Booth Number Two

Muffled infant cries in the dirty alley. The sound seemed to be coming from one of the metal arched lock-ups lined along the side. Deadened drum beats also pounded through the battleship hull, rusty steel masking bass drum patterns, with snare drum cracks, cymbal smacks.

The beats stopped.

The baby’s cries filled the alley once again.

A blue rusty sign, two doors along, scraped in the breeze.

Nine Months Before

Harry Lighterman woke at 11.30 am. He lifted his head, placed it back on the pillow with a groan and extracted a flattened beer can stuck to his back. He turned to the window. Sunlight, diffused through grey fabric, sat beyond his room. Beyond that, a world out of reach.

He heaved his limbs to the edge of the groaning mattress, his barrel body bent over and he fumbled to the night stand for his fag packet. Lighting up and smashing his body back onto the bed, he blew out to the ceiling. Smokey curls drifted up to peeling paint. Harry broke wind, only just audible under the mound of flesh, fat and bone; the starting gun to the morning routine.

Jumping up, Harry lurched to the loo and sat. What followed, happened behind a closed door, even though he lived alone. The noises frightening, almost violent, as a freight train of kebabs and oven chips re-entered the world via the interchange of his bowels.

As he flushed, sending the previous night’s shame onto the next station, he noticed his phone flashing and remembered it was his birthday. The only reason he knew this was because the text told him:

Happy birthday from Drum Shed!

Get a free practice session on us

Try one of our state of the art drum kits in our air-conditioned drum booth

You’ll love it so much you won’t want to stop!

Call Dez on 07926781242 to make a booking

Harry stayed seated as he scrolled through his messages.

How did they know my birthday? Fucking spam. Must’ve signed up sometime and forgot. Haven’t played in years. What was I thinking.

He dialled the number. It answered after just one ring.

‘Drum Shed. Dez speaking.’

The voice was American, a woman’s but hard, like sandy phlegm. A female Miles Davis.

‘It was about the free drum session. It’s my birthday. Harry Lighterman.’

‘One moment please, the voice rasped.’

The phone clicked.

Harry waited patiently on the seat, his left leg beginning to go numb.

‘We’ve got a free session this afternoon at 3pm. Got your own sticks?’

‘Er. yeah I have. 3pm is good. How does it work?’

‘We’ll send a code. Booth Number Two. To enter you just click it in the keypad. It’s next to the garage. Look for the blue sign.’

‘Righto. Great. I’ll see you at ...’

The phone clicked off.

He opened the bedroom cupboard and a bicep stretcher fell out and landed on his foot. He hopped up swearing and clutched his toes, balancing, then and fell back onto the cracking bed. He massaged his foot and looked back cursing the cupboard. An object slipped out of one of the lower shelves.

It was his old vinyl drumstick pouch.

He bent down and picked up the smooth cold object, like an oversized pencil case. He blew white caked dust off its black surface and unzipped it. Inside neat compartments were a pair of chunky C sticks, a pair of wire brushes and some stick brushes. He placed his hands over them and breathed in resin woodsmoke.

Squashed alongside the brushes was a piece of yellowed paper. He unfolded it and read through the old set list. The last set list.

Day One

That afternoon Harry set off towards Kingsland Road. In his hand a water bottle and his drumstick pouch. The weather was good and the heat prickled his neck. He was regretting the spongy joggers chafing his inner thighs.

He looked down at his phone as he approached the alley. It was supposed to be up on the left somewhere. Just past the pub. He craned his neck to see of the pub was open.

A Rasta with a tubular sound system strapped to the front of his bike approached in hot slow motion. Fat wheels like a motorbike melting into the tarmac. Big soft saddle, slung so low his knees were almost scraping the ground as he passed. He greeted a hello and goodbye as the bass patterns drifted away down the shimmering road.

On the corner, a warehouse building with a steel grated smile signposted the opening of the alley. He turned into its cobbled entrance and peered down its length. Grassy tufts poking up from broken pavings wobbled in the breeze and a blank wall could be seen at its end. On the alley’s left there was an old blue metal sign that read D Motors. The garage shutter was all the way up and a pair of blue overalled legs could be seen poking out from underneath a beaten up VW van. The legs moved out as he approached. They stood, jumped up and held out a hand.

‘I’m Desirae. S’ppose you’re Harry.’ her gravelly voice said.

She was much younger than she’d sounded on the phone.

‘Oh cheers. So you’re a mechanic too?, he said pointing to the sign.

‘Right. The garage was first then I got the idea for the drum booths after. Now they make more than all this shit.’

She laughed and pointed to the van with its mechanical guts strewn out on the ground.

‘How long have you had the place?’

‘Oh longer than you can imagine Harry.’

Tattoos covered her dark sinewy arms all the way to her slender neck. Faces stared. Eyes looked left and right among green snakes twisting up to red sky. She had one of those faces that kept you guessing about her age. Thirty, maybe thirty five. The next minute, twenty two as the light changed.

‘Harry? Harry?’

‘Yeah sorry.’

‘Just click the code I sent. The handle goes up not down. Call me if you have any problems.’

‘Righto. Yes.’

‘Oh Harry.’

He turned on his heel back to her.

‘Yes?’

‘That kit. In booth two. It’s special. Kinda easy but hard. Once you get it. It’ll get you. If you see what I mean.’

A light wind blew the sign as the alley shadowed under sudden cloud. A moment frozen that seemed like an hour. Desirae’s eyes green in the dark matching the eyes of the tattoo faces.

‘Right.’

Harry pretended to understand and turned to the red arched door. He looked down on his phone and punched in the number and a pulled the handle up and stepped up through the threshold.

Green tattoo faces turned. Sleeping children waking from the longest sleep, whispering, giggling a birthday party excitement.

Inside was a dark corridor. The AC hissed gently. The air was artificially cool but welcome. It had its own smell. Like cold plastic. Facing him was another door on a raised step with a red-lit number two above it. To the right the corridor receded into darkness, each door showing its number like a drum kit hotel, thumps and thwacks coming from a few of them.

Harry breathed in the plasticky air, stepped up to number two, closing the door behind him. You had to pull it hard towards you as the heavy handle sucked inwards. Deep Heat mixed with damp sweat met his nose. The space was like a cupboard but comfortable enough to just about move around. On one side of the wall was a small photo of John Bonham and the other, Bernard Purdie. The kit looked standard. One floor tom on the right, snare in the middle flanked by two raised toms in front, high-hat left and cymbals high up, left and right. He unzipped his case and sat, took out his stick brushes and squashed in his waxy earplugs.

What about some basic snare patterns. That would work.

Harry adjusted the seat height, fidgeted his bum and tapped out a paradiddle, slow but steady, making sure to use the bass drum on his right foot as a metronome, his left a counter beat opening the high-hat.

Dada dodo dodo dada - Dada dodo dodo dada - Dada dodo dodo dada - Dada dodo dodo dada

After a while he was rapping out a solid pattern. He stopped and adjusted the high-hat and started again faster.

Dada dodo dodo dada - Dada dodo dodo dada - Dada dodo dodo dada - Dada dodo dodo dada

The snare felt like a concrete wall but the feeling was good. Familiar.

Not bad.

As he played out the pattern, he noticed a small mirror facing him just above the bass drum. For some reason it was placed exactly at torso height showing Harry’s wobbling waistline through his t-shirt. He remembered why he didn’t have a mirror in his flat.

He switched the same beat to the raised toms, alternating between the two, interspersed with cracks of the snare, moving faster, the bass drum bouncing either side of those beats. The kit woke up slowly, softened. But only just.

Dada bobo bobo dada - Dada bobo bobo dada - Dada bobo bobo dada - Dada bobo bobo dada - Dada bobo bobo dada - Dada bobo bobo dada - Dada bobo bobo dada

Bollocks.

His stick slipped out of his hand and went thwacking to the back of the bass drum.

He bent over between the bass drum and the floor tom, pulling out the stick. He saw the band of horizontal flesh poking out of his t-shirt in the belly mirror, pulled down his shirt and wriggled on the drum stool.

This time he crossed his right stick over his left on the high-hat and tapped out a four bar beat opening the cymbal ever so, with a hiss on the ‘and’ in groups of four.

Onetwo hiss - Onetwothree - Onetwo hiss - Onetwothree - Onetwo hiss - Onetwothree Onetwo hiss - Onetwothree

When Harry slapped the snare he felt a tingling in his fingers and stopped. Flexed the fingers on his right hand. He smoothed his thumbs along the sticks and weighed them in each hand as he stretched his shoulders back. He added snare drum on the three, it felt lush and forgiving. Just the right amount of tension.

Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE - Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE - Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE - Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE

The snare snapped back as he looked up to Bernard. Again the tingling. This time he kept going and it moved to his right foot, slipping around his sole as the bass drum flicked back.

Then Harry felt it. A loosening. A seesawing as his calves loosened.

The separate elements on their own simple. Together they created a rubber band, a syncopated heartbeat, bouncing along like a puppy in a sunny park.

Harry flicked out tom notes every eight bars and bounced them back to the snare in perfect time. Snapping back the riff. Tight.

Not bad.

He felt a rising in his belly. A sort of tingling mixed with a dull ache. He pumped out the beat bar by bar.

Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE - Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE - Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE - Onetwo hiss HIT THE SNARE

Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round

He only noticed her standing there when he saw the mirror flutter. Harry stopped and pulled out his earplugs.

‘Like it?’ She said.

‘Yeah. Good. Feels good. I didn’t see you there.’

She had her arms crossed without saying another word. The AC hissed.

Harry looked down at his phone and noticed the time.

‘God sorry. I didn’t realize it’s an hour already.’

‘Hour fifteen actually. You all good. Glad you had a good time Harry.’

‘Can I book again?’

‘Sure come to the garage when you’re ready.’

She stepped out and left him alone once more.

Harry stood back from the stool and zipped up his drum case. Before leaving, he placed his palm on the skin of the snare and tightened the high-hat nut.

As he stepped out into the alley, he had to shade his eyes. Desirae was tapping on her laptop in the shadowed garage opening. Inside the oily space, stacked car tyres leaned against an old guitar amp and engine parts jostled with stacks of records.

‘You all set?’

‘Yes all good. It’s great to play again. Been a while.’

‘Same time next week? How’s the kit?’

‘Yeah it’s good. Actually is it free tomorrow and can I book the same room? I see what you mean. It’s pretty comfortable. Like it.’

‘Sure. Same time?’

‘That would be great.’

Harry made the payment with his phone. He thought he saw Desirae wink at him out of the darkened canopy. As he turned he tripped on a loose cobble stone and stepped slowly away hoping she hadn’t notice. The air swept up the alley and coolly ruffled the hairs on his sweaty legs. He arced his arms around and back as he walked up the road.

That night Harry wasn’t hungry. He just showered and flopped into bed. Lying, he stretched his stiff calf muscles before falling into one of the deepest sleeps he had ever remembered.

Day Two

Harry opened his gummy eyes and stretched out. The light outside was already white. His legs felt like elastic, yet didn’t seem to reach the end of the bed. He looked at his toes poking near the edge and realised he was further up the mattress, with his head wedged up against the end of the bedstead.

He swung his legs round and scraped slippered feet over to the kitchenette and reached up to the cupboard above the microwave for the cereal packet and poured out a big bowl. Stretching to the fridge he sniffed the milk carton, closing the door with a back flip of his foot and filled the bowl up until it popped.

Within three minutes the bowl was gone. He lifted it up to his mouth and drank the last dregs of milk. Liquid dribbled down his chin before he reached for the box again and poured in another helping. The milk followed and he shoved his spoon in like a mechanical digger excavating for a new building.

When he finished he sat back and let out a gentle burp and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

He then felt his stomach. Then his sides and stood. He looked at his dusty reflection in the kitchen window, unclear in the blue light of morning. He opened the cupboard door to shade the window, turning his profile and scrunching his eyes as he peered at himself.

In the shower, he lathered up soap suds and massaged his pits. The water seemed more streamlined as it slipped down over him. His shoulders were slightly stiff but less hunched. He rotated his arms a little and turned the heat up on the showerhead.

He turned off the water and stood dripping on the floor towel. His body had a certain lightness to it, more of a bounce.

As he searched for his shorts a text came through:

Hey it’s Drum Shed here!

You’re session for 3pm begins in two hours

Your code is 23252

Enjoy!

D

He pulled on his shorts and tied the string belt and rooted around for some fresh socks and a t-shirt.

In the street he walked past the Patels and Mrs Patel looked at him as she arranged the postcards in the window of her shop. She usually said hello to Harry. This time she just looked. He missed the late wave she offered as he turned left to the main road.

As he crossed at the traffic lights an open top Merc with music blaring idled. Its engine vibrated into the hot tarmac. Two girls. Shades. Springy clean hair. They giggled behind their hands watching him. The lights changed and the car pulled away, the girl honking her horn as their laughter faded away. Harry just looked slowly up from his phone and then carried on to Drum Shed.

Desirae greeted him as he turned into the alley. She was wiping black oil off her hands with an orange rag. Harry noticed there were letters after the D on the blue sign. He squinted up trying to read it.

‘Harry.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Number Two’s ready for ya.’

‘Thanks.’

He stepped up to the booth. Inside, the smell was familiar. He sucked the door closed and sat. Squeezed down into the drum stool.

Let’s see.

He opened and closed the high-hat.

Hiss stup - Hiss stup

He looked in the mirror and saw his torso. The way his T-shirt hung. Looked down at his waist and turned sideways in the mirror. Looked at his forearms. The hairs looked different.

He counted in with the high-hat and went straight in with the groove he was playing last time. The metronomic precision even took him by surprise and he stopped after just two bars. Laughing. Looking at both his hands holding the sticks.

Fuck.

He started up again. Each bar folding round repeating in a graceful arc.

Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round

As he pumped away, the tune played along in his head. Each note of the keyboard riff playing off his beats, the bass undulating alongside. The guitar floating on top.

Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round

Then he began to disappear. He hadn’t had the feeling for twenty years or more. A cross between meditation and running. Harmony and concentration in each heartbeat. A focus on the centre. Going up and through. Time stopped still and moved forward all at once.

Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round

Outside, the metal sign swung as the sky greyed overhead filling the whole alley. Storm clouds grouped together in conspiratorial huddles. Whispering their murderous rumbles. A scraggy one-eared kitten mewed and darted for cover under an old motorbike engine.

The first rain drops squeezed out and tapped a watery riff on bricks and tarped cars like an electronic metronome. Irregular but rhythmic. Desirae pulled down her shutter.

Inside Booth Number Two, Harry played faster and faster.

Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round

Faster.

Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round - Round and round - Up and down - Side to side - Going round

Faster.

He looked wide eyed at his hands and feet moving in fluid sync. His body a separate entity. Beyond his control. Automatic.

His hands moved around the kit effortlessly firing off drum fills around the toms and back to the riff. As he did he felt the pull. The stretch. Then the feeling of everything changing. The walls moved away. The ceiling up. The kit larger. His skin shrank. Limbs shortened. As one foot was unable to hit the bass drum the other could no longer play the high-hat.

He was now just playing the snare drum beat. Strong and steady. The sticks fat in his hands. It sounded strange and detached. Pathetic. Alone. The sticks clattered to the floor.

Outside in the alley, the sky was wringing out its last drops. Patting brick and metal in gentle dings and taps. The VW van sparkled like new in the emerging sun. An adult cat vibrated water off his soggy body and searched for sun-streaked bricks. He folded his one ear over his head with a wet paw.

Deadened drum beats pounded through the battleship hull lockups. But not from Booth Number Two. From there, the baby’s cries filled the alley.

The blue sign, rain-washed, dripped in the sun. It read Dorian Motors.

The garage shutters lifted and Desirae stepped out into the alley and put the call through.

‘Yeah. We’ve got another one. You can pick up the child at five. The usual place.’