Chapter 25
Killian
“Thank you and goodnight.” I took my final bow and left the stage to applause and demands for an encore. I’d already done one, but it was time to go.
My brow wet with sweat, I wiped it with the towel always waiting for me in the wings and took a swig from a chilled bottle of water.
I loved working in the smaller venues. Good job, really, because I’d never been popular enough to fill vast arenas.
My rise to fame had been short-lived. I’d released a couple of albums, did all the festivals as Sully suggested. I’d even taken to songwriting like a duck to water, but what I hadn’t done was become the hugely successful artist I’d wanted to be.
Not that I was complaining. I had enough money to get by. More than enough, really. Some smart investments, and I was set for life. I had some hardcore fans, mainly middle-aged women, but I wasn’t going to complain about that. At least I still could do what I loved, and that was singing.
“Great set.” My agent, Duncan, patted me on the back. “You blew them away as usual.”
“Thanks. I think my voice was going a little at the end.”
“I told you to rest it and use the vocal coach.”
“Fuck, Dunc, I’ve never used one and don’t intend to. My voice is what it’s always been and I’ll not change. I drink some honey and lemon tea before I go to sleep. Will that please you?”
“Hmm, I guess so.”
“I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”
“Do you want me to check the stage door? See if anyone’s hanging around?”
“Nah, I’m good. If they are, I’ll handle it.”
No one would be waiting. There never was now, but I wasn’t bitter. I’d had a good run. A couple of songs had got into the Top Twenty, some still streamed well; I was content with my lot.
I stepped out of the door, the cold instantly hitting me.
Fuck. November had been brutal this year. Lots of cold weather and even snow. Not unheard of, but not usual up here in Liverpool, where I’d settled.
I lit a cigarette, one of the few bad habits I had these days. I’d given up the drugs a long time ago, and for a while, the drink too. While it wasn’t expected in this business, the pressure was there, and I was weak; what could I say?
I leant against the wall and sucked, watching the orange glow burn brighter. A memory shifted in my brain, but I couldn’t think why.
I had one more show here, then it was up to Scotland for five nights. I’d been at it non-stop for two months, up and down the country. Rest was the next thing on the agenda.
Duncan was right; I should probably rest my voice. I swallowed hard. Definitely a soreness there, but the hot drink later would help. Gone were the days of taking a handful of pills with a swig of vodka.
Fuck, I’d grown old fast. Thirty-eight felt more like forty-eight, but I’d never been one to look after myself. Not until the past twelve months, anyway.
I took one last drag and squeezed the glowing ember onto the floor, crushing it beneath my feet. If I’d been wearing my old boots, I’d have probably burnt my foot. I’d worn them until the soles had holes and the stitching had come undone.
Now, my boots were designer and not half as comfortable.
I looked around for a rubbish bin. Why wasn’t there one here?
I spotted one on the street, just outside the gate, and headed towards it.
“Killian?”
I stopped.
That voice. I’d know it anywhere, despite not having heard it for the last three years.
I turned towards it and looked into the eyes of a man I once loved. A man who was currently arm in arm with another man.
“Oh my God. It is you. How are you?” He looked good. Too fucking good.
But how did I answer that question? How could I put into words the pain I’d endured finding him almost dead on the bathroom floor? How did I tell him how much he’d hurt me?
So, I didn’t.
I walked right back into the theatre and to my dressing room, hot tears streaming down my face.
I’d put all that behind me, shut off the emotions that were Harvey Barton, but one word from him and I was right back there, holding him as his life ebbed away with the rivulets of blood.
I scrubbed my eyes with the heels of my hands. Anything to dispel the image from my head. Fuck honey and lemon, I needed whiskey and lots of it.
Except I knew that would do no good. I’d tried that a million times before, but nothing could remove the image from my mind.
And he had the temerity to talk to me as if nothing had happened. He’d turned me away at the hospital, ignored every call until eventually, I stopped trying.
“Fuck,” I shouted. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Is everything okay, Killian?” A knock and a voice at the door. Duncan. Why did I think for a minute it might be Harvey?
I’d wiped him from my memory, got on with my life, tried to put those fleeting moments behind me. But who was I kidding? In the short time we’d known each other, we’d fallen hard, and he still took residency in my head.
Both damaged souls, we’d healed ourselves. I’d got clean and, thanks to Sully, got the break I wanted. Combine that with meeting Harvey, and my life had turned around.
As for Harvey? Well, who knew what happened there? He was doing so fucking well until he wasn’t.
I threw open the door, Duncan’s hand raised to knock again.
“Are you okay? You look awful, if you don’t mind me saying so. Did something happen?”
“It’s okay. I’m fine. I saw someone outside, and it brought back a few bad memories.”
“Harvey?” Duncan knew all about him and what had happened. When I was lost in the bottom of a bottle, he’d been the one to listen to me. With his help, I’d kicked the habit again and stayed dry.
“Yeah. How did you guess?”
“Because he left his number with security. Normally, I throw them away, but I wasn’t sure if you wanted it.”
“After what he put me through? You think I want to see him again?”
“I think he could answer the questions no one else could. Maybe it’s time to put the past behind you and move on.”
“I have moved on. What are you talking about?”
“Look, Killian, I’ve known you for three years now. I’ve seen what the memory of him does to you. Surely, you owe it to yourself to get some answers.”
I took the piece of paper from him and gazed down at the number. It wasn’t the same one as before, but he didn’t seem the same person as before.
In that brief interaction, he’d seemed confident and happy. Seemed things had changed for him, too, standing out in the open, arm in arm with a man.
The number of times he’d moved away from me or dropped my hand when he imagined someone was watching us.
Wasn’t I at least interested?
Fuck, no. He’d almost ruined my career before it had even started. I wouldn’t forgive him for what he did to me.
I screwed up the paper and threw it onto the dressing table. “I’m going home. Call me tomorrow.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
I patted him on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine, thanks.”
The journey back to my place wasn’t far from the theatre. I’d bought an apartment down on the docks, with views looking out over the Mersey. I’d always been most at home there, so it was only right that I moved here when I had some money.
I owned it outright, with no mortgage to pay. Jesus, another memory of Harvey with the house his parents had left to him.
But what was he doing in Liverpool? He didn’t live here, or he hadn’t. The place we’d met was a way from here.
Coincidence?
Of course it was. No way would fate bring us back together again.
No, our fate, if you believed in that, was written a long time ago, and it didn’t end with our happily ever after.
I’d given up on those a long time ago.
Since almost losing Harvey and being ignored, I’d thrown myself into making the best of what Sully had been offering. The albums, the festivals. I’d been determined to make it work.
I was comfortable now, and if it all ended tomorrow, I’d be happy with what I’d done. It had come late in life, but I’d fucked around so much in the beginning, coping with fame would have finished me.
I settled down in front of the TV with my hot drink and flicked through the many channels. Tired of murder mysteries, I turned my attention to a cooking show. Harvey used to love cooking. Did he still?
I gazed at my hand and saw the faint scar where I’d burnt myself that first meal he’d cooked for me.
I rubbed at it, memories flooding my mind.
How he’d panicked and then, later that evening, he’d relaxed, and we’d talked for ages.
Of course, that was the night on the landing.
I’d never forget the look of wonder and panic on his face.
All reminders of a time long ago. Well, three years, but it seemed like a lifetime ago.
The guy on the TV made everything look easy. I’d never learned. I ate out most of the time or lived on takeaways. Life on the road didn’t always lend itself to a regular diet.
Fuck, I was tired, but I needed to shower. I still wore makeup, and my hair was full of product. I’d have serious regrets in the morning if I didn’t do it now.
I drained my mug, turned off the TV, and was about to head to the bathroom when my phone pinged with a notification.
It could only be Duncan; my friend circle was almost non-existent.
Duncan: Here’s the number. I know you threw it away, but I have a feeling you’ll regret it. At least talk to him and see what he has to say. It’ll put your mind at rest, and you can move on.
Why say one word when twenty would do? That was Duncan, always with full punctuation, too.
Beneath it was a photograph of a piece of paper with a mobile number written on it. There was no misreading the numbers, but Harvey had always been precise. His artwork attested to that.
My finger hovered over the delete button. Should I? Maybe Duncan was right, and I needed to put this part of my life in a box and file it away as resolved.
It had never been that; questions over why had always bugged me.
Regardless, I wouldn’t be calling tonight, and maybe not tomorrow either.
No, I’d sit with it a while, let the notion settle. I had questions. Lots of them, but would I like the answers?
That was the million-dollar question.