Chapter 4
The small crowd gathered in this dimly lit pub echoes through the air as the final chord of my final set fades away. I run a shaky hand through my disheveled hair, and sweat glistens on my forehead.
The haze of this performance lingers in the air, a bittersweet reminder of the days when my music echoed in arenas, my name emblazoned across marques and adorned by thousands.
I jump off the stage and turn to wave at the band. Fuck if I remember their names, this is a pure business transaction. I get paid to play bass guitar as Callum Evans, an ex-Sonic Revolution member, and it pulls in the punters.
The damp scent of beer and the distant murmur of the crowd envelop my nasal senses. Scanning the dimly lit room, I search for solace in the anonymity of the crowd. My eyes settle on the bar, where the soft glow of neon signs cast an ethereal glow.
Taking a seat on a worn-out stool, the bartender slides a pint in front of me, and I gratefully take a sip of the cold amber liquid. The pleasantly crisp malt sweetness seems to momentarily drown the ghosts of my past.
“Hey Callum, fancy round two?”
I look to my left and find the leggy blonde I shagged earlier when the band was on a break. On my other side, I feel another warm body draw up close and turn to find blondie’s friend, the busty brunette. If they told me their names, I forgot, but one had a great pair of legs, and the other fucking huge creamy tits. Both were eager for a good shag in the women’s toilets. It was a good uplift to get me in the mood to play on stage, but now that feeling’s passed, and I’m no longer in need of finding that buzz.
I never fancy a round two with the same woman. That leads to complications I don’t need in my life. I’m a firm believer in milking my knob, but relationships aren’t my thing.
Plus, I’m out of condoms, and I don’t trust how long the ones have been in the dispenser of this grimy pub.
I’d rather just sink into the funk I’m feeling and get home before I go on a piss to the point where I don’t give a fuck where my knob sinks into. I lost my dignity a few times in the past, and it isn’t a place where I want to deal with the after-effects.
“Not now, darling,” I say apologetically. “How about I catch you two ladies in a bit. Alright?”
I never take a bird home, either. That just opens up a whole set of problems in the morning.
“You know where we are, luv,” Blondie says as she links her arm with her friend, and they walk off together. In the corner of my eye, I watch them approach the band members as they pack up.
Groupies.I roll my eyes.
Leaning against the bar, I survey the room, catching the eyes of a pair of familiar faces in the crowds. Two figures sit in the shadows, their gazes on me. A chill runs down my spine as I recognize them.
Jagger and Asher.
It’s been a while since we last met up, but they’ve never come to find me when I play a set.
Jagger, the lead guitarist and lead vocals —until she took over— with whom I had once shared the rhythm of success, raises his glass in acknowledgment. Even after the Sonics lead vocals were taken over by a girl, Jagger always maintained a kind of leadership role over the group.
Asher, the drummer who once served as the vital synchronized link between us, offers a tight-lipped smile.
My heart skips a beat, the past rushing back to me like a relentless tide.
Why are they here?
We had a silent mutual agreement to never share music between us again. It was a banned topic whenever we got together. This is the last place I need my ex-band members seeing me here, relegated to the shadows of local gigs and small-town pubs.
I finish my pint in a single gulp, the cold brew spreading through me, momentarily dulling the pain. Gathering what remains of my composure, I make my way toward the duo, my guitar slung over my shoulder.
“Jagger, Ash,” I greet them, trying to sound nonchalant despite the vulnerability that lingers in my voice.
“Callum,” Jagger replies, a mix of nostalgia and sympathy in his eyes. He gets up to greet me as we clash our hands and forearms together. “How are you, mate?”
“Same shite, Jag,” I say and throw in a wobbly grin.
Asher gets up to greet me in a similar manner, and the three of us stand here, a silent acknowledgment of a shared history. The pub”s ambient noise surrounds us like a protective cocoon. My fingers absentmindedly trace the contours of my guitar, a tangible link to a time when the world seemed to revolve around our music.
”I caught the set. You still got it,” Jagger says, his tone carrying both admiration and a tinge of regret.
”Yeah, well, not every stage can be an arena,” I quip, attempting to mask the ache in my words with a forced smile.
Ash sighs, breaking the uneasy silence. ”We miss it, you know? The music, the camaraderie.”
I nod, the weight of unspoken words hanging between us. The pub seems to fade away, leaving only the remnants of a shared past.
“Why are you here?” I ask, looking at both of them and realizing the harshness of my question. “Not that I’m complaining. It’s always nice to see you two, but why here?”
I watch Ash gaze at Jagger as if this is his job to tell.
“Mate, sit down. This isn’t for standing up,” Jagger urges, and I watch both sit back on their chairs.
I unhook my guitar, leaning it against the table, take the third chair, and slide it under me to sit. Jagger brushes his hand through his brown mop of unruly hair as he gathers his thoughts together and his deep blue eyes suddenly land on me before opening his mouth.
“Ash and I’ve been talking. You probably heard the latest cover version of Shadow’s Solitude and how flipping awful it is, but it”s been at the number one spot on the charts for five weeks in a row.”
I grit my teeth.
“It’s bloody awful. That wanker sounds like two cats yowling at each other.”
Ash does a spit-take of his pint.
“That’s similar to what I told Jagger,” he says, swiping his sleeve over his face.
“This is a clear sign, lads,” Jagger interjects. “Let”s get the band back together.”
If I had a pint in front of me, I’d be the next person doing a spit-take of it.
“Have you lost your flippin’ marbles?” I say cocking my head at him. “Our paths have diverged for a decade. Why would anyone in their right mind want to go back to being a Sonic after all that shite? It didn’t exactly end well for any of us, did it?”
“You’re still playing, Callum. The music never left your soul.”
I purse my lips and furrow my brow in disagreement.
“Listen, mate, when I’m up there on stage with whichever band hires me to play with them, half the time, I don’t even remember the band”s name, and the other half, I don’t give a flipping toss to know their name. But when I’m up there, I’m stringing notes like a zombie, following whatever the fuck music they want me to play. Don’t mistake that for passion. It pays my fucking bills. That’s all this job is. There’s no love in what I do.”
Jagger leans in towards the table, closer to me. His deep blue eyes reflect a mix of determination and uncertainty.
“That’s because you’re trying to numb a pain that won’t disappear. We all have it. Music is inside us. We need our band to feel whole again. Without it, we’re just empty souls with dashed dreams that linger on, follow us, and never let go of us.
“If you dig deep enough, you’ll find that savvy kid who convinced millions that his love of music will make him a success. Millions, mate. Millions of audience members put their faith in each of us that we’d be the next group to change the landscape of the music industry.”
He flickers his eyes at Ash and then back at me.
“Find that 12-year-old kid within yourself, Callum. He’s still in there. Because I don’t give a fucking toss what you want me to believe. I see a bassist whose fingers touch the strings of his guitar, and he feels the magic coursing through his veins.”
Haunted by the memory, our fifth band member comes to mind.
The unspoken one.
“And her?”
His face contorts with a mixture of reluctance and resignation, knowing he has to confront that unavoidable topic.
“A decade has passed, but the wounds are still tender for all of us.”
“Bullocks!” I spit out angrily. “Unlike you, while you all were tending your wounds and broken hearts, I had bigger fish to deal with.”
“No offense, mate, but your rehab was because of it,” Ash isn’t usually this blunt, and I raise a brow at him. “We all spiraled one way or another, and the four of us survived, not unscathed, but it wasn’t all on her. We couldn’t play music because she was a big part of it all. Not being able to play took us down the rabbit hole. But we’ve all grown and learned, and hell, maybe this time, it could be different. Jagger’s right. Wasn’t our motto once upon a time, achieve success or die trying?”
Ash points to my chest, where he knows I’ve got that phrase inked on my skin.
Deep in thought, I sit in this old wooden pub chair, my tongue playing with my lip ring. I’ve been clean for eight years, and while I know I’ll never go back to that dark time in my life when I was on a path of self-destruction, I’m not sure I want to test that strength of my resilience. Temptation will always exist. I’m not a fucking fool to think otherwise.
“So, what do you reckon, Callum?” Jagger asks, breaking the silence that’s settled over our table. “We’ve got a second chance here.”
“I don’t know,” I say, running a hand through my shoulder-length light blonde hair. “We tried this before, remember? Without her. This isn’t a second chance. It’s a third.”
“But that was then. We’ve all grown, learned, and hell, maybe it could be different.”
Ash, ever the optimist.
Jagger nods in agreement, his pint poised in his hand. “We’re not kids anymore; we’ve got more experience under our belts. We know what went wrong last time and can avoid those pitfalls.”
“Her,” I whisper. “Those pitfalls to avoid are her.”
“She’s part of our music.”
Not a chance.
I stand up, grab my guitar, and storm out of the pub. The cool night air hits my face, and I lean my guitar against the wall to zip up my leather jacket.
“You haven’t even listened to my plan.”
I hear Jagger behind me, and Asher follows him out the door.
“She was never meant to be part of the Sonics. It was never right to begin with,” I mutter, taking my guitar and swinging the strap across my shoulders. I turn and stroll towards the bus stop.
“This isn’t about resurrecting the Sonics. That band is dead and buried.” He replies as they follow behind me.
As soon as I reach the stop, I pull out my rusty tin of pre-rolled fags, take one out, light it up, stick the lighter back in the box, and stuff it back inside my jacket pocket. I inhale a smoke, turn to Jagger, and exhale, waiting for him to continue.
Taking my silence to continue he and Asher surround me.
“Think about it, Callum. The chemistry the five of us had on stage and the energy we created was special. We never truly explored the full potential of our sound. Maybe now is the time. Start our own band and do things we dreamed of doing without totalitarianism from the record label.”
“And we”re not talking about chasing fame or fortune,” Asher chimes in. “We”re talking about making music because we love it. No pressure, no expectations – just the joy of creating something together. Hard rock. Alternative rock. None of the pop bullshite this time. We do it our way.”
I let out a contemplative breath. The memories of the old band, the missed opportunities, and the sense of what could have been linger. Yet, a spark of possibility ignites within me. The thought of reclaiming that passion of creating a new chapter with old companions is undeniably tempting.
My bus arrives, and I flick my fag to the ground, swiftly extinguishing it beneath my boot as I exhale the final puff of smoke. The doors open, and I pull out my card to tap it on the reader and turn to face both men.
”Okay,” I say, a smile playing on my lips. ”Let”s give it a shot. But this time, let”s do it for the music. For ourselves.”
I shake my head at Jagger and huff a laugh.
“And burn your clothes, Jagger,” I add with a wicked grin. “I ain’t playing hard rock music with someone who looks like an accountant.”
I salute them as the doors slide and close. I dash to the upper deck, where I know I won’t be bothered to find my solace and contemplate what I’ve fucking committed myself to.
Thankfully, it’s empty up here, and I take a seat at the front by the large windows, feeling pretty much on top of the world as the bus pulls through the streets of Woodford, heading towards Finsbury Park.
Pulling my leg up on the seat next to me, my inked fingers graze the strings of my guitar as I quietly contemplate what I’ve just agreed to do.
My mind buzzes with a mix of renewed energy, a slight hesitation, and the booze effect from the pints I’ve drunk this evening.
They’ll have to convince Haze, and this is where it ends. If they manage to convince him, then maybe there’s a chance.
Then there’s finding her.
I recoil in a snarl at the mere contemplation of that notion.
Eden Rivers didn’t want us to discover her whereabouts ten years ago. There isn’t a chance in hell we’ll find her now. And even if we do, there’s absolutely no possibility she’ll want to have anything to do with us.
Fucking’ell.
I haven’t thought of Eden Rivers in years.
I’m over her.
That ship sailed the day she decided to fuck off to Shitsville or whatever cave she chose to settle that arse of hers in.
Fuck’s sake.
Now I’m reminded of what a gorgeous arse that girl had, firm and juicy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
My knob gets hard just thinking of her laid out on her kitchen table, tendrils of her long blonde hair cascading over her nude body, her perky nips hard as pebbles while my brother is planted between her thighs, eating her out.
I cup my hand over my crotch and adjust myself.
Nope. Not going to go there and grace that bitch’s memory with a wank in her honor.
That was the last time I fucked her, the last evening I ever saw her.
And after that, my world came crashing.