Hi guys, welcome to the first of my bonus chapter section. This one is set in Glastonbury and picks up just before Chapter 5. Thomas is at the festival with Allegra and keen to watch a variety of musicians. Sadly, she's not really into that side of festival life—so Thomas goes into the mosh pit by himself. Go, Thomas!

You'll find some Aussie guests here: West Thebarton (formerly West Thebarton Brothel Party—they got a chick drummer), a local band from my home town. I listened to them a lot when I drafted this. I still do.

Please let me know what you think of this chapter and if you think it should be more than an extra.

Enjoy!

Jas oxox

Glastonbury, England—June.

"Thomas, get back here right now!"

Fully aware of the manicured hand reaching out to grab him, Thomas pushed into the sweaty mass, feigning obliviousness. It was a small crowd, being at one of the smaller stages, and it was only mid-afternoon. The thought of approaching the Pyramid stage was enough to cause a trickle of cold liquid down his back. This was more to his taste.

One of Glastonbury's investors had invited Allegra as a special guest. The best accommodation—for a festival, at least—had been made available to them. He'd been reluctant to come, swamped as he was with work. Taking part in her self promotion was not high on his priorities. However, it was important to her. Unfortunately, the woman didn't seem to be the least bit interested in watching anything beyond the big-name acts. And then from side-stage.

Yet, they had come together, and he was her guest.

A pang of guilt tugged in his chest, and he turned back to see her, hands flapping about in an unlike-Allegra manner—one that did nothing to induce him to listen to her demands. Waves of bodies moved around him, pushing him further away like an ocean current had caught hold of him.

He let her catch his gaze for a moment, shrugged in a way that said, What can I do? and let the press take him where it would. When he was certain he was far enough away to avoid her wrath, he anchored his wellingtons in a patch of mud and faced the front.

Stage-hands moved back and forth, checking connections, adjusting the placement of instruments and placing bottles of water in handy locations while indie music played in the background. Above, sunlight sifted through a fluffy cloud sending beams of warmth through the hundred-or-so people who waited. In the distance, Thomas could hear an echo from another stage and feel the vibrations coming through his rubber soles. After a time, a series of hand gestures passed between on-stage staff, and they excited.

The music died down. The crush took a collective breath. Then a black-haired, bearded man dressed in a flannel shirt, skinny black jeans and scuffed sneakers walked out, a beer in hand.

He sidled up to the microphone, casually grabbing hold of it, and said, "Hey there, I'm Reverend Ray, and we are West Thebarton from Adelaide, Australia."

As he spoke, six other musicians appeared. Thomas raised his eyebrows as a petite blonde woman walked up to a drum kit, spinning her drumsticks in circles between her thumb and forefinger with such ease, he knew she meant business.

A cheer erupted. Not the thunder he knew Glastonbury could and would produce. But enough to bring out white-toothed smiles from the band.

Feedback, thumps and the jingle of percussion drifted from the speakers as they tuned and twisted their instruments, shoulders hunched, eyes intently focused on what they were doing.

Ray's eyes scanned his audience like a hawk, his beer lifting each time he met someone's eyes, flashing them an impudent smile before he drunk. He shook the can, placed it beside the drum podium and opened another one. After a deep skull, he turned and nodded to his bandmates.

West Thebarton went from zero to one hundred in a second. Six twenty-somethings jumping and throwing themselves about the stage and an erratic blaze of blonde hair swishing above the drums, all in perfect synchrony to each other.

God, they'll have stiff necks by the end of this!

The crowd seethed around Thomas, growing hotter and hotter.The miasma of perspiration, and crushed grass rising and enveloping them in a haze. A leggy young woman, in high-waisted shorts that did nothing to hide her arse, jumped about in front of him, damp tendrils of black hair whipping in his face. She slipped in the mud, one leg in the air, her arms flailing out to the side as she fell backwards.

He managed to clutch her by her armpits, supporting her, so her back rested against his abdomen. Large brown eyes looked up at him from under a set of fake eyelashes, and she smiled.

Thomas grinned back and lifted her. The girl turned, mouthed a Thank you, kissed him on the cheek and draped his arm around his neck, positioning herself so she stood next to him and started moshing again.

Blinking through the blur of hair, he found himself nodding, his head moving to the music and his fingers tapping to the beat made by the cute drummer and the sharp strikes of a hand-held tambourine. Layers of notes pulled him in: the metallic, brassy twangs of two rhythm guitars, the rapid melody of the lead guitar and Ray's soulful cries.

The crowd now pulsed and Thomas' wellingtons sunk in the mud. Despite the thickness of the air, he felt like he could breathe for the first time in a long while. When the music stopped, so did the audience. A rush of cool wove through the gaps.

Ray approached the edge of the podium. "Fuck, you guys are nuts."

A clamour.

He bent down, leaning over precariously to shake an arm stretched across the barrier gate. Standing, he nodded, mouth wide. Then his face sobered. "So, anyone here ever got sick of all the crap in their life and decided you've got to get the fuck away—like you've got to move out?"

Claps and whoops arose. Thomas rose his fist, shaking it, only after realising what he did with a blush.

Ray's head bobbed even faster. "Well, folks, this one is for you." He looked down at the floor a moment—gathering himself, drops dripping from the tip of his nose—then up again. "It's called Moving Out."

The fast and catchy tune sent the crowd wild. Minutes ticked away. Thomas' unexpected friend moved closer to the front. Even though Ray announced the last song in advance, when it finished, Thomas found the set ending unexpectedly.

"You guys are fucking awesome," said Ray, raising two fingers. "Peace."

West Thebarton departed, and people turned on their heels, walking off to other performances, to buy food and drinks, or to lay in the small, rare patches of unbroken grass.

Thomas pulled out a packet of cigarettes, tapped one out, lit it and took a deep draw. He stood a minute, one hand in his pocket, breathing in the scent of a British summer mixed with smoke, and gazed up at the blue sky and wisps of fast-moving clouds. On a sigh, he moved through the churned-up field, plastic cups and beer cans crackling under his boots as he navigated towards a tall woman who stood by a wire fence, her slim, tanned arms crossed over a dress so white, it sparkled in the sun.

When he stopped in front of her, she reached out and fingered his shirt.

"Filthy, Thomas, you're absolutely filthy." She began to walk away and paused, twisting her head to look at him. "Are you done?"

He gave her a nod and whispered to himself, "I'm certainly getting there."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

🎸   So, what did you think?

🥁   Any suggestions?

✈️  Should I make it more than a bonus chapter?

🌍  Thanks again for reading!