by J. S. Brent
‘Are you masturbating?’ A voice came from the other side of my door. I could recognise that Scottish accent anywhere. It was Flora.
‘Not quite yet.’ I called back.
She rushed in with her phone.
‘Listen. Seriously, just listen.’ She began to play a song. I recognised it from somewhere but I couldn’t quite place it.
I managed to temporarily break out of my mind for a moment. I wasn’t bored anymore. All I needed was alcohol and a busy schedule. All I needed was a new place and an early start.
To me, nothing had changed. I had just lost a man who was never there, anyway.
In the moments that I could smile fully I learnt to not give in to fears of consequence or judgement because I did not know how long my smiles would last.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It was the first time I had been to Newcastle sober. Well. It was the first time I had been to Newcastle in the daytime. It was helping to see a city with open eyes for the first time. The statues, the buildings, the people. There were a lot more people with dyed hair and visible tattoos than in Durham.
I had listened to battle music on my way here. I was getting ready for war. I was ready to fight the demons within and get back into a world of books and films and music. The peaceful, serene sights as I had approached the river before the station had been undercut with the ferocity of some invading force, only to be pushed back by a triumphant victor standing before them, never ready to give up.
Finally, I had stepped into the shower and ignored the burning by putting on some music and singing along to it. I think that the singing had frightened anyone that could hear it in its pride and its brightness. For some reason my friends didn’t want to hear me singing along to happy music.
I had come for a new guitar. That was all I needed. A new guitar that reverberated a new sound when I plucked those steel strings. One that I could form the relationship of a guitarist with. The strings starting loose and unsure of themselves, only to grow into something new gradually as the time between tuning stretches from fifteen minutes to days to months. I would do the next open-mic and I would sing, and then everyone would see that I was alright. Everything could go back to normal.
There were pigeons everywhere on the grey streets. Flying to and from dropped food and smoking cigarette butts. Newcastle was beautiful in all of its grey glory. The industrial look of it made it seem more important, more busy.
I could have got a new guitar from Durham. I knew a shop and they sold them from the markets. Newcastle, however, had a shop designed for musicians breaking in and out of their usual chords. The shop was for people starting to play and finishing their old styles. It was for people finding something new to carry with them on their shoulder and impress an audience filled with paying fans.
The shop itself was beautiful. It reminded me of all the times my Dad had taken me to sweet shops after we had been on our morning walk for the newspaper. All the colour, all the choice. All the temptation to try something completely and utterly unknown.
‘That one.’ I said, pointing to a guitar that looked like it had been beaten up. I knew that it was deliberate in its stylings, but real music and talent comes from a place of pain, not beauty, and I didn’t trust all of the shiny, glossed, plastic guitars to reverberate the sounds that I truly wanted.
It had been hidden. Hidden away on the long lines of guitars hanging down from the ceiling.
‘Are you sure? This one here’s cheaper and sounds better.’ I was sure. I was more than just sure. I was positive.
When I left on my way back to the station I saw a student film production. There a man stood, rushing between person to person, wildly speaking with his outstretched arms. He looked about my age. He seemed to give new meaning to the word ‘control’. He was in charge of who lived and died before him on his monitors that would play back a mirrored version of reality.
I thought that I saw Kevin walking amongst them, not doing much.
I returned to my room with it slung over my back. I went a secret way back to college. I didn’t know who did and didn’t know about my situation and I was afraid of talking to people that would assume some sort of fragility.
That night I didn’t try to play anything new, I just repeated the songs my guitar teacher had given me. All of his beautiful arrangements. The notes like roses meticulously placed around the page, signifying the best way to express and to impress.
With my new guitar I could play songs slowly. They sounded better that way. They sounded better when I played around with what notes to stress and what to play louder or quieter. It was no longer a race to end the piece. It was no longer an intent to show off with speed. It was just music.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Lovely new guitar.’ The open-mic organiser said to me as I brought it out of its bag.
‘Well. New term, new me. As usual.’ I said back, smiling. I knew what I was going to play but I was unsure of how it would or wouldn’t be accepted. It was alright, though. I knew that I couldn’t really sing. Everyone would applaud either way.
I was not put on last, this time. I told myself it was alright. I could get some drinks before to gain in confidence, then, after my performance I could get a lot more of the cheap drinks on offer.
It was so warm in there. Apparently it was warm outside, as well. Flora and Effy had told me after their first cigarette of the evening. I felt comfortable. It was a nice environment to pretend to show some semblance of vulnerability. Just me, my chords and my voice.
The barmaid waved to me as I set up on stage. The lights seemed to dim as I sat down. ‘I’m just going to play a few songs. Then I’ll leave, don’t worry.’ I smiled as if I was joking.
Jimmy wasn’t there. John was alone at the bar with a drink in his hand. Flora and Effy sat at a table and talked about whatever was coming to their mind. I didn’t want to think what that might’ve been. If it was normal it would be about something strange, if it wasn’t I didn’t want to know.
I strummed my guitar.
It was out of tune. ‘Sorry.’ I quickly said into the mic. ‘New guitar.’ I tuned it by ear. I had heard somewhere that it was attractive to be able to tune by ear, but I didn’t want anyone to think that it was deliberate.
She sat alone at a table. I was unsure why she was here. It shouldn’t have been for me.
I nodded as the chord of E reverberated around the room, the strings in perfect synchronicity. ‘Ok.’
I strummed my guitar.
I had deliberately chosen a slow song to start off with. I could sing in tune for the start of it before the impressive vocals set in.
Right there on that seat I was blinded to everyone else in the room. It was as if the lights had been switched off around me and that I was practising alone at night. Nobody but me and the new beginnings I held between my fingers.
I didn’t have to play harder. I didn’t have to sing hoarser. Everything just came to my lips and my fingers as if I had never put down my guitar. As if I had never failed in writing a single song in my life. There was nothing else but that moment. I didn’t notice the tear that was rolling down my cheek.
There had been no particular reason for picking the song that was filling the empty room, but that didn’t mean I was immune from how it had engulfed me. It was serene to begin with, building up to an often misunderstood chorus. It was like it was capturing the eye of the storm, looking out around you and only seeing the destruction you are safe from.
Nothing caught in my throat. I just sang.
At the very end I trailed off, forgetting the lyrics. ‘I’m sorry.’ I said, suddenly aware of the silent faces that were staring at me. ‘I just love that song.’ I smiled, quickly wiped my cheek and nose. ‘You’ve been great.’ I unplugged the guitar, filling the room with harsh feedback, and rushed off stage.
‘Are you ok?’ The barmaid asked me with stern eyes as I stumbled towards her.
‘Fine, just, double vodka lemonade, please.’ The barmaid
nodded and retreated slowly into her duty.
The organiser brought the next person on stage after I gave her a thumbs-up.
‘That was Tom Ellis! Brilliant performance.’ There was uncomfortable applause.
‘Thank you!’ I yelled from my position at the bar. Suddenly the lights were too bright. The faces no longer looked at the bar. A hand touched my shoulder. I spun around.
‘Your drink.’ The barmaid said.
‘Cheers.’ I drank all of it.
‘Wow.’ A familiar voice approached me. ‘I had no idea you could sing.’ It was Jasmine. ‘It was so good.’
‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ I asked, turning around for another drink.
‘It’s for my film.’ Kevin approached, putting his arms around Jasmine’s waist and resting his head on her shoulder. ‘She offered to come up with me.’ Of course she had.
‘It’s so good to see you two.’ I said, out of breath.
‘Likewise.’ Kevin said.
From her seat she motioned if I wanted a cigarette. I nodded.
‘I’ll be right back.’ I said, peeling away from them.
‘We’ll come.’ Kevin said, following me out.
She sat on one of the benches, rolling her cigarette.
‘Obviously you’re not ok.’ She said to me.
‘I am. Fine. Lights were too bright.’ I said. She passed me her cigarette.
‘And who is this?’ Kevin asked, no longer touching Jasmine.
‘This is…’ I started. ‘Got a light?’
‘Yeah, one sec.’ She said, bringing out her lighter.
‘Tom can really sing, can’t he?’ Jasmine asked, putting her hand out to be shaken.
‘He was alright.’ Kevin said.
‘Can we have a moment?’ She asked.
‘I’m sure it’s fine.’ Kevin said. ‘We’re Tom’s best friends from home.’
‘Do you want to talk about your Dad, Tom?’ She asked.
‘No, it’s not that, I’m fine.’ I said, shifting my weight and my gaze.
‘You know, Tom, I have issues with my Dad as well.’ Kevin said, unaware. ‘He just doesn’t get it. He just doesn’t get me.’ I couldn’t help but glare at him. She opened her mouth to speak. The lights got brighter. I saw red. ‘He’s always making bad jokes. He’s always wanting to read my books and stories.’ Kevin paused and looked at her. ‘I’m a writer, by the…’ He was cut off by my fist to his jaw.
There was blood. Jasmine jumped backwards. I almost thought I saw her smile. She looked at me with ferocious eyes. Kevin brought his hand up to his jaw.
‘Tom? What the fuck?’ She asked me. I was in shock. I was shaking. I didn’t know what to say.
‘Sylvia…’ Was all that I could manage. She stood up and walked inside through the other entrance.
‘Kevin. There might be something cold in my room.’ I said.
‘How dare you? How dare you touch me?’ He said.
‘I’m sure he didn’t mean it, Kev.’ Jasmine said.
‘No, fuck you. Fuck all of you.’ He said.
‘I can explain why I did that.’ I said, embarrassed.
‘You think I care about your dead Dad?’ He knew. The words cut through me. Everything froze for a moment.
The only thing I remember about the next few moments is the dark trees around us swaying in the late night wind and the lights shining from all of the blocks and the candlelight from inside the bar. When I broke back into what was going on what I saw was disgusting to me. I was just glad that Sylvia had left.
Kevin was on the floor. Jasmine had both of her hands to her mouth. I was standing over him, my foot planted into his side. We had moved beyond the smoking area. We were away from prying eyes. Blood was seeping over Kevin’s closed eyelid. The guilt I felt was immediate. ‘I’m going to destroy you.’ Kevin spat.
I went back to my room. Nobody knocked on my door. Everyone just left me to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘I’m afraid there’s only one other thing we can do.’ A man sat before me. He wore a cardigan. He was clean-shaven and looked incredibly professional.
The room around me was a blinding white. There were pictures on his walls of his children. His desk was in the centre of the room, it was wooden. His chair was a lot taller than mine. I was blinded from the light pouring through the window.
‘What’s that?’ I pleaded. I can’t remember if I was crying or not.
‘If you defer and date it back…’ He paused. He was being very careful with his words. ‘The problem is he wasn’t another student. The two witnesses spoke on your behalf but it should be a court case. If that happens and you’re found guilty you’ll be evicted.’
I nodded slowly.
‘Is that the only option?’
‘As it stands, yes. We understand your situation, here. We don’t want to add to it in any way.’ He said. ‘If you defer then it’s only a court case you have to deal with. You wouldn’t be our responsibility.’
I looked out the window at the green grass and blooming flowers.
‘Alright.’ I said.
I threw everything in my room out. Everything except from my money, passport, some of my clothes and my guitar. I couldn’t tell my Mother and Sister that I was getting kicked out and I needed their help to move all of my pointless shit. I didn’t want the memories they would constantly bring, anyway. My backpack felt heavy, even though it was almost empty.
That night I went out with Jimmy and John. I hadn’t told anyone. I saw Sylvia there. She didn’t speak to me. Jimmy tried to keep up with my drinking but I ended up having to bring him home. I walked back via the river. Nobody would care if I just stepped off that tall bridge over those calm waters. It would have been quick. It would have been painless.
In the morning I left. I was heading out to Newcastle. I left the words ‘deferred’ left on my door’s whiteboard behind me as I walked out to a new life. I checked the mirror one last time. Finally, I walked out into the big, open world. Dust on my shoes, my home on my back, nothing left for me in my old life. Not a cigarette in hand nor a drink. Just my guitar and my aching legs.
The world around me had changed. It was only natural that I had been forced to change with it.
END OF BOOK ONE
BOOK TWO
CHAPTER ONE
Home. Home for me had existed in a different life. A life of University and friends and a loving family. From one perspective, anyway. It was more than just a warm cup of tea and a nice chat. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe that’s what home had been. I had forgotten.
Now my life was played out on the streets. I wasn’t necessarily homeless. Most nights I got to sleep in a bed. Not my bed, not one I had paid for. It was usually with some willing girl who had heard me playing guitar on the street and had invited me over for coffee. I quickly learnt that ‘coffee’ didn’t actually mean coffee.
I managed to tell myself that I was happy. The constantly changing hair-colours and new tattoos probably said otherwise. It was simple, though. All I had to do was find somewhere to sit and to play guitar. If I was moved along by the police I would just find somewhere else.
On the bed-less nights sometimes I would get beaten up. I always thanked the gangs as they walked away. I probably deserved it for some reason. I couldn’t injure myself anymore so I thought that it was the next best thing. Besides, I was far less likely to end up having a shower with a beaten face and the resulting smell was something to overcome in order to find my next place to sleep.
Anyway. I made new friends on the street. Well, I call them friends. Some of them were pigeons, landing close to me as I smoked in between songs. I had taken up smoking again. It was easier that way. Others wore people who would walk past me every day and say ‘hello’.
I learnt to not play in front of coffee shops. Windows seemed to give people permission to stare. I still don’t know why. If they were on the street there was a surprising lack of eye contact.
Rainy day
s were the best. I could put up my umbrella and still perform. I got more money because people thought that I was doing it out of sheer passion. Then, at night, when the weather had cleared up, I could hide my things in my usual spot and go out. I wouldn’t drink much, I just had to be drunk enough to talk to people. Then I could have a shower. I also needed tip money for my friends in the bathrooms who would then spray me with nice smelling things.
I had moved into a new life. My old one had vanished before my eyes. I could no longer think of Jimmy and of my family and of Flora. There was no time. There was no point. My existence had changed.
I was unsure if I had moved forwards, thrust into my future, or back into the person I used to be before university. Back into the person that Bishop’s Wood had made me.
Every now and again a Friday would roll past. It would be a night out for my old friends. Often one would peel away from the group, slowly letting them drift from me. No words were exchanged, just eye contact. Just slight recognition. Then they moved on, caught up. It couldn’t have been me. I was warm at home or exploring the world.
I began to think about my Dad every day. My Grandfather had been right at the funeral. All of the bad times were important, too. Every time he had gotten angry at me. All two of them. When I had been lost and they had been frightened. When I had been caught with cigarettes. They just showed that he still cared. Maybe in the end he had cared too much. That was the irony. I had lived my whole life growing up thinking he didn’t give a shit about me. Maybe that’s what killed him. This is often where my train of thought ended. I grew to be very good at mentally changing the subject. The guitar helped with that. I wasn’t ready to think about how it may have been my fault.
But that was where I was unsure. That’s where the diagram overlapped and I was more than happy accepting my place firmly in the middle. Maybe it was my fault, but maybe my brain was just telling me that it was my fault.
