Parting Gift (Parts 3 +4)

The cemetery was almost empty at that hour, with just the faint hum of traffic from the main road and the occasional rustle of a blackbird settling into the yew trees. David sat on a bench near the older graves, his collar turned up against the cold and notebook open on his knee. The pages fluttered in the breeze like they were trying to escape.

He hadn’t meant to come here straight from Angela’s, but his feet had taken him without asking. The party had left a sour, restless feeling in his chest. The heat, the smoke, the laughter, Michael’s effortless brilliance, Angela’s bright pride: none of that was really for him. He’d needed air. Space. Quiet.

The cemetery always gave him that.

He stared at the blank page. Tried to write something simple. Something true. Nothing came.

“You look like you’re waiting for divine intervention.”

David didn’t jump. He just looked up.

Terence was standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his old army coat, hair ruffled by the wind. He looked like he’d been there for ages, though David hadn’t heard him approach.

“I knew you’d be here,” Terence said, sitting down beside him. “You always come here when you’re trying not to think.”

David closed the notebook. “I’m not trying not to think.”

“You are. You’re hoping the quiet will do the thinking for you.”

David didn’t argue. Terence stretched his legs out, exposing his scuffed boots.

“Rough night?” he asked, though he clearly already knew.

David shrugged. “It was fine.”

“It was awful,” Terence said. “You were awful. Michael was brilliant. Angela was incandescent. And you were… what’s the word? Peripheral.”

David winced. “Thanks.”

“I’m being honest,” Terence said. “Someone has to be.”

They sat in silence for a moment. A fox trotted along the far path, pausing to sniff at a bin before disappearing into the undergrowth.

“You know,” Terence said, “you used to be better at this.”

“At what?”

“Being in your own head. You had whole worlds in there when you were a kid. Castles. Monsters. Spaceships. You’d talk to yourself for hours. Mum thought you were touched.”

David frowned. “I don’t remember that.”

“You don’t remember anything,” Terence said lightly. “You forget the good bits. You forget the bits that made you… you.”

David looked down at his hands. “I remember some things.”

“Like what?”

He hesitated. “Drawing. I used to draw all the time.”

“You did,” Terence said. “Terrible drawings. But you loved them. You’d make up stories for every picture. Whole sagas. You lived in them.”

David felt a faint, warm ache in his chest. A half-formed memory stirred at the edge of his mind, like something seen through frosted glass.

“I don’t know what happened,” he said quietly.

“You grew up,” Terence said. “Or you tried to. And you’re not very good at it.”

David let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Thanks.”

“It’s not an insult,” Terence said. “You’re not built for the real world. You’re built for the one in your head. That’s where the songs come from. That’s where everything comes from.”

David opened the notebook again. The page stared back at him, blank and accusing.

“I can’t write,” he said. “Not properly. Not like Michael.”

“Michael writes with his hands,” Terence said. “You write with your insides. It’s messier. Harder. But better, if you’d stop trying to be tidy.”

David didn’t know what to say to that.

Terence nudged him with his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s walk. You’ll think better when you’re moving.”

They left the cemetery by the side gate and headed toward Deptford Creek. The air grew colder as they walked, the sky deepening into a bruised blue. The industrial smell of the creek; oil, mud and riverweed, drifted toward them.

The towpath was quiet, with just the slap of water against the banks and the distant clatter of a train crossing the viaduct. David walked slowly, his notebook in hand and pencil tapping against the spine.

Terence broke the silence: “You were always the quiet one,” he said. “Even when we were kids. You’d sit in a corner with a book or a pencil and disappear. I used to think you were doing it on purpose. Hiding.”

“Maybe I was.”

“You still are.”

David stopped walking. “I’m trying.”

“I know,” Terence said, softer now. “But you’re trying to be the wrong thing.”

David looked out at the water. It was dark, opaque, reflecting nothing.

“I don’t know who I’m supposed to be,” he said.

Terence stepped closer, voice low. “That’s the point. You’re not supposed to be anyone. You’re supposed to make something. That’s all.”

David swallowed. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” Terence said. “You just don’t believe it yet.”

They stood there for a long moment, the cold settling around them like a second skin. Then Terence nudged him again. “Write something. Anything. Even if it’s rubbish.”

David opened the notebook. Wrote a line. Crossed it out. Wrote another.

Terence watched him, hands in pockets, expression unreadable.

The creek flowed on, slow and indifferent, carrying the day away with it.

♫

The rehearsal room in New Cross was a converted storeroom above a carpet shop. It had a low ceiling, bare bulbs and walls lined with egg cartons someone had stapled up in a fit of optimism. The air smelled of dust and overheating amps, overlaid by the distinctive tang of fake Axminster.

Michael was already there when David arrived, tuning his guitar with the calm focus of someone who never rushed anything. He wore the same denim jacket as always, his sleeves rolled up and hair neat. He looked like he belonged in a professional studio, not this cramped, rattling room.

Terence was sitting on an amp in the corner, his legs stretched out, tapping ash into an empty beer can.

“You’re late,” he said as David came in. “Again.”

David ignored him.

Michael looked up. “Alright, mate? Got something new for us today?”

“Maybe,” David said, shrugging off his coat. “Just an idea.”

“An idea is good,” Michael said. “Ideas turn into things.”

Terence snorted. “Not his ideas.”

David pretended not to hear.

They started working through the song: a half-formed thing David had been carrying around for weeks. It had a strange, rising melody that didn’t quite resolve and lyrics that felt like they were trying to say something he couldn’t articulate.

Michael listened with his head tilted and fingers moving automatically as he found the chords beneath David’s fumbling.

“That’s interesting,” he said. “There’s something in that. Try it again.”

David played it again, more hesitantly this time.

Terence muttered, “He’s smoothing out all your rough edges. Soon it’ll be his song.”

Michael didn’t hear. David did.

“Let’s try it with a different rhythm,” Michael said, tapping his foot. “Something more driving.”

They worked for nearly an hour, the song slowly taking shape; becoming clearer, brighter and more coherent. David felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this one would be good. Maybe this one would be the thing.

Then the door burst open.

Angela swept in like a gust of spring air, her cheeks flushed and hair slightly windblown. She wore a short red coat over a patterned dress and she looked like she’d run the whole way.

“David,” she said, breathless. “I need to talk to you.”

Michael set his guitar down. “Everything alright?”

Angela laughed; a high, nervous sound. “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m late.”

David blinked. “Late for what?”

“No,” she said, grabbing his hands. “Late.”

It took a moment for the meaning to land.

“Oh,” David said.

Terence sat up straighter, his eyes narrowing. “Well. Isn’t that something.”

Michael looked between them, confused. “Do you want me to… give you two a minute?”

Angela shook her head too quickly. “No, no, it’s fine, it’s fine, I just... I had to tell you. I couldn’t keep it in.”

She was smiling, but it was a brittle smile, stretched too wide.

Michael cleared his throat. “I should probably head off anyway. Got to be up early.”

He began packing his guitar, giving them space without making a fuss.

Angela hovered, unable to stay still: pacing, touching things, picking up a tambourine and putting it down again. She was vibrating with a kind of manic energy, as if she were trying to outrun her own thoughts.

“I’m going too,” she said suddenly. “I need to… I don’t know. Walk. Think. Move.”

She kissed David quickly, almost absently, then grabbed her coat.

“Come on, Michael,” she said. “We’ll walk to the station together.”

Michael hesitated, glancing at David. “You sure you’re alright?”

David nodded, though he wasn’t sure of anything.

Angela was already halfway down the stairs. Michael gave David a small, worried smile and followed.

The door closed. Their footsteps faded and the room felt suddenly enormous.

Terence let out a low whistle. “Well. Congratulations, Dad.”

David sank onto a chair. “Don’t.”

“Why not? It’s funny.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s hilarious,” Terence said. “You. A father. You can barely look after yourself.”

David pressed his palms to his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

“You don’t know what to do about anything,” Terence said. “This is just bigger.”

David’s voice cracked. “I’m scared.”

“Of course you are. You should be.”

David looked up sharply. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not here to help,” Terence said. “I’m here to tell you the truth.”

David stood, anger rising. “You don’t know anything about this.”

“I know you,” Terence said. “Better than anyone. Better than Angela. Better than Michael. Better than you know yourself.”

David’s hands were shaking. “Shut up.”

Terence stepped closer, eyes bright. “You’re not ready. You’re not built for this. You’re a child pretending to be a man.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re going to ruin her life.”

“Shut up!”

The shout echoed off the egg-carton walls, just as the door creaked open.

Michael stood there, half in and half out of the room, holding up the guitar strap he’d forgotten.

“David?” he said gently. “You alright?”

David froze. Terence was silent.

Michael looked at him for a long moment. Something flickered across his face, something like concern, or confusion, or fear, then he nodded slowly.

“Long day,” he said, as if offering David an excuse. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

David nodded. Michael left, quietly closing the door again.

Terence smiled, slow and satisfied. “See?” he said. “You’re already falling apart.”

David sank back into a chair, the unfinished song still ringing faintly in the air, like something that might have been beautiful if he’d been someone else.