Ziggy’s adrenaline was still pumping through him from his confrontation as he entered his father’s apartment. Andrew was always a dick, but he was really pushing it this time.

His father’s flat was a shabby, unkempt den that stank of booze and leftover trout, but it was home. Despite the strong stench that made him grimace, his stomach ached with hunger, so he went straight for the fridge.

‘Who’s that?’ his father grumbled from the living room.

Ziggy turned around to look at his father, a knot tightening in his stomach at the sight.

Arnold Coils was slumped into a miserable heap on the moth-eaten couch, a half-empty bottle of vodka clutched in his claws. He looked like an overgrown puppet sitting there on the sofa. 

‘Thought you said you weren’t going to drink in the afternoons anymore.’ Ziggy said, taking out the marinated Quorn sandwich.

‘You sound like a woman.’ grunted his father, shifting about in his seat. He scratched at the grey-white skin on the back of his neck, avoiding the misshapen reptilian crest that sloped over to his head.

‘Is that supposed to be an insult?’ Ziggy tried to sound amused, but it came out in a nervous giggle.

‘I’m really tired. I’m not cooking tonight.’ His father took a small swig from the vodka bottle. ‘You have your sandwich, yeah?’

‘Yeah, I do.’

‘Can’t understand for the life of me why you eat that shite. Had a taste of it the other day—disgusting! No flavour at all. It was like eating cardboard.’

‘Must not have been marinated then. This one is OK.’

As his father continued to mumble incoherently, Ziggy filled a glass with water and sat at the table to munch on the cold sandwich. As he stretched out his flat, reptilian feet, the news came up on the radio, with Diane Newton bringing in the latest headlines. 

‘The streets of Paris were besieged with violence and chaos yesterday as peaceful chimera protesters were brutally beaten by the police. Activists claim that rampant phobia of chimera people within the police force and its conservative politicians have led to an upsurge in chimera assaults.’

Chimera was the official and more accepted term when it came to people like Ziggy and his father. While technically there was nothing wrong with the term Humebeast, some in the extreme of left-wing politics were doing all they could to erase that word from people’s terminologies, as the word ‘beast’ suggested there was something profoundly primitive, nasty, and inhuman about them. Ziggy found nothing wrong with the word, as it was accurate, although he didn’t mind being called a chimera person either.

Newton continued:

‘Thanks to proceeds from the benefit concert Rebuild the World, the new charity Chimera Youth Trust has finally opened its first centre for disadvantaged teenagers in and around London. Two new cases of the Chimera virus have recently emerged despite its lack of potency after almost fifty years -’

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ Arnold interrupted. ‘You’d think after all these years, there’d be no trace of it left to contaminate!’

‘Yeah, tell me about it.’ Ziggy answered as he kept eating.

He thought back on the amateurish cardboard Rafe had been holding—and all the old clippings of printed-out newspaper headlines on it. It must have been unbelievably terrifying in those days. Knowing that not only could a relatively healthy person die from the virus, but even if they’d survived, their body would be changed completely.

Newton had just gotten to the beginning of her next headline when the apartment was plunged into darkness. His father screamed several curses.

Ziggy’s heart shot into his mouth as his father leapt from his seat. He dropped the sandwich he was eating on his plate and backed away from the table.

‘When are those bloody people coming to fix the ‘lecky?’ his father shouted. His eyes were wide, grey, and full of rage as they darted from one side of the room to the other. ‘It’s been three weeks! Are they having a laugh?’

Ziggy found himself trembling, unable to speak. Just as he found the courage to answer his father to calm him down, the electricity came back on again. The radio went static before returning to a pop song.

Then Arnold rounded on Ziggy.

Ziggy froze, his heart hammering.

‘Hope you haven’t been charging that bloody Lylo again.’ his father said. He was no longer fired up now that the electricity had come back, but Ziggy’s body still shook.

‘No, I haven’t.’

Arnold’s eyes, sharp, bleary, and still angry, stayed on Ziggy for a few more agonising seconds. It was in these moments that he was the most frightening. There was no telling what he would do—keep on screaming, launch into a series of threats, or simply leave it be.

Finally, Arnold turned and went back to his chair.

Ziggy frowned after him, feeling as though hundreds of insects were engulfing his mind, blocking his heart, and slowly eating away at his dignity.

If his mother had lived, she wouldn’t have stood for this. Even though he never knew her, he was sure she wouldn’t have stood for the way he lived. She would have left this lunatic and taken her son with her.

Away from everything that was happening here.

Arnold lifted the bottle of vodka and sucked around the rim like a baby suckling milk. 

The light from outside reflected on the bottle like moonlight. When Arnold released the bottle from his lips, he caught Ziggy’s eye and said: 

‘Yes?’ he slurred. ‘Spit it out, whatever you have to say!’ He raised his voice when Ziggy didn’t respond.

He wanted to say that he was leaving home. Or joining the school protests. His mouth opened, gagged for a bit, and then he said:

‘I’m going to Bartlets.’ 

When his father’s eyes widened dangerously again, he added. ‘Maybe they have something there that can help us preserve electricity.’

At this last comment, Arnold scoffed dismissively. 

‘I doubt they will!’ 

He relaxed on the couch, his eyes swaying drunkenly to the left. He resumed his unintelligible mumblings to himself as Ziggy walked away.

 

***

​

The moment Ziggy entered Bartlets, the anxiety he had been dealing with all day finally began to disappear. This was his happy place. As he said hello to Enzo at the counter, he was slowly greeted with the familiar smell of old cartons and the view of tables and walls stacked neatly with album covers. The vinyl records, sealed in plastic, were separated near the back of the shop by two signs stencilled into the wooden walls:

​

Pre-Plague and Post-Plague.

 

He looked up at the muted television just above the R&B section. It was an old concert by the Latino guitarist Santana. Though there was no sound coming from it, he could almost hear the clever melody made from the musician’s smooth fingers delicately dancing over the strings.

This was a gift he would never learn. Though still equipped with opposable thumbs, his reptilian claws for hands would never permit him to do anything other than grip objects and fight. Coach Jackson insisted that his claws were not tools of destruction but noble instruments of warriors. Which, to Ziggy, were basically the same thing. Why couldn’t he have been blessed with human fingers that would create art and beautiful music rather than a gash or a bruise on someone’s face?

A girl came on stage beside Santana and began to sing. She had a smile that highlighted her dimples.

I could be that. he thought hopefully, keeping his eye on the girl. I just have to find a guitarist.

Ziggy scuttled over to David Slade’s wall, which had his greatest hits album highlighted across the top. They had put up a new poster of Slade, dressed in his signature leather trench coat, white shirt, and blue jeans. The wrinkles in the corner of his eyes had multiplied with age, and his grey hair was cropped into a quiff.   

Excited, Ziggy removed the large headphones off the hook and placed them delicately over his ears, carefully avoiding the horn-like crests on his head and hit the play button. 

He had to hear Feel The Chains again. He had heard the piece for the first time on the radio a week before, even though it came out two years ago. 

First came the rising guitar solo, then the rhythm acoustic with the drums, and finally, Slade’s iconic voice. 

He sang back the blissfully perfect lyrics: ‘Those who don’t move, don’t feel the chains/ Can’t tie me in them, just cause I’m strange.’

He finally felt his mind drift off. When he sang louder during the second chorus, all the anger and the terror he was carrying finally drifted off. It was as though he were shaking off all the bad inside him, the way one would try to shake off glitter—a bit of it stayed, but most of it shuffled off. During an interlude, Ziggy stopped singing, and he heard applause. Startled, Ziggy took off his headphones and looked around. One old human lady smiled sweetly with her crooked teeth, and two other Humebeast girls were raising their eyebrows in awe as they clapped along with the rest of the people in the store. 

They were all staring at him as though he were a respectable figure in a community receiving a long-overdue award. As Ziggy kept observing the crowd, feeling both flattered and taken aback, a thin, smartly dressed human approached him. He was much older than Ziggy, with a sharp, equine face, beautiful, striking blue eyes, and a head covered with longish flaming red hair. Ziggy placed the headphones on the stand, not taking his eyes off him. 

‘That’s some voice you’ve got there.’  said the man as he stepped forward. He had a posh London accent and a low, silky voice.

‘Really?’ Ziggy said, his eyes widening. 

‘Of course! Everyone loved it. Your voice is incredibly unique.’  

This made Ziggy laugh, albeit nervously.

‘Have you already got a band? Or are you signed to a label?’ 

‘Oh God, not at all!’ he almost snorted. ‘Why do you ask?’ 

‘Well, a friend of mine is looking to hire new artists. He’s very picky about who he sees in his auditions, and he doesn’t have much time on his hands. So, he asked me and other friends to be on the lookout for talent.’

Ziggy’s heart fluttered. What were the odds of a talent scout coming to Bartlets just as he visited?

‘Samuel Clarke.’ the man said, extending his hand, which Ziggy shook. ‘Do you know the Mortal Club?’  

Ziggy shook his head.

‘Well, they have open mic concerts every second Saturday of the month. My friend goes there when he has some free time to see if there’s anyone he’d like to see at his auditions.’

Ziggy’s curiosity peaked.

‘Do you… do you think he would like me, then?’

‘I’m afraid I really don’t know. As I said, he’s quite picky. But your voice has something different. And it has a lot of passion in it, I can tell you that much.’

‘Who is your friend?’

Samuel lowered his voice into a whisper.

‘I can’t say because he’s the head of a major record label. The average Joe may not have heard his name. He doesn’t really want too many people finding out he’s holding auditions because, otherwise, his studios will be flocked with singers all the time. Yeah, I know—it sounds odd.’

‘And where is this Mortal place?’

‘Soho.’

Ziggy’s face fell. That was miles away and would take more than a few pounds to get there. 

Samuel reached into his pocket and handed him his card. Ziggy studied it vigorously. It had his name, the company he worked for—Kromezone—personal address, phone number, and email. He placed it in his jacket pocket without a word.

‘Well, if you can make it to one of these events, give me a call, and I’ll bring my friend along. Only if it interests you, of course.’

Ziggy was genuinely speechless as Sam bid him goodbye and walked away. He remained in his place. A flurry of excitement and anxiety was building inside him with each passing second. An open mic and a music supervisor who liked his voice. The head of a famous music label was actively seeking out singers—he couldn’t believe it. He picked up Slade’s greatest hits album and brought it to the counter to pay. 

‘Brilliant concert there, Ziggy.’ Enzo grinned as he unwrapped the plastic from the album.

‘Didn’t mean to cause a scene.’ Ziggy said jokingly. 

‘Not at all! It was a pleasure.’

He felt it again. The childhood giddiness of being praised for his gifts came back—his heart swelling up to twice its size, his body jittery with excitement. Growing up at the orphanage, the adults had always encouraged him to sing for others, insisting that he had the voice of an angel. They only let him sing traditional Celtic or Christmas songs, but every time they praised him, he felt like his heart would burst with pride. When he was little, he believed potential parents never picked him because the orphanage loved his singing so much that they wanted to keep him. But when he was fifteen, his father came to pick him up. It turned out he had never been up for adoption at all. And although his father did not hate his singing, he made it clear that he should not try to make a living out of it.

Then it finally struck him: This was a real opportunity coming his way in this grimy, long-diseased world. Though the thought of performing in front of other beasts and humans frightened him, he knew it was folly to set this prospect aside. He thought about what kind of excuses he could make to his father about going down to Soho. He knew it would have to be convincing.