Live E-Book

Luke Palmer

• Herausgeber: Firefly Press Ltd
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 396

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Sixth-former George leads the school's coolest band - no party is compete without them. But when tragedy strikes, how can he rediscover the bright future they'd all planned?

Leseprobe

i

ii

iii

For Mum & Dad

iv

v

Meanwhile music pounded across hearts opening every valve to the desperate drama of being a self in a song

Anne Carson – Autobiography of Red

vi

Contents

Title PageDedicationEpigraphPART IONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENPART IIONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINEPART IIIONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENEIGHTNINETENELEVENPART IVONETWOTHREEFOURFIVESIXSEVENBonus TrackLIVE: SONG BOOKContentsGEORGEBootlaceNetwork DownTrade WindsDarkitecture / ShitholeState of RestBuriedH8 BitLast SongBETHGaslitSteamrollerLetter (28)VirginiaThe GramStart AgainPicture in a Hotel BedroomFireAbout the AuthorCopyright

12

Part I

3

The black car handled with youthful zeal by the driver speeds through the country night rounding corners with a giddying lean. Around a sharper bend a faint hiccup from the back left wheel as if it had lifted from the road and spun freely in the night air for a second before joining the tarmac again. And the road’s white markings flash like a pulse beneath it. And signs blare out from the hedgerows frozen for a blink in the headlights before they’re gone.

The driver smiles, throat open in song and delight, the car thick with noise and joy. Beneath the music filling the car, the growl of the engine. Beneath that, a pretty hush from the tyres as they sluice across the wet surface.

It is raining lightly. Each streetlight’s glow repeats a thousand times in the windscreen’s constellation of raindrops. The lazy arc of the wipers clears the glass and the whole thing starts again. Soon, houses rear up, their walls flat and huge, windows like shut eyes and blind to the passing meteorite of the rushing car and its shimmering trail of sound.

Then suddenly and without warning the black car is slipping sideways quickly and the road running out even quicker and with a lurching sudden thud the quick car lifts suddenly quickly too quick and sudden over the kerb and suddenly towards the wall as the driver grips the wheel and grips the wheel and grips the wheel and4

5

ONE

Wednesday morning. They’re in Emily’s. As usual.

George slumps in his seat by the window, the seat he always slumps in.

‘It’s not right though, is it? Why should we have to travel that far?’ He stirs his straw around the bottom of his chocolate shake.

Across the small table, Owen shrugs, rubs the back of one hand across his bleary morning eyes.

‘I mean, on top of the tickets it’s fifteen quid and two hours on a coach which drops you a half hour walk from the venue. And you stillhave to leave early to catch the return because they always oversell the seats and the last to arrive won’t get on.’ He stabs at his drink with a straw. ‘Or you spend more than double the cost of the ticket on the first piss-smelling train the next morning, and you can stay for the whole gig onlyifyou’rewilling to spend the night at Paddington station avoiding drunks and perverts. It’s a joke!’

Owen takes a slurp of his own milkshake (also chocolate) then stares down at his breakfast burrito, nodding in glum agreement. ‘If we knew someone with a car, though…’ He chews a tasty mouthful.

George laughs. ‘You’ve got a car. Besides, we’re public transport people. Ecowarriors. Or something.’6

‘And no way I’m driving in London, mate.’

There’s a brief pause before George continues. ‘Remember the last time we did the train though, after we saw Violent Slipper at the Roundhouse? The dickhead attendant on the public toilets who wouldn’t let us in?’

‘We didn’t have 50p.’

‘We had one 50p. He should have let us both through his little turnstile together.’

‘But it was 50p each to get in.’

‘That’s not the point. The attendant didn’t give a shit. Earning minimum wage to sit on his arse all night, why would he? And you didn’t help, mooching off down the platform as soon as he started to argue.’ He takes a long slurp of shake. ‘But that guy on the other side of the platform was looking at us, remember? Like, really creepily.’

‘The attendant wasn’t going to let us in though.’

‘He would have. I was working on him. But that guy was looking, eyes boring into my vulnerable, young back while you’re off on a mooch. Leaving me alone while you do a mooch down the platform to check timetables or whatever.’

‘Yeah, he was a bit weird. I think you overreacted, though.’

‘He wasn’t going to go for you though, was he? You had your leather jacket on, hair like that, big guy like you. He wasn’t coming anywhere near you. It was me he was after, in full twink mode, looking like a 7wounded fawn, like some kind of buffet laid out in front of his pervy eyes.’

‘So why didn’t you go into the toilets on your own?’ Owen’s halfway through his wrap, just hitting the yolk on the extra egg he always orders.

‘What, and leave you on your own? No way. We stick together. Against the perverts.’

‘Thanks, mate.’ He dabs at his chin with a napkin.

‘No worries, mate. Besides, you’d mooched off and taken your 50p with you.’

A pause. They both dip to their drinks, take long gulps.

George sits up again. ‘And who even carries cash with them nowadays? Coins are dead. What kind of public facility in the twenty-first century doesn’t accept contactless?’

Owen pushes his plate to one side, leans forwards on the table, cheek lying on crossed forearms. ‘They did, remember? The man’s machine was broken.’

‘SO HE SHOULD HAVE LET US IN, THEN!’

Owen groans into the crook of his elbow, reaches for the last slice of toast on George’s plate. Emily’s does the best toast. He’s already finished a plate of his own, dripping in butter.

George swipes the toast-seeking hand away and leans in, a pointed finger (purple nail varnish, chipped) jabbing at the tabletop. ‘That’s corporate neglect. And the rail networks are a public service so that makes him a government employee so it’s governmental neglect. 8And that’s how you end up with bodies in the canals.’ He picks up his last slice of toast, folding it into his mouth, continuing his diatribe despite his hamstering cheeks. ‘We were being watched, remember? Hounded by a peeping-tom. You’ve seen the news. You know what happens next. Same story every time.’

‘I know.’

‘Course you do. How many hours were we sitting on that bench, freezing our arses off?’

‘I was perfectly warm.’

‘You had a fucking coat, though.’

‘Whose fault is that?’

‘Irrelevant detail. We were freezing our arses off into that bench. Arse icicles dripping through the little holes in the metal so we couldn’t even move if we wanted to. Had to wait for the sun to come up and thaw our arses out. And sleeping in shifts, keeping an eye on that pervert on the other platform who didn’t take his eyes off us all night.’

‘Not even once.’

‘Sitting there with his stupid little hat in his hand.’

‘Quite a big hat, actually.’

‘Sitting there with his stupidly big stupid hat. Our little arse icicles binding us to the seat.’

‘Little arse? Speak for yourself.’

Behind the counter, Emily herself is polishing glasses. She looks up as the pair in the window seat move into the last stage of their story. She’s heard 9them tell it dozens of times before, but it always makes her smile.

George continues. ‘My freezing tiny arse, watched by a hawky pervert and his big, tall hat all night. Couldn’t take our eyes off him or he’d have come for us.’

‘Come and taken us away.’

‘Snatched us up, dragged us into the shadows, dropped us in the canal. He watched us all night from his seat on platform 8. Didn’t even turn his head once. Not a single degree.’

‘And why is that, exactly.’

Emily delays putting a stack of coffee mugs away to avoid drowning out the punchline, holds herself back from joining in.

‘Because it was a statue of Isambard Kingdom Brunel!’ They always shout it together.

She laughs along with the boys in the window – young men now, she supposes – and calls over. ‘Like the arse icicles, George. Nice new detail.’

‘Thanks, thought you’d appreciate.’ He rearranges himself in his seat, faces her. ‘So when are you going to save us the trips to London and almost certain death and start putting bands on here, Emi-Lou?’

Emily smiles, waving away the question. All her younger customers call her Emi-Lou. They always have. She’s probably called Emi-Lou more often than her real name.10

But she doesn’t mind. If she did, she’d get the sign fixed above the door. The bottom of the ‘y’ hasn’t been attached for years. But if she got that fixed, she’d have to fix all the chipped tiles behind it, and then the window frames beneath that, and then she’d probably have to start fixing up the inside too… So the sign says Emilu’s, and Emi-Lou is her name.

She goes into the kitchen to check the morning delivery, start filling fridges with lettuce, peppers, mushrooms.

In the seat by the window, George turns back to Owen. ‘Point is though, why do we have to go all the way to London to see some grungy pack of musicians from Iowa? And don’t say because it’s easier than going to Iowa. They’re the ones on tour. Why aren’t they coming nearer to here?’

‘Because “here” isn’t really anywhere. I mean, who’d come here, in their right mind?’ Owen throws arms wide, gesturing to the near-empty diner and to the wider emptiness that surrounds it.

‘Yeah, true, but why are they only doing three UK shows before buggering off to Europe for three months?’

‘I guess Americans think of the UK like another state. You look at their US tour last year, right, and they only did one show per state. Two, tops, and even then, it’s at the same venue for two nights. In the states, that’s a 75-date tour. Takes you months in a transit van.’11

‘They don’t have transit vans in the States.’

‘Whatever. Anyway I was thinking maybe we could get one.’

‘Get one what?’

‘A van. For touring.’

George shuffles a little. ‘Sure. Definitely. Maybe soon. Then we can support all those bands and get paid to get there. At least then we’ll be guaranteed entry. Brine Mango’s pretty much sold out already.’ He leans back on his seat, calls to two fellow customers in a booth across the room. ‘Hey Dyl, Carson, you get Brine Mango tickets?’

One of them looks up. ‘Yeah. London date. You?’

George shakes his head, turns his attention back to Owen. ‘London sold out in minutes. London’s full of freaks, though. Not like out here in the sticks.’

‘Us provincial freaks – “preaks” – are fucked then, aren’t we.’

‘To the preaks. Fucked though they may be.’ The pair clink glasses, down the remainder of their chocolate shakes and stand, chairs shunting backwards across the floor. Owen’s falls over with a clatter, bringing Emily back out from the kitchen.

Owen, unsurprised by his own clumsiness, rights the chair, flashes a disarming smile at Emily as he continues. ‘Good name for a band, The Preaks. It’s closeness to phallic euphemism gives it pleasing frisson, wouldn’t you say?’12

Emily meets the pair at the cash register. They’ve code-switched again into what she calls their ‘toffish English guff’. She’s had the pleasure of the full routine this morning.

‘Yuh, shhhure. Frisson definitely,’ George drawls. ‘What the French might call a, a, a, a, a certain “I don’t know what”.’

Owen pulls a debit card from a back pocket. ‘This one’s on me, old chap.’

It always is, thinks Emily.

‘Frightfully kind of you, old chap. I’ll get next week.’

Emily holds the card reader across the counter. ‘Everything OK for you again this morning?’

‘Brilliant as always, thanks Emi-Lou.’

‘Seriously,’ George leans on the counter, ‘you should put bands on in here, Emi-Lou. Fill the place with sweaty teenagers on a Friday night.’

‘And preaks,’ Owen chimes in.

‘Of course, the preaks.’

‘Not really my scene, I’m afraid.’ Emily tears the receipt from the reader, hands it to Owen.

He picks up a biro from the top of the till, signs the receipt For Emi-Lou, love Owen with a theatrical flourish and hands it back. ‘For when we’re famous rock stars.’

It’s the same every Wednesday morning – same table, same order, same ruse with the receipt. As always, Emily balls the autographed till paper and 13flicks it into the bin behind her, eliciting the same sad-puppy look from Owen. ‘Besides, who’d want to come and play here?’ She looks over the cracked varnish, the temperamental lighting, the battered furniture. ‘Bit of a hole, isn’t it?’

‘Nonsense.’ Owen smiles. ‘It’s an institution is what this is.’

‘We’d be honoured to do a show here, Emi-Lou. We’d put you on the map, I reckon. What do you say?’

Emily looks at the boy – eager, almost desperate – and finds it easy to believe him. She smiles. ‘See you next week, boys?’

‘Definitely,’ the pair say in unison, pushing through the front door and out into bright sunshine.

After waving them goodbye, Emily stays behind the counter, cashing up the takings from the previous evening. The place is almost empty now. Just one more pair of students, regulars like the boys. More regular, probably. She doesn’t know these two by name, just their orders, often growled or whispered hoarsely through stale morning breath after sleepless nights and long train rides. They’re also musical pilgrims, travelling far and wide for whatever band is playing somewhere – London, Bristol, Birmingham. A few weeks ago it was Manchester, they’d said.

Always the same order though, to bring them back to normality after a transcendent night. One has a blueberry and oatmeal smoothie, the other opts for kiwi, banana and wheatgrass. And always, like this 14morning, they nurse their drinks in the same booth. Blueberry sits one side of the table, their long, plum-dark hair curtaining the purple beverage. Opposite them, kiwi stirs their thick morning shake, their short hair twisted into spikes died yellow and green. Emily can’t remember if the hair colours or the breakfast orders came first, but it must be conscious. Mustn’t it?

The occasional peal of laughter comes from their table as the clock ticks on towards nine.

She looks up from her counting every few minutes, surveys the place.

Her place.

Still a bit of a hole, though, with its view of the traffic lights at the bottom of the high street. Inside, the wooden floor and service counter are genuinely ‘distressed’ rather than being designed to look that way, cracked like a dried-up riverbed. Clustered around un-matched tables, the chairs look considerably down in the dumps, bleached plywood beginning to peel from metal frames pocked with rust. The booths aren’t faring much better. The vinyl is wearing thin, and the benches wheeze whenever customers shuffle across them to cosy up in a corner. Shabby-chic would be a generous description.

But she also knows she’s lucky that the place – her place – is still alive. And not just alive – in rude health, in fact. She looks down at the evidence in front of her, rolls of bank notes, bags of coins and a stack of till receipts in a neat row on the counter. And just 15from a Tuesday. Her regulars really are loyal folk. If only the bills weren’t so expensive, maybe she’d have something left over for a re-design. Maybe she’d even put in a raised area at the back, like a stage.

16

TWO

Band chat

Today

You – 15:15

Still on for rehearsal? I booked a practice room. Bennet’s gonna let us in.

FinSkins – 15:15

Only if @NewOwenadmits McCoys are old man crisps

NewOwen – 15:15

Never. They’re clearly a top-tier snack.

FinSkins – 15:15

Can’t stand a ridged crisp – it’s an unnatural shape for a potato. Makes me feel itchy.

NewOwen – 15:15

What about Walkers Max though?17

You – 15:16

Can’t believe you two are still doing this … rehearsal? I’m on my way there now.

FinSkins – 15:16

Walkers Max are a different beast – thinner ridge, more delicate texture. And the paprika excuses everything.

NewOwen – 15:16

Hypocrite

S  – 15:16

     Re: NewOwen – 15:16      Hypocrite HypoCRISP!

FinSkins – 15:16

Shut up Sam.

NewOwen –15:16

    Re: S  – 15:16     HypoCRISP! LOOOOOOL SAM!

FinSkins – 15:16

You’d never find McCoys doing paprika flavour. Only old man 18flavours. Walkers are pioneers of the crisp world. Always pushing boundaries. And to be respected. McCoys are dead.

S  – 15:16

Did you know that Walkers in America are called ‘Lays’?

You – 15:16

Er … rehearsal?

FinSkins – 15:16

SHUT UP SAM

NewOwen – 15:17

    Re: S  – 15:16     Did you know that Walkers in America… Why yes, Samuel, I did. In fact, the UK based Walkers brand was acquired in 1989 by American food giant, Lays. So it might be more accurate to say that Lays are known as Walkers in the UK, rather than the other way around.

FinSkins – 15:17

Who even are you people?19

S  – 15:17

If you can’t hack this level of crisp chat @FinSkinsmaybe just step back & listen to the experts. McCoys are top-tier snacks. Up there with Kettle chips.

NewOwen – 15:17

Can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.

S  – 15:17

Can’t take the pace, get out of the race

NewOwen – 15:17

Can’t take the fat, get out of the frier

S  – 15:17

    Re: NewOwen – 15:17     Can’t stand the fat, get out of… Ha! Yes mate!

You – 15:17

I thought we’d go over that new song again. @S  you got those lyrics remembered yet?20

NewOwen – 15:17

Can’t stand the dips, keep away from the chips.

FinSkins – 15:18

I hate you guys. Kettle chips are dead as well. Also are we going Emi-Lou’s afterwards?

S  – 15:18

    Re: G-tar – 15:17     I thought we’d go over that new song… Yup. But I changed the words you wrote so it’s all about crisps. @FinSkins deal with it.

S – 15:18

    Re: NewOwen – 15:17     Can’t stand the dips, keep away from… This guy’s killing me right now. Definitely up for Emi-Lou’s. Split some chips?21

You – 15:18

Re: S – 15:18Yup. But I changed the words you … NOT OK @S . But you guys are coming to the practice room…?

S  renamed the group Crisp Chat

FinSkins – 15:18

@S  you are such a dick

NewOwen – 15:18

@S LOOOOOOOL and yes to chips

You renamed the group Band Chat

You – 15:18

Seriously, guys, are you coming?

NewOwen – 15:18

    Re: G-tar – 15:18     Seriously, guys, are you coming? FFS George YES! We’re already here. Bennet let us in five minutes ago.22

FinSkins – 15:18

Been here for ages. Lefty let us out of geog early.

FinSkins – 15:18

@NewOwen’s all tuned up already.

S  – 15:18

    Re: FinSkins – 15:18     @NewOwen’s all tuned up already. Makes a change.

You – 15:19

Nearly there

NewOwen – 15:19

@S  come at me, unless it’d hurt your delicate little singing voice.

S   – 15:19

@NewOwenMine is the true voice of God; when you hear it your head will explode with rapture.

@FinSkinsdid you bring the snacks?23

FinSkins – 15:19

Yup. Good ones for me and a bag of McCoys for you and @NewOwento share with your pipe and Bovril

@G-tarwhere are you mate? You’re late.

S  – 15:19

Yeah @G-tar we should’ve started by now.

NewOwen – 15:19

Anyone would think @G-tarwasn’t taking this band seriously. Late to rehearsals. Not the work ethic we’re looking for in a guitarist, TBH.

FinSkins – 15:19

I vote we kick him out.

S   – 15:19

    Re: FinSkins – 15:19     I vote we kick him out. It’s not like he’s any good.

NewOwen – 15:19

    Re: FinSkins – 15:19     I vote we kick him out.24Seconded. Not like it’s hard to actually write songs.

S  – 15:19

Everyone prefers covers bands anyway.

FinSkins – 15:19

Always been my dream to be in a covers band.

NewOwen – 15:20

We might actually get some real gigs if we played covers. Just sayin’.

S  – 15:20

Hey @G-tar is pretty close to getting Emi-Lou to let us play. I can just feel it.

FinSkins – 15:21

Yeah, he’s been on the brink for almost a year now. Just keep buying those smoothies, @G-tar!

You – 15:21

I’m here. Love you guys. xxx

25

THREE

Tad pulls his front door closed behind him, yanking it past the point where it always sticks. He adds his shoes to the cluttered rack in the narrow hallway and dumps his bag alongside. Through to the kitchen, he clicks the kettle on, takes his special manuka honey from the back of the top shelf, the shelf that only he can reach, and puts a teaspoon of the mellifluous sweetness into the cleanest mug he can find. He does his usual check of the downstairs windows as he waits for the water to boil, waggling the handles on the ones that are already closed, just to be certain. Then he does the same upstairs.

His mum’s room window is always open, even when it’s cold and raining in the middle of winter. But it’s not winter yet and today is warm and sunny. It feels a bit wrong to seal out all that sunshine. But seal it he must. It’s not for long, anyway. He’s got about thirty minutes before he’ll have to come and open it again. Before his mum comes home.

And he must be finished before that happens. That’s non-negotiable.

He tiptoes through her room, careful in the narrow gap between window and bed not to brush against the duvet where the cat has curled herself into a patch of 26sunlight. Careful also that he doesn’t leave any trace of himself on the immaculate, new carpet where the lines from the hoover are as clear and manicured as a well-kept garden.

His sisters’ room is the polar opposite: toys everywhere and the carpet, where visible, stained with various drink and foodstuffs. When they can afford to do another room, theirs is next, Tad’s mum says. He spots a bottle under one of the cots – must have rolled there this morning and been forgotten – and collects it with his foot. It’s only water, luckily, not their sickly sweet milk formula. Brushing some fluff from the squishy teat, he puts the bottle on the windowsill where his mum will find it later, then pulls the window closed. The dry suck of the seal against the frame whooshes its confirmation that the outside world is shut out. It’s a sound that Tad has come to adore. It means he’s nearly ready.

Downstairs, the roar of the kettle has reached its crescendo and Tad pours water over the honey and stirs, adds a little cold from the tap. He sips the warm, soothing beverage as he goes back up to his room. He closes his own window – the last one. He double checks it’s closed. Then he closes the blind. Then the Spiderman curtains that have hung there since he was eight. He needs as many layers as possible between him and the street – especially in here, where it happens. And darkness is best, anyway. He feels more comfortable doing it in the half-light.27

His mum and sisters are on the way home already, so he must be quick. But he must also be calm. Calmness, serenity, poise – all of these are vital. Another sip of the liquid honey as he ticks off the closed windows in his mind once again. His neighbour, Mrs Gideon, wouldn’t notice if he was standing right next to her. She’s probably in her front room right now, reading one of those books with the big print, her hearing aids turned off as always. Mrs Gideon’s safe. But absolutely no one else must know what he does with these precious minutes on a Thursday afternoon. No one.

Not yet anyway.

He closes his eyes as he slips headphones over his ears, the perceivable world suddenly shrinking, distilled inside his skin to his heart’s beating and the shudder in his chest. He breathes deeply, lets a soft sigh purr in his throat as he exhales, then tightens his vocal chords to hum a slow, melodious scale. His whole body vibrates with it.

He scrolls through his phone, finds his playlist. He turns his head slowly to the left, his chin almost meeting his shoulder, then slowly does the same on the right, then tilts upwards, then down. Two more deep breaths.

He presses play.

A few bars of piano, then he lets the familiar notes quiver up through his diaphragm like molten silver. Tad’s eyes are closed, but he imagines the notes falling 28from his open mouth and pooling in the dark cube of his bedroom, washing over his feet. His voice follows closely the voice in his ears, matching it at every turn on the soft journey of the song – a gentle melody, just a warm-up really. The music eases along, a slow river, warm sun on its banks. Tad can see the gentle swelling of water, green fronds swaying in the current. His voice sways, equally green and lithe, wearing the earthy sweetness of the honey he just drank. In the final chorus, he sings a harmony, weaving the rills of his voice around the one in his ears, finishing a clean octave above its last, sustained note.

He opens his eyes, always a little surprised to find himself back in his room, the same posters on his walls, the same square of light creeping around the edge of his curtains.

Another sip from his mug, his voice relaxing, his whole body starting to glow.

The next song is a little faster. Tad imagines this one as a road rather than a river, the voice a little harder, purring and pulsing like an engine. It moves alongside the song’s other vehicles – the shunting trucks of drums and bass, the sports-car guitars. Perhaps, he thinks, his voice is a motorbike, it’s leather-clad rider with visor tipped down, powerful yet light, ducking and weaving, sometimes overtaking, sometimes blending in with the traffic.

Next, his voice is a walk through built-up streets, neon lights glowing as the song ambles along the 29pavement – no, struts along the sidewalk – the air around it thick with the night-scents of the city. Then he’s shouting from the rooftop of one of the city’s many high-rises, arms spread wide as he looks down on the crawling movements beneath him, the grunt of all that life running up through the building, up through his legs and into his body, which grinds with the music, taking on a life of its own.

After the first four songs, the playlist changes gear – another driving beat, but thicker, an eight-lane highway rather than a city street, and everything travelling fast. His head dips in sync with the rhythm, his leg twitching. It’s difficult, he finds, to keep something back for when this song climaxes after the second verse, so Tad stalks his room as he sings, his body taking on the angular dynamic of the music. A strange power builds in the back of his throat as he does so, knowing the peak that is coming, the power growing and growing until there’s just one bar to go.

And when he really lets loose, pushing over the mountains and seething oceans of instruments beneath, it feels like flying, like his back has opened up and his lungs grown wings thick with feathers as he soars, Icarus above the waves, the song’s sun warm on his skin.

Just that one little lift before the last descent and the end.

But something inside Tad knows he won’t make it and, just like Icarus, he falters. It’s too high, and the 30note catches in his throat. He drops to a lower harmony with the voice in his ears and listens upwards to that last siren call, just out of reach, a feather’s breadth beyond his range. He touches down at the end of the song, panting slightly. He takes a deep breath. He’s happy, but a little disappointed that, once again, he didn’t quite make it.

He opens his eyes, looks around his bedroom, feeling its weight again across his shoulders. He’ll always be here, he thinks, his songs bouncing against these four thin walls, unable to escape, to fly freely. But rather they stretch their wings in here than not open them at all, right?

He smiles, begins to nod in time to the next song. It’ll be there next week, he thinks. That note, waiting for him. Maybe he’ll get there, next time.

Tad’s mum rises from her seat on the bottom stair where she’s spent the past quarter of an hour. She tiptoes to the front door, gently opens it, and eases it closed behind her against the crystal instrument of her son’s voice upstairs, winding into the next song. The twins’ buggy is just inside the front gate, both girls still sound asleep. She only sneaks home early to listen when she knows they won’t wake up.

She doesn’t like tiptoeing around like this, but if Tad had even the slightest sense she might be there, he would stop. Tad, his nickname – a playground shortening of his full name Tadhg, was like his father 31had been – a bone-deep, dyed-in-the-wool poet, but only able to shine when he thought no one was watching. It was that pressure that had led to his light going out completely. And she misses it every day.

For Tad to stop shining with song on his precious Thursday afternoons would be the worst thing in the world. She can always feel the energy around him after she comes home, even if he does sometimes forget to open her bedroom window again. His whole body is like one huge smile. But he’s painfully shy with it. And she doesn’t want to push him. To break him. Ever. She’s seen where that leads, and the boy is his father’s son in so many ways.

She kicks the brake off the pram, strains one final time to hear her son’s voice against the traffic from the main road at the end of the street.

One more loop around the block, she thinks. Then he’ll be done.

32

FOUR

It went well, George thinks. Overall. A few sloppy changes in ‘Network Down’, which was annoying – they’d nailed that one last week. And Sam had changed the chorus of ‘Shift Yourself’ to ‘Crisp Yourself’, which had made Fin throw a drumstick at him and Owen had to stop playing because he was laughing so much. Right before George’s guitar solo, too. He’d been working on that for hours last night. But they’d restarted and George had nailed it, getting a mid-flow ‘woop’ from Fin, a post-song backslap from Sam, and an approving nod from Owen which was worth everything.

And the new song’s starting to take shape, Fin actually doing what he’s been asked for once, and Sam’s vocals sharp and angular against the staccato rattle of the chorus – exactly what George had wanted. And Owen, as always, brought magic. His idea to add a bar of silence to that final section, letting the song really tighten up before exploding into the last chorus, had been just what it needed.

The others have gone to Emi-Lou’s for chips. George had made his usual excuses, not wanting to sit with a glass of tap water while everyone else is eating. He can stretch Owen to a weekly breakfast – well, 33portion of toast – without too much pushback, but there are only so many meals you can cadge off mates before it starts taking the piss.

As he walks home, George hears the song in his head again, imagines the last few beats of silence filled with wild feedback. Maybe Fin could hit an open hi-hat just before the last chorus drops. It would be the kind of noise to suck you right in before everything really kicks off, the quickest of inhalations before a scream, the pupil’s dilation before the brain registers what the eye has seen. It will be awesome. Especially when they play it live.

Maybe the others do have a point about the name, though.

‘Darkitecture? What’s a Darkitecture?’

‘You know, like “architeture”…?’ George always felt awkward explaining himself.

‘But … dark…?’ Sam had offered. As he was the one who had to sing George’s lyrics, he always tried to make the effort to understand what was going on in them.

‘Yeah. I guess.’

‘What, like abandoned buildings and stuff?’

Fin dropped the drumstick he was trying to spin through his fingers. As he scrabbled under the kit to retrieve it, George addressed his answer to the bass drum. ‘Not really. It’s like the building is designed to be dark and to feel abandoned and ancient. Like, everything is always trying to be new and shiny all 34the time, but it always ends up just … old. Old and wrecked. So why not try designing it like that? From the start?’

Sam had nodded, apparently convinced. ‘And so, this guy in the song, he wants…? He wants to live in a building like that…?’

Fin, who had found his drumstick, sat looking at George for an answer. Owen was using his thumb to get a bit of dust off the neck of his bass and couldn’t care less. He wasn’t really into the ‘words’ side of things.

George took a breath. ‘It’s a metaphor. This guy – the one who’s singing the song…’

‘Me?’ Sam asked.

‘Well, yeah, but also, no. I guess I was writing this as someone else.’

‘As me?’ Sam asked again, the downside to his undeniable front-man cool being this occasional slip towards narcissism.  

‘No. Someone I made up. Look, maybe they’re fed up with how rubbish everything is at the moment. How crap everything is.’

‘Bit like your other songs, then?’ Fin asked, slowly.

‘Yeah. But I guess it’s kind of satirical, because he’s imaging this new housing estate and instead of being all shiny and cheerful it’s—’

‘Wait, houses can be cheerful?’35

‘Shut up, Sam. Basically he wants to build this miserable abandoned place where no one is ever going to live.’

‘Why not just call it “Shit Hole” then?’ Owen had been listening, after all.

‘Because then the metaphor doesn’t work.’

‘Yes, it does. No one wants to live in a shithole. Even I get it.’

Sam was nodding.

‘“Shit Hole” is a way better title.’ Fin stomped on the bass-drum twice. ‘Good song though. Ready to go again? One, two, three…’

‘You can’t call a song “Shit Hole”,’ George had shouted.

It had descended, then, into their usual conversation about how ‘punk’ they were all committed to being. Sam, as usual, spearheading the extreme, anti-product side of the argument. George said he just wanted to play a few shows that weren’t in the school hall, or to people who weren’t their friends and had just showed up because there was a party. He was fed up with being the musical accompaniment to free beer and drunken teenage fumblings.

As he walks home, George concedes that their edgier stuff does sound better. Maybe the others are right. Maybe you can call a song ‘Shit Hole’ and get it played on the radio or boosted on the streaming sites nowadays. He imagines the cheer a title like that would get from a crowd. Maybe not in the school hall 36though. Probably best not to introduce ‘Shit Hole’ the next time Mr Scott, head of the sixth form, tries to earn cool points by letting them play an assembly.

The first time they’d played an actual gig had been last year – a fortieth birthday of a friend of Sam’s mum. They’d been practising for months and fired out a handful of covers that kept the old folk moving for an hour or so. They’d even been paid for it, though they didn’t have a name back then and had just been introduced as ‘Sam’s band’. That had pissed George off. He’d written a song about it.

The money had bought them a PA system, microphones and speakers. All second-hand, of course, but now they can play house parties and set up their own gigs. That was the plan, anyway. If only they can persuade a proper venue to let them play.

Still, the house parties pay. Sometimes. Not that money’s the reason for doing it. Of course not. But music costs. All art costs, thinks George. It’s only been the odd fifty quid here and there, but it’s been reinvested. George has needed a few packs of guitar strings, a couple of effects pedals and the new guitar case he’s wearing on his back. Fin always needs new drumsticks, and he got a new cymbal to replace the one he dropped and dented after Sarah’s party a few months ago. And there’s the studio time that they’re saving for, of course. Once they’ve got some decent stuff recorded, not just shaky Instagram videos, they 37can send out some demos online, look for bigger gigs in bigger towns. Proper venues. It’s all part of the plan.

Things are going to get bigger. Soon. George knows it.

Especially if they get more songs like ‘Darkitecture’ under their belts. Or ‘Shit Hole.’ Whatever.

George knows he’s getting better at writing, and the band are getting their own sound, which is the important thing if you want people to recognise you. The A&R guys at the big labels want acts who’ll stand out. It’s still about the big labels, really, thinks George. They’ll handle distribution and all the touring, leaving them to do what they do best, which is make music. You can’t write songs like ‘Bootlace’, which is probably their most popular song – their anthem – while you’re worrying about your social media feeds and booking shows for yourself, can you?

George walks into the garage for a chocolate bar, his stomach having gotten the better of him after all. He knows there’s at least a few quid left in his account, and there’s probably not much to eat at home.

‘Bootlace’ is an awesome song. George knows this for certain. It’s simple, but effective. Catchy, energetic, fun: it’s a perfect first single. Bit like a chocolate bar, really. Not a lot of substance, maybe. It’s not going to put him on the map as a songwriter, but that will come later. ‘Bootlace’ will be the world’s first taste, and they’ll love it.38

Most of the sixth form know the words to ‘Bootlace’. Which isn’t hard; there are only about twenty-five. In fact, more and more people know most of the words to most of their songs now. And it’s such a buzz, hearing them chant his words back at him as he plays. To hear people singing his songs, their eyes closed, really belting the words out, arms aloft and dancing wildly in whoever’s garage or living room they’re in, getting it. And that’s what it’s really all about, isn’t it? Making that connection?

He pays at the self-checkout, pressing the buttons quickly before the annoying voice can finish a sentence, and he gets an idea for a new song title – ‘Check Yourself Out’, maybe. Or ‘Check-out Yourself’…? Maybe it doesn’t sound like one of their songs – more poppy and image-focussed, which isn’t really what the band are all about. But, George thinks, does that really matter? He can always write songs for other people alongside the stuff he’s doing with the band. That’s what all the greats do, isn’t it? They’ve got side-projects on side-projects on side-projects. He’d been reading last week about Beethoven – a letter that someone had written after meeting the great man in his apartment. The place was a complete wreck, apparently, and there’d been manuscript paper everywhere. This guy – the letter-writer – had asked Beethoven if he was working on anything new, and the big man had said ‘yeah, about five things’. He never worked on just one thing at a time, he’d said. Always had loads of projects 39on the go and just added to whichever one he fancied doing that morning. That’s how genius works.  

George smiles to himself as he starts up his own street. He isn’t saying he’s actually Beethoven. Not at all. That would be ridiculous. It’s merely an observation on how the creative brain is constantly looking for stimulation – constantly looking for something new. It seeks variety. Creativity, George thinks, comes from plugging into as many things as you can, and seeing what sparks jump out. Like that steely whistle you hear when a train is approaching – George can hear it now, to his right, a strip of wire fencing and some scrub between the pavement and the tracks – that rising note as the rails start to vibrate and sing. That’s like the feedback he’ll put into the quiet bit of ‘Darkitecture’. It’s probably where he got the idea from, hearing that metallic screech of impending arrival or departure, day in, day out. Now his brain has just bubbled it up to the surface when he’d needed it.

The train blasts past – not one that’s stopping here, but a fast service that only goes to the big places. And, George thinks, who can blame them? Who’d get off here if it could be avoided? Most people wouldn’t have any idea where here even is. Beethoven was born in Bonn, in Germany, and they’ve built huge memorials to him there. George wonders if they’ll do the same for him, or maybe keep his mum’s little terraced house that backs onto the trainlines as a kind of museum, like they did with John Lennon’s house in Liverpool. 40Or maybe they’ll just put up one of those blue plaques – ‘Here lived George Farmer – Musician’. Whatever, George will be long gone. Miles away, in London, or California, or New York maybe, writing songs that everyone will know. And connecting. Really connecting. Because that’s what it’s all about.

41

FIVE

As long as no one notices her, she’ll be fine.

For the past week, Beth has been planning her outfit to ensure the exact right level of anonymity for her first day at her new school. Then she’d realised, last night, that to plan the outfit would probably have the opposite effect, and that spontaneous, laissez faire anonymity is what she really should be going for. A studied attempt at blending in would probably lead to her standing out – a direct result (always) of an excess of effort in any circumstance.

She should have started at her local sixth form a few weeks ago, when the new school year started. That would have been much easier, but there were complications. There always are. Mum couldn’t leave her last job early, and the rental house wasn’t ready for them yet. So here she was, two weeks behind everyone else and ready to stick out like a sore thumb.

She plans to stand out at some point, of course. But it will not be this day.

So, this morning, she has opted for plain jeans, an unbranded, grey jumper, and canvas shoes. A little make-up, obviously, but not too much. And just two earrings in each ear – one stud and one medium-sized 42hoop. She looks in the hallway mirror. It’ll do, she thinks, which is exactly the impact she’s aiming for.

Her mother isn’t so convinced. ‘You’re going like that?’  

They’d been shopping last week especially, and Beth had let her mum buy her what she wanted – which was lots of things from all the shops that adults think kids like. It had felt a little awkward, her mum walking fierce into every shop (the same way she walked into everything), shouting above the loud music in one, complaining about the ridiculously dark lighting in another. But Beth knew better than to complain and took the armfuls of clothing dutifully into the changing rooms. She’d played on her phone rather than try anything on and emerged from each curtained booth after the requisite amount of time with a token number of pieces on her ‘yes’ pile.

‘What happened to the things we bought? That dress was lovely.’

‘I’ll wear them, Mum. Promise. I just need to check the vibe first, you know? I’m not sure if it’s a “dresses” kind of place.’ Beth had been to enough schools to know that no one wore those kinds of dresses. A few checks of the most popular Instagram accounts of students at her new school had been enough to double confirm that this rule held as good here as anywhere else.

‘Oh, well…’ is her mother’s standard response.43

Besides, Beth is the unrivalled master of the precise etiquette required for starting a new school. She’s certainly had enough practice.