Chapter one #3
Jake nodded, easing them around a bend, unsure how to feel about that. But it wasn’t like he’d introduced Harrison to his mates. They knew him, of course. But knew nothing of this…thing they were not doing.
Then Harrison said, “She’s Chris’s sister.”
Well. Shit. “Ah. Understandable then.”
“There’ll be other chances.”
“Will there?”
“I hope so.” Harrison drifted his gaze back out the window. “And thanks. For this.”
Jake risked another look. “S’nice to see you.”
That got him a smile. Small. Real. “You too.”
Jake felt that smile spread right through him. Warm and stupid and a little too much. And…that smile? That was why he did this. To get that.
The storage units were tucked into an industrial area not quite matching the rest of the idyllic rural Hartswick.
Rows of metal doors, dull and uniform, and Jake backed the van into place where Harrison directed him.
They got out, and Harrison tapped in his number on the keypad making the shutter rattle up to reveal the inside.
Jake let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell.”
It was full. Boxes upon boxes. Stacked high. Furniture wrapped in old sheets. Lamps, chairs, bits of a life packed away and forgotten long enough to gather dust along the edges.
“This your London life, then?” Jake stepped inside.
“Could say that,” Harrison sighed, running a hand over the back of his neck. “Most of it could probably go. But… hasn’t.”
Jake nodded. “So we chuck it in the van and sort it later?”
“Yeah.”
“Alright.” Jake rubbed his hands together and got on with it.
Box by box, he lifted and stacked them into the van.
Kept himself moving. His focus there. Leaving Harrison to do what he needed.
But he kept an eye on him, watching him drift idly along the items. Pausing.
Picking things up, turning them over in his hands as if they meant something. Held some meaning Jake wouldn’t know.
He wasn’t just clearing space.
So Jake worked one side of the unit clear, then moved deeper in, reaching for another box from the stack. The cardboard dipped under his grip where it had softened, edges bowed where damp had got in.
“Bollocks.”
It split straight down the side; the bottom dropping out completely, sending the contents hurtling to the ground.
Jake crouched and scrambled to catch what he could, then he stilled as he realised what it all was.
Vinyl. Stacks of them, sliding against each other, sleeves slipping half-free.
Jake picked one up between his fingers, careful without meaning to be.
It was old. The edges softened with use.
The spine creased. This wasn’t for display. This had been played. Properly.
And loved.
He stroked his thumb over the cover, tracing the worn corners. There were more, too. CDs. Scattered through the split box. Some still in neat rows where they’d been packed with care. Others loose, cases cracked, booklets slipping free. As if they’d had an order. As if they’d meant something.
And he’d just ruined it.
Harrison slipped in behind him, drawing a quiet breath. “They were Chris’s.”
Jake nodded, looking back down at the vinyl in his hands. “Had good taste.”
Harrison smiled, but it wasn’t as warm as the one he’d given earlier. It was heavier. Melancholic. “Chris was… big on live music. Proper stuff. Not just sticking something on in the background.”
Jake huffed a faint smile, flicking through a couple more sleeves. “I can tell.” He paused, pulling one free, eyes lighting despite himself. “Fuck, first pressing of Up the Bracket. That’s… aye, that’s not summat you find lying about. It’s rare. Would kill for this.”
Harrison smiled faintly, watching him.
Jake shook his head, still half in it, tracing through the stack, then he stilled on something else. A CD. Battered. Case cracked down one side. He turned it over. And laughed, quiet and disbelieving, as he dropped back onto his heels.
“Christ…” He held it up between them.
Neon Arcade. Their first album. The one they’d recorded before everything changed.
Harrison let out a soft breath. “He might have been their first fan.”
Jake shook his head, that old, familiar pull tightening his chest. He was on that album. Recorded before the label interest. Before the showcases. Before the meetings in Leeds where men in expensive shirts had started talking about tours and contracts and futures.
Before Robyn.
A strange ache struck him low in his chest. Not because of the music. Because of who he’d been when they’d made it. Seventeen. Certain the world was about to open up for him. Certain there’d always be time.
“We saw them live.” Harrison’s voice drifted a little, as if he’d stepped somewhere else for a second. Into the past.
Jake looked up. “Oh, aye? Where?”
“One of their early festival sets. BBC Introducing stage. Leeds, I think.”
Jake breathed out a laugh and shook his head. “No way.”
“You were right. I was a festival goer. And we did the whole run that summer. Chris got it into his head that Neon Arcade would be big. Turned out, he was right.”
Jake stared at him. Then leaned back, the air leaving him in a quiet rush. “I played that set. Leeds. Before they got signed.”
Harrison’s gaze snapped to his, as if coming back from the past. Surprise, disbelief, and something deeper threaded through, the thread that had latched onto them a few weeks ago suddenly pulling tighter.
It was…too much.