Page 4 of Sorry, We're Closed

We laugh in unison again as I prop my feet up on the dashboard and recline my seat slightly. I feel my eyes drifting in and out to the playlist I always put on whenever we travel.

“I've got a deal to make with you.”

I reluctantly open one eye and roll my head over towards Marcus. His eyeline darts between me and the road.

“We don't leave this town until we are scouted, spotted, whatever. I think this is our chance. We'll have constant new faces, important people who could actually do something for us. So, deal?”

I hesitate as I mull over Marcus’ words, because settling down anywhere was the last thing we would ever plan to do. Our entire life is between this van and whatever room we can find. This lifestyle is why neither of us ever made close connections with others, why we never even attempted relationships, why we were so close as uncle and nephew.

So why was the idea of having to actually learn about all the things available in this town daunting?

Marcus' hand, large with every bone and vein being defined as if he were sculpted, extended my way as he waits for my response. If I have learnt one thing about Marcus, it's that every big decision he has made, has had a reason behind it. He clearly has a reason behind this idea.

“Fine, deal!”

My hand locks in his as we shake it twice. This town better be nice.

My eyes shoot open as a hand grabs my leg and shakes me. Marcus. When did I fall asleep?

“We're here bud, I'll give you a minute but come on out and give me a hand when you’re ready.”

I wave my hand half-heartedly to him while I try to figure out what day of the week it is. My hoodie has slumped over my head, as if I attempted to bury myself away and my hair has smothered my eyes as if to be my own personal blinds.

I drag my aching body back up the seat, pushing my hood off my head and over my shoulders as I gaze into the side mirror. My thick, black waves of hair have gone in every direction possible and the bags under my eyes seem many shades darker than the last time I checked, or that could be my eyeliner smudging.

The longer I gaze into that small, oval mirror, the more I realise how long it has been since I had my hair trimmed, but the extra length was growing on me, ironically. It frames my face nicely and the length teasing my shoulders had become a new favourite sensation.

I glance into the back of the van, sighing at the sheer number of bags and boxes we had to move into our new home for however long we end up staying here for. I exhale, grab the door handle and throw myself out of the tall van and onto the concrete below, the sun brighter than I imagined for the late afternoon.

As I adjust to the daylight, I get my first look at Tetherton. A town diced up with cobbled paths, freshly painted pastel shops, harshly divided up by dark and metallic pubs and bars. That's what we’re here for.

The street which we were going to have to get used to dove down before spreading across the coast below, its waves crashing up against the town's seawall, the harsh smell of salt wafting through the streets as it thickens the air. It was somewhat comforting.

I find myself getting lost in the street, taking in every part of our new home, until a twinkling bell rings from the other side of the van, bring me back to the unfortunate reality of unpacking.

“Welcome to the brand-new Pick and Strings!”

Marcus struts out of the shop with his arms stretched either side of him, showing off the small black unit with white paint outlining the door, two windows either side starting from the floor and finishing at the ceiling.

Marcus always printed these window stickers with our shop's name to place on the front door, but whoever he rented this unit from had already made a custom hanging sign for us.

Marcus has always been an avid collector of vintage guitars, band posters of icons who he raised me on, and anything musical with worth. Wherever we travelled to perform for months on end, we would set up these pop-up shops to create some extra funding and buzz about our band. People from all over these towns would wonder why a vintage music shop has opened, they would all come in and be met with not only some gorgeous instruments and art, but also with mountains of posters, adverts, and cards screaming “Bright Lights” with every performance we have going on.

Marcus’ hand jingles in his pocket until he pulls out a key chain, which he throws towards me with a swift under arm. I catch the chain with both hands before seeing two keys attached.

“One is for the shop door, the other is for the flat upstairs.”

I nod to Marcus as we both head to the open back of the van, we had all of that to unpack yet and the sun was beginning to fade behind the clouds.

We have boxes on boxes; valuables wrapped in layers of bubble wrap, duffle bags, rucksacks, and suitcases full of mine and Marcus’ belongings, which we start moving into our new home.

The flat is larger than most we have ever stayed in, and one of the nicest too. An open, bright space with a kitchen filling the walls by the front door, a small island with two bar stools standing in the middle.

We usually take on places which are furnished since we never have space to travel with furniture, and whoever styled this space has good taste. A plush, black sofa faces a matching TV unit with a flat screen and games console built in on top.

A monochrome shaggy rug lays in the middle of the room, a small black bookcase with plants hanging over the edges fitting nicely under the windowsill, and three doors sit on the right-hand side of the room, two bedrooms with the bathroom through the middle door.

I claim the bedroom on the left as not only does it have its own entrance to the middle bathroom, but it has a window facing the street where I have a clear view of the coastline and the sunset that is going down over it, casting a golden haze over the town and into my new bedroom.

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