The next morning came in sideways — sunlight stabbing through the caravan curtains like it had a grudge. My head was thick with cheap wine and the sort of half-hope that usually leads to trouble.
I boiled the kettle, stared at my reflection in the toaster, and said, “Well, James, you’ve either been given a second chance or a very elaborate prank.”
The radio crackled to life — the local announcer droning about road closures on the Mitchell Highway and a “new young sensation” playing the Dubbo RSL. I remembered when I’d been that sensation. I’d even had a poster once: me with too much hair and not enough sense, holding a guitar like it was a weapon. The tagline read: “James Linton — Raw, Real, and Ready.”
Now I was mostly just “available.”
The phone rang again around ten. Bill Rogers. “Still alive?” he said.
“Barely. What’s the damage?”
“The gig’s next Friday. Reopening night. We’ve got a few of the old guard — you, The River Dogs, and that bloke who used to play spoons.”
“Oh, fantastic,” I said. “Nothing says comeback like a spoons solo.”
Bill laughed. “Look, we’ll cover petrol and a motel. You’ll get a meal and a rider — two beers, not six. I remember last time.”
He hung up before I could argue, which was probably for the best.
I looked around my caravan, at the stacks of notebooks, broken mic stands, and one very judgmental magpie perched outside. I hadn’t played a real stage in years — just backroom pubs and charity gigs where half the audience was too drunk to notice I’d forgotten the second verse.
Still, something about The Hollows gnawed at me. The last time I’d played there, things had gone spectacularly wrong.
It was 2003. The band was tight, the crowd was loose, and Leon Russell himself had dropped in unannounced. He’d been recording in Sydney and decided to “slum it with the locals.” Halfway through our set, he jumped up, nodded at me, and said, “Let’s make some noise, son.”
We did. And it was magic — one of those nights when the air hums, the crowd lifts, and the universe gives you a wink. My wife, Amanda, was there too — sitting at the front table, barefoot, her eyes shining like I was the best thing that ever happened to her.
Three songs later, she was gone. Walked out. Didn’t even wait for the encore.
I never did find out why. There were rumours, sure — some said she ran off with a drummer from Bathurst, others that she’d joined a yoga commune. All I know is, the next morning, our house was empty except for a note that said: “You love the music more than me. So I’ll let it have you.”
That was the day I learned music doesn’t hold you when you’re broken. It just writes songs about it.
All week I tried to prepare. Dug the Yamaha out from under a pile of laundry, changed the strings, cleaned the fretboard with lemon oil and nostalgia. The strings cut into my fingers like punishment, but it felt good — sharp, alive.
I drove into town to print some new business cards. The kid at the print shop, couldn’t have been more than twenty, said, “You want social media handles on these?”
“Mate,” I said, “I barely have handles on life.”
He blinked. “So just a phone number then?”
“Better make it the email. Phone’s prepaid.”
I stopped at the pub on the way home — The Rusty Spur — where musicians go to die quietly. Dave the barman grinned when he saw me. “Bloody hell, Linton! Still kicking?”
“Barely,” I said. “Got a gig next week. The Hollows.”
He whistled. “Haven’t heard that name in years. You reforming the trio?”
“Nah,” I said. “Just me. The trio broke up due to musical differences. They wanted to eat.”
He laughed, poured me a schooner, and leaned over the counter. “You know, mate, you were the soundtrack to my first divorce.”
“Glad to be of service.”
He smirked. “You nervous?”
“I’d be worried if I wasn’t.”
That night, I sat outside the caravan with a notebook and a head full of ghosts. I thought about calling Grace again but decided against it. She’d probably tell me to “be responsible” or “let go of the past.” But that’s the thing — the past doesn’t let go of you. It hangs around like a drunk mate at closing time.
Friday came faster than expected. I loaded the van — guitar, amp, spare shirt, and a laminated setlist just in case I forgot my own lyrics again. The drive to Bathurst took four hours, long enough for self-doubt to hitch a ride.
The motel was exactly as I remembered: pink brick, flickering neon sign, and a receptionist who looked like she’d seen too many musicians come and go.
“You here for the reopening?” she asked.
“Yeah. James Linton.”
She looked me up and down. “Didn’t you used to have longer hair?”
“Didn’t we all?”
Walking into The Hollows that night felt like opening a time capsule — one that smelled faintly of cigarettes and fried food. The stage was smaller than I remembered, or maybe I was just older.
The River Dogs were already there, still arguing about who got to sing lead. The spoons guy — yes, him — was polishing his cutlery with religious devotion.
Bill spotted me and came over, grinning. “You made it!”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said. “Unless I could’ve.”
He laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “Good to have you back, mate. People still talk about that night with Leon Russell, you know.”
“I try not to,” I said.
When it was my turn, I walked up with a beer in one hand and my guitar in the other. The crowd was decent — locals, old musos, a few curious kids who’d wandered in from uni. I adjusted the mic, took a breath, and said, “Good evening, Bathurst. It’s been a while since I played a place that didn’t have a bouncer named Shane.”
They laughed. Always start with a laugh.
I launched into “Sunday Rain,” a song I’d written after Amanda left. It wasn’t my best, but it was honest — three chords and a confession. Halfway through, the lights caught a woman sitting near the bar. For a second, I could’ve sworn it was her — same hair, same tilt of the head.
My fingers faltered. I sang the wrong line.
The crowd didn’t notice, or maybe they thought it was part of the act. Either way, I pushed through, sweating, shaking, alive.
When I finished, there was a beat of silence — the kind that could go either way. Then came the applause, louder than I expected, rough and real.
I bowed, grinning like an idiot.
After the show, Bill handed me another beer. “See? Still got it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I just don’t know what it is anymore.”
He nodded toward the bar. “Someone wants to see you.”
I turned — and froze.
It wasn’t Amanda. But it was someone from that world, that life — someone I never expected to see again.
“Hey, stranger,” she said. “You still owe me a song.”
Her name was Clara Reed — a journalist, once. She’d written a feature on me in 2002, called The Last Honest Musician. We’d shared a bottle of wine and one reckless weekend before she vanished back to Sydney.
“Bloody hell,” I said. “Didn’t think you’d still remember me.”
She smiled. “Hard to forget a man who tried to serenade me with a broken guitar string.”
I laughed. “Romance on a budget.”
She leaned in. “I’m doing a piece on the reopening. Maybe I’ll make you the story again — The Comeback of James Linton.”
I shook my head. “Don’t jinx it.”
But inside, for the first time in years, something flickered — not hope exactly, but the idea that maybe, just maybe, the song wasn’t over yet.
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