The Music Man

  Copyright 2019 Amy Cross

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events, entities and places are either products of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, businesses, entities or events is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition

  First published: July 2019

  His name is Derek Harrisford. Many years ago, he had a hit song that briefly pushed him into the limelight. Now he's all but forgotten, a man who few remember. But then, one night, everything changes.

  In an instant, people all over the world forget how to play music. Nobody can pick out a tune on a guitar, or sing a song, or hum, or even remember how music sounded. Only a few people have any musical ability left, and even they are rapidly running out. And Derek is one of those people.

  As the lack of music drives the world crazy, Derek is forced to flee his home. He soon discovers the shocking truth about what has happened, and about the strange creatures that have come to steal every last note. Before he can even try to save the day, however, Derek discovers that he's being pursued. As a man who can still play a few notes on the guitar, he's in high demand. And one of the world's richest men will stop at nothing to make him perform.

  The Music Man is a tale of horror and science-fiction, about a world that can't survive without music, and about a man who might just be able to save human civilization from collapse.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  The Music Man

  Prologue

  The explosion sends me crashing across the room, slamming into a window that's already in the process of getting blown apart. I fall out of the room and come crashing down onto the grass, and I let out a gasp of pain as I feel hundreds and thousands of glass shards cutting my hands and face.

  Behind me, there's another loud boom. Not all of the devices went off at once, and I can hear a couple more being detonated now. I haul myself up and turn to look, but suddenly another huge blast sends me bumping across the lawn until I hit the slope at the edge, at which point I begin to roll down. I try to steady myself, but I'm already falling faster and a moment later the ground gives way beneath me.

  I hit my head on a rock and – as I lose consciousness – the last thing I feel is the sensation of plummeting through the air.

  One

  Several years earlier...

  Pulling the curtain aside, I peer out at the audience.

  “Bums on seats, my friend,” Giancarlo says proudly, as he continues to examine the strings of his violin. “Bums on seats. I bet it's been a while since you had such a large audience, eh?”

  “At least my audiences came to hear me,” I mutter. “They came for the music. Yours seem more interested in dinner and gossip.”

  “Is that jealousy I detect in your tones, Derek? I'd have thought that such base emotions were beneath you.”

  “Then you don't know me at all,” I reply, watching the crowd for a moment longer before letting the curtain fall slack as I turn and limp back over toward the table in the center of the room. Anyway, I had bigger crowds back in the day, when I was invited to perform on the telly all the time. Not that there were many bums on seats, though. Everyone was too busy dancing.”

  “And there,” Giancarlo says archly, “in a nutshell, is the difference between you and I. You sold out and became a minor pop star, whereas I remained faithful to proper, high-minded music. Which seems to have worked out well, seeing as how I'm now headlining one of the most prestigious music events of the year. And you're...”

  He pauses for a moment, while conspicuously eyeing me up and down.

  “What are you doing these days, Derek?” he continues. “Last time I saw you, about ten years ago, you were talking about trying to cobble together an album of guitar music. Something to do with popular American songs, I believe?”

  “I'm still working on that,” I reply, while wishing desperately that I had some grander news to deliver. “A few old friends might make guest appearances. I've already contacted Mick and Ringo and Elton.”

  “And have they replied?”

  “They will,” I tell him. “They're very busy.”

  “You're such a name-dropper,” he says with a smile. “You barely knew any of those people, even back in the day.”

  “And how would you know who I knew?” I ask. “Actually, I've been playing live quite a lot lately. I've been picking up gigs.”

  “Are you on tour?”

  “I prefer not to travel too far from home,” I tell him.

  “So, what, are you playing in pubs?” He chuckles, and then he starts to smile. “Are you, Derek? That's hilarious! Tell me, do they actually pay you, or do they just give you a bottle of wine and a free meal?”

  “I get by,” I say darkly. “Besides, I never liked this kind of hoity-toity place.” Turning, I pull the curtain aside again. “Look out there. They're here to chatter and eat. Your music, as great as it might be, is something for the background. They'll barely be paying attention.” Now it's my turn to smile. “I'm so glad that I was able to come and see you this evening, though. I've been thoroughly disabused of any notion that I might be jealous. At least people in pubs actually listen to what I'm playing.”

  “Pure jealousy,” Giancarlo replies, as he carries his violin over to the door at the far end of the room. “You'll be staying to hear me play, I hope?”

  “Wouldn't miss it for the world,” I tell him. “And of course we must share a bottle of red when you're done. Or two.”

  He turns to leave, but then he hesitates.

  “Why do you always wear those ridiculous sunglasses?” he asks. “Are you under the mistaken impression that they suit you?”

  “Of course not,” I reply, even though I happen to know for a fact that the Ray Bans make me look cool. “I happen to like them, that's all.”

  “And do you still wear them everywhere you go? Even at night?”

  “It's a free world.”

  “How do you not walk into things?”

  “I do take them off sometimes,” I tell him firmly.

  He disappears into the next room, and I turn back to look out across the stage. A man is at the microphone now, attempting to introduce Giancarlo's performance, but he's struggling to make himself heard. Glancing toward the crowd, I see people merrily chatting away, and I'm starting to realize that I was absolutely right just now: these people are here for the social side of the evening, and because they want to curry favor with the great billionaire ph
ilanthropist Sir Joshua Glass. They don't care about the music at all.

  Finally, the man manages to introduce Giancarlo, who strides out onto the stage and waves at the crowd. His reward is a smattering of disinterested applause, and I know him well enough to be sure that he's disappointed. Still, he shows no flicker of emotion as he takes a seat, and then he begins to get ready for his performance.

  “Good luck, old chap,” I mutter. “Break a leg.”

  As I say those words, I must admit to a flicker of jealousy. After all, I could most certainly have had a career like this. A better career, even. It's just that I never warmed to the world of classical music, and I could never bring myself to start sucking up to the likes of Joshua Glass. Even now, as Giancarlo asks the audience to be quiet and then sets the bow against his violin, I find that I don't envy him at all. I'd rather be playing in The Pig and Buckle or The Globe's Head than here at some dusty old music hall.

  Listen. People are still talking and eating as Giancarlo begins to play. One of the world's greatest violinists is on the stage, and they're paying – at best – partial attention.

  Rolling my eyes, I turn to head over to the table, but at that moment the music suddenly fades away. I stop and turn, and as I pull the curtain aside I see that Giancarlo is adjusting his bow. I don't know what happened just now, and it's certainly very rare for Giancarlo to make a mistake. I watch as he starts to play again, yet as the bow moves I hear only the very faintest flicker of music.

  Is he okay?

  Tilting my head, I wait for Giancarlo to pull himself together. Most of the chattering in the room has ended, and people are watching the stage as Giancarlo attempts to recover.

  He draws the bow across the strings again, yet still there is no music. And as he tries again and again, the only sound is the increasingly nervous chatter of the audience.

  Two

  “What is this?” Giancarlo snaps as he tries again and again to play the violin in the rest room. “Why is it not working?”

  “Let me try,” I reply, reaching out for the violin, but he ignores me and keeps trying.

  “I don't understand,” he continues. “I'm playing it like normal, but there's no music coming!”

  He tries several more times, and each time he seems more despondent as the bow scrapes helplessly against the strings.

  “I have not suddenly forgotten how to play the violin!” he says firmly, clearly on the verge of tears. “I am sixty-seven years old and I have been playing since I was a child! I have not forgotten more than fifty years of work!”

  Hearing the door opening, I turn just in time to see that we're to be joined by one of Joshua Glass's relentlessly energetic young assistants. She seems like a nice-enough girl, although I fail to understand how someone of her tender age could possibly be useful.

  “Hi,” she says, sounding a little breathless, “I just wanted to see how things are going.” She steps past me, clearly more interested in Giancarlo. “Are you ready to go back on?”

  “Do I look ready to go back on?” he snarls.

  “Perhaps you can send someone on in his place for now,” I suggest diplomatically, lowering my sunglasses for a moment so that the nice young lady can see my eyes. “I'm sure you can find a willing substitute.”

  “We sort of tried,” she replies tentatively. “Um, the problem is...”

  Her voice trails off.

  “The problem I what?” I ask.

  “We tried to send Mr. Mehuen on,” she explains, “the pianist. Only, he got about two minutes in and then...”

  I wait, but she seems almost too shocked to go on.

  “He couldn't play either,” she says finally. “The same thing happened. It was like the music just... ran out.”

  “Ran out?” I say, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

  “What nonsense are you going on about?” Giancarlo spits back at her. “The music ran out? What does that even mean?”

  “It means the piano stopped making noises,” she says. “He hit the keys, but all that came out was a series of little bumps and thuds. We switched to another piano, and the same thing happened. Then we tried to get the jazz band on, and they couldn't play either.” She pauses for a moment, as if she can scarcely believe what she's saying. “The crazy thing is, there are reports online about it happening in other places, too. All around the world.”

  “Music is just... not working?” I say incredulously.

  “Mr. Glass is getting agitated,” she replies. “I don't know what we're going to do if we can't get the concert going again. He's got a lot of very important guests here, and I think he's starting to feel embarrassed. Tonight was supposed to be the big launch of his new satellite network. Now he's got no music, and his pregnant wife is apparently trying to leave.”

  “Mr. Glass is certainly the real victim in all of this,” I mutter, rolling my eyes, before heading over to Giancarlo. “Please, old friend. Let me try to play it.”

  “How would -”

  “Just let me try,” I continue. “I'm no virtuoso, but I at least know how to make a few semi-decent sounds.”

  He hesitates, and then he hands me the violin. I set it into position, and then I carefully draw the box across the strings, only to find that no sound emerges. I try several more times, before lowering the violin in defeat.

  “See?” the assistant says. “People are reporting the same thing all over the world. Music has just... stopped happening.”

  “Don't talk such garbage,” Giancarlo says, turning to her and clearly fuming with anger. “What do you know about music? Nothing! You're just a child! Meanwhile, I'm one of the world's greatest classical musicians and suddenly I find myself reduced to the level of an amateur! Not even that!”

  “I'm sorry,” she replies plaintively, “I didn't mean to offend you.”

  “You couldn't offend me if you tried,” he says, before taking the violin and bow back from me. “The most you can manage is some mild irritation.” He attempts once more to play, and then he begins muttering to himself as he turns and walks away, still futilely sliding the bow back and forth across the strings.

  “It would seem that something rather unusual is happening,” I say to the assistant.

  “All I know,” she replies, “is that if someone doesn't get out there and play soon, Mr. Glass is going to be really angry.” She pauses. “You don't happen to play anything, do you?”

  “Well, I'm -”

  Stopping suddenly, I realize that this young lady was probably not even born when I had my top ten hit. I suppose I could explain, but I've done that to so many people over the years and I'm rather tired of their blank faces. Besides, I left my guitar at home and I'd prefer not to play on an unfamiliar instrument. On top of even that, I have a niggling worry that perhaps I too shall find that I can't play. The guitar has been my constant companion, my only true friend in life, and the thought of being abandoned by music is enough to fill me with fear.

  “I'm afraid I can't help you,” I tell the girl, as a feeling of unease begins to spread through my chest. “I rather think we shall all have to wait and see what -”

  Before I can finish, I hear the most terrible crashing sound over my shoulder. The girl and I both turn just in time to see Giancarlo smashes his violin against the wall. The poor man is shouting at the same time, as if the inability to play has driven him to the brink of insanity.

  Three

  It's late by the time I get back to my apartment. The buses around here are notoriously unreliable, and the walk across the unlit estate leaves my tired old legs feeling rather achey. Still, I don't really mind the delay, since I am worried about something I must do when I get home.

  I'm worried that perhaps I too shall find that I can no longer play my instrument.

  I have one of those modern mobile telephones that allows one to access the internet, so I decide to check the news as I walk. Indeed, the assistant at the concert was correct when she said that the whole world seems to have been gripped by this su
dden inability to create music. I read several news reports about concerts that have been canceled because musicians and singers found themselves unable to perform. Amateurs at home are reporting the same problems, and it seems that even recorded music is failing to play. Several times, reports mention the same nonsensical phrase, suggesting that 'the world has run out of music.”

  As I unlock the door to my building, I see that young Sarah is sitting in her usual spot on the stairs.

  “Good evening,” I say, and I must admit that I'm slightly relieved to see that she's holding her guitar. Taking off my sunglasses, I offer her a friendly smile. “Are you one of the few people who can still string a piece of music together.”

  “It's fading,” she replies, ashen-faced.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Listen.”

  She starts playing. Sarah is a good musician. At only nineteen years of age, she has been taking free lessons from me, and she studies hard. As she plays now, however, I cannot help but notice that the sound is weaker somehow, as if Sarah is struggling to make herself heard.

  “You need to play out more,” I tell her.

  “I am.”

  “More.”

  “I am!”

  Indeed, I can see from the movement of her fingers that she seems to be playing with plenty of gusto. As I step closer, however, it's clear that for some reason the sound is struggling to come out.

  “It's not just playing, either,” she explains, with fear in her voice. “I can't hear the music properly in my head, either. And I can't sing.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean it's fading away,” she says earnestly, before stopping and lowering the guitar onto her lap. “I don't understand, Derek. How can this be happening? Music's everywhere. The instruments still work, I haven't forgotten how to play, but it's as if I can feel it running out. I'm certain that, if I keep playing, I'll soon lose the ability altogether.”