Ocean of Tears

Chapter One

The Salisbury Pub

Karl was happy, living for his one passion in life: music. The music he and his mates produced together was the mainstay of that, but lately, it wasn’t enough. The muse inside of him was quiet; the constant wave of music, like the soft rhythm of the ocean against the shore or the warm summer breeze on his cheek, wasn’t there anymore. The water had stopped flowing, the breeze was gone, and all there was…was silence.

He couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened because there wasn’t just one day, one situation that had done it; no. It had gradually hit him like an unexplained ache, that became a pain, that got worse and worse until it was the core of his existence.

Every day, he woke up in gloom, and it seemed he would never come out of it; the quiet—the still of the ocean—had been going on for over a year now.

Ah, shite. Karl ran his hand through his waist-length hair. Was he losing his mind? Had he become so ancient, so exhausted, that he was already on the road to pitiful senility? How the hell was he supposed to get out of this hole he was in? It just kept on getting deeper and deeper. He wanted to go back to when the power of music and words would hit him hard and carry him away with the beat and the pulse that was his heart. He wanted to be happy again.

Karl glared over his shoulder at the guys playing pool. The ruckus of pool balls crashing together made him lose focus on the pity party he was having in his head. Every time the balls smacked together, it felt like his brain cracked open. If Pat didn’t stop them soon, he was going to break all the frigging cues, just to shut the bastards up. He’d have done it already…if he could be arsed. Instead, he tried to ignore it and keep drinking himself into a stupor.

It was all his muse’s fault—or lack thereof—but nothing he did brought it back. He’d even tried ignoring it—that didn’t work, either. Ocean of Tears, the band he’d played in since his early twenties—he was fifty-three now—hadn’t had so much as one bad year, until now, because he couldn’t get his shit together. It was a bloody mess, and it was getting on his nerves.

The music…well, it had never failed him like this before. On his sixth birthday, his dad had given him a guitar, and Karl couldn’t recall a day since that he hadn’t played…and loved it. Music was in his blood, like the oxygen that flowed through it, and now it was gone. No matter how hard he tried, the words failed him and the melodies never sounded right. It was all he thought about, and nothing he did changed the outcome of the situation.

Karl didn’t dare tell his bandmates how bad it really was, how the music inside of him was dead. It wasn’t like he was stupid enough to think he’d fooled them; after thirty years together, it was next to impossible to hide something like that from them, but if no one talked about it, he could pretend everything was fine. Them knowing things were off was one thing; telling them flat-out his muse was dead was another. What if they sacked him? He wouldn’t cope with that. Not that he thought there was much chance of it happening, but still, if he didn’t contribute, what the hell did they need him for?

Worst of all was the guilt. It surged through him, at times so great it was like someone was choking him from behind. Guilt for letting the band down, letting himself down, and letting Jack down. Jack Ocean was the band’s founder, diagnosed with leukaemia at the age of thirty-five and dead within the year. That was twenty years ago, yet his essence remained with them. It was for him they’d continued, even when the sorrow had been heavy in all their hearts, because it was what Jack would have wanted.

They’d played under a different name back then, when Jack was still around: Manpool. They were big, famous, well-established, but none of that mattered. In honour of their beloved friend, when he passed, they changed their name to Ocean of Tears. Jack had known what they were going to do—he’d even heard the song of the same name that they’d written and dedicated to him. The pain he was in overrode all the morphine in the world, but he’d died knowing they all loved him and would remember him forever.

Some argued that they had been bigger, better and more famous back then, but whenever they talked about it, they were all in agreement that they had more fun these days—since they’d stopped playing outside of the UK. They still did lots of gigs and went into the studio often, but for the past few years, it had also been more about living their lives, and in the case of Karl’s bandmates, spending time with their kids and even grandkids.

Then there was Karl: the only one who’d never been married. No kids, grandkids, still single. Hell, the last time he’d been to a large gathering with all of them was when Ian Hogs remarried Elise, or re-exchanged woes or whatever it was kids were calling it these days. That was last summer, and the others were there with their respective partners, yet Karl hadn’t felt like the odd man out. He never had. Of course there’d been women in his life, but nothing long-term or permanent, and he’d always been OK with that. His bandmates invited him to their get-togethers, and nobody passed comment on him always being on his own. But lately, he’d started to feel left out whenever he was in their company, and he couldn’t get that feeling to go away.

Karl, mate, you done for the night?

No. He bloody wasn’t.

You sure? You’ve had more than your usual.

He’d had plenty more than his usual. He wasn’t a big drinker—aside from tonight. It wasn’t like he had a problem or anything, so why was Pat giving him the third degree? In fact, why was Pat there at all? And where was the uni lot this evening? They didn’t say much, and that suited him perfectly.

I know how much I’ve had, and I’m having another, all right? His tone was a bit harsher than he’d intended, but he forwent the apology and wiggled his glass in Pat’s direction. He’d dropped the pretence of ‘having a few pints’ over an hour ago and been on the whisky ever since. This next one would be his third, and still his head was battered. Too much thinking; too many thoughts.

Make it a double.

Karl—

Just do it and stop bloody nagging! Christ, it’s like being a two-year-old again. See? Karl tugged the waistband of his boxers above his jeans. No nappy. I don’t need a dada, thanks very much. Karl snarled.

Fine. Pat put both of his hands in the air in surrender before reaching behind him to stick a double Glenfiddich in Karl’s glass. Don’t you be back here tomorrow, bitin’ me bloody head off because you can barely sit up without pukin’. Pat gave him the evil eye and muttered, Fuckin’ idiot.

Wanker, he muttered back, knowing full well Pat had heard him, even if he pretended he hadn’t. Pat had owned The Salisbury for twenty years. Before that, it was his dad behind the bar, so the pub and Pat were one and the same, even if he did let the younger generation have a go at running it most nights.

Over the years, the clientele had changed, especially with all the colleges and universities popping up around and about. With so many students—from England and abroad—it was hard to find a pub that didn’t get loud and chatty at some point during the evening, but the Salisbury was usually pretty low-key. Tonight, though, it was rowdy, and had Karl known in advance, he’d have got pissed in the quiet of his own home.

Why had he come out? He tried to remember. Ah, yeah, that’s right. He’d been cooped up there for days, maybe even weeks, getting nowhere and going stir crazy, staring at the same bloody four walls. The itch was there, the heart wasn’t. No music, no lyrics. No nothing. So he’d come out for a pint. And now he was on the Scotch. A double Scotch. He lifted the glass to his lips, parted them… A throat cleared next to him.

Hi there. Are you really sure you want to do that?

Karl let out a sigh. Another bloody nose poking into his business. What were they all on tonight? Lowering his glass a few inches, he tipped his head back so he could focus on the man standing to his right, or should he say kid. He didn’t look old enough to be in there in the first place.

Do what? he finally asked, his voice flat and bored.

Swallow all that whisky in one go. You’ve had quite a few of them if my count is right. The lad had an accent of some kind. It wasn’t very broad, so he knew right off the bat it wasn’t German or south European; they’d toured enough for him to recognise most accents, but this one? No idea.

It explained the nosiness, though—no clue about British boundaries, not that the locals had much clue, either.

Karl snorted and shifted his gaze to Pat. What you doing, serving underage? You’ll get done, you know.

Pat ignored him, which meant he’d already ID’d the lad, who was still standing there, in his space.

Karl raised his glass to him. I bought it, so I’m drinking it. It’s none of your business, and anyway, you’re not even old enough to be in here. He knew that was low, but Christ, everyone was getting on his nerves tonight.

I’m old enough, don’t you worry. You should be careful, though. Whisky can affect you quickly, and before you know it, they’ll need a stretcher to carry you out of here. It was a joke. The lad was smiling, eyes twinkling like cartoon stars.

I know, Karl said dryly. He put the glass to his lips, threw his head back and swallowed the lot in one go, closing his eyes as he felt the burn all the way down to the pit of his gut.

Hard day?

Hard year.

Oh, that sucks, want to talk about it? Let off some steam?

Karl had to chuckle; the lad was funny. Talk about what, exactly? That he hadn’t written a single word worth shit in months and months? That most days he had to drag himself out of bed just so no one would know how shitty he felt? That nothing made him smile anymore? No matter if it was the sun or the stars that were out, it was always dark around him, a constant cloud of nothing.

No. Now go away and leave me alone.

Pat gave him one of those looks and smiled pleasantly at the lad.

What can I get you, Noa?

A pint of Guinness, thanks, Pat.

Pat went over to the taps to pour the pint, standing right next to them. "Don’t waste your