Status: Complete.
Band Cramp
Chapter 2
The familiar smell of cigarettes greeted Gareth as he entered the house. The air was bitterly cold, inside, made somewhat stagnant from the smoke. Yet, this smell was what made his mum's home his home, too.
A small, grey box, no bigger than Gareth's hand, sat next to the hallway phone. Slightly bitter, Gareth realised this box was what the police were monitoring him with. Apparently it sent a signal to them, to let them know he was trapped in his house, thanks to his ankle tag. That meant the house had already had visitors. That meant his mum already knew.
Two more steps into the cold floored hallway led Gareth to the a chorus of singing from both the television and his mother. It must have been Songs of Praise, that religious show, Gareth thought. Ever since Gareth's grandma died, a month or two back, he had noticed his mum lull in and out of religious programmes, holding back a pain within her eyes.
Gareth sighed. It wasn't that he hated his mum, not really. They may have had their differences, but he simply didn't know what to do with her. They had next to nothing in common and most of their conversations ended in argument. She never showed interest in his life, in Gareth's eyes, and as such he didn't show interest in hers. What he did know was that she was often around the house due to her inability to maintain a job, leaving by nightfall to toy with other men.
He stood in the doorway to the small living room, his mum sat on her "special chair" which reclined, her back to Gareth. It wasn't much of a living room, but certainly more of a room than any other in the house; photos of his mum's parents sat on the walls of flowery, 1970's wallpaper, an old clock with a face of Roman numerals perched atop a dusty shelf, a carpet created from varied browns sprawled across the floor, and a wine bottle of garage flowers wilted in the smoky atmosphere. Perhaps once upon a time the flowers could be identified, but not anymore in their dying state. This was the room of Kerry-Anne Firkins.
She continued to barrage the living with her wailing attacking Gareth's hearing more than the smoke speared his airwaves. Once the song finally ended, with Gareth feeling relieved and somehow stronger in his survival, Gareth cleared his throat.
'Warren called me,' Gareth's mum, Kerry-Anne, immediately responded with a hoarse voice. 'He said you won't let me down, but you have already. His police mates came by earlier, too.'
'It beats a prison cell.'
'Well, we'll see how long that lasts,' she huffed, brushing her curled midnight hair from her face, before re-lighting her cigarette.
Gareth wasn't entirely surprised by her matter-of-fact reaction, but it did make him feel somewhat sour. She expected him in a prison cell. He could tell. Warren was right. He just had to make her stand up and feel proud of him for something, anything, and Gareth knew it had to be with the band. There was no turning back, now.
As the television carried the rest of the conversation, Gareth slid out of the living room and thudded up the wooden stair case, into his bare bedroom. Except, it wasn't quite bare. Someone was waiting for him.
'Introducin' the one man army! With 10 man points for escapin' the feds, give it up for the livin' legend, Darren Johnson!' Darren announced to no one in particular.
'Whilst I get to be in a prison cell all night. Nice one,' Gareth glared at the mate who'd left him at the mercy of the police.
There was a moment's awkward silence.
'Anyway, you're back now, right? I ain't seen Nath since he pussied out, and he promised me he'd lend me his phone. Need to text Shard, ennit,' Darren sniffed. 'What I'm saying, mate, is gimme your phone.'
Any alleviated tension had now returned, and Gareth didn't particularly feel comfortable lending Darren his old Nokia, not after last night. He tried to dodge the question.
'Shard? That girl we met outside the corner shop?'
'Yeah. She don't know it, yet, but we got plans tonight, me an' her. So I'm havin' yer phone.'
After a moment's hesitation, Darren sprang up with violent force, and pulled his fist back in a motion which looked like he was ready to punch Gareth.
'Here, take it!' Gareth yelled, reaching into his pocket and producing his dated Nokia.
Wasting no time, Darren snatched the phone for Gareth's palm and began to text the one known as "Shard". With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Gareth knew he wasn't going to get his phone back. With any luck, now that Darren had what he wanted, he'd just leave Gareth to get on with his new hobby.
Darren seemingly finished and shoved the phone into his own pocket, staring at Gareth expectantly. Damn. He knew Gareth had news. He knew Gareth couldn't have simply escaped, scot-free. And Gareth knew that Darren would take the "mick" out of him for joining Adonis. He wouldn't ever live it down. But this was something Gareth had to do. He knelt down and reached under his bed.
'Naaaaah,' Darren gasped, a smile of delicious maliciousness spread across his face, 'you bein' serious, mate?'
The tinkle of metal resonated through the room as Gareth's medallion fell from his trouser pocket. He let it roll to the bed leg whilst he felt for the other metal object he was both excited and ashamed by. Pulling out the trumpet from beneath his bed frame, Gareth eyed the once shiny tubes and wrinkled his nose. He simply placed it on his bed sheet and stared at Darren, enduring his taunts.
'You're a wuss, mate. No one joins one o' them bands instead of takin' it like a man in a prison. Anyway, you don't even know if it woulda led to a sentence. Coulda just been tagged for a bit,' Darren sniffed.
'I was tagged, Daz. It would've been worse had I not done this. I'm not going to let some Scottish band leader push me around 'cause I'm rubbish, though. I'm gonna show 'em all I can play better than their stupid parades. I'll outshine the lot of them. Now... shove off - I'm gonna practise,' Gareth huffed.
This response only led to hysterics from Darren.
'You've flipped, mate!'
Gareth glared after Darren as he got up and laughed towards the bedroom door.
'Maybe I'll steal that horn when you're kipping?' Darren suddenly sniped, 'Or maybe I'll set fire to it with spray cans and a Zippo? Who knows what I'll do, Gazza? Good thing your mum has an open house policy. I come and go whenever I want, mate. So, I'll be back.'
Darren gave a sly smile and walked out of the bedroom. Gareth was somewhat perturbed by Darren's response, but knew he meant it. He could only listen as Darren's footsteps thudded down the stairs and out of the house, before letting out his held breath.
Rubbing his eyes, gently, Gareth's memory flooded back to a time when the shattering of crockery ceased and the raised voices silenced, only to be replaced by the similar thudding of the stairs and a creak of the bedroom door. A man, sweaty and shadowed, smiled with relief at his sleeping son, before finally closing the bedroom door shut. His son was not asleep, but scared and curled up under his bed covers, scrunching his eyes shut and wishing for it to go away.
Gareth opened his eyes from the memory, startled. His gaze fell on the now stationary medallion, his thoughts on long ago. Several blinks brought him back to the present. If he was to stand a fighting chance at Adonis, he'd have to actually learn to play a trumpet.
He stared at the grubby horn for several minutes, knelt down with the trumpet in his lap. Now that he examined it, he could see beneath its soiled exterior was a silver lacquered finish. Gareth attempted to pick the horn up properly, thinking about where his hands would go. He'd held the trumpet with both hands at the Adonis parade, but it somehow felt wrong. Gareth placed his right index finger, his middle finger and his ring finger on top of each of the three valves which stuck up from the trumpet's top. Did the small finger just wiggle about in the air? How was he supposed to hold it with his left hand if there were pipes twisting around every nook and cranny of the instrument?
With one mighty breath of puffed out cheeks, Gareth blew into the mouth piece which sat at the trumpet's end. A brash, harsh flatulence erupted in his bedroom, much like it had done at the parade. It was in no way musical, in any shape or form.
This was going to be a long week.
A small, grey box, no bigger than Gareth's hand, sat next to the hallway phone. Slightly bitter, Gareth realised this box was what the police were monitoring him with. Apparently it sent a signal to them, to let them know he was trapped in his house, thanks to his ankle tag. That meant the house had already had visitors. That meant his mum already knew.
Two more steps into the cold floored hallway led Gareth to the a chorus of singing from both the television and his mother. It must have been Songs of Praise, that religious show, Gareth thought. Ever since Gareth's grandma died, a month or two back, he had noticed his mum lull in and out of religious programmes, holding back a pain within her eyes.
Gareth sighed. It wasn't that he hated his mum, not really. They may have had their differences, but he simply didn't know what to do with her. They had next to nothing in common and most of their conversations ended in argument. She never showed interest in his life, in Gareth's eyes, and as such he didn't show interest in hers. What he did know was that she was often around the house due to her inability to maintain a job, leaving by nightfall to toy with other men.
He stood in the doorway to the small living room, his mum sat on her "special chair" which reclined, her back to Gareth. It wasn't much of a living room, but certainly more of a room than any other in the house; photos of his mum's parents sat on the walls of flowery, 1970's wallpaper, an old clock with a face of Roman numerals perched atop a dusty shelf, a carpet created from varied browns sprawled across the floor, and a wine bottle of garage flowers wilted in the smoky atmosphere. Perhaps once upon a time the flowers could be identified, but not anymore in their dying state. This was the room of Kerry-Anne Firkins.
She continued to barrage the living with her wailing attacking Gareth's hearing more than the smoke speared his airwaves. Once the song finally ended, with Gareth feeling relieved and somehow stronger in his survival, Gareth cleared his throat.
'Warren called me,' Gareth's mum, Kerry-Anne, immediately responded with a hoarse voice. 'He said you won't let me down, but you have already. His police mates came by earlier, too.'
'It beats a prison cell.'
'Well, we'll see how long that lasts,' she huffed, brushing her curled midnight hair from her face, before re-lighting her cigarette.
Gareth wasn't entirely surprised by her matter-of-fact reaction, but it did make him feel somewhat sour. She expected him in a prison cell. He could tell. Warren was right. He just had to make her stand up and feel proud of him for something, anything, and Gareth knew it had to be with the band. There was no turning back, now.
As the television carried the rest of the conversation, Gareth slid out of the living room and thudded up the wooden stair case, into his bare bedroom. Except, it wasn't quite bare. Someone was waiting for him.
'Introducin' the one man army! With 10 man points for escapin' the feds, give it up for the livin' legend, Darren Johnson!' Darren announced to no one in particular.
'Whilst I get to be in a prison cell all night. Nice one,' Gareth glared at the mate who'd left him at the mercy of the police.
There was a moment's awkward silence.
'Anyway, you're back now, right? I ain't seen Nath since he pussied out, and he promised me he'd lend me his phone. Need to text Shard, ennit,' Darren sniffed. 'What I'm saying, mate, is gimme your phone.'
Any alleviated tension had now returned, and Gareth didn't particularly feel comfortable lending Darren his old Nokia, not after last night. He tried to dodge the question.
'Shard? That girl we met outside the corner shop?'
'Yeah. She don't know it, yet, but we got plans tonight, me an' her. So I'm havin' yer phone.'
After a moment's hesitation, Darren sprang up with violent force, and pulled his fist back in a motion which looked like he was ready to punch Gareth.
'Here, take it!' Gareth yelled, reaching into his pocket and producing his dated Nokia.
Wasting no time, Darren snatched the phone for Gareth's palm and began to text the one known as "Shard". With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Gareth knew he wasn't going to get his phone back. With any luck, now that Darren had what he wanted, he'd just leave Gareth to get on with his new hobby.
Darren seemingly finished and shoved the phone into his own pocket, staring at Gareth expectantly. Damn. He knew Gareth had news. He knew Gareth couldn't have simply escaped, scot-free. And Gareth knew that Darren would take the "mick" out of him for joining Adonis. He wouldn't ever live it down. But this was something Gareth had to do. He knelt down and reached under his bed.
'Naaaaah,' Darren gasped, a smile of delicious maliciousness spread across his face, 'you bein' serious, mate?'
The tinkle of metal resonated through the room as Gareth's medallion fell from his trouser pocket. He let it roll to the bed leg whilst he felt for the other metal object he was both excited and ashamed by. Pulling out the trumpet from beneath his bed frame, Gareth eyed the once shiny tubes and wrinkled his nose. He simply placed it on his bed sheet and stared at Darren, enduring his taunts.
'You're a wuss, mate. No one joins one o' them bands instead of takin' it like a man in a prison. Anyway, you don't even know if it woulda led to a sentence. Coulda just been tagged for a bit,' Darren sniffed.
'I was tagged, Daz. It would've been worse had I not done this. I'm not going to let some Scottish band leader push me around 'cause I'm rubbish, though. I'm gonna show 'em all I can play better than their stupid parades. I'll outshine the lot of them. Now... shove off - I'm gonna practise,' Gareth huffed.
This response only led to hysterics from Darren.
'You've flipped, mate!'
Gareth glared after Darren as he got up and laughed towards the bedroom door.
'Maybe I'll steal that horn when you're kipping?' Darren suddenly sniped, 'Or maybe I'll set fire to it with spray cans and a Zippo? Who knows what I'll do, Gazza? Good thing your mum has an open house policy. I come and go whenever I want, mate. So, I'll be back.'
Darren gave a sly smile and walked out of the bedroom. Gareth was somewhat perturbed by Darren's response, but knew he meant it. He could only listen as Darren's footsteps thudded down the stairs and out of the house, before letting out his held breath.
Rubbing his eyes, gently, Gareth's memory flooded back to a time when the shattering of crockery ceased and the raised voices silenced, only to be replaced by the similar thudding of the stairs and a creak of the bedroom door. A man, sweaty and shadowed, smiled with relief at his sleeping son, before finally closing the bedroom door shut. His son was not asleep, but scared and curled up under his bed covers, scrunching his eyes shut and wishing for it to go away.
Gareth opened his eyes from the memory, startled. His gaze fell on the now stationary medallion, his thoughts on long ago. Several blinks brought him back to the present. If he was to stand a fighting chance at Adonis, he'd have to actually learn to play a trumpet.
He stared at the grubby horn for several minutes, knelt down with the trumpet in his lap. Now that he examined it, he could see beneath its soiled exterior was a silver lacquered finish. Gareth attempted to pick the horn up properly, thinking about where his hands would go. He'd held the trumpet with both hands at the Adonis parade, but it somehow felt wrong. Gareth placed his right index finger, his middle finger and his ring finger on top of each of the three valves which stuck up from the trumpet's top. Did the small finger just wiggle about in the air? How was he supposed to hold it with his left hand if there were pipes twisting around every nook and cranny of the instrument?
With one mighty breath of puffed out cheeks, Gareth blew into the mouth piece which sat at the trumpet's end. A brash, harsh flatulence erupted in his bedroom, much like it had done at the parade. It was in no way musical, in any shape or form.
This was going to be a long week.