Chapter Six Static in the Walls
Static in the Walls
Jake mounted the kerb without easing off the accelerator, the van jolting hard as the tyres climbed the pavement. He left it at an angle, nose half blocking the walkway.
He did not give a single fuck.
Cutting the engine, he gripped the steering wheel, breath shallow, knuckles bleaching white against the worn black leather, and gave himself a stern talking to.
He was being irrational.
He knew that.
He didn’t even know Emily Fisher. Couldn’t have picked her out of a lineup. She was another barmaid in a town full of them. He had no claim to her. No reason to feel anything. So why was he wound this tight? Why did it feel as if a knife had been driven straight through his ribs?
He dropped his forehead onto the wheel.
Because it was the same stretch.
The same time of night.
The same bloody script.
He shoved the door open before he could talk himself down.
Jumped out. Slammed it hard. Cold air hit his face.
Which didn’t help. So he raked a hand through his hair and looked up at the estate agent’s window.
It was all glass and polish and aspirational lies dotting the electronic posters sifting through properties on offer.
Detached cottages with Aga-style kitchens.
Smiling couples holding keys they hadn’t earned yet.
Drone shots of land that would never belong to someone like him.
Land that swallowed girls and called it countryside.
His own reflection stared back.
Christ.
He looked wrecked. Hair loose in dark waves to his shoulders, last night’s stubble shadowing his jaw, skin drawn tight from lack of sleep.
Hoodie stained with ketchup. Mud drying along the hems of his jeans.
He looked exactly like what half this town thought he was.
Rough, angry, one bad decision from being back inside.
Normally, after a gig, he’d look similar and not give a toss.
Today, it pinched.
Because behind the glass, in the same reflection, he could almost see the DI’s sharp lines and pressed collar. Perfect hair. Measured voice. Calm as if the ground didn’t hold bones and secrets buried alongside them.
No.
Fuck that.
He tore his gaze away from his own reflection and focused on the office behind the glass instead.
Deacon lounged in his leather chair, shirt crisp, tie loosened just enough to look deliberate, dark hair arranged into the sort of effortless mess that probably took longer than Jake’s entire morning.
He had the phone tucked beneath his chin as he flipped a pen between his fingers and smiled that syrup-slick, butter-wouldn’t-melt smile that sold houses almost as easily as it got him laid.
That was Deacon. Charisma in human form.
On stage, he was much the same. Guitar slung low, lazy Yorkshire drawl sharpened by too many Arctic Monkeys interviews, utterly convinced he was Hartswick’s answer to Alex Turner.
He could hold a packed pub with a crooked smile and a well-timed wink, and by the end of most sets already knew who’d be waiting for him afterwards.
Deacon wasn’t chasing fame. He liked the attention, the women and the almost guaranteed shag at the end of the night.
But for all the ego and rock-star bullshit, he was decent.
He’d been there from the beginning, back when it was him, Jake and Raff freezing their bollocks off in lock-ups with borrowed amps.
Before the potential of Neon Arcade had taken Jake from them.
And when Jake went inside, Deacon could’ve replaced him.
Plenty of drummers had offered. Instead, he’d kept Jake’s stool empty and his name on the posters until he came home.
Jake had never forgotten that. Deacon had stood by him when plenty of other people had decided a violent ex-con wasn’t worth waiting for.
Which made this whole thing considerably harder to swallow.
Because decent or not, loyal or not, Deacon still might have fucked a seventeen-year-old girl and left her in his bed.
Jake squared his shoulders and reached for the door.
“This your van?”
He turned to the traffic warden nudging his thumb at the lettering splayed across his transit. J Whitton Roofing and Repairs.
Couldn’t quite deny it, could he?
So he said, “Aye.”
“You can’t park there.”
“Delivering.”
“You can’t deliver there either. You’re blocking the whole pavement.”
Jake glanced at the van as if seeing it for the first time. “I’ll be five minutes.”
“I’ll ticket you if you don’t shift it now.”
Jake shrugged. “If that’s what gets you through the day, mate. Fill your boots.” He then shoved through the estate agent’s door before the man could answer.
Deacon peered up, offered a wave, but didn’t break rhythm.
“No, Ms Lacey, listen to me. If I thought for one second it wouldn’t go for asking price, I’d tell you. You know I would.” He dumped his elbow on the desk, lowering his voice, all warm and conspiratorial. “Three viewings booked already. One’s a cash buyer. Lovely couple from Ilkley. Very solid.”
Jake strode up to the desk and mouthed, Need to talk to you. Now.
Deacon lifted a finger to him, the way he did in rehearsal when Jake overplayed a fill. The silent signal to strip it back. Find the pocket. But Jake wasn’t in the mood to be stilled mid-tempo.
“No, no, absolutely no pressure, Ms Lacey. You know I don’t do pressure.
” He dropped his voice into pure velvet.
“I prefer to call it… guidance.” He laughed.
“I facilitate dreams. That’s what I do.” He winked at Jake, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together for the universal sign for money, widening his grin to the point it could be audible down the line.
“Let me handle the negotiation. You start thinking about which prosecco you’re cracking open when we exchange.
” He then swivelled in his chair, laughing at whatever Ms Lacey had said down the line, as if Jake standing there wound tight was nothing more than a part of the office décor. “Well, I wouldn’t say no to a little—”
Jake reached across and slammed his fingers down on the hang-up button.
Deacon pulled the receiver from his ear and stared up at him. “What the fuck, Jake?” Back out came his usual voice, not the smarmy one he used when selling houses to the middle classes. “What’s crawled up your arse?”
“Need to talk to you.”
“Tough.” Deacon snapped his chair forward, tapping at his keyboard. “I gotta ring her back now.”
“Don’t.”
“Jesus. Fuck.” He shuffled the scatter of papers on his desk, searching for the number. “Shouldn’t you be fixing that roof on Larkspur Lane? Left your bloody card there, made sure it was leaking enough he’d call first light.”
Jake inhaled sharply. A flash of guilt hit, brief and sharp; now he knew exactly whose roof that had been. Wrong time for that.
“Did you go home with Emily Fisher last night?”
Deacon held the phone receiver between his chin and shoulder, stabbing his pen into the number pad, following a number scribbled on a pad. “Who the fuck is Emily Fisher?”
Jake slapped the hang-up button again.
“Oi!” Deacon grabbed the receiver and pointed it at him. “What the fuck?”
“She were working at the King’s Arms last night. Apparently, you were talking to her while we were packing down.”
Deacon arched a brow. “We were packing down? Far as I remember, you’d already disappeared, getting a blowie off that lad in the Nirvana t-shirt. Raff had to stand out back guarding the amps like a roadie orphan.”
Jake swore under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “For fuck’s sake, Deac. Did you take Emily Fisher home or not?”
“Once again, who the fuck is Emily Fisher?”
“Did you fuck anyone last night?”
Deacon dropped the receiver into its cradle and rocked back in his chair, leather creaking beneath him. “Why? You jealous?”
Jake gave him a flat look.
A crooked grin spread across Deacon’s face.
“Could’ve taken that off-the-shelf Nirvana tribute act back to your palace, mate.
Aye, so it’s a mattress on the floor above the off-licence rather than a four-poster, but it’s still gotta beat bending some random bloke over a stack of amps in the back of van.
” He shrugged. “Then again, suppose that’s what happens when you shag blokes who aren’t proper live-music fans. No respect for the equipment.”
Jake ignored the pinch of truth in what Deacon had said. “Emily Fisher is missing.”
He wasn’t wrong, though. Jake didn’t bring blokes back to his shitty bedsit.
Nor had he ever taken anyone home when he’d been living at his mum’s place, when his room had served as somewhere to crash between shifts, gigs, and trying to be a father to a kid who wasn’t his while the rest of his life stalled around him.
Not properly, anyway.
Even Brodie, the closest thing to a regular he’d had, never made it past the threshold.
His bedsit above the off-licence was a shithole, damp creeping up the corners and the mattress barely big enough for one, but it was his.
Four walls he controlled. A door he could shut and lock.
He hadn’t wanted anyone inside it long enough to make the effort worth it.
He shoved the thought aside before it could take root.
“Police are everywhere.” Jake leaned forward. “So if you so much as gave her a lift, they’ll be knocking on this door in about five minutes.”
Deacon leaned forward. “Why the fuck would the police be coming here?”
“Because a young girl’s missing.” Jake flapped a hand at him. “And you were seen flirting with her.”
“By who?”
“Brodie.”
Deacon threw his hands up. “Oh, aye. Must be gospel if Master Bates says it.”
There was an edge to that. Not quite a joke.
Jake clocked it. Filed it.