a modern gothic, queer horror story
in which our hero bleeds onto strange jewelry and visits a circle of hell (a wetherspoons)
It’s strange to write about artists or musicians because you can’t show that art or music or accurately describe it. If you could depict a piece of music in words, it would just be a poem. So when people ask me what Storms on Venus sound like I usually just blink at them. The closest I ever came to describing it without sounding like a freak was ‘if AWOLnation were folk punk’. Now I’ve found another band to make a comparison - if Cheap Dirty Horse had two keyboardists doing some EDM stuff on top.
Well, one keyboardist now.
Anyway, I lifted the start of this scene from one of their live shows.
So I’m pleased to announce that my novel, the Devil Sings in D Minor, is available for pre-order. Chapter One is available for free below as a taster. If you want the full book but don’t want to buy from Amazon, email me and we’ll work something out.
About the Devil Sings in D Minor:
Dee, a grieving musician, accidentally sells his soul to the Devil for YouTube subscribers. Everywhere he goes he is followed by the bloodied spectre of the band's old frontman who died in mysterious circumstances. But no matter what the ghost does, Dee believes that his life as a middling, mediocre YouTube celebrity is worth shredding his soul for. This is chiefly because Dee doesn't believe in ghosts, rituals, or the supernatural. He thinks he's hallucinating; that the Devil is some weird bloke he met at Cash Converters.
He signs with a strange talent agency, who promise him fame, so long as he does exactly what he's told. Dee doesn't think much of it, too busy repressing both his hallucinations, and his feelings for his manager. Then his manager offers him a magic spell to make everything go away.
And it works! Until it doesn't. Soon after, Dee wakes up in a hotel and doesn't recognise himself in the mirror. Neither does his best friend. And it gets worse from there.
If Dee wants his soul back he must find out what really happened to the band's frontman. If he wants his life back, he'll have to figure out what his hot, rich, older manager really wants.
If he wants his body back? He'll have to do the hardest thing of all - and come to terms with his own repressed desires, dreams - and memories.
The Devil Sings in D Minor is a queer horror novel about how the Devil lives in the shadows we refuse to look at, especially the ones behind our own eyes.
Chapter One
31st October — Tuesday
‘Disney sells you movies about heroic pirates, but if you torrent they’ll grab you by the privates - I’m sorry, I don’t know that dance. I don’t do TikTok.’
It doesn’t look like the drunk girls in the front know it that well either, but the one in the blue minidress is making a valiant effort to keep her friends in rhythm, even if she’s as drunk as they are. This extra set is going better than I thought it would. A small crowd has gathered, almost filling the small dance floor of the Star and Wren. People usually ignore the pub singer as you’re twiddling away on a soulful Britney cover, so it was nice of Gabs to let me play some of my band’s music to finish off my first set back after… After. I thought it would be weird to play our songs without the band to back me up, something so obviously missing. But there’s been something missing in our performances for a long time. Since … after.
I finish the song to a few cheers and the drunk girls lick up their cheap margaritas from where they have spilled onto their wrists. One of them daps her lipstick dry with a napkin.
‘You still alright for letting me have another, Gabs?’ The landlord eyes me as she wipes down the bar. ‘So long as it doesn’t go ‘rob your local landlord blind’, mate.’ The crowd laughs.
I bang out a few folky chords on the keyboard. ‘Nick everything not nailed down,’ I improvise, and the crowd turns it into a chant. A joker at the bar receives a fresh pint and runs out of the patio door without paying, to cheers and applause. ‘It’ll be the last drink you’ll ever have,’ the landlord roars, and the old boy outside waves through the window with his coaster.
‘I was thinking about something slower to finish,’ I say, raising my voice above the chattering crowd.
‘Thank fuck!’ shouts Gabs.
‘It was something I’d written for the band’s last album that didn’t make the cut. And, then, well, we were … kinda busy. Just…after. And it got pushed to the bottom of the list. So, I still like it even if its not our usual rowdy stuff - I’m really fucking selling this aren’t I. ‘Please listen to me song, it’s a lickle bit shit.’ The crowd seems to relax a little as they laugh, and I spread my sweaty fingers across the keys and start the only love song I have ever written. I’ve had the same girlfriend since year 10 and we’ve never been the love song sort, not even at prom, or that wedding we went to last, both of us drowning in sweat beneath layers of cheap polyester. So I’ve never known where this song came from. Never understood what kind of yearning ws locked up inside me, what starlit nights I hoped for, what warm body I was aching for - if not her. Perhaps that’s why no-one in the band wanted this song because they couldn't understand it.Can’t understand me.
But it seems to be going well tonight, the drunk girls are swaying with their arms wrapped around each other, a hydra of sisterhood. The thief has returned, the whole pub seems to be looking at me.
I give them my horrible wanting that I don't know what to do with and they take it gratefully and give me the light of their eyes in return, And everything is alright with the world for one precious minute.
Then I look across into the group of people sprawled across the chairs and I see him. His tall body, his long legs, his wide hands.
Our eyes meet, it’s electric, my stomach is ripped from me. Like a storm goes through me. I can’t breathe.
Blood has soaked his hoodie from that awful, awful wound. There’s so much of it. He’s holding - He stands up-
And all hell breaks loose.
…
'I'm going to fix it all. You'll see.'
I look up at the sky, and watch grey drapes crowding out a stark orange sunset, mulling on the vague memory that somebody was with me a second ago, an hour ago. Somebody spoke. It sounded like Jack. I wait for him to appear, looking over each shoulder in turn, watching for the deep green of the pine trees to creep into the grey green of his coat as he steps out into the streetlight. But it doesn’t. In fact, there’s no-one there at all.
The world comes back into focus in fits and starts; the cold pavement rough beneath my hands, the awkward angle of my back,the creeping realisation that I'm languishing in the gutter outside of a pub. I don’t know if I’m shaking or shivering. I try to wrap my blazer around me. It’s busted at the elbow, but the shirt beneath has saved my skin.
Worry prickles up my spine, but as memories begin to meander back to me, I relax a little. It's autumn, the nights draw in fast so it's not late, and I am not drunk - not drunk enough, nor taking up prime real estate in the gutter for a genuine drunk. Not yet anyway.
My body complains in new and unfamiliar ways as I stand up. I twist and stretch, then walk across the roundabout to the war memorial in the middle of the crossroads to try and assess the damage in a safer location. Looks like I tripped and fell mid panic attack, my stomach echoing a horrible swooping sensation as my battered head tries to sort through a chain of events.
Panic threatens to overwhelm me again — how did it happen? What if I fell in the road and there was a car? Who was around me? Did I do something? I read the names of the fallen in the dying light to remind myself I'm still alive, to remember that my warm fingers can still grip the cold stone. I suck in breaths, cold against my teeth, breaths that are given to me and denied other people, people more worthy than me.
I couldn't even sing in a half-empty pub. What's wrong with me? Even if I could have finished the song, it was clear they didn't like it.
Was I ever any good? Truly? Did my voice leave me when I found Jack's body, or have I always been propped up by him? Just a back-up singer.
A back-up friend.
I lean my back against the cenotaph. It's probably disrespectful, but after all the years I've spent working in graveyards, the dead can hold me steady as I use the structure to slide down to the floor to rest my twisted knee. My phone buzzes, and I reach into my coat pocket to get it out.
'Fuck!'
Something has stabbed me. I snatch my hand out. There's a safety pin sticking out of it, between my thumb and the base of my hand. A part of my hand I hadn't realised had so much flesh on it until now. The safety pin is almost completely embedded. How do I get it out? Do I just pull it? Will that fuck up a tendon? I need those if I'm ever gonna play the keyboard again.
Maybe this is a sign I shouldn't play again.
My hand throbs again and I feel sick. The point of the pin presses against my skin from the inside. It feels horrible, but that's a good sign, right? Means it's lodged close to the surface?
I grit my teeth. Touching it hurts, but I persevere and yank it out. I drop it on the floor and clutch the wound with my other hand. There's not as much blood as I thought there would be. Not like -
I nudge the little fucker with my toe, and recognise the charm that swings from it. Jack's girlfriend had it, some kind of Satanist thing, and Sarah found it in the band room the other day. Asked me to give it back to her.
I gingerly unhook the charm part from the safety pin. The night has truly fallen now, the streetlights my only companions. I run my fingers over the design, some kind of fancy star with a Devil's head in the centre. It's smeared with my blood so I wipe it on my trouser leg as best I can and slip it back into my pocket. The safety pin can stay where it bloody well is, I'm not having a repeat of this next time I try to answer my phone.
Shit, my phone.
It’s Sarah. She says Gabs told her about what happened in the performance. And she’s asking why I was performing anyway.
******
I step gingerly into the basement we call a band room. I can't read Sarah's expression anymore. Ant just glares at me. They are as alike in personality as they are in looks. Sarah is striking with her deep skin and eyes that are almost black, wearing her bright red leather jacket like armour. She used to hide behind long hair almost as long as I've known her, then shaved the lot off a few weeks ago. It suits her — she has a face that's as open as her heart, a beauty that needs no distraction like hair or jewelry. Ant, however, looks like someone poured too much blamange into a dish and left it for two weeks. His shiny gammon face set into a scowl a long time ago, and his lime green ponytail just adds a touch of limp lettuce to his look.
'Where'd you trip?' asks Sarah.
'In the gutter,' I wince as I sit down.
Ant snorts. 'Plastered, were you? That's why you got up and started singing?'
'No, Gabs wanted me to sing a few songs. I-'
'So it was premeditated?'
'Fuckin' Christ, Ant, I'm on trial for murder?'
'So you did some covers in a pub? That doesn't sound so bad.That’s progress.' She gives Ant a funny look, but he doesn't notice.
'No, I performed one of the songs I wrote for the new album. The slow one. They hated it.'
'We could have told you that. You knew we weren't keen on including it on the album in the first place,' says Ant. ‘What we need is the old stuff you used to write for Jack. If you’d just let us use the last ones you wrote for him-’
‘No.’
'So why did you tell us you still weren't ready to start performing again last month, and then sing one of ours at the pub?' asks Sarah. ‘It’
'I wasn't ready then! I thought I'd ... try it out, and the same thing happened. I bottled it. That's how I tripped, I had to get out of there.' I can’t tell them I saw him. I just can’t.
Ant sighs and stands. 'This shit again. We can't keep going through it. You know it, Sarah! We need the money.'
She flinches. 'It's been almost a year, Dee. We have to keep going. Jack would want us to do it.'
Guilt claws at my stomach. Sarah loved Jack, he was her everything. And even she can keep it together enough to perform. I've no right to feel this bad.
'I'll try to perform live again. Maybe if we could just get together and write a new album and put it on YouTube or do some covers-’'
'Trying isn't good enough,' snaps Ant, already half-way out of the door. 'You're either ready for the gig next month, or you're not. Have fun with your shitty YouTube channel.' The door slams behind him, and Sarah starts.
She pats my shoulder. 'You tried. You did try. I just wish you'd told me about it first. I would have been there to watch.’
‘That would have made it worse. That’s why I did it on my own.’
‘What the fuck do you mean?’
‘Nay, not like that.’ I put my hand on her shoulder. ‘I mean - all I can think about is disappointing you.If you weren’t there - well, I wouldn’t have had to tell you about it.’
‘You used to tell me everything.' She looks guilty, but I can't work out why. 'Gabs sent a picture of what happened. She said you just … stopped, and then stared for ages.' She waggles her phone at me, and there I am. Mousy haired, black velvet blazer over a brown patterned shirt, jeans more hole than denim.
'You look tired, Dee. What’s happening?'
I don't look tired. I look haunted. My skin is pale and the black bags under my eyes are obvious even in the picture. My hair is a skosh too greasy, got a lovely case of adult acne about the jaw too. I don’t remember the photo being taken. I don’t remember anything, really, except-
'Get some sleep, love,' she says, pats my shoulder and leaves.
Best idea I've heard all night. My body is so ready for sleep, I could sleep right here. Maybe I will.
My phone chirps again.
It’s a series of texts from Theon:
‘back in Blighty now, sis just left so it's safe for u to join. at the Moon Under Water for some bloody reason
if u wanna I mean join I mean
Sarah just sent me a pic and u look rough
nice to see u playing though’
I send back a quick ‘am comin out’ and get a text in return:
glad I was sat down
wish you'd told me face to face
I send him a middle finger emoji.
*****
I pick Theon out easily across the pub. So has everyone else, though he seems not to have noticed the blokes peering over their shoulders at him. Theon probably thinks he's dressed casually — khaki shorts, insipid salmon polo, ugly socks stretching out of his boots. But when your sunglasses cost more than some people's rent you're gonna draw attention in a Wetherspoons.
'Here,' I say, clapping him on the shoulder. 'Put your jumper around your waist instead of your shoulders, you'll look slightly less of a knobhead.'
He laughs, the light of the ugly chandelier catching in his deep brown eyes. 'My sister decided I needed some fashion tips.'
'Why?' Theon's strange sock collection aside, the man's always been the type to look good in a bin bag. Not that I have noticed personally — his long string of boyfriends speak for themselves.
Theon shrugs, and takes the jumper from around his shoulders and hangs it over the chair. 'So I could meet a better quality of fellow,' he says, extra vowelly on purpose.
'The fuck does that mean?'
'It means she's sick of seeing my heart broken, apparently.'
'Didn't know it was your heart you was using,' I steal his glass and down the rest of his wine.
He glares at me and hands me his card. 'Mine's a ... fuck it, double vodka and lemonade.'
I order at the bar, and as I take the drinks back I wonder if this is truly a vodka conversation or if, by the collection of wine glasses at the table, he's just already gone through all the shit wine they serve here. I order a set of shots as well so I can catch up. The bartender gives me a funny look as I take all three one after the other.
'Cheers,' I say, as I sit down. We clink our glasses together, his clear, mine dark.
'You still drink Jack and Coke? Thought you would have known better after that party in second year.'
I stick my fingers up at him as I drink. 'Didn't want to be on beers if you're getting pissed out of your tree on a Tuesday. A Tuesday.'
'My, we are old, aren't we, Dee. So, what happened at the band meeting?'
'I thought you had something you wanted to tell me.'
'I do, so you have to tell me something in return.'
I put both hands on the table and lean forward. 'Thing is Theon, I don't care what you've gotta tell me. You're the one who wanted to tell m- Ow!' He pushes me back into my chair.
'It's probably connected to what went down today.'
'Of course it's connected, who else do we know?'
'Sarah and Ant are dating.'
Bastard waited until I'd taken a sip of my drink, and I choke. He pats me across the back. 'Fuck off, gorilla arms.' I wave him away. 'They told you and not me?'
He nods. 'It's a recent development, and from what I heard things were ... spicy at the meeting today.'
'But Jack's only been dead a year. And Ant was his friend.'
He purses his lips and tilts his head, curls falling across his forehead. 'Jack did cheat on her and everything.'
My shoulders sag. 'You're so reasonable, Theon.'
'So what happened at the meeting?'
'Well, apparently someone told you all about it.'
'Is that Jack and Coke you're drinking or your own personal vintage whine?'
I sigh. 'Look, I just thought with you off doing the drum competition I'd let Gabs badger me into a shift of pub singing. I didn't think anyone would turn up, never mind care. It was a- a - practice. I tried to explain it to them but they were really fucking annoyed with me. Everyone keeps asking why I can do it for a stream but I can’t do it live. As if I fucking know!’
I don’t know why Jack only bothers me at live performances. But I’m not fucking asking, cause that would mean I’d have to tell someone. This is why I don't drink Jack and Coke. But in the time it takes me to start picking up all of my feelings and put them back into the can, Theon speaks.
'You can do it for streaming because the audience is just little bits of text on a screen, and we're not there counting on you. It's no small thing to transform from a back-up singer and keyboardist to a lead for both, even if circumstances weren't so...' He sighs, attempts to run his fingers through his curly hair. He finds his sunglasses instead, and snatches them off, confused. His freckled nose is slightly burned and there's the beginnings of a tan mark tracing the shape of the sunglasses on his pale face. His sister should know why he rarely wears sunglasses. She's not blind.
'I can't fill Jack's shoes.'
'So stop trying. They don't suit you.'
I rapidly backpedal and try to keep the conversation on lighter topics. It works for a few more rounds, until Theon is leaning across the table, one hand playing with a beermat, the other hand holding his head up. He's that mixture of tired and drunk that makes you boneless. 'How's it with Hannah?'
'We're going to Luton at the weekend. Look at 'ouses.' That makes him sit up.
'Again? I thought you'd given up on London.'
'Yes, on London. Clean yer ears out. She wants to try that next.'
'Still down South, though.'
'Yeah?'
'You don't like down South. When's the last time you saw her?'
''Bout a month ago.'
'And what did you do together?'
'Look at 'ouses.'
'And?'
'And wot?'
'What did you do for your date?'
'We didn't have a date, Theon, we've been together for nearly eight years. That sort of romance slides on out of your life as soon as you march past your first anniversary.'
He frowns at me. I wonder if I've upset him — none of his relationships have ever passed the six month mark.
'Do you two even have sex anymore?'
'It's fine, it's fine, it's grand.' I take a big swig of my drink.
'It's not fine at all,' he says, 'it's getting worse.' He pats my hand and then just leaves his on top of mine as he takes a sip. He's that drunk he's probably just forgotten it's there, his limbs scattered across the table like his belongings, his but not quite attached to him anymore. His sunnies are balanced on the relief in the wall, his wallet open in the middle of the table, phone face down and covered in something sticky, legs crossed at a weird angle and sticking out into the aisle, warm hand resting on top of mine.
'Haphazard,' I venture. That's how he is when he's drunk. Sober, he'd be trying to make all the beer mats align. But now he's haphazard or something.
He turns his face in my direction, eyes closed, trying to get his ear closer to me. I must've said it out loud. 'Lackadaisical,' I try to say, but I don't need Theon's gigglefit to tell me I've come nowhere close to it. After his giggles subside, he moves his hand to wipe tears away from his eyes. My hand tingles, maybe the blood is rushing back or something. I can remember exactly how it felt and when I close my eyes I'm not sure if it's still there or not.
As the night moves on, we perform the special art of time travel mastered only by drunks. Suddenly we're in the beer garden, sharing a plate of chips, then back at the table with his hand resting on mine, lost in a shared memory of times past. Are we watching a fight in the car park, or just remembering one we've seen before? I try to manage time by sorting out who's in the gents with me each time. White shirt, black shirt, City strip, Liverpool strip. Fuck, I suppose there was a fight.
Time starts to speed up again after a pint of water as I'm packing Theon into a cab. I have a limit on my bank account lower than my booze tolerance, and Theon does not.
'He'll not vom,' I reassure the driver, hoping I'm not wrong, bouncing off the side of the cab. That was fun. I do it again. 'But 'e will go sleep n' n' and he's no' polite when woken up.'
Theon grabs hold of my arm and I shrug him off, pushing his limbs back in the cab. It's like trying to put a cat in a carrier for the vet.
'Tell 'im it's a fiver more than wha'ever the meter tells ya it is,' I say, and Theon calls me a cunt, enunciating crisply to prove he's sober.
I make sure Theon has his stuff, phone, wallet, remind him his sunglasses are on his head. Takes me a few goes to shut the door right, but I wave him off merrily.
I think I've forgotten something, but it's only Tuesday — alright, Wednesday by now — and you get what you get for this kind of -
Tomfoo -
Tomfoolery.
I walk home, the cold breeze chilling my blood, the alcohol burning bright against my skin all the same. The walk home is long and by the time I make it to the crossroads, the seat of my shame, the buzz is not quite gone but changed. The cut on my left hand, just under my thumb still twinges. I watch the stars in the sky slowly reveal themselves as I walk further and further away from the city. Knowing that there's even more stars hidden waiting to glimmer only in the depths of the countryside stirs me somehow. There's something about the night, this scene, that steals my breath.
I cross the roundabout, lean one hand against the war memorial. It feels strange, but it looks the same as always. I snatch my hand back, and movement in the graveyard beyond catches my attention. There's no-one there. There's no-one anywhere, the Star and Wren has long since shut, anyone who lives in the streets beyond is curled up in a warm bed. There's a gentle sacredness about it, and it spurs me into song.
The one I tried to perform earlier tonight — yesterday evening — whatever. My own song, a love song for something I have never had. I can admit it in the dark, the stars a thousand silver spotlights, the streetlamps a sort of yellow wash. The stage is set and the performance goes off without a hitch.
Stuck somewhere between sober and drunk I can't rely much on technique or art, but here in the cold folds of night, I can give my honesty. It's the only kind of offering that seems appropriate, my loneliness turned sharp and beautiful. What a gift. Ha. I only hope I remember this in the morning.
Song over, a green car sweeps around the roundabout and heads in the direction of home. I bow and take my leave; the ushers need to get ready for the matinee. I don't look back over my shoulder.
Somehow it would ruin it.
Wednesday 1st November
I dreamt of Jack. He was headless, which didn't surprise me, but his head talked to me, which did.
We were sat on a bench on the seafront, under a big concrete overhang. The pink sky faded into the grey sea. Jack sat slightly hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap to keep them warm from the biting sea air. But his head was at his feet, turned slightly to look at me. He always had such a piercing gaze. There were no seagulls squawking, the waves hit the barrier with lots of foam but no sound at all.
I don't remember most of what he said to me, only that it was important and I needed to remember it and it vanished as soon as it left his mouth. It was early dawn, before the sun had even peeked over the horizon. There were no stars in the sky, because all of them were spilling out of Jack's mouth as he spoke.
I'm woken up by a pigeon flying into my window. I peer out blearily, groggily but it's pointless. The concrete is grey, the pigeon is grey, the morning is grey. I don't go down to do something about it. I feel guilty and tap my nails on the windowsill accordingly, but I know there's nothing I could have done. By the time I got down eight floors (lift broke again), it would have died anyhow. Or maybe it died instantly. There's this common idea that if your neck breaks you die at that exact moment. It's not true. It takes minutes. You're usually unconscious - if you’re lucky. Depends on the angle and suchlike.
Ask me how I know. Or don’t, actually.
When I turn away from the window I see a figure staring at me. I'm wide awake - suicidal pigeons will do that to you. The figure is unmistakably there. Shadow like, but darker than the actual shadows around it, its eyes two lighter shades of grey. I blink again, and it's gone. Not this again. I know I'm not dreaming. My palm right underneath my thumb hurts too much for that. It's all tender to the touch and hotter than the skin around it. There’s a fierce headache behind my eyes. I sit on the bed and tip out of the plastic bag that had yesterday’s ciggies in. I hold it open in my lap and I sit there. Because I’m hungover and I might be sick. That’s why. Nothing to do with anything I’ve seen, because I don’t see nothing.
The rest of my morning goes much the same way. I drop my favourite cup. I bang my head on an open cupboard door. Thoughts hound me, mixed in with memories I don't want to remember, things I should do, things I shouldn't do.
The flat is too small to avoid them, a kitchenette with a table too big for it, a sofa, two armchairs and a coffee table tea-stained to Hell and back, all scrunched together. I daren't go into my bedroom again. I tap, tap, tap, and I check the windows, and when none of it works I press my nails into my arm until the only things I can hear is my breathing and the weather outside.
It’s atrocious, the strong wind causing the rain to crash horizontally into my - our - the - windows. Gone is yesterday's Indian summer, that's for sure. Autumn is back with a vengeance. A few leaves and scraps of rubbish are thrown into the air before being torn down to the ground as the wind shifts and changes.
I finally sit down to a cold porridge, because I forgot to put gas on the meter again. The phone rings, making me knock my tea over in surprise. Sighing, I dab at the spill with a cloth and only succeed in making the table dirtier and missing the call. It's Hannah.
She’s the only one I can tell about this. She’ll know what to do.
I call her back.
'I'm sorry,' I say. 'But you wouldn't believe what just happened.' I go on to explain all about the bird, and the figure, and the dream.
'You know, that's really sad. You don't have to make things up to make your life sound more interesting. You can tell me what really happened, and I'd be just as happy to hear it.'
'It did happen.' I hate how small my voice is.
'Are you really seeing stuff again? I thought you grew out of that in university,' she says.
'It never ... really ... stopped. I just ... stopped noticing it. Especially after the therapy stopped.'
'Well, it's because you're not talking about it, that's why. You dwell on stuff too much. Talking about it will only make it worse.'
'Well?' she says after a while.
'I'm not talking about it.'
'Fuck off,' she says, angry.
'I saw Theon last night.'
'Mmm,' she's banging about in the bathroom I think, probably brushing her hair. 'Did he enjoy his holiday?'
'I think so? He had sunburn on his nose. Here, do you want to go to this place I heard about next time you come up? They have adventure pool. You know, like adventure golf, but like, snooker.'
There's a pause, and then she says: 'I’m not coming back up. My life is here. You need to grow up and come down already, John.’
I hate it when she uses my first name, but I don't correct her, 'cause I can hear a male voice in the background. I perk my ears up, trying to hear who it is and where she is. Is that not her bathroom?
'Well, I have to go to a seminar on the Alt-Tariq finds.'
'Who's that?'
'A colleague. You know, someone who has the same career as me? A career at all?'
'Hey, I have a job! I don't clean graveyards for fun!'
'Look, John, I'm not getting into this with you now. I'm late.'
She hangs up.
Thursday 2nd November
The band room is tidy, but crowded full of amps and stands and a big, square table in the middle of it with a bus seat that Jack dragged out of a skip squished between it and the wall. The financial files and receipt books are scattered all over the table, which is odd. Sarah was insistent on taking over that job, she said the rest of us were messy, and that Theon can't add up. Which is true. You don’t get a lot of practice when the amount in your bank account can only ever read as ‘enough’ or ‘call Dad’.
I start to sort through the mess.
'Dee!' Sarah exclaims as she comes through the door, making me jump.
'Sorry, I thought you needed help.' I wave a paper around, having no idea what she was even attempting, spreading it all out like this.
'Give me that bloody - oh my god, look at your hand!' She clucks over my palm, washing it (hurts), patting at it with an alcohol wipe (stings), and bandaging it (burns). It's not half as bad as it looked last night.
I say as much and she glares at me. 'Last night - why didn't you go to Minor Injuries?.'
'I don't need to clog up the NHS with a tiny cut on my thumb, Sarah. It's just...healing weird.'
'How did you even cut it?'
'Got it stuck on that damn charm of ... hers you gave me to give back. She probably won't want it now it's covered in blood. Sorry.'
'I don't care, really. I just want the last bits of him gone.'
'Not all of him, surely. I know he was ...' An arsehole, but the words still stick in my throat and my eyes burn.
'I'm not going to burn the last of his stuff or anything. It's just - it's time it paid rent, you know? He never did.'
'He was going to make it big.'
She rolls her eyes. 'And lived on beans on toast in the meantime. And whatever beer money he scrounged off you. And yet sometimes I'd pay just about anything to see him one last time. I can't... I can't grieve. I can't hate him. It's just there, fighting each other inside my chest, all of the time.'
'I see him all the time.'
Fuck. It just slipped out. She’ll think I’m nuts.
'I suppose it comforts you. He never hurt you.'
'No, he's often... as it happened.'
She rubs her neck.
'Yes. Besides, he still owes me a grand.'
Her jaw drops. 'What? Why don't I know about this? It isn't in the files.' She starts whirling papers around.
'We didn't put it in the files. He didn't want you to know. It doesn't matter though. It's not like he can pay it back.'
'I'll pay it back.'
'Don't be daft. Just give me your rent for the room on time this month though, because I got a nasty letter off the landlord the other week. Do you want to put the finances in your name now, or...?
She purses her lips. 'I'll get you the money. And the rent.'
I clap her on the shoulder. 'Don't be silly. Hey, I'm off to Luton soon, but let's go out when I'm back, yeah? Just us. Like old times.'
She nods, distracted with a paper she's found in the mess I'm glad to be leaving behind. Maybe Hannah’s right.
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