Hunting for Crows by Iain Cameron

custom-made pooch fooling perfume.’
    ‘Too true brother, it never fails.’
    Eric yawned. He wasn’t a morning person, never had been. It was an old rock cliché to think all musicians slept during the day and worked at night, not getting to bed until regular folks were heading off to work. For him, there was nothing rock ‘n’ roll about it. He preferred working this way and often came up with his best guitar licks at three or four in the morning, stoned out of his skull and a long way from a warm bed.
    He wandered back down the line of cars, buses and trucks to talk to Derek, who was stretched out in the passenger seat with a snoozing Emily beside him, her head on his shoulder, the jammy bastard. Barry sat behind the wheel and the taciturn bass player with the voracious sexual appetite acknowledged his pleasant salutation with a barely perceptible nod.
    ‘We sail through border controls in France and Belgium,’ Derek said by way of greeting, ‘and get stuck here. No bloody wonder Britain’s in such a mess. I’ve got a meeting with a promoter at one and don’t think I’m gonna make it.’
    ‘What’s that about?’ Eric asked, only mildly interested, as he would willingly play anywhere the band were doing a gig and didn’t care if it was called Aberdare, Aberdeen or Aachen.
    ‘He came to one of the gigs in Germany and wants to put a tour together with us headlining.’
    ‘You’re kidding?’
    ‘No, straight-up.’
    ‘Fuck me, it’ll be brilliant. Hang on, we’re not heading back to the Bramley Scouts Hall or that dive of a pub we played in Brum when a drunken bastard came on stage and thumped me?’
    ‘Nah, don’t be daft. He says he’ll get us into decent-sized venues like The Dome in Brighton and Sheffield City Hall.’
    ‘Yeah, and there will be us strutting our stuff to big empty spaces.’
    ‘No chance. Watch out mate, we’re on the move.’
    He stepped back to see the mouthy truck driver drive his big truck away, clearly not pleased with the treatment he’d received from the gentleman from HM Customs and Excise if a middle finger out of the window was anything to go by. The cars, vans, and trucks in the queue all edged forward and Fast Eddie was next.
    Three of them were in on the deal: him, Fast Eddie and another roadie, Smelly Dave. He and Fast Eddie could represent England, an Olympic pair in the pill-popping and weed-smoking events, but Dave was too fond of buying the latest hi-fi gear and records, a way more expensive habit than dope, and as a result he was only interested in the money.
    If Customs found the dope, they would claim it must have been there all this time as the cabinets didn’t belong to them, they were rented from a dodgy outfit in East London. At the very least, it would encourage the cops to raid their place which would serve the bastards right as they were always rude to him.
    Eddie opened the van’s doors and the Customs guy looked in. ‘Fucking stinks in here,’ the jobsworth said. ‘What have you guys been doing?’
    ‘Had an oil leak,’ Eddie replied, his sad, hangdog face devoid of mirth. ‘I thought we’d fixed it but maybe it’s started up again.’
    An oil leak? Where the hell did he get that little belter from? Their kit was either electric or acoustic and didn’t require more than a dab of WD40 now and again to loosen a hinge or free a stiff tuning peg. Nothing he could think of needed oil, except maybe Fast Eddie’s muscles and joints after sleeping outside in the van when he’d had a few too many.
    ‘Take the stuff out and we’ll let Bobby sniff around.’
    ‘For fuck’s sake mate, it’ll take hours,’ Eddie said.
    ‘Less of the mate. Just do it and shut up.’
    Eric went over to help. Ten minutes later and with most of the large gear removed and piled up against the side of the van, the dog was let loose.
    He cringed as the dog did its stuff, sniffing and moving around like a mad, wind-up toy. It was ten, half-ten in the morning and it