The Commitment

As anyone who’s been on stage will tell you, there’s nothing worse than an audience that don’t care. When you’re being showered with abuse and empty bottles of Foster’s, it may be the worst experience of your life, but at least you’re certain what the crowd think of you. When they sit there and clap just because the song’s over, you’re left in some type of fucking limbo. For all you know, they may want to pull your jaw so far down that it snaps off, and throw the rest of you into the North Sea - but as all you’ll ever get are evasive comments and polite one sentence replies, you don’t have a clue.

That’s what’s staring me in the face right now as Gavin slashes out the last chord of our set. He mumbles a few things into the mic that I don’t quite catch - the crowd raise their hands, waiting for the right time to clap - Jake attempts a big climactic roll which finishes with a drumstick bouncing off my head. It’s bad.

There’s nothing for a second and then the crowd takes pity on us and claps. I smile at them, but it’s over too quickly and I’m soon on my knees, raking equipment into my backpack. I’m feeling pretty down, but moping never did anyone much good, so I keep a lid on it. Knowing my bandmates must feel the same, I spend a couple of minutes propping them up, hitting shoulders and giving words of encouragement. Gavin responds in kind, but Jake just stares blankly ahead, skinny shoulders hunched over that enormous kit of his.

Once the stage is cleared, the three of us head over to where a large group of our friends is sitting. After a few dutiful “well dones” from them I find myself stuck for a place to sit. Moving over to the next empty table, I crack open one of the Carling bottles we were paid with and sit back, half-listening to Gavin, Jake, and the others discuss the last few weeks at college.

More people start to trickle in as the night goes on. The Belfry is the nightclub for people who don’t like dance music. Though you don’t see as many goths as the name implies, anyone who’s dressed too plain will feel a bit lost without a group to stick by. The place’s split up into two main rooms, one for indie, one for heavier stuff, and then there’s the side room for live bands. The place can be rough at times, and it ain’t clean, though it’s still safer than the other big clubs around town.

I take a sip from the bottle - I really can’t down drinks like some of my friends can. It’s enough of the stuff to do its job though, and I get that instant alcohol kick… you know, the one that feels like standing naked in a snowstorm while someone smacks you in the head with a cattle prod.

Just as I’m comfortably starting to drift, I feel a tap on my shoulder. I look up and see this tallish unshaven guy sticking his hand in my face. I guess from his grin that this is a friendly gesture, so I offer my own hand. He shakes it forcefully, “I was watching your band just now,” he says, “I just wanted to say you handle the bass like a pro. You’re damn good for someone your age.”

“Heh. Cheers. But I still ain’t as good as I’d like to be.” I’d never been any good at taking praise. Guess I’m too used to sitting in the background and not getting noticed - it’s one of the upshots of being a bassist, if you’re that kind of person.

The guy laughs, but in a good sort of way - it seems I got the answer right this time. The DJ chooses this moment to turn off his eye-burning lightshow, and I finally get a good look at the smiling wonder. He’s scruffy, but not in the trendy, stonewashed way that most of the other clubbers are. His denim jacket has a couple of stains that look permanent, and his hands, though pretty small and fine, look like sandpaper. He’s older than the usual Belfry crowd, maybe ten years older - but he’s good looking in a Brad Pitt sort of way, so he gets away with it.

He eventually stops laughing. “That’s a good attitude to have, chief. It’s a shame everyone don’t think like yourself.” He sits down, “anyhow, I still ain’t introduced myself. The name’s Matt, and yours?”

“Ahmed.” Most people can't get my name right, so it's always Ahmed. Not that I hold it against anyone, mind.

“Ahmed? Great, can I get you a drink?”

I reach down into the crate of Carling and pull out a bottle. Matt’s face - well, what I can see under the stubble - creases with recognition.

“Cheers,” he says, taking the bottle and popping the cap with a scary looking penknife, “I somehow knew they wouldn’t pay cash at this place.”

“Yeah, but the money don’t bother me, you know. I just love playing up there.”

Matt nods slowly and takes a packet of fags from his jacket. “Right answer again, hey?” he says, “You’re still young after all. Not in the shit I’m in.” He offers me one a cigarette. I don’t smoke, but I take it anyway and ask for a light. Matt’s quick to please and I’m soon sucking clumsily at the filter. Luckily, the DJ turns his lightshow back on so I don’t make a complete prat of myself. Matt looks cool as a cucumber while I’m inwardly screaming at the goddamn fireball racing down my throat. I am so glad my dad ain’t here to see this, it’s bad enough that I’m even drinking. “Now that was the right answer, chief, but…” Matt’s got that stoned look which suggests he’s talking to himself more than me. “You shouldn’t put yourself down too quick. You’re doing this place a favour more than they’re doing you one.” Snap. He’s back to reality now, looking at me full-beam. I can’t tell if he’s being dramatic on purpose, or if he’s just one of these cool intense fuckers

I was starting to feel a bit better about the gig. It seems at least this guy liked us, so we must have done something right, even if he does seem a bit spaced out. “So, er… you liked us, then?” I ask, squeaking like an idiot.

Matt shakes his head. Oh shit, it was too much to hope for after all. “No, you didn’t hear me, chief. I said I liked you, not the two sixth form pretty boys you play with,” I open my mouth to defend my friends, but the guy just carries on. “And no, before you ask, that don’t mean I’m queer,” I give up and keep my trap shut. I get scared when I hear any minority getting bashed. A guy who hates one normally hates them all.

Matt takes another drag on his fag while he carries on marking my essay. “Look, we’ll get the biggest problem outta the way first,” he says. “Your drummer’s useless. I don’t know if he gets nervous or whatever, but he fucked up more times than you could get away with. You need to change him, like, tomorrow.” Huh. Actually, I’ll retract what I just said, the teacher comparison don’t quite gel. This feels more like a doctor sticking his hand up your ass.

“Woah. Come on, mate!” I say, trying not to object too strongly. I don’t fancy getting my head kicked in by some guy who’s at least three stone heaver than I am. “Don’t be too harsh on the guy. Jake suffers really badly from anaemia. It ain’t his fault he’s weak as a… er - well, you’d struggle if you had a crippling medical problem.”

“And you’d struggle to play the bass if your arm was chopped off. What’s your point, chief?”

I can’t argue with that sorta cold logic, but Gavin, Jake, and me - we’re a band, not a fucking corporation. “Jake’s our friend, I’d say that’s enough reason to keep him around.”

Matt sighs, as if there weren’t enough cigarette smoke in the place already. “That’s good loyalty kid, but when your band’s only three guys strong, you can’t afford any dead weight. Trust me, that drummer will stop you getting anywhere if you don’t ditch him.”

Matt falls silent and stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray - I had long given up on mine. Looking over towards the stage, I notice that Jake’s parents had arrived on the scene. They were busy packing his drum kit away, putting each part in its individual case. We did have the option of using the headline band’s kit, but Jake insisted on using his own set-up. When we had arrived at The Belfry earlier that night, Jake said he had been right to worry as the headliner’s kit had only four toms.

“I’m guessing that kit cost at least twelve hundred. Your drummer’s a lucky kid.”

“He is. Huh, it’s certainly more impressive than my knackered old Milestone. It took me months to save up enough for that girl.” I could have shot myself for saying that, I’m past whining about what I have or haven’t got.

“That doesn’t matter,” Matt says, “there was this guy I knew - this is going back a few years to my apprenticeship, mind - and erm… he had this big gambling problem, he could never afford to replace this really ugly second hand Stagg.” Matt’s face has gone seriously weird - he’s frowning really fucking hard. I wouldn’t be surprised if he rips a hole in his forehead at this rate. “Well, this guy was perhaps the best damn bassist I’d ever heard - genuine power-ballad man. He could make that twisted old Stagg of his sound good as any high-end Fender or Ibanez you’d care to mention. I was lucky enough to jam with him on a regular basis.” The guy looks off towards the stage again and starts laughing. “Jesus, I can’t believe how long it’s been since we last did that. I’m thirty-six, and I’m already an old man.”

“Did this guy make it at all? What’s he doing now?”

“What’s he doing? Hah! He’s dead, chief. Asbestos poisoning.”

“Shit…” This is starting to get depressing. I reach down for another drink. I offer a bottle to Matt, but he refuses, saying he already owes me one – he tells me he hates being in debt to people. I tell him he owes me fuck all, but he’s too stubborn.

“Anyhow,” he says, “That’s enough wrist-slashing for today. I’m going to have one more cigarette, and then we’re gonna talk about your band some more.”

“So it’s just me doing the wrist-slashing now?”

“You got it, chief.”

I shift over to the main table while Matt lights up. I try to join in the conversation there, but find I can’t do it without physically shoving my way in. After a while I give up, and sit back down opposite Matt, who munches through his cigarette with annoying speed and starts talking again. I miss what he’s saying at first as I figure out why I’m still talking to him. He’s pissing on everyone I don’t want him to, but he sounds like he’s been about a bit - seems to know some interesting stuff. Also, I really don’t want to offend the guy, so I start listening again.

“…And the thing is, your guitarist-singer guy, he knows what he’s doing - I think - but he’s just lazy… and dull, really fucking dull. Typical nineties kid. If you got rid of his mop, he’d be the next Chris Martin, and that’s the last thing we need.”

“Can’t say I mind Coldplay.”

“Maybe you don’t chief… Maybe you don’t.” I don’t know why I felt the need to defend Coldplay like that. Gavin worships the ground they spit on, but I don’t like them that much. I have a copy of ‘Parachutes’ at home. I think I only listened to it once. “Still, even if you do like them,” Matt sounds really let down. I should have kept my mouth shut. “I bet they ain’t the reason you play that bass.”

“No… No, I guess they’re not.”

“Who is, then?” He’s giving me that car-headlights look again. I guess this question’s kind of important.

“Erm…” keep your mouth shut Ahmed - it makes you look more intelligent. “I don’t know. I mean, I do know, but I can’t give you many names. Mostly old stuff… James Jameson, Sydney Clark, guys like that.” Well that was nice and vague. Makes me sound like I’m really up on my music.

Matt slaps his knee “Ha! I knew it!” he says, treating me to this big nicotine stained grin. I answered right again? I thought I’d given no answer at all. “You know, watching you up there, I had you down as an old-school R&B man.”

“Uh… I don’t know, I wouldn’t really call myself…”

“Yeah, I know, you’ll listen to anything once chief. Best way to be, best way to be.” Matt’s getting pretty revved up now, leaning forward and drumming away on the table, “but it’s the old stuff you’re grounded in, right?”

“…Yeah.” I feel like I’ve been led towards a certain answer here. Damn! Why can’t I think straight? I shouldn’t be drunk already - I’ve only had two bottles.

“Great! Brilliant, fucking brilliant. Listen, chief, give me a second, I’m getting you a drink whether you like it…” I don’t have a chance to protest this time round. He’s out of his seat and striding across the floor before he even finishes what he’s saying. I’m starting to get really antsy now - I really don’t want another drink. But I’d better sit still and let him buy one so I don’t look ungrateful.

He’s back. “Here you are chief. I’d have got you a pint, but I don’t trust the taps in this place.” He puts a bottle of Foster’s on the table in front of me. I notice he’s drinking bottles himself, so there must be something in what he’s saying. I’ve never noticed anything wrong with the beer myself, but then I ain’t been drinking it long enough to be an expert.

“Cheers.”

“Don’t mention it.” We sit in silence for a bit while I drink as little as I can get away with. There are more people in the club now. It’s grown much louder and darker with all the extra voices and bodies to eat up the space. Matt picks up the conversation again. “Now, chief, you must be wondering what I got all excited about, hey? Well, let me put it to you this way - you ever seen The Commitments?”

“No. They your band?”

Matt bursts out laughing at this, like, proper head-on-the-table laughing. My stomach tightens with anxiety, and suddenly I feel like that Foster’s is gonna come straight back up. I start moving my stool backwards, so I can hide in the shadows a bit more, but the stool-leg gets caught on a tile. As the world tips backwards I yelp and start snatching desperately at the air.

For a moment, I feel like this baby sparrow I once saw from my bedroom window. It was the last to leave the nest, and it stayed there until the mother forced it to the edge and chucked the poor bastard out. It plummeted straight down, hit the pavement and exploded in a shower of blood and this lumpy blue stuff. A neighbour saw the mess and called the police on us. Though the cops soon figured what happened, still they stuck around and watched our house for about a week.

Thankfully, the stool’s somehow steadied itself below me. I’m busy catching my breath when Matt starts talking again. It looks like he didn’t see anything. “No chief, The Commitments ain’t my band. I wouldn’t want them to be either, too much bitching.” Matt finally puts a lid on his sniggering. I don’t think I could have taken it for much longer. “’The Commitments’, if you don’t know, is this film - well it’s a book as well, but I ain’t read the book - it’s this film about a working class soul band. They go through a load of shit, only to fall apart when they’re on the verge of hitting the big time.” Matt shakes his head, and gives this lop-sided grin. I’m guessing it means ‘my bad’. “Heh. I’m sorry chief. I don’t know why I laughed just then.” He leans across the table, and starts looking real close at me. I shift a bit further back on my stool. “’Cause now that I think about it, you do look a bit young for that film. I’m guessing it’s more my generation than yours. How old are you chief?”

I’m about to say nineteen, but I get scared and screw up. “Sixteen. Erm… I’ll be seventeen in about a month.” Right, that’s going to impress him, way to go Ahmed.

Matt nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I thought as much, you do look about that age.” He finally sits back on his stool. “Says a lot for this place that they still serve you, hey? Hah! Fucking jailbait all over the shop. Last girlfriend ditched me ‘cause I kept coming here to see bands.”

“That’s pretty harsh.”

“Nah, she was a dog - I’m better for it.” Matt shakes his head. He’s docile for a bit, like he’s regretting something or other. I’ve never had a girlfriend - I don’t even have any friends who are girls. “Anyhow, back to my point. I’m trying to put a band together, one to play those old soul classics I played when I was your age.” He’s looking at me really carefully now, as if he’s trying to spot his own reflection somewhere in my eyes. “It’s something I’ve been thinking about it for years now, but about a month ago, I finally decided to get off my arse and do something!”

“You managed to get a band together?”

“Hah! No, chief, I ain’t past stage one yet. At the moment, all I’ve found is a drummer, though he is damn good and could probably make up half the band himself. Funny enough, I spotted him on the same stage I spotted you.”

“What? Here at The Belfry?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. When you have so many bands playing one place, some talent always shows up… sooner or later.” Matt looks over as the headline band jumps up on stage. They’re plugging their instruments in, fiddling with knobs, and producing large amounts of feedback. Some of the audience leave the room, clutching at their ears and looking really pissed off. The whole band are wearing wallet-chains and hoodies. “Well, anyhow, I’d better ask you now before this lot start playing. Would you like to jam sometime? Between the three of us, we’ve got drums, you on the bass, and me playing keys or sax. What do you say to it?”

The band goes into their first song, assaulting the room with an ear-bleeding wall of noise. I try to think of a reply to Matt’s question, but everywhere I look, there’s something to distract me, like the whole room’s ganging up on me. I look to the stage and see the band and their giant harem jumping about. I look to the floor and see this girl, the zip on her top pulled all the way down. I look to the left and see Gavin and Jake - sitting with their backs to me, chatting to their friends. I don’t know the names of anyone they’re sitting with - I don’t know the names of anyone here.

“I can’t.” I can’t? I can’t what? Can’t think of an answer?

“What?!” Matt has to shout above the racket. I can’t tell if he’s angry or just sounds it. I think he’s angry.

“I’m sorry. I gotta stay dedicated to the band, I shouldn’t really take time out for a second one.”

Matt shakes his head. “Look chief, I’m not asking you to make a choice. I’m just asking if you wanna jam one day. If it don’t work out, it don’t work out. You’ve lost nothing.”

I shift back on my stool again, my head smacks against the wall. It fucking hurts. “I can’t do it. I’m already committed. Please. Sorry. I…”

“Chief, you’re wasting yourself on…” Matt suddenly leans right across the table. I flinch and smack my head again. This time it really hurts and my vision goes all funny and green, like when you close your eyes and look directly at a light bulb. I open them again. Matt’s face is still there. He’s smiling, but he looks kind of sad.

“Listen, kid,” he says, “You ain’t looking too good. Go home, drink some water, get some rest, and I’ll see you again whenever you’re round. I’m here most Fridays.” Matt gets up from the table and straightens his jacket. He looks about the room and all the people in it, as though he was God looking out over his fields. Matt can’t be much taller than six foot, but for a moment, he looks like a titan. “See you round, chief. Don’t let that talent of yours go to shit, you hear?” With that, he wanders off.

I’m feeling a bit calmer now, but not calm enough to sit on my own just yet. There are some spaces left at the main table, but Gavin’s seat is empty, so I get up and scout around the room, keeping clear of the heavy mosh-pit at the front. I eventually find him leaning across the bar, using his height to get served quicker. I tap him on the shoulder.

“Alright mate?” I say. “What are you doing at the bar? We’ve still got that crate of beer left.”

Gavin leans in, this conspiring grin on his face. “It ain’t for me, Ahmed. See the girl standing over by the door?” I look over towards the door - there are several girls standing there. I haven’t a clue which one he’s talking about, but I nod anyway. “Yeah, well I’m getting her a vodka and coke. She don’t drink lager, you see.”

“Oh.”

“What did you think of the gig? I felt it went pretty well.”

“Yeah, same as. Has Jake gone home?”

“Yeah, he’s long gone, mate. Did he not tell you?”

“No.”

Gavin turns back to the bar. He finally gets the attention of the barmaid and places his order. I can’t tell if the barmaid’s paleness is due to make-up or too many night shifts. “Anywho,” Gavin says, turning back to me, “who was that guy you were speaking to? Someone you know?”

“Nah, he was just some guy who saw the gig, he was pretty impressed.”

“Really? Sweet.” Someone leans in from behind and says something to Gavin. His grin vanishes. “Erm…” the barmaid hands him his drink. “Erm… Ahmed? Could you hold this for a second? I need to go sort something out.”

“Yeah, sure.” I take the drink and hold it up to my eyes. I’m disappointed that it’s a vodka and coke, and not a straight vodka. There’s something about the clearness of vodka that makes it look really dangerous. A vodka-coke just looks dirty by comparison.

A loud crashing noise rips my attention away from the glass. Looking across I see Gavin being shoved up against the wall by some scrawny guy who’s spitting abuse in his face. Gavin must be twice the height of the guy, but he seems scared stiff by him - his face is all red and puffy, like he’s gonna cry any moment. I look about the room for any possible help, but there are no bouncers handy. The band has stopped playing. Everyone else is backing slowly away. The barmaid is making no attempt to get help.

I’m getting really fucking scared now - no-one’s doing nothing to intervene. The scrawny guy lifts his knee and rams it into Gavin’s thigh. Gavin screeches in pain and tears start clawing their way down his cheeks.

I’ve got to do something. I take the vodka-coke and down it in one, slamming the glass down so hard that it breaks. I move forward, acting quickly before my brain recovers from the shock of the alcohol.

“Listen, kid, if you don’t pay what you owe…”

I lunge forward, shoving the skinny guy away from Gavin. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” I scream.

The scarecrow glares at me with this mad, vacant look on his face, his mouth hanging open about an inch from the floor. You know that look scallies give you when you throw their own shit back at them? It’s looks kinda like that, but thirty years older. I’m so busy gawking in disgust at his stupid rubbery face, that the scarecrow gets me completely off guard. He slams his hand into my chest and I’m sent sprawling to the floor, but if I’ve hurt anything, I ain’t feeling it right now. “Keep out of the way you fucking Paki!” He shouts, turning back to Gavin.

The ignorant, worthless piece of shit - not only is he fucking racist, but stupid with it as well. I don’t look even remotely Asian! I get up from the floor and notice the scarecrow has turned into this giant white insect, secreting bile all over the Belfry floor. Closing my eyes so I don’t throw up all over the place, I sprint forward, thrusting my elbow into its midsection. The insect makes this loud ‘SKREEEEE’ noise and rolls across the floor, thrashing wildly about. Gavin chooses this moment to make a break for it.

The insect squirms to its feet. “You black cunt! You’re gonna fucking die!” It runs forward and waves one of its crappy feelers at my head, but the stringy thing hits with the force of a hurricane and I collapse to the floor, my head ringing like a bell. The insect turns back into the scarecrow, who keeps pummelling my body with kicks and punches. I curl up into a ball, all the aggro knocked out of me. When you’re not naturally violent, the most difficult thing in a fight has fuck all to do with technique or strength, it’s just finding the willpower to clench your fist and throw it at someone. If you’re not used to it, then it’s damn near impossible. You can’t do anything but just curl up and hope you don’t die.

The scarecrow lands another blow to my head. The ringing starts again, and for a second everything is just black. The world quickly fades in, swimming in all these weird purple colours, but it don’t change the fact that I was officially dead for a nanosecond.

If I don’t get up now, I won’t get up ever.

I lash out with my feet, driving the scarecrow away for a moment, and use the space to crawl up onto my knees. As the scarecrow attacks again, I plant one foot onto the floor and lunge forward, hoping my fist will connect with something important

It does. My knuckles are in agony - my fist isn’t opening. I steady myself on my feet and look across at the scarecrow. He’s retching like he’s trying to eat the air, and he’s clutching at his chest.

I don’t believe it - I must have hit him in the fucking heart.

The scarecrow staggers around for a second, and then falls onto one knee, his eyes bulging out of his head. Before he finally collapses though, the bastard pulls a knife out of his jacket. I grab the nearest thing to hand, a bar stool, and swing it towards the blade. The stool takes the force of the blow, but the knife slips through and cuts clean through my hand. The shock is such that I fall to the ground and throw up.

A hand grasps my wounded arm and pulls me to my feet. The sudden pain makes me vomit again - right onto the suit of a bouncer.

“Come on, you.” I’m being frogmarched towards the fire-exit. I can barely stay on feet. “You ain’t coming back here for a while.”

“Ambulance!” I spit out. “Could you phone an ambulance for me! My arm!”

“You can use your mobile.”

“I ain’t got one, ugh! Gavin? Gavin! Help!”

I find myself sprawled on the ground in the employee’s car park, still screaming for help. It had been raining earlier, and the ground is still wet. To make things worse I’m only wearing my T-shirt - my coat’s still inside The Belfry somewhere. I try and stand up, but my arms won’t support my weight - one is a mass of bruises, and the other has a fucking knife in it.

Reaching across with one hand, I grab the knife and yank it clean out of the other. It fucking hurts, and I give this embarrassing girly scream of pain that no one seems to hear, but at least I can use my hand to get myself up.

Just as I’m up on my feet and feeling really proud of my willpower, I notice blood is being pumped out my arm at a rate of about ten gallons a second. I remember watching some 999 TV program a couple of years back, where it said the last thing you should do when dealing with an impaled limb is er… oh shit.

I sprint out of the car park and to the front of The Belfry, yelling at the bouncers to get Gavin for me. All the bastards do, however, is start calling the police, so I turn and run down the road, looking for anyone stupid enough to be out this time of night. I come across two girls, but the moment they see me, one sets off her personal attack alarm. The noise is too much for my fucked up head and I carry on. I need to find someone! I can’t just die in the street like a dog!

As I’m running, I stare at my hand, which is now completely coated in red. It’s interesting… the more blood you see, the less real it looks. Now it doesn’t look like blood at all, it looks like… well my dad works in a car factory, on the assembly line. His job was something to do with the paint sprayers, but I don’t know the details. Every now and then, he would come home and his hands would be covered in paint. It would be days until it finally washed out. One night when he came home, all the paint was red. I remember when Mom saw it… it was her first heart attack…

-

I don’t like suburbia - it scares the hell out of me. I think American movies are to blame. You know all the modern slasher films? They’re always set in suburbia. You may live on the worst street in the worst area of the Bronx, but at least you’ll always be safe from the grim-reaper/hockey mask-wearing psycho. Every time I go down to Jake’s house for band practise, I keep expecting to be the next victim of some tattoo wearing, sword-wielding retard who’s pissed off because his sister won’t let him fuck her.

I was very lucky. Some taxi driver, too young to know better, spotted me lying in the street and stopped to investigate. I still don’t know his name, but I owe him my life. From what I’ve been told, he wanted his identity kept secret so he could avoid any attention. I swear if I ever meet that guy, I’m going to completely ignore what he wants. Whenever I meet someone new, they’re gonna know his name before mine.

Scarecrow turned out to be a drug dealer. When the police interviewed me, I made sure not to mention Gavin’s name. Enough people saw the exchange to keep me in the clear, and no charges are gonna be pressed, but I’m still pretty scared nonetheless.

I finally arrive at Jake’s house, my bass slung over my shoulder. His house is this huge monster of a place - six bedrooms, a Jacuzzi, and a special soundproofed shed out back for Jake’s drum-kit. Jake’s parents are loaded. I think his dad owns a chain of drugstores or something. I walk up to the door and ring the bell. Jake’s dad answers the door, gets my name wrong (he always calls me ‘Mohammed’… oh well) and runs off to get the band. Gavin and Jake come to the door. Well, Gavin comes to the door while Jake hangs back a little.

Gavin scratches his mop. “Uh… Ahmed! I didn’t realise you were out of hospital.”

“Heh. You disappointed?”

Gavin gives this horrible forced laugh. I swear - it’s one of the most annoying things about the guy. “Well, yeah, I am. I was hoping they’d let you skip classes for another week!” he says.

“No such luck. I go back tomorrow.”

“Oh well…” Gavin falls silent. He starts pacing back and forth in the doorway. “…Uh, this is kind of embarrassing.”

No worries. I’m still alive, I guess. “What is?”

“Erm…” Gavin turns and motions to someone behind him. A blonde girl walks into view. “This is Lauren. I pointed her out the night that erm… you know.”

“I remember. You two an item now?”

Lauren and Gavin nod. Lauren is very much Gavin’s type. A bit below average height, a bit chubby, huge breasts, guppy-fish face.

“Good to meet you. My name’s Ahmed.”

“Yeah, Gavin told me about you.” I don’t mean to be harsh, but Lauren has a really horrible voice. It’s this flat, nasal whine that has no sincerity in it at all. No surprise really - I never credited Gavin with any taste.

Gavin’s scratching his mop again. “Erm… is your hand alright at all?”

“My right hand’s pretty much paralysed, but I can still move my index finger, and my thumb, to a certain extent. I can still play bass, but I only have one finger to do it with. My left hand’s fully healed.”

“Oh right… I was told just that your right hand was numb. I wasn’t told anything specific like that.”

“Well, now you know. We practising today?”

“We are… well. Us three were practising, yes.”

“Us three?”

“Me, Jake, and Lauren. We thought you wouldn’t be able to play, so Lauren’s been learning the bass for our songs. She’s coming along really fast! Heh heh!”

“Well, great. Now you know I can play, there ain’t a problem, right? I can just take over again.”

“Well it’s… not that simple. Lauren’s been practising really hard for the next gig and…”

“There’s a gig coming up?”

“Yeah, it’s at The Green Man.”

I can’t fucking believe this. All they time they couldn’t visit me in hospital - they were doing this behind my back. “So you’re just ditching me? Gavin, I saved your fucking life! Surely that must be worth something!”

“I don’ think he…”

“What? I can’t hear you.”

“I don’t think he would have actually killed me.”

“Bullshit, you really think he wouldn’t have killed you? Just look at me! Come on man, It’s a fucking miracle I’m standing here!”

Gavin’s waving his arms and blubbering like a seal. “We didn’t think you could play, we needed to find someone else…”

“Did you? Jake can’t play, yet you keep him around.”

Jake stands up. “Hey, I can play! Take…”

“No you can’t! You’re fucking useless. You moan about needing six toms, and then only use one of them when you play! You made us look like losers at the last gig.” I turn back to Gavin. I don’t know when it happened, but my anger has changed to exhilaration. I am enjoying giving these idiots the slap down. “If you’re gonna ditch me, then why don’t you ditch him as well? That would be fair, wouldn’t it?”

“I… But that’s different, though.”

“Why is it?”

“Well… Jake’s my mate.”

Heh, I suppose I knew it all along really. I had never really been part of the band. I was just some convenient guy who already knew how to play the right instrument. For a moment, I was hurt that they thought of me in such a shallow way, but then I looked. I looked their vacant faces; artificially faded clothes; stupid fake Tudor mansion; and finally the whole gormless fucking landscape. Everything just looked like the most boring, uninspired painting put onto the cleanest canvas you could imagine. Jake’s house might be the toughest building for miles - but from where I was looking, I felt I could walk straight up to it and punch a hole through to the other side, where I’d find some blonde faggot in knight’s armour being eaten by a huge red dragon. I blink, and the dragon’s suddenly wearing sunglasses.

I laugh, turn on my heel, and walk off down the road, not saying another word. On the way I stop at the nearest phone box, call the police, and give them Gavin’s address, telling them to search the place for drugs.

As I step outside, I see this little girl on a toy bike watching me. She’s wearing this yellow dress, and her cute little mouth is wide open the way kids’ mouths always are. I go up to her and kneel down, like I’m about to say hello, and she starts tottering towards me. When she gets close enough I lunge forward and screech right in her face, causing her to burst into tears. Her face goes all deformed and red, like that retard guy in ‘The Goonies’, as she waddles off on legs that ain’t big enough to run yet. I roll over onto the ground, clutching my stomach and giggling like and idiot. That was about the funniest thing I’d seen all week! (And you see some really funny things in intensive care) Once I finish laughing, I pick up the toy bike and try and ride it down the street, only to crash into some guy’s car.

I have no friends, my hand may be paralysed for life, and I’m now hopelessly lost in suburbia. I picked a completely random turning just to see what was down there, and I ain’t got a fucking clue as to where I am. I’m singing ‘Kingdom Come’ at the top of my voice and up in the towers they’re watching me, hoping I’m gonna die…