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Twenty-seven

Joah

Don’t remember much of last night, do I? Got well pissed. Definitely fucked Pip. Don’t remember it, mind—but she was naked in my bed this morning, just—rolled over and kissed me like we’re summat we well aren’t.

Pinched me eyes at her. “Did we—?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, dead pleased with herself, wasn’t she?

Nodded once. “How many times?”

She frowned. “You don’t remember?”

“Nope.” Shook me head at her. “Don’t remember a fuckin’ thing.”

She rolled her eyes, proper dramatic. “Just once.”

Bit surprising, that.

“Said you wanted to take things slow…”

Things ? What fuckin’ things—?

Gave her a look. “Don’t sound like me…”

“I know.” She laughed like she thought it was mad too.

See, took about two bottles of scotch to get me head to fuckin’ black out. Only way to stop seeing it—Ysolde getting fucked every which way, all over the Theatre of Dreams.

Roll into The Hacienda ’round six, on me own. Pip’s bound to be kicking about somewhere, but she’s latching on in a way I fuckin’ don’t want her to. Told her to go on ahead without me.

Make me way into the green room, peel off me sunglasses. Overhead lights are fuckin’ blindin’—squint up at ’em, fumbling for the dimmer till I get ’em down to summat reasonable.

Don’t clock it straight off, but the whole fucking room’s watchin’ me.

“Alrigh’, sunshine.” Richie grins from the far end of the room.

“Fuck yourself,” I say, heading straight for him anyway. Toss meself down next to him, legs sprawled.

Rich throws me a flat smile. “Don’t you look fresh as owt…”

Give him a little once-over, slow enough to make it sting. “Aye, well, you look like shite, so s’pose that’s why I’m the front man.”

He sniffs a laugh, but I know that proper fucked him off.

“On it last night, were ya?” Rich presses.

“Oh, he was on it,” Pippa chimes from across the room, eyein’ me in this way I wish she fuckin’ wouldn’t. Didn’t even clock she were there, so that tells ya plenty about I’m feelin’ about Pippa Sparrow at the minute.

“Oooh…” Loxy coos, perched next to her.

Don’t like they’re mates. Both of ’em do me fuckin’ head in on their own, but together—? Christ. Couldn’t tell ya if it’s the hangover or the fact I’m staring down the barrel of day two without the only girl I reckon I’ve ever properly loved, but either way—fuck me. They’re painful.

“Oi.” I nod at Pippa. “Get us a tea with lemon, will you?”

She nods, beamin’ now—happy to be needed.

Just want her to fuck off, don’t I—?

And don’t give me that look—she knew what this was. Broke up with me girlfriend fuckin’ yesterday . She’s a fucking idiot if she thought last night was owt more than a quick shag to get one up on Ysolde.

“Oi, Jo—” Chops nods his chin at me, and I can tell from his face he’s fuckin’ pissed about somethin’. Takes it the most seriously, our kid. Fucking loves the music.

“You missed sound check,” he tells me, all stern-like.

I breathe out, bored. “I sound checked yesterday.”

“Yeah, and now it’s today.”

“Crackin’ work, Sherlock—” Pinch me eyes at him like he’s thick. “Dead astute, that…”

“Joah—” He keeps at it. “Mate, today’s a new day with amps that buzz, mics that hum, and a fuckin’ kick drum that’s gone walkabout!”

Roll me eyes. “Mate, we got one record—we sing the same fuckin’ songs every night. Give it a rest.” Grimace at him a bit. “Sorry ’bout that kick drum, though. Fuck, you better find it.”

Richie snickers next to me as Chops huffs off, muttering to himself.

In walks Heddie with a rack of clothes.

I sigh when I see her—don’t even know why. Feel knackered just thinkin’ about her. Probably shouldn’t. Probably should take her back to me room later, you know? Keep me mind off things…

She plucks a couple of jackets off the rack and strides over, grabs me hand, and pulls me to my feet. Starts fussing about, shiftin’ me ’round without saying a word.

Don’t say owt back meself, just watch her moving ’round me—watch her ignorin’ me on purpose, wondering what the fuck she’s playin’ at.

Unzips the jacket I’m wearing, puts me in a different one like I’m her very own paper fuckin’ doll.

Then she looks up at me for the first time, voice low, says, “Heard you and that girl broke up.”

“Which girl?” I ask, playing dumb.

She rolls her eyes. “You know— that girl.”

Dunno why that pisses me off—Heddie calling her that girl. Maybe cos she’s not just that girl , is she? She’s the only girl on the fuckin’ planet who’s ever mattered.

Give her a hard look. “You know her name.” I stare her down—dunno why—just fuckin’ angry, I s’pose. Maybe I’ll lean into it, be who they reckon I am anyway. What is it they call me again— belligerent? Aye, go on then.

“Say it,” I tell her.

She shifts, uncomfortable. “What?”

“You know her name,” I snap. “If you’re so fuckin’ chuffed me and her’re done, least you can do is say it.”

Heddie shoves a pair of jeans into me hands.

“You’re a prick.” She gives me a glare before she turns and runs off.

“Yeah—” I call after her, then glance ’round the room at everyone staring like I’ve grown a second head. “Why’s everyone so fuckin’ surprised by that these days?”

“Cos you’ve gotten prickier,” Richie says, calm as you like.

I scowl at him. “Piss off.”

He watches me in that way I fucking hate. “You alright?”

Asks it like he actually gives a shit.

“I said piss off .”

Rich runs his tongue over his teeth, proper annoyed. He don’t like being talked to like that. I know I’m gonna fuckin’ pay for it later—dunno how, but I will. I can always tell.

“And you’ve forgotten, little brother, that you’re here cos I let you be .”

Hate it when he says shite like that. Mostly cos it’s a load of fucking bollocks, but also cos I’m a bit worried it might be true.

Richie nods his chin at me. “You talked to her?”

“None of your fuckin’ business,” I spit back.

He breathes out through his nose. “So no .”

I look at him, proper incredulous now. “Fuck off!” I snap, louder this time.

Everyone says I’m the prick, right? I’m the one with the fuckin’ bad rep and the ego the size of a lorry but it ain’t just me, you get me?

He’s got a bit o’ proud in him and all, and most the time, Richie don’t bite, but if I push him far enough—fuck.

And he gets that look in his eye—I know it—pushed that boat out a bit far tonight, didn’t I?

Rich chuckles, proper smug—pushes himself up off the couch as he stares me down.

“Tonight’s gonna be fun.”

***

The Hacienda’s rammed tonight, sweat hanging thick in the air, walls vibrating with the noise. Second night, sold-out crowd, and we’re fuckin’ flying, man. Should’ve been flying, anyway. Trying not to be too in me fuckin’ head, but I am.

I miss her. Don’t miss people, do I—? But I miss her. Wish she was here, wish she was backstage waiting for me or at side of the stage watchin’ me—and then I fuckin’ hate meself for all of it. Hate her for it too. Two nights in a row, somehow me fuckin’ show’s all about her.

So get this. We’re halfway through the set—I’ve just finished “Freight Train.” It’s all going pretty good, like well good, considering I’m a bit high and not all the way sober, you know what I mean?

And then I see her.

Her. Ysolde. In the wings. Other side of the stage from me, watchin’.

Not us, alright—? You can fucking be sure of that. She’s not watching the band , she’s watching me . And of course she is, like—who the fuck else would she be watching, yeah?

And you’d think I’d be chuffed, wouldn’t ya? Seein’ her. That she’s here, that she came back—wanted her to come, didn’t I?

Careful what you wish for, but—cos she’s not alone.

She fuckin’ brought him.

Our eyes catch—jolts through me, this mad electricity, and I look away fast—fuck.

Dunno what to do. What do I do—? I’m a fuckin’ deer in the headlights out here, so I just sing the next song on the setlist.

Fuckin’ tank “Cheap Thrills,” don’t I? Cos I just keep lookin’ on over at her—and you know what? Fuck it, I’ll say it—I am scared of her.

The way she stares at me—holds my fuckin’ gaze—makes me feel like a wee lad again. In the worst fuckin’ ways, like she can see straight through me and I’m about two-foot-fuck-all, you get me?

She’s staring at me like she thinks I’m shit. Maybe I am—? So what’s she fuckin’ here for then?

Only one answer, innit. To fuck with me.

And it’s workin’.

Properly workin’.

I’m lookin’ over at her so much, I’m fuckin’ up the song—forgettin’ the lines, losing me place—and she just keeps on staring, watchin’ me set meself on fuckin’ fire.

And she’s there, battin’ her eyes, happy as fuckin’ Larry.

It’s workin’ so much that—get this, yeah?—I stop singin’ halfway through the fuckin’ song. We’re three minutes in, tops, when that little fuckin’ siren leans back into Freddie motherfucking Fletcher, who tosses his arms ’round her, bold as brass.

And me—? Had fuckin’ enough, you know?

I smack the mic stand over, barrel straight towards her—Chops and Fry exchanging their little oh shit looks, Richie’s just snorting a laugh cos, of course, he fuckin’ is.

“Oi!” I yell at her, pointin’ right at her. “Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?”

She stares at me, all wide-eyed and innocent, blinkin’ like she’s got no idea what’s happening.

“I beg your pardon?” she says, proper posh, voice like honey.

I jab a finger at Fletcher now, heat rising in me chest. “You’re gonna bring him here—? Parade him ’round at my show?”

Now, I don’t reckon the crowd can see what’s happenin’—probably just saw me storm off mid-song, shoutin’ like a fuckin’ nutter. Don’t look great, do it? Don’t fuckin’ care, but.

Ysolde lifts those shoulders of hers, easy fuckin’ breezy, like this is all nothin’. “No one’s parading… If anything, it’s the opposite of parading—we’re literally hiding in the shadows.”

“Get out of my fuckin’ shadows!” I yell, voice cracking with how mad I sound. She rolls her eyes, and the way she does it… She’s baitin’ me—she’s fuckin’ baiting me! That’s new, innit? Ain’t seen this side of her before. Did I break her or just push her too far—I dunno?