Page 9 of In Too Deep

Jake nodded. “So we chuck it in the van and sort it later?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright.” Jake rubbed his hands together and got on with it.

Box by box, he lifted and stacked them into the van. Kept himself moving. His focus there. Leaving Harrison to do what he needed. But he kept an eye on him, watching him drift idly along the items. Pausing. Picking things up, turning them over in his hands as if they meant something. Held some meaning Jake wouldn’t know.

So Jake worked one side of the unit clear, then moved deeper in, reaching for another box from the stack. The cardboard dipped under his grip where it had softened, edges bowed where damp had got in.

“Bollocks.”

It split straight down the side; the bottom dropping out completely, sending the contents hurtling to the ground. Jake crouched and scrambled to catch what he could, then he stilled as he realised what it all was. Vinyl. Stacks of them, sliding against each other, sleeves slipping half-free. Jake picked one up between his fingers, careful without meaning to be. It was old. The edges softened with use. The spine creased. This wasn’t for display. This had been played. Properly.

And loved.

He stroked his thumb over the cover, tracing the worn corners. There were more, too. CDs. Scattered through the split box. Some still in neat rows where they’d been packed with care. Others loose, cases cracked, booklets slipping free. As if they’d had an order. As if they’d meant something.

And he’d just ruined it.

Harrison slipped in behind him, drawing a quiet breath. “They were Chris’s.”

Jake glanced back down at the vinyl. “Had good taste.”

Harrison smiled, but it wasn’t as warm as the one he’d given earlier. It was heavier. Melancholic. “Chris was… big on live music. Proper stuff. Not just sticking something on in the background.”

Jake huffed a faint smile, flicking through a couple more sleeves. “I can tell.” He paused, pulling one free, eyes lighting despite himself. “Fuck, first pressing of Up the Bracket. That’s… aye, that’s not summat you find lying about. It’s rare. Would kill for this.”

Harrison smiled faintly, watching him.

Jake shook his head, still half in it, tracing through the stack, then he stilled on something else. A CD. Battered. Case cracked down one side. He turned it over. And laughed, quiet and disbelieving, as he dropped back onto his heels.

“Christ…” He held it up between them.

Neon Arcade. Their first album. The one they’d recorded before everything changed.

“He might’ve been their first fan.” Harrison’s voice drifted a little, as if he’d stepped somewhere else for a second. Into the past. “Saw them live.”

Jake looked up. “Oh, aye? Where?”

“One of their early festival sets. BBC Introducing stage. Leeds, I think.”

Jake breathed out a laugh and shook his head in disbelief.

“You were right.” Harrison rose off his feet a little. Those Gazelle’s crunching on the ground. “I was a festival goer. And we did the whole run that summer. Chris got it into his head that Neon Arcade would be big. Turned out, he was right.”

Jake stared at him. Then leaned back, the air leaving him in a quiet rush. “I played that set. Leeds. Before they got signed.” He waggled the CD. “And this is me on here. Recorded before…well, you know what.”

Harrison’s gaze snapped to his, as if coming back from the past. Surprise, disbelief, and something deeper threaded through, the thread that had latched onto them a few weeks ago suddenly pulling tighter.

It was…too much.

So Jake returned to the mess, gathering the records to fix what he could. To put it back. Somewhere it made sense.

“Sorry,” he muttered, more to the box than anything else. “Some might be damaged.”

“It’s fine.”

Jake nodded, not quite looking at him, still trying to stack them the way they’d been. The right way. The way they should be.