10.35

“Where and when was the Sex Pistols’ first ever gig?”. The question rang out across the bar, slicing through the thick, competitive buzz. I glanced up at the oversized clock on the wall.

Ten.

Nine.

Eight.

Normally, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this—rows of shots lined up proudly between bowls of pork scratchings and roasted peanuts.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

The air thickened with testosterone, cold sweat, and that stale stink of hesitant confidence.

Four.

Nicholas was a cartoon villain—pure moustache-twirling smugness. Dastardly. And a total D.

Three.

Last week, he’d reduced my niece and her uni friends to red-faced laughter fodder, dismissing them with, “females not knowing their Ramones from their Rolling Stones.”

Two.

Nicholas thought he owned the room—as usual.

One.

10:35 - Time for the real me to step out from the wings.

“November 6th, 1975,” I called out, slicing through the noise. “Saint Martin’s School of Art in London. They supported Bazooka Joe.”

Nicholas blinked. The room fell silent. His surprise hung in the air like a bad smell.

The quizmaster straightened his tie and forced a grin. “Correct! We have a winner!”

Polite, confused applause broke out. A few people turned to look at me properly—for the first time.

That old cliché kicked in: How could she possibly know that?

Simple.

Because I’d always known.

Because I’d planned this.

They handed me the prize—a rare vinyl by punk-pirate band Rebel Saints, and a ticket to the grand opening of their former drummer’s bar.

“Well, isn’t that something?” Nicholas drawled. His hair dripped with gel, moustache twitching with sarcasm. “Did you pick that up from a Netflix documentary? A female rattling off punk trivia? That’s so cute.”

“Thanks for your expert opinion,” I smiled. “Coming from the bargain-basement Bryan Ferry. I do apologise for winning—you must be such a jealous guy.”

The pub erupted in laughter.

I knocked back the last of my cider, gave him a one-fingered salute, and walked out victorious.

Outside, under the harsh glow of streetlights, punk music played in my head.

Fierce.

Certain.

I turned and walked proudly toward the taxi rank, clutching the album and ticket to my chest.

The next morning was surreal in its normality. No grand plans—just pulling on an oversized white shirt and black leggings, brewing a cup of Earl Grey, and basking in the quiet thrill of denting the ego of the so-called King of Trivia.

But as I drained the last of my tea, my eyes drifted to the vinyl on my bedside table.

The Rebel Saints.

Something about it tugged at me. Not nostalgia. Something deeper. A frequency beneath my skin that made the hairs on my arms rise.

I glanced at the microwave clock.

10:35.

I grabbed my coat and headed out—without thinking.

The Sunday Market buzzed with its usual blend of chaos and charm.

Cheesy ’90s hits leaked from a portable speaker as small bubbles floated in random patterns from a not so well hidden machine

Stalls overflowed with vintage magazines, second hand books, freshly painted art, home-baked cakes, and hand-stitched quilts. The scent of hot dogs, donuts, and popcorn made children wide-eyed, desperate to escape their responsible adults.

Then I saw it.

A flash of electric blue, cutting through the normality.

I weaved through the crowd and found it: a battered portable record player. Ocean-blue casing. Scuffed edges. Years of love or neglect.

It didn’t just call to me.

It pulled.

Beside it sat a clear plastic box filled with vinyl records and punk magazines, their edges curling like survivors.

I crouched, fingers twitching to flip through the stack:

The Clash.

The Ramones.

Patti Smith.

The Sex Pistols.

I reached for the top record, my heart hammering—not from excitement, but recognition.

London Calling.

The sleeve was faded, but the energy pulsed off it like static.

Deeper in, fanzines and bootlegs formed a rebellious tapestry. Then I saw it: a photo, grainy and black-and-white. A guy with a mohawk. A girl in thick eyeliner and a leather jacket.

Faces I’d never met—but somehow knew.

The pull in my chest turned into a gut punch.

What is this?

I looked back at the record player.

Checked my watch.

Frozen.

10:35.

An elderly man appeared beside me, smiling like he’d seen this moment before.

“Twenty quid,” he said.

I didn’t hesitate.

He placed the record player gently into a bag, like it was sacred. I thanked him and headed home, the weight oddly comforting in my arms.

Back at the flat, I cleared a space on the table and set it down. Cracked edges. Faded buttons. A secret compartment.

Inside: the unreleased second album from Rebel Saints.

As the needle dropped, a raw, pulsing beat filled the room.

The voice that followed was haunting—cryptic and anthemic all at once.

I closed my eyes.

And there he was.

Jack.

The lead singer from the album cover.

But this time, he wasn’t onstage.

He was in my room.

Staring straight at me.

I snatched the needle off the record.

I needed a distraction.

Then I remembered the other part of my prize: tonight’s opening.

Danny’s Retro Bar was a dimly lit cavern of red and black. Every inch was covered in punk posters. A DJ was spinning vinyl records Themed cocktails flowed. Music made my bones hum.

I spotted Danny at the bar. His fingers tapped nervously—betraying his drummer past.

I reached to adjust my watch.

Stopped.

Again.

10:35.

My stomach flipped.

The memory hit like a train.

I was four years old.

The shopping arcade was a maze of tall shelves and pressing crowds.

One moment I held my mother’s hand—the next, I was alone. Terrified.

Then I heard it.

Music.

Raw. Wild.

A beat that tugged at something deep inside me.

I followed it.

A record store.

Posters of spiky-haired rebels.

Sneering in jet black guyliner.

I didn’t understand the lyrics. But I understood the feeling.

The store owner with purple hair.

The woman who became Auntie Jill.

She winked at me as my mother nodded.

The time on the wall clock?

10:35.

Those days in the shop—sorting records, listening to Aunt Jill’s stories—felt infinite.

Until Ward 22.

Until the shop stayed closed.

Back in the bar, the music felt too loud.

The air, too tight.

I fled outside.

I closed my eyes. The pulsing beat anchored me.

I had to go back in.

For Aunt Jill.

For me.

I turned—

And collided with a stranger.

“Sorry,” I gasped. “I’m attracted—sorry, distracted.”

“It’s okay,” he said, smiling. “I was too. Distracted, obviously.”

Even with his hood up, there was no mistaking those sharp features. Those eyes.

“Jack,” I breathed. His name hit the air like a note held too long.

Our eyes locked.

Something electric passed between us.

“I… I have the promo copy of your second album,” I blurted out nervously.

His eyes lit up.

“Was it in—”

“A secret compartment,” I whispered.

“In a blue record player,” we said together.

His expression shifted. Something raw passed through his eyes.

“I never thought I’d see it again,” he said. “My dad sold it years ago. Wanted his fifteen minutes. When that didn’t happen…”

The air between us thickened.

Unspoken. Undeniable.

“Do you… want to see it?” I asked, trying to sound casual. Not starstruck.

Jack nodded. His eyes never left mine.

Back at my flat, I led him to the corner where the blue record player sat like a relic.

His gaze softened.

“We were playing on borrowed gear. First paycheck, I bought that player. Cost me £10.35.”

My breath caught.

“This is going to sound crazy,” I laughed, “but 10:35 has followed me my whole life.”

Jack’s eyes widened. “That also happened to be the time we signed our first record deal.”

He reached up, brushed my cheek—his touch trembling like a memory.

“Do you like it?”Jack asked, voice low.

“I love you—it. I mean—the music…”

I flushed crimson. Definitely acting ridiculously starstruck.

Time for some music.

With shaking fingers, I placed You’re So Physical by Adam and the Ants onto the turntable.

The needle dropped. The raw beat flooded the room.

Before I could think, Jack pulled me close.

His grip was firm.

His kiss—long and deep.

The world around us with its peer pressures and fashion trends spun, then disappeared leaving the deep dive into the song. Suddenly we faced the beat, and the wild electricity between us

The soft crackle of vinyl stirred me from sleep.

I blinked—warm, hazy, heart pounding.

Jack was still beside me, breathing slow and steady.

I turned my head.

10:36.