Page 1 of Washed Up
CHAPTER ONE
Wynter
I’m going crazy locked up in this backwater.
Why the fuck did I ever imagine it’d be a great idea to record our second album here?
Oh, yeah, because it’d be quiet away from the city. No distractions. Out of sight of the tabloids. No record company execs breathing down our necks. Just the three of us. A state-of-the-art studio and the sea.
It’d be great, if we had the material we need to do the actual recording part. Sadly, the creative well is dry.
It’s something they don’t tell you when they get you to sign on the dotted line: the second is so much harder than the first. Common sense says it should be easier. After all, you’ve had practice. The thing is, while that first album involved a heck of a lot of blundering about, not knowing what we were doing, it was fuelled by dreams and the conviction that if we got it right, we’d make it.
Bravo. Well done. We did.
Second time around, there are things to live up to. Expectations that weren’t there when no one knew who we were. Our first single was a smash. Our second and third both outsold it. The album’s gone double platinum. Everyone’s made a lot of cash. We should be enjoying it somewhere warm and full of people, instead… pebbles, and a pesky second album clause that might just be the death of us.
“We should check on Max,” Reid says. He’s lounging along the sea wall, the two of us having stepped outside for a quick breather forty minutes ago. Me, I can’t see there’s a desperate need to check up on our drummer. Reckon the worst that’shappened to him is that he’ll have scoffed all the scones and tanked himself up on Jolly’s Cornish Ginger Beer.
Yes, I’m aware it’s alcohol free, but I’m not sure Max has figured it out yet. He will eventually.
Reid’s correct, though, we should get back to work, as watching the tide hasn’t magicked any new lyrics into my brain.
His hand strays to my thigh. “Maybe if we…”
I don’t pay any attention. Chances are his words are a repetition of one of the many suggestions we’ve already tried or vetoed.
Play in the dark.
Speed it up.
Slow it down.
Do it a cappella.
Inside.
Outside.
Upside down while swinging from the chandelier naked.
Okay, I vetoed the last one. Couldn’t see how acrobatics and freezing my tackle off would create a spark of inspiration, and that’s what I need. Inspiration. Something that gets the neurons firing. A catalyst. Fuck, I even tried blowing my best friend. Didn’t give me the inspirational kick up the arse I need.
“Shit!” Said best friend, Reid, rolls off the wall landing on the shingle and starts scurrying towards the sea. I don’t bother asking what’s got him motivated, because now I’m pointed in that direction, I can see it too. There’s a body… a person lying where the waves tickle the narrow band of sand. I hurdle the wall and crunch after him.
“Get Max,” he yells.
I grab my phone out of my back pocket and call him. “Get down to the beach now! We found… person…” I’ve already forgotten about Max. “Is she breathing?”
Reid, on his knees in the shallows, presses his fingers to the pulse point in her neck and gives a juddery nod. She’s a mess of tangled hair and clothing, with seaweed wrapped around her bleached limbs. “We need to get her inside.”
“We need to check she’s not injured.”
“Tide’s coming in.”
And it does so with alarming speed in these parts. We’ve almost got caught out a couple of times.
“I can’t see any obvious injuries.”
