‘Hey, if you’re awake give me a call.’ On community radio it really didn’t matter what you said at four in the morning. ‘I’m Cray B. and you’re all asleep.’ Cray cued up some 70s excess that took an entire side of an old 12-inch. He looked at his watch. Slugged cold coffee ruefully. The phone rang.

Cray jumped. Nobody ever called except a couple of his mates and they wouldn’t be listening this late. ‘Cray B. on Your Music Radio, 105.3.’

‘Cray B. Hi.’ It was a girl’s voice. That was enough to shake the tiredness from him. ‘I love your show.’


‘Yeah, I’ve got something you ought to play.’

That would be my luck, he thought. Just another wannabe star with a tinny demo they think’s gonna launch them. Still the voice was nice. For a major music nerd that was a good enough start. ‘Well send it in and I’ll have a listen.’

‘You could listen now.’


‘I’m outside the studio.’

‘What. Here. Now. I’ll.Wait. Wait there.’

By the time he opened the door he was a little more composed. Not for long. There was Marcie Kingston, his year-ten girlfriend. No braces. No pimples. All class. And in her hands were three albums of classic soul he’d leant her a decade ago.


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