Page 44 of Secrets at the Little Music Shop

‘Ma and sister live in Vancouver.’

‘Canada?’ I was horrified by the snatching panic at the thought that Ben might be that far away.

‘Well done. Yeah.’ Zafe maintained the dry tone in his voice. ‘His dad died, they emigrated. All kicked off just as we started up the band so Baz stayed over here. Bought them a place. Put all his earnings into property, all that didn’t go up his nose.’

‘You think he might be in Canada?’

A considered pause. Zafe narrowed his eyes at me through the smoke. ‘You sure you’re not some journo after the inside story? Everyone wants to know what happened to the great Baz Davies.’ He lowered his head. ‘Including me,’ he finished quietly. ‘Though . . . five years, it’s a long time, I guess most people wouldn’t even recognise him now. And the ones that do . . . phht.’ He flicked ash onto the floor and stirred at it with a heel. ‘No-one cares any more. Old news.’

‘So, even if I were a journalist, you’d help me?’

‘Nah. If you’re a journo you can make it up.’ Those blue, blue eyes fixed on me. ‘So, can you prove you’re not?’

I held up my open hands. ‘How do I prove a negative?’

Zafe stood up and ground out the cigarette stub with the toe of his leather boots, forcing it to a smear on the concrete. ‘You been in the house?’

‘Ben’s? Yes, once. But only the hall with all those weird tiles. Oh, and the big room with the sofas. The room with the speakers set up. We went to an opening together and we had a drink in there before we left.’ I had to look up at Zafe as he paced around the cheerless cuboid room. He had a loose way of walking, as though his joints were attached by elastic to his body.

‘OK then. If you are a journo, you’re one Baz trusts. He doesn’t let any old hack into his place.’ He tapped another cigarette from his pocket and lit it. ‘What?’

‘You. Chain smoking. Something you picked up on tour?’

‘Among other habits.’ Zafe Rafale smiled for the first time and I saw why he had all those fans. ‘Yeah. So. You’re a friend of our Baz’s, I believe that now. And he ran out on you. Making a bit of a habit of this, isn’t he? Never used to run.’ His eyes were inward-looking now, scanning his thoughts. ‘Remember this one time, we’d be about fourteen, fifteen. We’re at this disco effort, school, youth club, can’t remember where. Anyway Baz had his eye on this girl, fancied her for months, he goes up to her and says, “You want to dance?” And this tart she eyes him up and down and kind of sneers, you know, in his face? Then she goes, “I’m not that desperate.” And Baz, cool as Sweden, looks at her and goes, “Nah, but I am.” Amazing. That’s Baz. Cool.’

‘So what happened between then and now? Why is he so — broken?’

Zafe blew smoke upwards. The ceiling was almost invisible now. ‘You tell me. I’ve gone through it all in my head, over and over; was it the drugs, was it some girl. Tell you something, it must have been one hell of a problem, ’cos if you’d asked me before, I’d have said he’d sooner have eaten the tour bus than quit.’ He glanced at the Rolex on his wrist under a rolled-up shirt cuff. ‘Look, I’ve got to play a set in ten. Got a pen?’ From a pocket I managed to assemble a biro and a scrap of paper. Zafe scribbled quickly, an almost incomprehensible series of squiggles. ‘This was always where he went when we had time off.’ He then caught hold of my arm when I went to slip the paper back into my pocket. ‘If you find him tell him — shit, I don’t know. Tell him I miss him. That’s all.’

* * *

‘I think it’s a seven.’ Rosie spoke more definitely than I’d heard her speak for weeks. Since she’d had Harry her edges seemed to have worn thin, as though she blended with things more. It made her fuzzier, less inclined to say what she thought, as though she distrusted even her own opinions. ‘Seven, Moor Road.’

‘I thought it was a nine. “Nine, Main Road”.’ I turned the paper upside down in case a change of perspective made things clearer.

Jason, who was watching Harry kicking nappy-free on the lawn, piped up. ‘It’s Robin Hood’s Bay, total population twelve and four fishing boats. It’s hardly going to be difficult, is it?’

‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found.’

‘Then he won’t be there, will he?’ Jason stooped and picked Harry up. Rosie taped shut the box of cards she’d just filled and removed her son from Jason’s slightly sticky grasp.

‘I am aware that we usually get more sense from the pig in next-door’s field, but Jason’s right,’ she said. ‘All you can do is try. Then maybe you’ll feel better.’

I stared at her. ‘You’re very perky all of a sudden. Yesterday you were half way to having Harry adopted, today you’re like Miss Agony Column.’

‘Yeah, Rosie’s got a date,’ Jason supplied. ‘Wiv a man. Least I’m guessing it’s a bloke, I don’t reckon our Rosie swings the same way as you do, Jem, ’less she’s like, bi.’ He licked his lips. ‘And if she is, can I watch?’

I stared at Rosie. ‘I wondered about the hair and the frock. So you’ve got yourself a date have you? You lucky cow.’

Self-consciously Rosie smoothed down the front of her pink dress. It set off her dark curls a treat with the way they slithered onto her silky shoulders. ‘It’s not . . . you know, a bit . . . Snow White?’

Jason snorted. ‘Snow White? You? More like Mucky Slush.’

Rosie gave a twirl and Harry chuckled in her arms. ‘Will you babysit, Jem? I should be back by midnight. If I’m not, there’s some bottles made up in the fridge.’

‘So there’s a chance you might — you know, sleep over?’

Rosie waggled her eyebrows at me. ‘You’re getting as bad as Jason.’

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