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'B-Sides & Rarities' is a series of seven episodes. The episodes are interwoven, so that characters reappear, different viewpoints are explored and a variety of voices is used. While it is essentially a novel, there is a mixture of actual and fictional characters, and questions are raised about the role of music in our culture. However, this is a work of fiction, and music is used mainly as a way of exploring sexual relationships and personal frictions.

There have been a number of books written around music in recent years, but I believe this stands out from the norm. It is not a story of the rise and fall of the superstar, rather it details the lives of peripheral characters who, by accident or personal flaw, are unable to capitalise on the moment of glory fleetingly offered them.

The following is an extract from the first episode. Mrs Campion, a piano teacher,

crochets while the 15-year-old Malcolm practises. But she's inclined to drift off

into her own thoughts.

The mohair tumbled onto the floor, lay there, a hill of bubbles. Malcolm decided, it wouldn't hurt, picking up her material, putting it back on her lap.

- Is it normal? She said. I don 't think so. Other men are not like that, surely. Schubert wouldn't have done that. I don 't know. Perhaps it ~ me. Perhaps I'm the odd one out.

It would be a service to pick up the wool, replace it on her lap. She might tread on it. Malcolm got up, hovered.

- Even when I'm incapacitated he doesn't stop. Stands there with his trousers open. Makes sure I can see it, all pink underneath, bits of hair poking out.

Malcolm moved slowly forward, knelt down, gathered the foaming wool between his sticky palms.

- Never says anything. Just stands there. I know what he wants.

Malcolm carefully placed the wool on her lap, smoothed it, left his hands spread over it.

- He says it's a bone, says it must be a bone, it - that hard I say, It's a muscle, I read it in a magazine. He says, You must be interested then, you read it in a magazine.

Malcolm raised his hands, his fingers still stretched, octave-wide.

He says I should He says it ~ natural. If I'm not interested, I'm not natural. I could be interested I suppose. In my way. Malcolm raised the fingers of his right hand. His palm remained anchored to the wool. If someone came in right now, no way could it be supposed he was doing anything he shouldn't.

Daddy told me. Never trust a man who likes meat. I should've remembered.

Malcolm slowly raised his palm. His hand hovered in the air now. He looked down at it, willing it to gain its independence and cruise to its target.

- That man, daddy said, is like a great bloated sausage. And he was right. Everything about him, his neck, his fingers. Daddy said they were like saveloys, no way could they play pianissimo.

Malcolm edged his hand forward, skirting round her agitating fingers, which looked like they were playing a skittish mazurka on the mohair. He lightly touched her polyester top. It didn't matter, he told himself It's accidental, really I'm just keeping her wool in place. And it's only the back of my hand. That doesn't count.

- And the woman, that dress. Daddy said, Any woman wears a neck that low, what she ~ saying, what she ~ really saying I'm all meat, I 'm just meat. She kept shouting, She belongs with me, she comes with me, and daddy with his hand round my shoulder, pulling me close to his side. He never let go. Not even when the man hit him, like that, with his fist.

Malcolm froze as she raised her hand, slowly curling it into a tight ball. She looked down at it, curiously, like it belonged to someone else. Then she raised her head, stared off at the wall. Her hand flopped into her lap.

- Next day, daddy's eye, it was all blue and swollen up. The woman in the room next door, she said, You want to put a bit of steak on that. Daddy didn't answer.

Malcolm eased his little finger up against her top, ever so slowly let it slide up the ridge of nylon, desperately hoping the fingernail wouldn't snag.

- The man who lived downstairs, he came up, said he didn't want trouble, not in his house. Daddy said it didn't matter, we were off next day. Three suitcases, he said, like we were going on holiday, one for me, one for him, one for the music.

Malcolm's finger connected with the underneath of her breast. Keeping the fingertip in place, he revolved his hand, the fingers splayed and erect.

- That suitcase, in the hospital, they didn't know. They 'd shoved it under the bed It 'd been to Bournemouth and back, that suitcase.

Slowly, slowly, Malcolm raised his hand. Ever so lightly he cupped her breast in his palm.

- At the end, I kept looking at his chest. When it rose, there was a rattly sound in his throat. Then nothing happened for, ooh, such a long time. I started counting, one semiquaver, two semi-quaver, till his chest rose again. Once he opened his eyes. She never got you, Flopsie, he said Then he closed his eyes and I started counting again. One semiquaver, two semi-quaver. I got right up to forty-nine semi-quaver. Then the nurse come and said I had to wait outside. She drew the curtains around daddy.

Malcolm raised both palms, pressed firmly, gauging the malleability of her slight breasts. The crochet hook came to a sudden stop. Malcolm was aware of the absolute stillness, the only sound the insistent swish of air expelled through his nostrils.

- Mr Campion has a fondness for pork chops. If I'd have known...