The Late Shift – Part 2: Off Air

The pub on the harbour was dim and noisy, with fishing nets on the ceiling and a jukebox that played only Bristol bands. Hannah took a corner table and ordered two glasses of cheap red, and when Ben came in, still smelling faintly of solder, he stopped in the doorway and looked around as if he'd never been inside a bar before.

"You're allowed to sit down," said Hannah.

"I'm surprised by how many people are talking," said Ben, sitting. "On the radio, nobody's ever in the room."

"They're in the room. They just don't talk to the microphone."

He took the wine, and drank it quickly, the way people do when they don't know what else to do with their hands.

They talked about the show. About the caller who had been trying to get on air for three years, and the cat, which Ben insisted was a genuine witch. Then they talked about the other things: the flat Hannah had moved into in Clifton, the one with the broken radiator and the view of the suspension bridge. The brother in Leeds who called every Sunday to ask if she'd met anyone yet. The bass guitar Ben had stopped playing when he left his old band.

"Why did you stop?" asked Hannah.

"Because I got tired of being the one nobody noticed," said Ben. "The bassist is always at the back, holding the groove together. Nobody claps for the groove."

"I clap for the groove."

"You're the only one," said Ben quietly. He turned his glass slowly on the table. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Do you actually like working nights? Or do you just like being the voice that people hear when they can't sleep?"

Hannah thought about it. Outside, the harbour lights shivered on the water.

"Both," she said honestly. "I like knowing that someone's awake, listening, feeling less alone. And I like the quiet afterwards, when the studio is empty and the desk is cooling down."

"That's what I like too," said Ben. "The quiet after."

They sat in the warm, noisy pub for an hour. The jukebox switched from a Bristol band to an old Motown record. Ben finally laughed at one of Hannah's stories, a deep, rough sound that made the couple at the next table look up.

When they walked out into the cold night, the harbour was black and silver, and the bridge lights stretched across the water like strings of pearls.

"Can I ask you something else?" said Ben, stopping by the railing.

"Yes."

"Would you let me show you the bass, one night, in the studio, after the show? I'd like to play you the groove I've been holding in for three years. Just for you, and nobody on the phone."

Hannah's throat tightened. "Yes," she said. "But only if you let me sing badly over it."

"Deal," said Ben, and grinned. "Can I kiss you now? By the water, with the bridge lights watching?"

"Yes," said Hannah. "And if I say stop, you still have to play the bass for me."

He leaned in, slowly, his hand coming up to cup her cheek, cool from the night air. His kiss was warm and unhurried, tasting of cheap wine and salt. Hannah's hands found the lapels of his old jacket, and she kissed him back, steady and certain, while the bridge lights glowed above them.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Ben.

"Green," said Hannah. "Very green. Now let's go back to the studio, and you can play me that groove, and I'll sing so badly the caller will call in to complain."

"He'll love it," said Ben, laughing, and took her hand as they walked back up the hill towards the lit-up windows of Harbourside FM, where the red light was still glowing, waiting for them both.