Free Expiration Day by William Campbell Powell Page B

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    I was intrigued, because I’d never seen a live band. Big networked stadium events, sure, recorded and edited. Archive footage of the great summer festivals. I thought of all my musical discussions with John, and I guessed he’d chosen the venue deliberately.
    There was a poster, advertising the various bands for this month. I skimmed the list and decided they were all just tribute bands—I chuckled over some of the names, wondering who in their right minds would call their band The Lost Corrs …
    Today’s band, though, was Mike Clip and the Stands. With a name like that they weren’t a tribute band—at least nothing came to mind—so they were probably a generic blues band. I could cope with that.
    Siân was getting nervous—even more than I was. She’d also seen the band setting up.
    â€œDo you think they’ll be loud?”
    I shook my head, though I really had no idea what to expect. I was more concerned that John wasn’t here yet.
    â€œNot too loud, no.”
    â€œThey look loud.…”
    I could see what she meant. The amplifiers looked powerful, but that wasn’t where Siân was looking. The singer had just walked in, and he took my breath away. It was the black leather, really. It made me think of 1980s heavy metal posters, pouting and posing.
    The singer reached out to his microphone, patted it, as a man might pat an old and trusted pet. No, not a pet, I decided, but a working dog, or … yes, that was it, like a warrior might greet his warhorse.
    Then his eyes moved on to the audience, such as they were. Apart from Siân and me, there were a handful of other tables around the room, maybe twenty people at most. When his gaze reached me, he paused, acknowledging my interested stare with a wry smile and a conspiratorial wink. Then his eyes moved on.
    That was the moment John arrived.…
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    You must remember, Mister Zog, that I hadn’t seen John for two years or more, and that all our contact had been via the TeraNet, using cheap webcams. So nothing had prepared me for how tall he’d grown, or how broad his shoulders had become.
    Or how that unruly ginger mop had somehow been tamed into a lion’s mane: smooth, lustrous, and … regal.
    Even his freckles had become more grown-up. That looks so weird as I write it now, but it’s truly the effect I saw.
    So I stammered a greeting, and my feet got tangled in my bags as I stood up to shake his hand.
    Yes. Shake his hand.
    I’d been imagining this meeting, over and over, with all the variations I could think of. I played it through with coolness, just a peck on the cheek. Or with friendliness—a quick hug. Or with real warmth—a proper kiss on the lips.
    When the moment came, the chairs got in the way, my bags got in the way, I was half-tripping over and I couldn’t get my face even vaguely close to his—he was just too tall for anything but a handshake.
    He looked surprised, and maybe there was a trace of amusement at my awkwardness, and even a hint of disappointment at my formality.
    â€œJohn, this is Siân.”
    Siân had also stood up to greet him, but she’d had time to sort herself out. She smoothly reached out and steered him by the shoulders toward her, briefly kissing his cheek.
    It was elegantly done, and John preened himself under her smile of welcome.
    I decided to kill her.
    Only for a moment or two, honest.
    But there it was. Jealous. Me. Little Miss Tin Heart.
    Where had that come from?
    John was my friend. Of course he was, but so was Siân, and … and they were both human, and I … was not.
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    We ordered some snack food and something to drink, and settled down to wait for the band to start.
    Mike Clip had disappeared, but the rest of the band were carrying in the last of their gear, running cables around and taping them down. To my mind they looked pretty old—my parents’ age or