No Other Way

Danny followed Darren (call me Daz) down the narrow side-path towards the back garden, the smell of damp earth rising from poorly tended flowerbeds. The semi-detached looked ordinary enough —pebbledash, UPVC windows, satellite dish, hanging basket swinging like a gibbet— but the garden was a different story. At the far end, half-hidden behind a lopsided apple tree, loomed a huge wooden shed. Cables ran from one of its windows into the house. A faint electrical hum vibrated through its boards.

Darren unlocked the padlock with a flourish.

“Welcome to the nerve centre,” he said, pushing the door open with his hip. “Shedline Productions. Don’t laugh. It’s trademarked.”

Danny didn’t laugh. He was too busy taking it all in.

The shed’s interior was a riot of equipment and improvisation. A mixing desk sat on a wallpapering table. Two battered turntables perched on milk crates. VHS decks stacked beside a photocopier that looked like it had been rescued from a skip. Posters curled off the walls: bands, club nights, political slogans. A drum kit crouched in the corner like a retired guard dog. The air smelled of solder, instant coffee and sawdust.

Darren —long hair tied back, round glasses, faded Hawkwind T‑shirt under a corduroy blazer— moved through the clutter with the ease of someone who’d built it all himself.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said, stepping over a box of blank cassettes. “Creative chaos. Runs in the family.”

They sat opposite each other at a folding table. Darren poured coffee from a Thermos into mismatched mugs.

Darren checked his watch. “Jules should be here soon, then we can start the interview. Proper sharp, Jules. Keeps me organised. Keeps all of this organised.”

Danny pictured a bloke: skinny, chain-smoking, probably wearing a beanie.

“So,” Darren said, leaning back. “This bootleg of yours. Bloody hell. I stuck it on last night. Took me right back. Raw as anything. But there’s something there. Proper heart.”

Danny shrugged, embarrassed. “We were kids. Didn’t know what we were doing.”

“That’s the charm,” Darren said. “You can’t fake that. Shame you don’t own the rights.”

Danny’s jaw tightened. “Never did. Not properly. We just… shook hands. Thought that was enough.”

Darren winced. “Different times. Different mistakes.”

They talked about the tape: how it had resurfaced, who might’ve leaked it, how it was selling in Camden and Romford. Then Darren brought up the 12-inch extended remixes.

“Been hearing your stuff in clubs,” he said. “Some of those mixes are wicked. But I’m guessing you’re not seeing a penny.”

Danny laughed without humour. “My old label’s chasing the royalties. They’ll take their cut. I’ll get whatever crumbs fall off the table.”

“Typical,” Darren said. “Your history belongs to everyone but you.”

Danny didn’t reply. He stared at the mixing desk, the blinking lights, the cables. Something in him felt split: two versions of himself —1970s rock and 1980s dance— being dragged out into the world without his permission.

A knock sounded on the shed door.

“Come in,” Darren shouted. “We’re both decent.”

The door opened. And Julie stepped inside.

Short leather jacket. Oversized men’s shirt. Black leggings. Doc Martens. Big round glasses. Hair in a tousled bob that looked accidental but wasn’t. Cool, composed, a little breathless from hurrying.

Danny’s stomach dropped. For a moment he genuinely wondered if he was hallucinating again.

She froze when she saw him. “Danny?”

He stood too quickly, knocking his knee on the table. “Julie. Christ. I... Darren said Jules...”

“Jules,” she said, tapping her notebook. “Short for Julie. Always has been.”

Darren looked between them, surprised but not shocked; more like someone who’d just realised how two puzzle pieces fit together. “Oh! Right. Yeah. This is my sister.”

Danny blinked. “Your… sister?”

Julie gave a tight smile. “You didn’t think Daz sprang fully formed from the shed, did you?”

Something in her tone —dry, familiar and affectionate— made the sibling connection obvious now. The same cadence. The same ready wit. The same ability to fill a room without raising their voice.

Danny felt suddenly foolish.

Darren sensed the atmosphere and slapped his knees. “Small world! Right, I’ll leave you two to...”

“No,” Danny said sharply. “Stay.”

Julie raised an eyebrow. A small expression that made Danny flinch.

“I didn’t mean...” he said. But their conversation unravelled quickly. Old wounds surfaced. Danny accused her —clumsily and defensively— of using her influence both back then at uni and now, with Darren’s pirate radio setup, to steer things, to decide what was best for him without asking.

Julie’s expression hardened. “You think I have that kind of power? Danny, you were halfway gone. I want to help. Don’t push me away.”

He felt heat rising in his chest. “And Mark? You help him too, do you?”

Her face registered hurt, anger... and something else. “Mark is a good father. Which is more than...”

She stopped herself, but the damage was done.

Danny’s voice cracked. “You don’t remember, do you? Not like I do.”

Julie’s eyes flickered. “We were young. It was… a moment. You’ve built it into something it wasn’t.”

That hit him harder than anything else.

Darren shifted uneasily. “Alright, alright. Maybe you two should get a room...”

Danny’s chair scraped back. Darren saw the look in his eyes and backed away, hands raised.

Julie moved fast, putting herself between them. “Danny. Don’t. Not him.”

Her voice was steady, but her eyes were wide. She recognised the signs. She’d lived with them long enough.

Danny blinked, disoriented. The shed felt too small, the lights too bright, the air too thin. He backed away, knocking over a stack of flyers.

“I shouldn’t have come,” he muttered. “I screw everything. Always have.”

He pushed past them, out into the garden, out through the side gate, out into the street where the air was cold and sharp. Behind him, Darren called his name. Julie didn’t.

Danny kept walking, hands shaking, heart pounding; the past and present tearing at him from both sides.