The Music Man Page 13

  When that happens, I must be as far from this place as possible.

  Turning, I hurry down the grassy embankment, while looking ahead and trying to work out exactly how I am to escape from the island. I know that there is a causeway that links the island to the mainland at low tide, but as I reach the bottom of the embankment I look down and see that the tide is not yet sufficiently low. Still, it will take me at least another half hour to get all the way down there, and I tell myself that the gods will perhaps be on my side. I turn and take one last look back up toward the ruins of the monastery, and then I start picking my way along the rocky path.

  Suddenly I stop as I see a figure straight ahead, and my heart sinks as I recognize the young boy.

  He's staring straight at me.

  “I'm terribly sorry,” I tell him, “but I'm afraid I can't stay. I have to leave. Please, send my regards to your father and ask him to understand.”

  I wait, but the boy does not react at all.

  “It's not that I don't want to play,” I continue. “I'd give anything to be able to play for you, it's just that once I've played, I can never play again. And I can't face that.”

  He still says nothing, so I start making my way cautiously toward him. If I am to get down to the beach, I shall have to continue on this path, which means passing the child.

  After a moment, he turns and looks down toward the rocks.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I see that there's still no sign of any guards coming after me. Turning back to face the child, I consider trying to step past him, but I worry that he might do or say something that will cause a commotion. I remain frozen for a few seconds in indecision, and then finally – realizing that I cannot simply stand here forever – I take couple of faltering steps forward.

  “It's cold up here,” I say, trying to make a little small-talk. “You should go back up to the house.”

  Still, he does not reply.

  “Not quite yet,” I add suddenly, worried that if he returns he might give me away. “Wait here a while, even though it's cold. Cold is good for you, it strengthens your immune system, something like that.”

  I hesitate, and then I make my way past him. The path ahead is now clear, so I hurry on ahead, and I believe that I can already see the causeway starting to become clear. Then, suddenly filled with a sense of guilt, I stop and look back at the boy. He appears so mournful, standing there all alone, staring down at the rocks.

  “I'm sure you'll hear music some day,” I tell him, hoping to make him feel a little better. “I'm not the only one who can play. I mean, I can't be. That would simply be absurd. The fate of all music in this world can't possibly rest on the shoulders of a washed-up has-been with a broken guitar.”

  I smile slightly, hoping that the boy might smile as well, but after a moment he turns to me with the same mournful expression that he's had since I first saw him. I know that I don't have time to stop and talk to him, but I can't quite bring myself to simply hurry away.

  “Just have faith, okay?” I continue. “I know that's difficult, but this can't last forever and eventually it'll change. You'll hear so much music, you'll be sick of the stuff. Besides, there are some up-sides to the current situation. You never have to hear lift music, for one thing. Plus, I can think of half a dozen so-called musical artists whose work I'd gladly leave lost in a void forever. The world was by no means perfect, even when we had music.”

  I step toward him and hold out a hand.

  “Now how about you come a little way back from the edge?” I add. “I hate to admit it, but you're making me feel very nervous. I think I'm developing vertigo by proxy.”

  He hesitates, and then finally he takes my hand and lets me pull him back. As I do so, I can't help but peer down at the rocks far below, and I wince as see the waves crashing against all those sharp, jagged points.

  “That's better,” I tell the boy, before patting his shoulder. “And now, if you don't mind, I really do have to -”

  Before I can finish, I hear footsteps nearby, and I turn just in time to see several of Glass's goons running this way. I instinctively turn to run, but then I realize that there's no point. If I'd been quicker, perhaps I could have hidden and then escaped later. Perhaps. As things are, it would seem that I have missed my chance and am to be hauled back up to the house.

  “It's okay,” one of the men says over his radio, as they come to fetch me. “We've got him.”

  Thirty-Three

  A new suit has been laid out for me in my room, along with a rather fine new guitar.

  I refuse to touch either.

  Thirty-Four

  The door is held open for me by two rather nervous-looking goons, and I amble forward with the battered, Frankenstein guitar in my right hand.

  “Mr. Harrisford,” Glass says, as he finishes pouring some glasses of wine and then turns to me, “I'm so -”

  He hesitates as soon as he sees me, and it's clear that he's displeased by the fact that I have not dressed up like the performing monkey that he was expecting.

  His son, Joshua Jr., is sitting on a stool at the side of the room, waiting patiently.

  “Mr. Harrisford,” Glass continues finally, having evidently reset himself. He even manages a smile. “I'm so glad that you could join us this evening. We've been waiting a long time for tonight. Haven't we, Joshua?”

  When the boy fails to answer, he turns to him.

  “Haven't we, Joshua?” he says again, more firmly this time.

  The boy nods and murmurs a faint, inaudible assent. It would seem that he knows better than to contradict his father.

  “This is to be a rather special evening,” Glass continues as he brings a glass of wine over and holds it out for me. “Forgive me for leaving that expensive guitar in your room. I fully understand that you would prefer to play on an old friend.” He looks down at the guitar with barely disguised disgust. “It looks very... homely.”

  “It does indeed,” I reply, ignoring the wine even though I would dearly love a taste, “but you're mistaken about one thing. I have not come here to play. The decision is mine to make, and I have made it. I have come instead to bid you farewell. I shall be leaving now. There's no need to show me to the door, I can find my way alone.”

  “I anticipated your response to the new guitar,” he replies, “so I arranged for another to be here.”

  He indicates toward the corner, and I turn to see yet another guitar resting neatly on a stand.

  “That one, I believe,” he continues, “is from Italy. It would have cost twenty thousand pounds in the old days. It's probably worthless today, at least in terms of money.”

  “I'm sure it's a fine guitar,” I tell him. “It's not going to make me change my mind.”

  I see a flicker of irritation on his features, and I can't help but smile. This man is a tyrant, and it pleases me to stand up to him. Besides, what's he going to do? Shoot me? Then he really does know that he shall never hear music again.

  After a moment he turns and walks away, seemingly lost in thought.

  “How long do you think you've got left, Mr. Harrisford?” he asks finally, stopping with his back to me.

  “I could probably play for a few more minutes,” I tell him, “but not for -”

  “I don't mean that.” He turns to me. “I mean, how long do you think you've got left to live? You're an old man and you're hardly in good shape. In perfect circumstances you might last a few more years, but with the world as it is, you've got... I don't know, a month or two? I mean, look at you. You're sweating already, and it's cool in here.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Glass,” I reply, before turning and heading toward the door. “All the best.”

  “Stop.”

  I keep going until I reach the door, only to find that it is locked. I try it a couple of times, just to be sure, and then I slowly turn to see that Glass is watching me intently.

  “Joshua was in the womb when the music stopped,” he explains. “Sometimes I wonder whether he mig
ht have heard something while he was in there. It's impossible to be certain, of course, but his mother certainly believed that it was possible. She used to try singing to him when he was in his crib, she tried for hours and hours every day, but nothing came. Can you imagine how that felt for her, Mr. Harrisford? I think it's what drove her mad in the end. The inability to sing for her child.”

  “And where is she now?” I ask cautiously.

  “My wife?” He hesitates, and then he furrows his brow. “Do you know what? I can't remember what happened to her.” He glances around, as if looking for some trifling object that he's replaced. “She's not here anymore, but she was with us when we arrived at Lindisfarne.”

  He pauses, and then he shakes his head.

  “It's the strangest thing,” he continues, “but I simply cannot remember what happened to poor Lara.”

  “Perhaps she doesn't like tyrants,” I suggest.

  “Perhaps, or...”

  His voice trails off for a moment, and then he begins to nod slowly.

  “Now I remember,” he adds with a sigh. “I already told you that she went mad when she couldn't sing for our son. Well, I'm afraid that despite my every effort to help her, she ended up tossing herself off the cliff. How did I manage to forget that? Maybe it was too painful to think back to the sight of her down there on the rocks.”

  I turn to look at the child, who is now staring down at his own two feet. I suppose now I understand what he was thinking about earlier, when I met him out there.

  “You lost your mother young, didn't you?” Glass says, and I turn to see him watching me with a faint smile. “How tragic. I'm sure you can understand how my son feels. You must have empathy for him. What better way to help him, however, than to play him some music?”

  “Your efforts at manipulation are a little transparent,” I reply.

  This irritates him. I can see that from the expression on his face, and I can't shake the feeling that beneath his calm exterior there's a molten vat of seething anger and resentment. I glance once again at the young boy, and for a moment I feel utterly sorry for the child. What chance can he have, growing up with such father?

  “Maybe I should make things a little clearer for you, Mr. Harrisford,” Glass says finally, setting the glass of wine down and then heading over to a laptop on a nearby table.

  Affecting an air of cool disinterest, I wander to a nearby window and peer out. To my surprise, I see that several of the guards are hurrying away, making their way across the grass as if they're abandoning ship and heading for the causeway. Indeed, there are a lot of them out there, and I can't help wondering whether the entire gang is leaving. Darkness is falling, and I'm not sure that they'll have much luck out there. They must be rather desperate.

  Suddenly I hear a whirring sound, and I turn to see that – as Glass taps at his laptop – panels are slowly opening at several spots all around the room. I look at the nearest panels and see that is contained some kind of small device that looks like a set of black bottles stuck together.

  “I'm not a man who messes around,” Glass says, and now his voice sounds harsher and more clipped, “so forgive me if this seems a trifle extreme. However, I need you to play tonight, Mr. Harrisford, and you've given me no choice in the matter. So allow me to introduce a little extra encouragement.”

  “I'm really not in the mood to be threatened,” I say firmly, although I can't help peering at these strange devices and feeling a tad concerned.

  “I'm not threatening you, Mr. Harrisford,” Glass replies. “I'm merely informing you of the situation. There are sixteen explosive devices around the edges of this room. That's more than enough to blow the roof off, so I really think you should consider your options here.”

  Turning to him, I see a mad glint in his eyes.

  “I always get what I want,” he adds, with his hand resting on the laptop's keyboard, “and I want you to play. So play.”

  Thirty-Five

  “You're lying,” I say after a moment, refusing to believe that Joshua Glass is quite this insane. “These empty threats won't work.”

  “Do I need to provide a demonstration?” he asks.

  “I'm not going to give in to tyrants!” I say firmly, before turning to head back to the door. Perhaps I can break the wretched thing down. “I have never in my life been one to -”

  Before I can finish, one of the devices explodes on the far side of the room. I spin around just in time to see debris being cast out across the floor, and smoke rises from the site of the detonation.

  “That was just one of them,” Glass says calmly. “There are still fifteen of the devices left, and I can assure you that when they all explode at once, they'll destroy this place.” His hands is still resting on the laptop. “I'm losing patience with you, Mr. Harrisford. You've demonstrated your defiance, and I commend you for that, but it's time to grow up and be a little more considerate. Play that guitar.”

  “I...”

  For a moment, I consider doing as I'm ordered, but then I feel a kind of burning anger in my chest. All my life, I've resisted doing what I'm told. There has always been a little voice in my head, telling me to resist orders. At times, that voice has been my undoing, and has held me back from opportunities. But if that is the case, I am most certainly not going to break the habit of a lifetime now. I am not going to bend the knee for this asshole.

  “Play it,” he says again.

  “I'm afraid I can't.”

  “I know you can.”

  “If I play the last of my music,” I reply, “then I shall have nothing left. It's the most precious thing in the world to me and I can't give it to -”

  “Play it!” he screams suddenly, stepping away from the table and hurrying toward me in a moment of sudden fury. “I swear, you will play that thing!”

  “I -”

  Before I can finish, he grabs me by the shoulders and swings me around, shoving me into the wall with such force that I feel a flicker of pain in my back. At the same time, I lose my grip on the guitar, letting it clatter down against the floor.

  “He has to hear!” he snarls, leaning closer to my face. “I brought you all the way here, old man, and now you will play that guitar! I don't care what you play! It's been five years and I've heard no music at all. I've tried to keep my head together, but I'm coming apart at the seams! And my son struggles every day with this great gap in his life! I've tried being nice, Mr. Harrisford, but I'm reaching the end of my tether.” He leans even closer, until I can feel his hot breath on my skin. “I'm ordering you to play the guitar!”

  “And I'm telling you,” I reply, “that I -”

  Suddenly he lets out a furious scream and pulls me away from the wall, and then he throws me to the floor. I land hard and let out a gasp of pain, but a moment later I feel a boot slamming into the back of my neck and forcing me back down. I try to get free, but the boot digs harder and harder against my spine, and I can hear Glass snarling and hissing as he towers above me.

  “This is what disobedience looks like!” he shouts. “Do you see this old man? He thinks he's standing up for something, he thinks he's somehow being proud, but his face is on the floor and my foot is holding him there! Do you see, son? Do you see how pathetic he is? He's fighting for some illusion of dignity, and he doesn't even care that his face is in the dirt!”

  I try to cry out, but he's pushing harder now and there's a pain in my neck. It's almost as if he means to kill me, and the pain gets stronger and stronger until finally I scream.

  Immediately, he pulls his boot away, but a moment later he kicks me hard in the ribs. I let out an agonized gasp and roll onto my side, only for Glass to kick me in the side of the face.

  “Look at him!” Glass yells. “He still thinks he's resisting!”

  “I will never do what you want!” I stammer. “I'm not -”

  Suddenly he moves his foot closer to my face. I cry out and hold my hands up to protect myself, but Glass doesn't kick me this time. Instead, he simply
starts laughing.

  “You will play that guitar, old man,” Glass sneers. “We both know it, so why not just get on with it now? Let my son hear music for the first time.”

  “Never!” I gasp, as I taste blood in the back of my throat.

  “Now!”

  “Never!”

  “Now!”

  “Ne -”

  He kicks me again, this time in the throat. I roll onto my other side and reach up, clutching the sides of my neck. For a few seconds I can't breathe at all, as if the impact has crushed my wind-pipe, but finally I'm just about able to get some gasps of air into my lungs.

  “See how he continues to resist?” Glass calls out to his son. “This can be a useful lesson to you, son. Choose your battles. He's going to surrender eventually, he's just making it difficult for himself.”

  I hear him starting to walk away.

  Rolling back over, I watch for a moment as he heads to his laptop. He checks something on the screen, as if to remind me of the explosive devices that are all around us, and then he turns and grins at me. It's the same kind of sickly grin that I remember seeing on Roger's face all those years ago. I stood up to Roger, and I will now stand up to -

  Suddenly I think back to the sight of Sarah's corpse.

  I stood up to Roger, and consequently that poor girl died.

  Glancing over at young Joshua Jr. as he continues to stare at the floor, I'm suddenly overwhelmed by a sense of sorrow. That poor child has lost his mother, and I certainly know how that feels. Now he's a virtual prisoner of an insane father, of a father who has brought him into this deadly trap. The child has never heard music, he can't even imagine how it sounds, and his entire life looks set to be miserable. If there is one thing I can do to help him, to maybe offer him hope, then should I not at least try?

  And that's when I realize that while I desperately want to stand up to tyrants such as Joshua Glass Sr., I am inadvertently bowing down to an even great tyrant. To a tyrant who has been with me my whole life. There is a tyrant in my heart, constantly telling me that I must be difficult and contrary at each and every turn. That tyrant has led me to this point, and I think he is the true tyrant who I must overthrow, even at this late point in my life.