Page 79 of Second Song

“I was a contestant as well,” Pasha says. “Only I played the game a bit differently to Ciaran.”

Ed corrects him. “Differently to Rowan, you mean, not Ciaran,” He aims this at me. “We only ever knew him as Ciaran.” He steers his bus up Glynn Harber’s drive and parks beside a tall willow. He also chuffs. “Everything about that contest was fake, not only some of the contestant names. The whole thing was manipulation central on fucking steroids.”

Pasha nods. “I played strategically. Used to hang out in the sound booth. Got to know the sound engineers and listened in with them.” He touches his ear, only not for tinnitus reasons. “The production team were wired up during our rehearsals. They’d decide which of us would win or lose each heat days before each live performance. Would chat about it. Contestants couldn’t hear those conversations through their earpieces, but the sound engineers’ headsets picked up every word. Listening in was the best way to figure out the next twist in the game before it happened.”

He tells me what makes Rowan’s apology redundant.

“Early on in the contest, the show moved between major cities. I listened in on a conversation about a party held for one of the show sponsors. How they made special requests for which contestants attended. I wasn’t invited.”

“Me neither,” Ed says. His gaze is fixed on the school front door. “We were under orders to stay in our hotel because they only wanted the youngest contestants. The prettiest.”

That’s Row.

I’m a second away from grabbing the keys. From taking the wheel and leaving. A smouldering fuse inside me is an inch away from exploding. What Pasha shares is a whole other detonation.

“I overheard one of the production team tell someone from management that she was almost certain a kid got roofied or had too much booze that night. One minute they were fine. The next they were in one of the sponsor’s laps, and alarm bells started to ring for her.”

Alarm bells ring for me too.

I’m in a vehicle, not in a pub hallway. I can still almost feel Rowan’s first brave kiss. Can still hear what he told me before that bell over the harbourside door tinkled and I thought I’d never get to see him again. “Row doesn’t drink. Never has.”

Pasha shrugs. “All I heard her say was that this kid was out of it. I didn’t recognise the name she mentioned, which makes sense now. She just said that she got them back to their hotel room safe and sound to sleep it off there. Said they were out for the count, sleeping like a baby while she kept an eye, so there’s no way some wild gang-bang happened.”

He folds a letter detailing what a kiss-and-tell story suggested Rowan had instigated—that he’d begged for—that almost went public in all that graphic detail, and Pasha’s knuckles turn as pale as those sheets of paper. So do mine when he adds, “And I overheard someone at the top of the management tree saying, ‘Good. We can use that.’”

And now I know how.

Blackmail. They threatened to leak details Rowan didn’t know were fabricated, and made him their puppet.

I was seventeen once. Signed up to be a different kind of puppet maybe, when I was too young to know what I was doing. Never regretted doing my duty for my late Queen and country until one shell too many. But deep down? I was always cut out for protection, not for violence.

Right now?

I’ve never felt closer to killing because this letter? This sad song? These unfinished lyrics?

He isn’t sure if he consented.

Pasha’s apologetic. “I had no idea they were holding all of that over him. And that tattoo pic? There were cameras running twenty-four seven everywhere in our shared house. They said they’d warn us before turning on the ones in our rooms.” His chuff is dismissive. “Of course they didn’t. I’m willing to bet they doctored a still from that feed. The only thing Rowan ever did wrong was believe his bedroom was somewhere he was safe to change his clothes or kick down his covers.” He shoves a hand through black hair, his eyes as soulful as little Hadi’s. “I promise I didn’t know who they were talking about. I checked in on all the kids. None of them seemed in trouble. Of course, Rowan wasn’t then. They hadn’t started to put him under pressure.”

“It doesn’t matter.” All that does is getting to him, and fast. He needs to hear the truth from someone who was there, so he can believe it.

Fuck hijacking this van to do it. I’d grow wings and fly Pasha directly to him if Luke Lawson didn’t choose this moment to open the school front door. I’d still wrestle the wheel from Ed if Luke wasn’t joined by two kids, and yeah, they’re both tall, but Teo’s never looked younger to me.

Rowan’s arranged a big chance for him, Luke says. Secured access to the kind of studio equipment that could be Teo’s golden ticket, so I resist that hijack urge and we get going. Our journey is silent until Ed can’t resist what is second nature for anyone in the armed forces.

“So, where’d you serve?”

I don’t care where our tours might have intersected, but a quick glance over my shoulder shows two boys looking wretched, so I swap stories about Hummer hijacks, about how Matt howls every time he’s happy, the massive wazzock. How Neck Brace got his nickname and how Twin Two is a TV addict. I’m not a chatty person, but morale matters, and at least Teo looks better until I make a quick call to Dom.

I stare out the side window as M5 traffic merges with M4 stop-start nonsense right when I should be meeting his tight deadlines. “Sorry, I’m going to mess up your work schedule.”

“Thought so.” Dom must have more intel now compared to when he sent last night’s text. He tells me what he’s found out from his husband. “Austin said Rowan turned down a chunk of cash in exchange for singing for some TV crew. Turned down studio time with them for Teo as well. That’s when it all kicked off.”

Teo’s head bows in the periphery of my vision, so I guess he heard that. He also speaks up, and yeah, he looked young before. Now he’s older than his years.

“I don’t want their cash or recording time. I just want Mr. Byrn to come back.”

Me too, mate.

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