Alastair's fingers danced upon the strings of his guitar, a soft yet urgent melody filling the cramped bedroom. The space was chaos incarnate – piles of dog-eared notebooks teetered precariously on every surface, each one scrawled with verses and chords, the detritus of endless nocturnal musings. A slanted shaft of moonlight cut through the gloom, illuminating Alastair’s furrowed brow as he coaxed the tune from his instrument, a silent plea for it to be the one, the anthem Union Jack needed to break through to fame.

Alastair’s mind whirred with the blend of notes and lyrics, a private symphony that drowned out the hum of London just beyond his window. Here, in this cluttered sanctum, he was not just a man with a guitar: he was a conduit for something greater, a vessel for the raw energy of potential and promise.

“Do you think that’s the one?” Sebastien asked from the doorway, interrupting Alastasir’s flow. Distracted, Alastair looked up to see his old friend watching him, backlit by the light from the hallway. Sebastien was wearing pyjamas and his hair was rumbled, his eyes blinking with weariness, and Alastair felt a tug of guilt. What time was it? Had he woken Sebastien up again? He tended to lose track of time when he was writing music, but recently, whole hours would go by without him even noticing. That was the flow state, and it was essential to creating great music. But it came at a cost—mostly Sebastien’s sleep.

“I’m not sure,” Alastair said, running a hand through his head. “I can’t seem to get it quite right…” Hearing the worry in his voice, he forced himself to smile. He didn’t want Seabstien to think he doubted himself. Of course, sometimes he did doubt himself, but he didn’t want anyone to know that.

“Are you nervous about tomorrow night?” Sebastien asked, his gaze lingering on the notebooks scattered on the ground.

Alastair shook his head. The lie seemed to rattle around inside, clanging against the sides of his skull. “Nah, it’ll be great. You get some sleep, okay? I’m done for the night anyway.”

Sebastien nodded, said goodnight, and headed back to his room. Alastair put the guitar away and tried to take his own advice and get to sleep. But it was several more hours before the music inside his head finally died away and he was able to drift into an uneasy dream of performing on a brightly-lit stage, while in front of him, his screaming fans were swallowed up by a gaping black hole.

The following day, Alastair loaded his things into the van Union Jack had rented and drove the four and a half hours north to Manchester, where he and his bandmates would be playing their biggest gig yet. Although they were a London-based band, their gigs in the city had been small so far, confined to cramped venues with the same fifty or so attendees. Alastair was grateful for their loyal fanbase, but he knew they could be bigger. They just needed a break.

It was in one of these London venues that they’d gotten it: a roadie for the the Carpet Cleaners had heard them perform and passed on their information to the band. After listening to some of their demos, the Carpet Cleaners had invited Union Jack to open for them in Manchester. Alastair knew it was a huge opportunity. Sebastien was right to ask if he was nervous. Of course he was nervous. But he could barely admit that to himself, let alone to his friend. Tonight he had to put normal human emotions like nerves aside. Tonight he had to forget Alastair the person and become Alastair the rock star. Tonight he had to create a legend.

And when Union Jack took to the stage that night, it was with an almost palpable need to conquer the room. As Alastair stepped up to the microphone, he was heartened to see more than a few familiar faces in the crowd. Their fans had actually followed them up north. If that wasn’t a good sign, he didn’t know what was.

An electric charge surged through him, boosting his confidence. He’d been crazy to be nervous. He was Alastair Mooney. He was Union Jack. There was nothing to fear.

“Evening, folks,” he said into the mic, his voice warm and uplifting. Alastair knew he had the kind of stage presence that could intoxicate; he knew he could work a crowd better than most. And he was rewarded for his cocky confidence with a burst of applause from the audience. He grinned out at them. “We’re so grateful to be here tonight with the Carpet Cleaners. Thank you to the lads for inviting us up, and thanks to all our fans who made the trek from London. We’re honoured, truly honoured, to play tonight with a band we admire so much. It’s a dream come true.” He strummed a chord, teasing the first song—a crowd favourite that he knew would delight both their hardcore fans and those new to their music—and was rewarded with gasps of excitement and recognition and a smattering of applause. “For those of you who don’t know us, we’re Union Jack, and this is Kids of the Rock ‘n’ Roll Age!”

As the first chord struck, a rippling cheer went through the audience. Then the crowd was dancing, throwing themselves into the music, losing themselves in it as completely as Alastair was on the stage.

The set was a blur of motion and sound, the band members feeding off each other's infectious energy and the wild enthusiasm of their audience. It was their best performance yet, and by the end of the set, Alastair was sure that they had won over the Carpet Cleaners’ entire fan base.

“They’ll be coming down to London to see us next,” he gloated to the rest of the band as they sat at the back of the venue later, sipping bottles of beer and watching the Carpet Cleaners perform. Was it just Alastair, or did they seem just a touch lacklustre after Union Jack’s electrifying performance?

“Shhh, be quiet,” Bobby, the bassist, said nervously, looking over his shoulder at the stage, as if expecting the Carpet Cleaners to be listening in on them. “We’re lucky they invited us.”

Union Jack’s drummer, John, nodded his agreement. “We were good, but let’s not get cocky. Or ungrateful.”

“I’m not being ungrateful,” Alastair said, frowning at the two of them. “I’m just stating the obvious. You heard the audience tonight. They were eating out of our hands, and they’re going to want more. We need to get another single out as soon as possible.”

“What’s the point of a single without a manager?” The other guitarist, Mitch, asked. His arms were folded, and he looked annoyed at everything Alastiar said. “We know we can write music. What we need is someone to find an audience for that music.”

Alastiar frowned at Mitch. This was an argument they’d had several times already, including on the car ride up to Manchester. “Managers are just marketers,” he said. “They act like they’re essential, when in reality all they do is leech off of their musicians’ talents. We don’t need that. What we need is to write the best music possible. Then our audience will follow. Not the other way around.”

“Lots of bands have talent,” Mitch pointed out. “A manager can help ensure our talent isn’t wasted.”

“No one is as talented as I am,” Alastair insisted. “As we are. We have to have faith in that and stay the course. Get our game to the absolute top. Be the best. Then, and only then, can we look for a manager. If we find one now, when we’re still moulding our sound, he’ll try to change us. Make us more commercial. Chase a trend. But we’re not here to follow trends. We’re here to set the trend.”

Alastair looked around impressively. He was expecting his bandmates to be nodding in agreement, wonder and awe at his wisdom etched in their faces. Instead, he was greeted by an awkward silence and avoided gazes.

“What?” he frowned at Bobby, who was usually the first to cave to his wishes. “Do you not agree? Bobby, look at me.”

Bobby grimaced and looked up. His expression was guilty, and he fidgeted under Alastasir’s stare. “Of course I agree, Alastair,” he mumbled. “It’s just, well… we all want to make it big. As badly as you do. And it seems like the best way to get there—and we all agree on this—is to hire a manager.”

“Oh, do we all agree?” Alastair asked mockingly. “And tell me: when did we all get together and decide this?”

“A week ago,” Mitch said. Alastair’s eyes snapped back to him. He didn’t look remotely embarrassed as he held Alastair’s gaze. “When we invited a manager to come hear us play tonight.”

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

“What?” Alastair wanted to jump up from his seat and seize the front of Mitch’s shirt, but he restrained himself. “Who? How did you even find a manager?”

“He approached me after our last show,” Mitch said with a shrug. “Said he’d be interested in talking to us about representation.”

“Where was I?” Alastair demanded. “And why didn’t you mention this sooner?”

“You were off with your friends,” Mitch said with a shrug.

“And… he’d heard you were resistant to management,” John added. He looked apologetic, at least. “Just hear him out, won’t you, Alastair? It could be a good thing for us. Just hear what he has to say.”

Mitch nodded at someone over Alastair’s shoulder. Seemingly out of nowhere, a man appeared at their table—a man whose tailored suit and slicked-back hair seemed at odds with the griminess of the venue. He extended a hand to shake, but Alastair didn’t take it.

“Name's Ian,” the man said. He bounced on the balls of his feet as he spoke, reminding Alastair distinctly of a used car salesman. “Ian Baldwin. I represent talent, take it to new heights. Tell me, Alastair: have you ever considered how far Union Jack could go?”

For a brief moment, Alastair allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement. Of course he had considered how far Union Jack could go. But who was this outsider, this interloper, to try and sell him on a vision he had been crafting, perfecting, and working towards for years? This man didn’t care about him, or the band, or what they were trying to say. He looked at them and all he saw were pound signs.

At least, that’s what Alastair told himself as he glared at Ian.

“I appreciate it,” he said roughly, “but we're doing alright on our own.”

Ian's smile didn’t falter, but his eyes, sharp and calculating, took in Alastair’s guarded stance. “You're more than alright, mate. You're a bleeding comet awaiting orbit. But even a comet needs gravity to guide it. Let me be your gravity. I can help take Union Jack to places you’ve only ever dreamt of before. Together, we could be unstoppable.” When Alastair didn’t respond, Ian reached into his jacket pocket and produced a business card. As he tapped the card on the table, his mouth seemed to stretch across his entire face, lurid and gaping. “Look, I get it: you don’t know me, and you have no reason to trust me. But I’d like to change that. Here’s my card, and when you’re back in London, why don’t we get together and have a little chat? Hmm? I can tell you about my experience in the industry, and you can tell me about your hopes for Union Jack. Maybe then we can figure out how we might help each other.”

Alastair didn’t take the card. It wasn’t that he was an idiot; he knew that having a manager could change everything. Without one, they would never reach superstardom. But there was something so oily about Ian Baldwin—about every man in a suit Alastair had ever met—that made his stomach turn. Memories came swirling back to him: memories of his time at Eton, of condescension dripping from the fathers of fellow students as they offered to introduce him to people they knew “in the industry”; as they offered him a “leg up”; just as they’d offered a “leg up” to their own sons, those spoiled pieces of shite who were handed opportunities Alastair’s friends from back home would have killed for. And always, every one of those introductions, those “legs up”, had come with a catch: because these men never wanted to give out of the kindness of their hearts. They wanted to control him. He was nothing more than an investment, and they wanted to see a return on that investment, artistry be damned.

Alastair was ready to sacrifice almost anything for his music, but the one thing he wouldn’t sacrifice was his integrity. He wouldn’t be bought. Not by anyone, and certainly not by Ian Baldwin.

“I said no,” Alastair said. Without realising it, he was on his feet, glowering down at Ian Baldwin from his full 6’2” until the man’s smile began to slip. “Now get lost.”

Ian Baldwin’s eyes flicked to the other band members. Bobby’s mouth was slightly open in incredulity and John was wide-eyed, but Mitch looked angry. His face was red and he looked as if he were grinding his teeth.

“I’ll leave this here,” Ian Baldwin said. He set the card down on the table. Straightening, he affixed a smile to his face and nodded at each of them. “Hope to hear from you soon.”

After he was gone, Alastair let out a long sigh and collapsed back into his seat. When he looked up, all three of his bandmates were staring at him. Mitch wasn’t the only one who looked angry, now.

“What the fuck was that?!” John shouted. “That was a real opportunity for us to work with a manager!”

“Yeah dude, that was fucked,” Bobby murmured. “I know you want to do things on your own, but you were mental.”

“I wasn’t mental,” Alastair snapped. “Did you see that guy? He was a joke!”

“He’s actually a serious manager,” Mitch said. “He represents some big names.” His fury was emanating from him so powerfully that it made the back of Alastair’s neck prickle. Was it possible he’d made a mistake? But no, Alastair shook himself, dislodging the thought. He was Alastair Mooney. He didn’t make mistakes.

“Oh yeah?” Alastair sneered. “Like who?”

“Like the Diamond Dozens, Hotshoe, and Vengeance For the Few.”

Alastair swallowed. Those were big names. But he wasn’t going to admit that to Mitch. “Just because he’s right for those bands doesn’t mean he’s right for us,” he said instead.

“But that’s the thing,” Mitch said, his eyes boring into Alastair’s, “it doesn’t feel like any of us get any say in it—or in anything! You make all the decisions, and even if you’re outvoted 3-1, you won’t listen to us. It’s not fair!” Mitch looked around at John and Bobby. Both were nodding. Bobby once against wouldn’t meet Alastair’s eyes.

Alastair’s hands balled into fists at his side. His head was pounding, and a rushing sound filled his ears. “That’s because this is my band,” he snarled, his voice barley above a whisper but still deadly. “I write the music. I write the lyrics. I come up with the ideas, the vision, the roadmap for success. I’m the one who’s spent years studying rock ‘n’ roll, listening to classic albums over and over again, incorporating them into our sound. This is my band. GOT THAT? MY BAND!” Alastair suddenly realised that the back of the bar had gone eerily silent. Even as the Carpet Cleaners continued playing on stage, the buzz around them had faded. Heads had turned in their direction, their faces wearing apprehensive expressions. But Alastair didn’t care. He was too angry to worry about the optics. He glared at Bobby, John, and Mitch in turn.

“If that doesn’t seem fair to you,” he hissed, “it’s because it isn’t. This isn’t a democracy, it’s a dictatorship. And if you don’t like it, then you can leave and start your own band. But good luck trying to write music without me.”

Alastair was fully expecting Mitch to cave; for him to look down, nod, and tell Alastair he was right; for him to beg for forgiveness. Which is why he was shocked when Mitch narrowed his eyes, stood, and slammed his hand down on the table.

“Fine,” he said. “I will leave. I’d rather be in a shitty band that never makes it big than spend any more time part of the Alastair-Mooney-ego-trip-show.”

Mitch gave Alastair one last contemptuous look, then turned and left. Alastair had to work to keep his jaw from dropping as he watched Mitch disappear into the crowd of people, who were starting to talk amongst themselves again, although their eyes kept darting in Union Jack’s direction. He couldn’t believe Mitch would really leave.

“Well, that just goes to show what an idiot he is,” he said, trying to force a laugh. “He’d rather be in a shitty band than deal with me?! Pathetic.”

“I don’t know how much of an idiot he is,” John said. He had set his beer down and pushed out his chair as well and now clambered to his feet. “I think you’re the idiot, Alastair. You’re pushing away the people who believe in you most, and why? Because you can’t relinquish control? Fuck that. I’m out, too.”

“Me too,” Bobby said. He gave Alastair a sad, sympathetic look as he stood. “I joined Union Jack to have fun, but this isn’t fun anymore.”

“Being a rockstar isn’t about having fun!” Alastair shouted. “It’s about making music that lasts.”

Bobby shook his head. “And I’m sure you will, Alastair. Hell, I’ll be the first to buy your albums. I just don’t want to be part of it any more.”

He and John left, leaving Alastair sitting alone at the table, staring after them and trying to ignore the feeling like a hole had opened up beneath him, threatening to swallow him whole.

It took Alastair a week to pull himself together. A week when he drank a bottle of vodka every day, wrote music alone in his bedroom and then wandered the streets until all hours of the night, waking suddenly at the kitchen table around five or six in the morning without any memory of how he got there. He didn’t tell Sebastien or Imogen what had happened with the band. Sebastien was never around anyway, spending all his free time with that writer, Jess. And Imogen… she’d probably take the band’s side, accuse him of letting his ego waste a great opportunity. Anyway, he didn’t want to worry his friends. He just needed a week to lick his wounds, to remind himself that he was Alastair Mooney, and that he didn’t need those hacks anyway; that he could make a band all by himself.

At the end of the week, he finished the song he’d been struggling with since before Manchester. Sebastien had asked him if it was the one--and it was. It was the anthem he’d always wanted to write: an ode to the history of rock ‘n’ roll and a manifesto for his generation. It was perfect, and he knew he could never have written it with his old band. Fuck those guys.

Later that day, Alastair threw out the rest of his vodka bottles, then went to the printer, where he printed around fifty hand-drawn signs. He hung these around Hackney, on every music venue bulletin board and bus shelter window he could find. They read:

Musicians (guitar, bass, drummer) needed for new rock band A-La-Stair, fronted by Alastair Mooney.

Auditions held Sunday 4pm at the The Bottom Line

The following Sunday, after he’d finished auditioning what felt like half of London (his name carried weight in the music scene, he was gratified to learn) and found his new (and better) bandmates, he fished a card out of his wallet--where it had been burning a hole in the brown leather--found a telephone box and dialled the number written on it.

Ian Baldwin picked up on the first ring.

“Hi,” Alastair croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “This is Alastair Mooney from—”

“I know who you are,” Ian interrupted. Alastair heard him smile through the phone. “Are you ready to talk about your future?”