The good news is that everything’s as I left it, plus a layer of dust. The bad news is that I’m back here.

I knew I’d need to come back eventually. Right now, I’m officially only visiting the U.S. for three months before my tourist visa runs out, and after that I’m either illegal or I’ve got to figure out how to get a longer-stay visa or a green card or whatever the fuck it is I’m supposed to do.

The first time I was there, I had a team of people to handle it. I signed some documents and went to some meeting with immigration officials, but other than that I hadn’t a clue what I was doing. Not so this time, when it all falls on me to figure out what I’ve got to do.

In any case, I’ve still got the cottage. The rent is fairly cheap, and it seemed foolish to have nowhere to come if I got deported. It’s still got the kitchen table with the wine stain and the burned spot, the bed as unmade as I left it, my bicycle waiting in the entry hall.

I do the math. It’s one in the morning in Los Angeles, so I just text Frankie: Made it. Everything is the same.

The next day, I take the bicycle and ride it through unpleasantly cold weather to the offices of Dirk Bigsley, Solicitor. He’s the end office in a concrete mini-mall made even uglier by the slight rain we’re having, and his secretary barely notices when I walk in, just shrugs and points me toward the back.

My stomach sinks. It’s not that I need white-glove, gold-star service, but I’m beginning to wonder whether Dirk’s degree is printed on the back of a coupon insert from the local paper. I’ve emailed and called as well, and I have to say that neither of those interactions have given me much confidence, either.

But on the other hand, I’ve got what you’d call a rather limited budget and since Alistair’s retained the firm of Crowley, Smithton, and St. James, representing myself seemed like a spectacularly bad idea.

I knock on Dirk’s door. No answer. I knock louder, and from within there’s a rustling of papers, a pause, and then finally he shouts, “It’s open!”

I push the door in and I’m greeted by a middle-aged man behind piles and piles of papers on what must be a desk.

“You must be Liam,” he says. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

We shake hands. He directs me to the only seat in the office that’s not his.

I can’t help but notice that his computer screen is showing a game of solitaire, and that he doesn’t bother navigating away as he searches his desk for my file.

“I was just... I know I had it... somewhere around... yes!” he exclaims, finally pulling a manila folder from a pile and smiling triumphantly, like he’s found the Holy Grail. He puts it on top of another pile, opens it, starts reading.

“Now, if I’m not mistaken,” he says, scanning. “This is just a civil... bollocks, a hundred thousand quid?”

“Is this the first time you’re looking at this?” I ask.

“Of course not,” Dirk says, sitting up a little straighter. “I do handle quite a bit of business, can’t possibly keep it all in my head at once you know. Now this says you assaulted this other bloke and he’s seeking damages?”

I exhale hard, because I’ve gone over this with him on the phone already, more than once, and now I’m just wasting time and money doing it again.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ve already got the DUI, my license is revoked, I’m paying the fine on a monthly basis as I haven’t got five thousand quid let alone a hundred thousand—”

My phone rings in my pocket, and Dirk looks down at the paperwork.

“Take it,” he mumbles. “I’ll just reacquaint myself with this....”

I’m nearly certain that he’s getting acquainted for the first time, but I don’t argue with him. He’s better than representing myself, at least.

I don’t recognize the number, but I answer out of sheer perversity and a desire to irritate Dirk by talking loudly on the phone in his office.

“Please hold for Mr. Portsland,” a pleasant female voice says.

“What?” I ask, but there’s already hold music playing, and I frown. Who the fuck calls you to put you on hold, this isn’t—

“Liam Fenwick?” a brash male voice with a posh accent says.

“Yes,” I say.

“My name is Neville Portsland and I’ve been retained as your solicitor for your current matter of one hundred thousand pounds,” he says, sounding very much as if he’s used to people hanging onto his every word. “I understand that at the moment you’re being represented by Dirk Bigsley?”

I lean back, looking at Dirk, whose lips move as he reads.

“What do you mean you’ve been retained as my solicitor, I haven’t—”

“I’m afraid this will be easiest if it’s done in person, rather than over the telephone,” he says. “But I will say I’ve a record of winning cases like this in the area, I’ve been arguing personal injury civil suits for many years, and I know for a fact that Bigsley once ate a ham sandwich that he found in a desk drawer.”

I look at Bigsley. I’m pretty sure he’d eat a ham sandwich that he found, but I’ve got no idea what the fuck is going on right now.

“Not to mention that this particular case is anything but cut and dry,” he goes on. “For God’s sake, you’ve got a black eye in your booking photo and they’re trying to claim that this was a one-sided assault. It’s simply ludicrous.”

Across the room, Bigsley looks at me, frowns.

“Did this happen last November or the year before?” he asks, mostly to himself.

“All right,” I say into the phone, standing. “I’m more than happy to switch solicitors but I haven’t got any money to pay you with and I’ve no idea why you’re—”

“Gavin Lockwood’s paying me,” he says, cutting me off.

* * *

It’s one of the worse facts of life that money makes problems go away, but bloody hell does it work. Walking into Portsland’s offices is like being swaddled in a soft sheepskin blanket. From the moment I sit down opposite him, it’s obvious that he knows what he’s doing.

Apparently, this particular judge is quite strict about drugs and alcohol, which is bad for us, but he was also born the son of a coal miner and worked his way up from nothing, so nor is he impressed with the landed gentry.

I sit there and listen to all this, slightly stunned. I’m not sure that Bigsley knew the case had a judge, let alone what his father did.

“All right,” he says, after two hours. “It’s a bit much money overall, but none of this should be a problem. Everything’s quite sound. I’ll see you Tuesday, and be on time.”

I thank him, get up to leave, but as I close the door behind me he speaks up again.

“And take a car, for God’s sake, don’t you dare bicycle to court!”

* * *

That night, I call Gavin first. He picks up on the first ring, his voice echoing strangely.

“Did you just answer the phone in the bathroom?” I ask.

Running water sounds in the background.

“How’s England?” he asks, ignoring my question.

“It’s lovely,” I say. “I seem to have an influx of solicitors, though.”

“Do you?”

I pause, look out the cottage window. It’s the same thing I did when I called him to apologize, months ago.

“I’m sure Frankie’s the one who told you, but why are you doing it?”

There’s a long, long pause. I can practically see him, staring off into space or something, trying to think of the right answer.

“Because it could be either of us and I know that,” he says.

“It couldn’t. It wasn’t.”

“I’ve never known why I got clean after one round and you didn’t,” Gavin says. “And even though while you were gone I tried to figure it out a million times, I kept coming back to the fact that it was luck. Just pure, dumb, blind luck. When we got out I went to the right places, saw the right people, and you didn’t. It’s that simple.”

I don’t know what to say. It doesn’t feel like luck at all that I’m here and he’s there. It feels like a personal failing, like there’s some innate part I’m supposed to have that I’m missing. It’s always felt that way, that no matter what I was going to be a fuck up and watch the world around me rise while I sank.

“It’s not simple,” I say.

“It’s not complicated,” Gavin says.

“You shouldn’t be doing this,” I say, shutting my eyes. “I tried to break you and Marisol up, I made you relapse, I got blood all over your sofas—”

“And now you’ve not shot up in a year,” Gavin says. “There’s some parallel dimension where I did all those things to you instead. It was us at the beginning, Liam. Let it be us until the end.”

There’s a long, long pause because I don’t know what to say to that. Gavin’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother, the closest thing I’ve ever had to real family.

“I also know about punching a bloke because of a girl,” he admits. “Only I got away with it.”

“I should have been so lucky.”

“Exactly.”

I don’t bother mentioning that I was also drunk driving and lucky as hell that I didn’t kill anyone that night.

“She told you?”

Gavin laughs.

“She called a band meeting. I was afraid she was going to tell me you were dead, she was so serious,” he says, and I smile.

“She doesn’t really understand,” I say.

“Nor does Marisol,” Gavin says. “Would you want her to?”

“No,” I say. “I quite like her as she is.”

* * *

Once the money’s involved, everything goes beautifully. I show up to the courtroom three days running in the suit I wore to Gavin’s wedding, the only suit I own. Alistair’s got a squadron of pinstriped men over on his side, and they talk amongst themselves incessantly, irritating the judge to no end.

There’s evidence, pictures of the car I crashed, discussion of my blood alcohol level. One of the witnesses says that I punched Alistair first and another swears that he punched me first, and it becomes apparent that it was dark and foggy and everyone was shouting and it was hard to tell what happened.

The days do tick on, though: Tuesday becomes Wednesday becomes Thursday, and just as I think we might be able to wrap up the judge tells everyone to go home twenty minutes early instead.

I call Frankie every night. I know I’ll see her again soon, but it surprises even me how much I miss her when she’s not there. It surprises me the small, stupid things I want to tell her about, the things I want to ask her thoughts on.

Finally, Friday comes. I bring my luggage to court because my flight leaves from Manchester at four, and thanks to the strange magic of time zones, if I make the flight I’ll be in Los Angeles in time for the show.

The judge is late. Still deliberating, I guess, because we wait for an hour and he doesn’t show up.

Please don’t postpone this another day, I think.

Even though I know that Dirtshine already has a backup drummer lined up, and even though I know they’d give me another chance, I want to go home to where there’s too much traffic and it never fucking rains.

Finally, the door behind the bench opens, and the judge walks out.