Finding Out
No one told you?
He clutches the notebook to his chest and glances around the room. He’d expected there to be people around, but the lights are up and there’s no music. There should be music. He was late, thought he’d have to wait until the band were taking a break.
They haven’t found his body yet.
The Detective ex-Detective gives him one of those looks. He’s seen them before, a million times over; the soft head tilt, the full eyes that search his face. Looking for some sign that something’s registering, that something’s sinking in. What’s he supposed to be understanding? It’s comforting, though, knowing that the other man is waiting for a reaction, holding back and cushioning the words.
You were his friend, weren’t you?
It had been so hard to write the song. Country is his forte, but he’d been brushing up on the genre, coming to gigs every week to get a feel for the style, a taste for Ollie’s voice. He chose the words so carefully, thinking about how they would sound carried on his voice, the shape they would make in the air.
It was finally ready to show him tonight. He hoped to maybe even hear a little of it in a rough form, perhaps hang out with his friend backstage “jamming” after the club closed.
We’re having a memorial night in a few days time if you want to come, man.
He’d really expected there to be more people. Broke Even are such a popular band.
Turnbull?
It’s a shame. Ollie deserves a full house every night.
Turnbull?
But maybe that would be okay. Maybe they could work on the song out front with a few drinks instead. That would be nice.
Do you need to sit down?
The One Liner looks so different with the lights up.
Turnbull? Do you understand?
“When are the band coming out?”
... Ollie’s dead.
Shaking. The leaves of the notebook rustle as he holds it up.
“I want to show him my song.”
***
He clutches the notebook to his chest and glances around the room. He’d expected there to be people around, but the lights are up and there’s no music. There should be music. He was late, thought he’d have to wait until the band were taking a break.
They haven’t found his body yet.
The Detective ex-Detective gives him one of those looks. He’s seen them before, a million times over; the soft head tilt, the full eyes that search his face. Looking for some sign that something’s registering, that something’s sinking in. What’s he supposed to be understanding? It’s comforting, though, knowing that the other man is waiting for a reaction, holding back and cushioning the words.
You were his friend, weren’t you?
It had been so hard to write the song. Country is his forte, but he’d been brushing up on the genre, coming to gigs every week to get a feel for the style, a taste for Ollie’s voice. He chose the words so carefully, thinking about how they would sound carried on his voice, the shape they would make in the air.
It was finally ready to show him tonight. He hoped to maybe even hear a little of it in a rough form, perhaps hang out with his friend backstage “jamming” after the club closed.
We’re having a memorial night in a few days time if you want to come, man.
He’d really expected there to be more people. Broke Even are such a popular band.
Turnbull?
It’s a shame. Ollie deserves a full house every night.
Turnbull?
But maybe that would be okay. Maybe they could work on the song out front with a few drinks instead. That would be nice.
Do you need to sit down?
The One Liner looks so different with the lights up.
Turnbull? Do you understand?
“When are the band coming out?”
... Ollie’s dead.
Shaking. The leaves of the notebook rustle as he holds it up.
“I want to show him my song.”
***