I asked him.
“Tell her that whatever she takes on, stay in for the duration. Maybe you can just bang out a tune or a lyric, maybe it takes you forever. It doesn’t matter how you put it together. All that matters is that it means something to you, and you play it like it means something to you. Anything else is just bollocks.”
I’m thinking, if you got your life straight this time, you’d probably agree with him.
But now to business. First off, the reason I’m not here to see you is that this isn’t the same future I sent you back from. That one still exists, running alongside this one, but it’s closed to you because you’re living that other life now. And you know there’s just no point in us meeting again, because we’ve done what needed to be done.
At least we did it for you.
If you’re in the music biz now, you know there’s no such thing as a free ride. What I need you to do is, pass it on. You know how to do it. All you’ve got to decide is who.
Eddie
Sarah read it twice before she folded the letter up, returned it to the envelope and stowed in the pocket of her jacket. She had some more of her beer. Alphonse approached as she was setting her glass back down on the bar top.
“Did that clear it up for you?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Well, that’s Eddie for you. The original man of mystery. He ever start in on his time travel yarns with you?”
She shook her head again, but only because she wasn’t ready to admit it to anyone. To do so didn’t feel right, and that feeling had made her keep it to herself through all the years.
Alphonse held out his right hand. “He wanted to send me back to the day before I broke this—said I could turn my life around and live it right this time.”
“And . . . did you?”
Alphonse laughed. “What does it look like?”
Sarah smiled. Of course, he hadn’t. Not in this world. But maybe in one running parallel to it . . .
She thought about that night at the Standish, so long ago. The Clash playing and she was dancing, dancing, so happy, so filled with music. And she was straight, too—no drinks, no drugs that night—but high all the same. On the music. And then right in the middle of a blistering version of “Clampdown,” her head just . . . swelled with this impossible lifetime that she’d never, she couldn’t have lived.
But she knew she’d connect with a guy named Brian. And she did.
And she knew how it would all go downhill from there, so after the concert, when they were leaving the theatre from a side door, she blew him off. And he got pissed off and gave her a shove that knocked her down. He looked at her, sobered by what he’d done, but she waved him off. He hesitated, then walked away, and she just sat there in the alley, thinking she was going crazy. Wanting to cry.
And then someone reached a hand to her to help her up.
“You okay there?” a voice with a British accent asked.
And she was looking into Joe Strummer’s face. The Joe Strummer she’d seen on stage. But superimposed over it, she saw Joe Strummers that were still to come.
The one she’d seen fronting the Pogues in . . . some other life.
The one she’d seen fronting the Mescaleros . . .
The one who’d die of a heart attack at fifty years young . . .
“You want me to call you a cab?” he asked.
“No. No, I’m okay. Great gig.”
“Thanks.”
On impulse, she gave him a kiss, then stepped back. Away. Out of his life. Into her new one.
She blinked, realizing that Alphonse was still standing by her. How long had she been spaced out?
“Well . . . ” she said, looking for something to say. “Eddie seemed like a nice guy to me.”
Alphonse nodded. “He’s got a big heart—he’ll give you the shirt off his back. Hasn’t got much of a lip these days, but he still sits in with the band from time to time. You can’t say no to a guy like that and he never tries to showboat like he thinks he plays better than he can. He keeps it simple and puts the heart into what he’s playing.”
“Maybe I’ll come back and catch him one night.”
“Door’s always open during business hours, Miss Blue.”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah,