Gang Of Losers by Chris Lynton

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  For once, Theo seemed to have had his fill of lager before the pub shut. He left after The Executives finished their set and was home by ten thirty. Perhaps his extended bout of walking on his already aching legs coupled with the draining qualities of all that crying had left him in an unfamiliar state of exhaustion.

  He woke early the next morning and ate his breakfast on the patio in the back garden, the sun already making an impact on the day.

  His talks with Jon and Pete had enabled him to end yesterday feeling upbeat about chances of reconciliation with August, but now that he was sober he wasn't quite sure how to proceed. The only thing that he was certain of was that it was too early to do anything about it now. He would have to wait until at least 11 o'clock before phoning or going to see August.

  He looked at his watch - it was now 8am. Plenty of time to do something constructive. He quickly finished the rest of his breakfast, got dressed and made it to the bus stop for the 8.32 to Bath, where he purchased a pair of grey flannel trousers from Bart's Bazaar and a copy of Don McLean's American Pie for £2 from Woolworths. He forgot about the new Madness single, deciding to save his rapidly dwindling savings. He studied the album cover on the bus on the way back home - Don McLean's hand close to the camera with the thumb up, a small American flag painted on it. He flipped the album over and looked at the track listing. It started with the eponymous song - the only one that Theo had actually heard of. Vincent was third on the album.

  He walked the short distance from the bus stop to his house, the blazing sun directly in his eyes. He put the key in the front door, eager for the relative coolness of the stone-built house. He entered and was startled to see the silhouette of a tall looming figure in the hallway. He stepped back in fright - had he interrupted a burglar? But as his eyes adjusted, he realised that the static form in front of him was not human: it was his drum kit, stacked up drum on top of drum. An envelope was taped to the bass drum with THEO written on it in August's familiar capitals.

  He dropped the bag containing the album and the trousers. "But I don't want them back August," he said to no one, tears forming in his eyes.

  He tore the envelope from the drum and opened it:

  HI THEO,

  I THINK IT MIGHT BE BEST IF WE