The Sound of Broken Glass by Deborah Crombie Read Free Book Online Page B

the minute.
    Why the hell had he agreed to this? Why had he pissed off his mates so badly that whatever happened today, the band was fated to split up? And why had he ever thought he could go back to Crystal Palace?
    There was a swish of tires on the wet tarmac and Tam’s Mini came round the tight corner from Hanway Street. When Tam came to a stop, Andy walked round the car, stowed the guitar in the backseat, and climbed into the front.
    â€œAll right, lad?” asked Tam, shooting him a concerned look as he put the car into gear.
    â€œYeah. Fine.” Andy didn’t meet his eyes.
    â€œBloody traffic. Oxford Street on a Saturday. Can’t think why you stay in this dump.” Tam was on vocal autopilot. He never failed to say that he didn’t understand why Andy stayed in the flat, and Andy never failed to say that he couldn’t afford to move anywhere better.
    But Tam was right. He could find someplace in Hackney, like George, or Bethnal Green, like Tam and his partner Michael, or anywhere, for that matter, out of the dead center of London. The truth was that he loved being in the middle of the hustle and bustle. And he loved being able to walk to the guitar shops in Denmark Street, which had drawn him like magnets since he’d been old enough to take the bus into the city.
    â€œI’ve got room for my guitars and my cat,” he said.
    Tam grinned. “Barely room to swing the bloody cat. What you see in that beast, I don’t know.”
    â€œHe’s my mate, is Bert,” Andy said, relaxing into the familiar argument, as he knew Tam intended. Tam, who had German shepherd dogs, pretended to have no use for cats, but whenever he came round the flat Andy caught him giving the cat a surreptitious rub behind the ears.
    Coming back late from a gig one night, Andy had found the tiny, shivering kitten in the middle of Oxford Street. There’d been no one else to help, and no other place to take him, so Andy had tucked the kitten inside his jacket and carried him back to the flat. That tiny bit of fluff had grown into an enormous tomcat the color of Dundee marmalade, and now Andy couldn’t imagine life without him.
    â€œYou’re sure that hand is okay, son?” Tam asked, when they’d crossed the river at Waterloo.
    â€œIt’s fine, Tam, really.”
    Tam let him be after that, and Andy was glad of the silence. He was tired, and after a bit he almost dozed in the warmth of the little car. When he opened his eyes and blinked, they were climbing Gipsy Hill.
    He sat up, his nerves kicking in again as they reached Westow Hill and the triangle of streets that formed the crest of Crystal Palace. This studio was relatively new, and he didn’t know it, although he remembered the steep little lane that dropped from Westow Street. He looked away as they circled past Church Road and the White Stag.
    From Westow Street, Tam turned right. He bumped down a narrow way that was more of a passage than a lane, then turned left at the bottom, pulling into a small car park. To the west, the hill dropped away towards Streatham, a gray palette of rooftops seen through the delicate filigree of bare trees.
    On the other side rose a higgledy-piggledy jumble of buildings, flanked by a wall with the most garish graffiti Andy had ever seen. No, not graffiti, he realized, but rather a mural with weird creatures depicted in bright, primary colors. It looked as if it had been painted by a giant alien child, and he smiled for the first time that day.
    â€œThere’s a guitar shop,” he said, spying the sign tucked into the lower level of one of the brick-faced buildings.
    Tam popped the door locks and climbed out of the car. “Best keep you out of there, then, hadn’t we? It’s there we’re going.” He pointed towards a steep flight of open metal stairs beside the building, and Andy saw what he’d meant about the amp.
    â€œUp there?”
    â€œFirst