A Christmas Gift by Sue Moorcroft

Author:Sue Moorcroft
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780008260088
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Published: 2018-09-12T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty

On Sunday morning, Joe jumped awake as if anxiety had bounced on the end of his bed.

He forced his eyes to remain closed, trying to kid himself that he didn’t feel twitchy about meeting the band at Pete’s today. He’d see Billy for the first time since his explosion of temper. Shame was like a slimy area in his heart. Whatever the meeting brought, however tense it got, even if everyone aligned themselves with Billy to oust Joe from The Hungry Years, he would not stoop to violence again. It was never the solution.

Sleep having deserted him, he got up and dressed in his tattiest jeans and a sleeveless T-shirt with a thick sweatshirt on top. Then he left the apartment, jogging through the thin winter air down the steps and around to the main entrance to the new building where he knew he could switch off the alarm. Then he found the nearest rehearsal room with a drum kit, threw off the practice pads, grabbed the heaviest drumsticks from a nearby box and on seeing the sound system had airplay, paired it with his phone. Seating himself on the stool, he pulled the snare drum a smidgen closer, then located his favourite playlist on his phone.

One spin of his sticks as the first track hit the air, Green Day’s ‘16’, and he hit the skins, throwing himself into the boom-catta-cha-cha rhythm. The track ended and he threw off his sweatshirt, warmed by the physical effort of beating the drums and cymbals, calming a bit for the quieter passages of ‘Nicotine’ by Panic! at the Disco then getting completely taken over by the manic, train-like rhythm of My Chemical Romance’s ‘I’m Not OK (I Promise)’.

By the time it had finished, he was beginning to relax. He switched off the sound system and dropped the sticks back in the box, restoring the practice pads to the snare and toms.

Then he moved on to the piano and idled away half an hour on the strict tempo exercises Shaun used to give him – legato quavers in the left hand and staccato crotchets in the right, not that hard for someone who knew the limb independence of a drummer. He stopped, absently using the hem of his T-shirt to wipe fingerprints from the black keys.

A slow, deep breath, then he returned his fingers to the keys and began the introduction to – his version of – ‘Running on Empty’.

Inside I’m pinched

My skin is chill

I don’t need the nurse

I’m not ill

Dizzy and stupid

But not thick

I don’t need the nurse

I’m not sick

He moved into the chorus.

I’m sorry, lady

I’m sorry I stole

Have you ever been hungry?

Ashamed?

Alone?

He stopped. Closed his eyes, remembering that day in Tesco. He’d been eleven. Someone in the gang said it was time he ‘showed he wouldn’t put up with starving’ and stood outside while Joe went in with his heart banging around in his chest. A woman caught him sliding a pork pie into his pocket and set up a fuss. His voice had squeaked out.

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