Page 16

The Space Between Beats

“I think you were right, mate.” Deacon dropped three pints onto the scarred table hard enough to send foam sloshing over the rims. Then he loosened his tie and popped the top button of his shirt, the first sign that Estate Agent Deacon was clocking off for the day and in his place came the version Jake knew best.

The flirty frontman.

Jake grabbed his pint before any more could spill and took a long swallow. “Usually am. About what this time?”

Beside him, Raff reached for his pint while pinning his phone between shoulder and ear. “Nah, love, I said I’ll be back in twenty.”

Unlike Deacon, there was no dramatic transformation waiting for Rafferty. He still looked exactly as he had when he’d left the salvage yard an hour ago. His reddish hair sat in its usual fresh buzz cut, and his oil-stained work hoodie carried the lingering smells of petrol, welding smoke and engine grease. The only difference was the pint in his hand. He looked exhausted. Marriage. New baby. Early shifts. Late rehearsals.

Somehow, he was on his second pint.

Probably claiming band practice as a legitimate excuse.

“That’s not the pub, babe.” Raff held his finger to his lips at Jake with the silent suffering of a man who knew he wasn’t winning this argument. “That’s Davo in the workshop making a brew.”

Jake snorted into his drink.

Static Youth. That’s who they were. The name had felt rebellious when they were twelve, when borrowed instruments and a few half-decent rehearsals had convinced them they were only ever one song away from being discovered. These days, it felt a little too on the nose. Because somehow, despite everything that had come and gone, they were all still here.

Every Monday night, without fail.

Same pub. Same beer. Same arguments about songs they’d been playing for years. Then back to Deacon’s glorified shed to rehearse, as if nothing had changed.

As if everything hadn’t.

Deacon dropped into the chair opposite and stretched his legs beneath the table, jerking his chin at Raff. “Talking about that.”

Raff was still negotiating. “Course I remembered the Calpol… Aye… aye, I know where it is…” He winced. “No, I’m not drunk.”

“Sound sober to me,” Jake muttered.

Raff pointed a warning finger without looking.

Jake turned back to Deacon. “The Calpol?”

“No, you tart. Relationships.” Deacon’s attention caught on two women sharing a bottle of wine by the window.

“What did I say about relationships?” Jake took another drink.

Raff finally hung up with a sigh sounding years older than he was and knocked back half his pint. “Better go, lads.”

Deacon groaned. “Did you forget to ask her permission? We were supposed to rehearse at mine after this.”

Raff stood, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. “Can’t tonight. Violet’s got a temperature. Better get this damn Calpol. Where’s the nearest pharmacy?”

Deacon rolled his eyes. “They’re all shut, mate.”

“Bollocks.”

“Try the petrol garage.” Jake wiped beer froth from his mouth. “They sometimes do that shit behind the counter. Used to have to get it when our Teddy were little.”

“Aye. Cheers.” Raff scrubbed a hand over his head. “Rehearsal Thursday, then. And we need to sort the set list if we gonna get in the local festivals this year. Need summat new.”

“They only want covers anyway.” Deacon waved him off.

“Bollocks they do.” Raff held out a fist. Jake bumped it. “Don’t let us down, Jakey boy. We all know you’ve got a song in there somewhere.” He then angled his head at Deacon. “And don’t let this miserable bastard convince himself he ain’t married. He just hasn’t bought the ring yet.”