Parting Gift (Parts 7 + 8)

The pub was already thick with cigarette smoke when David arrived; its ceiling low and nicotine stained, its air warmed by closely packed punters and smelling of Courage Best. The stage was nothing more than a raised platform in the corner, lit by two bare bulbs that hummed faintly. A poster for the gig, hand drawn by David and now slightly smudged, curled at the edges on the wall.

Michael was tuning his guitar, his head bent and expression calm. He gave David a small nod, the kind that said we’ve got this without needing words.

Angela was near the front, perched on a barstool, coat folded neatly on her lap. She almost glowed with pride as she watched David crossing the cramped room. She mouthed you’ll be brilliant and he felt something twist in his chest.

David scanned the bar once: a quick, furtive sweep, looking for a figure with Terence’s familiar slouch or familiar smirk. But there was no sign. The absence hit him harder than he expected.

The band started with one of Michael’s songs: loud, confident and familiar. David played rhythm, keeping his head down and letting the music carry him. The crowd nodded along, pints in hand, the usual Friday night murmur rising and falling like a backing chorus.

Michael stepped back from the mic. “Dave’s got something new for you,” he announced

There was a ripple of polite interest. Angela straightened on her seat and clasped her hands as if in prayer.

David stepped forward. The lights seemed too bright, flattening everything, making the room feel both claustrophobic and impossibly far away. He tried to summon the persona he’d practised in the mirror: aloof, arty and untouchable. A bit Warhol, a bit Reed, a bit of something he didn’t have a name for.

He lifted his chin. Let his face go blank. Tried to look like he didn’t care.

The first chord rang out thin and uncertain. His fingers felt stiff, the strings too abrasive against his skin. He opened his mouth to sing and his voice cracked: a small, betraying sound that made a couple of people at the bar laugh. Not with cruelty, just surprise.

Angela clapped once, loudly, as if to bring the room to attention. But it only made the silence around her all the more obvious.

David pushed on. The song was good; he knew it was good, but it came out wrong. Too fast, then too slow. He couldn’t find the rhythm. His hands were sweating. The guitar felt slippery. The room felt too hot.

He tried to lean into the persona he was trying to project: held his chin up and kept his eyes half-lidded, but it felt like wearing someone else’s skin. The audience sensed it. A man near the fruit machine whispered something to his mate. A woman at the bar rolled her eyes.

Michael tried to catch his eye, offering a steadying nod, but David couldn’t look at him. He felt like he was watching himself from somewhere outside his own body: a man in a cheap suit that didn’t fit, performing a version of himself he didn’t recognise.

By the final verse, the audience’s attention had drifted. Someone loudly asked for a light for their cigarette. Someone else shouted for another pint. Angela kept clapping, too brightly and too insistently, her smile fixed and hopeful.

When the song ended, the applause was thin and polite. A man on his way to the toilet muttered, “Bit odd, that one.” Another said, “He alright?”

David’s stomach dropped. He mumbled something to Michael... he didn’t know what... and slipped off the stage before anyone could stop him.

Angela stood immediately, pushing her way through the crowd towards him. “David!” she called, her voice tight with worry.

Michael stepped in front of her and gripped her arms, gently but firmly. “Give him a minute, Ange. He’ll only run faster if you chase him.”

She hesitated, torn between instinct and reason. Her eyes flicked to the closing door. “He shouldn’t be on his own.”

“He won’t be,” Michael said quietly. “Not for long.”

Angela looked at him, searching his face, then let her hands fall. “I wanted to tell him, I...”

“He knows.”

David didn’t hear any of this. He was already out of the door and heading down a back alley, where the night air hit him like a bucket of cold water. The narrow street smelled of damp brick and stale urine. A cat darted under a bin. Somewhere nearby, a train rattled past, shaking the ground.

Terence was already there, leaning against the wall with his arms folded and one foot propped behind him. He looked like he’d been waiting for hours.

“Well,” he said, “that was… something.”

David wiped his face with his sleeve. “Don’t.”

“I mean it,” Terence said, straight-faced. “Very avant-garde. The whole ‘I’m too cool to care’ schtick. Really natural on you.”

David stared at him. “You’re taking the piss.”

Terence shrugged. “Masks suit you. Saves you having to be yourself.”

He said it lightly, with his ‘older brother knows best’ smirk. But David was raw, humiliated and desperate for something to cling to.

“Maybe you’re right,” he muttered.

Terence’s smile faltered. “I wasn’t...”

But David was already walking away.

Terence quickly fell into step beside him; not touching, but close enough so that David could feel the pressure of his presence, like a shadow that had learned to walk and talk.

They hurried through the back streets: the narrow, uneven pavements, the glow of streetlamps caught in puddles, the distant thump of music from the pub receding far behind them. David’s breath came in short bursts. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Michael looked worried,” Terence said.

“He always looks worried.”

“He’s worried about you.”

David flinched. “I don’t want to talk about Michael.”

“Fair enough.”

They walked in silence for a moment. A fox crossed the road ahead of them, pausing to stare before slipping into the shadows.

Terence tried again, keeping his voice soft. “You know, if you’re going to do the Warhol thing, you’ve got to commit. Blank face. No emotion. Pretend you’re made of marble.”

David swallowed. “Maybe that’s what I need.”

Terence stopped walking. “Dave. I was joking.”

David didn’t stop. “I can’t be myself. Not up there.”

Terence trotted to catch up, his expression tightening. “You’re hearing what you want to hear.”

David pulled away. “I’m hearing the truth.”

Terence looked at him and something like genuine worry flickered across his face. “You’re slipping,” he said quietly. “And you don’t even realise it.”

David kept walking. Terence sighed... a soft, defeated sound... and continued to follow him.

♫

The living room was lit only by the streetlamp outside, its orange glow cutting a diagonal across the carpet. David sat on the floor with his back against the sofa, notebook open on his knees. Pages lay scattered around him, torn, crumpled and abandoned. The air smelled faintly of stale cigarette smoke from the pub, which was still clinging to his clothes.

He wrote a line, crossed it out. Wrote another, tore the page free. The sound of ripping paper felt too loud in the sleeping flat.

Terence sat on the rug opposite him, his legs folded and elbows resting loosely on his knees. He looked younger and softer, as if the dim light had smoothed his rough edges. He hummed something tuneless; a half-melody that circled around itself without resolving.

“You’re doing that thing again,” he said.

David didn’t look up. “What thing?”

“Trying to be someone else.”

David pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. “I’m trying to write.”

“No,” Terence said. “You’re trying to sound like someone who knows what they’re doing.”

Another page torn out. Another failure.

Terence tilted his head. “It’s easier to be someone else, isn’t it?”

David froze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Terence shrugged. “You tell me.”

David stared at the blank page. His throat felt tight. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be.”

“That’s the point,” Terence said. “You’re split down the middle. Half of you wants to disappear. The other half wants to be seen. No wonder you can’t write.”

David’s breath hitched. “Stop.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m the only one who is.”

A soft creak sounded from the bedroom.

Terence’s humming cut off. His head snapped toward the sound, eyes narrowing. “She’s up,” he muttered. “I’m off.”

He rose quickly and moved with the sharp, restless energy he always seemed to hold in reserve. He slipped toward the kitchen door, half-turning as if to say something else, then thinking better of it.

The bedroom door opened a moment later. Angela stood there, one hand braced on the doorframe, hair mussed and one sleeve of her nightdress slipping off her shoulder. Her voice was soft and thick with sleep. “David…?”

He closed the notebook quickly, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

She stepped into the room, blinking at the mess of torn pages on the floor. “Who were you talking to?”

David swallowed. “No one. Just… thinking out loud.”

She came closer, rubbing her arms against the cold. “You woke me.”

“Sorry.”

She crouched to pick up one of the crumpled pages. He reached out quickly, taking it from her before she could smooth it open.

“Don’t,” he said, his tone too sharp.

She straightened slowly. “I’m not judging you, David.”

“I know.”

“You don’t look like you know.”

He looked away.

Angela touched his arm lightly. “Tonight was just one gig. Everyone has off nights.”

He flinched at everyone.

She noticed. Her hand dropped. “You’re not alone in this,” she said. “I’m here. I believe in you.”

He nodded, though it felt like she was lying. Not because she didn’t believe what she was saying, but because he couldn’t feel it.

Angela hesitated, then spoke more quietly. “I need you too, you know.”

David looked up, startled.

She held his gaze for a moment, something raw flickering in both their eyes, then looked away, embarrassed by her own honesty.

“I just… I need to know we’re in this together,” she said. “That you’re not shutting me out.”

“I’m not,” he said, but the words felt too thin, too glib.

Angela studied him: the tightness in his shoulders, the way he kept glancing at the shadows as if expecting someone to step out of them. “You’re somewhere else,” she whispered.

He shook his head. “I’m just tired.”

She didn’t believe him. Not fully. But she didn’t push.

“Come to bed,” she said. “Please.”

He hesitated, then nodded.

As she turned to leave, she paused in the doorway. “David… whoever you were talking to… you don’t have to hide things from me.”

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

She waited a beat, then went back to the bedroom.

The flat fell quiet again. He assumed Terence must have slipped out via the back door. He could always move quickly when he wanted to.

David sat for just a moment longer, staring at the pages that remained resolutely blank.