In preparation for ROCK DREAMS, you can meet the protagonist, Tom Born, here.
I hope you enjoy reading this – and if you want to know what happens next with Tom, Dave and “The Cry”, you can find all the information about my debut novel here, including links to the paperback and the e-book.
Like everyone else, Dave wanted to go to the concert and had arrived a day early, pitched his tent and was now sitting by the sea, listening to the waves and soaking up the smell of seaweed and the ocean.
He overheard a voice that sounded strangely familiar, dark and raspy, but he couldn’t immediately put his finger on it. Instead, it was a stranger, white tank top with a five-centimeter tear over blue shorts, sunglasses in hand, barefoot, walking towards him.
Wasn’t that…? Dave was surprised. Thomas Born, the band’s lead singer, was walking straight towards him. He was swaying, swearing quietly, looking for a foothold in the hot sand and at the same time trying to avoid the sharp stones, but it was unmistakably him. Even the way he kept brushing his brown curls out of his face. Dave had seen the gesture countless times at the concerts. Dave’s gaze followed him, he really seemed to be heading towards him. Born looked slim, almost lanky, hardly any muscles. The way his shoulders were pulled forward made him look vulnerable, but that couldn’t be. In his hand he held a pack of cigarettes.
“Got lite?”
Dave got up and realized they must have been the same height, about five foot eighty-two. Now that he was standing so close to him, he could see the deep, dark under-eye circles around the brown eyes. He lit him up and helped him shield the cigarette from the wind. Their hands touched, Born’s were slimmer, narrower, more bony than his own.
The cigarette burned and for a moment they looked into each other’s eyes. And then Dave saw the tears in his eyes. “Are you all right?” he said involuntarily.
But Born turned around, put on his sunglasses and walked back towards the beach, his shorts flapping around his legs and his shirt whiter than it had been. Dave looked after him, he hadn’t imagined him like this.
A gust blew straight up from the front, and Dave saw how Born’s body was clearly visible under his shirt, lean and thin. The painstakingly sorted hair was all tangled up again. And there it was, the dark brown, messy mane of curls and the gesture seen so often, the brushing back of the hair to concentrate.
Once on the beach, the singer walked slowly along the borderline between water and land. There was something cautious, slow, almost demure in his gait. Was he playing with the waves? Dave had to smile when he saw how every larger wave still surprised Born, washing over his bare feet and making the whole guy wince – it was only 17°C.
He couldn’t have been here on the coast for long: his arms and legs were still very white, quite a contrast to his dark blue shorts; the back of his neck was even a little red. Then Born stopped and turned to face the sea with his legs apart. Dave could see his prominent chin, the whole person was tense, concentrated and yet looked lonely. No, it looked like he was trying to find something beyond the horizon!
Born braced his arms at his sides, the afternoon wind was now freshening up. His shirt flapped like a sail, his hair was no longer tamed and the waves were getting bigger, occasionally getting more than just his ankles wet.
Was this a competition?
One of the larger waves collided with the preceding wave that was flowing back and there were splashes that built upwards. Well, more than just splashes, Born was soaking wet, from his hair to his shirt to his pants.
If it had been a competition, he had probably just lost. Born stood still for a moment, surprised, then took three steps backwards and started to laugh. The wind died down a little, so the quiet laughter was clearly audible, slowly increasing and never stopping. Dave saw Born lean forward slightly and laugh louder and louder.
Then he turned around, took off his shirt and threw it to his friends. Only then did Dave realize that he wasn’t alone on the beach. Almost half the band was there. Born gesticulated a little and someone threw him a ball.
Born began to play with the soccer, bouncing it off his feet, his knee and the wet sand. He wasn’t clumsy, but he wasn’t used to the wet sand either. Dave watched him with fascination. His upper body, which had previously been visible under his shirt, stood out clearly against the blue sky, was clearly visible and not as thin as he had assumed. He would now describe it more as wiry and sinewy. Then there was the slender neck with the clearly visible larynx – but while he always lifted his head slightly when singing, his gaze was firmly fixed on the ball here.
Dave suddenly noticed another splash of color on his wrist that he had previously overlooked. It was said that Born would never part with the red band around his wrist, that it reminded him of a friend. At concerts, he had always been too far away to see it.
Dave looked Born up and down again, the flowing mane played with by the wind, the free, sinewy upper body with the one splash of paint, the too-skinny legs in the shorts and the bare feet, actually too fragile for the artist on stage. But from the concentration with which he tried to keep the ball in the air, one could sense that there was more to him.
Dave lowered his eyes: what must it be like to always be in the public eye like this, always being watched and judged?