The Music Man Read online

  Once she's gone, I shut the door and head back through to the front room. I'm minded to pick up my guitar and play at least one note, but then I look at the television and I see truly horrific images of riots in a city. I quickly realize that the city in question is Paris, a city that I happen to love, and I watch as cars are set on fire and rampage gangs of frenzied citizens storm through the streets. Is this really possible? Is all of this carnage occurring in the world, and is it all because of this mysterious loss of music?

  Perhaps Sarah was right. They will put everything straight soon enough. Within a day or two, everything will be back to normal and we shall have music again.

  Six

  One week later

  The howl continues for a few more minutes before petering out into a kind of stuttering growl. Then, finally, after several minutes the wretched sound is gone.

  Standing all alone in the middle of my front room, with the lights off, I listen intently. As usual, the howl began shortly after midnight and continued for about ten minutes. It's been a week now since the first howl, and it's becoming abundantly clear to me that someone somewhere in this building is starting to degenerate entirely. Then again, that shouldn't be terribly surprising. After all, over the past week I have seen my neighbors turned to savages, to the extent that I barely dare leave my apartment.

  Heading to the kitchen, I first try the faucets, to check whether there's still water. I'm relieved to find that there is, although I worry that soon the basic infrastructure will begin to fail. Clearly someone somewhere is managing to keep the water and electricity systems running, although I can't help but wonder whether these too will eventually be abandoned.

  I open the fridge and see all the bottles of water that I've collected, but then I look down at the space where I was gathering food. Until yesterday, I had enough to keep going, but now my stocks have dwindled to almost nothing. Now, however, it has been twenty-four hours since I ate, and my stomach is gurgling loudly. I can certainly stand to lose a little weight, especially from my belly, but the thought of another entire day without food is a little too much to contemplate. In which case, I feel that going out at night would be infinitely preferable to making the same journey during daylight hours.

  I shuffle to the window and peer out. There's no sign of anyone out there. Indeed, the nights seem less dangerous that the days, at least out there on the streets of our little part of London. In which case, I think that perhaps tonight is the night that I must finally go and find something I can eat.

  ***

  Pulling my coat tighter for warmth, I head along the dark pavement, hoping to keep out of the light. I can't walk too fast, of course, on account of my bad hips, but I keep telling myself that I can defend myself if necessary. Besides, I'm probably letting my imagination run wild. Would anyone really attack me? I'm just an old man with nothing to offer. If I'm quick and clever, I'm sure I shall be absolutely fine.

  I make my way to the corner shop. Ever since I moved here, I've been buying pretty much all my food from that place, preferring to avoid the long bus journey to the supermarket. I've even become pretty friendly with Pavel, the man who runs the shop, and with his son Adam as well. I'm quite sure that they'll see to it that I don't starve, even if I only receive a pack of biscuits.

  As I get to the shop, however, I'm shocked to see that while the lights are off, the windows have been smashed and the door has been left hanging wide open.

  I peer inside, and I'm shocked by the carnage. All the shelves have been emptied, and entire cabinets have been tipped over. There's broken glass everywhere, and one of the light fittings is hanging from the ceiling. It's as if some kind of tornado has passed through the place, and I can't see so much as a morsel of food anywhere. Still, I'm fiercely hungry and I can't possibly walk the five miles to a supermarket, so I have no choice but to gingerly pick my way into the shop and try to avoid as much of the glass as possible.

  I open my mouth to call out and announce myself, but then I begin to wonder whether that would be wise. What if some monstrous attacker is still lurking here somewhere?

  Looking around, I suddenly spot a large patch of blood smeared on the far wall. Somewhere in the patch, there's the faint trace of a hand print.

  Suddenly I hear a bumping sound, and I turn just in time to see something move behind the counter. There's a glass panel in front of one of the displays, and reflected in that glass there's a shape that seems to be moving back and forth. The bumping continues, and after a moment I hear the sound of someone muttering under their breath.

  Worried about being attacked, but still desperately hungry, I make my way to the end of the counter and look around the side, and to my horror I see the body of young Adam on the floor. His face is bloodied, and part of his head appears to have been smashed away. A little further along, his father Pavel is sitting cross-legged in front of an upturned bucket, and I watch as he bangs the bucket with what looks like a plastic pen.

  “What...”

  My voice trails off.

  Pavel turns and looks at me, and I see pure madness in the white of his eyes.

  “What happened?” I gasp, unable to keep from looking back down at the poor dead boy.

  “I think I'm getting closer,” Pavel replies. “Listen. Tell me if you agree.”

  He starts banging the bucket again, hitting it rapidly with the pen. This continues for a few seconds, before he stops and turns to me again.

  “I know it wasn't music,” he continues, “but it was something. I think I'm getting there.”

  “What happened to Adam?” I ask, taking a step forward but then stopping as I see that the boy's brain has been partially torn from his head, with chunks left crushed against the dirty floor-tiles.

  “If I can just get this right,” Pavel replies, turning back to the bucket and hitting it again, “I think I can build an actual piece. It's just a noise right now, but it'll become music eventually. Won't it?”

  “What happened to your son?” I stammer, horrified by his apparent lack of care. “Tell me, man! What's going on here?”

  Pavel looks down at Adam's corpse for a moment, but then he turns back to face the bucket.

  “Something's holding me back,” he says finally. “I need to focus more. I'm allowing myself to get distracted. He was distracting me at first, but then he stopped. Now I need to focus all my attention, all my senses, on getting music out of this thing.”

  “Tell me you didn't do this,” I reply, unable to ignore the fact that there's blood all over Pavel's arms and chest. “For the love of...”

  Again, my voice trails off.

  “I'm seeing too much,” Pavel continues. “I need to focus on just hearing. Don't you get it? Adam didn't understand, he wouldn't stop whining and begging for things. People came and took the food. Adam tried to stop them. At least he doesn't whine anymore.” He holds the pen up and examines the tip. “I need to focus purely on the sound. I can't let anything else into my mind.”

  “Listen to me, man,” I say, trying to work out how I can help, “I think you need to come with me.”

  I wait, but he's simply staring at the pen. And then, before I can say another word, he turns the pen around and drives it into his left eye.

  “Stop!” I shout, stumbling forward, but I'm too late.

  Gasping, Pavel struggles to pull the pen out. The clip on the side of the lid is caught inside the eyeball itself, and blood starts pouring from all around the socket as the pen is finally torn free. Then, as I watch with a growing sense of horror, Pavel does the same to his other eye, blinding himself completely.

  “There!” he shouts triumphantly, as he starts laughing. “Now I can't see, I'll be able to focus better on the sound!”

  He starts banging the bucket again, faster than before but with no rhythm whatsoever. He's completely ignoring the blood that's gushing from his eyes, and after a moment he starts tapping the side of the bucket in an attempt to establish some sort of harmony.

  �
��Maybe smell!” he shouts finally. “Maybe I need to get rid of my sense of smell as well! It stinks in here! I need to block my nose. That's when I'll be able to make some music.”

  “Pavel,” I stammer, “please... Your son is dead!”

  “I need something that'll really stick,” he continues. “Do you have any glue? Or cement? How can I make music when my other senses keep getting in the way?”

  “Pavel -”

  “Leave me alone!” he screams, banging the bucket harder and harder. “I can't hear anything else! Stop polluting the sounds in here! I need to hear what I'm doing!”

  Stumbling back out of the shop, I stop for a moment and listen as Pavel continues to bang the bucket. I want to help him, to do something, but the man seems completely insane. Shocked, I turn and make my way back toward my apartment building. I'll find food from somewhere else, but for now I need to get home and then I must find a way to forget the horror that I just witnessed. Even as I walk away, however, I can still hear Pavel in the distance, banging his bucket and screaming into the night air.

  Seven

  “Damn it!” a voice hisses in the darkness, as I get close to my building's front door. “Nearly!”

  Startled, I turn just in time to see a rat scurrying away into the darkness, and then I watch as a man – one of my neighbors, I think, although I don't know his name – chases the creature.

  “Get back here!” he shouts. “Come on, this isn't fair!”

  Stopping in the little pool of light in front of the main door, I listen to the sound of the man hurrying through the bushes. I can't quite believe that he's attempting to use a rat as a source of food, but then I tell myself that this would not be the most horrific thing that I have witnessed so far tonight. At least I can no longer hear the sound of Pavel hitting his bucket, although I have no doubt that he's still hard at work trying to make music.

  I have to get inside.

  Turning, I take the key from my pocket.

  “You're that musician.”

  I glance over my shoulder, and for the first time I notice a man sitting on the bench near the broken lamppost. He must have been there all along, and I simply didn't notice.

  “Derek something, right?” he continues. “I know about you. You had a hit back in the 80's.”

  Squinting, I try to make the man out, but he's too far from the light.

  “There's no point denying it,” he says. “I knew about you even before all of this happened. You're the nearest thing this part of town has to a celebrity. Why would someone like you live in a place like this, anyway? Didn't you make millions from your song?”

  “It wasn't that much of a hit,” I say cautiously.

  “Weren't you, like, number one in France for two weeks?”

  “Three weeks, actually,” I say cautiously.

  “And you didn't make a load of money?”

  “I get by,” I tell him. “And now, if you'll excuse me, I must -”

  “Can't you play us a little of it?” he asks, interrupting me. “Just part of it. I know you've got a guitar. I used to hear you practicing for hours and hours. To tell you the truth, the sound used to kind of annoy me. I almost came down sometimes to ask you to pack it in, but my wife used to say that I was being mean. So I didn't say anything, even though the tenancy agreement here gave me every right to put in an official complaint. Don't you think that means you owe us?”

  “I'm terribly sorry,” I tell him, “but I can't just -”

  Before I can finish, I hear a shuffling sound nearby, and I turn to see that there are in fact three more figures standing in the shadows, a little further from the bench.

  “I'm afraid I can't play anything tonight,” I say after a moment, trying to remain diplomatic. “It's just not possible. I'm sure you understand.”

  “Can't you play?” the man asks.

  “The situation is rather -”

  “I heard you,” he adds, suddenly getting to his feet. “About two days ago. I heard you play a few bars of music, and I got to thinking that maybe you're keeping it from the rest of us.”

  “I assure you,” I reply, “that I am doing no such thing.”

  As I say those words, however, I hear a rustling sound over my shoulder. Turning, I spot several more figures in the shadows, and I begin to realize that I seem to be rather surrounded. I take a step back, bumping against the building's front door, and then I reach into my pocket and fumble for my key. I don't want to seem as if I'm in too much of a hurry, but at the same time I very much want to get to the safety of my apartment.

  “You can play,” the man says firmly, stepping out of the shadows.

  “Roger,” I reply, recognizing one of my less agreeable neighbors, “I assure you -”

  “Don't lie, Derek,” he continues, cutting me off. “I never had you down as a liar. How about you go upstairs and get your guitar, and then you come back down and play for us? Is that really too much to ask?”

  “I'm very sorry,” I say, before turning and unlocking the door, “but I'm afraid I'm busy.”

  I pull the door open and step into the foyer, only to stop as soon as I see that there are three more men standing on the stairs, blocking my way.

  “These fine chaps will escort you,” Roger says firmly, leaving me in no doubt that I shall be forced to comply, “so that you don't get lost on the way. We wouldn't want that, would we?”

  “Please play for us,” a woman says, edging closer to me with her hands thrust together as if in prayer. “I'm begging you, play something. Anything'll do, just play for us!”

  “Try to understand,” I reply, “I'm not -”

  “Please!” she sobs, suddenly dropping to her knees. “I'll do anything you want! I just need to hear music again!”

  “You must try to pull yourself together,” I reply, before realizing that perhaps I am being a little harsh. “I can't play for you right now,” I continue, “but please, try to be patient. Whatever's happening, it will pass soon and then everything will go back to normal.”

  “You don't know that!” she whimpers.

  “What's the alternative?” I ask. “That this madness continues?”

  “The alternative,” Roger says menacingly, as he comes over to join us, “is that you play for us, Derek. It can be anything. It can even be that stupid pop song that briefly made you famous. Just play something.”

  “I -”

  Before I'm able to finish, I'm shoved hard in the back, and I take a couple of stumbling steps forward. Just as I begin to recover my balance, I'm shoved again, and now I'm right in the middle of the pool of light. Turning, I find that I'm surrounded by these aggressors.

  “Play!” another woman snaps. “Get your guitar and play!”

  “Here,” a voice calls out, and I turn to see a man coming down the stairs. To my shock, I realize that he's holding my guitar.

  “Where did you get that from?” I gasp, rushing toward him, only to be held back by another man. “Did you break into my home? You have no right!”

  “Play the guitar!” Roger snaps.

  “No!” I reply, filled with indignation. “How dare you accost me like this? How dare you even -”

  Suddenly Roger swings at me, punching me so hard in the belly that I immediately cry out and drop to my knees. Barely able to catch my breath, I reach out to steady myself, and then I lean forward onto my elbows. The pain is intense and brutal, radiating through my chest, and for a moment I can't even sit up.

  “I don't think you understand the situation,” Roger continues. “Do you know how much we've been suffering? You could make us all better, Derek. You could bring us out of the madness.”

  “I can't!” I splutter. “I'm just a -”

  Before I can finish, I'm shoved hard onto my side, and then a boot slams against the side of my face. I recoil in agony, and once again I feel desperately short of breath.

  “Are you not gonna do it, man?” Roger yells, as he grabs my guitar from one of his associates and holds it close
r to me. “What's wrong with you?”

  “That's mine!” I gasp, trying in vain to reach out and take the guitar. “Give it to me!”

  “Play!”

  He thrusts the guitar into my hands.

  “Play it,” he snarls, “or, so help me God, you will suffer in unimaginable ways.”

  I adjust the guitar in my hands, but my hands are trembling and I can taste blood in the back of my throat. I try to work out what I might play, but at the same time I hate the idea of surrendering to these bullies.

  “Play!” a woman says behind me, and then all the other voices join together in chanting the same word over and over, filling the air all around me.

  “Play!” they shout.

  “Play!”

  “Play!”

  My left index finger hits one of the strings by accident, but nobody even hears the sound. I call out, telling them all to be quiet, but then I'm shoved in the back and send falling forward. Somebody else punches the side of my face, and then I'm hauled up and spun around before another thud knocks me back down.

  “Play!”

  “Play!”

  “Play!”

  I try to beg them to stop, but the frenzy is building and I'm getting kicked and punched from all sides. I feel ribs starting to break, and I can feel blood bursting into the back of my mouth. I try to crawl forward, only to get kicked in the face, and then several more kicks slam into my chest and I fall down. As I land against the concrete ground, I feel and hear a loud, ominous cracking sound coming from the neck of my guitar.

  “Play!”

  “Play!”

  “Play!”

  “Stop!” I yell, before holding the guitar up for them to see the damage. “Look what you've done, you fools!”

  Some of them pull back, and I see Roger staring in horror at the broken instrument. The neck has been cracked open, leaving the strings straddling the gap. I'm sure that even an untrained eye would be able to understand that this guitar can no longer be played.

  “Look at it!” I snap. “Is this what you wanted?”