The car radio does not work between dimensions. It does not hiss; it goes fuzzy and has a tendency to block the driver’s vision with a cloud of white noise. Occasionally, somewhere amid the cacophony, you can make out a few bars of your favourite song. My favourite song is “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell. The Hare’s favourite song is “Bed” by Nathan Ochre.
Ochre was surprisingly talkative before the inevitable happened. Fans would gather outside the window of his locked bedroom with Dictaphone mics poised to record snatches of rambling.
One day, he felt colder than usual. Only he wasn’t sure if he felt cold, so accustomed was he to leaving all his decisions to others, and not being trusted with some much as a spoon. He fashioned a whole dinner set out of the paper. A breeze upset the dish, which had hot-footed it out of the window with the fork. He remembered the window, mumbled words around it, unknoted his fingers and closed it shut.
He saw a girl, hunched over a microphone. Her screams matched his, and he was away.
He was on buried 28th Sept 1979 along with a teddy bear and his master-tapes. His former manager visited his grave and teased him with a favourite guitar.
The Hare continues humming unfinished notes throughout our journey. He is clearly not himself today.