Chapter Twelve
Theo woke with a start early the next morning. There was an unfamiliar sound in his ears: white noise gently ebbing and flowing. He assumed it was the result of the volume levels at last night's gig. Then he remembered a dream he had been having: a gigantic wave was perpetually on the point of breaking, but before it did, it looped back to the beginning, and the process of swelling started again.
But the unusual thing about this dream was that there was a soundtrack accompanying it. The soundtrack comprised of a repeated melody played out on a fuzzy lead guitar. Theo didn't recognise the melody, but it was the type of thing that a heavy metal band like Black Sabbath or Judas Priest might play. Theo imagined the melody on a loop with drums slowly building beneath it - snare and floor tom getting louder, and then a smash on the cymbals and the rest of the band kicks in. The melody was a real stomper. He shook his head from side to side to try to get rid of the white noise, but it seemed to persist. Better get used to this, he thought.
Mark Heritage said he would phone him in the morning, presumably to let him know how the meeting with the A & R men went. But would he? He imagined that Mark would have a lot on his plate today, and he doubted whether he would rise before midday after a night like that. It was now 8am, so Theo could have a long morning of waiting ahead of him.
He had invited Martine round this evening, so after breakfast he tidied his room and made sure that that there was nothing untoward on show. Even though it was raining, he opened the window wide in the hope of getting rid of that musty smell. He opened his bedroom door to its full extent also, using a dictionary to prop it open so there was no chance of him missing the phone if it rang. Not wanting to leave the house, he stayed in his room and read the Van Gogh diaries.
After an hour or so, he had migrated downstairs and was listening to Radio 1 in the kitchen when the phone rang. His eyes widened and gravity left him again. He ran to the phone and picked it up on the fourth ring.
"Hello 701___"
"Is Theo there please?"
It's him! "This is me speaking. Hi Mark"
"Hi, how are you? Just wanted to say thanks again for all your help."
"That's okay" replied Theo, thinking that this turn of phrase sounded rather...final. "So how did the meeting with the A & R men go?"
"Oh that. Yeah, they're pretty interested, we've got to go up to meet them in London and do a couple of showcase gigs."
London. Showcase. Gigs.
"Yeah, hopefully something will come of it" continued Mark. "So listen, thanks again, and if we need a replacement drummer again, you'll be the first to know. That stuff you did during Guitar Man was awesome; I'll have to see if Keith can do something like that."
Replacement drummer? Keith?
"Wha... What do you mean?" Theo's voice faded to nothing.
"Lee told you, right? That we only needed a drummer for the one gig? Keith was inside for two months for selling stolen goods, and we couldn't move the gig date so we had to find a replacement straight away?"
Suddenly Theo felt very heavy. "No." was all he managed to say.
"That wanker. I'm really sorry pal, I thought you knew. You're certainly good enough, but we've got to stick with Keith 'cos he's been with us from the start. Oh, and the A & R men thought you looked a bit... young."
Theo listened as Mark apologised again, and he managed to say something conciliatory in response before the conversation ended. As he put the phone in its cradle, his hands and lips were already beginning to shake and tears welled in his eyes. He walked steadily upstairs, making sure not to think too closely about what had happened for fear of his tears turning into full-scale sobbing. He made it to his room and attempted to slam the door behind him, but the makeshift dictionary-cum-doorstop halted it in its tracks. So he kicked the dictionary out the way and pushed the door again, this time with both hands. The whole house shuddered as the door made contact with its frame. Now Theo needed something to punch, but nothing seemed solid or sturdy enough. He looked at the un-postered orange wall, and before he could think any more about it, he plunged his fist into it, leaving a dent in the plasterwork. He looked down at his hand - there were jagged strips of white flesh on the knuckles. Not satisfied that he had done enough damage, he put his fist back on the wall, pushed it hard into the cracked plasterwork and scrapped it downwards, leaving three trails of blood as he did so.
"FUCK!" he screamed at the top of his voice, partly in pain, and partly in pure anger, before the tears really did come. He sat on the bed, cradling his bloodied hand. His throat closed up and his shoulders heaved. Through watery eyes he saw his knuckles and wiped them on his clean bedspread. Then, inexplicably, an image of Janet, his ex-girlfriend, came to him. Why Janet? Why now? He hadn't thought about her for months. But then he remembered that feeling of rejection, of abandonment, that had consumed him in the weeks after their break-up. He was feeling the same way now: he felt left behind.
Steal Guitars have left Theo Hanlon behind. It was so unfair, so very unfair. When this Keith was back behind the kit, would they ever even remember that Theo had drummed for them on the night they got their recording contract? He doubted it. No, Theo did not like being left behind. And on top of that, he was already beginning to miss Mark Heritage. He thought they were friends. Maybe he could phone Mark and get him to change his mind? After all, Mark did say that he was good enough. In fact he said he'd like it if Keith drummed like him! And who's to say that Keith won't end up back in prison? Yes, phoning Mark was a good idea. But then he realised that he didn't have his phone number, he only had Lee's, and there was no way he was going to phone that wanker.
Now his fist was beginning to throb - the knuckles were swollen and bruised, with more blood bubbling from where the skin had been. But the blood and the pain served some purpose: they stopped him from thinking any further about the phone call. Yes, he needed to sort out his hand, and there was no room in his brain to process any other information. He went to the bathroom and blotted the bloodied knuckles with toilet paper. Then he dampened some more paper and wiped the blood trails from the bedroom wall. How was he going to explain all this to his mum and dad, to Martine, to his ever-inquisitive brother? He would just have to say that he slipped when he was carrying the bass drum out of Moles and scrapped his hand against a wall. That sounded feasible enough.
Once he'd covered his knuckles in plasters, he methodically assembled his drum kit in his bedroom. This was no mean feat with his newly-injured hand, and he was beginning to worry that he might have broken a bone or possibly two. Once finished, he sat on the stool and tapped each drum half-heartedly. He no longer felt like he was sat at a musical hub, a power station that fuelled each song. Suddenly he felt very replaceable. The kid at the back of the stage. He put the sticks back down and left the room.
That afternoon Theo grabbed his rucksack and took the bus to Chippenham. At the off-licence by the train station he bought a litre bottle of white wine, a four-pack of Holsten Pils and twenty Consulate. He placed the booze and fags in the rucksack and took the bus back home.
At tea that evening Theo managed to deflect questions about the Steal Guitars gig with one-syllable answers that his parents were more than used to. The topic of his fist was raised - his mum looked rather concerned when she saw his bandaged hand reaching for the bowl of tuna bake on the table - but the bass drum story was believed as far as Theo could tell. His anger from earlier had abated somewhat. He just wanted to forget about it now, and maybe concentrate more on the Blues Train gigs. Perhaps he could suggest some new songs for the set list, or perhaps find some more gigs for them other than the regular Sunday stint at the White Hart.
Once tea was over, Theo tidied his bedroom and lit a joss-stick just to ensure that the musty smell had been banished, at least for the time being. Then he reached under his bed for a Holsten Pils. He coughed as he opened the can in case his parents were on the landing, and drank it leaning out of the window. He wondered how to tell his friend
s about the Steal Guitars disaster. Should he just skirt over the issue like he had with his parents, or should he tell the truth? His inclination was to tell the truth. But there was always a problem with the truth; and that problem was that Theo tended to cry rather easily if he talked about something that upset him. This was a problem that he'd had since junior school, and it had at times made his formative school years difficult. He decided on a partly truthful option where he admitted that the gig was a one-off but that he had known about it for the past couple of weeks and had just forgotten to mention it to anyone.
Satisfied with this plan, his mind then started to wander to something his mum had said during dinner. His parents were chatting and Theo had overheard Sylvie saying "She's not quite as pretty as Rachel; in fact she's a bit of a wallflower to be honest." Theo did not know who Rachel was and had never heard the phrase 'wallflower' before. It intrigued him. A pleasing image of a sun-dappled flower sprouting through the cracks in a limestone wall filled his mind. But obviously there was another less literal meaning to this phrase. She's not quite as pretty as Rachel; in fact she's a bit of a wallflower. Presumably a wallflower isn't as dramatic or showy as a standard flower (Theo assumed the proximity to the wall meant they would get less sun). The wallflower was the underdog flower therefore, the one that didn't have the natural advantages of the garden-dwelling variety. Theo felt an affinity with this wallflower, and it then struck him what a fantastic name for a band The Wallflowers would be. Self-effacing and poetic at the same time. But is 'Wallflowers' one word or two? Never having seen the word written down, he wasn't sure.
He looked the word up in the dictionary (it was one word): "A southern European plant with fragrant flowers that bloom in early spring". Oh. So they're not flowers that grow out of cracks in walls then. No matter, Theo still liked the sound of the word and the associations it brought. And he was right about its less literal meaning: "A shy or excluded person at a dance or party, especially a girl without a partner." In his current state of self-pity, the wallflower seemed like a very attractive plant indeed. And then his mind alighted on the perfect typeface for the band logo: the style of Van Gogh's signature as it appeared on his oil paintings. He imagined the "W" of Wallflowers in the same looping brush work as Van Gogh's "V", and the following letters all written out methodically and precisely by paintbrush, perhaps on a slight downward slant.
And then Theo imagined the two members of this new band: himself and August Wells. He imagined the two of them standing side by side, each with a guitar in hand, staring straight ahead at the camera. August was wearing his trademark checked shirt, and so too, it seemed, was Theo. But what was this photograph being taken for? A gig poster? A record sleeve? The cover of a magazine? Maybe all three, in exactly that order. It surprised Theo that he was not holding a pair of drumsticks in this imagined photo, but rather he and Jones appeared as equals: two spearheads of a collaborative musical venture.
But I am a drummer thought Theo, not a guitarist. Then he remembered all those times during breaks in Blues Train rehearsals where he had absent-mindedly picked up Tim's guitar (much to his initial annoyance) and attempted to strum out some chords. After a while, Tim had showed him all the major chords, and how to play a standard 12-bar progression. Then Tim had showed him a couple of songs - 'Smoke on the Water', 'Sweet Jane', so yes, maybe Theo was a guitarist, or at least have the potential to become one.
Now he thought of it, he enjoyed the intricacy of the guitar: shifting his fingers from one chord to another, whilst methodically strumming the strings. And then to hear the resultant music wafting from the amp: that was pleasure indeed! And with August's prowess on lead guitar, all that would be required of Theo would be the most rudimentary level of rhythm guitar. Maybe guitars weren't so boring after all.
This reverie continued until Theo heard the sound of a car heading up the street. It was Martine's. Here she is! His disappointment and upset from earlier in the day seemed to have disappeared in the anticipation of seeing her. Theo watched the car stop outside and Martine exit the passenger seat. She was wearing the black pvc raincoat and beret again. He watched as she said goodbye to her dad and slammed the car door. She looked up at him, and on the spur of the moment he shouted out "I'll be right down."