Middle of the day. Hot. Boiling hot. The type of hot where your balls hang heavy in your sack. I reached down my front and held them. There was no plumpness, only two small eggs trying to find detachment from my body. I pulled my hand from the front and inspected the rear. Opening the back of my boxer shorts allowed the sweat trapped in the lining to dribble down past the hole. Horrible incontinence. I abandoned my intrigue in favour of solution. Something to stop my feet screaming at my shoes to be disappear. Something to keep the water inside.
I found it under a tree in the park. After a few minutes, I was able to focus on something else. I watched the people, all of them on their backs or sides, laughing at the sky, feeling that they were immortal. I knew I was not. Being stoned in the heat teaches you that it can all go wrong very quickly. When my mind desired supreme comfort and luxury, my body provided the opposite. Weed is for winter. Why Los Angeles demanded it should be legalised will remain one of life’s greatest mysteries.
I continued to browse the selection in the park, focussing for long periods on the women wearing the least. I was looking at one slim but large hipped woman. She wore a deep red bikini and enjoyed crossing and uncrossing her legs. She looked playful, like she could take the enjoyment. I began to watch her and imagine her on all fours. I got up onto my knees and started analysing her from a higher vantage point, I was keen to see her right breast and leg. The right was as good as the left in both cases. Feeling stupid I lay back down and heard a noise by my left ear.
‘Hey! Hey!’
It was quiet but you could tell the person was saying it as loud as they could. I looked over to the distance.
‘Oi! Oi!… Please! Look down!… No, not by your feet, by where your head was!’
I followed the instructions. A bee lay on it’s back on the floor.
‘Hey, yeah Mister! Can you hear me?’
I looked down at the bee again, I couldn’t see a mouth and couldn’t fathom the situation.
‘Yes! You are looking at a bee! You are!’
I put my head next to him and whispered.
‘What the fuck?’
‘Yeah, I’m a bee, get over it. Look, I need your help. I’ve had a heart attack. I need you to take me to George Street vets. Ask for Romello Convelo. That’s the vet. He knows me.’
I looked back at the bee.
‘Look, just accept this situation! It’s unique, I get it, it’s unusual! The issue is, I might die if I don’t go and you don’t want blood on your hands do you? So just pick me up and take me there quickly.’
‘Can’t you fly?’
‘Finally! He speaks! Could you walk after a heart attack?! What’s wrong with you! Now pick me up!’
I was definitely less stoned or more stoned than before, I couldn’t tell, but I felt different.
Before the sweat had dried, I was back in the light, a bee in my palm, listening to instructions about the route to George Street. He said his name was Giles Pickford and that he had learnt English from hearing it. I told him I was stoned, he said that’s why he’d spoken to me and that was it. That’s what I needed to get to the vet’s reception.
‘Hello, how can I help you?’
‘Hello, erm, well, I have a pet bee and I think he’s had a heart attack.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’m here to see Romello Convelo, he’s a vet here?’
‘Who?’
‘Just wait a minute.’
I walked backwards a little before turning and leaving through the revolving doors. I opened my hand and spoke to him.
‘Giles, there isn’t a Romello Convelo here.’
‘I know, I heard.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’
‘I don’t know. I need help here. I swear Romello moved to George Street. So strange. He sent me a letter a few weeks ago about it.’
‘Should I just leave you here or take you back to the park?’
‘What are you talking about?! I’ve had a heart attack! Third one this year! I need to be assisted… Right, take me to your place.’
‘For what.’
‘Tea.’
We got back to mine and I was relived to put the bee down on the table. I needed the bathroom, the bee said we’d ‘start’ when I returned.
As soon as the door was shut. I took it all off. The stains were where you expected them to be. I knew if I redressed I’d feel more grotesque than before. I looked at myself in the mirror. It was the look you get from smoking dope and being warm, a sort of daft, smeared fatigue. I ran the water, ladling it over my face and the back of my neck like I’d seen in cowboy films. This made me feel a little better. I grabbed my cock and aimed it at the bowl. As young man it was unimaginable that I wouldn’t be able to piss, that I’d have to rub the foreskin in my thumb and forefinger to encourage release, but life was forever dispelling the ideals of youth. Forever, showing you that you got to the grave in stages, that you wouldn’t be the good looking forty-year-old you’d imagined.
I was back with the bee, fresh underpants and a t shirt completed the look of the man living outside of reality.
‘Jesus, you’ve been a while and, what are you wearing?’
‘It’s hot.’
‘Not that hot. Anyway, I found your sewing kit and bread knife. Where’s the weed?’
I looked at the bee, I couldn’t get used to absence of the mouth. It was disorientating and mysterious.
‘Weed? Dope? How did you get high today?’
‘Erm, the weed is in my bedside table.’
‘Eurrgh, tragic. Right, well roll up a good strong joint. You got any hash?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Go for hash, the other stuff sends me a little scatty.’
‘Right.’
I returned from the bedroom with a joint of good strength.
‘What’s next?’
‘Listen to this stoned boy, you got a pen?… Get this down. You’re going to use the bread knife to make a one millimetre cut down through the centre of my body, from my chin to just above the belly button…’
‘What? But how will I…’
‘Just write now, talk later. Then you open the flaps you have made. Do this very carefully. You don’t want to tear, but you do need to see inside. You then get your phone light and look for the open grand piano inside of my chest. You can’t miss it. When I had the heart attack, the pianist was playing chords and notes at the same time, like a normal song. This is not what we want and he knows this. We just want chords. You therefore speak to the man, just whisper to him, his name is Geoff Kolinsky, Jewish I think. Just say, ‘Geoff, you played notes and chords about an hour ago, just play chords,’ he’ll understand, he’s got carried away three times this year. Make sure that Geoff firmly agrees with you and tell him that I’ll die if he plays both and that he’ll therefore die too as he’ll trapped inside of me. Remind him that the piano is my heart and that he needs to play basic, no matter how much he’s learnt or wants to show off. Apparently, he’s alright and agrees, bad memory I think, but I’ve never spoken to him, just what Convelo used to say. Can you sew?’
‘Erm, yeah, I can.’
‘Okay, then just sew me back up. Right, questions.’
‘The cutting, I can’t see your chin or bellybutton, and how much is a millimetre.’
‘Okay, just go from this yellow stripe here, to this black one here. A millimetre is the smallest cut you can do.’
‘The joint?’
‘General anaesthetic. You smoke, don’t inhale, but do blow it into my face.’
‘The piano man?’
‘Yeah, it’s unusual but that’s easy when you get in, it’ll be obvious. Romello put him in their as a pacemaker. Just a bit wayward that’s all.’
‘What if I mess it up?’
‘I die. Now light it.’
I did. The first few exhalations and the bee was out cold. I couldn’t really tell from his person, but he didn’t speak when spoken to. I then approached his body with the knife and tried to remember the lines he’d told me to cut from and to. I pulled apart the curtain gently and Geoff Kolinsky came into view. He was human in shape, wearing a suit and coat tails. Straight back, like they do when sat at the piano. On seeing the light, he turned over his left shoulder, continuing to play the chords with his right hand.’
‘Hey! Is that you Romello?’
‘No, it’s Peter.’
‘New doctor?’
‘I’m not a doctor. I’m just helping the bee out. He wants me to tell you something.’
‘I know, I know, Romello’s told me loads of times, just keep rhythm, just do chords. But I can’t, I need some release every now and then, you know? I didn’t train for five years, just to keep time. I want to show them what I can do.’
‘Yeah but Mr Kolinsky, you need to understand that you’ll kill the bee and yourself if you play notes and chords. You can’t jazz things up just because you feel like it. I think your piano is pumping the blood.’
‘Ahh that bee is lucky to be alive! I’ve kept him in it for the last two years.’
‘I know, but you can’t just do what you like when you work for someone else. You have a duty of care. Your job is to look after the bee, it isn’t to do what you want.’
‘You don’t know what it’s like. Two years, two years! I’ve gone off script only few times. Just a twenty second piece for me and the bee is on his back!’
‘Please Mr Kolinsky, think of the bee.’
‘Ahh fuck it! I hate it. I need a transfer! Can’t you tell Romello to get another fool to do the keys?’
‘I don’t know Romello, I can’t organise a transfer myself.’
‘Look Peter, I want out. The conditions in here are terrible and the acoustics eat through my art. You need to find Romello as I’m not keeping time anymore. He has an office on Terrance Avenue, number 55. Just go see him.’
‘Will you keep time until then?’
‘Yeah, but don’t mess me about Peter, you need to know I’m serious.’
‘I know, I know. Okay, I’ll go and see him today.’
‘Right, sew him back up and watch that needle tip, keep the technique shallow.’
I sewed the bee up using a back stitch I’d repressed since school. He came around a few hours later whilst I was watching the television.
‘Ahh God that was strong! What you putting in those joints Peter?! I can barely think!’
‘How you feeling?’
‘Alive and… tight. What have you done here? – Back stitch?! What the fuck! You think it was a good idea to practice your embroidery on my body? Christ, it’s really digging in, it’s got a real pinch to it.’
‘Sorry, it’s the first time in a long time Giles, anyway, I need to speak to you about Kolinsky.’
‘First time in a long time? I’m as tight as a gnats arse here.’
‘Look. I spoke to Kolinsky, he doesn’t want to play ball anymore. He’s done with keeping rhythm, he wants to start playing complicated songs, notes and chords.’
‘That fucking fool! Romello gave him that job when he was down on his luck teaching kids to play ‘Three Blind Mice’, now he wants more than a steady income. What’s wrong with the world? They all beg and plead for their ‘dream’, then their desires get itchy and they whir up into action again. He’s got a job for life with me!’
‘Well, yeah, I know, but he wants to play what he wants to play, and he also told me where Romello now works so maybe Romello can help?’
‘Oh! He knows where Romello is? Fine, okay, yeah, fine, let’s see Romello. Get Chopin out of the frame and let his ego touch some other keys.’
I looked up Terrance Avenue. Thankfully, the sun was less hot and the bee was still stoned so we were able to travel in peace. Number 55 turned out to be a red bricked terrace house which had been converted into a vets. Romello Convelo’s name hung on the sign outside. We were shown to Romello’s office by his secretary. Big tits.
‘Hello, is this Romello Convelo? I have the bee, Giles Pickford here. Am I in the right place?’
He didn’t turn from the sink he was crouching over. In between throwing water at his face he managed a response.
‘Oh… Mr Pickford I… presume we’ve got… another heart attack on our hands?’
He dried his face on a towel and turned towards us. I rolled the bee onto the desk, hoping that he’d wake up and do the talking.
‘Ahh, here he is. The little self-entitled bee.’
‘Ahh fuck you Romello, you would be the same if you had Kolinsky playing show songs inside your body! I agreed to this piano man because you told me he’d play the chords! Three in a year! Three!’
Romello grimaced, his dark chins slowly squeezing and rolling backwards towards his chest.
‘Ha! You’re lucky your alive bee, I’m the reason you’ve still got it to give.’
‘Come on Romello! Do your job! Get him out of my chest! He’s done.’
Romello looked down on Giles, grimace gone and the valleys in his face slack. All that moved was the stomach, a confession that his appetite made him struggle in the heat.
‘So what do you suggest I do?’
‘Look Romello, don’t get hurt, just listen, listen to me. I’m going to die! Kolinsky’s out of control!’
The man’s chest raised like it does when you are about to do work you wish you didn’t.
‘Okay bee, you got a joint?’
Giles was out of it again and Romello was tutting and cutting through my stitching with a scalpel. Kolinsky was given air.
‘Romello, it’s not happening! It’s not! It can’t and it won’t!’
‘Come on now Kolinsky, where are you going to go? A man your size can’t get work anywhere else.’
‘I don’t care! I need to let my music breath! Let me breath! I can’t spend my life restricting my talents, you know this! A few weeks with freedom to play what I want is better than a life inside the bee.’
Romello frowned a deep one, his forehead transformed his appearance and eyes became fixed on Kolinsky.
‘Look Kolinsky, I don’t have a replacement, your type is difficult to come by. If you go, the bee will die. I need a replacement if you are to leave.’
‘What?! There’s no one else?!’
Kolinsky then reached inside his blazer pocket and pulled out a small phone. Dialling the keypad in his left, keeping his right on the keys.
‘Hello, hi, yeah, yeah, it’s been a long time. Yeah, I’m still working for the bee, yeah, yeah, I know I missed Sukkot, I know, I know, I told mother, yes, I know and he’s still dead… Look! Francine! Look! You know Bobby Fitzgerald, yeah, yeah, little kid. How old is he now?… Fifteen?… Yeah, does he still play the piano?… Great… yeah, yeah, I’ll be there…’
He hung up and turned to us.
Romello took us out to his car – an old red Volkswagen missing two hub caps on the left-hand side. The seats looked new apart from Romello’s which was faded and discoloured down the centre. The journey was long, about an hour. It gave me a good chance to understand the scale of it. Although a bee lay unconscious in the ashtray with a piano man inside of his heart, this felt less intriguing then Romello. It was almost impossible to fathom how he’d created himself. It was all so exaggerated. His legs were defined and muscled whilst his stomach bellowed over them. It was as if he were two separate beings.
We arrived at a layby in the middle of the countryside. Romello got out of the car and instructed me to pick up the bee. I followed Romello through the corn, he carved such a generous path with his girth and lumbering nature. When we were three quarters of the way through, Romello dropped to his knees and ran his eyeball close to the ground. He stopped and unpacked his tools. The procedure began up again, Kolinsky was given voice once more.
‘Right Kolinsky, we’re back where I found you before. Where’s the rest of them?’
‘Ahh, yeah, okay, yeah, a metre towards the left Romello. Be careful here, remember, you’re a big boy.’
‘I know.’
Romello swiped the corn away and dropped to his knees. Grabbing my arm, he pulled me down to his level.
‘Look Peter.’
A circle, about a foot wide had been cropped out of the corn, below, one or two hundred tiny houses. I pulled my eyes closer and could just make out the people. Little cars stopped at little lights, suits walked in and out of buildings, farmers whipped the cows who pulled the ploughs, women shat behind frosted glass, men tugged in front of screens, children screamed nonsense and demanded attention, old limped and muttered. It was all there to browse, a smaller replica of the original.
‘God, is that what we look like? It makes it all look insane.’
Romello just looked at me and then spoke at the houses.
‘Look! Hey everyone!’
It all stopped for a moment. The cars pulled over and the people looked up, some creating a peak on their forehead out of their hand. Then the noise began. Shouting and waving and whooping and horn blowing. Romello wasn’t interested in adoration.
‘Alright. Alright! Look! We have the bee here! He’s dying again. Geoff Kolinsky’s done a great job over the last few years, however, he needs a replacement. He’s too tired and, frankly, too skilled to be playing in the bee any longer. We have heard that Bobby Fitzgerald can keep good pace? Is this true?! Where are you Bobby?!’
‘I’m here!’
Romello and I scoured the streets for the voice. Eventually we found him jumping up and down, waving his arms. You knew immediately that his enthusiasm needed attention and conversation, that the isolation inside the bee was too much for such exuberance. You could tell Romello knew this too, his face furrowed into concern. He picked Bobby up with his left and placed him in his right before turning away from the town. He whispered to me.
‘Look Peter, just speak to this lot will you? Introduce yourself, I need a word with Bobby about the job.’
I obliged, waving at the people and smiling. I felt the urge to tell them that I was God, but Romello’s presence kept me grounded.
After a few minutes Romello turned back and addressed his public.
‘I’ve spoken to Bobby and I’ve decided he is not ready! This is not his fault! He is too young for the job! Don’t turn on him or treat him badly! It takes a lot of stamina to keep rhythm!’
A collective sigh was heard as loud as a full-sized whisper. The people shook their heads and leaned into each other to gossip.
‘Hey! Come on! He’s too young! He wants to but I will not let it happen!… Now! Is there anyone else here who can keep rhythm? It’s a standard piano in the bee! What I need is experience.’
The streets went silent and cold. No one said a word, everyone giving the others an opportunity to voice themselves.
‘Come on! There must be another piano player in this town!’
Still silence. Romello used it to put Bobby back in a field. He was sobbing into his hands, helped to his feet by two farmers. The woman of the farmers held Bobby Fitzgerald. The limp body of a boy who had lost his chance.
Romello tried again.
‘Look! Kolinsky can’t go on any longer! He’s worked to his limit. Keeping time for two years can send a man crazy. I can’t keep him going like this! I will not let him go on like this! I will release Kolinsky today and let the bee die unless someone comes forward!’
His words sat in the air, reverberating in our subconscious. No one said a word. Not one. Then it slowly built up.
‘What about Bobby?!’
‘Yeah! Give Bobby a go!’
‘He can make it!’
Bobby pulled his head out from the woman’s bosom and looked up at Romello. Romello looked down on the people, his face easing out of the frown. He sighed a big one.
‘Look. Look! Silence!… Bobby Fitzgerald is not ready, he’s not, he can only do a month at a push. That’s all I’ll allow! He has a long future ahead of him. I can’t have him locked up in the bee for all of his years. I gave Kolinsky the job because he was desperate, Bobby isn’t, he’s too young to be desperate! Is there no one else?’
The people were now too jubilant to stay quiet. They whooped and whistled over any possible answer to the question. The bee would get another month and Bobby would get his chance to keep time.
Romello growled them into silence.
‘Listen to me! Bobby Fitzgerald, you get one month in the bee! After that, I’m pulling the plug. I don’t care how well you keep time! Be warned Bobby! It’s quiet inside there, you might be playing, but it’s quiet. No one to talk to, no one to cry to, no one to comfort you. It’s you and the keys. I told this to Kolinsky and he thought these were just words. They are not. I’m talking about your feelings. You’ll understand the true meaning of loneliness and monotony, mania and slavery. You’ll know what it is to work! You’ll want to hear something else, play something different, even stretch your legs. But you must know that you can’t! So be warned Bobby!’
Bobby was now away from the woman, standing erect, trying to convince Romello that he was the man the bee needed.
‘You still want it Bobby?!’
‘Yes! I won’t let you down Romello!’
‘Alright. Peter, you got the joint?’
Bobby was in and Kolinsky was out. Kolinsky was so desperate to leave that his instructions to Bobby were, ‘the pace is, one bee, two bee, one bee, two bee,’ before he let Bobby go it alone on the keys. Romello had to usher Kolinsky back into to the bee, but even this only ensured Bobby got an extra minute of the tutoring. Romello sewed Giles up and Kolinsky, Romello, the town and I, all gathered around the bee to see if Bobby could do it. Giles came back around and the crowd cheered Bobby.
‘Who’s rolling these joints Romello? Jesus! My head’s got a freight train running through it!’
‘Yeah, it’s Peter, how you feeling? The heart?’
‘Not bad, you got Kolinsky back in line?’
‘No, you’ve got a new guy, Bobby Fitzgerald. Kolinsky is here.’
‘Ahh, so you’re Kolinsky. The man who kept time for two years but wanted more? You’re one demanding pianist.’
‘And you’re one demanding bee!’
Kolinsky folded his arms and the bee responded.
‘Look, Kolinsky, I appreciate it. Not the heart attacks but the two years, I appreciate it.’
‘It was a service Mr Pickford, one which has been a struggle but that I am proud of completing. Now, Romello, where’s the house and the money?’
‘The house has been built by Gransom Lake and the money is with Tony Rogers, at the bank. It’s all there. Right, we must be leaving.’
Romello looked at Giles and I, before we waved goodbye to the town. Once in the car, I decided I’d broach the issue.
‘Romello, anything we need to tell Giles?’
Romello gave me a glance, his eyes widening in warning.
‘What do you mean? You’re not his doctor, what do you know about surgery?’
‘I mean about recovery? How long Bobby will play for?’
‘Oh yeah, bee, you need to stay with Peter for the next month, just a month, a precaution, make sure the new pianist keeps his nose clean. Peter will act as a first response if anything goes wrong.’
‘Ahh no problem Romello, I owe you one for this. I know I lose it a little, get panicky with this heart, but I appreciate it. Hey, and if Peter keeps that weed coming, I’ve got no complaints.’
We sat in silence for the rest of the journey.
A few days later, I left the bee at home and went to see Romello. He was talking loudly into his phone when I arrived at his office, laughing about a girl called ‘Gina’.
‘Hang up Romello.’
He did so.
‘You’re going to let the bee die aren’t you?’
He looked straight back.
‘Yeah, I am Peter.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s ruining lives. Kolinsky is spent and Bobby can’t go the same way. Anyway, the bee is tough to get along with.’
‘But, is that a reason why he should die, because he’s difficult?’
‘No, but what can I do? Let Bobby waste his life to keep a bee flying for a few more years? There’s no one else and I can’t let Bobby work like Kolinsky did.’
‘Are you going to tell the bee any of this?’
‘No, he’ll only bug me for a month. It’s better that he doesn’t know when it’ll end, let him die relaxed and stoned.’
‘Okay.’
I turned and left the office. Once home I spoke to Giles and told him about Romello’s plans for Bobby.
‘Romello! Romello Convelo! Just going to let me die! Let me go out like that! If the boy wants to play, let him play! Who’s Romello to play God! And you! Bringing you into this! Romello wanted a gate keeper to feed his prisoner weed, keep me out of it for a month!’
‘Yeah, so what are you going to do?’
‘I’m not bowing out in a month! If Kolinsky could do two years, the boy can do three!’
He didn’t. Giles hit the carpet of my aunt’s house after a month and one day. He begged and screamed at me for action. I lit the lump of hash and blew it in his face. The butter knife did the rest. By the time I was in, Bobby Fitzgerald was mid concerto. He was stood up, bashing and clanging the keys the keys into submission. Sweat dripped from his brow. Dressed in only his shirt and pants, the pale figure was playing for his life.
‘Bobby! Bobby! Stop! You’ll kill him!’
‘Fuck you! Fuck you Peter! One month was the deal! One month!’
I pulled him out of there, before he could cause more convulsions.
Bobby was on his knees, propping his seething body up with his hands. He appeared to be hyperventilating.
‘Look Bobby, calm down! Take your breaths! What happened?!’
‘I can’t do it! Romello was right! It’s too much! I won’t do it!’
I watched him. The tiny figure of boy weeping into the carpet. Overwhelmed by his own sense of failed ambition. He wheezed and howled, his tiny ribs expanding and contracting as much as they could.
‘Look Bobby, just take a minute.’
He looked up, eyes empty and cheeks sodden.
‘Please, please, please! Peter! No more! Don’t make me!’
‘Okay Bobby, calm down! Calm down! The bee will be dead by now, don’t worry, it’s over. You’ve done it.’
Bobby, threw his hands onto his elbows and rocked on his knees, nursing the guilt attached to his decision.
‘Look Bobby! You’re a kid, you did your best! You really did your best, I can see that! Romello knew it was too much, he wanted you to come out after a month, kill the bee himself. The only reason why you did the extra day was because I told the bee what the deal was, that you’d just do a month. The bee wasn’t happy about it and said he’d fly until you stopped… Look Bobby! He would have worked you for as long as he could! He knew you’d crack eventually.’
Bobby turned his head upwards after a few more big pushes of air.
‘The bee really said that?’
‘Yeah Bobby, and he’d already survived three heart attacks anyway, what bee does that?! You only caused the forth, Kolinsky caused the first three. Just take it in Bobby. You killed him, but he would have killed you.’
‘Can you take me back home?’
‘Yeah.’
I cycled down to Romello’s place and told him what had happened and where Bobby wanted to go. On the way to the field Romello talked at Bobby, telling him lies about how the bee would cheat people and sting the undeserving. It didn’t feel right but neither did a boy’s unhappiness. When we got back to the field and its people, Romello began his address.
‘Listen. Listen! The bee has sadly passed away! As promised, I only allowed Bobby to play for one month. He fulfilled this task perfectly. The bee died under the influence of his favourite substance, marijuana. It was a painless death and one which completed the life of an insect which had been prolonged, long beyond expectation, thanks to the efforts of two brilliant pianists! I would like to thank both men for their services and I will ensure that Bobby is sufficiently rewarded for his work… Now! I would like to invite you all to attend the funeral of the bee! This will be held at the back of your land, next to Fossford Wood. I will ensure that the arrangements are made with the appropriate people. Now, can you join me in an applause for Mr Bobby Fitzgerald and his predecessor Mr Geoff Kolinsky!’
The town applauded for a long while, long enough for Bobby to burst into tears again.
Romello picked me up in his car the next day. We travelled – two men in black suits towards a field. When we arrived the sun was setting over the corn. Romello bashed through it and I watched from behind, carrying the two deck chairs Romello had thrust in my arms. We sat down for the ceremony and listened to speeches from Kolinsky and the local priest. Romello placed the bee in a large hole near the wood and Kolinsky and Bobby played chords as the soil was filled in. Both looked stoic as they played the noise which had driven them to despair and murder. Once the bee was covered, they changed their tune. Kolinsky started and Bobby joined. Playing notes and chords, running rhythms and patterns together. The people rose out of their seats and began to clap and dance. I turned to Romello.
‘They’re not bad are they?’
Romello gave me a genuine one back; the first proper warmth I’d seen his face produce.
‘Oh yeah, they’re good.’
In my head I thought of saying ‘to die for’, I think Romello did too, but we didn’t.
Tomorrow's Chip Paper 