Page 22 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

‘We should strike while the iron’s hot,’ Frank carried on. ‘With “Dark Dimension” getting so much attention, a new album will fly. And think about the royalties.’

‘I don’t care about the royalties.’ For Damon, it had never been about the money.

‘Aiden’s family might,’ Frank pointed out quietly.

Damon’s jaw tensed. That was underhand, and he was about to tell Frank where to go, when he had second thoughts. Maybe Aiden’s parentswouldlike to see Aiden’s final album finished, and he had no idea about their financial situation. Aiden had lived fast and furious, and hadn’t been one for salting any money away for a rainy day, so maybe the additional royalties would help ease any financial burdens they might have.

‘When?’ Damon asked.

‘The sooner the better.’

‘Have you spoken to Luke?’

‘Yeah. He’s cool with it.’

‘Is he back in the UK?’

‘Not yet.’

‘When is he planning on returning?’

‘A couple of weeks,’ Frank replied.

‘Let me know when he does.’ And with that, Damon abruptly ended the call.

He had to, because he couldn’t breathe. Once again he was at the mercy of his hammering heart as the scream of tortured metal filled his head, and he sank to the floor.

When it was finally over after several long, long minutes, the episode left him shaken and wracked with guilt. Would the memory of that night ever leave him in peace? And if it didn’t, what if it happened on stage?

Damon sighed wearily.On stage…?How could Black Hyacinth perform again when one of the band was missing?

Who would they find to replace him? The thought of actively seeking a third band member made him feel sick. It would have to be done at some point, but not yet. He simply couldn’t face it. Putting his worries to one side, Damon reached for his guitar once more, fluttering his fingers across the strings. As he so often did, he played without conscious thought, the music flowing through him of its own accord. He was happy to allow his mind to drift, not consciously thinking about what he was playing, the music a mix of songs he had grown up with and ones he had composed, until he realised the chords that he was strumming were becoming overlain by a distinctive chorus, one he was playing over and over. It was lyrical and haunting, and bit by bit he built up the notes around it. As he played, the lyrics floated into his mind shimmering and ethereal until they solidified, melting into the music as though they were meant to be.

This is what he loved.This!The creation of something that was unique, yet was also a melding and a weaving of everything that had gone before.

It might be raw and unpolished, but it was good: he could feel it in his bones.

Hurriedly, he found a pencil and a blank sheet of music paper and hastily scribbled down the notes, printing the words underneath, terrified he would forget. Then he plugged the audio interface into his computer, connected a microphone and speakers and began to play.

Again and again, he sang and strummed, his fingers aching as he played and listened, tweaked and played again, repeating the process over and over until he was as happy as he could be, until his head ached from concentrating so hard and his limbs grew stiff.

Resisting the urge to play the song one more time – because he knew that if he did, he wouldn’t be able to resist tweaking some more – Damon finally called it a day.

Elated, yet exhausted, he realised he was starving. Thirsty, too.

Opening a brown stubby bottle of beer, he gulped it down as he broke some eggs to make an omelette. His mind still full of the music he had just made, he didn’t bother with the niceties of plates and garnishes, instead eating directly from the pan, wolfing his meal and washing it down with another beer.

Finally replete, he took his drink into the garden to watch the bats swoop and dive. But he soon discovered that he was too restless to settle. And when he remembered the hyacinths growing near the kitchen door, he knew what he needed to do.

Damon grabbed a trowel from the shed and set about digging up some flowers to replant next to his grandmother’s headstone.

The black hyacinths that he had found growing in the border by the back door was what he was after, but he took care to leave a few behind. It was fitting that they still grew in the garden she had loved so much.

Careful not to disturb the roots unduly, Damon lifted several plants and placed them in a plastic bag, then he grabbed a bottle of water and set off down the lane.

As he sauntered towards the graveyard, he heard the sharp ‘twit’ of a male owl, followed a few seconds later by the more melodious ‘whoo’ of the female bird, and somewhere down by the river a fox barked. The night was so quiet that he could hear the water gushing over the rapids, although the sound was faint and was only carried to his ears when the breeze was blowing in the right direction.

As he passed the main gate to the field, he glanced beyond it, his gaze drifting to where he had lain in the grass with Ceri, and he wondered what she might be doing now. Whatever it was, she had probably forgotten all about the stolen kiss they had shared. He sent a silent ‘thank you’ to her, nevertheless, because she had been the inspiration behind the two new songs he had just composed.

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