Red Trick by Patris Gordon

RED TRICK giacomo lee

Dedicated to Z.P. + anon. Thank you to the Lees, and cheers Henry

All rights reserved. No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication may be made without written permission. No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced, copied, transmitted or saved with the written permission or in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended). Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damage. Printed in the United Kingdom Published by Blank Screen Publishing E-mail: info@blankscreenbooks.co.uk Web: blankscreenbooks.co.uk ALSO BY BLANK SCREEN PUBLISHING PIMP THEORY by Patris Gordon SITTING QUIETLY ALONE IN THE CORNER... (An anthology with stories by Martin Friel and others)

Giacomo Lee

Part One: Red Trick I

One Day Beat beat. Trickle. A slash from the left speaker, panning with a hint of echo. And then the beat beat loop again and chords of an x-ray sheen, glowering from a synth pad. Crunched: the beats get mangled and return with double the bodyweight and snap you up, and the thing is finally birthed (and turn up the volume just a bit) and this time the beats actually slice. The slash comes back but in triple time with an echo piercing like a piston sound in reverse. And then the chords and the beats merge and the bass sits on him, pressing on his chest, and now all he needs is a rhyme. Randolf Fredrickâ&#x20AC;Ś Randolf... Randolf Fredrick Headwreck Noâ&#x20AC;Ś R Fredrick The name So intrinsic to the Fredrick With the red trick A brain wreck Tumbling down your neck and... Tumbling down your neck, eccentric. 3

Red Trick

Could write those down but they just won’t do in suiting the gravitas of what’s on the stereo, spinning off a CDR on repeat. Still not bored so Kin plays once more, a working title for a track culled from another ditched a few days back. He slides an index finger back and forth under his front teeth, digital running time counting up and blurred in his stare. It starts again and he swings his legs off the bed and grabs a pad and pencil off a nightstand sitting between his pillow and window. Pushing a laptop along the wooden cube’s top surface so it’s propped against the wall, there was space left for the pad and the pencil poised above in his right hand, the grip of a black arm blotched purple. Randolf’s right ear bore the brunt of the beats of Kin as he sat in thought. The pencil was sharp how he liked it, making prime dots in the blank spread of lines. He cut some angular faces and shapes, cheekbones and trapezoids and then came the rhyme. He floods it out, a lyric sheet for his first diamond. ‘Hey.’ ‘Rite, Freddy.’ He saw their mouths move but Randolf didn’t hear a word, looking and walking ahead, feeling for the play button on his player, thumbing it once to pause and then to switch the whole thing off by holding down. He was too busy to be here but nevertheless… It was round five and they were at the other side of a concrete space dug into the bank of a busy road on one side, below a few silo-like buildings on the other, built on shrubby ground which fluttered a little with the wind. He clasped a few hands upon reaching the huddle of four, now able to hear them all, face on. ‘What’s new, Trick? Where were you last night?’ asked Addie. ‘Wanking.’ He’d recognised Ad’s tone so that was the only answer. It worked judging by the laugh of the huddle. 4

Giacomo Lee

‘Well, if you came yesterday you wouldn’t need to. Keisha was there again, asking where you were.’ ‘Well, that’s new.’ That wasn’t the only answer and he felt his teeth grind ‘cos he knew it. I seen your smiles. You saw mine? He sat down on a granite block so the others aside from Addie relaxed their poses. Kin started up in his head as he stared ahead at the steel steps he’d climbed down, lightly running a nail between two teeth. ‘Was a good night last night man. Shoulda come,’ said Tone, lying back on the floor behind the block. ‘When you playing there again, Freddy?’ Jot asked from another block. Amadeus. Randolf rested both his palms on the block. ‘I’m not. Can do my own beats but not random ones.’ ‘It’s s’posed to be random. It’s a fucking face off, dickhead!’ Addie pointed out, scoring a laugh off JP behind him, who stared at his trainers, scuffing them hard on the floor. ‘I just like the rhymes I already written for myself. Can’t feel random ones.’ Randolf concentrated on Kin, picturing the various sequences on his laptop screen, wondering what he could add or subtract. Maybe a new synth line juddering in the background? ‘You should still come down the ‘Deus next week.’ ‘We’ll hide you from Keisha if ya want,’ joked JP. Randolf smiled. ‘Funny mate.’ He lifted up both hands, studied the imprints left behind from the block. ‘Hey, we’re not staying here hours, are we?’ Walking back from Tone’s round eight, hood keeping out the wind as he ate chicken balls from a bag. Now lines ran round his head, improvements on 5

Red Trick

last night’s work as he listened to Kin on his player, drowning out the cars by his side. Glancing up he could see the head of his brother Herbert in the distance. This was a common, yet ever jolting, sight, especially as it was smiling, a rarity for him. Then there was the poster. Two vaguely familiar women: one Asian, one blonde, along with a guy in glasses, hair spiked on end. ‘Best of the rest’ was Randolf’s conclusion. They were separated from Herbert’s head by an ‘Unlock Your Potential’ tagline, which cut them all off from the waist down, shoulders fading through the graphic of a shrub made of purple raindrop-diamonds. It was a glossy sight, much unlike the faces and the college they were advertising. Randolf grinned thinking of the graffiti he always saw when pissing around during periodbreaks, like ‘Kill all Kosovans + COMMIES.’ He always questioned its sincerity. Walking past a double-decker, he then thought how he knew Herbert’s hair was still that short and curly despite last seeing him months ago. And now, crossing the lights, he found the perfect sentence then realised how once again he hadn’t checked out the shrub up close, so he could picture it with eyes closed for once, perfect and clear. He never knew if the plant grew like a peacock’s plume into a tapered-sky with its leaves, or if the sky were pasted behind the initial leaves, those spread out like pincers. He couldn’t say if the poster pic was multi-perspective or a mess of contrasts instead. And still he was always surprised by the tones of purple with some leaves as dark as blue, and others on the outer edges that were simply black. Drawing it behind his eyes, he’d forgotten to add the two rays of orbs which shun across its top, blue with white and watery reflections that shot into the blonde’s neck, practically transparent as they passed through her hair. Hey, Herbie – how’s it hanging? He upped his speed home in case he forgot anything – the lines, the 6

Giacomo Lee

sounds. There was that flood again when he rushed indoors, scrawling all over his pad as the laptop loaded, a gift once his brother’s. He shut his eyes remembering what came to him as he climbed the stairs just seconds earlier and heard snatches only. Filling in the gaps was always trouble – nothing sounded as well as it did the first time round, with its ultimate, natural flow. He tried and finished the verse but it wasn’t good enough. ‘Fuckin’ memory.’ The words merged on the pad as he mumbled them under his breath. He chatted his teeth for one last chance of remembering all that came in the flood but it was no use as he bounced the pencil repeatedly on its still-sharp tip. ‘Fuckin’ brain.’ In the speed of such moments, even carrying a pad outside would do no good. Picturing himself scribbling at his front gate after crossing the lights gave him an uneasy tinge. He was listening out for sounds of life downstairs: the TV’s murmur, or rummaging in the kitchen. Something had come to him. He went downstairs to head to the back room, opening its door to find his mother in the sole armchair, lit up by the TV screen and the dusking light coming through the double glazing. ‘Hey.’ Randolf switched the light on. She slowly looked toward to him with a slight squint. ‘V’you eaten?’ ‘Yeah, ‘round Tone’s.’ She turned her head back to nod at the set, content with what was on. ‘His mum says, ‘Hi’,’ said Randolf, as he sat at the circle table in the corner on a fold-out chair, its back pressing right into his. As he sat out of her peripheral vision, he knew he could just ask it straight away. Best first to wait for an opening, though. Not right now, especially when characters 7

Red Trick

are talking. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, over the orchestral music coming from the screen, sound-tracking two cars turning into a US city street. He saw the back of her head tilt, but she didn’t answer. ‘Oh, Muh. D’you ask ‘bout the tape?’ No reply. ‘Muh?’ ‘No, I haven’t called.’ ‘Okay.’ Great. ‘I might look again in a bit.’ Randolf stared into the garden, running a hand over his lips, cupping his cheeks. Next minute he shut the curtains and returned upstairs to find the laptop ready. But instead of loading Kin, he shut his own curtains before pacing the room in circles. Picking up an old cassette on top of his stereo broke the cycle, standing firm in the middle of the room to look it over. He’d found it down the cellar when looking for a Dictaphone once Ezemba’s, his oldest brother. Nestled in a box of books, he knew instantly what it was from a flicker of memory in his head and flickers of his muh’s voice: ‘I will always do the washing up.’ Do you remember that? And then to everyone round the table: That tape should be still around somewhere. She was speaking from simpler times, before he turned six or seven, jokingly berating his laziness. The tape itself was made when he was four. Who held the mic he wasn’t sure. Dad, maybe? He was sure his mum was behind him as he stood upon something, washing foamy porcelain at the sink in the old house. Maybe Ezemba or Herb were still at the table, looking into the kitchen, acknowledging the cute display of their little bro pledging down the mic. Maybe he spoke after he cleaned all the plates, that seemed more natural… What was weird about this flicker 8

Giacomo Lee

was how Randolf always pictured it on Super 8 film, although the family never owned a camera. The whole thing was something you’d capture for the family vault but here a stereo sufficed. He’d always walk into this kitchen scene before getting the whole of his little self in the frame, sideways on. Must be the performance aspect that made him picture it this way, he thought. That and the fact technology had already pervaded the memory, with the mic in his dad’s hand, who he captured briefly in one shot, swerving right. ‘Go on…’ (Giggle) ‘When I grow up I promise I’ll always do the washing up…’ ‘Why?’ His mother. ‘I like it. I’ll do it every night after eating…’ He kept the volume low, sitting on his bed. He toyed with the idea of sampling it, rewinding for the key line. Could be used for a nostalgia rap. ‘…promise I’ll always do the washing up…’ Nah, shit idea. Time to tinker Kin. I will always do the washing up. It was in his head now. Maybe a chorus, opening line? Sitting at the laptop he thought of his mum making that phone call to his dad. She wouldn’t do it, he knew. But he also knew that his dad didn’t have the Dicta, anyway. His mum had probably chucked it out. Definitely wasn’t in his box of art stuff. Hey, Herbie – how’s it hanging? He hummed Kin’s new synth part from below his Adam’s apple, poking one tooth with an index tip. How’s it hanging? He could use that nagging line if he ever wrote about Ezemba, sampling whatever’s on that tape once it was found. ‘I will always do the washing up.’ 9

Red Trick

He fetched his pad. Something just had to be written down. Later he saw the email, from Jay at g4.org. He’d heard his stuff on Slash, was excited, especially by Kin, invited Randolf to sign with the label and stay up in the city. It should have felt like everything but it just felt like the next thing, natural in the sequence, something of such weight that his mind couldn’t reel through all the possibilities and consequences implied, rendering it to a beat in the script. I promise I’ll always do the washing up, he nearly typed in the reply.