What was it that brought me back to Woodridge Tavern, with its peeling paint and mouldering wallpaper? Left me nursing a domestic brew at the scarred wooden bar, breathing in cigarettes and stale beer.  

The local blue collars barely noticed me, beyond the grunt of the bartenders greeting. I could've been anyone. Even if the locals had heard of Savage - the solo guitarist with one multi-platinum debut album to his name - recognition was inconceivable. My press was tight, and any publicity shots of me were always stylised beyond recognition.  My publicist loved it; the mystery, the ambiguity, the thrill of the unknown. But that isn't why I'd insisted on obscurity. 

I thought I'd done it to remain anonymous. Avoid the so-called Fame-Game. But I'd started to wonder if my motives were so pure. Or did they stem from something deeper? Something that twisted in me when I looked at the obscure anonymous images that were my public persona and all I saw was how they reflected my own fractured soul. I felt incomplete. Unfinished. My music, although rich and textured, felt empty. Without meaning. I didn't know how to fix it. Nothing I wrote sounded right. 

I came back for inspiration. To recapture something I felt like I'd lost, or lost touch with. 

As Savage I'd seen incredible beauty, I'd toured the world, travelling more places in year than I had in my entire *life* before. But I'd lost something. I couldn't write beauty the way I used to when I still lived here. I couldn't create anything of worth in the structured, textured luxury my life had become. It was suffocating me.  

So I came back here. Out of desperation, to distance myself from Savage and try to become just Daniel Jones again. Maybe if I achieved that, I could write again. 

So deep in thought I hadn't noticed the tinny AC/DC track pacifying the locals had petered out, being replaced by strains of music so familiar I didn't register at first. One of the tracks from my first album was playing. One of the lesser-known, more personal songs. By the time recognition hit it was too late to leave. I sank lower in my seat, infinitely thankful at that moment that my music didn't have lyrics to vocalise my intimate thoughts. The chords themselves were bad enough, the way they exposed my soul. I'd given the track the ambiguous name of 'Universe' to try to conceal the blatant sensuality I'd discovered in it. It was no use though, every note dripped with lustful sexuality for the sweaty, stubby-holding blue-collars to hear. 

I took a sip of my beer only to find it had gone stale. I put my glass down and prayed for the song to end quickly. 

A few bars in, something completely unexpected happened. Someone began to sing. A voice, sweet smooth and angelic, rang clear over the recording of my song, singing of love and lovemaking. 

I spun in my chair to face a make-shift stage, atop which was the owner of the voice. Standing at a microphone was a stunning man-child clad in leather, mesh and denim. A spotlight tinged his too-pale face with orange, picking up highlights on pitch black hair that shone and hung to shoulder length, making clear blue eyes glitter. He was oblivious to my outrage and the half-listening crowd, his entire focus centred on the music, lost in the lyrics of  his making. 

I was speechless. I thought of and forgot a thousand things to say. I fought a million different reactions. One part of me was furious—how dare he be so presumptuous as to mess with my music? But my main reaction was shock. This pale angel-voiced boy was singing my thoughts, *my* emotions. I'd worked fruitlessly with dozens of songwriters in my career searching for someone who could capture the essence of my music the way this boy was doing now. 

Stunned into paralysis, I barely moved for the rest of the song. Just sat and absorbed the flawless perfection of his voice, my outrage leaking away as I became more and more enamoured with this angel and the beautiful words that dripped from his pale lips. 

I'd heard the song a million times. Agonised over it. Written and re-written it. But this was the first time it sounded complete. Right. It was like the missing pieces had been fitted, making it as perfect as it could be. As perfect as I'd always wanted it to be. And it was a miracle of this angel's doing. 

I sat in rapture as the song wound down, the dark-haired man ending it with one clear perfect note. A smattering of applause and as the music ceased I watched his demeanour change. Disengaged from the music, no longer lost in the lyrics, his voice was too soft as he murmured 'thank you' into the mic with a shy smile. Then he turned and left the stage, with nothing but a squeak of feedback to announce his departure. 

He disappeared so quickly I almost didn't see where he went. I abandoned my drink and followed, suddenly fearful he'd vanish and the answer to my whispered prayers would be lost. 

I drew no attention when I slipped into a side-room that appeared to co-act as a dressing room. Apparently security wasn't an issue at this venue. The man-child's amazing voice and talent were obviously lost on this common lot. I watched from the shadows as he spoke with an older man who appeared to be the venue proprietor.  I tried to ignore a blaze of fury as the older man touched him all too familiarly, slipping a lecherous hand over the boy's rear as he turned to leave. 

He didn't belong here, among this filth. These people weren't worthy to touch him. That older man didn't' deserve to be bestowed the radiant smile of an angel. An angel who wore his beauty as casually as his worn leather jacket. I was in awe, but I also felt an incredible urge to protect him. 

When he left the tavern I followed him at a distance. I tried to ignore the sinking feeling that settled in the pit of my stomach as he headed down Wembley Road towards the Plaza. The Plaza by day is a perfectly respectable shopping centre. By night it's a haven for pimps, dealers and whores. When he began to cross the littered car park I had to internally concede that I knew nothing about this boy. His innocence and vulnerability could be a convincing charade. He could easily be a dealer, a user or a hustler. 

But I kept walking after him. 

I cursed under my breath, watching from darkness as he stopped in front of the Woody's Music Store sign, shrugged out of his worn jacket to reveal a tight-fitting long-sleeved mesh shirt and fitted black jeans that sat low on his hips. He casually leaned back against the wall, assuming the traditional 'waiting for someone' pose that's a staple for all streetside hookers. 

The red glow of the Woody's sign cast a scarlet tint to his hair. He was by far the most gorgeous thing on show of the fifteen or so male prostitutes who'd braved the cold air on that Friday night. Woody's was a signpost for men seeking paid male 'companionship'. The 'ladies' stayed down the other end of the Plaza, where Coles was. 

For long moments I was trapped. Desperate to speak to him. Desperate to leave and forget I'd even seen him. Instead, I just watched him, casually but perfectly posed. Any 'customer' out tonight would choose him first,  guaranteed. So when I heard footsteps behind me, and saw a figure at the distant end of the car park heading his way, I knew I had to make a decision