. You just gave up.”

“I gave up! Are you bloody serious? I gave up? You have a wife, Sam! Where is she? Why isn’t she here? Why did you walk out on her?”

“That’s not what we’re talking about.”

“Isn’t it just! Tell me, then. Fucking answer me!” She grabbed Sam’s shoulders and shook him. She stared down, and his eyes looked everywhere but at her. “She’s waiting for you alone!”

“This isn’t…”

“Sam, look around us. It’s the end of the world! And you’re here with me, and she’s alone. Why are you here?”

Sam stumbled backwards into a postbox and collapsed onto the pavement in a heap. The chaos of the street faded, replaced by a looping message that echoed out from the barricaded Underground station. A disembodied voice, synthetic, and eerily calm: “Due to a reported emergency, this station is being evacuated.”

In the corner of his eye he saw Gemma lowering herself to the ground. She leaned on him and exhaled, and he let his head fall against her.

“I don’t know,” Sam finally replied, his voice a hoarse whisper. The rough pad of Gemma’s thumb brushed a tear from his cheek.

“Let me take you somewhere.”

“You’re drunk.”

“It drives itself. Where am I taking you?”

Sam slumped against her. “It’s up to you.”