For Chris.

As soon as the juke-box kicked in I froze, the glass of beer halfway to my lips. I recognised the tune immediately. It was them. They were his favourite band. I smiled and raised my glass. Pink Floyd. I thought of him. Of Chris. When I first met him I knew little of the prog-rock band apart from the prism on one of their album covers. Chris introduced me to the story and the music of the band he called Floyd.

‘Keith, this is Chris Waters. He’ll be working on transport now that Syd has retired.’

I smiled and shook his hand. His eyes locked onto mine. First days could be tough. He was a couple of years younger than I was, around twenty. A nervous smile danced on his lips. I wished him good luck and gave him a wink. He nodded like a Labrador puppy wanting a treat. Like a new prisoner in this nine-to-five jail, Chris was taken away by the manager finish the introductions before joining his new department.

At lunchtimes I tended to stroll up the road to the shops. I’d get some fresh air and grab a butty. I was always far too lazy and disorganised to prepare my lunch beforehand. As my workmates queued for microwaves and kettles in the office canteen, or munched on homemade sandwiches I would always throw my coat on and head for the door. Getting out of the building always helped clear my head.

I pulled the door shut behind me and trudged across the car park. It was a cold winter day but at least it wasn’t raining. I turned onto the main road, walking quickly in an attempt to warm myself up. I saw a figure up ahead, shuffling towards the row of shops. It could have been the new lad, Chris. I was tempted to shout him but didn’t, for a few reasons. Firstly, I wasn’t entirely sure it was him, and secondly, if it was him, he may not want me shouting him in the street. I generally tried to get along with everyone and that meant I sometimes tried too hard. And besides, the guy was wearing headphones so whoever it was wouldn’t be able to hear me.

In the queue at the sandwich shop, my questions were answered. I grabbed a tuna butty and a bottle of Dr Pepper and waited my turn. Chris was at the counter paying for his sandwich. As he passed me, I tapped him on the arm.

‘Chris, it’s Keith from the office.’

‘Alright, mate?’ he beamed.

‘Hang on a sec and I’ll walk back with you.’ I said.

‘Yeah, cool.’

As we sauntered back in the direction of the office I pointed to headphones around his neck.

‘What are you listening to?’ I asked.

‘A Saucerful of Secrets.’

‘You what? Never heard of them.’

‘It’s an album,’ he explained. ‘by Pink Floyd.’

‘Fair enough. I’m more of an Oasis man myself.’

‘Can’t beat Floyd.’

‘What instrument does Floyd play?’ I laughed.

We quickly fell into a routine. We’d meet at the door at lunchtime and mooch down to the butty shop together. We connected straight away. He kind of felt like a younger brother. Even though the gap was only a couple of years, I feel he looked up to me, and I looked out for him.

He always had a tale to tell. He had a wide circle of friends. There was always something going on. He would be out with college friends one night, or a gig another. He would go into details about an altercation in a late-night kebab shop, or how a couple in his circle had just got engaged, another pal who was back from working away in Mumbai. My life seemed pretty dull and boring compared to everything he had going on. I had a very small but close group. We were all quite tame compared to Chris and those he socialised with.

Every day I would ask what album he was listening to. It was always Pink Floyd. That went without saying. He would reel off a complicated name that sounded more like an avant-garde film than a music album. Atom Heart Mother? The Piper at the Gates of Dawn?

He was forever insisting that I listen to Pink Floyd. Nah mate, I’d say, not really my thing. He would insist that I didn’t know what I was missing. I got on well with Chris and despite our differences we just clicked. There was something a little bit odd about him. He was a nice kid but there was something of the awkward, geeky teenager about him that he hadn’t quite grown out of.

One Friday evening Chris was waiting for me at the front door. As everyone filed out the door, heading off to start the weekend, Chris gave me a hopeful smile.

‘Fancy a pint?’ he asked.

There was something about the way he asked, I sensed it would mean a lot to him. I actually fancied going home and chilling out but I found myself nodded.

‘Yeah, why not?’

The pub was packed with the Friday night, after-work, crowd. We managed to get served and find seats at those ridiculously tall tables that bars had these days. We clinked glasses and took swigs of much-needed beer. Just the ticket, I said.

Chris explained how he was finding the company and what his hopes were for the future. I responded with a mix of interest, cynicism, and sarcasm. I told him he’d learn about the world of work in time and grow to loathe it like the rest of us.

We discussed our plans for the weekend. I was looking forward to the usual beer and curry with a few mates. He was heading into Manchester, to the Northern Quarter, where one of his friends was giving a poetry recital. I nodded, genuinely impressed. His circle did seem a lot more intellectual than my mates. We downed a few more pints.

‘I’ll have to get you into Pink Floyd, though, Keith.’

His expression was deadly serious. I knew he took the Floyd gravely seriously. I replied that I didn’t think they were rocky enough for me. Chris took a gulp of his pint, then wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

‘You have never heard anything like them, mate.’

‘You reckon?’

‘They will blow you away.’ he insisted.

He rummaged in the rucksack he always carried and produced a CD. I recognised the prism design on the cover. I clicked my fingers and tried to recall the album title. Chris slid the CD across the table.

‘The Dark Side of the Moon.’ he said. ‘Have a listen to this. It will change your life.’

I laughed. He sounded like some American TV evangelist. Have you found Floyd? I nodded and put the CD in my pocket.

‘Will you listen to it this weekend?’

‘Yeah, if I get chance.’ I replied.

‘I’m serious. You only listen to Dark Side for the first time once. It will be an experience. They say if you play the album and watch the Wizard of Oz they tie in.’

‘Right, well, I’m not doing that.’

‘Just sit down and listen to Dark Side this weekend.’

I nodded and resisted the urge to ask if he was a bit young to be listening to a prog-rock band. I said nothing. It clearly meant a lot to him. It was nice that he wanted me to share in his enjoyment of the group.

And so on Sunday afternoon, having made myself a cup of tea, I put the CD on the stereo. I got comfortable on the sofa, smiling at how much Chris had built up this band and the album. I felt as though I was about to have a hypnotherapy session. I tried to relax and clear my mind. I would give the album a go. I was actually interested to see what all the fuss was about. Pink Floyd did have a massive reputation, despite not being seen in as high a regards as, say, the Beatles. They seemed to have a cult following.

Then it happened. The Dark Side of the Moon kicked in. The first words of track one seemed to speak directly to me. Breathe, breathe in the air, don’t be afraid to care. The album took me on a journey. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before. The way it worked up into a crescendo by the end of the album was just astonishing. As the album finished I simply sat there stunned. Finally I got up and turned off the stereo.

One line stayed with me. And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes, I’ll see you on the Dark Side of the Moon.

I met up with Chris as usual on the Monday lunchtime. I was about to fill him in on my first experience of Pink Floyd when I noticed his black eye. He had a cracking shiner, a thick lip, and scuff marks on his hands.

‘What happened to you, mate?’

‘A friend had a gig in town. It kicked off so we all kind of got stuck in. You have to help your mates, don’t you?’

‘Very rock and roll.’ I said.

‘Where was the gig?’

‘It was in a bar in the Northern Quarter, you wouldn’t know it.’

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’ll buy your sandwich.’

We headed up the road. I told him about my first taste of Floyd and how, I had to admit, there was something captivating about it.

‘I told you, man.’ he bounced along. ‘Pink Floyd are something else. There’s nobody like them.’ Before listening to Dark Side, I assumed the geeky kid had been exaggerating. Now though, I wondered just where Chris and Pink Floyd would take me on their trippy, psychedelic trip.

All that week we discussed Floyd. It was Chris’s specialist subject. It was as though he was a teacher and I was the student. One lunchtime he mentioned Syd Barrett. I shook my head, and asked who that was. I didn’t think he was in the band, as his name wasn’t on the Dark Side album sleeve.

‘Syd Barrett.’ He sighed. ‘Where do I start?’

He paused for a moment.

‘This is way too big a story for lunchtime. How about a pint after work and I’ll fill you in?’

If this had been the week before I’d have made my excuses, but, I was intrigued. I wanted to know more about the Floyd and was eager for Chris to tell me all about it.

‘How about making it beer and a curry?’ I asked.

‘That, Keith, sounds like a top night.’

We were seated in a booth in the busy Salford Quays curry-house. Once the table was laden with curry, rice, breads, and lots of side dishes, we were ready. I took a swig of beer and nodded.

‘Go on then. Syd Barrett.’

Chris tore off a chunk of naan and stuffed it in his mouth. When he spoke it was as though he was talking of an ancient legend. Maybe he was, I thought.

‘Syd was the original singer and main songwriter of Pink Floyd back in the Sixties. He was the one that came up with the name. He merged Pink Anderson and Floyd Council, two blues musicians. Put them together,’ he clapped his hands, ‘Pink Floyd. Syd was the driving force back in the late Sixties. Syd was the man. He was Pink Floyd. The first two albums, Piper at the Gates of Dawn and A Saucerful of Secrets, they were pure Syd. It was off-the-wall, it was a trip. It was eccentric and English. It was like the past two hundred years, the distant future and the Swinging Sixties, all came together in one glorious sound. It was magical. And it was all Syd.’

Chris grinned at the thought. He had tears in his eyes.

‘So what happened to him?’

‘Like Icarus, he flew too close to the sun. After all the decadence and drugs of the Sixties, he went on one trip too many. And it cost him dearly. He had a breakdown and never recovered. His behaviour became more and more erratic. He would go on stage with the lads and spend the entire gig de-tuning his guitar or just stare out at the crowd plucking at the same string over and over. He lost his mind. One day, the Floyd were due to do a gig, and they just didn’t pick him up.’

‘Blimey. How sad.’

‘Syd cast a long shadow over the band. Look at Dark Side of the Moon, Shine on You Crazy Diamond. It’s all about Syd. Imagine if the Beatles in 1964. Paul would no doubt be writing about it.’

I was shocked by the rich yet tragic, fascinating history of the band. I wanted to know more, to hear more, to learn more.

The following weekend I had no plans so I went out and bought every album by Pink Floyd. My Saturday night would involve a few beers and immersing myself in the new music that Chris had turned me on to. I text Chris, sorry it’s short notice but I’m gonna have a few beers and a take away and listen to the Floyd tonight, you in?

A short while later I got a reply saying he was up for it. He said he’d be round for seven o’clock that night.

By half past seven there was still no sign of him. By ten to eight I had an inkling he wasn’t coming. Your loss, I said aloud. I got myself a cold beer from the fridge. I flicked through the CDs. There was a lot of them. Where should I start? I always found that a band’s music seemed to change and evolve over time. The Beatles were the most obvious example. From Please Please Me they transitioned through Rubber Soul and Revolver, before arriving at Sergeant Pepper and Abbey Road. With that in mind, I decided to work my way through the albums in chronological order. That seemed the best thing to do, especially bearing in mind what Chris had said about Syd Barrett and the early days of the band.

The albums were like nothing else I’d ever listened to. The early trippy albums gave way to brooding, dark, introspective albums that were almost a dystopian film soundtrack. The music was soulful and mourning, lamenting their fallen bandmate.

On the Monday lunchtime I asked Chris how his weekend was. I didn’t want to put him on the spot and ask him why he didn’t show up. He told me how his mate played in a ukulele band in Chorlton and he’d been dragged to watch them play a gig. I smiled and told him he’d missed a night of junk food, beer and the Floyd. He insisted we’d have to do it another time.

The following week Chris was so excited. Apparently one of his cousins was coming over from Ireland. There was going to be some big family get-together that evening. The next day I asked how his evening had gone. He kind of shrugged and said he stayed in and watched the Champion’s League football on TV. I was tempted to ask about his Irish cousins and the family bash but something stopped me. I wasn’t too sure what the truth was and if he’d open up to me. Had he really stayed in or had the bash not gone as expected? Families were funny things. Maybe it had kicked off at the bash and he didn’t want to talk about it. Whatever his reasons, I didn’t want to pry. I knew one thing for certain, he’d been right about Pink Floyd. They were just amazing. Nobody sounded anything like them. For some reason they really struck a chord with me. I was hooked. They made the 90s bands I’d been listening to seem trivial in comparison.

Things rolled along for the next few months. I was getting more and more into Pink Floyd. I would debate with Chris how I preferred Wall to other albums like Meddle. Chris would strongly disagree, favouring Animals over the lot. We would go for a beer and curry most Friday nights. He was good, easy company. There was no ego, nor agenda with him. He was just a nice kid. If you disagreed with him you could tell him you thought he was talking crap, and you’d know he wouldn’t take offense.

These days I listened to nothing but the Floyd. When I wasn’t listening to them, I was reading about the band, or watching a documentary online. With such a powerful story I was surprised the band hadn’t had a feature film made about them.

One day I noticed Chris’s desk was empty and his computer was switched off. In the office environment that meant you were not in that day. He hadn’t mentioned being off or going on holiday. I pointed to his empty desk and asked his colleagues where he was.

‘His dad is in hospital.’ One of them said. ‘He’s had a stroke. They are doing tests, apparently.’

I text Chris straight away saying I hoped his dad was okay. He replied later that day saying his dad was in a bad way and that his mother wasn’t coping very well with it all. I told him to let me know if there was anything I could do. Even if it’s just going for a pint, to help sort your head out, I said. He replied thanking me, saying it meant a lot.

After that Chris dropped off the radar. He was off work because of his family issues and didn’t reply to my messages. I just hoped he and his family were alright. I would text him now and then to let him know I was thinking of him. He never replied. I didn’t mind. It sounded like he had a lot going on at home.

There were all kinds of rumours going round the office. I took them all with a pinch of salt. In the office you only had to make someone a cup of tea for the gossips to spread the word that you were sleeping together. The rumour about Chris ranged from that his dad had passed away, to that his mother had had some kind of breakdown. I ignored it all and refused to engage in any speculation. Only Chris and his family knew what was going on.

Weeks passed without hearing from him. I was still listening to Pink Floyd. Even if I never heard from again, I thought, at least I would have discovered a love of Pink Floyd.

One Sunday morning I got a call from my mobile from a number I did not recognise. Usually I busy-toned any number I did not know. If it was important, they’d leave a voice-mail. For some reason, I picked up this call.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is that Keith?’

‘Yeah, who is this?’

‘It’s Alan. Chris’s dad. I was wondering if you’d heard from him recently.’

‘No, sorry. I’ve not heard from him for a while.’

‘He’s gone missing.’ Alan said.

I swore and asked what had happened.

‘Nobody has seen or heard from him for a few days. He said he was going out with a girl from your office.’

That was news to me. As far as I knew Chris wasn’t seeing anyone from work. I chose my words carefully, not wanting to worry him any more than he was already.

‘Really?’ I managed. ‘How strange. Such a shame. Not what you need with you not being well.’

‘How do you mean?’ Alan asked.

‘Chris told me about your stroke.’

‘I’ve not had a stroke.’

‘What? Chris has been off work for weeks because you’re ill.’

Alan sighed loudly before replying.

‘So he’s been doing it again?’

‘How’s that?’

‘Chris has some issues. He is a compulsive liar. We thought he had put all this behind him.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I said. ‘I had no idea.’

I promised to let him know if I heard from Chris. We both knew it was unlikely but I didn’t know what else to say.

I never heard from Chris again. His dad text me a couple of days later to say Chris had turned up back home and that he was okay. Alan had also called work to let them know that his son would not be coming back.

That was the end of the story.

Chris and Syd Barrett would be forever connected in my mind. To me, they blended into the same person. Trouble young men who just couldn’t take it any more. Who could blame them? I’d had times when life got on top of me. With everything that happened with Chris, the lyrics of Pink Floyd seemed to speak to me personally.

As the Floyd blared out in the busy bar, I looked around. Why was Pink Floyd playing? Who had selected this song? Nobody I knew listened to the Floyd these days. I scanned the room. Maybe I sensed he was there. I saw him. I was in no doubt, it was him. He looked back at me from across the busy pub. He smiled at me.

I waded through the crowd of people. I swore. Where was he? He was gone. I dashed through the door and out onto the dark street. The street was empty apart from a woman in her thirties puffing on an e-cigarette. I would have liked to have spoken to him. Things were just so unresolved. We were friends. We were close. It would have meant a lot to talk to him, even just to say good-bye and good luck.

I flagged down a taxi cab and headed for home. As I stared out at the night-time city lights rolling by I went over everything. Maybe the reason Chris was so obsessed with Pink Floyd was because deep down he knew he was something of a Syd Barrett figure himself.

Back home I poured myself a large measure of whiskey. I took a gulp and sighed as the liquor lined my throat. I went to my stereo, Chris central in my mind. There was only one band that would cut it, on a night like this. Pink Floyd. And I knew just the album. Smiling sadly, I put the CD on and hit play. Wish you were here.

 By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom