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Now, on his way to Deacon’s place with the kid in tow, he had band rehearsal. Not that Static Youth rehearsed much these days considering half their set list was all old indie covers everybody in Yorkshire already knew by heart. But Deacon had managed to get them a slot at some summer festival in the next village over and had decided this apparently warranted professionalism.

So much for Deacon quitting.

But there was another reason his head was somewhere else entirely: Harrison.

He’d still not heard from him. No message. No missed call. Nothing but silence sitting heavy in the back of Jake’s skull all bloody day.

Beside him, Teddy muttered numbers under his breath before stabbing furiously at the buttons on his calculator.

“You doing algebra or summat,” Jake asked as he turned onto the narrow lane behind Deacon’s house, “or trying to launch a missile?”

Teddy didn’t even look up. “Both.”

Jake snorted. At least the kid actually did his homework. More than Jake ever managed at that age. At thirteen, he’d spent most evenings with drumsticks in his hands instead of textbooks. Hammering dents into practice pads balanced on his knees. Learning fills off battered CDs. Driving his wrists raw trying to nail impossible-speed hi-hat patterns and double-stroke rolls in his bedroom at two in the morning while Donnie shouted at him through the wall to pack it in.

Back then, life had been simple.

Get faster. Get tighter. Get good enough to get out.

Every spare thought had gone into music. Into sweaty rehearsal rooms and cheap kits held together with tape. Into building stamina until his forearms burned and dreaming about festival crowds chanting for encores while he sat behind the kit, drenched in sweat and grinning so hard his face hurt.

How things changed.

Deacon’s place backed onto a strip of woodland, and the rehearsal room sat at the bottom of the garden beneath the dark silhouette of swaying trees. Years ago, Deacon had converted the old brick outbuilding into a makeshift studio with salvaged insulation foam, mismatched carpet stapled badly to the walls, and enough amps and cables to start a small electrical fire.

Music used to clear his head. Used to be the one place everything made sense. Before Robyn vanished. Before prison. Before Harrison Black had somehow crawled beneath his skin and made silence feel unbearable.

Now it felt…lost to him.

“You coming?” Teddy asked as he climbed out.

Jake dragged himself back to the present, then reached down into the passenger footwell for his stick bag. “Aye.”

They unloaded the kit from the back of the Transit together. Jake’s old Tama shells still carried scratches from pub stages and van doors, black finish dulled in places from years of gigs, rehearsals, and being hauled across half the North in the rain. He lifted the bass drum first, careful of the mounted tom hardware rattling loose, while Teddy wrestled the snare stand out from beneath a tangled mess of cymbal cases and leads.

“Mind the hi-hats,” Jake warned as Teddy nearly clipped them against the door frame.

“I know.”

“You absolutely do not.”

The kick pedal went over Jake’s shoulder. Cymbal bag in one hand. Floor tom tucked against his hip. Trip after trip across the gravel.

The warmth hit him the second he shoved open the studio door. Heat. Dust. Stale larger soaked deep into the carpet. Takeaway grease. Damp plaster. Old cigarette smoke embedded into decades of rehearsals, despite no one smoking in here for years, though Raff had the occasional vape when his wife wasn’t looking. The air carried that permanent hum of old amps, sweat, and noise. Familiar enough that his chest loosened despite the knot he’d carried there all week.

Raff sat sprawled across the battered sofa beneath a faded Arctic Monkeys poster, bass balanced across his lap while he tuned it. He still wore his scrapyard gear: steel-toed boots, oil-stained work trousers, black grease stubborn beneath his nails.

Deacon stood near the mic stand, guitar hanging low at his hip. “This what you call fashionably late or did you just lose your watch?”

“Told you traffic’d be shit this time a night.”

Raff pointed at Teddy. “Please tell me you’re replacing him.”

Teddy dropped the floor tom onto the carpet with a heavy thud. “Only if you pay me.”

“Smart kid.” Raff saluted him solemnly. “We should all get paid for this shite.”

Jake snorted as he rebuilt the kit piece by piece. Rug first so the bass drum wouldn’t creep. Throne adjusted low. Kick pedal clipped on. Rack toms tightened into place. Cymbal stands spread wide enough to survive Deacon inevitably crashing into them during rehearsals. By the time he locked the snare stand and dropped the worn brass snare into position, the familiar shape of the kit sat waiting beneath the dim strip lights as if it’d never been gone at all.