Chapter 3
Soft natural light filters through large windows, casting a warm glow on the furry inhabitants. The scent of cleaning supplies and the earthy notes of dog-friendly detergents intermingle with the unmistakable aroma of the eager, loyal souls desperate for a bit of companionship.
The air is alive this morning with a symphony of barks, each a testament to the myriad stories that each canine has here. The atmosphere is one of resilience and compassion, a space where wagging tails and hopeful eyes tell tales of both heartache and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.
If I close my eyes and focus hard enough, I bet I can find a beat to work with. I tap my boot on the cool concrete floor to the imaginary music I hear as I lay out the straw bedding in one of the cages for a new dog arriving.
With a playful grin, I slowly open my eyes. I’m always searching for a beat in everything, even in the strangest places. As much as I refuse to allow music in my soul, it persistently finds entry, much like a daisy breaking through the unyielding embrace of harsh concrete.
I move to the next cage, and the Border Collie mix waits for me to slide open the cage. She’s happily wagging her tail like there’s no tomorrow. Her infectious joy radiates like a beacon of hope. Her fur, once matted and dull, now gleams with a newfound luster, a testament to the care and attention given to her by the compassionate volunteers.
“Alright, old lass?” I ask upon entering the cage. She approaches me for a heartfelt scratch. I crouch down and give her a hug and a hearty scratch behind her ears.
“I’d take you home if I could,” I whisper apologetically into her ear.
That’s why I volunteer instead. My motivation is driven by the simple joy of making a positive difference in the lives of these loyal companions who have no one else but people like me and the others to alleviate the struggles they face which brought them here.
She licks my cheek in response, and I chuckle, getting up as she continues to follow me around her quarters as I organize her bedding, water, and food bowls.
“Asher,” I hear my name and turn around and find another volunteer, Ryan, holding up a file and clipping it onto the cage door. “Poppy’s officially adopted. A family came by yesterday afternoon; they even paid the fee and were approved. They’re coming by later today to collect this pretty lady.”
My heart swells with joy. Poppy’s already seven years old, and it’s harder for older dogs to get adopted. I drop to the floor and allow her to sit on my lap as I give her neck a good rub.
“Finally a home for you, Poppy,” I kiss her head, feeling rather proud.
But I get like that with every dog who gets adopted. Maybe I associate it with my own life. Having spent the first seven years of my life on a council estate until my chemically dependent mum fatally overdosed, and I landed my foster parents, who eventually officially adopted me three years later and supported my love for music.
They paid for my bongo classes that eventually evolved into drums. Well, electronic drums, because they wouldn’t tolerate real live ones in my bedroom of their three-bed terraced home.
“By the way, you’ve got a visitor. He said he’ll wait until you finish your shift. Said his name was Jagger.”
Ryan looks at me with a sly smile when I don’t respond. “It’s Jagger Smith, your old bandmate. I hardly recognize him from your Sonic Revolution days.”
Now and again, we’ll get recognized, especially if Jagger and I are seen together, but our image couldn’t be more different from the personas we once lived in as teenage rock stars. I live in a two-bedroom flat in Putney, and the only thing that links me to my past is my Harley and love of American bikes. Besides that, I’m like any other geezer living and breathing the same London air, trying to get by with life.
“It was a stage character we played, Ryan. Don’t get your knickers in a twist over it,” I joke, but he doesn’t get it.
I don’t blame him. Everyone fell for the character we played, and when the music stopped playing, we went our separate ways and returned to being your average Joe within the mass population.
“I’ll be finished in fifteen minutes,” I say because I’m not in the mood to elaborate on something I have no interest in starting a discussion on.
He doesn’t hear me walk into the waiting room.
As he stands with his back to the door, I assume he’s reading the pinboard with the latest shelter news. I observe his tall, athletic form. We’re both of similar height and muscle mass; he’s just as much of a workout nut as I am. But I don’t remember when he decided to start dressing like a forty-year-old millennial dad. It had to be after he returned from serving overseas.
Maybe he wants to blend in with the public rather than stand out.
Back in our heyday, we were told how to dress and act. But his outfit is no better than the one we were forced to dress up in. He’s still hiding behind another fa?ade of someone I know is not who he really is.
“Alright, mate?” I say, causing Jagger to turn around and face me with a bright smile.
I walk up, give my best friend a bro hug, and let go fast.
The band split up years ago, but Jag and I remained tight, even during his five-year stint as a soldier for the British Army. He’s the one I see most often out of the three lads.
Occasionally, we’ll meet up with Callum, but since his falling out with his brother, Haze mostly went his own way.
The last time I saw Haze in person was over two years ago, and he couldn’t wait to depart our company.
I get it. Each of us reminds the other of the closeness we once shared with her.
“So, uh, what’s up, Jag?” I say, casting my unwanted thoughts aside fast. “You’ve never come round here before.”
I”m genuinely intrigued to find out.
He swipes his hand across his face as he stares at me, trying to form the words in his head. I give him a moment and then realize this isn’t a passing-by kind of visit. He should be up at the cafe; instead, he’s trekked all the way down to South London for a reason, one that he’s skeptical about opening the topic.
I nudge my head toward the open door.
“Fancy a cuppa?” I ask, and he nods. We’ll be undisturbed in the staff kitchen as everyone’s on duty with a task at this time of day.
I silently lead him down the corridor into the small kitchen area and fill the kettle up as Jagger takes a seat at the table.
“Did you get the latest royalty check?” he asks as I prepare the two cups.
“The amount was more than we’ve ever gotten in the last eight years. It’s because of that geezer releasing a new version of Shadow’s Solitude. Doesn’t really sound anything like the original. Ours was a ton better.”
“Abby mentioned the radios are talking about Sonic Revolution.”
I bring the cuppas to the table, slide his over to him, and take a seat opposite him.
“Well, the original band’s name was bound to come up with the new version.”
“She thinks it’s our sign to make a comeback.” He says straight to the point.
I expected him to suggest it at some point, but more like eight or nine years ago, not now at this stage. We’re closer to thirty than twenty.
“And what do you think?” I ask, curious.
He swipes his hand over his face, across his forehead, and through his hair.
“I don’t know,” he sounds genuinely at crossroads. “That’s why I’m here. I hear this fucking song, and I just feel angry. But not furious-like. It brings back memories I held back for so long. I mean… I hate this covered version.”
What a fucking relief!
I chuckle, and Jagger cocks his head at me, questioning my amusement.
“I hate it too. It sounds like a cat in heat. Fuckin’ell! It sounds exactly like a blooming cat wailing deep into the night,” I suppress my amused grin. “How the fuck are people liking this shite?”
Jagger grins and huffs a laugh.
“Maybe nostalgia. People love different versions of the Beatles’ song.”
Hmm, that makes sense.
“Bloody hell, you’re right! But we can’t be compared to the Beatles.”
“Maybe, not the Beatles, but we were successful in our own right. Three number-one albums on the UK Albums chart, ten number-one hits on the US Billboard Hot 100 chart, and fifteen top ten singles in the UK chart. We dominated pop culture for six straight years with a hundred and five million records worldwide. Plus, a couple of Grammys, VMA’s, three brITs. That’s no easy feat to beat. We did pretty darn good. The Vixens never got a number-one album in UK Charts.”
“Those Grammy’s though, came after Eden joined the band,” I clarify. “We were already on our way up to stardom. She just accelerated the ride.”
The mention of her name brings an abrupt silence between us. I know Jagger and Callum don’t even want her name mentioned, but I dealt with her in my mind and cast her to oblivion after she decided to chicken out and disappear.
“This comeback you’re talking about,” I ask curiously. “Does it include her? As you know, we already tried to revert to just the four of us, and it didn’t work out. It led to Callum’s downward spiral and his and Haze’s fallout.”
“Sonics aren’t Sonics without her. But legally, I already looked it up on the way here. The record label and Oliver have the rights to the name and everything associated with it. I reckon we start fresh. The five of us. New name, our own songs, and everything we do is because we want to do it, not because some bigwig boss from a label wants us to.”
I tilt my head to the side in thought. Theoretically, it sounds good, but pulling it off is another entity altogether.
“You’ll need to get the other three on board, and there’s a fat chance one will want to remain buried, and the other two will tell us to fuck off. Haze seems to be doing well for himself. Why would he want to drop it all and join this venture?”
“Because music is in his blood. Just like it is in mine and yours. Maybe Abby’s right; this is our second chance to do it right. Make a change. Do it our way this time.”
Eyeing Jagger with skepticism, noting the unwavering seriousness etched across his face, as he remains steadfastly convinced that this idea holds potential.
While I”ve never denied my best friend something he truly believes in, taking a step toward this idea feels like entering fantasyland. To attempt to resurrect our music careers would be insanity on a whole other level.
Then again, we”ve all been hibernating for far too long. Perhaps that ounce of hope in Jagger’s voice makes me consider joining him on this crazy adventure.
You get what you settle for, and I can’t say I’m neither here nor there in my current life, but I’ve never felt more awake in my life than when sitting behind a set of drums.
That’s something I haven’t dared do in almost a decade.
Maybe … Just maybe, it’s that hint of confidence in his voice that convinces me to join him in the crazy adventure.