His bandmate
‘So that’s it?’ Ryan says. ‘It’s over?’
He lets his guitar hang slack from his shoulder. If it wasn’t too on the nose, he’d play a mournful chord. But no one is listening. Seb has the floor, and he’s telling the story of the girl with whom he shared the perfect date – and from whom he never heard again.
‘Never?’ Nimesh says.
‘Never ever,’ Seb says. ‘I texted her. Tried to call. Quite a few times, actually. Nothing.’
Seb sits, as per usual, at the helm of his drum kit, and looks, as per usual, totally fucking miserable.
He’s pinching tobacco from a pouch, with a cigarette filter held between his lips.
His grim face, his too-small beanie hat and the rain-spattered window through which he’s been staring all call to mind a sailor recounting an ill-fated voyage at sea. He doesn’t usually talk this much.
‘It sounds like you really liked her,’ says Smudge from the sofa, a bowl of Cookie Crisp balanced on his chest.
‘I did,’ Seb says. He flicks open an old army-surplus lighter.
Smudge gurns through a mouthful of cereal. ‘It sounds like you loved her.’
Seb blows out a cloud of smoke. ‘How old are you?’
Some things never change. Looking around this room, it’s like they’re all still fifteen, lounging about in Nimesh’s garage back in Leicester, talking about girls.
Everything had been better, back then, when the band was still starting out, when Ryan had taken the mic, when Nimesh had turned his sensitive acoustic sensibilities to lead guitar, when Seb’s fury had found its perfect outlet in the drums. Smudge on the bass, because they didn’t trust him anywhere else.
For a while, they were regulars at the Shed and the Attik, not to mention countless small and sticky pub venues with crowds that didn’t materialise and toilets that didn’t flush.
They’d graced one of the minor stages at one of the first Summer Sundaes, and played second support for Kasabian on what was still the greatest night of Ryan’s life.
How did it all fall apart? Here in London, they haven’t landed a gig in the last three months, and Nimesh hasn’t made it to a jam session in twice as long.
When Smudge comes down from Leicester, he doesn’t even bring his bass any more.
‘If we’re not going to talk about the band,’ Ryan says, ‘let’s at least take it from the top.’
Like an automaton, Seb immediately clicks his drumsticks into action, one-two-three-four, and they’re taking it from the top.
But something is missing, and it isn’t just Smudge’s bass.
Nimesh breaks off and tells Ryan he’s done a great job rewriting the song, but it isn’t hard to detect the pity in his voice.
They all know that the main riff is a cheap rework of ‘Reptilia’ by the Strokes.
Ryan shakes his head, puts pen to a crumpled piece of paper and jots down a half-melody.
He scribbles it out, scratches at the patch of skin on his arm that he’s always worrying into a rash.
He knows their hearts aren’t in it any more.
Nimesh and Seb have already continued where they left off.
‘How long has it been?’ Nimesh leans against the radiator, hands deep in the pockets of his skeleton-print hoodie, a thoughtful frown on his thin face.
‘It was in the summer,’ Seb says, twirling a drumstick absentmindedly. ‘Now it’s…’
They all look out at the rain.
‘Not summer,’ Ryan says.
Ryan should have known that London was a bad idea.
But his hand had been forced by Nimesh, who’d long been ducking out of practice to go lambing, or dairy farming, or making stop-ins at stables where the farmers would look at him like he’d arrived from another planet.
He’d always turn up to gigs late or leave early, saying he needed to study.
Then he’d secured his place at the most prestigious vet school in London, already convincing himself that when his new, all-white classmates asked him where he was really from, they were enquiring about his East Midlands accent.
Ryan tried to paper over the cracks, taking on lead guitar as well as vocals.
But the death knell rang at one of those rare latter gigs that was actually well attended, a double-header at the Charlotte whose audience just so happened to feature a scout from down south.
Ryan thought the older bloke approaching them might be a mythical A she’s, like, scuffing her boots on the pavement.
’ His eyes look misty. ‘Then she looks up, and the moon is massive that night, and she just…’ He winces. ‘She pretends to lasso it for me.’
‘Isn’t that from Bruce Almighty?’ says Smudge, wiping an eye.
‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ says Seb, stubbing out his cigarette.
‘It sure is,’ says Nimesh. ‘And it’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.’
‘Exactly!’ Seb says, throwing his arms wide. ‘And then she never called me back!’
‘That’s less romantic.’
Ryan rubs his temples, squeezes his eyes shut.
When he opens them, his eyes travel over the wall, the posters for all the venues he once thought they’d play.
Dingwalls and the Electric Ballroom, Barfly and the Bull and Gate, the Falcon and the Dublin Castle.
He unplugs his guitar, shakes his head. His favourite song?
The Cribs. ‘I’m a Realist’. Ryan always knows what’s going on.
And yet, the end of his own band has somehow passed him by.
‘There’s no point living in the past,’ Nimesh says.
‘Don’t tell me everything happens for a reason,’ Seb replies.
‘I won’t.’ Nimesh smiles. ‘Even if it does.’ A pause. ‘You really did like her, didn’t you?’
‘It just felt good,’ Seb says. ‘It felt better than anything.’
A silence. After a while, Ryan ventures into it.
‘Shall we talk about the band now?’
Nimesh groans. Seb begins to roll another cigarette. Smudge, who’s already turned back to the TV, puts on his most sympathetic voice.
‘Mate,’ he says. ‘No one wants to talk about the band.’