Page 42 of Too Close To Home

“It were a busy set and at the end I were…somewhere else.”

Deacon tapped the wet pen against the rim of the mug. “So you don’t know what she looks like?”

“No.”

“You’re telling me…” disbelief scaled Deacon’s voice with every word, “that you’ve sacked off the jobs you were whining about last night, jobs you said you desperately needed the cash for, to interrogate me about some girl I supposedly flirted with, who’s now missing and you’re running around town trying to find… and you don’t even know what she looks like?”

When he said it like that, it sounded unhinged.

Jake worked his jaw, biting down on the inside of his cheek until the metallic tang bloomed across his tongue. “Aye.”

“So how exactly are you planning on knowing when you’ve found her?” Deacon lifted the mug, eyebrows raised. “If she was stood in here right now, using a fake name, buying my two bed on Greenacre Lane… you’d have no clue.”

Jake dropped into the chair opposite Deacon’s desk and braced his elbows on his knees. He often felt like an idiot. Occupational hazard. Drummer. Roofer. Ex-con. Even before all that, he’d never been the brains of anything. Robyn had been the clever one. The one who’d filled out forms properly. Who’d talked about going back to college when Teddy started pre-school. But they’d grown up on a council estate in a Yorkshire market town—Dad roofing until his knuckles split and his wrists gave out, Mum stretching pennies into dinners and pretending that counted as ambition. Brains hadn’t exactly been the family currency.

Right now, though, “idiot” felt generous.

Deacon filled another mug of coffee from the shit machine, then came back over and lowered himself into the big leather chair. He passed a mug across. “I didn’t take anyone home last night. Went alone for once.”

Jake took the coffee, sipped it, and winced. “Jesus.”

“Artisan.” Deacon ahhh’d then wrinkled his nose. “You get used to it.”

“She was last seen heading onto the Fell Edge path.”

“Right.” Deacon gestured vaguely at Jake. “Explains this, then.”

“Aye.”

“Look, I’m no detective, but even in estate agency we like to have a photo of the thing we’re trying to sell. So if you’re going to throw yourself into this, maybe start with knowing what she looks like.”

Jake widened his eyes. “Did you speak to her?”

Deacon blew on his coffee. “I speak to everyone. Comes with the job.” He took another sip. “Still went home alone.”

Jake frowned. “How come?”

Deacon shrugged.

“You always pull on gig night.” Jake held his gaze and watched the half-swallowed grin. The guilt. Got it immediately. “Ivy.”

There it was. The not-quite-proud, not-quite-ashamed shrug.

Ivy. The eternal encore.

On-again, off-again. Repeat.

Deacon loved her. Jake didn’t doubt that. But he also loved the noise. The girls reaching for him on stage as if they could pull him down into them. Loved the charge of being wanted by someone new every night. Being watched. Chosen. Applauded. Saying no to them, consistently, took a kind of restraint Deacon had never quite mastered. And Ivy had started out as one of those fans herself. So she knew the girls who came to their gigs. From nineteen, she’d trailed Static Youth from one sweat-slicked pub to the next, convinced fate had scribbled her name on a laminate and hung it round her neck. She’d hovered long enough, smiled wide enough, stayed late enough. Eventually, she landed him. Declared it destiny. And for a while, Deacon believed her.

But he’d get restless. Or bored. Or drunk enough to mistake ego for clarity. Then end it in a blaze of certainty. Swear it was for the best. And a week later he’d spiral. Hate himself. Miss her. Ring her at two in the morning, wasted and high, because silence felt heavier than pride. Same set list. Different venue.

It’d been like that for years.

Probably why Jake had never bothered with anything serious. Watching that cycle was enough to put anyone off. It looked exhausting. Living in perpetual soundcheck, forever tuning up, never committing to the final note. Like being stuck on the high hat. But when Ivy was back in rotation, Deacon would start talking about quitting. Growing up. Settling down.

Jake hated that part most of all.

Because the band wasn’t a phase for him.