Only then did Becky at last turn to Ryan.
“Okay, let’s address the elephant in the field. Got your schedule?”
Ryan nodded. “Yes, I do. I—”
Jess watched him pull a sheet of folded paper out of his pocket.
“Well, okay. No need for that. Been some changes.”
Jess didn’t know what was going on as Becky pulled a similarly folded sheet of paper from her back pocket.
“The festival director, me, some others on the committee — shifted some things.”
She watched Becky hand the paper to Ryan who took it as if whatever was on it was unwanted.
Jess had a sudden sinking feeling. We’ve been cancelled. The roster too jam-packed. Some band or other had to go.
In short, no Cherringfest debut for the hometown girl.
Her eyes fell on Ryan who — she guessed — might be feeling the same thing.
But then she saw his eyes widen and, amazingly, a smile spread across his face — and did Ryan ever have such a great smile when he gave in to it!
“Is this … this real?”
Jess couldn’t restrain herself any more. Even Alfie, who made a virtue of disinterest in everything that didn’t have to do with his playing, took a small step forward.
Ryan handed Jess the revised schedule.
She scanned the sheet to discover the change. Then she looked up at the stage manager, about as excited as she had ever been.
“Wait. Hang on! This says Saturday! But we’re supposed to be playing tomorrow — Friday?”
“That’s right,” said Becky, grinning. “Now look at the line-up.”
Jess stared at the sheet of paper, hardly believing. “We’re the big act? Saturday night? Headlining?”
“What happened to Kindred?” said Ryan. “That’s their slot.”
Jess still couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Kindred had to pull out,” said Becky. “Whole band came down with flu. Their UK tour is off.”
“So we’re playing instead of Kindred. Wow …” said Alfie, and Jess could see he too was in a daze from this news.
“Fans will love it,” said Becky. “And we’re convinced Unlost is ready for the slot — and the spotlight.”
But Jess had to also shake her head.
“But what about Lizard? They were closing Sunday. Wouldn’t they be expecting to switch to the Saturday slot?”
“They might. But it’s not happening.”
Aha, thought Jess. That explains it all.
Nick Taylor accosting Ryan. The glares from the group’s drummer, Will, and bassist, Charlie Wickes … and even the icy-cold looks of the roadies.
This was such good news.
But it had made some very high-profile, really legendary, performers very angry.
Ryan said the next words.
“Thank you. We’ll put on the best show of our lives.”
“Oh, I imagine you will.”
For a second nobody moved. The news … just too incredible. Then Jess realised something.
“Our fans,” she said. “Lot of them coming just for tomorrow. One-day tickets. Kids on a budget. They’ll be disappointed.”
“Right. Thought of that already,” said Becky. “So — here’s the idea — you can play a secret set tomorrow night, real late, on one of the small stages.”
“Play twice?” said Alfie, his face serious.
“You not up for it?” said Becky.
“Can’t wait,” said Alfie, grinning for once.
Then Becky Wade said: “Well, I’ve got a thousand and one things to do. Don’t forget — you guys still have a sound check tomorrow.”
She took some steps away.
“Other than that, I’d say tonight: relax, have a few beers, catch up with people. Oh, and then do get some rest — you’re going to need it.”
As the stage manager walked back to the stage, Jess turned to the two other members of Unlost.
Ryan nodded at both of them. “I guess, guys — well — I guess we’ve arrived.”
All Jess could think was that a little over forty-eight hours from now, this spot where she stood would be filled with people. The three of them would be on the great Valley Stage, doing the Saturday-night headliner set for Cherringfest.
And there was only one word for that: unbelievable.
3. Fire Warning
Ryan drained his bottle of coke, put it down on a table, and looked around the crowded bar area.
Although the festival didn’t open to the public until tomorrow, the marquee beer tent was packed — a cloudy night had fallen, and all the roadies, crew, tech guys, caterers and stall-holders were grabbing the chance to let their hair down before the full-on, non-stop work started the following day.
In the corner, he spotted a couple of guitarists he knew from London, playing an improvised acoustic set — not that he could hear them over the chatter and laughter.
He peered around the bar, looking for Jess.
And there she was — talking to what he knew was a bunch of execs and journalists. Couple of guys he recognised from the label, also probably excited at the change to Unlost’s booking. Headliners!
And standing close by — that annoying jerk Zak Petersen from the PR company.
He smiled, deciding to stay back. Jess was so good at that stuff. Whereas, well, he knew he was useless with all that.
I don’t suffer fools gladly, he always told Jess. Just keep me away from the lot of them!
But in truth, not that he ever said this to Jess, he’d never liked being in public. Not since he was a kid.
Though he loved being on stage. That was different. To perform! So different.
He checked his watch, suddenly feeling knackered. Been a long day.
Nearly midnight now. Alfie had gone hours ago — got himself a nice quiet AirBnB in the village. Leaving the band’s Winnebago to just him and Jess. Which suited Ryan just fine. Be good to be alone with Jess for this amazing event.
Time for one more coke — wait for Jess? he thought.
He looked over at the bar where a bunch of the Lizard roadies stood, drinking with Nick Taylor and the drummer, laughing. As he watched, a couple of them turned his way. Then — as if one of them muttered something — the laughter stopped.
All those guys stoked on too many beers — and who knew what else? Maybe not a good idea, he thought.
He headed over to Jess’s table, taking care to stay in the crowd. Caught her eye — made a “gotta go sleep” gesture. She took out her phone, fingers moving fast on the screen.
His own phone pinged with her message: Love you. Won’t be late. Warm the bed for me xxx.
He grinned at her, saw her turn back to her table to re-join the conversation, laughing.
Then he headed for the exit, suddenly hungry, thinking just maybe that burger truck might still be open on his way back to the artists’ area.
*
Ryan waited as a security guard checked his lanyard — with its AAA stamp, “access all areas” — and then he walked into the fenced-in artists’ area to head to the band’s Winnebago.
Other bands had their assorted vehicles spread out, hooked up to makeshift electric outlets. A few small groups sitting outside in the shadows or by candlelight — practising, chatting.
Waiting for their big moment.
Though, for those bands fated for one of the small stages, maybe not so big.
In the far corner of the field, dominating the whole area, he saw the Lizard Dreamliner — a massive Winnebago that could easily sleep ten, but apparently was occupied just by Nick Taylor.
That idiot, thought Ryan, slipping past in the darkness. Then he shook the thought off, remembering who was now headlining on Saturday night.
He nodded “goodnight” to a passing security guard. Quite a few of them dotted the area, walking around. Nothing oppressive, just rent-a-cops keeping a watchful eye on things.
In the darkness it took Ryan a few minutes to locate the
Unlost van among the lines of band trucks of all shapes and sizes, but finally he found it.
That van, over the last year, had been their home away from home. Beaten up in places, with more than a few dings, and, as to amenities, it was definitely not state of the art.
But it ran okay enough, and carried all their equipment and instruments just fine — and could easily sleep the three of them when it had to.
He fumbled in his jeans pocket for the key, unlocked the side door, and popped in.
As he did, he sniffed. Something in the air, almost unnoticed.
Probably, he thought, the exhaust from all the arriving vans and trucks.
He shut the door behind him and flicked the light switch. Nothing. No power. He swore to himself, and then thought, Hey, that’s weird.
The trip down from London had to have charged the battery for the living area. And he could have sworn he’d seen the display showing a full charge when they arrived that afternoon.
But it wasn’t a disaster.
All he had to do was drive around and find one of the on-site power rigs to hook up to. He stepped back out of the truck and looked about.
There. A power rig just a few yards away.
Walking round to the driver’s door, he opened it and swung up into the big padded seat, hoping the main battery hadn’t lost its charge too.
Then he put the key in — no keyless ignition here — and leaned forward to start her up.
*
With one hand on the key, another on the steering wheel, Ryan turned the key in the ignition.
The engine, recently serviced, turned over quickly.
What happened next, literally occurred in a flash.
This model Winnebago had a small protruding hood — but the engine still sat close and tight to the vehicle’s front seat. And, like a rippling veil of red and orange, a shimmering sheet of flames suddenly burst from the hood above the engine.
For a moment, Ryan couldn’t believe it, almost like it was some kind of special effect in the movies. It took seconds for his brain to register what was happening.
The engine … is on fire.
That waving veil of flame started to spread over the hood and build, all in mere moments, so that the flames now rose up the driver’s side window too. No time to even react.
Ryan froze.
No. Not fire. Anything but fire.
He barely noticed people gathering outside, seeing the fire, yelling, waving at him.
Get the hell out!
But no way could he open the driver’s door — the heat so intense, even through the glass.
Smoke was already billowing into the cabin, and he started to cough, his eyes streaming.
He scrambled across to the passenger side, stumbling over the big leather seat, then reached down — every second important — his hand rasping against the door, searching, searching for the handle. At last he found it — gave it a quick yank.
But the handle didn’t pop up, didn’t open the door!
Somehow, the auto-lock for the door had been pressed.
Gasping for breath, he forced himself to think, think, think. This moment of confusion was deadly now with the engine fully on fire, belching black smoke — and it dawned on him that there was a near-full cylinder of gas somewhere on the undercarriage of the van.
But his fingers found the manual unlock button. As soon as he heard the click, he yanked the handle again.
The door flew open, and Ryan leaped, fell, stumbled out, rolling to the ground, where he clawed his way away.
He stood up and turned to face the fiery van, backing farther away as if it might decide to chase him.
Some people — festival crew Ryan guessed — had already hurried over. And, positioning themselves like the points of a triangle, they aimed fire extinguishers at the engine, the fire already consuming the driver’s seat.
Where he had been just seconds ago.
Terrible burning smells filled the air, those smells making him retch.
The sudsy foam covered the van even as the fire continued to spread.
A burly security guard, who looked as if this gig might be a sideline from his day job of bouncer or heavyweight boxer, pulled him back a few more yards.
“Stay back — far as you can!” Then, maybe when Ryan didn’t say anything: “You okay?”
Ryan looked at the man who had a powerful hand locked on Ryan’s bicep, holding him back, the Winnebago slowly becoming lost.
He nodded dully, trying to pull himself out of the shock.
That hand then released. He — like all the other people on the field who had gathered to watch the terrible bonfire — watched the flames fight a battle with the fire extinguishers’ foam, no telling who would win.
He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and slid it out.
Jess.
A message.
He had to tilt the phone away from the fire to see the screen, to read the words that Jess — not yet knowing what just happened — had written.
And if a simple text could make a bad situation worse, this one did.
Ryan! It’s all over social media. Someone posted a message: Unlost Will Die! Where are you?
Ryan lowered the phone.
Maybe not the time to say by text: I’m in the artists’ area watching our van turn into a burning hulk.
And he thought, Unlost Will Die? Who would spread that message? Why? And were they behind this fire?
And the even more dire thought: I could have been killed.
And then: Someone still might be.
4. A Lunchtime Visit
Jack watched as his dog Riley cut a path through the lush meadow that spread out in all directions from the broad, flowing river where he kept his boat, The Grey Goose.
Riley, returning with the ball held firmly in his mouth, bounded and leaped as if he had caught a juicy rabbit fit to be roasted for dinner.
When Jack reached down to take the ball — covered with a healthy coating of slime as always — Riley made a play of not relinquishing possession.
Jack knew full well that Riley, getting older but still quite spry, wanted nothing more than another big toss, another gleeful run off into the grassy field.
“You know, boy. Sometimes I have to wonder what it is you exactly love about this game?”
With a pretend shake of his head and then finally a release, Riley had his eyes locked on the ball that Jack again held in his hand.
“I do believe that you could do this all day.”
And as Jack would often do, he pulled back as if to make the throw, Riley beginning to dash, tricked into thinking that the slobbery ball was already in mid-flight.
But the dog cleverly halted, now a yard or two away — and only then Jack let it fly.
As for himself, feeling a bit of bite in his shoulder. Some small pain he had noticed recently. Nothing major; just that his throws were getting a little less ambitious.
He looked around while Riley did his recovery.
All quiet; people on the other houseboats and barges out for the day, or others — like his stoner pal, Ray — not quite ready to brave the bright light of day.
And thinking, How I love it here.
Not for the first time, wondering what would it have been like if his original plan had worked out. He and his wife, Katherine, living here together.
When fate, or whatever, decided that was not to be.
Then — in that quietness — he saw a car. Sarah’s car, crossing the bridge, making its way slowly on the dirt road, the path to Jack’s Dutch barge.
Just as Riley reappeared.
“Well, Riley, looks like we got a visitor. How about we stop for now and I go see what I can rustle up for lunch?”
And, amazingly, as if Riley understood the words, the springer released the ball, dropping it to the ground. Jack scooped it up and started heading back to The Grey Goose.
He saw, as he got close, he had two visitors. That second person, nearly as tall as Jack, w
as Sarah’s son, Daniel. Jack had watched him grow from a lanky kid to a sturdy-looking young man.
“Permission to come aboard?” said Sarah, smiling, as Jack and Riley approached.
He gave her the usual big hug, and then to Daniel the jokey hand jive they had made up together years ago and still used.
“Permission granted,” he said, following them up the gang plank onto the boat, Riley wagging his tail at the surprise visit. “Thought you guys were on festival duty today?”
Jack knew that Sarah had been doing web publicity for the last six months for Cherringfest — and that Daniel usually got himself a job on site most years if he was around.
“Oh, we are,” said Sarah. “In fact — that’s what we came down here to see you about.”
“Oh really?” said Jack. “That sounds a tad ominous.”
“Ominous?” said Sarah. She looked serious. “Well, yes — that may just be the right word.”
“I see,” said Jack. Then he realised the time. “You had lunch yet?”
From their faces, he could see they hadn’t. He unlocked the door that led below decks, then gestured to them to go below.
“Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable and tell me all about it.”
*
“Daniel, hope you’re okay with some tuna fish and mayo?” said Jack, peering into the back of his store cupboard. “About all I got in the lunch category.”
Daniel smiled. “Sounds good to me.”
Jack saw Sarah already taking lettuce out of the fridge and finding a chopping board — she was that comfortable with Jack and his boat.
While he set about preparing the tuna-mayo, Sarah told him about the incident at the festival the night before, and the threat against the band.
Salad and plates situated, Sarah turned to him.
“I wasn’t going to get involved. I mean, they have security people to handle that, right? And I’m still managing publicity for the festival, though, with the show about to begin, things are quieting down.”
Sarah turned away from the stove.
“But, of course, Simon Repton, he runs the whole estate, he knows about what you, we, do.”
Jack smiled. Over the years he and Sarah had helped out the Repton family more than once. “Our sideline.”
Cherringham--Killer Track Page 2