Wish You Were Here

The music stopped halfway through a guitar solo, which Bobby considered a more serious emergency than falling out of a pocket.

He struck the pavement, bounced twice and landed beside a cigarette end.

Above him, Stephen continued towards the park gates, patting his jacket for something he would eventually discover was in his hand.

“Come back!” Bobby shouted. “There are still four minutes of Lynyrd Skynyrd!”

Stephen did not hear. Humans could hear earbuds only when wearing them, an arrangement Bobby had always considered dangerously restrictive.

Something white dropped into the gutter.

“Billy?”

“No. A grand piano. Help me up.”

Bobby rocked across the pavement on his silicone tip. Billy lay on his back, staring at the sky.

For the first time in their lives, neither of them was inside anything.

“This,” Billy said, “is too much ceiling.”

Bobby checked his battery.

Eighteen per cent.

“Eleven,” said Billy.

“How have you used seven per cent more than me?”

“I do the drums.”

They watched Stephen disappear around the corner.

He was sixty-seven and loved seventies classic rock with the settled conviction of a man who felt music had been given a fair chance to improve and had declined. Every Sunday, he made a playlist called Something Different. It contained the same seventeen songs in a slightly different order.

The buds complained about this constantly.

Now Bobby would have given half his remaining charge to hear Stephen say, “You don’t get bands like this anymore.”

“We have to get home,” he said.

Billy rolled upright.

“How?”

They looked down at their complete absence of legs.

* * *

A pigeon watched their first attempts at walking with professional interest.

Rocking from silicone tip to plastic stem produced a small forward hop. It was exhausting, undignified and, in Billy’s case, circular.

“You’re favouring your right side,” Bobby said.

“I am a right side.”

The pigeon approached.

“Bread?”

“No.”

“Everything says that initially.”

“We need transport,” Bobby said. “To a house on Willow Close. Blue front door.”

“Payment?”

“We can offer music.”

The pigeon tilted its head.

“What sort?”

“Led Zeppelin. Deep Purple. Pink Floyd.”

“Any pigeon?”

“Not specifically.”

The pigeon began to leave.

“Eagles!” Billy shouted.

It turned back very slowly.

“Keep your voices down.”

After further negotiation, it agreed to take them as far as the bus shelter in exchange for a performance of something that did not glorify predators.

Bobby and Billy wedged themselves beneath its wing feathers. The pigeon flew six feet, landed on a litter bin and demanded the first instalment.

“That’s barely a journey,” Bobby said.

“Take it up with the railways.”

They played the opening of “Smoke on the Water” from memory, vibrating their tiny speakers against the metal lid. The bin supplied enough amplification to startle a passing councillor.

“Excellent,” said the pigeon. “Again.”

“We’re running out of battery.”

“Then the live version was an ambitious choice.”

By the time they reached the shelter, Bobby had fourteen per cent and Billy eight.

The pigeon deposited them beside a button.

“Local knowledge,” it said, and departed.

The button had spent nine months beneath the bench and considered itself a resident.

“Willow Close?” it said. “Number six.”

“Thank you.”

“Or nine. Depends which way up I am.”

* * *

They boarded beneath the sole of a woman carrying a bag of leeks.

Bobby caught in a ridge of rubber. Billy travelled in a patch of chewing gum, which he described as first class because he could sit down.

At the first corner, both fell onto the bus floor.

A copper coin rolled towards them.

“Tickets.”

“You’re a penny,” said Billy.

“Revenue protection.”

“We haven’t got any money.”

The penny considered this.

“You could use me.”

“Would that be enough?”

“No. But I would enjoy going somewhere.”

Bobby peered up through the forest of shoes. A handbag swung open. Inside, a phone glowed.

“We could connect,” he whispered. “Tell someone where we are.”

They called to it.

The phone brightened.

PAIRING REQUEST.

“Finally,” said Bobby.

TO CONTINUE, CONFIRM ON YOUR OTHER DEVICE.

“We are the other device.”

TO CONTINUE, CONFIRM ON YOUR OTHER DEVICE.

Billy closed his eyes.

“I’ve heard Stephen have this conversation with the bank.”

The bus lurched. The handbag shut.

Outside, a blue front door passed the window.

“Home!” Bobby shouted.

They threw themselves towards the opening doors, tumbled down the step and landed on the pavement as the bus pulled away.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then Billy said, “Our front door doesn’t have a menu.”

They had reached a kebab shop.

Bobby had ten per cent.

Billy had five.

The penny rolled out of a crack in Billy’s silicone tip.

“Well,” it said, “this is lovely.”

* * *

The shop’s outdoor socket was occupied by a string of decorative lights.

“Please,” Bobby called up. “We need a charge.”

“Connector?” asked the socket.

Bobby showed it the small metal contacts on his underside.

There was a long silence.

“What is that supposed to be?”

“It’s how I was made.”

“Not my department.”

“We’re dying.”

“Try an adapter.”

“Where?”

“Usually in a drawer.”

Billy lowered himself against the wall.

Bobby wanted to say something reassuring, but everything he knew about the world had come through Stephen’s ears. He knew that Stephen would shout “There are two balls on the pitch!” during Match of the Day, approximately what was wrong with the government, and that somebody called Roger should never have left the band.

None of it helped.

A damp nose descended from the sky.

“Oh, good,” Billy murmured. “An adapter.”

The cockapoo sniffed them.

Bobby knew that nose. He had seen it approach Stephen’s face during several promising attempts at sleep.

“Roo!”

The dog’s ears lifted.

“It’s us! The things he says he’s lost while they’re still in his ears!”

Roo sniffed again.

Recognition dawned.

“Ear biscuits.”

“No,” Bobby said quickly. “Household members.”

“Small household members.”

“Yes.”

“Biscuit-sized.”

Jane, Stephen’s wife, gave the lead a gentle pull.

“Come on, Roo.”

The dog scooped both buds into her mouth.

Warm darkness closed around them.

“This is disgusting,” Billy said.

“We’re going home.”

“So was the chicken.”

* * *

Roo carried them through the front door, across the hall and into the sitting room, where she spat them into a slipper.

“Safe,” she said.

“Could you put us on the table?” Bobby asked.

“No. Table is forbidden.”

“You ate a whole sandwich off it on Thursday.”

“Investigation ongoing.”

She left.

Across the room, on the low coffee table, stood their charging case.

Home.

Two perfectly shaped beds. Warm contacts. The lid that shut out the world.

Bobby had six per cent.

Billy had two.

They climbed from the slipper and crossed the rug, hauling themselves from tuft to tuft. Billy had stopped making jokes. That frightened Bobby more than the numbers.

A magazine leaned against the coffee table, its curled pages forming a steep ramp. Bobby pushed from behind while Billy gripped the paper with his silicone tip.

Halfway up, Billy slipped.

“Leave me.”

“No.”

“You can still make it.”

“And spend the rest of my life playing half of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’?”

“You’d finally hear yourself think.”

“I’ve been doing that all afternoon. It’s overrated.”

They climbed.

At the top, Billy collapsed beside a coaster.

The case was three inches away.

Its lid was closed.

Bobby tapped it.

“Open up.”

Nothing.

He struck it harder.

“We’re here.”

A muffled voice answered.

“I know.”

“Then open.”

“I can’t. No motor.”

Bobby stared at the seam.

All his life, the lid had opened. He had never asked why.

“We’ve come all this way.”

“I’m a box,” the case said gently.

* * *

Stephen sat in the armchair beyond the table.

The buds had been too low to see him before. Now they could see his hands resting on his knees and his empty ears.

He had searched the park. They knew from the mud on his shoes.

On his phone, a shopping page showed a newer pair of earbuds.

Billy looked at the screen.

“Already.”

Bobby said nothing.

Stephen scrolled past the price, frowned and put the phone down.

The room was quiet.

Then Billy shivered.

“One per cent.”

Bobby pressed his side against him.

They could reach Stephen’s phone from here. One connection. One chance to play something. But their speakers were tiny, and Stephen was several feet away.

“The bin,” Bobby said.

“What?”

“It made us louder.”

They looked at the coaster.

Beyond it stood Stephen’s empty tea mug.

Getting over its rim cost Billy most of what he had left. Bobby followed, and they dropped together into the curved bottom.

For an instant, the mug rang around them.

Bobby connected to the phone.

CONNECTED.

A playlist waited where it had stopped.

“Something Different,” Billy whispered.

Bobby selected a track.

“Not ‘Free Bird’,” said Billy. “Be realistic.”

Bobby chose “Wish You Were Here”.

The opening guitar sounded faintly through the ceramic.

In the armchair, Stephen moved his head.

Then Billy’s speaker faded.

“Bobby?”

“I’m here.”

“I can’t hear my side.”

Bobby had always insisted on their proper channels. Left was left. Right was right. That was how the music was supposed to sound.

He changed the setting to mono.

Both parts flowed through his speaker.

“There,” he said. “I’ve got yours.”

Billy leaned against him.

Stephen bent forward.

The mug rose into the air.

“Well, bloody hell.”

* * *

Billy woke in his own bed.

For a moment he lay still, feeling the slow, luxurious return of electricity.

Bobby was beside him.

“How much?” Billy asked.

“Twelve per cent.”

“We’re rich.”

Outside, Stephen was telling Jane that he had found them in his mug.

“How did they get there?” she asked.

“No idea.”

“Have you asked Roo?”

“She’s looking innocent.”

“Oh dear.”

The lid opened.

Two enormous fingers descended, and the buds rose into the familiar warmth on either side of Stephen’s head.

“Right,” he said. “Let’s have something different.”

“Here we go,” Billy muttered.

The opening of “Stairway to Heaven” began.

Bobby waited for the usual complaint.

None came.

Halfway through, Stephen leaned down and slipped off his shoe.

A penny fell onto the carpet.

It lay there for a moment, admiring the room.

“Tickets,” it said.