It's a relief when Felice shows up for school on time on Friday but she doesn't share my excitement about the weekend ahead. The break-up with Len has really got to her and she's uncharacteristically silent as we head back to the house in Rathmines after class. Even though I want to help, there's no point trying to push her. She won't talk about it unless she wants to. When we reach the cottage, she pushes through the tiny lobby, leading the way into a cramped living room, littered with beer cans and pizza boxes.

"This place is such a dump!" She takes my bag and throws it into her room. "Let's get out of here. We'll go into town and see if we can find Spike."

"Sure." I wriggle out of my school uniform into a pair of combats and a crop top, glad we're going out. The house is not what I expected. The air doesn't fizzle with a sense of freedom and optimism. Instead, it smells of stale beer and cigarette smoke, claustrophobic and oppressive.

As we stroll down Grafton Street, Felice regains her customary swagger, but she walks past the usual cafes, the ones the St Catherine's girls frequent, where there's always people we know, boys we've met at parties or rugby matches, friends from other schools. Instead she heads into a maze of backstreets between Grafton Street and Temple Bar and we end up in a narrow alley.

"In here." If Felice wasn't leading the way, I'd have missed the dark, uninviting entrance. I follow her into a cavern-like space, lined with stalls and booths selling alternative gear. "What do you think?" She grins at me. "This is Monk's Arcade, Dublin's answer to Kensington Market!"

"Wow! I'd no idea this place existed." Spellbound, I gaze entranced at the mix of black lace and leather, tie-dyed wrap around skirts, jewellery made of found objects.

"Come on." Felice leads the way to a café at the back of the arcade. With acid bright formica-topped tables and bentwood chairs, it's kitsch in an ironic way. Every inch of the walls is covered with posters advertising gigs around town. Tom Waits growls from the speakers and Spike waves at us from a table in the corner.

"You have to try the cinnamon buns," he says to me. "You'll love them."

"Yeah?" It sounds like something my mother would make, and baking has never been her forte, but Spike is gone before I've a chance to object.

"He's just looking for an excuse to order something else." Felice shrugs and takes a seat. "He fancies the guy behind the counter."

Spike is chatting eagerly to a bored-looking individual in his mid-twenties, with a ripped black t-shirt and multiple piercings in his left ear, the kind of person I'd be terrified to speak to, but nothing fazes Spike.

"So that's his type!" My heart glows a little because I'm happy for him. In Drimshanra, he was always the square peg in a round hole, picked on for daring to be different, for dressing differently, wearing eyeliner, being gay. "This place is so him."

"Yeah, it's why I can't even be angry with him about that Black Death interview. Because he's found his home. You wouldn't believe how many people he knows here already."

"Spike's always been good at getting in with people," I say. He's the reason we met Black Death in the first place, though Felice sealed the deal.

"Guys, look at this!" Spike plonks down a tray, laden with three large mugs of coffee and three small cinnamon buns, and flourishes a copy of Dublin Music Magazine. He opens it up to show us a listing for Black Death in a popular Dublin nightclub tomorrow night.

"That's impossible!" I stare in disbelief at the full page advert in black and white. "Tully never mentioned it."

"Perhaps he doesn't know."

My jaw goes slack and I slump in my seat as I take in the import of Spike's words.

"But that can't be," I protest. "Tully rocked it at the Blue Ball. Everyone said so. And Mac introduced him onstage as Black Death's new guitarist. He's rehearsed with them all summer. Any time they've been stuck, Tully has jumped in to help out. They won't forget that. There's no way. Mac can't change his mind now." Unless... My mind flashes back to the night at the passage grave, to the choice Aonghus gave us – Love or music, you can't have both!

Suppose Tully chose Love? Is this the price? His dream doesn't come true? He doesn't get to play with Black Death?

"Listen," Spike's voice breaks through the questions flooding my mind, "you know I interviewed Mac during the week?"

"Did he tell you about this?" Felice pounces on him.

"No, but he mentioned Joe Killeen."

Felice and I look at him blankly, though somewhere in the recesses of my brain, a warning bell chimes. I've heard that name before.

"Who's Joe Killeen?" Felice asks

"The guitarist in The Good Fridays."

"The Good Fridays?" Felice says. "My brothers know them, sort of. They were in London over the summer. They've been doing okay, haven't they? I mean, not like Black Death, but still, they have a following. They were getting some pretty good gigs in London, or that's what I heard."

"Yeah, and they decided to stay on in London, so Joe quit the band and came home," Spike says. "They want to get to the next level, but Joe can't see it happening. That's one version though, according to Mac, Joe wasn't getting enough action in London."

As Felice and I roll our eyes at each other, it comes back to me. That's where I heard the name before. Mac Whitehead and Joe Killeen used to be friends.

"So you're saying Mac ditched Tully for Joe Killeen?"

"Yeah, I bet Joe is glad he came back now." Spike picks at his bun. "I mean, it's great for him, but it's good for Mac too."

"You think it was the right decision for the band?" I can't believe what I'm hearing. Is Spike really going to make excuses for Black Death?

"It sucks for Tully, I get that, but I can see Mac's reasoning," Spike explains. "Joe Killeen has experience and a fanbase, two things Tully is missing."

"Are you sure about this?" I ask. "Are you sure Joe Killeen is definitely Black Death's new guitarist?"

Spike's explanation makes sense and Mac has form. He'd drop Tully for a better option in a heartbeat, but I can't believe he'd stoop so low as to replace Tully without even telling him.

"There's one way to find out!" Spike says.

"You know what?" Felice says. "Let's do it. I'm not going to spend the rest of my life trying to avoid Len and the rest of the band. Dublin is way too small for that. What the fuck? Let them suck it up. They can't stop us going to the gig."

"Attagirl!" Spike's gleeful grin lights up his face.

"We'll do it properly!" Felice has fire in her eyes. "Let Black Death know who they're messing with. We'll mobilise the troops."

No, Tully doesn't know about any of this yet and he's going to be with us tomorrow night. There's no way we can drag him to a Black Death gig. It wouldn't be fair. But Felice has brightened for the first time in days. Her lethargy is gone and she's buzzing with purpose, so I keep my reservations to myself. Perhaps Tully and I can get out of it, and let Felice and Spike go without us.

We spend the rest of the night darting in and out of different pubs tucked behind corners, and down side streets, pumped full of youth and loud music. Dublin by day is a familiar landscape, but Dublin by night is new to me. I've no idea how Spike and Felice have found all these places so quickly, or how they know the people in them, but everywhere we go, they whisper a word here, pass on a message there. Tomorrow. Black Death gig. Spread the word. Bring your friends. Everyone welcome. The more the merrier.

By the end of the night, Felice has had too much to drink and doesn't want to go home. Spike and I exchange glances over her protests, as we link her into a taxi.

"She's been like this all week," he says, rolling his eyes at me. "Since Len dumped her."

"Oh." It shouldn't come as a surprise since she's missed so much school, but it worries me and I'm glad she has Spike to keep an eye on her.

It's almost lunch time when we fall out of bed the next day, Felice nursing a hangover and in foul form.

Luckily, I have an excuse to escape. I'm meeting Tully off the bus from Drimshanra and I can't wait to see him again.