Blue Noise

by Debra Oswald

  By the morning, Ash’s angry energy had leaked away and that left him feeling worse. At least when he was mad, there was fuel powering him to get through. Now he was dead and crumbly inside.

  Ash didn’t mind that he had to do his Saturday delivery job. Anything was better than staying in the black hole.

  When Ash showed up for work, the pharmacist was worried that he had no credit on his mobile phone. Sometimes there were problems with deliveries and it was handy if Ash could call in to the shop. The pharmacist insisted on giving Ash an advance on his pay so he could run to the newsagent and get credit.

  The instant Ash switched on his phone, he suspected it was a bad idea. He didn’t want to speak to anyone, and he didn’t want to hear messages from anyone, least of all his scumbag brother.

  It turned out there wasn’t a single message from Ben.

  But there were several texts from Lester. ‘Call me.’ ‘Where are you?’

  Ash felt bad about ignoring Lester’s messages but there was no way he could handle a conversation right now about Charlie leaving or about Ben stealing the guitar.

  And there was a string of voicemail messages, including one from Charlie.

  ‘Greetings, Señor Ash. I’m going to be off the radar for a few days while we’re in transit but I’ll email you as soon as I can. I’m sorry. I hope you know that. Adios for now.’

  There was a long message from Joel. Before Joel had found out about Charlie leaving, he’d gone to tell Lily Opara the good news about Ignition. Lily wasn’t impressed. In fact, she’d announced she was quitting the band. There were rumours that Lily had been spotted in the street by a scout from some top modelling agency and she was getting photo-shoot assignments. But what did it matter if Lily was gone? Blue Noise was rooted anyway.

  Being chosen for Ignition felt like a cruel joke now. It was supposed to be the band’s big break but there wasn’t a band anymore. Ash figured they’d have to explain the collapse of Blue Noise to the radio station people and to the school music department on Monday morning. How embarrassing and depressing would that be?

  The last voice message was from Erin.

  ‘Hi. It’s me – oh, I should say, it’s Erin. You might not know who “me” is.’

  Of course Ash recognised Erin’s voice from the first syllable she spoke. And he could hear how sad and uncertain that voice sounded.

  Her message went on, but so feebly he could hardly decipher it. ‘Anyway … ummm … don’t really know why I’m calling. Just wanted to say hi, I guess. So, I’ve done that now. Said hi, I mean. So, uh … well, bye.’

  Erin’s message was the saddest of all for Ash. He switched off the phone. He couldn’t handle any more messages.

  Ash did his job on automatic pilot, cycling from house to house delivering the parcels of medicines. He even managed to smile and chat to the regular customers, but without ever really engaging his brain in the process.

  Eventually, he came to Mr Galea’s house and rang the doorbell.

  ‘Hello? Ash?’ the old guy called from inside.

  ‘Yep. It’s Ash, Mr Galea.’

  ‘Come right in.’

  Mr Galea sometimes kept the front door unlocked so he wouldn’t have to get up out of his armchair too often. Ash went inside and put the paper bag of pills and ointments onto the hall table.

  ‘Thank you, my boy. How are you today? Chocolate biscuit?’

  ‘Maybe not today, thanks.’

  ‘This lot comes to twenty-seven dollars forty – am I right?’

  Ash checked the list the pharmacist gave him. ‘Yes, dead right.’

  ‘Take thirty dollars from the jar and keep the rest as a tip.’

  Ash nodded his thanks and went into the kitchen where Mr Galea kept his cash on top of the fridge. Mr Galea kept talking to him from the other room. His voice was a lot stronger than his legs.

  ‘So, how’s your music group going?’ asked Mr Galea.

  ‘It’s not,’ mumbled Ash.

  ‘Sorry? Couldn’t hear that.’

  ‘Good, thanks,’ lied Ash.

  Ash reached for the jar of cash to fish out thirty dollars. Mr Galea was happily chattering to him from the other room but Ash wasn’t listening.

  There would have to be at least twelve hundred bucks in cash in that jar. A person could walk in the unlocked front door and take five or six hundred without Mr Galea even realising any money was missing. It would be so easy.

  Ben would take the money for sure. He’d probably take the whole lot. The world was divided into people who took stuff and the dopey mugs who got their stuff taken. Mugs like Ash. He’d saved up for his guitar like a stupid, trusting little kid but it still got stolen from him.

  A guy like Ben would probably say he should take some money out of that jar to make up for what he’d lost. Maybe, in some weird cosmic balance, everything evened out in the end.

  Or maybe he was a moron for thinking things had to work out fairly. In a dog-eat-dog world, he should just take what he needed.

  Five hundred dollars – that would be enough to buy a halfway decent guitar to make up for the one Ben had stolen. Everyone ripped everyone off so what was the difference? That money was sitting where anyone could see it and take it. Why shouldn’t Ash be the one who got it?

  He grabbed a fistful of notes, roughly counted out five hundred bucks and shoved the wad of money in the inside zip pocket of his jacket. He mumbled a quick goodbye to Mr Galea and hurried out of the house.

  Within minutes, Ash regretted taking that money. Regretted it savagely. He was nauseated with panic, his face hot with shame. He could feel the roll of money in his pocket, burning through the jacket lining, burning against his ribs. He wished he could go back in time – just a few minutes – and undo what he’d done.

  He retreated to his bedroom, hid the money inside an old soccer boot and lay down on the bed. He lay there, churning stuff round in his mind and hating his own guts for some hours, until the room had grown dark.

  He’d stolen from a really lovely old guy who’d only ever been incredibly nice to him. And what for? He didn’t even want to buy a new guitar anyway. What would be the point of playing guitar anymore? He’d been kidding himself that he could be in a band and make it good.

  All that time he was focused on the band, thinking everything was so great, he’d stopped really looking at the rest of his life. Truth was, the band was just a distraction and his life was still as crappy as ever. Charlie was wrong. Music didn’t solve anything. It didn’t save anybody’s soul.

  Look at Ash’s soul for a start. Here he was – a bad friend, a loser, a thief – fulfilling his destiny as one of the pathetic, lowlife Corrigan brothers. He might as well get used to that fact. Only a fool would think it could be any other way. Lying there in the dark bedroom, he was exactly like everyone else in this house, all of them negative energy forces, all of them losers.

  That picture of himself – burrowed into his solitary dark room in that house, doing nothing, being nothing – was profoundly depressing. But it was also scary, like being speared in the guts by a sharp spike. And that sting of fear was just enough to force Ash off the bed and onto his feet. He didn’t want to be this guy. He wasn’t sure what to do. But he didn’t want to be this guy if there was any way to escape it.

  Ash’s first thought was to run up the hallway and flop onto his mum’s bed. He wanted to bury his head under the blankets, cry like a little kid and pretend all the terrible stuff hadn’t happened. His mum would sort out all the problems and make everything okay.

  But she couldn’t. Ash’s mum was in her room with white-noise headphones on, struggling with her own toxic thoughts, barely able to keep her head above the water. She might want to make everything okay for Ash but she couldn’t.

  His parents weren’t a lot of use to him at this point in his life. Both his brothers were drowning in their own oceans of crap. The Novak family weren’t going to sail by and scoop him out of the water. Ash was on his own. He’d have
to find things to hang on to and find his own way to escape.

  That night, Ash escaped to the only place he could think to go. He belted up to the main road and caught the bus to the Carlisle Hotel. Because it was Saturday night there would be a blues band playing in the venue out the back of the pub.

  Hurrying down the alley alongside the Carlisle, hunched over, alone, slinking through the darkness, he must have looked like a criminal. Well, he was a criminal now.

  He sat cross-legged on the concrete landing, with his back resting against the big double doors. In his desperation to fly out of the house, Ash had forgotten to bring the two puffy jackets he used to take when he’d come with Charlie, so he was soon shivering, cold through to his bones. He’d forgotten to eat any dinner and now his empty belly was aching. But Ash didn’t mind that so much; feeling hungry and cold wasn’t as bad as a lot of other things a person could feel.

  Through the doors he heard the band inside, the music clear and loud, as it always was in that special spot. He remembered hearing these guys play once before and unfortunately they were pretty rank.

  Ash imagined the comments Charlie would’ve made, listening to this mob. He wouldn’t slag them off; Ash had never heard Charlie Novak badmouth any musician. He believed that if musicians were putting themselves out there, playing for us, we should respect them for it. Instead, Charlie would have analysed their strengths and weaknesses, looking for clues and tips for Blue Noise.

  As Ash listened to the band inside, he realised he was analysing the music according to the Charlie Novak method. It was as if Charlie had implanted special software in his brain. That idea made Ash smile for a minute, but eventually it became just a sad reminder that Charlie wasn’t sitting there with him.

  Thinking was a bad idea at that moment. The best thing was just to tip his head against the doors and let the music thump through his body, pinning him to the concrete and obliterating all thoughts, good ones or depressing ones.

  Inside, the band announced they were going to do their last song for the night. At the same time, a van swung into the laneway and pulled up alongside the double doors. Guys climbed out, hauling amplifiers and other gear from the back of the van. They must be the main act, Ash thought.

  Ash didn’t want to be in their way, so he got to his feet, hobbling a bit on his cold, numb legs. He figured he’d walk around the block to stretch out his body, then come back to listen to this new band once they were set up to play.

  Just as Ash tried to sidle away from the doors, the van headlights caught his face and he squinted against the glare.

  A voice said, ‘Hey, I know you.’

  Ash didn’t know if the voice was talking to him. Then he saw Jimmy Nicholls. Jimmy Nicholls with a small frown of concentration on his face, trying to remember the name of the kid in front of him.

  ‘Me? Ash,’ said Ash, pointing at himself.

  ‘That’s right. You’re the guitarist, starting to get into slide. I’ve heard a couple of tracks from your band. Good stuff.’

  Ash couldn’t believe Jimmy Nicholls remembered who he was, let alone remembered the Blue Noise music Charlie had forced on the man.

  ‘Is there a reason you’re sitting in this alley like a hobo?’ asked Jimmy with a sly smile.

  ‘Oh … uh, kids under eighteen aren’t allowed in this venue. But you can hear the music from out here. It’s something weird about the acoustics.’

  ‘Ah. I see,’ said Jimmy.

  For a few weeks after the Mandawarra festival, Jimmy Nicholls’s band had toured, playing big venues around Australia. Ash had followed the tour dates online.

  ‘I thought you’d gone back to the States by now,’ said Ash.

  ‘My wife and I stayed on for a holiday – Darwin, Cairns, Broome. She refused to fly all this way without having a decent look around while we’re down here.’

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ asked Ash.

  ‘We’ve had a wonderful time, thank you, Ash.’

  Ash couldn’t believe he was chatting to Jimmy Nicholls about his holidays as if the guy was a mere mortal.

  ‘Sensational country. I’d like to stay on longer but we have to fly back home tomorrow,’ explained Jimmy. ‘Tonight, we thought it would be fun to play one more Australian gig.’

  ‘Here? You’re playing in this place?’ asked Ash. He couldn’t believe a blues star would choose to play in a dump like this.

  Jimmy gave a husky laugh. ‘Those big concerts are great but sometimes it’s fun to rip it up in a small place. You know what I mean?’

  Ash nodded and then felt like a wanker for nodding. How could he possibly know what Jimmy meant? Since he wasn’t actually a huge blues legend himself, how would Ash have the faintest clue what it was like to play to five thousand people? All he could do was try to imagine it. Ash had read online that Jimmy Nicholls had a reputation for doing this: suddenly turning up to play unadvertised gigs in small venues while he was touring.

  Jimmy’s regular bass and keyboard players were there, unloading the van. His drummer had already flown back to the States, so he’d borrowed one of the best drummers in Sydney, Dave Purcell, to fill in for the night.

  ‘Here’s the thing, Ash,’ said Jimmy, ‘we can’t have you sitting in the street while we play. My wife would have my hide if she found out we left you here in the cold. Sneak in this way with us. If you stay on the side of the stage where it’s dark, no one will know you’re there. We can do that, can’t we fellas?’

  ‘Sure we can,’ said the keyboard player. ‘The guy’s our roadie. Carry this, will you, buddy?’

  The keyboard player passed Ash an armload of rolled-up leads, then turned to give the other guys a hand. The Jimmy Nicholls Band were carting their own gear inside the back room of a grotty suburban pub. Unbelievable. And Ash Corrigan was helping them. Beyond unbelievable.

  Word must have leaked out about Jimmy Nicholls doing one of his surprise gigs. There were almost four hundred people crammed into that room and the security guys out front were turning heaps more away. That made it even more of a lucky break for Ash to see the set.

  As Jimmy predicted, Ash got away with being in the venue untetected by staying in the dimly lit pocket to the side of the stage. He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Jimmy Nicholls’s performance at the Carlisle was even more brilliant than at Mandawarra. Maybe it was because it was a more intimate venue and Jimmy enjoyed playing off that. Maybe it was because Ash was so incredibly close to the stage.

  Ash loved watching the tiny signals flying between the four musicians, telling one another when to go to the bridge or when to take a solo or whatever. He loved seeing the musos smile with admiration when someone did a blistering solo. He especially loved the cool way Jimmy guided the guest drummer, using a subtle tip of the head or flick of the eyebrows to let him know what to do next.

  ‘Ohhh, ladies and gentlemen,’ Jimmy said to the crowd, ‘did you hear the fine drumming on that last number? That’s Mister Dave Purcell, who has very kindly agreed to help us out tonight. This gent is a quality drummer, I can tell you.’

  The crowd roared their approval at Dave, who gave a little nod and then grinned. How stoked must that drummer be to jam with Jimmy Nicholls? thought Ash.

  The audience was going crazy, crammed together in a hot, sweaty room but not caring because they were so blown away by the music. The applause and cheering hit the stage in powerful waves, like an electric force the musicians could plug into.

  Ash couldn’t believe his luck at being there. He watched Jimmy’s hands on the guitar and found himself playing air guitar, secretly, on the side of the stage. He wanted to burn this into his memory, so he could try Jimmy’s riffs later.

  It was a shame Lester couldn’t see the drum fills Dave Purcell was doing. And he knew that if Erin was there, she’d be watching that amazing keyboard player like a musical spy, soaking up ideas.

  During one big keyboard solo, Jimmy stepped over to the side where Ash was lurking in the darkness. />
  ‘Help me,’ Jimmy whispered to Ash.

  ‘Yeah, sure. What can I do?’ said Ash. He’d be proud to do anything to help Jimmy.

  ‘No, I mean the Sonny Boy Williamson song “Help Me”. You know it, don’t you?’

  Ash nodded, still not sure what Jimmy wanted him to do.

  ‘We’re gonna do it in G,’ said Jimmy, beckoning Ash out onstage.

  He wanted Ash to play? Jimmy Nicholls wanted Ash Corrigan to play with him onstage?

  Jimmy saw Ash standing there like a stunned mullet. ‘I’ve heard your music. I know you can play.’

  ‘I don’t have a guitar,’ blurted Ash. As if that was his main problem! The real problem was the fact that he was a sixteen-year-old kid who couldn’t play a millionth as well as Jimmy Nicholls.

  ‘We got guitars you can borrow,’ said Jimmy.

  Other than the instrument Jimmy was holding at the time, there were three guitars resting on stands onstage. Three unspeakably, heart-stoppingly fantastic guitars. Jimmy reached out and handed the Gibson to Ash.

  Jimmy drew him out onto the stage by pulling on the guitar’s strap as if it was a dog’s leash. Then he plugged the Gibson in and pointed out the foldback speaker through which Ash would be able to hear himself play. The glare of the stage lights hit Ash like a slap in the head and he screwed his face up. Luckily, those lights meant he couldn’t distinguish faces in the crowd. He didn’t have to see the people staring at him.

  Then the band swung into the intro to ‘Help Me’ and Ash’s head started spinning with panic.

  Jimmy leaned in to the microphone and in that husky voice said, ‘We’re gonna be joined now by a young man, Mister Ash –’

  He looked to Ash: what was his surname?

  Ash’s voice came out like the feeble squeak of a kindergarten kid answering the roll. ‘Corrigan.’

  ‘Mister Ash Corrigan!’ growled Jimmy Nicholls. ‘Please welcome him to the stage, ladies and gentlemen!’

  There was a surge of applause and Ash thought there was a real chance he would pass out right there in front of everyone. He may have been holding a guitar – a sensational guitar – but he wasn’t sure he would be able to play one note on it.