There had to be a way to survive this life better than this. And wasn’t this what I wanted? To only have to worry about basic survival?
I laughed bitterly at the thought. O’Dea was right. My head was shoved so far up my ass, I hadn’t even realized it wasn’t on my shoulders anymore. It turned out this life was pretty fucking scary in reality when your health started to suffer.
Shit.
It took a while, but I finally managed to get myself together, trying not to look at how frail my wrist looked, the bone protruding more than I remembered, as I fumbled to get my gear together. As I slid my hands into the pocket of my raincoat to make sure the change I had in there hadn’t fallen out, my fingers rasped against a piece of card. Frowning, I pulled it out.
Killian O’Dea
A&R Executive
Skyscraper Records
100 Stobcross Road
Glasgow
07878568562
The business card seemed to glare at me like O’Dea had a habit of doing.
“They don’t have a choice. You do.”
“I don’t.”
“I just offered you one.”
I blew out a shaky breath and for some reason, instead of crumpling the business card, I opened my jacket, unzipped the inside pocket, and slid the card in where it would be safe.
I didn’t allow myself to analyze why.
JUST AS I’D BEEN WARNED, the weather surprised me that day. How it could’ve been so bitter during the night only to grow into a beautiful, warm, late-September day, I didn’t know. I could only hope the heat would seep into the ground, keeping it warm for me tonight.
I refused to let my concern about my physical health affect today’s performance on Buchanan Street. Since it was a weekday, I was the only one busking. The unseasonable weather meant those who didn’t work were milling around and those who were working wanted to be out in the sunshine during their lunch hour. Wanting to feed their need for sunshine and summer, I did a quirky, upbeat rendition of The Ramones “Rockaway Beach.” It proved to be a crowd pleaser and the coins in my guitar case began to multiply. I followed it up with “Summertime” by Ella Fitzgerald, and subsequently every summer-themed song I could think of.
I made more cash than I would have on a normal Saturday.
However, as I played song after song, I became aware of two young men who didn’t move on. They stood in the ever-changing small crowd gathered around me, and something about them made my spider senses tingle. There was something off about them, as if they weren’t really there to listen to me sing. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I’d been warned by Ham to watch my back after I busked if I’d had a good day. Anybody could see how much money I was pocketing by looking in my guitar case.
Taking a break after singing “Cruel Summer,” the first thing I did was remove all the notes and pound coins from my case. The bottom of the guitar case popped off, so I put the money underneath it and clipped the base back into place so the money was hidden from sight. Then I hovered near it, guitar hanging over my shoulder on its strap, while I took a much-needed swig of water.
I felt them approach before I saw their feet appear on the ground at the edge of the brim of my fedora. Tensing, I lifted my head and glanced between the two young guys. They both wore tracksuit bottoms and T-shirts, baseball caps pulled low over their faces.
The hair on my neck rose in warning.
“That a Taylor?” The tallest of the two lifted his chin toward my guitar.
The question threw me. “You know your guitars?”
“My dad is intae his guitars. Yours is nice.”
My tension grew tenfold. My guitar was expensive. “Thanks.” I turned away, inviting them to leave.
“That a Dreadnought?”
It was a Presentation. But I didn’t want him to know that so I lied. “You really know your guitars.”
“My dad’s always wanted a Cocobolo. He can only afford a Harley Benton. But he says one day he’ll get a Cocobolo. He cannae play as well as you, though.”
“Dinnae say that tae him,” his friend snorted.
They chuckled between them and I considered the idea that I was being overly suspicious. “A Cocobolo.” I looked up at them. “That’s a nice guitar.”
“Aye.” He nodded, his stare intense on my Taylor. His friend suddenly nudged him again and he shrugged. “Anyway, we better go. Just wanted tae say how good we think ye are.”
“Well, I appreciate it, thanks.”
They gave me a small wave and strolled away. As they disappeared into the crowds, I waited for the tension to melt away with their departure, but something about the encounter unsettled me. The assessing manner of the young man who’d done most of the talking was disquieting.
My instincts told me to pack up and leave. I’d made enough money. Adding it to what O’Dea had given me, I decided it was time to trade in the raincoat for a cheap winter jacket.
After packing up, I wandered in and out of some of the less expensive high street stores. Most of them only had sales on their summer lines, which made sense, but I finally found a half-price coat that was a season out of style. I wavered handing the money over since it was a good chunk of what I had left, and then I remembered how awful the night before had been.
I needed that winter coat, and I might as well buy it while I had the money. I threw in a cheap winter hat, scarf, and gloves too.
Afterward, I splurged on a fresh chicken salad, sick of junk food, and made sure I had enough water in my backpack. Not wanting to waste the nice weather, I strolled to Glasgow Green, a park a twenty-minute walk from Buchanan Street. Laying out my raincoat on a spot of grass, I sat, ate my salad, and read a book I bought for fifty pence in a bargain bookstore.
It made me forget this morning.
It made me feel normal.
And I realized that as much as I wanted to disappear, maybe every now and then, it was okay—in fact, important—to feel normal.
IT WAS A NICE EVENING so I decided to walk back to the cemetery. The tall buildings of the city center disappeared as I headed north, and everything became much grayer as I strolled down a sidewalk of a busy road above the motorway. It was pretty much a straight walk along a busy main road all the way to the cemetery.
By the time I jumped the gates, it was dark. My hardened feet were sore and swollen in my boots from the heat that had cooled considerably. I eyed the shopping bag in my hand with my new coat in it, glad I’d bought it so I could sleep in it tonight.
As I began the long walk uphill toward my cluster of trees, I thought I heard a whisper in the air and put it down to the rustle of fallen leaves along the pathway.
But when I heard it again, I froze like a deer caught in a hunter’s sights. The blood whooshed in my ears as I strained to hear, strained to see as my eyes swept the darkened cemetery. The moon lit up everything within near distance, but beyond the near glow of its beams, there was thick, discomforting darkness. I lifted my torch toward it but saw nothing out of the ordinary.
Yet, for the first time since I’d made this place my home, fear seeped into me.
Heart racing, I continued toward the trees, hoping the whisper had merely been my imagination.
I shrugged off my backpack and pulled out the tent. As I started to set up, however, I heard the unmistakable sound of thudding steps on the ground. I shot up, whirling around, alarm freezing me to the spot at the sight of the two young men from earlier standing in front of me.
They’d followed me.
I could feel my chest constrict, my breaths coming short and shallow, as the worst possible scenarios raced through my mind. Why had they followed me? Scared out of my mind but determined not to show it, I tilted my chin up and demanded, “What the hell do you want?”
“The guitar,” the tallest of the two immediately replied. “We know it’s worth a couple of grand.”
Wrong. My Taylor was not only a Presentation Series acoustic, it was specially made for me. Technically, it was worth just under ten thousand dollars, but it could go for a lot more than that at a fan auction.
My guitar case lay behind me on the grass, not only protecting my Taylor but all the money I kept in there for safekeeping. Fear of losing the guitar, of losing that money, turned the shakiness in my limbs to steel. I stepped in front of it, blocking it from their view. “Go home, boys. This isn’t worth the trouble.”