Just the Beer Light

The pub was half full and half interested. The carpet smelled of old bitter and wet dogs. The stage —if he could call it that— was a low scaffold near the dartboard. The mic crackled like a dying insect. The amp wheezed. The lights were yellow and unforgiving.

Danny stood behind the mic; 18 years old and already feeling older than he’d ever meant to be. His voice came out thin, swallowed by the room. The band —Kev on bass, Martin on drums and Spud on guitar— played like they were clocking out. Kev had a job at Ford now. Martin was engaged. Spud had started wearing ties.

Danny still wore his platform boots, though the soles were coming loose. His shirt was satin, faded from red to rust. He’d painted his nails black last week, but they were chipped now, like everything else.

They finished the set with a limp version of “Ziggy Stardust.” No one clapped. A bloke near the bar muttered, “Get a job.”

Danny unplugged the mic. It sparked. He winced.

Outside, the air was damp and smelled of petrol fumes. The streetlights buzzed. He lit a fag with shaking fingers and leaned against the wall, watching the punters spill out, laughing, arguing, pairing off.

She was standing near the bus stop, coat too big for her, hair twined in an artfully messy nest, eyes sharp. Sixteen, maybe. He’d seen her earlier, near the front, not clapping but not leaving either.

“You were the singer,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sort of.”

She shrugged. “You looked like you meant it.”

He laughed, bitter. “Doesn’t count for much.”

She looked at him sideways. “You from round here?”

“Dagenham,” he said. “Born and bruised.”

She nodded. “I’m from Barking. My brother used to play drums. Gave it up when he got a girl pregnant.”

Danny flicked ash into the gutter. “That’s the way of things.”

They walked. The streets were quiet, the houses low and semi-detached. She talked about school: O-levels, a teacher who wore corduroy and smelled of pipe smoke. He talked about gigs that never happened, songs he hadn’t finished, a dream of playing the Marquee that had faded like a poster in the sun.

“You’re not like the others,” she said.

He looked at her. “You mean I’m not growing up?”

She didn’t answer.

They reached her street. The houses were all pebble-dash and lace curtains. She stopped at the gate.

“You’ll get cold walking back,” she said.

“I’m used to it.”

She hesitated. “You could come in.”

He shook his head. “Nah. Your mum’d think I was trouble.”

“She already does,” she said, noticing a face at the window.

They stood there, the silence stretching. He leaned in, unsure. She didn’t move. He kissed her —an awkward, brief peck, more apology than desire.

She stepped back. “You’re too old.”

“Only two years.”

“Feels like twenty.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She opened the door. Light spilled out. He saw a hallway with patterned carpet and a coat rack shaped like a tree.

“Goodnight,” she said.

“Goodbye,” he said.

She closed the door.

Danny walked back through the silent streets, the wind picking up, the night pressing in. His boots slapped the pavement. He passed the pub again. The lights were off. He thought about the amp, the mic, the songs. He thought about Spud’s tie. He thought about the kiss.

He didn’t cry. It was the cold making his eyes run.