The Sound of Broken Glass (18 page)

“You'll see.”

They'd crossed Oxford Street at the lights, following the construction hoardings until they came into tiny Denmark Street from the east, passing the dark hulk of a church.

“The street of guitars,” said Andy as they reached the narrow entrance to a club with a sign over the door saying 12 BAR. Melody caught a glimpse of a printed flyer taped to the window, a monochrome version of Andy's face on pink paper with his name beneath it.

“Are you famous here?” she asked.

“It's a small world.”

The bloke on the desk by the door gave Andy an enthusiastic handclasp and Melody an assessing look. “Who's this, then, mate?” he asked.

“Melody. Leave her alone, Ricky. She's new.”

“Have fun, then,” Ricky told her with a wink. “And watch out for guitarists. They're dangerous.”

“Don't pay him any mind,” Andy told her as he led her to the back. “He's just jealous.”

He bought her a glass of the only white wine available. When Melody took a sip, she thought it might as well be horse piss, but she certainly was not going to complain.

“It improves with age,” said Andy, seeing her grimace. “When you're a hundred years old it will taste like nectar.”

She'd laughed and followed him down the stairs into a basement that was smaller than the sitting room in her flat. There were no chairs or tables, just a few bar stools against the back wall between the door that led to the sound booth, and a staircase that led to a tiny balcony overlooking the room. The odor of stale tobacco smoke seemed to ooze from the concrete walls, and she thought that eons of a smoking ban would not erase it.

“Grab a seat while you can,” said Andy, and when she was settled on a stool by the sound booth door, he'd chatted with the soundman, then climbed to the stage, tested his amp and his mic, and tuned the guitar. She'd watched him, feeling oddly comfortable in this strange world in which she was the outsider.

He'd come back to her, drinking a few sips of a beer as the audience trickled in, telling her little tidbits about the history of the club and the famous guitarists who had played there, greeting people who came to speak to him. Then suddenly the room was full, the soundman mumbled something unintelligible over the PA, and Andy was on the stage.

From the first moment, she realized that what she was seeing—hearing—was different from what she'd seen when he played with Poppy in the studio. There had been a tension with Poppy, a striving to meld one musician's unique voice and style with another's to create something entirely new.

But this, this was just between Andy and the guitar, and there was a grace and confidence to his playing that took her breath away. She felt, as she listened and watched him, that she knew him in a way that she had never known anyone else. And when he came back to her, at the end of the set, she knew that something fundamental had changed between them.

She'd stood outside the club for a long time. She knew how to loiter, to make herself invisible in the ebb and flow of the street. She was just a woman with her coat collar turned up, gazing intently in windows at objects she couldn't have named.

She watched the punters trickle in—ones and twos, then the occasional group of three or four. Sunday nights were bound to be quiet, but the custom was steady, and from the looks of the patrons, they were there to listen, not to drink.

The music began, too faint to identify, loud enough to be a rhythm in the blood, a counter to her heartbeat. Finally, deciding there was camouflage enough, she walked in and paid her cover to the young man at the door. He looked at her, as men did, and when he stamped her hand he kept his fingers on her wrist an instant too long.

She gave him her most impersonal smile as she drew back her hand. “Thanks,” she said. “Good show tonight?”

“Couple of guys doing acoustic sets. Top notch. Bar's on your left if you want a drink. Music's downstairs.” She remembered that, the tiny basement, from a visit to the place years ago.

Nodding, she walked through the narrow ground-floor room and at the bar bought herself a drink she didn't want. It would look odd to be empty-handed. Afterwards, she couldn't remember what she'd ordered, except that it had been bitter.

The music rose up to meet her as she descended the stairs. Halfway, she stopped, her throat tight, and she held on to the rail until someone bumped her from behind. “Sorry, sorry,” she murmured, and made herself take the last few steps.

The small basement was as dingy as she remembered, and packed with listeners, standing as they gazed up at the tiny, chest-high stage.

Tonight he was playing an acoustic, and she wasn't sure if that was better or worse than the sight of the red Strat when she'd seen him at the White Stag.

His hair was darker now, but the stage lighting picked out the faint blond highlights. And he still played with the same intense concentration, as if nothing existed in the world except him and the guitar. She saw that expression in her dreams, even now.

The melodies wove in and out, some familiar, some not. He built on them in variations, his fingers flying over the strings and the frets, and the audience listened in perfect silence, spellbound.

She felt a rush of pride, then reminded herself that whatever he had made of himself was no thanks to her. But she could make an apology, and if her courage had failed her before, she was determined that tonight it would not.

The set ended. He nodded, flashing a quick smile in acknowledgment of the echoing applause, then placed the guitar on its stand and vaulted lightly down the steps to the floor.

She took a breath, then a step forward. And he walked right past her, slipping through the crowd until he reached a dark-haired young woman sitting on one of the few stools at the back of the room. The woman was pretty, with pale skin flushed from the heat or perhaps excitement. He didn't touch her, but leaned close and said something in her ear. The woman laughed, and intimacy crackled between them like an electric charge.

Oh, God. She turned and pushed her way towards the stairs. What a fool she had been. What had she thought she could say that he would possibly want to hear, that would change anything that had happened years ago? Friday night had been folly enough, but this, this was madness.

The man at the door called out as she went past, but his words were lost as she stumbled into the street. Blindly, she turned towards Charing Cross Road, her breath coming in sobbing gulps. The weather had changed—she felt the moisture in the air, a needle sting against her face.

And she, she was no longer invisible. Pedestrians swore as she lurched against them, turning to look at her, wondering if she was drunk. Or crazy. She made herself slow down, look in windows, be ordinary.

There, a bookshop. And there, the shop with the miniature replica guitars carefully displayed on shelves in the window, each with its little tag attributing it to a famous guitarist.

A cruel joke. Shivering, she moved on. A man coming out of a kebab shop stepped right into her path. This time, he was the one apologizing, steadying her with one hand on her shoulder. But she stood, transfixed by the picture on the television mounted above the counter in the little shop.

That face—it couldn't be.

“Lady,” said the man with the kebabs, “are you all right?”

“Yes. Thanks.” She managed to nod, and he moved on with a shake of his head. Then she opened the door and went into the kebab shop, her eyes never leaving the television screen. It was the London segment of the ten o'clock news. The picture flashed again, and over it, a female newscaster's voice, saying, “A well-known London barrister was found dead near his home in South London. Police are asking for help with their inquiries . . . ”

The sound faded out. She stood, paralyzed, as little animated rain clouds began to move across the map of Britain on the screen.

It couldn't be. It couldn't be him.

What on earth had she done?

When the second guitarist on the bill began to set up, Andy took her half-drunk glass of wine and set it on the shelf that ran along the back wall. “You don't want to stay for this,” he said in her ear. “He's not as good as I am.”

As he went back for his guitar, she saw him pause for just an instant, head turned towards the stairs, an odd look on his face. Then he shook his head and retrieved the Hummingbird, and before she knew it he had hustled her up the stairs and out into the street.

The weather had changed. There was mist in the air, and the heavy scent of rain.

“We'll be wading if we don't hurry,” he said, and they walked fast, this time towards Charing Cross Road. Andy held the guitar case in one hand and her elbow in the other.

Melody felt so unlike herself that she might almost have been out of her body—except that every inch of her felt so joyously, triumphantly alive. The half glass of despicable wine might have been a bottle of champagne, so giddy was she.

By the time they reached Hanway Place, it had started to sprinkle. Andy unbuttoned his coat and held it over them. She felt the warmth of his arm on her shoulders as they ran the last few yards and skidded, laughing, into the doorway of his building.

“You'd better come in and get warm,” he said. “I'll make you a cuppa if you'll drink it this time.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. It was fine, really.”

He laughed, and she felt his breath on her face. “Maybe the milk was a bit off, after all. We could have it without.”

“No, really, I've got to go. Work in the morning. I—”

She felt him draw away.

“Well, then. Thanks for coming with me. I'll see you again, shall I? When you've got more investigating to do?”

“Yes, thanks. It was lovely.” She cursed herself. What could she have said that would have been more stupidly inadequate for what she'd felt that evening? “I mean—”

She stopped as he leaned towards her. His lips brushed one cheek, then he turned to kiss the other just as she responded in kind. It was the friends' casual farewell, but she'd got her timing wrong, and their lips met.

They both froze. Then his arm was around her, his mouth was against hers, and Melody found she didn't care if she ever got home.

Part of the gardens included a prehistoric swamp complete with models of dinosaurs. They were the first prehistoric animals ever built and came only around 30 years after dinosaurs were discovered.

—www.bbc.co.uk

The boys came to the park every day now, circling him like hyenas stalking prey. First they'd ridden bikes, but now they'd graduated to skateboards, although Andy could see that neither of them was very good.

Their interest made him wary, but he had nothing else to do, and he was not going to let them drive him away from practicing his guitar in the park.

“Can't you afford new trainers, then?” said the heavier boy, wobbling as he stepped off his board and trying to make it look as though he'd meant to do it.

Andy glanced down at his shoes, a size too small now, the broken laces reknotted, and shrugged. “Maybe I'd rather spend my money on other things.”

“Where'd you get the guitar, then?”

“None of your business.”

“Bet you stole it,” said the heavier boy. It wasn't that he was fat, thought Andy, it was just that he had a well-fed sort of arrogance about him, and his mate was a scrawny kid who always seemed a step behind.

Now the scrawny kid dared to argue. “Come on, Shaun. Where would he steal a guitar?”

“Shut up, Joe.” Shaun aimed a kick at his friend's shin. “You don't know anything.” He turned his attention back to Andy. “How'd you learn to play, then?”

“I practiced. That's what you do.”

Shaun didn't look impressed, and Andy guessed that in a few weeks he would give up the skateboard, and that it would be the same with anything that didn't come easily.

“Play something good.”

“Not for you.” Fed up, Andy put the Höfner in its case. He stood up and walked away, but he could feel their eyes on his back until he was out of their sight.

But the next day they were back.

“Where do you go to school?” asked Shaun. “We've never seen you around.”

Not bloody likely, thought Andy. They both had plummy accents that marked them as public school boys. “Catholic school.”

“Ooh, I'll bet those priests like you, pretty boy.”

Andy didn't bother coming to the defense of the teachers, who had, for the most part, been kind to him. It would only mean more ridicule. “Bugger off, why don't you?”

That only seemed to encourage them. “Where do you live?” asked Joe.

Andy nodded in the direction of Westow Hill. He wasn't about to tell them what street.

“We live in Dulwich,” said Joe, which earned him a dirty look from Shaun.

“Nice for you.”

Shaun frowned, and Andy could tell he wasn't used to dealing with people who weren't impressed. Even the girls who came to the park in gaggles looked at him, simpering as they ate ice creams or sat in groups, trying out makeup and weird lipstick colors. They looked at Andy sometimes, too, but unlike Shaun, he didn't look back. Joe, on the other hand, might not have existed as far as the girls were concerned.

“What about your mum and dad?” asked Shaun. “What do they do? My dad's in dot-com startups.”

Andy had no idea what he was talking about. “I live with my mum. She works in a pub.”

There was sudden speculation in Shaun's glance. “In the daytime?”

“She usually goes on at lunch. Why?”

“So you're home all alone.”

“I don't need a babysitter, if that's what you mean.” Andy glared back at him. “I can look after myself.”