6 Songs About Rain by K A Laity

6 Songs About Rain

(because I’m not one to ignore a summons from Mark E. Smith even if it was only a a dream)


Weird tales

Of the conjure woman

A Dæmonomania in Tideland

Waifs and Strays are

Tapping the Dream Tree

Memory & Dream in a

Soho black with rain


That day on the beach

When love seemed within reach

You told me you would never wear

That jacket with a single tear

Because imperfect things were wrong

I knew that was a goodbye song


All it does is rain every day

All I do is think about the things

We could never say


Everybody dance in the rain

Everybody dance in the rain

Everybody dance in the rain


Get wet get wet get wet


In the crystalline night

When all secrets have been told

Everything feels just right

And even the rain isn’t cold


It was always meant to be

You and me

Through the years or suddenly

You and me

In the sparkling day

When all the hours unfold

Everything feels just right

The hours make us bold



In the rain I draw the cards

The Fool to my left

The Devil to my right

Before me is The Star

I’m hoping for the Cups

But I’ve got nothing but Swords

Eight of them in my back

Then the Tower turns up


Shuffle them all again

I want another draw

Shuffle them all again

I don’t like this at all


[Instrumental obviously riffing on Chopin’s Prelude Op. 28, No. 15 with theremin and chimes]

Laughing at the Great God Pan by K. A. Laity

Pan Joy Morton Cover

Laughing at the Great God Pan

K A. Laity

In 2001 Camden Joy and Colin B. Morton wrote Pan, a book purporting to be ‘A work of imagination endeavouring to recount the Extraordinary yet True events occurring within the City of New York upon April the Seventh, Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Eight when: numerous hearts are engaged; feats of Astonishment and Daring unfold: a man loses his found love: a primitive power draws manifold strangers into a supernatural dragnet: a father’s gift sends a son across the ocean: space-time continuums (QSTs) are repeatedly straddled: tears get shed: after which the assemblage of cross entertainers known as The Fall ceases working together (yet again) and everything threatens to remain exactly as it has been’ which is a nicely balanced evocation of bombast and litotes.

There are lots of books about, by and inspired by The Fall. Ex-band member volumes are a hefty shelf themselves and just about all of cracking quality, too. ‘Inspired by’ is a more tenuous category and by ‘tenuous’ I mean there’s some rubbish out there. I’ve always heard Pan spoken of as one of the better ones, so stuck in lockdown and floundering on any number of overdue projects, of course I decided to pick up a copy to finally read.

It’s not cheap to lay hands on; I reconciled myself to the price because I’ve not had to pay for lots of things since March. As frequently happens with things connected to The Fall, a crazy mix-up ended up giving me half-off on the price, so yay. It’s really more of a novella, so I sped through it in no time, even with stopping to look things up that jogged my memory.

The book itself is lovely, a product of Tom Devlin’s Highwater Books, which I knew mostly from comics by folks like Megan Kelso and Matt Madden. It was designed by Matt Lerner of Rag and Bone Shop with exquisite typeface and a subdued yet unsettling image of Pan on the cover and printed on luxurious paper. The title page with the above précis features calligraphy by Nancy Howell and is just beautiful. There’s a pull quote from Jon Langford of The Mekons to offer street cred to the unwitting innocent (i.e. non-Fall fan) who might pick up the book. My copy is signed twice by Joy.

What about the story itself? Buring the lede again: it’s fun. Do you have to be a Fall fan? Possibly, though I think Ballard and Dick fans may enjoy it for non-Fall related reasons. People who prefer their fiction meta will get a kick out of it. Fans of Pan, you will deffo enjoy. It kicks off right at the epigraph which purports to offer a mini history of Pan in the Western world by ‘Magnus the Good’ (resonant of Olavus Magnus but not quite) and translated by an ‘R. Totale’ in two volumes back in 1923.

The epigram establishes the impetus setting all the action in motion: the god of Panic, having been subdued by fire and death was then bisected, his head buried by the Celts, his body taken to the ends of the earth by ‘the North sea-dwellers’ or as we call them, Vikings. ‘His Head, kept by the Celtae in the ground, occasioned sorcery to render the grave as hot as the fires a warrior finds in beastly dens…’

The book opens in a Manhattan office, overlooking the Seagram’s building with Clarke suddenly meeting two very strange fellows who seem rather…shall we say, alien. Clarke being part of the music biz, that’s not so outlandish as it might seem to others, but he begins to be unsettled, especially once they mention his friend Vaughan (I have to believe that’s a Ballard ref). Are they private eyes? Fortunately his boss crashes in with news:

‘The Fall!’ Brandon shouted at Clarke from a short distance. ‘Clarke, hey! The Fall; tonight at Brownie’s; you remember; punk rockers from England? God, Clarke: fuck I always hated all those guitars; no more; The Fall’s in town!’

If you’re not a Fall fan you won’t know the cataclysm that announcement contains. There are bad gigs – and with the Fall legendarily bad gigs – and then there’s the meltdown at Brownies (if you want to see it for yourself, you can). An apocalypse no one thought the band could survive.

[Spoiler: it did (but that’s another story).]

‘Meanwhile, in a far-off place called Newport, Wales, the bell of a record shop rang and Colin B Morton entered.’ Yes, it’s that kind of book where one of the co-authors is a character in the wildly esoteric adventures. His dad, as it happens, has given him the head of Pan which had been dug up at an archeological dig at Caerleon (notebooks out, medievalists). The head has told him to head to New York and to play the fruit machine at his local to provide cash for the journey.

The scenes in the record shop and the pub are excuses for a lot of Fall fan jokes: ‘This amused Colin, for it was the cry of every Fall fan down the ages. At any given moment, The Fall was not as good as it used to be.’ Pointed mentions of Mark E. Smith’s procog intrigue the girl on the not-so-megastore check-out desk to the point where she ignores Colin and pores over the FallNet.

He leaves for the pub to join his mates for a few pints of Brains Skull Attack and discussions of everything from the occult, the Mekons, Swamp Thing, Pan’s head, the Liverpool Scene, and of course, the finer points of why The Fall was not as good as it used to be.

Colin heads off to NYC and many disparate threads begin to intertwine, strangle one another and fray like the band is about to do onstage. While it is not always about The Fall, it is always about The Fall in the sense that physics exists only to examine the finer point of whether the band 1) exists 2) is better or 3) is worse than it is any other given point in the time-space continuum.

‘Do you remember last year, in Belfast, when all the members dispersed? Snook believes that, in the brief period, The Fall still existed. It’s just that there was nobody in it, you know?…Snook also believes…that, for those few moments when The Fall existed with nobody in it, it went spindizzy about the world. Like some sort of prowling phantom, you know? It traveled around the globe, almost as a virus or something, disrupting various musical personalities in which it did not belong.’

Precog: it’s a drug. Like love, I guess. So if this sounds like something you’d enjoy hunt it down like a lost Fall member and lay your hands on it. Don’t lay your hands on ex-Fall members though. They’re not books.



Recommended Read: Frank Sidebottom-Out Of His Head by Mick Middles

The mind of Chris Sievey was clearly a treasure trove – indeed, a veritable Aladdin’s Cave – of bright and shiny ideas, many of which, thankfully, came to fruition. Most notably in the effervescent forms of The Freshies and Frank Sidebottom.

The Freshies were a brilliantly eccentric power pop/ new wave band who cheekily surfed the Manchester pre-punk, punk, and post-punk scenes, and came painfully close to success with a bouquet of great singles such as ‘I’m In Love With The Girl On The Manchester Virgin Megastore Checkout Desk’ and ‘I Can’t Get ‘Bouncing Babies’ By The Teardrop Explodes.’

Sievey’s later creation, Frank Sidebottom, was a surreal half-man/ half-puppet version of George Formby whose anarchic performances enlivened kids television shows and late night TV alike in the ‘90s, and whose live shows seemed to have garnered an strangely obsessive fan base. When Chris Sievey died in 2010, however, he left behind a hell of a musical legacy that showed the he was more than just a novelty act.

Out Of His Head was written by Sievey’s friend the journalist Mick Middles and is as intoxicating and sobering as Sievey’s life seems to have been. The book’s timeline spans more than a quarter of a century and includes cameos from Sievey’s family and friends as well as the likes of Mark E Smith, Steve Coogan, Jon Ronson, Caroline Aherne, Chris Evans, Mark Radcliffe, and, er, Bros.

Frank Sidebottom – Out Of His Head is a fascinating and bittersweet read, and is very highly recommended.

out of his head

The Romance of the Battered Underwood by K A Laity

smith typewriter

Oddly enough it’s come to my attention that Mark E. Smith’s old typewriter is going to be auctioned off. What Fall fan could resist the allure of that relic? You don’t have to be a ‘look-back bore’ to see the appeal of owning a bit of that remarkable history. If you can’t be a genius, maybe you can touch it. 

In the Middle Ages, saints’ relics were all the rage. Churches were founded where the blessed ones drew their last breaths. They became sites of pilgrimage and were often believed to be the ground for miracles. Chaucer’s pilgrims were heading off to Canterbury because the remains of St Thomas Becket rested there. This ragtag band of raconteurs were repaying a debt, having prayed to the saint when they were sick and then recovered.

The faith rested not only in the burial site but often in the material remains. Beyond the whole incorruptible saint phenomenon, the bones and bits left behind by saintly folk were prized treasures believed to hold ineffable power. Displayed in beautiful bejeweled reliquaries which you can visit in churches and museums today.

Even if they were supposed to promote spiritual belief, the tangible bits remained powerful in the human imagination. So powerful that of course there was a whole black market in relics, real or fake, in the Middle Ages. Chaucer’s Pardoner babbles all of his tricks of the trade, swindling folks with powerful sermons, a little Latin, iron-clad pardons and fake relics. ‘And for to stire hem to devocioun’ he shows them his jars ‘ycrammed ful of cloutes and of bones’ which the gullible suppose ‘relikes been they.’

Spin a story that the leftover mutton bone was from the sacred sheep of Jacob, promise that washing it in your well will make sure any of your own sheep or cows that drink from the well will enjoy long, healthy and productive lives and you have guaranteed sales. Oh, and it also cures jealousy and pox. Worth over a hundred smackers a year, the Pardoner gloats. There’s a sucker born every minute.

Why does it work? Why do we think we can touch that magic? Why will this Underwood go for far too much money (yeah, I’m tempted but I have a lot of travel expenses that need the money more)? Why would anybody want a typewriter when there are computers? Why do noir writers fancy Fedoras?

We live with the hope that the right typewriter—or the right habits, or even that damn Fedora—might have the magic to make this mysterious process work. Writing is making magic, creating stories out of thin air—or your fevered brain or your sweat. I suppose people who find writing nothing but joy are never going to be tempted to buy some dodgy relic. But the greater part of writers—those who struggle to get the words down right, who labour to be read or even noticed—a lot of us are always going to wonder if maybe that typewriter will turn things around. If you can just touch the magic…

Bio: K. A. Laity is the award-winning author of White RabbitA Cut-Throat BusinessLush SituationOwl Stretching, Unquiet DreamsÀ la Mort SubiteThe Claddagh IconChastity FlamePelzmantel and Other Medieval Tales of Magic and Unikirja, as well as editor of Weird NoirNoir Carnival and the forthcoming Drag Noir. With cartoonist Elena Steier she created the occult detective comic Jane Quiet. Her bibliography is chock full of short stories, humor pieces, plays and essays, both scholarly and popular. She spent the 2011-2012 academic year in Galway, Ireland where she was a Fulbright Fellow in digital humanities at NUIG. Dr. Laity has written on popular culture and social media for Ms., The Spectator and BitchBuzz, and teaches medieval literature, film, gender studies, New Media and popular culture at the College of Saint Rose. She divides her time between upstate New York and Dundee.

Recommended Read: Love Is A Grift by Graham Wynd

The first story in this tasty collection is Love Is A Grift – a twist on classic noir and crime fiction tropes that sharply changes its location – Ireland, Belgium, Finland, Scotland – and POVs – a hit-man, a femme fatale, a patsy – as it cleverly tells its tale.

Hammer Films, Girl On A Motorcycle, Tom Waits, Max Fleischer cartoons, Mark E Smith, Dorothy Parker, small-town Americana, domestic and dystopian noir and much more are all gleefully thrown into the noir mix along the way.

Graham Wynd’s Love Is A Grift is a lethal cocktail of noir short stories liberally spiked with a dark and delicious wit and is highly recommended. 



Supernatural Noir Playlist by Paul D. Brazill

supernatural noir cover

Supernatural Noir is collection of my short stories that I consider to be both supernatural and, er, noir. And of course, there’s music all over the place!

Drunk On The Moon by Tom Waits

It started with a song. Tom Waits’ Drunk On The Moon, to be precise. A neon soaked torch song with more than a twist of noir. A song of the city at night, sung by a man who sounded like a wolf – and not just Howlin’ Wolf. And once upon a time, there was a magazine named Dark Valentine who were looking for cross genre short stories. So, I wrote a yarn about a werewolf private eye. And I called it Drunk On The Moon.

Gloomy Sunday by Mel Torme

One of the regular cast of the Roman Dalton world in Duffy, bar owner and Mel Torme fan.

I Ain’t Superstitious by Howlin Wolf.

The first song on the Wurlitzer jukebox in Duffy’s Bar when Roman Dalton – werewolf private eye- walks into the bar.

She’s My Witch by Kip Tyler

Sometimes a You Tube recommendation is good. And sometimes, it’s so good you have to use its title for one of your yarns.

Bad Moon Rising by Creedence Clearwater Revival

Bad Moon Rising has probably used in dozens of werewolf books and films. Not that would stop me using it for one of my yarns.  But since my sister sent me a t-shirt that said Black Moon Rising, that was the title I used.

The Endless Sleep by Robert Gordon

Teenage Death Songs were popular in the late ‘50s and ‘60s. The most famous is probably the Shangri Las’ Leader of the Pack. Some of those ditties even had a supernatural aspect, such as John Leyton’s Johnny Remember Me or Jody Reynolds’ Endless Sleep. I’ve chosen the version by the effortlessly cool Robert Gordon.

Stamp Of A Vamp by Vic Godard and Subway Sect

Vic Godard’s Subway Sect were on of the first handful of British punk bands. Blatantly anti-rock and ant-stupid, they had little to no chance of the commercial success of the likes of The Clash and Sex Pistols. By the time I eventually got to see them – at Marton Country Club in the early ‘80s- Vic Godard had ditched dirty, smelly rock completely and had embraced swing and crooning with great gusto. Stamp Of A Vamp was their first single from that period and although major commercial success continues to elude Vic, he is still on the go and out and about.

Spectre vs Rector by The Fall

Even as early as their second album – Dragnet, 1979 – The Fall’s professionally cantankerous Mark E. Smith was keen to alienate as many people as possible with this painfully produced, but brilliant album. Spectre vs. Rector is a ghost story. As is my gangster yarn Spectres.

Here’s my Supernatural Noir playlist, if you’re that way inclined:

Bio: Paul D. Brazill’s books include Last Year’s Man, Guns Of Brixton, A Case Of Noir, and Kill Me Quick. He has had writing published in various magazines and anthologies, including The Mammoth Books of Best British Crime. His blog is here.

This post first appeared at Toe Six Press.


The Mike Hodges School of Writing School by K A Laity

mike hodges

“I create things out of boredom with reality and with the sameness of routine and objects around me.”

Patricia Highsmith, Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction

If films about writers are to be believed, all you have to do is live an interesting life, write it down, and change the names. Making things up always fails, like Romeo and Ethel the Pirate’s Daughter. Mike Hodges goes further to suggest that cynically manipulating the truth is the true way to success. The director whose work spans gritty neo-noir like Get Carter and the sublime silliness of Flash Gordon, made two films about writers decades apart, but they share some interesting qualities.


Pulp (1972) features the legend Michael Caine as the man who grinds out the titular tripe, first glimpsed in an office where panting typists churn out his fevered stew of sex and violence to support his indolent emigrant lifestyle in the Mediterranean. He’s tapped to ghost a veteran actor’s memoirs (Mickey Rooney in top form) then everything starts to get strange. Generally thought of as a cult classic, it mixes in a host of winking nods to the genre and ambles along to an odd conclusion.

I’ve only recently got around to Croupier (1998) thanks to Anne Billson and I can’t believe it took me this long. I think a lot of it had to do with how it was marketed as a crime film—which it is, but that’s not what’s interesting about the movie. From the first Clive Owen voice over he sounds like Guy in Your MFA who is writing ‘noir’ in his ironic Chandler persona. I may never get over the first shock of Owen as a blonde though. His girlfriend (fabulous Gina McKee) is clearly keen to think of him as a writer—so romantic! She’s disappointed when he takes a job as a croupier though  astonished at how much he’ll make.


One of the things I appreciate about the script is how his whole back story in South Africa is built in little pieces throughout the film but never spelled out completely. Owen’s Jack is so tightly wound yet so clueless about himself. Gradually he begins to think about writing a novel about his co-worker, then at last just straight up autobiography (released anonymously). Of course it’s a success: imagination is overrated.

Bonus Alex Kingston, too.

paul mayesbergThe weirdest thing may be the writer, Paul Mayersberg, who has worked in and written about the film industry, as well as penning the Pulp-worthy erotic novels Violent Silence and Homme Fatale. Better known for scripts like The Man Who Fell to Earth and Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence, he also wrote and directed The Last Samurai (1988). No, not the Tom Cruise one: the Lance Henrikson one. Who knows what happened between script and release, but the results were not stellar. On IMDB there are several scathing one star reviews along with a ten out of ten stars review, so who knows? Maybe it’s a hidden gem. I suspect it’s not.

Writing is hard. Live a life someone else can write about and you will probably be better off in the long run.

K. A. Laityis an award-winning author, scholar, critic and arcane artist. Her books include How to Be Dull,White RabbitDream Book, A Cut-Throat BusinessLush Situation, Owl Stretching, Unquiet Dreams, Chastity Flameand Pelzmantel. She has edited My Wandering Uterus, Respectable Horror, Weird Noir, Noir Carnival and Drag Noir, plus written many short stories, scholarly essays, songs, and more. Follow her on TwitterInstagram or Facebook.

She also writes crime as Graham Wynd and historical fiction as Kit Marlowe.

LAITY author photo


I Swear I Was There by David Nolan

i swear I was there.David Nolan’s  I Swear I Was There – Sex Pistols, Manchester and the Gig that Changed the World is a hell of a yarn that ostensibly tells the story of the Sex Pistols’ impact on the Manchester music scene in the mid-1970s. 

It focuses on three events – the Sex Pistols‘ first gig at Manchester’s Lesser Free Trade Hall on 4 June 1976, their second showing at the same venue one month later, and their first televison appearance on Granada TV‘s So It Goes.

I Swear I was There is a cracking read for anyone interested in the music and culture of the time and like all cracking yarns it’s choc a block full of great chatacters- Pete ShelleyTony Wilson, Jordan Mooney, Howard Trafford, John The Postman, Slaughter and The Dogs and many more. Great stuff! 

Fiction: Rebellious Jukebox by Graham Wynd

satan sHe took the bus because the cacophony was minutely less than on the underground, where the tinny tannoy kept up its assault with nonsense messages meant only to confuse. Not that you could make out what was being said. Anyone who tried was daft. You could read the boards though the times listed were often suspect and changed without warning.

But you couldn’t escape the din.

On the bus there were fewer screens and half the time the speakers were stuttering or mute. The barrage of noise within seemed quiet compared to the cacophony outside. The whole city pulsated. Stepping onto the bus was like stepping into the loo at a concert. The beat still echoed through your bones but your ears got a break for a mo.

He got off at the Southbank. It was a trick he’d learned: by the river at low tide you could find just about the quietest place in the city. The high walls against the tide held the sound at bay somewhat. There were the boats that ran up and down the waves and the voice of the old river itself, but that didn’t compare to the ringing streets above.

Sometimes as he wandered along the water’s edge Martin found things: old things, strange things. Little pieces of pottery from old dishes mixed with weathered bones or smooth bits of glass polished by the waves. He stuck them in his pocket for later. Sometimes they lost their magic by the time he got back to his room, looking ordinary and sad. The rest he arranged and rearranged on his trunk like some kind of altar to gods now lost.

There was also the book seller under the bridge. Martin wasn’t quite sure how they continued to operate. People didn’t much read and anyway they downloaded stuff online. Who wanted to pay for words? Information yearns to be free, they said. Who were they? Dunno. The same people who said if you want someone to hear you, you got to shout to get their attention. Earplugs were contraband due to the Order, but he had heard of rich people who had undetectable ones installed that they could turn on and off for when they wanted to talk to each other.

Money changes everything when you have enough of it.

Martin tripped down the last step from the bridge, looking ahead to the tables instead of at his feet. The neat rows of books filled him with a strange pleasure. His mother always told him there were worlds inside books if you knew how to unlock them. School mates rolled their eyes at him. So retro. He couldn’t remember her face too well anymore, but he still had that stupid book about dogs in cars with her words to him: Happy Xmas, Martin xxx Yor Mum.

She couldn’t spell all that well, but she could read fast. In the evening she soaked her feet with a stack of books beside her, picking up one or another, changing at will whenever she had the urge to follow another story. ‘Good-bye Blue Monday,’ she would say to him no matter what day it was. He laid his head in her lap and listened to her read from the books. They were mostly things he didn’t understand because he was little, but her excitement was contagious. The long days on her feet were forgotten with her nose in a book.

‘Looking for the real thing?’ The painted legend painted in green greeted those who passed under the bridge, though most went on their way heedless of the book stall’s lure. Noise resounded, the traffic thrummed hollow under the bricks: the hum of the city, the ceaseless drone of the speakers scattered at the regulated distances across the streets of the town. There was no escaping it; you just learned to tune it out even as your body vibrated to its pulse. They said the stress drove some mad. They said.

Martin strolled along the first table. The layout was different each week. History here: a pointless topic as no one learned from it as far as he could tell. He found some spec fic: that was more like it. Monsters were always good. Even bad monsters were good.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a girl about his own age who looked cool. She was picking up a crime book with a lurid sort of cover with cleavage and a knife. He wouldn’t have thought it would appeal to the fairer sex, as his old head master had always called the girls. For years he thought it meant that girls unlike boys treated you fairly. Aoife had cured him of that notion.

This one looked serious or maybe grim. It was probably the black leather jacket that looked real, not petroleather. She wore a black DIY shirt that had words painted on it but he couldn’t immediately make out what it said because he looked away when she looked up. Martin picked up the first book his hand landed on, which turned out to be some stupid space hero nonsense by an author he had liked when he was about ten. Naff stuff. His cheeks must have glowed as he put it down. Maybe she didn’t see.

Martin let his gaze flick across the tables. She was busy looking at a true crime book on the Moors murders. Maybe she hoped for a how-to guide. There was a scar on her cheek like a V that made him think of a kid’s drawing of birds in the sky. He tried to decipher the words on her tee shirt but with the book in the way it was even more of a challenge.

She put the book down and he let his eyes fall back to the table. He spotted a book he’d been seeking for months, the second part of a trilogy. The red knife on its cover had tantalized his thoughts for so long Martin found it difficult to believe he’d actually stumbled upon the treasure. He grabbed it. The book was well-worn. Several pages were dog-eared. Someone had scrawled in the margins, but he didn’t mind that usually—unless they were really stupid. He found it was like having a secret conversion with someone you’d never met, someone dead, someone missing, someone disappeared.

Like his mum.

A desperate part of himself always held out for the hope that she might be out there somewhere. His council processor had suggested that she had been deported or what was the other thing? Transported, that was it. Undesirables sent off to work in the colonies. Undesirability determined by darkness of skin in most cases. ‘You’re not to worry. We should have a placement for you soon,’ the processor had reassured him again this week.

Two years on and still nothing. When he turned eighteen, transporting would be more likely. It was an unpleasant thought.

Sometimes he dreamed of going to Scotland where it was supposed to be quiet and still green. Probably just a myth, but it was more believable than unicorns, dragons and elves.

‘You going to buy that?’

Her voice startled him out of his funk. He gaped at the girl for a tick, then realised his mouth was open and shut it. ‘Yeah, think so.’

‘Any good?’ Up close her face seemed more angular, her gaze startlingly direct.

‘Yeah, I read the other two. Good stuff.’ Jabbering like an eejit now, Martin berated himself. ‘Scary but adventurous. Lots of philosophy in it, too, if you’re that way inclined.’ He glanced down at the books in her hand. ‘Or maybe murder is more your style.’

She laughed. ‘Who doesn’t want to kill someone?’

‘What’s your shirt say?’

The girl gave him an appraising look. ‘Why?’

Martin shrugged. ‘You make it?’



Martin waited as if it didn’t mean anything to him what she might say or what it was about or what she was about and he didn’t know the words to ask. For once he wished the constant din of life could just shut up for a minute so they didn’t have to bellow at one another.

‘It says “Rebellious Jukebox”,’ she said finally.

He nodded and tried to conceal the keenness of his curiosity. ‘What’s that all about then?’

She grinned at him and suddenly looked like a little kid. ‘It’s a secret.’

‘Ah. Wanna see my secret?’

Laughter convulsed her face. ‘Is it a big one? Nah, don’t get embarrassed, mate. I’m just funning with you. Show me.’

They paid for their books and Martin led her to the steps. ‘Just over here.’

‘Ugh, you’re not going to kill me and throw me in the river?’ The girl made a face at the dirty water.

‘No, just—c’mon.’ Martin descended without looking back, sure she would follow as long as he didn’t falter. The edge was sandy here not shingle like down east of here. Some other people were wandering around so he led her away towards the wood structure that held up a walkway where people could look down on the river.

Martin tried to hide his excitement. She looked around curiously. ‘What’s all this then?’

‘Close your eyes.’

‘Nah,’ she said, looking at him with sudden attention.

Martin smiled. He put his hands in his pockets. Maybe that would make her feel safer. ‘Close your eyes and listen.’ He went first. After a minute he lifted one eye lid just a little. She had her eyes closed, too.

‘Do you hear it?’

‘I hear the water. The boats. The hum, it’s not so loud down here. I can’t hear a tannoy.’

They opened their eyes. Martin smiled. She smiled back.



He showed her everything he had learned, like how to keep on eye on the water line to gauge when the tide was rising. They searched along the edge of the river for hag stones and bits of porcelain. They looked at the skeleton of the old bridge and listened to the river’s echo under the bricks that held it up. It was magic.

Best of all it was quiet—relatively quiet, but that was the most you could hope for in the unrelenting din of the capital.

‘So what’s it all about?’ Martin asked Melka when they emerged to the surface once more. She bought them sandwiches from a cart and they sat on a bench by a statue of some old dude with a sword.

‘The jukebox?’ Melka looked off into the distance. ‘You might like it.’

‘But what is it?’ Martin had the same kind of excitement he had when he’d spotted the book today. When you wish for something so long and almost don’t quite believe in it and then it’s there. His fingers touched the shape of the book inside his bag, as if it might disappear without warning.

Would Melka disappear, too?

‘I have to ask the gang,’ she said finally, her mouth full of the last bit of sandwich. ‘They don’t let just anyone in.’

‘Sure,’ he said, but his heart sang with the possibilities.

‘Meet you here. By the statue.’ Melka waved a hand at the sword guy.


She shook her head. ‘Thursday. Can’t get away until then.’

It seemed a lifetime away. He hated to watch her walking away, afraid he would never see her again. Martin wandered the streets until late, unable to be still. He was itching to start reading the book, but he wanted to leave it for tomorrow, to make that day pass faster. Every time he looked up from his book he saw her face. That scar. The smile. The look when she was listening.

Looking for the real thing. He ignored the book stall and went right to the statue on Thursday. She hadn’t said a time, so he went there about midday. The benches around the bronze figure were occupied with people, some sleeping, some just looking lost. There was a blue haze over the city today again. Some said it was pollution. Some said it was a meteorological phenomenon. Either way it wasn’t healthy. Everyone was coughing and sniffling. People said November used to be a cold month. Martin couldn’t really imagine it.

He looked up at the statue. The man had a sword like he was fighting but he had a cape like Batman, too, and no armour. What was he supposed to be? He decided if Melka didn’t show up in the next half hour he would read the plaque at the base of the statue, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Just when Martin was about to give in he saw Melka coming down the steps from the bridge. His heart leaped. It took a force of will to stuff it back down. Wouldn’t do to look too eager. ‘Hey,’ he said with as much of a casual air as he could muster.

‘Doing anything tonight?’

Martin smiled. ‘Maybe I am now.’

Melka grinned. ‘If you’re up for it.’

The plan was very cloak and dagger. He had to meet her at Elephant & Castle at 20:00 and let her blindfold him. ‘I can’t take you right there. Too much at risk.’

‘So what is it really?’ He suspected it was just an underground club, but if she was keen on it he would be, too.

‘Something you’d never expect.’

The hours dragged until he could reasonably expect to show up. Martin was on his second read-through of the new book. He liked the Finnish witch better this time though she still scared him a bit. Yet he couldn’t help looking up from the book and wondering what Melka would show him. He tried not to let his hopes rise. It seemed like darkness would never fall. Walking the whole way helped fill the time, though he still had to wait a good while for Melka to show at last.

‘Here, put these on.’ She gave him eyeshades that looked like something a doctor might give you, black circles that cupped his eyes, held on by stems like glasses. They walked away from the station’s doors and she turned him around and around. Martin thought he could still tell which direction was which because of the traffic noise and the loudness of the tannoys on the station announcing inanities.

As she took him down streets and around corners, he began to lose his sense of direction in the omnipresent hum of the city. He trusted Melka to lead him. She was careful that he not step off the kerb or hit a wall.

Melka knocked on something that sounded like hollow metal. A door creaked open. Cooler air flowed over Martin. ‘It’s a step down,’ Melka said, taking his arm in hers. Cautiously he stepped down. The door closed behind them. She took off his eyeshades.

Martin blinked. There was a single bulb lighting the dark stairs. Someone walked ahead of them down the steps. They turned another corner where another dim bulb flickered, then a third turning where a torch fixed to the bricks with putty lit the way. It was a long way down. The air was dank and smelled of the river, as any space below the water level in the city did, but they were lower than the river now.

There was more light ahead. Martin could feel his heart begin to hammer a little faster. They stepped up to another metal door. The person ahead of Melka—he wasn’t sure if it was a boy or a girl—knocked three times slowly, then opened the door. They walked in.

Martin’s first feeling was disappointment. The strange brick room had dark pillars in the middle, huge cement slabs that must bear the weight of all the building above it. A few candles gave the room a flickering light. Ranged around the rectangular space were broken furniture and mattresses, and on them kids of about his age—some maybe younger, a few older—lolled idly, most with eyes shut, a couple looking up at him. Was it just drugs then? Sniffing the dust or shooting the shot? He had tried drugs. They were a disappointment. Books were better magic and needed no recovery time.

His scorn must have been visible. ‘It’s not what you think,’ Melka whispered and led him to a sofa with no legs.

‘What then?’ he asked, unconsciously whispering, too. The other kids ignored him, put their heads back, eyes closed. Melka pushed him back into the dank cushions and leaned against him. She closed her eyes and leaned back. ‘Listen.’

After a moment, Martin did the same. At first he couldn’t tell what he was listening for. His tinnitus—now the number one physical malady in the nation—distracted him. He did his best to concentrate. He could hear Melka breathing. He could hear someone snoring softly.

Then it hit him. He stiffened. Melka put a hand on his leg, patting it softly. Martin leaned back again and let himself go.

It was quiet—truly quiet.

Martin could not remember ever experiencing quiet. Sometimes late at night, the roar of the traffic was lower and the blare of the tannoy more intermittent, yet the hum was always there. Machines, appliances, other people might be less but they were never gone. The echoing vibrations of the city, of the vehicles, of the people—all still there. Not here. You had to listen hard to hear anything outside the room. Here each inadvertent sound—someone coughing, a shoe tapping the concrete floor, a sniffle—resounded with a newness that made it distinct.

The world shook him daily, distracted him. For the first time Martin felt as if he were himself. It was bliss.

Then he started to shake.

Panic filled him. He was going to be ill.

Melka put an arm over his shoulders. ‘It’s all right. It happens to everyone the first time. It happens to me sometimes and I’ve been coming for ages.’ Her whispered words shocked his ears like car horns. Martin tried not to fear the panic and gradually the shaking dissipated. Melka put her head on his chest and his heart swelled with another emotion. A distracting one. He had an urge to kiss her but thought it would be disruptive to try.

His heart slowed, but the urge to panic rose again. He concentrated on the weight of Melka’s head over his heart. Her breathing was soft. Maybe she was sleeping. All at once he was asleep.

Martin awoke disoriented. The silence was deafening. Panic hammered through his body again. ‘Shhh.’ Melka raised herself from his chest, her hand flat against his shirt. Her eyes glistened in the candlelight. She stood up and reached for his hand.

Together they walked to the door. Melka eased it open and they went up all the steps to the first door. She opened it slowly. It creaked its displeasure. Outside the cacophony had continued without them. ‘Elephant & Castle is just up that way,’ she pointed.

Martin smiled. ‘You trust me now?’

Melka nodded. ‘You’re a member now.’

‘I need to make my own tee shirt.’

He did finally, though it was not as good as Melka’s. She had a better eye or hand or whatever. Martin went for just the initial letters overlapping. It was more abstract, but he liked it anyway.

The silence was like a drug. It buoyed his spirits through the chaotic din of the city. He found his mind crisper, quicker. In time he learned to invoke the silence in the safety of his room. It flowed over him like a cool mist. In the silence, Martin discovered he could talk to Melka with his thoughts and she heard him clearly as if they were in the same room. When he awoke each day Martin felt lighter.

Over the weeks he got to know the other kids by sight, but they all tended to disappear when they left the Jukebox, scattering like pigeons. ‘It’s hard to keep secrets, you know,’ Melka said as they wandered along the river’s bank one cloudy day.

‘You couldn’t,’ Martin said, then immediately felt bad about saying it. ‘I can, but only because I don’t know any one I could tell. My council processor? Nah, don’t think so.’ He laughed. Melka had a family. She didn’t really talk about them—or why they weren’t bothered when she didn’t come home at night. Many times the two of them stayed in the Jukebox from dusk to dawn. No one was waiting up for him.

‘Do you suppose it really is illegal?’ They had gone back and forth on the question for days.

‘The Code,’ Melka insisted, always her point of view. ‘If it’s illegal to wear earplugs, it’s got to be illegal to make a building into a giant earplug.’

Martin considered this. ‘I think a lawyer could get us off on that technicality.’

The Jukebox changed his brain. Martin was sure of it. His council processor even noticed it. ‘Have you considered taking the advanced placement? You might get out of the manual labour rank,’ she said with unaccustomed brightness one morning.

He laughed as he told Melka, but she wasn’t amused. ‘That’s not much of an improvement.’

‘Speak for yourself. I had no hope of anything better than a spade or cleaning windows. Now she’s all like—I dunno. Like I’m educated or something.’

Melka’s brow wrinkled at him. ‘You are educated though.’

Martin laughed. ‘I left school at the first opportunity.’

‘You don’t sound like it.’

‘That’s because I read.’ The one time he lured Melka back to his room she was astonished to see the walls were lined with books. ‘This room would be twice the size if not for my habits,’ he said with pride.

Martin took to bringing her books when they met up at the Jukebox, trying to find stories that got past her reluctance to branch out from murder. ‘There’s all kinds of stories.’ For the first time since he could remember, he was happy. He had something to look forward to each day and he had hopes with Melka. They kissed good night when they left the Jukebox and he woke her with whispers every morning whether they were together or apart.

He carried the silence with him.

Yet there was no comparison to the experience of being deep in the bowels of the rock and brick and dirt. Impossible silence, the echoes of footsteps on the stair, and the soft murmurs as people settled. Sometimes even breath seemed too loud, but Martin loved it anyway.

The explosion was so loud it hit them like shrapnel, though there was none down in the Jukebox. It blew the bloody door off. The clattering heels on the stair assaulted their dazed ears. The physical blows only added to their distress in the lounge. The service personnel took vicious glee in beating the kids as they dragged them up to the surface, shouting at them, too, as if they feared the silence and wanted to fill it in like a hole with their own dirty noise. Some of the kids started screaming. The pain, physical and aural, was excruciating. Martin went limp as they grabbed him, holding onto silence as the officers dragged him upstairs.

On the street there was tape and flashing lights and more people, cameras, media—a circus. They must have known and planned for some time. Martin looked for Melka. The girls were all squished together, getting huddled into a van. Another van gaped for the boys. For his silence Martin received a cosh to the head. Unconscious, the sounds penetrated his head.

He woke in a cell, his skull splitting with an ache. Martin willed himself to sit up, then allowed his head to spin until it stopped. There were four in the cell, guys he knew by sight. They sat dejected, silent. Martin reached for the silence in his head. It took a while to find between the throbbing pain and the unaccustomed clangs and chatter of the lock up.

And then all at once it was there—fading in and out, but there. He held onto it for his life.

He reached out to Melka. Her fear pulsated. With gentle strokes he did his best to soothe her mind. At last she reached back to him. The girls were in a cell not far away. They were scared, too. Melka shared silence with him. It helped.

One by one, their parents came. Charges were laid, arguments reckoned—most were allowed into their guardians’ custody to await trial. Not Martin. No one stepped forward to claim him. Melka tried to get her parents to intervene. They refused.

The work was short. The powers that be wanted to make an example of someone. The Order must be maintained. Most of the kids had respectable parents, willing to make a fuss to get them out, willing also to force compliance. The Rebellion was over.

Martin was alone.

The verdict was transportation. His appointed counsel did her best but she was clearly up against a considerable effort by the powers that be. Woe betide the fly when the spider takes notice, his mother used to say to him. Her mother had said it to her as a child, too. It might be his only tradition, apart from the books.

For loss of his books, he sorrowed. Yet he carried many of them within him like the silence, a power he could tap into that gave him strength through the slow grind of the trial and the sentencing. He told Melka the verdict when it was handed down, though doubtless she had heard on the omnipresent news blaring through the tannoys.

Martin imagined himself on the deck of a ship, sailing away from the tiny land. The reality proved harsher. The prison ship was little different from the detention cells in the city. But he stayed hopeful. Who knew what the colonies would be like? Maybe he would find his mother or hear some word of her. Maybe there would be more space. On the maps the prison colonies looked huge. They couldn’t be locked up all the time, could they?

Maybe he could find some quiet place to hide.

Martin reached into the silence to tell Melka good-bye. Perhaps it would hurt less to speak to her in time. ‘Read a book,’ he told her with a chuckle. ‘Dream me into freedom.’ He pulled the silence around him like a cowl as the ship rocked on.

In memory of MES

Find out more about GRAHAM WYND here.