Band Cramp

Gareth Firkins felt like a kid in a chocolate factory. With his heart beating a bass he could dance to, Gareth stared up at the cascade of instrument cases. The instruments waited for Gareth to transfer his soul music into them, as did Gareth wait for the perfect time to sweep them off their feet.
As his mind raced, wondering where to dump all the instruments where no one could find them, Gareth found his thoughts sprinting back to that afternoon, before he had decided to break his way into the local scout hut.

**********

The afternoon was deliciously warm and cosy as the sunlight filtered through the bedroom window. Gareth felt a smile creep on his face as he lay on his bed, his vision clouding from how snug he was. He wished it could always be like this - him having lain there as his two friends talked nonsense until they went out in the summer evening to cause whatever trouble they could.

'Yo, Gazza,' a deep and daredevil voice intervened, 'guess who's about to walk by.'

Gareth snapped awake. He bolted upright and waited for his vision to settle on his friend. "Friend" was a loose term. Gareth would've rather called Darren Johnson his "mate". A mate was someone you'd blame if you were caught beating each other up on school property after hours. A mate was someone you could have a laugh at down the pub. A mate was someone who you'd trash talk and go after on a game of Call of Duty, rather than team up with them. Teaming up with someone would be a friend... and Darren Johnson was not Gareth's friend.

'Your mum,' chuckled the other mate in Gareth's bedroom, Nathan.

Nathan McCormack was somewhere between a friend and a mate. He'd once saved Gareth from falling into a deep ditch when they were all messing around by the side of a road. A mate would've pushed him in. Nathan was also the one who'd tend to back out first, should he not like something. When they'd all tried to drunkenly shout the loudest in a midnight street, Nathan was the one who warned Gareth that they should stop before the police came to investigate, before he, himself, backed out.

'Oi, mate, best watch yer mouth about my mum, got it?' Darren retorted.

'Don't worry about it - it's Gazza's mum who's the problem, right?'

Both Darren and Nathan laughed at that. Gareth frowned. It aggravated him whenever his mum was mentioned, not because she was a close figure to Gareth, but because she was hardly there at all. Still, at least she hadn't left him like his dad had, long before he could remember. Every so now and again, something would jolt an unwelcome memory, such as the sound of shattering crockery uncloaking violent smashing from downstairs. He left Gareth with nothing but the faded medallion he currently twisted in his fingers. He often fondled the palm-sized disk when he was bored, rubbing his fingers across the embossed Spanish or Italian text - he never quite knew which. What Gareth did know, however, was that his mum was distant to him and would often while the nights away with another man, no doubt his mouth full of promises and his heart full of lies. Her distancing bugged Gareth a lot.

'Nah, it's Adonis. They're about to walk by, that bunch o' freaks,' Darren corrected, a malevolent smile creeping on his face.

Gareth's smile returned. He knew what was on Darren's mind. Of course he did. If there was something to break their boredom and annoy someone else, Darren would think of it, and Gareth knew Darren well.

The local marching band was more annoying than a wasp buzzing around a fizzy drink, to Gareth. Just thinking about their horrendous playing and chirpy flag-wavers filled him with a rage that only his mother could replicate. Anything to disrupt them was worth the accomplishment, so Gareth made a beeline to Darren's bubbling thoughts.

'I'll be the best trumpet player Adonis ever had,' Gareth laughed as he reached out beneath his rickety bed frame.

'Come on, Adonis aren't that bad,' Nathan retaliated, 'I mean, my brother plays one of their snare drums and he's really good at it. He's always going to rehearsals.'

Darren shot Nathan a look of pure bile.

'Ain't yer bro also a bit of a nonce? He rubs it in yer face all the time that he's better than you. Now's our chance to show them we're the better ones, ennit?'

Nathan quietened down. It was true. Gareth had always noticed Nathan's dismay and upset over his brother's accomplishments, especially with the marching band. Nathan had tried learning to play, once, but his older brother had not only outshone him, but also jabbed his self-esteem by constantly telling him he was terrible.

Gareth finally felt the cold pipes of the item, which he was searching for, and grabbed a hold of his tool of disruption - his trumpet. It was dirtier than he remembered, but it was hardly surprising given how long it had remained beneath his bed.

'You're not, are you?' Nathan gawped, 'With the trumpet you stole from their scout hut, months ago?'

'Too right. Fight fire with fire... and air with air,' Gareth replied, marching up to the open window and gazing at Darren for the okay to start.

Darren gave a deep cackle. He found even the remotely of stupid things absolutely hilarious. His laugh was like a flare signal for danger ahead, to anyone who heard it. Mixed with his scruffy black hair, which looked like he never washed, and his bony face, Darren was a mark for trouble. A black spot, some would say. Even his clothing was always a constant haphazard layering of football t-shirts, or open shirts and jeans, which could have been bright enough to alert street walkers of trouble, had they not always be covered in motor oil. He was a rough one, but Gareth's life would have been dull without him.

'My bro knows where you live, Gazza. Bob will give you hell,' Nathan warned.

Gareth turned to Nathan with an unimpressed look. He knew Nathan meant well, but he wished he would just chill for once and have fun. He stared hard at Nathan, as if to silently tell him to not worry. Nathan's dark blonde hair rustled in the light breeze from the window. His hair was lengthy and fell to his shoulders, but his face was just as bony as Darren's, particularly in Nathan's cheeks. Beneath a thin neck were always plain t-shirts and clothing, besides the tattoo of a snake coiled around his left arm. Darren had once thought it fun they all went for drunken tattoos and, whilst Darren and Gareth came out with small ones on their backs, Nathan had somehow ended up with a large snake in plain sight on his arm. Gareth snickered at the memory and went back to surveying outside the window.

'Please welcome, the Adonis Drum and Bugle Corps!' announced a speakerphone.

Several cheers and clapping came from the people gathered on the street. Gareth watched, intently, as the marching band came into view of the empty road. His gut knotted in anger as they marched closer to his window, in a block formation.

It wasn't a carnival that marked the occasion, it was much too early in the year for that, but a celebration of the Chinese New Year. Adonis, as Bedfordshire county's only marching band, was often scheduled to march on parade to celebrate such occasions, much to Gareth's dismay. They'd play the same tunes every year, then rinse and repeat them as they smiled through the streets. Well, only the flag-wavers ever smiled. The rest had stony faces and a serious disposition which just aggravated Gareth further. He absolutely despised them.

Finally, the band reached just outside his window. A single note had yet to be played from the brass instruments that lined the front members of the block. All that was happening, audibly, was the cadence of drummers. To Gareth, it sounded like people building a shed. Just as they reached the window, the brass instruments were raised to the lips of the marchers. This was the perfect opportunity.

Gareth licked his lips, put the dirty trumpet to them, and blew as hard and tunelessly as possible.
As what could only be described as a vuvuzela rendition of London Bridge is Falling Down, Darren and Nathan burst out in hysterics. Adonis marched on to the one note tune, deciding not to play as the cacophony echoed around them. What made the situation even more hilarious, for the trio, was that several members of the crowd started to boo the band at the awful tune, evidently thinking it came from Adonis.

It was too much for Gareth. He stopped playing and fell back onto his floorboards, laughing like a hyena on sherbet. Out of all the things he'd done, this was definitely the best.

As Adonis started their own tune, in a desperate attempt to win their audience back, Darren suggested something far more fun.

'Let's really wind them up. Tonight, let's steal their instruments.'

**********

And so there they were in the scout hut, where Adonis kept their instruments. It had taken just a few minutes to open the double doors of Sandy town's scout hut and sneak inside. After all, it wasn't their first visit - how else could Gareth own a dirty trumpet?

The keys jingled in Darren's hand. Besides the thumping of Gareth's heart, it was the only sound in the moonlit hall. The scout hut was essentially one large hall of empty space and wooden floorboards. It didn't take long to locate the instruments perched the mezzanine floor above the room's only staircase.

'It's time to jazz up Sandy, mate,' Darren snickered at his own joke, following Gareth's gaze.

Darren was quite right, too. It wasn't like Sandy was an eventful town in any way shape or form. It was technically too small to even be a town, but too large to be a village. It was a tillage. An uneventful tillage where there were young kids, the elderly and nothing much in between. Entertainment was whatever you could find in the county of Bedfordshire, and for Gareth, Darren and Nathan, this was their entertainment.

'I think we're going too far to return here. They'll know it was us, after today...' Nathan whispered. 'Don't do it, Gazza. Not tonight.'

'We'll see ya later, chicken,' Darren spat, listening to Nathan's footsteps fade from the wooden floor.
He'd come all this way to back out now. Gareth was going to steal these instruments and this time he won't keep them, but dump them where no one can find them - the River Ivel.

'Let's do it,' Gareth echoed.

No sooner had Gareth declared his intentions, did a flashing cyan light penetrate the scout hut windows. Gareth felt his stomach plummet as he about-faced, the neon blue siren flashing repeatedly into the darkness.

'The feds!' Darren shouted, wasting no time throwing his body weight against the nearby fire door.
As Darren struggled with the chain holding the fire door, Gareth bolted for the front entrance. There may still be time to escape before he's caught. There was no time to think, just act. He couldn't face being arrested and thrown in a cell overnight, again. Not after his final warning, when he and Darren had stolen a pensioner's purse, from the park.

A figure in full officer uniform casually strolled through the open door.

'I should've known it was you, Firkins,' the officer grunted, blocking the only current exit out.

A thunderous crack ricocheted from the scout interior, jolting Gareth back into life. With his heart thudding its temporal tune, Gareth turned to tread towards the fire exit.

He didn't make it far. With time enough to see that the fire door was only ajar, held in place by the solid chain around its bar, Gareth felt a sharp stabbing sensation in his back. Panic struck Gareth's face as the force pushed him forwards and off his feet. It couldn't be a bullet, no. Police officers didn't just shoot people in Sandy, Bedfordshire. Hell, police officers didn't just shoot a thief in England, at all. It was the weight of the officer, himself, thrusting Gareth to the floor.

With a clamorous thud, Gareth found himself pinned to the floorboards, feeling nothing but betrayal from how Darren had just left him there. Gareth could never have escaped the thin gap like Darren had - he just didn't have the frame for it. He lay there, defeated.

'Silent alarm. But I suspect you've figured that out. Installed the last time you stole from here, Firkins. I know it's you. Who else would steal from a band funded entirely by the community?' the officer gasped, wasting no time in cuffing Gareth in the flashing cyan siren.

'D-Dar-' Gareth paused. He was going to say "Darren" in the vain hope of taking his mate down with him, but what good was a mate if he dobbed on another? They weren't a team.

'You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say, now, can be used against you should you face trial. For now, you're lucky. I'm taking you to the station, overnight. Then we'll see what we'll do with you.'

**********

Gareth felt miserable. Stripped of his valuables (an old Nokia mobile phone, a pen knife, a rusty Zippo lighter, a £10 note and, most importantly, his medallion), Gareth found himself pushed into a stony cell at the police station. The cell door was quickly shut behind both him and another officer who followed.

It hadn't been a lengthy decision to keep Gareth overnight. As soon as Gareth showed his face in the hallway, he had been sent to an overnight cell with Probation Officer Warren Davies.
Gareth turned to face Warren, taking a deep and disappointed breath.

Warren was a mountain of a man; at 6 foot 8, he towered over most other people, with arms that could match their torso, in size. He didn't look particularly muscular, just large in all areas, but Gareth estimated he had the strength of an ox if needs be. Warren's face was a kind one, however; his eyes smiled above a constantly frowning mouth, as if all the weight of the world had tugged from beneath his nose, whilst the top soldiered on. His short, burgundy hair was cut close to his scalp.

'Gareth Firkins,' Warren began, but struggled to find words to continue. He started over. 'When you were ten years old, I watched you launch water balloons at the public, from a shop roof.'

'I thought they'd appreciate the refreshments after the heat wave.'

'The heat wave of five months prior, you mean? It had snowed the night before you drenched those poor elderly folk with icy cold water. At their age, they could've died from the extreme temperature shift you and your mates enforced. What were their names, again?' Gareth fell silent. He knew where this was going. No matter how angry he was at Darren and Nathan for deserting him, he wouldn't ever give up their names to link them with the scout hut break in. 'I know you weren't alone, tonight. It'd be easier to tell me so I can fight both your causes.'

'And what would you know? You're just a Parole Officer.'

'I know that the water balloon incident was six years ago. You're now sixteen and you still haven't grown up.'

'Shut your fat face!' Gareth growled, feeling anger bubble within him.

'You're not getting it. At your age, you can face a sentence. You can't get off scot-free anymore, like you have all these years. That's why I'm here, Gareth. I'm here to help you.'

Gareth spat at Warren's feet and turned to find a seat. Help him? Warren was a Parole Officer. He may not have been law enforcement, but he was still on their side. Nothing Warren could do would possibly help him, Gareth thought, bitterly.

With a sigh, Warren reached into his pocket and produced the familiar bronze medallion with its faded face profile and embossed language hidden beneath green splodges of decay.

'Give that back! You've got no right in stealing my stu-' Gareth cut himself short, realising how stupid that statement was in light of his situation, but his anger didn't subside.

'Imagine if something precious to you was stolen like those instruments were to the band. It may not have meaning to you, but it certainly has meaning to them. All those memories... gone. I know your dad gave you this medallion. It'd be a shame for such a sentimental gift to disappear.'

Gareth fumed at Warren's tone, his eyes fixated on the medallion. He never knew his father, but he'd wished he had. He never felt the joy of support as he played football for his school, years ago, ultimately giving up thanks to his mum never being interested. When he became a teenager, there was no fatherly support, only mocking from Darren as he learned things the hard way. The medallion was the only thing left of Gareth's father and, to him, it was the most precious item in the world.

Warren slowly handed the medallion over to the now confused Gareth, who quickly snapped it from his grasp. He rubbed his fingers over its familiar features, somehow reassured that everything would be all right, at least for the time being. He was less on edge, but certainly no less angry.

'How's your mum?' Warren asked, suddenly.

Gareth froze, his back to Warren. He stared at the small bunk in front of him, his mind elsewhere. He curled his right hand into a fist around the medallion.

'What did you say?' Gareth whispered, hoarsely.

'Your mum,' Warren responded. 'It's what you kids reply to each other these days, isn't it?'

The bubbling rage rocketed out from Gareth's stomach and shot down his right arm. He swivelled and aimed his fist at Warren's chest. Except, it never hit. The Parole Officer, quicker than lightning, grabbed Gareth's wrist and locked it firmly in place.

'Anger issues, boredom in this town and a mother who doesn't pay any attention. I've heard all about you, Gareth Firkins. In fact, I've witnessed you grow up, from afar. Your mum's a friend of mine. You wouldn't know that, though, since you turn a blind eye to your dear mother, much more than she ever did for you.'

'What are you talking about? If she cared half as much about me that you says she does, then maybe she'd be proud of me, or even encourage me with something. But no, she doesn't care! She just leaves me to it. It's a lonely life, so I have my mates to see me through it. So shu-'

'Where are your mates now, Gareth?' Warren responded, coolly.

Gareth didn't respond. He could see Warren's eyes twinkled with the knowledge of Darren and Nathan's existence. The Parole Officer was after confirmation of their involvement, Gareth realised, his wrist still suspended in mid-air.

'Surely they'd be here for you if they were your mates? Your mum may not have ever been proud of anything you've ever done, or ever encouraged you because you've never shown an interest in anything, but she's damn well always been there for you. She moved to the countryside for you, Gareth. She gave up her London decorator job and she moved down to Sandy. Good for kids. Better than London, she said. So what does that make you, now?'

Warren loosened his grip on Gareth, who staggered backwards to the bed frame. With a defeated sensation numbing his legs, he fell to his rear end and onto the bed. Gareth could do nothing but let that sink in for a moment, as he sat there.

With a sigh, Warren sat beside him, on the bed.

'The way I see it, you've got two options. You either be locked away for an uncertain amount of time, following a trial, or you follow my advice and do some community service. You'll be put on parole, a tag placed on you for curfew purposes, and I keep an eye on you from afar, just as I've always done,' Warren explained, his voice low and somewhat soothing.

Gareth was unsure what to think. He could never accept his mother for really doing anything much for him. The only reason she even let him keep a roof over his head was because he thought she was scared of his mates. His mates had always been there for him, in a weird sort of way, whilst his mother hadn't. Now he was facing a decision which his mates had somehow escaped from, yet his mother was keeping him from a prison sentence by knowing this Parole Officer.

Then, with a similar low tone, his gaze fixed on the ashen floor, Gareth replied.

'What sort of community service?'

**********

The next morning had flooded the cell with a wash of golden light, the world born anew. Gareth was already awake when Warren came to collect him from the cell, having been awake most of the night.
Gareth was anxious. He really didn't fancy spending more time in a cell and community service seemed the next best option, but why... this? Why did it have to be the very thing he despised so much?

Even as his left ankle was cuffed with a hard plastic clamp, he could think of nothing else but what the first impression would be from both sides. Would he be able to work well with them? Would he be accepted? Would he even consider a cell over this service? It was hard to tell.

'The clamp is so I can keep an eye on you. The band leader will scan you in at the start, and then out at the end of a rehearsal. A sensor will also be fitted into your mother's house, to ensure you don't violate curfew. Got that?' Warren huffed, marching Gareth across the rising damp of the playing field.

Gareth nodded, turning behind them to see the very scout hut he'd tried to rob just last night. He could see the fire door had now been closed. Where did Darren run off to?

A cacophony of wailing music penetrated Gareth's ears, echoing all around them. As he and Warren marched forth, the music grew louder and the echoes subsided across the morning mist. Eventually, several figures emerged from the frozen air - approximately 25 in number, all arced around one figure who stood on top of a large, wooden box.

The figure atop the box, which Gareth could only assume was the band leader, then waved his arms as if to cut the wailing voices from their misery. An awkward silence followed.

'Gareth Firkins, welcome to your community service,' Warren whispered, a serious expression across his face, 'providing this works out.'

'Am I to assume, then, that this loathsome creature is the very one who ruined our parade, yesterday, and tried robbing us of this year's right to participate in DCUK?' shouted the Scottish twang of the boxed figure.

'Don't say anything. Let me do the talking,' Warren quietly confided in Gareth.
'Lap it!' the figure commanded.

No sooner did he say this, did the arc of players drop their instruments and begin jogging around the posts that made up the large playing field. Gareth's eyes widened in realisation that they were to lap the entire field. It had taken them 10 minutes to walk from one side to where the band was practising, so he dreaded to think how long this talk would take.

'Yes, Mr. Diggby, this fine young fellow is responsible. But you've no doubt guessed why I'm here. I'm Parole Officer Warren Davies,' Warren smiled with his eyes as best he could, his natural frown not helping the situation.

'Nothing fine about him,' the one known as Mr. Diggby frowned, his Scottish voice hoarse but clearly understood. 'Is he here to apologise?'

There was a brief bout of silence, in which Gareth swiftly surveyed this somewhat intimidating figure. His auburn hair was shoulder-length and much like wires dangling from a plug socket. His short fuse was shown in his face, which frowned with the ferocity of a lion. His face was thin, as was his shape, hidden beneath an earthy t-shirt which was layered with a checkered shirt, it's sleeves rolled up. His trousers were full of pockets, all seemingly full of some sort of hidden treasure, whilst his shoes looked worn out. This man was certainly a sight to behold.

'Mr. Davies, if this young lad isn't here to make amends, then what good is he?' Mr. Diggby eventually replied, his stubble wet from the morning mist and his brow creased.

'But he is. Mr. Diggby, meet Gareth Firkins - your newest recruit.'

'Is this some kind of joke?' Mr. Diggby immediately responded, 'Because I'm not laughing.'

'As I understand it, Mr. Diggby, you've lost a lot of members since last year's finals, and you're in desperate need of new ones. Gareth is ready to make amends, as you say, and join you for this year's season,' Warren explained, coolly.

'Absolutely out the question. You think I'm gonna take this troublemaker and expect to watch his back whilst he steals our instruments to sell them on for profit? You're barking mad!' Chase spat, closing in on Warren's personal space, viciously.

Gareth had had enough.

'I'm standing right here, mate. If you have something to say to me, then say it to my face!' Gareth snarled, losing his patience.

The band leader turned his piercing gaze to Gareth, his pale grey eyes emerging from the sea of fire that formed his figure. He slowly stepped towards Gareth, an almost murderous intent in his brow and lips, extending his gaze immeasurably.

'I'm not your mate. The name's Chase Diggby, the man who will eventually lead this band to the champion podium, whether or not you try to drag us down, kid.'

Anger flashed in Gareth's eyes and he could feel himself rise to the challenge. Something in him wanted to show Chase that he didn't fear the band leader. A new challenge.

'Oh yeah? Well, the name's Gareth Firkins, the kid who'll get you to that podium.'

'What reverie! If you're to be in my band, you'll do whatever I say, Mr. Firkins,' Chase slowly responded, taking in Gareth's hot-headed attitude and nodding, slightly.

Gareth said nothing. He kept his eyes on Chase's, determination in his eyes to beat this guy at his own game and show him he was no dead beat with no future.

'Maybe then your mum will be proud of you, eh?' Warren smiled.

Gareth was taken aback by Warren's sudden intervention, causing his expression to transform from determination to surprise. Chase saw this and gave a triumphant, but sadistic, smile.

'Yeah, all right. I'll take him, Mr. Davies. Maybe then I can drill some discipline into that thick skull of his, and show him the error of his ways? He'll pay us back, Mr. Davies, don't worry about that. I'll make sure he does his community service,' Chase snickered.

As the rest of the conversation came to an end, Gareth found himself watching the fastest of the jogging marching band members scurry back across the field, out from the mist and back to their band leader. Soon, he'll be having to do that, he thought.

'Do I get to play one of those drums?' Gareth asked, his gaze settling on one of the snare drums left on the field, just yards away from them.

'No, you'll get to play whatever I say you play. What we need is a third trumpet voice,' Chase growled.

'I'm not playing no horn,' Gareth frowned.

'Yes, you are. That horn you stole from us, about half a year back - that Bb trumpet. Keep it. It's yours to play on the field, since you enjoyed making a mockery of us at yesterday's parade. Clean it up, then meet me in Ely, next Friday at 6.00pm.'

'Why?'

'Band Camp, of course,' Chase rolled his eyes, like it was the most obvious thing to him.

With a brief hand shake from Chase and Warren, just as the rest of the joggers made it back to the group, Gareth was led away from the marching band. His thoughts turned from determination to sudden anxiety. He would be spending a prolonged period with a band who most likely hated him as much as he hated them... and he had to learn how to play a trumpet.

'Oh, and Mr. Firkins, welcome to Adonis Drum and Bugle Corps!' Chase shouted after him, his voice echoing through the misty field, as well as through Gareth's anxious thoughts.