Page 51 of Second Song

“Missed you, Row.”

He turns me before I can tell him the same. Liam holds me from behind, and not for any over-a-desk reasons. He only wraps his arms around me to make sure I don’t fall into a gaping hole in the floor that proves he wasn’t lying.

Something special is wedged deep in this school’s foundation.

“What is that?”

His hold on me tightens and he tilts me further. “What do you see?” That doesn’t sound testing. The cage of his arms promises that the only thing he’s interested in catching is me, so I look harder.

“Is that...?”

I see it then, can make out what fills this compartment that Liam’s uncovered. His lips brush the back of my neck as I see staves dotted with notation on old, yellowed paper.

He’s found some new music for me.

20

LIAM

I’m used to noisy worksites—you can’t take down buildings without a few bangs and crashes, but finding what turns out to be a time capsule left by former kids and teachers means calling a halt to my demolition. The library is silent for days—in stasis—caught in a weird kind of suspended animation where everything needed for the project is ready and waiting, only nothing happens.

That could describe me, couldn’t it? Not that I’m ready for a rebuild like Glynn Harber. More like, if this were any other job, I’d have already moved on. Made tracks. Created distance. At least I’d have made some phone calls instead of getting all creative with excuses to stay right where I am when I could be pulling my next Blackpool job forward. But here I am on Friday, still here, still pitching in with Dom’s team, and still hunting in the foundation for more old music. The whole time, I keep getting drawn to that outdoor classroom like it’s my magnet, and right now? It sounds like Rowan’s staging his own demolition.

That’s the sound the kids make, and I’m not the only one who hears it. Dom’s already at the barrier, watching his daughter go wild with a shaker. She also marches with all the other kids, and that’s what accounts for all the thumping while Rowan plays for them on his whistle. He points at each child in turn, and each one gets a moment in the spotlight.

Dom’s delighted. “Jesus. What a fucking racket.”

He isn’t wrong. These kids make enough noise to raise the dead, and with so much more than Pringles shakers. Upturned buckets and washing-up bowls get beaten with spoons, and a tambourine jingles. It’s chaos. Madness.

The kids love it.

Another drumbeat is near constant. One little boy bangs out a determined boom boom boom, his arms swinging like it’s a job he’s paid for; he’s so focussed, only he bangs on a real bass drum, not an upturned bucket. That’s where Rowan joins him to finish this music session by sitting behind a snare and launching into the kind of solo that shouldn’t be possible on so little equipment.

He’s got skills, no doubt about it. Rowan doesn’t hog the limelight with them. He shouts, “High hat, Hadi,” and that little boy takes the drumsticks, and goes all out, which must be a signal for the whole class to go nuts.

If I were anywhere else, I’d grab a pair of the ear defenders I usually hate wearing. Trap myself listening to my internal fucking bullshit? No thanks. Actively lock myself in with my incessant high-pitched whine and static? Fuck, no.

I save wearing defenders for moments that might cause additional aural damage—for real explosive bangs and concussive crashes. Here? I soak up high decibels like a twat with no sense of self-preservation until the headmaster approaches.

I nearly swerve away then. Not because Luke Lawson makes me nervous. Apparently, that’s Rowan’s wheelhouse. At least, that’s what I notice when he finishes playing his whistle again with a wild and wicked flourish only to spot his boss watching. Him going still so quickly is enough to keep my feet planted. So is the way Rowan doesn’t move for several long and silent seconds.

It’s like some kind of paralysis has got him.

I’ve seen that strike before, and not only under fire half a world away from Cornwall. I’ve witnessed it on moorland only a ten-minute drive from here, haven’t I? Saw him go this still after a performance that seemed to surprise him as much as me until I started clapping. I clap again now like I did then, and the acoustics here must be similar as under that tor because my claps thunder all over again, and Rowan’s thaw is instant.

I’d think I was mistaken that he was nervous if I didn’t see him wipe his hands on his trousers before heading for his boss, who he joins at the fence along with the class teacher.

I join my own boss then at the barrier just behind them, but it’s Rowan I don’t take my eyes off.

I can’t.

At least Dom doesn’t take the piss out of me for that this time. He’s too busy being a nosy fucker, like me. We both eavesdrop on a conversation that starts with his boss telling Rowan, “That was brilliant.”

“Really?” Rowan’s smile is tiny. Barely there. Uncertain. It should still come with a health warning especially when he meets my eyes over Luke’s shoulder for a split second.

I nod firmly, and there he goes all over again, grinning. Fuck a health warning. A smile like his should come with a prescription for bedrest. With him. It’s so brilliant.

“Really brilliant,” Luke confirms. “And Charles just told me about your quick thinking. Thank you, Rowan. That was brilliant of you as well.”

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