Blaze of Glory - Chapter01

‘Damn!’ Cyrus cursed angrily when the motor of his scooter began to stutter all of a sudden and died with a pitiful yelp the next moment, forcing him to carefully steer the lurching machine to the side of the road.

‘Damn!’ he cursed again and tried to restart the motor without success. ‘Damn!’

Cyrus lent his head back and let out a long resigning sigh. He hadn’t had anything but bad luck since he arrived - cheerful and highly motivated - in London about two months ago.

First he was unable to find cheap lodging and had to spend at least three nights in parks, subway stations and twenty-four-hour cafes, until he was offered a cramped, badly heated and smelly room in a flat share. And the approaching winter made the lonely night-time even harder to bear.

Then he couldn’t find a job to pay for rent and food, to the point where he was in danger to lose the newly obtained shelter again. The post for delivering pizza, he took just in time, paid only half as well as he had hoped for. And the very early snowfall this year turned every single of his recent errands into an adventure trip.

On top of that all, for weeks now his beloved Fender slept like Cinderella in her casket beneath his bed, waiting for the moment he would gently move his fingers about her slender body again.

Of course, Cyrus wasn’t fortunate enough to discover a band looking for a bassist and - at the same time - fitting his personal taste in music as well. So, with his job consuming nearly every hour of his day-time and his roommates complaining about evening practice, the Amber Lady had gone mute, causing Cyrus to spend his little, hard-earnt money on late-night indie concerts and trying to establish whatever connections he could in the local music scene. So far without success.

And now he was stranded in the chill of winter on a dead machine halfway to his customer with three cooling pizzas in his bag. The manager would certainly cut their cost off today’s payment.

‘Damn!’ Cyrus cursed a last time, took off the helmet and threw a look up and down the deserted, snow-covered street.

There were big lights somewhere ahead; hopefully a place to warm up while he waited for the breakdown service. So Cyrus dismounted, hauled the scooter up onto the pavement and wheeled it through the slushy snow.

He found himself quite lucky though, since the lights announced a lonely petrol station where he might get some help instantly.

Cyrus quickened his pace, parked the scooter in front of the garage and entered the shop. It was empty, but at least heated.

‘Hello?’ he shouted for someone in charge. No answer.

‘I’m sorry to bother, but I could use some help,’ Cyrus called out again.

Now a faraway noise arose, then steps approaching, whereat a battered door opened in the back and a tall guy stepped out.

But a few years older than Cyrus, he was dressed in stained mechanic’s gear and wiping his hands at a likewise stained rag, when he looked up and, as caught in surprise, startled for a second, frowning, before he shook his tousled, black-haired head.

‘I’m sorry, I was occupied,’ he apologized with a smile. ‘How can I help?’

‘My scooter just died and I still have a delivery to make,’ Cyrus gestured outside at his unfaithful vehicle. ‘Could you have a look at it?’

‘Sure,’ the mechanic nodded without hesitation and strode past Cyrus to leave the shop and view the problem.

Cyrus, suddenly alone, threw a look around to find a place where he could sit and wait, when the mechanic already returned the next moment.

‘It’s just a bad spark plug,’ he stated, approaching the counter and bending behind it. ‘I’ll have that fixed in a few minutes.’

‘That was a quick diagnosis,’ Cyrus marveled.

The mechanic stood up and threw a knowing smile across.

‘It’s a common problem with these machines, especially at this time of the year,’ he explained and held up a small box, obviously containing the spare part. ‘She’ll be running again in no time.’

Cyrus was relieved. So, no complete disaster after all.

‘Thanks,’ he smiled in return.

‘You’re welcome,’ the other waived and, then, pointed to his left. ‘Do you want a coffee meanwhile? I made it half an hour ago. It’s still hot.’

Cyrus nodded gratefully and, as he helped himself to a cup, the mechanic took his leave to finish the repairs.

Alone again, Cyrus finally found the time to have an exploratory look around, while sipping on the hot drink.

It wasn’t a very welcoming place. The whole room was poorly lit and looked somewhat old and shabby; a dismantled bench seat cowered at the wall across the counter, right next to a small table laden with motorcycle magazines.

Cyrus went over to indifferently flip through the title pages and was about to lower himself on the worn out upholstery, when his eyes glimpsed a string of black letters on white ground nearby, that caught his attention. From the distance he could only make out two words, but they caused his heart to pound in his chest all of a sudden: bass player.

Cyrus instantly forgot about his coffee, leapt to his feet again and hurried over to read the handwritten note.

‘Bass player wanted,’ it said, making Cyrus’s blood rush in rising excitement. ‘Indie/alternative/rock band ‘After The Fire’ is looking for a talented support on the bass guitar.’ Below a contact number was written.

Cyrus stripped off the note from the counter and read it over and over, still bewildered. Could this be it? Maybe Lady Luck was smiling upon him at last.

That moment the mechanic returned, absentmindedly wiping his hands on that cloth again.

‘Alright, you’re good to go.’

When Cyrus didn’t respond in due time, the mechanic stepped closer and had a glance at the paper he was staring at.

‘Ah, I see you found the flyer. Are you interested?’

Cyrus looked up at the tall guy and for the first time noticed the attentive, sapphire-blue eyes kindly considering him.

‘I’m not sure,’ he admitted warily. ‘I’ve never heard of ‘After The Fire’. Are they any good?’

‘Fairly,’ the other nodded in modesty.

‘So, you’ve seen them?’

The mechanic confirmed with a short gesture, then took the paper out of Cyrus’s unresisting hands and carried it over to the counter, where he wrote a quick note on it.

‘Here,’ he handed the flyer back. ‘Instead of drilling me with questions, you better go and check out for yourself. They’re holding their next audition at this place tomorrow, six p.m.’

‘A-alright,’ Cyrus felt a bit like he got jumped.

But to hell with that! There was an audition tomorrow!

Realization finally flushed his mind, struck his guts and forced a silly smile on his lips.

‘Thanks,’ he sighed. ‘This might be exactly what I’m looking for.’

‘Glad I could help,’ the other grinned, which reminded Cyrus of another unsettled debt.

‘By the way, what do I owe you for the repair?’

‘Forget about it,’ the mechanic waived and pointed at the flyer once more. ‘Just be there tomorrow.’

‘I will,’ Cyrus promised, then turned to leave, highly excited. ‘And thanks again.’



Later, at home, Cyrus realized he had forgotten to ask for the name of that kind guy, who practically turned out to be a guardian angel sent by the goddess of fortune.

Cyrus’s streak of luck had even continued afterwards. The costumer sympathized with his mishap and paid the cold pizza in full, adding a little tip. So, the manager didn’t get upset and the day was saved.

Now Cyrus was lying on his bed reading that flyer again, which offered him an unexpected opportunity. It didn’t look professional at all, completely handwritten in lean, black letters and giving no further information away whatsoever. Still, it was the only chance that had opened to Cyrus in weeks. He wouldn’t dare blow it off.

Which left him with another serious problem, since he hadn’t practised for quite exactly that period. And he knew he couldn’t catch up on his usual skill until tomorrow, even if he played through the whole night. He just had to make the best of it.

So he finally put the paper aside, reached under his bed and hauled the dark coffin from beneath to wake his sleeping beauty. The latches snapped, the lid lifted and there she was: sunburst-hued and smooth and shiny, resting in a bed of indigo velvet. The Fender.

Almost devoutly, Cyrus grabbed her neck and placed her into his lap, while he already felt excitement tingling in his fingertips.

To hell with his prude roommates! It was about time he got to play again.

Even so, he turned the volume of the amp down to an agreeable level. He couldn’t afford to lose the room either.



The next day Cyrus quit work early, picked up the Amber Lady and set out for the address that mechanic had written on the flyer.

His destination was an old, two-storeyed building which may have been a fabrication hall once. Warm lamplight broke on thousands of tiny snow flakes glittering around and gave the scene an almost romantic touch.

Cyrus trudged over to the entrance and checked the panel beside it. There were only two bell buttons available and so he pushed the one labeled studio A.G.

The buzzer answered instantly, giving way inside, whereat Cyrus shoved the door open and followed a short hallway up to a small, well-lit room to the left. Three guys were already waiting on chairs and benches, across lay a double door and at the center stood a table with a bunch of pens and papers on it, next to a note that said: Please fill in.

Cyrus nodded a silent greeting to his rivals, placed the Fender against the wall and took off his coat, before he stepped over to the table to have a look at the profile. The questions ranged from standard ones, like name, age, musical education, to more private ones, like personal influences.

At least they were easy to answer altogether and so Cyrus grabbed a pen, sat down and began to write. He was almost finished when the door across opened and the tall shape of a person stepped into the room.

Cyrus quickly wrote the last letters of The Smiths and put the pen away to look up and startle in sudden surprise.

The tall guy right in front of him was none other than his guardian-angel mechanic who had invited him here yesterday. Though he looked a bit different now: black jeans, black cotton shirt - nonchalantly unbuttoned at the throat -, silver belt buckle, his black hair clean and styled, with a shimmer of cobalt, like it was reflecting his sapphire-blue eyes.

‘Glad, you could make it,’ he welcomed Cyrus alone with a cheerful smile.

The addressee still was puzzled.

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he voiced his confusion.

‘Yeah, well,’ the other shrugged impassively. ‘It was pretty much inevitable, since I’m the drummer of After The Fire.’

Cyrus’s eyes widened in sheer disbelief.

‘You are...’

‘Caleb,’ he introduced himself. ‘Caleb Moran.’

Cyrus didn’t know what else to say.

‘Cyrus. Cyrus Cole.’

‘Then, good luck, Cyrus,’ Caleb wished him well, before he threw a pondering look through the room. ‘You came last though, right? I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until we’ve heard the others.’

‘No problem,’ Cyrus assured and gently put a hand on the guitar case next to him. ‘I’ll just fondle her a bit for the time being.’

In fact, Cyrus had arrived later on purpose, hoping to be the last one to the audition. That way he could seize a bit more time with the band, possibly overtrumping his rivals, and also warm up his fingers in the meantime.

Caleb grinned approvingly, took the paper from Cyrus and turned away to the other attendants. The first one to accompany him behind the doors was a big guy in his late thirties with an ugly skull tattooed on his arm.

Cyrus smiled silently. One rival less; Cyrus was way more charming than this walrus. Then he unboxed the Amber Lady.

He didn’t actually play. Instead he only grabbed the chords and moved his fingers as if stroking the strings, imagining the sound it would make, while he noticed the walrus and another leaving eventually. Two down, one to go.

The last guy took a bit longer than the other candidates before him, which aroused a slight tension in Cyrus, so he finally stopped and put the Fender away. A quick glance at his watch revealed it was already half past seven.

Cyrus grew nervous and, as he was about to stand up and stroll about the room a bit, the door across opened and Caleb cordially saw the latest applicant off. Then he beckoned Cyrus to come, who decided to ignore all his swelling worries and grabbed for his guitar case to follow the drummer behind the heavy, soundproofed door.

On the other side lay a completely equipped and efficiently furnished studio - well lit and ventilated -, opposite a comfortable lounge with two guys sitting there.

Caleb approached them and gently placed a hand on the right one’s shoulder; a guy with strikingly flame-red hair, falling long over his back, and clad in a pair of jeans of the same color under a black, sleeveless top, engrossed in studying a paper.

The redhead slowly looked up and, as his glance met Cyrus, he almost jumped out of the chair all of a sudden, green eyes wide in surprise. But Cyrus saw Caleb already tightening his grip, as if he had anticipated such a reaction, which seemed to ease the other and caused him to slump down again, still suspiciously eyeing Cyrus.

What the hell was going on?

Caleb circled the redhead’s back and lowered himself on the big couch, innocently smiling at Cyrus.

‘Well, then,’ he began jovially. ‘I think I introduced myself already. This one,’ he gestured at the brunette guy to his right, ‘is Will Fletcher, our guitarist. And that old grump,’ he pointed at the redhead, ‘is Ash Gray.’

‘Shut your hole, Caleb,’ the grump snapped back.

Caleb didn’t seem very much impressed.

‘He’s founder, bandleader, songwriter and vocalist of After The Fire, among many other things.’

But Cyrus was. Managing all these tasks at once must be a pretty exhausting job. Either that or the band didn’t strive for the same goals as him.

‘So, Cyrus was it, right?’ Ash ascertained, looking at the paper again, then lifted his emerald glare back up. ‘Fire away.’

‘Um, yes,’ Cyrus still tried to shake off his puzzlement, realizing he hadn’t even unboxed the guitar yet.

So he put down the case, unlatched it and took out the Amber Lady slipping into her strap, while looking for a plug to link her up. When he found the sought cable nearby, he realized there was another open question left.

‘What should I play?’ he asked.

‘Whatever you want,’ Ash answered, indifferently shrugging and causing Cyrus’s slowly fading confusion to return. ‘Your favourite song, your least favourite song, a random jingle, the lullaby your mom used to sing to you. I don’t care, as long as you play.’

Impatiently waiting, Ash tapped his fingers on the table surface, while a slight, encouraging smile flickered over Caleb’s lips and Will lifted his brows expectantly.

Cyrus pulled himself together, quickly thinking of a suitable track to begin with. He chose a piece of The Smiths; not his favourite one and not even hard to perform, but he always liked the bass lines. Since no one told him to stop, he continued with three other tracks afterwards, increasing the level of difficulty, before he just improvised, ranging through every music style known to him.

‘Ok, that’s enough,’ Ash finally interrupted and turned his head backwards at Caleb. ‘Can I talk to you for a second?’

Caleb nodded and both of them got up to walk away, out of earshot, where they obviously engaged in a serious discussion.

Cyrus felt uncomfortable, not remotely able to read the strange behaviour of the band members nor anticipate the outcome of this audition. So he just unstrapped the Amber Lady and leaned her against the table, while he threw curious glimpses over his shoulder at the arguing pair.

‘What’s his problem?’ he approached guitarist Will Fletcher, hinting at the agitated redhead.

‘Beats me,’ the brunette admitted, shrugging. ‘I never know.’

Cyrus sighed silently; his odds didn’t look very promising.

The next moment, both of the musicians returned, Ash leading and grabbing a small tablet from a counter on the way, which he dismissively threw at the off-guard Cyrus.

Cyrus only barely managed to catch the transparent box that turned out to be a CD case.

‘Rehearsals every day at this place, starting eight p.m. tomorrow. If you don’t like what you hear,’ he pointed at the CD in Cyrus’s hands, ‘you don’t have to come. Otherwise I expect you to be on time.’

With that he just turned away and left the studio without uttering another word, leaving Cyrus even more puzzled, Will unimpressed and Caleb smiling.

‘Congratulations,’ the tall guy slapped Cyrus on the back, as if nothing strange had happened. ‘You’re in.’