Band Cramp

The air was suffocating and the light blinding. Mankind was enveloped in the winds of whisper and the symphony of sweat. Word had spread that one individual had been banned from band, the winds carrying their voices to one another and rising his guilty temperature further. Summer should be a time of warmth and freedom, but this particular teenager was incarcerated in the dark, boarded room with only the dust for company. Even the dust dispersed after a while, following from their fracas with the teenager as he swiped the particles away.

Gareth Firkins was alone, once again.

Following from Chase's silent disappointment, Gareth was forced to leave his trumpet once he stepped off of the coach. Somehow, without it, he felt naked, as if the last of his friends had been taken away from him.

Warren had visited the day after the show, his face tightened and his tone distant. It had been agreed that Gareth wouldn't be imprisoned, having justly served his community service, and Warren removed his tag. It didn't matter. Gareth had lost his friends and had nowhere to go. All he could do, now, was speak to himself in quiet rage.

'She ain't proud of ya, you know?' Gareth croaked to himself, 'She'll never be proud of a no good beatnik.'

Almost a month had passed and Gareth was left with little more than guilt as a memento from his marching days. He knew how to flange, how to roll-step, how to point his tongue and make a sharp note, even... but he couldn't make use of them, any longer. It felt like the months, since February, were wasted. Now, in the height of August, the same four pieces of music plagued his mind, circling his head in time to where he should be on the field. It was a darn shame.

He found himself watching the patterns of light sift through the boarded bedroom window, his vision focused on the patterns peppering his wall. His thoughts remained on his music, even after he heard the floarboards creak outside his room. As the door knocked, Gareth's attention remained on the wall. He was expecting this second visit.

'Yo,' Gareth glumly greeted.

'Yo,' came the adult and awkward response of Warren. He walked into the room, heavy footed, and carefully examined the wooden boards that blocked the window. Before long, he was leaning against the wall next to it. 'We both know why I'm here. So out with it, Gareth - why did you do it?'

With a great sigh, Gareth looked up at Warren, who was giving him a grim, cold stare.

'You know why...' Gareth trailed off.

Indeed, Warren did. He silently closed his eyes and took a deep breath, as if to expel his pent up rage over Gareth's actions. They both knew that Darren Johnson had affected him. Darren was always behind the scenes, puppeteering Gareth to a sadistic and humiliating dance.

'Listen, I don't need to be here, but I feel compelled to care. Call it Kerry-Anne's influence or whatever, but I'm here because you're not Darren. You're Gareth,' Warren pointedly sighed.

'So? What do you want?' Gareth retorted, growing impatient.

'I know you've been expecting me. And I know Chase is also expecting me. So just tell me, simply in a yes or no - do you want to make your mother proud?'

Gareth's eyes flitted between the silhouette of Warren and the seeping daylight between the wooden planks. There wasn't much to contemplate.

'Duh, I ain't done, yet,' Gareth affirmed.

'Good. You're in the eye of the storm, Gareth. Expect further contact, later,' Warren replied.

The Parole Officer received a call, at that moment, and decisively left in a hurry. Gareth was left alone in his room, as the echoed call ended in the downstairs hallway. There was a pause before the voices continued as Warren had an animated conversation with Gareth's mother. He couldn't make out the details, but he could pinpoint the clarity of how disappointed they were, with him.

That familiar, frustrated knot bulged in Gareth's stomach. He didn't know what to do with himself. He was restless, but somehow determined to at least retrieve his trumpet. He'd formed quite an attachment to Kerry-Anne and now felt lost in what to occupy himself with during the day. With a huff and groan, Gareth righted himself up and away from the musty room. He needed fresh air.

As he clambered downstairs, his mother, the human Kerry-Anne, was leaning against the living room entrance. She blew a disgusting stream of smoke from her nose, as Gareth appeared. Kerry-Anne gave Gareth an almost smug look of "I told you so", which soon turned to concern. She didn't say a word, just stood there, eyeing Gareth up. Warren was nowhere to be seen.

'Going out,' Gareth confirmed, feeling uneasy.

Leaving his stoic mother in the hallway, he grabbed his keys and left the house in a baggy turquoise t-shirt and dark jeans. He made sure not to forget his gift from Adonis - Stefan's cap.

The air was stifling and the temperature suffocating. The sun's deadly rays speared Gareth's skin. Gareth didn't care, he just put on his peaked cap and walked forward into oblivion.

I thought Nath had my back, Gareth bitterly thought to himself, And even he was disappointed. I've gotta go 'round and see him. Make amends.

The bustle of buggies bombarded the streets of Sandy. The sky was a beautiful blue and the buildings shone in the summer sun. Children huddled in the shade of still trees, whilst elderly scampered across the main tillage road on their Zimmer frames. Gareth, amongst this Sandy chaos, strutted in the sun, his thoughts elsewhere as he reached the path alongside the church graveyard.

As Gareth kept an eye on the pavement, squashing armies of flying ants as they attempted to survive the afternoon heat, an even larger bug appeared in front of him. A shadow cast across Gareth. Before he could make out the figure, however, he felt a sharp and sinister force smash into his face.

Feeling the freight train of an impact, Gareth stumbled backwards before finally regaining his composure. He held himself up by leaning against the waist-high church wall, to his left.

'Oi, Gazza,' came a voice inspiring dread, 'when I'm through with you, people gonna see yer bloodied body and say "Firkin hell"!'

'I bet you've had that one thought up for ages, mate,' Gareth replied, now standing tall.

Darren's cackle ceased to a sunken scowl.

'Get ready for the worst beatin' o' yer life.'

Darren darted towards Gareth, who had time enough to twirl out of the way. Darren scraped into the wall. Seizing his chance, Gareth ploughed into the back of Darren with his elbow. A piercing numbness ricocheted its way up Gareth's arm, causing him to gasp. Darren, enraged, spun around and backhanded Gareth to the church wall.

The rattle of rolling plastic against concrete alerted them to a pram pusher. A young woman, eager to head to the nearest café, whizzed past them with her pram. Gareth listened to the wheels in his sprawled stupor - the waterfall of stones cascading onto concrete.

Gareth groggily looked up, just in time for Darren to drop kick his stomach. Air sharply exhaled from his lungs, the building pain replacing the anger within him. It felt as if he was about to be sick.

He was not going to lose to Darren, not again. Summoning his remaining strength, which dwindled with every winded second, Gareth kicked Darren hard in the left knee.

Darren stumbled away from his readying elbow-drop, allowing Gareth to stand back up. Instead of turning to run, Gareth relished the chance to batter Darren after all he'd put him through. He wish he'd done it sooner, in fact.

'Oi, Nath!' Darren shouted past Gareth's shoulder, at that moment.

Stupidly, Gareth turned his head to the empty street. Immediately, a sharp, stabbing sensation smashed into his chest. He lurched forward, seeing Darren's elbow retract from his own torso. As swift as a dragonfly, Darren's fist slammed hard into Gareth's face, sending him sprawling to the ground.

The energy was knocked from Gareth and he could do little more than take Darren's then repeated kicks as he lie awkwardly on the concrete. The pain continued for several minutes, Darren's aggressiveness increasing with every bludgeon. And yet, Gareth couldn't help but feel he deserved this. Maybe he was wrong and maybe he just felt sorry for himself, but he felt this was his comeuppance for turning his back on Adonis, his mother and even the community.

Finally, the assault ceased.

'Why?' Gareth spat blood, weak enough to say anything further.

'Idiot. Me old man marched in Adonis, 's why I hate 'em - took all his time from me. Then he left for good. Don't mean I don't know a thing or two about band. Don't mean I can't beat chu at yer own game, bruv!' Darren angrily replied, before giving one forceful kick to Gareth's stomach.

A sickening groan escaped Gareth's mouth, his battered body doing the talking for him. No doubt there would be bruises, later.

Darren spat on Gareth, before walking away, ignored by the elderly who crossed the road to avoid him. No one helped Gareth, either.

Using the short stone wall as support, Gareth hobbled to his feet. He felt weak and contorted, but at least there were no broken bones. He wheezed from the pain in his stomach, before setting off back towards Nathan's house.

********************

Bob McCormack finally answered the weak door knocks, his disappointment turning to concern at Gareth's new skin tone.

'Darren,' Gareth spluttered, 'Darren did this.'

'Serves you right,' Bob responded. There was a pause as they both stood there, Gareth wheezing against the detached house's door frame, and Bob taking in the sight. 'All right, I'm not totally heartless. Let's get you in.'

A small, round table, complete with a similar small, pine chair, greeted Gareth as Bob helped him into the kitchen. Bob went to the sink and immediately ran a stream of cold water across a cloth, as Gareth gently lowered himself onto a chair.

'Who was at the-' Nathan stopped as he walked into the kitchen.

'Hey, Nath...' Gareth weakly smiled.

'You plonker,' Nathan responded, shaking his head.

Despite this, Gareth knew that Nathan couldn't stay disappointed, given the circumstances. Soon, Bob had washed off the dried blood and left behind clean, bruised skin. Nathan had fetched Gareth a cup of tea, which Gareth let sit on the table - tea wasn't really his thing.

It didn't take long for Gareth to explain the situation with Darren, as well as the reason why he was at the McCormack's. He felt a right fool.

'Why did it take you so long?' Nathan replied after a while of contemplative silence.

'For what?' Gareth asked.

'To come and see me! To apologise!'

'Oh. That. Guilt, I think. Facing facts is hard,' Gareth sheepishly responded.

Nathan slowly nodded.

Bob left Nathan and Gareth alone for a while as the two caught up on all that'd been been going on. Chase was angrily drilling into them for the simplest of mistakes and it was as clear he was frustrated with the corps. Lofty had apparently taken Gareth's trumpet position very seriously, but couldn't keep up with the sets Gareth was given. In fact, they'd tried shuffling the dots around to make it easier, or for other members to march in Gareth's place, but none of them could do it well enough, not in time for their upcoming finals show.

Finals. According to Nathan, this was their one and only show date left. They had to perform two shows on that date - the preliminary show, in the afternoon, and then the final show in the evening. They'd only play the final show if they were good enough in prelims. It was apparent that Chase was driving them hard to make up for Gareth's hiccup, determined to make the final finals show for the first time in many years.

'It don't feel right, Lofty playing my trumpet,' Gareth frowned.

'It doesn't sound right, either. He's fingering and tonguing Kerry-Anne everywhere, blowing his hardest,' Nathan laughed, creasing up at his own statement.

As Gareth proceeded to chuckle, too, seeing the funny side of things, Bob strode back into the homely kitchen.

'Mum's on the war path,' Bob confirmed.

'She's never trusted Gazza...' Nathan sighed.

The proceeding conversation between Nathan and his brother made Gareth very aware that he was an unwanted person in the McCormack residence. Truth be told, he'd never actually been inside before, but always knew where Nathan lived. There was still so much he wasn't aware of, from Nathan's home lifestyle, that he never stopped to think how others thought of him. Gareth was a bad influence on Nathan, but only because Darren was a bad influence on the pair of them. Nathan's mum was now another person Gareth would simply have to prove wrong.

'Car?' Nathan asked his brother.

'Car,' Bob confirmed, heading to a small, magenta, metal box beneath the kitchen sink.

Nathan quietly closed his eyes, as if holding back irritation at the box, before standing up and heading through the hallway. Gareth grimly pursed his lip as he watched Bob swiftly rummage within the tin, almost desperate for its cigarette contents. Deciding it best to follow Nathan, Gareth hobbled to the front door.

Unlocking the door in an awkward silence, the trio headed for Bob's black Mazda 2. It looked ancient, caked in mud and sprayed in bird delight. It was evidently well-loved.

'Where we going?' Gareth asked, his nose wrinkling at the stale aroma of choice cigarette smoke and worn car interior.

'Wherever I want,' Bob responded, cockily, nestling into the driver seat. 'Seat belts on or get out.'

Gareth wasn't ready to argue and assumed Bob was the kind of guy who adamantly followed the rules with everything. If a rule had been put in place, he'd follow it. If there was a rule about wearing a seatbelt in a vehicle, he'd enforced it.

'Especially with all those deer around the common and country roads,' Nathan interjected.

'Fine, fine,' Gareth sighed, plugging himself in and grimacing at how sore his eye felt.

Nathan looked uneasy as Bob sparked up his conical cigarette. Bob inhaled, deeply, before spewing out a stream of smoky suffocation. Gareth's nose scrunched further at the smell of burning urine, before Bob tutted and wound down his window.

On the other hand, Gareth thought, maybe Bob only followed his own set of rules, and not the wider ones relating to smoking specific substances?

'Crisp?' Nathan asked, trying to break the tension. It was as clear as day that Nathan didn't think much to Bob's habit.

'Nah,' Gareth responded.

'I'm well hungry,' Bob gasped, grabbing a handful of ridged, salt and vinegar goodness.

The smell was intoxicating now; burning urine, smoggy fumes and vinegar strong enough to rip one's nose apart. Gareth wasn't so sure the car was such a good idea.

As if hearing his internal pleas, Bob turned the car key and awoke the vehicle with a morning splutter. They reversed out and soon found themselves on the outskirts of the tillage.

The Sandy countryside was serene and somehow dull. Other villages lay scattered about, which claimed to be under the same name and post code as Sandy, but were deliberate ruses to trick occupants from moving out of their tillage incarceration. Cows scattered the fields, as did the odd horse or two, and the sun glared down harder still. Rapeseed violated the summer air with its sleazy stink, invading the car and working in unison with the already strong and vile stenches.

'Out with it,' Bob's dry voice spoke as they whizzed down the roads, 'tell me why you're not a bad influence on Nathan.'

Gareth was offended.

'Daz... uh, I mean, Darren is a bad influence on Nath. I'm just tryin' to do what's right, mate,' Gareth responded, trying not to be sick.

'By having us disqualified? Chase is furious.'

'Yeah, well, I wanted to get back at Daz... uh, I mean Darren.'

'Just call him Daz, Gazza,' Nathan sighed.

'And you got us in trouble, Gareth. You got us in trouble!' Bob's voice escalated, violently.
Gareth felt his adrenaline flow, once more, but this soon turned to a sinking concern as Bob turned around and shot Gareth a look of disgust.

'Eyes on the road!' Gareth hollered.

Nathan quickly put his hand on Gareth's shoulder and moulded the tone to something much calmer in his stutter.

'I-it's okay, Bob. I'm here for you. You're safe. Please keep your eyes on the road and I'll keep my eyes on Gazz- er, Gareth.'

Bob turned around, much calmer than before, causing Gareth to take in a deep breath to calm himself. Shame it was a deep lung full of noxious fumes. Gareth found himself coughing repeatedly, to clear his insides.

'Sorry,' Bob muttered, his cigarette pulled from his mouth with his right hand, 'it just angers me that you'd screw up so badly.'

'You and me both...' Gareth gagged, feeling sorry for himself.

The road trip extended past the ridiculously named village of Moggerhanger, and they soon sped down a country road of other unfortunately named places. Talk had turned beyond band and to other things.

'It’s hard to explain puns to kleptomaniacs. They always take things literally,' Nathan explained, causing everyone to laugh, hysterically.

'Okay, okay, I've got one,' Gareth smiled, 'A blind man walks into a bar... and a table... and a chair.'

They all laughed some more.

'How did the hipster burn his tongue?' Bob asked.

'Wait, I've got this...' Gareth excitedly responded, before taking a few seconds to think. 'He drank his tea before it was cool.'

'I take it back - you're not as bad as your trumpet playing,' Bob coasted down from his chuckling.

Gareth didn't know whether to feel offended or laugh. He felt his playing had come a long way since that first camp.

'At least it's musical...' Gareth huffed.

'How do you know a trumpeter is knocking at the door?' Bob asked, continuing their trend of jokes.

'He arrives beaten up? Gareth replied, thinking about how he'd arrived, earlier.

'No - he knocks, but doesn't know when to come in,' Bob snorted.

Nathan chuckled, too. It took a few seconds for Gareth to understand, but once he realised it alluded to himself having missed his musical cue on many occasions, he started to laugh. Then, he thought of one of his own.

'What do you call someone who hangs out with musicians?' Gareth asked. There was a brief bout of silence, before Bob went to answer. Gareth immediately replied as he saw Bob open his mouth. 'A drummer.'

'Har dee har,' Nathan sarcastically responded, 'us drummers as shed builders, I get it. Beats a tin whistle, any day. Trumpets are not my forte.' He smiled at the slyness of his last word.

'What's the difference between trumpet players and Government bonds?' Bob interjected, the wind swooping inside the car and washing their hair between words. 'Government bonds eventually mature and earn money.'

'Pft,' Gareth flatuated with his lips, 'How do you get a drummer to play faster? Ask him to play in 4/4 at a steady 120 beats per min.'

'I believe it's called an accelerando,' Bob mused.

'You mean what you're doing on the road, right now?' Gareth retorted, his voice almost lost within the bustling flow of wind.

Slowing the car down, Bob turned back into Sandy, itself, and travelled towards Gareth's house at a steady pace.

'Don't anger me and I'll let you ride in my car again, Gareth,' Bob nodded, his expression stern, 'and, don't anger Chase again and maybe he'll let you back. Maybe.'

Gareth thanked the brothers and bro-fisted Nathan before Bob drove away in his little black car. It was such a relief to finally be on the better side of Bob, despite the fiasco of the last show. Perhaps Bob didn't blame Gareth? Whatever the case, it'd make seeing Nathan much easier. For now, Gareth turned and faced his familiar prison cell.

********************

Warren sat the circular oak table. Kerry-Anne's kitchen was small and full of cream; cream kettles, cream toasters, cream handled cutlery, cream curtains, cream paint, cream cupboards, heck, even a cream fridge. Slap bang in its centre, however, was an odd oak table, sitting Warren and Kerry-Anne around its edge.

The parole officer looked up and away from his cream mug, the aroma of coffee reaching Gareth before Warren's gaze did.

'Coffee?' Warren asked, looking rather worn down from conversing with Gareth's mother.

'Don't offer him nothink,' Kerry-Anne leapt in, 'he can get it himself'.

Gareth gave Warren a curious look.

'There's being proactive in a negative way, ie your pepper spray incident, and there's being proactive in a positive way, ie apologising to Chase. Which would you prefer?' Warren asked.

'It's obvious,' Gareth snorted.

'Then do it,' came a familiar, Scottish twang.

Turning to face the stairs opposite the kitchen doorway, Gareth locked eyes with Chase Diggby, who was zipping up his flies from a bathroom visit.

'You do know that your old man led me on, right?' Gareth replied, with confidence.

'Passing on responsibility, I should've known...' Chase grunted, tucking in his muddy shirt.

Feeling a pinch of anger, Gareth started over.

'Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring your family into it. I didn't mean to have us disqualified. I played my best on that field, like any other member, and I worked hard, harder than I've ever done... ever. Then it was all taken away from me and I've got no one but myself to blame, not your old man. I'm sorry, Chase. I'm really sorry. I just... I just wanna march, see the year out, and do the best I can for myself and Adonis.'

Kerry-Anne slurped her coffee. Gareth would've felt more irritated by this, had his heart not been racing with anticipation at Chase's response. He desperately wanted to march.

'I endeavour to aspire to the thought that you're an evolved Mr. Firkins compared to the husked cocoon of a persona at the start of the year, but my frontal lobe also recalls the incident in Leicester and I wonder if you're still the runt you once were,' Chase mused.

'Don't worry, I don't understand what he's saying half the time, either,' Warren sighed, somewhere behind Gareth.

'Please,' Gareth softly replied to Chase, 'I'm not a deserter. I'm not like... my dad.'

There was a snort from Kerry-Anne, but Gareth kept his eyes forward, determined to convince Chase he'd be a worthy addition to the corps.

'In that case,' Chase responded, speaking past Gareth, 'I'll leave you to talk about Saturday night restaurant affairs of a different sort, Mr. Davies.'

Warren flushed and quickly took a sip from his clearly empty mug.

'Ms. Firkins, it was a pleasure to meet you, and if your son has any shred of respect for others, I'll see him at the field on Sunday, 10.00am,' Chase rolled down his long sleeves.

'Do you mean?' Gareth gasped.

'I do mean, Mr. Firkins. Allow me to put this in simple terms your flan of a brain can understand - I swear tooth to mountain that I'll disown you for good, should there be any more car crashes from you.'

'Yes, sir, corps director,' Gareth smiled, feeling the happiest he'd been since his memory could recall.