9. Bat #2
Also, I wasn’t quite sure what was going on with Brad’s “dodgy knee,” but they both felt fine to me. Both in good working order. Better than good. Brad was a disgustingly healthy specimen of a human. I bet he’d never enjoyed a cheeky cigarette in his life.
“Do you play any sports?” I asked.
Charlie cackled. Cackled, like I’d told the funniest joke in the world. Then he caught himself, seemed to realise I wanted an actual answer. “Oh, definitely not. I’d rather die than run around throwing balls at people.”
My sort of guy.
“But you play guitar?” I pressed. “You know, in the attic…?”
The warmth drained from his face.
“I used to play a lot.” His voice went flat.
I wanted to ask more. Wanted to know everything—why he’d stopped, what songs he loved, whether he wrote his own music. But Charlie turned away, busying himself with cleaning the surface. His shoulders drew up tight, a wall slamming down between us.
No. Don’t leave me.
“Do you listen to music?” I blurt out.
He gave me an odd look. “Sure. Of course I do.”
“What sort?” I asked, then waved Brad’s hand. “Hold on, don’t tell me.”
I pretended to study him. Leaned back against the counter, tilting Brad’s head like I was some kind of expert.
Truthfully, I’d found it difficult to keep up with modern music. Workmen had the radio on all day, so I wasn’t completely clueless. But the stuff they played—commercial drivel, mostly. Nothing with any soul.
“Taylor Swift!” I declared.
Charlie’s eyes widened, and I sniggered. This was fun. “Or her boyfriend, Harry Styles.”
“Umm…” Charlie set his mug down. “I hate to break it to you, but they broke up over a decade ago.”
A decade?! I could have sworn it was only a couple of months ago I heard the radio going on about it—some breakfast show host gasping over paparazzi photos.
“Right, right. Obviously.”
“I am secretly partial to a bit of Taylor, though,” he said. “On occasion. Lily adores some of her songs.”
I snapped Brad’s fingers. “How about Ed Sheeran?”
Charlie’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
“Coldplay?”
“Stop.”
“One Direction?”
“They broke up too.”
“Maroon Five?”
A laugh burst out of him. Full and bright and utterly gorgeous. His whole face transformed—eyes crinkling, dimples appearing in his cheeks, head thrown back.
My heart skipped. Actually skipped. God, I’d forgotten what that felt like. That painful lurch, like missing a step in the dark.
“Stop, stop, stop.” Charlie wiped his eyes, still grinning. “You’re terrible at this.”
“Go on, then. Put me out of my misery.”
He shifted his weight. “I’m into post-punk, mostly. The classics, like Joy Division, Bauhaus, Siouxsie and the Banshees. Some newer stuff too—Idles, Shame, Fontaines D.C.”
My pulse quickened as a shower of electric tingles rushed through me. “That’s brilliant.”
Charlie blinked. “You think so?”
“Yeah. Proper music. Not manufactured rubbish.”
His expression softened. Suspicion melted into something warmer, something that made every fibre of me ache. “I didn’t think you liked music. You kept turning the radio down in the car.”
“I’d love to hear some of those bands,” I said. “If you’ve got any songs on you?”
Charlie eyed me. Caution crept back into his features, his shoulders tensing again. Probably expecting Mean Brad to snap back into place, to ridicule his songs.
Which might happen. Very soon. Because I couldn’t keep this up forever.
“Well… I’ve got some stuff downloaded on my phone,” he said slowly. “But I don’t know if you’d actually—”
“Please.”
He pulled the device from his pocket. One of those sleek black rectangles that seemed to do everything.
I’d watched mobile phones evolve over the years, getting smaller, cleverer.
Years ago, when the old owners had internet here, the workmen were always glued to their phones, swiping and tapping.
Sometimes they’d huddle round together, cheering when some woman in the photos had massive breasts, groaning and swiping left when she didn’t.
I’d floated beside them, utterly baffled by the entire ritual.
Charlie’s fingers flew across the screen as fast as my hands could fly over piano keys.
Music erupted from the tiny speaker. Raw guitars, driving bass, a voice that cut through the kitchen like broken glass.
I closed Brad’s eyes. Let it wash over me.
Yes.
This was what I’d been missing. Real instruments. Real emotion. Not the polished pop garbage that dominated the airwaves.
“This is perfect,” I murmured.
When I opened Brad’s eyes, Charlie was watching me, expression unreadable.
The song ended. Another began—different band, same energy.
“Can you bring up another band for me?” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. Stupid. Risky. But this might be my only chance… “On that thing?”
“My phone?” Charlie gave me another odd look. Oops. “What band?”
My throat tightened. I forced the words out anyway. “Bat’s Bats.”
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up. “Bat’s Bats? Weird name.”
“No it’s not!”
Too defensive. Too much emotion bleeding through. This was a bad idea.
But Charlie was already typing, his fingers dancing across the screen. His face glowed blue in the light from the device.
Then his expression fell.
“Ah, there’s no signal down here. Duh. Sorry.”
Disappointment crashed through me. Heavy and bitter as hell.
“Right,” I managed.
For one shining moment, I’d imagined hearing us play again. Hearing my voice, young and alive, screaming into a microphone. Hearing the music we’d made before everything ended.
But this was better, wasn’t it? Because if Charlie had found us, he might have seen photos of us. Of me. He might have made comments. He already thought my band’s name was “weird.” He found this asshole’s body attractive, so likely he wouldn’t make much of mine.
Charlie tapped something on his phone, and another song kicked in. Heavier guitars, angrier vocals.
“Oh, speaking of—” His face lit up, that gorgeous animation returning.
“Fontaines are touring in London this October. I managed to snag a ticket before they sold out. It’s at Alexandra Palace, which should be incredible.
The acoustics there are supposed to be amazing, and I’ve heard they put on a proper show, you know?
Not just standing there playing the hits, but like, actual performance. ”
He gestured with his free hand whilst he spoke, his words tumbling over each other.
“I saw them at a tiny venue in Camden a few years back—God, they were brilliant. Way before they got huge. And now they’re selling out Alexandra Palace, which is mental when you think about it. Their last album was—”
I nodded along. Made appropriate noises. “Mm-hmm.”
But I wasn’t listening. Not really.
I was staring at the light dusting of stubble that shadowed Charlie’s jaw. What would it feel like under Brad’s palm? Rough? Soft? Would Charlie’s breath catch if I reached out and traced that line? Would he lean into the touch?
No, Bat, he’d punch Brad in the face.
I shifted Brad’s weight. Leaned against the counter a fraction closer to Charlie. Our arms almost touched now—separated by mere inches of air.
“—and the opening act is supposed to be this band from Dublin, I can’t remember their name, but apparently they’re influenced by The Cure, which could either be amazing or—”
I adjusted Brad’s stance again. Pretended to examine something on the counter.
Our sleeves brushed.
Charlie didn’t notice. Kept talking, his enthusiasm pouring out in waves.
“—so I’m hoping they play some of the older stuff too, not just the new album, because ‘Big’ is still one of my favourite songs, and live it must be just—”
I let Brad’s elbow rest against the counter. Moved it slightly to the left.
Contact. Fabric against fabric, but underneath—warmth. Charlie’s warmth, bleeding through both our sleeves.
He glanced at me. Smiled, like I was sharing this moment with him properly.
Guilt twisted in my stomach. Brad’s stomach.
“You cold?” Charlie asked, noticing how close I’d gotten. “We could try to light a fire in the lounge if you want?”
“No, I’m fine.”
He went back to his musical monologue. Something about vinyl pressings and limited editions and coloured records.
I needed more.
Carefully, so carefully, I angled Brad’s body. Just a sliver closer. Close enough that when Charlie gestured, his hand nearly grazed Brad’s shoulder.
The kitchen shrank. The air between us charged with something I couldn’t name and didn’t want to examine.
Charlie paused mid-sentence. Tilted his head.
“You sure you’re alright?”
“Never better.”
He studied Brad’s face for a moment, then shrugged and continued. “Anyway, I was thinking of getting there early, queuing outside. The queue’s part of the experience, right? Meeting other fans, that sort of thing. Though I usually go to gigs alone nowadays—”
I shifted again. Our shoulders touched now. Proper contact. He smelled like something. Something underneath the dust and damp of Grimthorne Manor.
I leaned in. Just slightly. Millimetres, honestly.
Fruit. Sweet fruit and flowers.
My beating heart lurched.
Charlie’s voice became background noise—pleasant, musical, but distant. All my attention focused on that scent. That glorious, living, clean scent.
I needed more. Needed to bottle it, keep it, drown in it.