Page 49 of Refrain
That said, the man who stared back at him from the bathroom mirror had started looking a fraction less gaunt. His eyes were no longer so puffy or bruised, and his hygiene had significantly improved, even if his beard had grown even longer.
Xane, as if offended by Spook’s facial forest, took to shaving twice a day; a wet shave when they woke, followed by a quick once over with the electric before he made his evening calls, like he had to spruce himself up for the occasions.
By the second Wednesday or possibly Thursday—the days weren’t so clearly delineated as they’d been once upon a time—they had the workings of upwards of twenty songs. The next step was to whittle those ideas down to the best of them, then work on developing them to make up ten to twelve album tracks, along with a couple of bonus tracks that would have constituted B sides in the past. They agreed over most of the likely line-up, but there were a few songs that were creating niggles. The first of those they both loved, but it didn’t easily fit into the larger composition of the album and threatened to sit there stewing like a gargantuan anomaly. The second, Xane had rejected once, and Spook had done the same on at least five occasions, and yet they both kept looping back to it. There was something about it. A ripple in the ether, but it refused to be coerced into anything concrete. Not lyrically, despite both their best efforts, and not musically either.
“It’s just a lot of discordant notes without a proper link,” Spook complained, having spent the best part of three hours playing with variations on that theme.
Xane was lying on his back on the kitchen island, the Les Paul aligned along his body while he plucked at the strings, as if fingerpicking arpeggios would magically provide the answer.
“I need a fucking break.”
He slid his beloved Washburn back onto its stand. It and the stand had turned up yesterday. No questions asked, and no explanations given. Mind you, the cottage living room looked rather more like a recording studio than the market stall it’d been a week or so back. They kept ordering bits of additional equipment every time one of them complained about the lack of whatever item it was at that particular moment. Xane concluded at least four times a day that they needed to “…relocate to a fucking recording studio.” Spook awaited the blurting of that decree again. Instead, he was hit in the head by a flying chocolate bar – 85% cocoa and practically as dark as Xane’s soul and twice as bitter as his own. He rubbed at the point of impact on his temple, then broke off a piece of the bar and sucked on it.
“Another round of Jenga?”
“If I see another wooden block, I’m going to spontaneously combust.”
“Messy,” Spook remarked. He popped another square of chocolate onto his tongue. “What about Ludo?”
“I hate Ludo.”
“Connect Four?”
Xane twisted around and dropped onto his feet. He rested the guitar where he’d recently lay. “I need some fucking air. We should go for a run.”
“A run!” A cold spike of fear hit Spook square in the chest at the very notion of leaving the comfortable chaos of the cottage. “I haven’t run anywhere since—.”
“A walk, then,” Xane conceded. “Come on, you’ve always loved the great outdoors, and it’ll blow the cobwebs off. Might just work the progression loose too.”
It was true. He had always loved green spaces, whether they be the mountains, forests and lakes of his homeland, or the moors, deserts, and fells of countless others. It wasn’t purely the notion of isolation that had led him to holing up in the middle of nowhere. He actually liked being surrounded by wildlife, and acres upon acres of open wilderness.
“You’ve barely set foot outside the door since I got here,” Xane argued, like Spook had already rejected the notion, whereas he was silently reacting to the erratic pounding of his heart the notion of outside had caused. “You’ve no need to worry about paps, or us being spotted, or dodgy ex-girlfriends lurking in the bushes like steely-toothed velociraptors, if that’s what’s keeping your butt glued to the rug. There’s more chance of us being ambushed by a wild haggis or an Ent.”
“I haven’t ever eaten that.”
“What, Ent? I should hope not.” Xane set about shrugging on his jacket. “If you start hankering after wood, I’m going to have to drag your arse to a clinic and get you checked out. Seriously, though. Stop changing the subject and put some shoes on.”
“What sort of clinic?”
A muscle twitched in Xane’s jaw, but he opted in favour of lacing up his boots rather than throwing back a comment.
When Spook still hadn’t budged by the time Xane was done, Xane glided over and dropped his high-tops before him. “Do I need to lace them for you? Shoes. Jacket. Do it. Don’t pissin’ argue. We’re going outside.”
Zombie-like, Spook obediently shoved his feet into his boots and semi-laced them. The moment he was done, Xane hauled him onto his feet by means of a hand up. Next he knew, he’d been cajoled into outdoor clothing and propelled into the yard.
-21-
Xane
As far as Xane could determine, Spook had been here at the cottage since around midsummer. Xane had been here a little over a week and he was already going stir crazy. It was no wonder he’d arrived and found Spook in the state he’d been.
“Set?” He didn’t linger to find out but marched off towards the boundary wall. He had to check his stride when he got there. Spook remained on the outdoor doormat, skin blanched a particularly ghastly shade of blithe-spirit, his eyes shot with anxiety. His neck was bent, like he could escape into a mud-puddle, even as his gaze twitched from side to side taking in their surroundings.
Swallowing his urge to sigh, Xane backtracked. “Stroll through the woods, okay? It’ll be fun.”
Spook’s lips squished into a sullen line. His gaze arched warily across the road to the forest as if he expected a troll to lumber out of there set on eating them both whole. “I dunno about this. I’d rather—”
It was too chilly to stand around mooching. He’d learned that from experience having spent the last week of evenings jigging from one foot to the other as he talked to Luthor etcetera while side-stepping increasingly pointed questions about his location and what the fuck they were doing there. “You need some air. We both do.”
