Page 5 of The Sound Between Us

2

let me out of here

Harrison

We’ve been in the hotel all of five minutes—cases still abandoned by the door—and Jamie’s already skinning up like it’s a matter of survival.

The suite has mirrors everywhere. I catch my reflection as I pass and almost don’t recognise myself.

Jamie’s dealer left a package at reception. Of course he did. Only Jamie Knox would have drugs couriered to the bloody Savoy like it’s a bottle of Perrier.

“Did you see the concierge’s face when they handed over that package?” I drift to the window. The Thames churns below in that rich, brooding brown. “Like they were delivering state secrets.”

“Bet he’s never had to handle Charlie with the afternoon post before.” Jamie grins, focused on his ritual.

“Remember when we used to sneak backstage?” I watch London through the smoked glass. “Now we courier Class A drugs to five-star hotels like it’s room service.”

“Everything’s easier when you’re rich,” he says. “Even the illegal shit.”

“You know what’s messed up? We never actually see the city anymore. Just filtered glimpses through hotel windows.”

“When’s the last time any of us took the Tube? Or queued for anything?” Jamie snorts.

A knock slices through the conversation. Jamie doesn’t flinch. He’s focused.

“That might be Dex,” I mutter.

Jamie grunts. They haven’t spoken since the Paris gig—Dex riffed too long, Jamie imploded. Said it made him look like “a ten-year-old playing in a garage.” Said it on the group chat and to that dodgy Rolling Stone freelancer, so now it’s in print. Immortalised forever.

“You’re going to have to apologise to him,” I say.

“For what? Being honest?”

“For being a dick in print.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jamie mutters.

“People don’t come to listen. They come to witness. To sing along.” I pull out my notebook, fingers finding it automatically. “Last week in Sydney I didn’t sing a full song—just stood there like a mannequin in a Burberry suit while the crowd did the heavy lifting.”

Jamie notices the notebook. “Feeling something coming, brother?”

And just like that—poof. The flicker dies.

“No.”

“We need a new album,” he says, smoke curling beneath the no-smoking sign.

“You write it then.”

Another knock. I practically sprint to answer it, too relieved for interruption.

Dex—the real Dex—leans against the doorframe, sunglasses still on even indoors. His stubble looks accidental, but it’s not.

“Where’s the fucking bastard?”

I thumb over my shoulder. He breezes past without another word, and I shut the door. Stay outside of it. Let them destroy each other for once.

I tug my baseball cap low and slouch to the lift, thumb pressing the button.