The Sound of Broken Glass Read Free Page B

moved among taller punters. Then she too was gone, but memory pricked him, and he felt dislocated, breathless, as if the air had been sucked from the room.
    Then he heard George laugh, a high-pitched snigger, and he was aware again of the blood on his thumb and of his own fury. “You bastards,” he said, turning on Nick and George. “What the hell do you think you were playing at?”
    George raised a full pint and gave him a mock salute. “To our guitar hero.”
    â€œYou bastards,” Andy said again. He was shaking, and wondered fleetingly if he was ill. “You deliberately—”
    A hand tugged at his sleeve. “Hey, mate.” The voice was slightly slurred.
    Turning, Andy found himself facing a bloke about his own age in a scruffy hoodie. When Andy frowned at him, the bloke pushed his hood back, revealing short brown hair that still managed to look unkempt. Light caught the wisp of a soul patch under a lower lip that was just a bit too full.
    â€œLook,” said Andy, “I’m in the middle of—”
    â€œAlways knew you’d be good. Nice guitar.” The guy reached towards the Strat.
    â€œDon’t touch my guitar.” Andy’s response was automatic. Memory was tugging at him again, and he felt queasy. “You—” He shook his head and peered again at the bloke’s face, wishing he’d worn his glasses. “Do I know you?”
    â€œHa bloody ha. Always the joker, our Andy.”
    What the hell was this bloke on about? Andy stepped back. “Look, just bugger off. And don’t call me—”
    â€œYou really don’t remember me?” Soul-patch sounded petulant now, and something in the tone blasted Andy’s vague perception of familiarity into full-blown recognition.
    â€œJoe?”
    â€œI knew it was you when I saw the poster for the band. I knew you’d come back someday.” Soul-patch smiled, showing white, even teeth that seemed at odds with his overall air of neglect. “I thought we could have a pint, maybe. Old times, yeah? Or are you too good for us now? Andy the rock star.”
    Soul-patch. Joe. Bloody Joe, grown up to be even more pathetic than he had been as a kid. The anger boiled up in Andy, so fierce it almost doubled him over. “Old times? You little shit.” He knew he must be shouting, but he didn’t care. “You—Why would you think I ever wanted to see your stupid face again?” Andy saw the crowd around them as a blur through a red, beating haze.
    â€œHey, man, it’s been years.” Joe was wheedling now. “Water under the bridge. Can’t we just for—”
    â€œForget? Don’t you even think it,” Andy spat at him, his hands balling into fists without his volition. Nick stepped up behind him, murmuring something, but Andy shoved him back with his shoulder.
    â€œI just wanted to be friends, that’s all—”
    â€œFriends? Friends? You should have thought about that then, shouldn’t you?” Andy went cold, the room fading until there was only a hum in his ears. He wanted nothing but to blot that face from his vision. “Just. Fuck. Off.” His right fist slammed into Joe’s face.
    Then Nick was wrapping his arms around him, dragging him backwards through the jumble of cables, pushing him down onto his amp.
    A new face loomed over him, a silver-haired man, booming at him in authoritarian tones. “. . .  can’t have that in a public place . . .  management should call the police . . .  assaulting customers, you little hooligan.”
    â€œHooligan?” Andy managed a strangled laugh. “You’ve no idea. Who the hell are you?” He struggled to get up, to tell this wanker what he thought of him, but Nick still had him firmly by the shoulders.
    â€œLeave the laddie be.” It was Tam’s voice. “And take care with the wee guitar,” Tam added, his