Parting Gift (Parts 1+ 2)

The bell above the record shop door gave its usual tired rattle every time someone wandered in, but by half past four David barely registered it. The shop was warm in the wrong way, with the kind of stale, electric heat that suggested dodgy wiring. It smelled of cardboard sleeves, damp wool coats and the faint vinegar tang of the chip shop two doors down.

David stood behind the counter, elbows on the glass, biro in hand, scribbling half thought-out lines on the back of a blank receipt. His handwriting sloped and cramped, like it was trying to hide from him. Nothing rhymed. Nothing even scanned. He kept crossing things out until the paper looked bruised.

A girl in a suede coat and heavy kohl eyeliner asked if they had the new Joni Mitchell. David pointed her to the folk section without looking up. She drifted off, the fringe of her coat brushing the racks.

He tried another line. Crossed it out. Tried again.

“Dave,” called the owner from the back room, “you’re not asleep out there, are you?”

“No,” David said, though he wasn’t entirely sure.

When the clock finally hit five, he locked the till and shrugged on his battered old corduroy jacket with shiny elbows. Turning the shop sign to CLOSED, he yelled goodnight! and stepped out into the cold. The air outside felt cleaner and sharper, like it had been rinsed. The sky was the colour of dishwater and the street already dim.

There, exactly where he expected him, was Terence.

He was leaning against the wall beside the shop window, one foot braced behind him, smoking with a kind of casual defiance as if he owned the pavement. He was a couple of inches taller than David, sharper in the face and darker in the eyes. His hair was longer and also darker, pushed back with a careless hand. His old army surplus coat hung open despite the cold. Either he didn’t feel it, or refused to.

“You look like you’ve been embalmed,” Terence said, flicking ash onto the pavement. “Long day?”

“Same as always.”

“Which is to say: pointless.”

David shrugged. “It’s a job.”

“That’s the problem.”

David didn’t bother arguing. They fell into step without discussing where they were going. They always took the same route: down the high street, past the bus depot, then through the cemetery gates where the path cut diagonally towards their part of Lewisham. It saved ten minutes and felt quieter than the roads.

Terence walked with a loose, restless gait, his shoulders slightly hunched and hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He looked as if he were braced for something: a joke, a fight, a revelation.. He moved like someone who didn’t quite trust the world to stay still.

“You seeing Angela tonight?” he asked, blowing smoke sideways.

“Tomorrow. She’s having some people over.”

“A party.”

“It’s not really a party.”

“It’s a party. She wants you to be the clever, interesting musician boyfriend she can show off to her arty mates.”

“She believes in me.”

“She believes in the idea of you,” Terence said, grinning. “Not the actual you. The actual you is still writing lyrics on receipts.”

David kicked a stone along the path. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s accurate.” Terence said. “She likes having an audience and you’re part of the set dressing.”

They passed the first row of gravestones, the ones closest to the road, their names half worn away by weather. The air changed here, becoming cooler and stiller, with the faint smell of damp earth and cut grass. David always felt himself loosen up a little, as the noise of the day dropped away. The cemetery wasn’t at all spooky; it was just quiet. A place where no one expected anything of him.

Terence flicked his cigarette into the grass. “Michael going?”

“To the thing? Probably. Angela invited him.”

“Of course she did. She likes him. He’s tidy. Reliable. Knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s my friend.”

“He’s the friend who’s better at your job than you are.”

David stopped walking for a moment. “Why do you say things like that?”

“Because they’re true,” Terence said, turning back with a shrug. “And because you need someone to tell you.”

They walked on. A crow hopped along a headstone, watching them with a tilted head. The light was fading fast, the sky bruising at the edges. David shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

“You could come,” he said, surprising himself. “To Angela’s. Tomorrow.”

Terence snorted. “Me? In a room full of her friends? All those people who talk like they’re auditioning for the BBC and dress like they’ve raided a theatre wardrobe?”

“You don’t have to stay long.”

“I’m not going.”

“You never go anywhere.”

“I go places,” Terence said. “Just not places with people.”

David smiled despite himself. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re too soft.”

They reached the far gate of the cemetery, the one that opened onto the quieter residential streets. David pushed it open and held it for Terence, who stepped through without breaking stride.

“You should go, though,” Terence said as they walked on. “Smile. Pretend you know what you’re doing. It’ll make Angela happy.”

David hesitated. “She’s… she’s good to me.”

“She’s good at you,” Terence corrected. “There’s a difference.”

David didn’t know what to say to that. He thought about Angela’s laugh, the way she touched his arm when she wanted his attention, the way she looked at him when he played something half-formed on the guitar; like she could already hear the finished version. He thought about the nights they spent together, the warmth of her, the certainty she seemed to have about him that he couldn’t find in himself.

“She understands me,” he said quietly.

“All she understands is the version of you she’s invented,” Terence said. “The one who’ll become someone. The one who’ll make something. The one who isn’t stuck behind the counter in a poxy record shop.”

David felt the words land, heavy and familiar.

At the corner where their paths split, Terence paused. “Don’t let Michael write your life for you,” he said. “He’ll do it better than you and you’ll hate him for it.”

David frowned. “What does that mean?”

Terence gave him a crooked smile: sharp, knowing and almost affectionate, then turned and walked off down the dimming street, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold.

David watched him go for a moment, then headed home, with the quiet of the cemetery still clinging to him like a security blanket.

♫

Angela’s flat was on the top floor of a peeling Victorian terrace in Brockley, the kind of place where the stairs creaked in complaint and the hallway smelled faintly of boiled cabbage from the downstairs neighbours. David could hear the party before he reached the door: laughter, the clink of bottles, someone tuning a guitar, the blare of a record player struggling to be heard over the thump of too many people dancing on uneven floorboards.

Angela opened the door with a flourish. She wore a mustard coloured mini-dress with a wide white collar, her dark bob sharp as a blade. She looked like she’d stepped out of a Honey magazine spread: confident, bright and modern.

“There you are!” she said, grabbing David’s arm. “I thought you’d got lost.”

Inside, the bedsit was a riot of colour and clutter. A length of Indian print fabric had been draped over the lampshade, bathing the room in amber. Posters of Dylan, Joni Mitchell and The Velvet Underground were Blu-Tacked to the walls. Ashtrays overflowed. Someone had brought a bottle of Mateus Rosé; someone else had brought a six-pack of Double Diamond. On the table sat sausage rolls, Twiglets, a half collapsed trifle and a plate of cheese cubes on cocktail sticks.

The record player was spinning Tapestry. Carole King’s voice floated above the chatter.

Angela moved through the room like she owned it: laughing, topping up glasses, introducing people, piling up coats in the bedroom. She kept a hand on David’s arm as she steered him around, as if presenting him.

“This is David,” she said to a group near the window. “He’s a musician.”

David felt his face heat. “Sort of.”

“No, he is,” Angela insisted. “He writes these beautiful, strange songs.”

One of the art school boys nodded politely, already looking past David at someone more interesting.

Michael arrived not long after, carrying his guitar case. He looked neat as always: denim jacket, clean shirt, hair brushed back. He had that easy, unselfconscious confidence that made people relax around him.

“Evening,” he said, giving David a warm smile. “Thought I’d bring this along. Angela said there might be a sing-along.”

Angela beamed. “Yes! Play something.”

Michael didn’t need much persuading. Within minutes he was perched on the arm of the sofa, guitar in hand, surrounded by people leaning in. He played a new composition he’d been working on: bright and intricate, full of unexpected turns. The room hushed.

David stood at the edge of the group, hands in his pockets, listening. Michael made it look effortless. He always had. David felt the familiar twist of admiration and envy.

Angela glanced at David, her expression softening. She slipped her hand into his, giving it a squeeze. But then someone called her name and she was gone again; laughing, moving, shining.

“David should play something!” someone shouted.

Angela turned, delighted. “Yes! Go on, love. Play them that one you showed me. The one about the girl on the train.”

David froze. “I… I don’t know.”

“You do,” Angela said, already reaching for Michael’s guitar. “Come on.”

Michael handed it over with an encouraging smile. “Go on, mate. It’s a good one.”

David sat on the edge of the sofa, the guitar heavy in his lap. His fingers felt stiff and clumsy. He strummed once - too hard - and winced. A few people giggled politely.

He tried again, finding the opening chords. His voice came out thin and uncertain. The room leaned in, but not in the way they had for Michael; more out of curiosity, or politeness.

Halfway through the second verse, he stumbled. Lost the rhythm. Tried to catch it. Failed.

“Here,” Michael said gently, stepping forward. “Mind if I…?”

David handed the guitar over without speaking.

Michael picked up the tune instantly, smoothing out the rough edges, finding a counter-melody that made the whole thing lift. He added a little flourish; nothing showy, just enough to make the room gasp.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” someone said.

“Play it again!”

“Do you have more?”

Michael smiled, modest and embarrassed, but clearly pleased. He played another effortless run of chords, then segued into something else he’d been working on. The room leaned in, rapt.

David stood at the edge of the group, feeling invisible.

Angela touched his arm. “Isn’t he brilliant?”

David nodded, his throat tight. He felt the room becoming constricted: the heat, the smoke, the chatter, the sense of being both seen and unseen. He slipped out into the tiny kitchen, closing the door behind him.

The kitchen was barely big enough for two people, with a Formica table pushed against the wall and a single bulb hanging from a frayed cord. The window was cracked open, letting in a thin ribbon of cold air. A stack of unwashed mugs sat by the sink.

Terence was perched on the counter, legs swinging, as if he’d been there all along.

“Well,” he said, “that was excruciating.”

David leaned against the table, exhaling. “I shouldn’t have played.”

“No,” Terence agreed cheerfully. “You shouldn’t. But you did. And now you know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re not gonna be the next big thing. Not by hiding in the kitchen”

David looked down at his hands. “Michael’s just… better.”

“He’s better at being you than you are,” Terence said. “That’s the problem.”

David swallowed. “He’s my friend. He didn’t mean to show me up.”

“Of course he didn’t. That’s what makes it worse. He’s naturally brilliant. You’re naturally… something else. He’s the friend who’ll get there first,” Terence said. “And you’ll smile and clap and pretend it doesn’t kill you.”

David felt something twist in his chest.

Terence softened, just a fraction. “You’ve got something, Dave. You do. But you hide it. You bury it. You wait for permission.”

David rubbed his eyes. “I just needed a minute.”

Terence hopped down from the counter, moving with a restless, unpredictable surge of energy. “Look at them out there. All those clever little art school darlings. Talking about films they haven’t seen and books they haven’t finished. Terrified someone will realise they’re ordinary.”

“They’re just people.”

“They’re children playing at being adults,” Terence said. “And you’re letting them decide who you are.”

David bristled. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Terence said, stepping closer. “You’re waiting for someone to tell you what you’re supposed to be. Angela. Michael. Anyone. You’re like a blank page begging to be written on.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s true.”

Footsteps approached the kitchen door.

Terence’s expression sharpened. “I’m not being caught in here by her.”

He crossed the tiny room in two quick steps as David unlatched the back door for him and swiftly slipped outside just as the kitchen door opened.

Angela poked her head in. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you. Come on. Michael’s playing something new. You’ll like it.”

David nodded, forcing a smile.

Angela disappeared again.

A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of damp wood and the faint, sour tang of the bins below as Terence poked his head around from behind the back door.

He raised an eyebrow. “Go on then. Back to the circus.”

David hesitated.

Terence’s voice softened and sounded almost affectionate. “You don’t have to be them, you know. You don’t have to be anyone but you.”

It sounded easy, but David didn’t know what that meant. He opened the kitchen door and followed Angela back into the noise, the heat and the light, leaving Terence to descend the steep, creaking boards of the wooden staircase that led down to the shared garden and disappear into the darkness.