Reckon

Their entry into Liverpool was marked by a series of billboards that warmed Gemma’s insides. The smiling face of Rebecca Prue, a non-confrontational font that read “Liverpool, let’s talk.” The large penis graffitied next to her mouth, the blacked out teeth, the fangs and horns, were all remarkably on-brand for the area.

“My goodness.” Caroline gasped. If she wore pearls, she would have clutched them.

“It’s not personal,” Gemma said as they passed the billboard. “These people are cunts to everyone. It’s what makes them so special.”

The city did seem a bit worse for wear, though not abandoned by any stretch of the imagination. The roads were packed with a healthy amount of cars, some of which were even being hand-driven, and crowds of people moved up and down the pavements. As she’d expect in any British city, half of the shops were boarded up or shuttered, but the ones that were left at least appeared to be staffed by people.

Caroline uttered a quiet “wow” as the car pulled into a parking space on a side street.

“Right,” Gemma said with some hesitation. “Which house is it?”

“Miss?”

“Wait…” She had a creeping realisation. “Where are we?”

“I just told the car to take us to Liverpool, miss.”

“So it’s just…”

“I believe it’s just taken us to the centre of the city. Where does your friend live? Do you know their address?”

“Right. Their address.” Gemma stared out the car window at a man sitting on the ground. He had a bottle of Amstel Light, and she wished her life were that simple.

“Miss, don’t you know it? I thought you said he was your best friend.”

“I never said we were friends. We were colleagues. Contemporaries.”

“What does that mean? Contemporaries?”

“Means I don’t know his bloody address.”

The days that followed illustrated just how foolish this endeavour had been. Just turn up and find him, Gemma groaned to herself. This shit-hole had hundreds of thousands of residents and took up some ridiculous amount of space. It was one of the largest cities on the goddamn island. And here she was, equipped with nothing but a belief the man still lived here, his old industry alias, and a twenty-something girl dressed like she’d just crawled out of your television at a low frame rate.

“We need to fix this, love,” Gemma had said upon their arrival at the first place it made sense to disembark, which was of course a shopping mall.

“Fix what, miss?”

Gemma grinned. “You stand out.”

In her youth she never would’ve been caught dead in a Sports Mad, but now the sight of one filled her with something she could only assume was patriotism. She took Caroline by the hand and in they frolicked, straight down the aisles of track suits, puffy jackets, and jumpers that bore the names of brands like PRINCE OF DUNKS. With a swipe of Caroline’s Ring, she was now the proud owner of a properly British outfit, ready to blend in.

“I feel odd.” Caroline squirmed inside her oversized red jumper, adorned with a large cartoon beetle and the word LIVERPOOL emblazoned across the front.

“It’s perfect.”

“Should we get one for you as well?” She tugged at Gemma’s tatty, stretched-out, too-small UWL hoodie. “To replace this?”

Gemma hissed. The matter was dropped.

With Caroline’s wardrobe worked out they found their way to a hotel, courtesy of the girl’s access to limitless funds. It was a perfunctory experience that resembled Gemma’s time in conscription—tiny floor plan with a closet for a bathroom, and a double-sized bed that the two were forced to share. It made her miss the bunks, if she was honest with herself. At least those had a desk. The two of them got almost no sleep as Caroline flopped and turned, scratched and groaned, and every so often, kicked.

This pattern was repeated each night, and by day three Gemma was at the end of her rope. They’d had no plan for finding Chinny, and instead resorted to Plan B, which was to just drive around. I’m sure I’ve seen the outside of his house in a photo.

By day four they had slept a collective 10 hours between them, and had taken a table by the window at a cafe in the neighbourhood she thought he might live in.

“We’ll just watch,” Gemma said. Her eyes burned. “He might walk by.”

Caroline leaned her head against the window. “Yes, miss.” She looked like a disaster. Her Liverpool jumper had picked up a small stain. She didn’t know how to fold jeans so she kept just leaving them crumpled on the floor, and the wrinkles had set in. Her hair was greasy and stringy, as she’d said she was no longer comfortable using the communal shower at their hotel. She hadn’t brought any of her makeup, and her face had started to break out.

It was nice, Gemma thought, to see her out from under all her layers of facade. A familiar anxiety crawled up her spine, followed by the exhausting guilt. I’ve ruined another life.

“Psst. Bruv.” A whisper came from behind Gemma. She jerked arrhythmically and spun around. “Damn, calm down, innit.” A very spindly and unclean young gentleman sat at the table behind them.

“What, mate?”

“Weed, coke.”

Gemma cackled. “Mate! My knight in shining armour, you are.” The cafe had paid a dividend within the first hour. “I’m looking for someone and you’re the closest I’ve got to someone who might know where he is.”

“You what?” The man slid back and bumped into his own table, which surprised him. “You a cop?”

“You fucking serious? I look like a copper?”

“Cops is just people. You’s people.”

“Enlightened of you. No, I’m not the bloody police. I’m just someone looking for a dried up piece of shit music producer who used to live around here.”

“Who is you then?”

“I’m a dried up piece of shit music producer.”

“That your daughter then?” He gestured to Caroline.

Gemma rolled her eyes. “Not even sister. Devastating.”

“Right, like. You gonna kill him? He owe you money?”

“We’re just friends.”

“Alright. Listen bruv, I think I know who you mean. But I don’t know if you want to go over there.” The young lad looked back and forth between Gemma and Caroline. “He might not mind, if it’s you lot. Mother daughter, you know. Bit of a grotesque figure, honestly. Always prattling on using offensive terms for women, bein’ quite crass an’ all. He doesn’t create a very inclusive environment, if you catch my meaning.”

“That’s him.”

They watched from the car as the wayward pharmaceuticals trader negotiated an introduction. But Gemma couldn’t contain herself once she caught a glimpse of him in the doorway.

“Old man!” She leapt from the car and shouted, her arms straight up in victory.

“Look at this slag!” Chinny was a sight to behold. Ravaged by time, skeletal, with an adidas tracksuit hanging loose on him, his face like leather, and skin that seemed to always retain that Benidorm glow. He let out a wheezing laugh. “Oh you’ve let yourself go, haven’t you lass?”

“Ya fucking prick,” she shouted as she threw her arms around him.

“Alright love, take it easy. That jumper rides any higher and we’re all getting a free show.” He nodded to his dealer. “Same again next time lad, it’s appreciated, off you get.” He pointed to Gemma with a loaded grin. “Now you get in here, mangey slapper.”

The house was as it had been described to her in countless war stories from the bands who’d recorded here, and the assistants who’d been scarred by having to accompany said bands. Wood panelled walls that hadn’t been updated since Thatcher, covered floor to ceiling and wall to wall with awards, framed tour posters, memorabilia, and endless photos of bands standing in this very hallway. Chinny was drunk and eager to offer a tour.

Caroline grinned as she put her face up against one of the awards, so enthralled by the pomp of it. “What’s BPI?”

“Don’t bloody know what it stands for lass,” he bellowed. “Pricks, the lot. Self-important poofters.”

“British Phonographic Institute,” Gemma clarified through her teeth. She was embarrassed that she knew. “Hasn’t existed for ages. You won, old man. You bloody outlived them, you can stop hurling slurs at them.”

He coughed and tapped the glass on one of the awards. “They invented this for me, you know, the Bronze award. Used to just give out Silvers and Golds. Some arse having a laugh at my expense. I’m the only one they ever issued these to, hand to God.”

“Turk’s Revenge…” Gemma tutted at one of the Bronze awards. “Haven’t thought of them in ages.”

Caroline hovered her finger over the award, and seemed afraid to touch it. “Who are they?”

“They did that song Good Vibes Only. The one that says you should dump your girlfriend if she has a bad day.”

“Oh. I don’t know it.”

“Tossers.” Chinny spit on the record. “Utter tosh. They pretended to write the lyrics to that drivel themselves. As if I I’d be impressed either way. Ye repeated the same line fifty times, ya cunts.”

“I saw them at the Roundhouse a decade or so ago,” Gemma said. “Weird night.”

“Oh, this one.” Chinny had moved onto a framed letter which hung amidst the records and awards. “This is the pride of my fucking collection. It’s a framed email from the CEO of HMV, to that miserable sod Eamon Whitechapel, complaining about how many copies of a particular album were being destroyed unsold.” He cackled, and Gemma couldn’t help but crack a smile as she read it.

The tour ended in his conservatory, which intruded into the back garden and had a suspiciously nice set of furniture. “This was here when you moved in, wasn’t it, old man? You didn’t have a conservatory put on.”

“Oh ‘course it was,” he replied. “Most of it was, love. Don’t think I’ve even seen half the rooms upstairs. You’re more than welcome, both of you. I’ve not had company in a long time, I might be a bit rusty at hosting.”

“That’s incredibly generous of you, sir,” said Caroline with a curtsy. Even in her oily, sleep-deprived state she would extend the utmost to any and all.

“Ooh, right, look at her,” Chinny clucked. “Easy pet, I’m not a fuckin’ royal.” In the corner sat a drinks globe, and he worked up three glasses of scotch as if it would pain him not to do so.

“N-no, love.” Gemma put her hand out to block him from setting hers down. “I’m sober.”

“I know pet, it’s why I poured a bloody drink, ya daft cunt.”

“No, I’m sober. I’m not drinking alcohol anymore.”

“You too? Oh, another one falls. Whole country’s gone.”

Caroline took the tiniest sip of hers. “Thank you.” She’d become rather taken with the acoustic guitar in the corner. “Sir, would you mind?”

“Not at all, love.”

She serenaded them with some rather competent playing while they caught up, and it was at once a bizarre experience and a tremendous relief. Just the sight of Chinny pulled her mind back so far, and recovered memories that she’d not realised she’d forgotten. Once the telling of tales began, she could hear a change in the way she spoke, the way she carried herself. She was active again, and she paced the room as they traded banter of the old days, of terrible acts come and gone, of destroyed hotels and fifty-thousand pound bar tabs.

“They’d staple a baggie of cocaine to the call sheet,” Chinny wheezed, “just to get the recordist to fucking turn up. Fucking mental innit.” He slammed his glass down, and angled it out toward Caroline. “I’m dry again, love.”

Caroline stopped playing. She’d been improvising a beautiful bit of work, and Gemma’s annoyance went into overdrive. “Get it yourself, Cryptkeeper. She’s busy.”

“Alright love, relax, I apologise. All’s a waste until it’s tracked anyway, as you do.” He widened his smile and revealed some of his grey, decayed teeth. “You want to see a real live recording studio? Come on pet, let me show you where the magic happens.”

They followed him down a nondescript set of stairs behind an unmarked door, and the narrow hall widened into a gorgeous control room that looked through glass into a massive studio. A vintage drum set, racks of exotic noise-makers of all shapes and sizes, more guitars than reasonable, with beautiful burgundy carpets piled high on the hardwood and tapestries hung on each side. In the middle stood a microphone at a stool, and a fully stocked bar beckoned from the far wall, gorgeous varnished mahogany with brass inlay and crystal decanters of brown and clear liquors.

Gemma took a deep breath as she finally laid eyes on this space, the private studio of the legendary Chinny Reckon. The rare air filled her lungs. “Some of the worst music in history was recorded right here.”

“Drug death capital of Europe this room,” Chinny added with a smirk. “It’s a proper energy down here, love. Seasoned cast iron.”

They let Caroline into the studio, while they stayed behind in the control room. They watched through the glass as she gawked at each instrument, at every thread of every carpet, her mouth wide, her smile shining brightly. Her uncomplicated innocence was soothing.

Chinny sank into a tired leather recliner, sat in front of the enormous mixing board. He pushed a button and a loud pop rang over the speakers. “Hear me, love?”

Caroline nodded, and her mouth moved, but they heard nothing. Gemma and Chinny both smiled.

“You have to speak into the microphone, love.” He studied the board and pushed a slider up.

“Hello?” Her voice boomed from two large speakers atop the board, richer and fuller than in real life. The sound treatment of the room, combined with her natural timbre and a microphone that probably cost a thousand pounds, took the slightest bit of talent and made it more so. Back when anything mattered at all in this business, this mattered a lot.

Chinny touched a large record button on a screen to one side, and dozens of waveforms began to scroll. “She’ll want the guitar,” he muttered, and pushed another slider up. With the button held down he leaned toward the window. “Go on love.”

“Thank you, Mr. Reckon!” Caroline sat on the stool and picked up the guitar, her joy fused with confusion, as if they could see into a dream she was having that even she didn’t understand.

Gemma snorted. “Mr. Reckon. Do you even fucking remember your own name anymore, old man? Your actual name, Oliver. Not this ridiculous Chinny Reckon nonsense.”

“That’s rich coming from yourself, Lily.”

“Oi!” Gemma spat. “Never! Okay? Never.” She shook her head. “Can’t fucking believe you remembered.”

“You ever stop to think the name you picked name sounds like that what’s her face from that old bloody Christmas film?”

“Don’t start. I had to come up with it in a hurry for a Battle of the Bands registry. I wrote ‘Gemma and the Thomsons’, and they misread it.”

They both snarled into a chortle. It was otherwise pin-drop silent. Through the glass they could see Caroline hover her hand above the guitar, her mouth hung open.

Chinny held a button down on the console in front of him. “Just play anything, love. It’s all digital, nothing to waste.” He released the button with a smirk. “So is that your daughter? Bet you don’t know who the father is, eh love?”

“Fuck off old man,” Gemma snapped. “She’s a long story. Met her out near Birmingham. I’m a bit young to be her mother.”

“That true? She’s what, early twenties, and you’re…”

“Right, no need to do the maths, is there?” She squirmed. “How do you get power for all this? Don’t you have those tyrannical plug sockets?”

“You think Liverpool would let them install those bloody things? Need His Majesty’s royal fucking assent to run the kettle?” Chinny tutted. “Oh they try, every now and again. Good way to get their vans torched.”

Their banter was cut short as Caroline set the guitar down and approached the door with an ashen face and a zombie-like shamble. “Could I please lay down, miss? I’m so very tired.”

Christ, Gemma thought, this poor dear. Hasn’t slept in days, all this excitement, and just downed a glass of scotch. “Can she sleep somewhere?”

Chinny ripped the door open with a laugh. “Pet, you’re half-dead. Head upstairs, take any open bedroom you see, too bloody many of them up there. Should be some shirts and bits you can use as pyjamas.”

They retired to the conservatory once more, with Caroline tucked away in a spare room to finally get some rest.

“Imagine she’s not used to these late nights,” Chinny said as he put a couple more scotches in front of them.

Gemma scowled at her drink. “I bloody told you I gave up drinking after I…” Her chair creaked as she shifted her weight. The night’s proceedings had stayed confined to their past exploits, gamesmanship, colleagues and artists they’d known in the old days. She wondered whether Chinny would go with her on the journey if she talked about her life now.

“After you… what, love, got an ASBO?”

She smiled. “That wouldn’t stop me. I guess you could say I’m on the run, old man. A few years back I was conscripted by the government. And I escaped, and I suppose I’m running now.”

He leaned forward with a mischievous grin. “I know.”

“You know?” Gemma froze. “How?”

“The boy who sells me my spliffs brings me these too. Kept this one.” He handed her a thin piece of paper, crumbled and faded. The top bore a title: The Analog Gazette. And large in the middle was a photo of Gemma herself, mid-song, guitar across her, on the makeshift stage in West Brom.

She snatched the paper and shook her head. “Fuck’s sake.” She needed to keep this, and then find Mike, and then stuff it down his windpipe.

“Was nice to know you wasn’t dead.”

“Wait…” She smoothed out the paper and held it away from her face to bring the letters into focus. Underneath the photo, another story had caught her eye. Her mouth went dry, and the pain in her back made it start to seize up.

The headline read: Walsall Collective Burns.

“I get my nice fat pay day thanks to yourself,” Chinny bragged. “Appreciate that, by the way. Those checks keep coming from Magenta, and I sit here waiting it all out.”

A large solar battery installation burned out of control… the words blurred on the page. Her face went flush, her limbs cold. “No.”

“S’alright, love, no worries, happy to share a bit of the wealth.”

“No,” she squeaked. “No.”

“Christ love, you’re frazzled, you’re a wreck.” He reached forward and took the page from her hand. It slid out of her fingers with no resistance. She fell back against the chair. Each breath took all her energy to pull into her lungs, and each felt as if a thousand daggers had plunged into her. She pressed her hands against her chest as it heaved.

“This is my fault,” she cried. “These people took me in and this is what I did.” The fabric of the hoodie pulled tight against her. She knew it would cut off her air supply, her blood supply, everything. She pawed and pulled until it was up over her head, and exhaled in relief as her stomach and chest were freed from it, left in just her sport bra. She undid the button on her jeans for more instant relief. Her breathing continued to get faster and faster. The cold wood of the chair against her back made her wince and sent her lurching forward, but she could get enough air now. Just enough, for now. She wrapped her arms around her midriff and squeezed. Her breaths were too fast. Her head started to swim.

“Hey, hey, hey.” Chinny clutched her knee with his bony fingers. “Whatever it is, you’ve survived it, yeah? You’re here, love. You’re here.”

She spotted the cigarettes and lighter on the floor and fumbled for them, her hands quaking so violently she couldn’t strike the flame.

“Let’s put it in the music, love.” He held her hands still until she managed to get the cigarette lit. A wave of calm washed over her. The shaking lessened and her exhales became a flutter. “Here’s the medicine.” The cool exterior of the glass slid into her palm. He pushed on the bottom and the rim touched her lips.

Her lips parted. The scotch passed across them. The burn started there and raced down her throat to her stomach. Another wave of warm tingles, though her eyes were on fire. The shakes had finally stopped.

“There she is,” Chinny said. “That’s the Gemma I remember.”

By 3 a.m. they’d returned to the basement studio, and Gemma now sat on the stool, her third drink on the table next to her, guitar in hand.

“Walsall, my love,” she warbled into the microphone as she played. A tear traced the contour of her face and dropped off her chin. “My jewel of the Midlands.” She sniffled, then swore. Fuck. “Sorry. Need to blow my nose, I expect.”

The speakers popped, and Chinny reverberated through the room. “That’s great love, use that emotion. You never tapped into any of this like you should. Think about that town of yours, burned to the ground. Christ, think of that dead bloody husband of yours, him with his sad carton standing there, letting you shove him around, breaking up your band like he did. He’d still be alive if he hadn’t left you, yeah? That’s on him.”

“Please,” she coughed. “Stop.”

“What about the bird you’re with? Give her a go? There’s an easy treat.”

“About an hour ago you thought she was my daughter, you lecherous cunt.” She slugged back the rest of her drink. “Leave it.”

“Yeah yeah,” he bellowed. “Whatever happened to that Indian bloke who was always hanging around, what was his name? The one who mailed me my cheques. Sam? Coulda been your son. You ever shag him?”

“Christ, no.” She stumbled toward the bar in the corner of the studio. “No. He had a partner. He wouldn’t lay a finger on me.” She picked up the decanter of vodka and tipped a shot’s worth of it into her mouth. “Fucking prude.” It was delicious.

It was something she’d chosen to do, giving up alcohol for a while. She could choose to start again. That was that, she’d decided. It’s all just choices. Rigidity wasn’t virtuous. You had to be flexible. Her mind raced through a thousand scenarios she’d been in with Sam. So many chances he’d had to touch her, to kiss her, to fuck her. None of which he’d taken. Why hadn’t he taken them? The questions were an ache from an ancient wound. Was she not worth it? Too old? Too desperate? Another shot’s worth out of the decanter might help, so she tried.

“That never stopped you, did it?” Chinny had drifted into the studio, his voice suddenly inches from her ear. “This, lass! This is what you should be singing about! Real fucking human shit! No machine is writing about this!”

She shrunk away from him, her face turned to one side. His breath reeked of booze and cigarettes. The mix triggered panic that rose up from deep within her. She forced it back down with her third taste of the vodka. “Because nobody wants to hear about it, old man.”

“But it’s what they bloody should hear, love! Something fucking raw, yeah? Your husband blowing his brains out cause of your abuse.”

“It was a car accident!” She shoved him away. “You gormless twat.”

“It was you! You know it was you! You fucking killed him.” He grabbed the rings that hung at her chest and yanked. She screamed as the chain pierced her neck and her head pulled toward his. Their foreheads banged together and the chain snapped, leaving the rings grasped in Chinny’s fist. He cackled and coughed as he stumbled backward and tried to regained his balance.

“You fuck,” she screamed. She lunged toward him and he held his hand out, the rings served up atop. She snatched them away and tucked them under the band of her bra. “Fucking mental arse, they should fucking section you. I should fucking kill you.”

He continued to cackle and wheeze. “Alright, love, alright. No need to get upset. This is what I do, yeah? I mine that gold and we forge it into a hit record.”

A drop of blood worked down her neck. She could feel the tickle as it traced a line down to her chest. “Make the artist so fucking angry they want to pelt you to death with batteries. Brilliant, yeah? Ace. You’re a legend.”

“Am I a bit rusty? There hasn’t been much demand for my services, yeah?”

“Nobody buys this shit anymore, old man.” She paced the studio, her hands squeezed into tight fists. “We’re fucking relics. We weren’t meant to live as long as we did. We’re fucking embarrassing. Wringing every last drop, pushing this slop, claiming our slop was better than their slop.”

“That sounds familiar.”

“You were their producer, you tit. They’re Killslop lyrics. But they’re true. We didn’t try, we just moaned and took cheap chances. And you, ya miserable prick, just whored yourself out. Churned out this garbage that you fucking knew was shite. I just charged more and more for it. Exploiting the nostalgia, claiming we’re saving the art form. We got what we fucking deserved.”

“Daft cunt. It was the end of the fucking world! I did what I had to do to survive, same as you. We did what we had to do.”

“That’s what you never got, yeah? What neither of us ever got. It wasn’t the end of the world.” She let out a raspy sigh. “It was just the end of us.”

Chinny set his empty glass down with a resonant thunk on the table. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, love. Relax, have another drink. We’ll speak in the morning, yeah?” He crossed the room and headed to the studio door. “I’d offer you a throw, but the scotch’d have me softer than a fucking emo kid.”

“Christ almighty.” She exhaled, and felt herself start to tremble again. “You’re as exhausting as ever.”

He smiled. “Welcome home, love.”