Kieran.Stories

‘Bobby Kennedy had eleven kids, you know? Big Irish family.’

Paul had been rehearsing.

‘George left today,’ he said. ‘Just got up and left. It’s a drag.’ 

Paul lit up and inhaled.

‘Anything to show me?’ 

Percy rose from his seat and went to the baby grand. Steinmayer in gold leaf paint. He played the churchy number.

‘What does it mean?’

This was something Paul said when Percy played him something new. 

‘Ma,’ Percy said.

‘The old kidder. Any words yet?’ 

It took Percy an hour to fill one page of his notebook. He could only write with a giant pencil Paul brought back from Blackpool. Paul would want to write his own words. He had something to prove.

 

Percy met Richard Hewson by chance in the Chandos. When Richard said he was a conductor, Percy realised what he’d been missing. ‘That long, winding road.’ Richard laughed. He drank his Taddy’s.

 

Richard called the flat. The phone was an apocalyptic black. Percy stared at it, in the same way Paul stared into space. Richard told him it was done. The space was booked.

 

Percy heard the door slam shut.

‘Thrills.’ Paul fell into a chair. ‘I’ve been wondering what to do. You should come to Scotland.’ 

The last time Percy had been to Scotland, they had posed for the photo which became the cover of the Ram LP. Percy was not consulted. 

Paul went to the window seat, where Percy sat. He put his arm out, held it for a moment in the air, and then put it around Percy’s left horn. Percy felt the living bone scream out as Paul broke it. He snapped off a piece. Percy watched him leave. In that long coat, he had a look of Jack the Ripper.

It is still light out. Percy leaves. The grass is happy, when the sun roasts the foxgloves in the hedge.