The Music Man Read online

  “Why didn't you just play for us?” Roger asks.

  “Why didn't you leave me alone?” I snap, turning to him. “You had no right to touch me!”

  “Well,” he replies, stepping closer, “now you're no use to us, are you? That was a stupid move, old man. It's not like we can magically summon up another guitar for you to play, is it? Now you're just an annoyance, and frankly I think you deserve to be punished for what you've done here tonight.”

  I try to respond to him, but my left eye is starting to swell shut and I think I'm missing several teeth. My jaw's damaged, too, and I find that it won't open when I attempt to speak. Then, as I raise my hands, I see that I have a number of broken fingers. Even if I wanted to play now, I wouldn't be able. Finally, realizing that the whole situation is hopeless, I let out a faint, low whimper.

  “Enough of your self-pity, old man,” Roger says firmly. “This is all your fault.”

  With that, he pulls me back and puts an arm around my throat, and then two of his associates come over and start punching me hard in the chest. The first few impacts send great, crashing jolts through my body, but then I feel myself starting to become limp. Held up for the beating, I can barely even let out a murmur as blood begins to run from my mouth, and with my remaining good eye I look up at the night sky and wait for the end.

  And then, just as I think I'm about to die, I hear a lone voice cry out from nearby:

  “Stop!”

  Eight

  As Roger and his friends let go of me, I slump down against the cold concrete. I'm too weak to support myself, so I simply roll onto my side and try to ignore the shimmering pain in my ribs.

  “I'll play for you!” the voice shouts nearby. “But only if you leave him alone!”

  It's Sarah.

  “Don't come any closer!” she continues. “I mean it, I'll smash this thing if you do.”

  “Do you even know how to play, little girl?” Roger asks.

  Rolling onto my other side, I can just about make out the angry crowd edging closer to Sarah. She's standing on the low wall that runs along the edge of the path, and she's holding her guitar as if she's about to start playing at any moment.

  “Don't,” I whisper, unable to speak more loudly. “Run.”

  “I'll play,” she says firmly, “if you all swear that you'll never touch Derek again.”

  “We promise,” Roger replies, “but you're going to have to come up with the goods. Otherwise, I'm afraid we're not in the mood to get bluffed.”

  “If you could play,” one of the women adds, “you'd have done it by now. There's no -”

  Suddenly Sarah plays a few chords, causing an audible gasp to rise from the crowd. I must admit that even I find myself transfixed as I hear proper music for the first time in a week.

  Almost immediately, however, Sarah stops.

  “Carry on!” a voice calls out. “You have to!”

  “I want you to promise me two things,” Sarah replies. “First, you'll leave Derek alone and never hurt him again.”

  “We promise!” all the voices shout.

  “And secondly,” she continues, “you'll actually listen, and you'll try to remember it, because I don't know how long I can play for. Do you understand?”

  “Get on with it!”

  “Just play, please!” another voice yells. “What are you waiting for?”

  Everyone's shouting now, their voices drowning one another out. After a moment, however, I start to realize that I can hear guitar music playing, and slowly the voices begin to fade away until finally the entire crowd is standing in silence.

  After a week with no music, I must admit that Sarah's playing makes me want to weep with joy. She's good, better than I remembered, and she makes no mistakes as she seamlessly moves from one piece to the next. I start to slowly sit up, and eventually I'm able to ignore the pain in my body and focus instead on the sheer beauty of the music.

  It seems that I'm not the only one, either.

  Every single member of the crowd seems lost in the moment. They're staring at her, as if the sound is making them almost catatonic. Indeed, they appear almost zombie-like as the minutes pass, and I swear that not one of them has spoken a single word since they began to hear Sarah's playing. Despite the pain that's filling my body, I listen to the music and feel as if there's still hope in the world, and for ten, maybe fifteen minutes this perfect moment continues.

  Finally, however, Sarah makes a mistake.

  Then another.

  And another.

  At first, these are just small, isolated errors, but over the next few minutes they start to become both more frequent and more obvious. I try to tell myself that such errors are perfectly natural, that the girl has never really performed in public before, but gradually I begun to realize that something else is happening here. As the mistakes pile up and begin to disrupt the piece that she's playing, I start to understand that it sounds as if she's slowly but surely losing the ability to play.

  As if, for her too, the music is finally starting to 'run out'.

  Still she plays on, forcing herself to somehow keep going. I can hear her faltering more and more, and after a few more seconds there are faint murmuring and grumbles starting to rise up from the crowd.

  And the mistakes are becoming more and more frequent.

  “Play properly!” a voice calls out, and this seems to embolden the rest of the crowd.

  “Why are you screwing it up so much?” another voice shouts.

  “Come on, do it properly!”

  “Get out of here,” I gasp, unable to raise my voice above a whisper, due to the pain in my side. “Sarah, run.”

  She doesn't run. She continues to play, even when it's clear that she's no longer pleasing the crowd. I hear her calling out, telling them to be patient, but the crowd has begun to surround her now.

  Angry voices are rising into the air, and finally Sarah's playing stops completely.

  “More!” several people yell. “Bring it back!”

  “I can't!” Sarah gasps from somewhere in the crowd, although I can no longer see her. “That's all I could do! I'm sorry!”

  That's not enough! I hear shouts and curses, and it's clear that people are starting to grab at Sarah in an attempt to force her to continue. I hear her voice, too, calling out to them and trying to make them understand.

  “Stop!” I try to shout, as I stumble to my feet, only to slip and fall back down. “Leave her alone! She's done enough!”

  The roar of the crowd is getting louder, and I'm barely able to crawl closer on my hand and knees. I know I have to stop them, that I have to somehow rescue Sarah, but my battered body is unable to support me. By the time I reach the very edge of the crowd, I can hear ferocious voices shouting ahead and – beyond that – the most awful scream.

  “Stop this!” I gasp, reaching out and grabbing the leg of the nearest woman. “Stop it at once!”

  Ignoring me, the woman presses deeper into the crowd, and I swiftly find that I have no chance of penetrating any deeper into this mass of people. I try as hard as I can, but I'm beaten back as the cries and screams rise higher into the night sky. For a moment, it's as if all I hear are the cries of wild animals, and then finally – as if all are suddenly agreed- they begin to wander away.

  They all look so exhausted now as they wander back to their apartments. Dazed, they seem almost to shuffle.

  Roger stops and glances at me, and for a few seconds I wonder whether he's going to come over and finish me off. Then, as if he's too tired and he supposes I'm not worth the effort, he turns and heads back into the building.

  Slowly, I turn to look at Sarah, and I feel an instant burst of horror in my chest as I see what they have done to her.

  Nine

  “No!” I sob, crawling as fast as I can to the spot where her crumpled body has been abandoned. “What's wrong with you people?”

  As soon as I saw her, I knew she was no more. Now that I'm closer, I am able to make out the true
nature of her injuries. I would say that she has been trampled to death, except I am not sure that this description is adequate. Instead, as I crawl closer and reach out to touch her shoulder, I find that she appears to have been torn apart.

  Her left arm has been wrenched from its socket, with thick strands of muscle bulging from beneath the sleeve of her t-shirt. Her neck has been twisted ninety degree to one side, and her eyes are bulging from their sockets. She has been almost completely ripped apart at the waist.

  Nearby, her guitar has been trampled and destroyed.

  “Why did you do that?” I whimper, with tears running down my face. “I'm an old man, you should have left me to die. Why did you throw your life away like that?”

  ***

  Slamming the remains of Sarah's guitar down onto the desk in my front room, I stop for a moment and try to work out what I should do next.

  I'm filled with rage, and it's the rage that is allowing me to keep going. Despite the pain in my body, and the fact that I have numerous broken bones all over, sheer rage is allowing me to get about. I was unable to actually dig a grave for poor Sarah, but I dragged her into a bush and left her there, while telling myself that I can return later to give her a proper burial. Now I'm starting to realize that this might be impossible, and it's clear to me now that there's no honor or decency left in this world.

  “Barbarians,” I mutter, before taking my mobile telephone and trying yet again to call the police.

  I need to report this murder, but so far tonight nobody has picked up at the station. Indeed, before the news broadcasts stopped there was talk of officers abandoning their posts. All across the world, people seem to be forgetting their responsibilities and wandering off into the streets. I let the call ring for a few more seconds, and then I set my phone down while muttering a few disgust-laden curse words.

  My hands are shaking.

  I want to go and bang on Roger's door and ask him why he murdered that poor girl. At the same time, I doubt very much that he would listen to me. Everyone in this building is now insane, as if the events of the past week have tipped them completely over the edge. If this is how things are now, I hate to imagine how low these monsters will stoop after a day or two more, and I most certainly do not want to stick around and see the horror for myself.

  I have to go.

  Suddenly filled with this realization, I hurry through to my bedroom and grab my tattered old suitcase. It has been a long time since I traveled anywhere, but I am quite certain that I would not survive another twenty-four hours in this building. I have friends in town, and I suppose I shall have to head to the main road and hope that some of the bus services are still running. Then, when all of this horror is over, I shall go to the police and make sure that Sarah's murderers are brought to justice. I refuse to believe that human civilization has completely fallen apart.

  For now, however, I must get out of this wretched building.

  Once my suitcase is packed, I hurry back out to the front room. I can hardly think straight, and my mind is racing, but after a moment I stop as I see Sarah's broken guitar resting next to my own. The sight is enough to send a chill up my spine and – although I know that time is of the essence – I cannot help but set my suitcase down and make my way over to take a closer look at the guitars.

  Both are broken at the neck.

  I know that I should travel light, but I cannot bear the thought of leaving my precious guitar behind. I grab the case, before realizing suddenly that perhaps such a thing might prove to be unwisely conspicuous. I hesitate, before hurrying to the kitchen and then returning with a pack of large black plastic sacks. I start pulling them open, and I quickly manage to disguise my guitar. Then, feeling as if it would be terribly sad to leave poor Sarah's guitar behind, I wrap hers up as well. If I am to take one guitar with me, it is not much inconvenience to add a second.

  Before leaving, I switch the television back on. The last signals faded a while ago, and sure enough I flip through the channels and see nothing but error messages and blue screens.

  Things must be bad in London, if even the BBC is no longer broadcasting.

  Finally, once I am certain that staying here is no option, I head back to the kitchen and gather my last meager scraps of food and water, and then I head to the door and pull it open.

  Peering out into the hallway, I see no sign of anyone. Evidently Roger and his fellow monsters have retired for the night, no doubt worn out from their burst of anger. I still wait for a few seconds, just in case there's any hint of movement, and then I step out and pull my door shut before heading as quietly as possible toward the stairs.

  As I pass Roger's door, I stop for a moment and listen. I hear a sound from within, and after a couple of seconds I realize that it sounds as if the man is sobbing. There is a part of me that feels rather sorry for him, but then I remember what he and the others did to Sarah. He'll have to answer for his actions once order has been restored. He and all the rest of them.

  Once I've reached the top of the stairs, I hurry down as fast as my bruised legs will carry me. I'm already struggling with the combined weight of the suitcase and the two guitars, but I know I can manage.

  Reaching the building's front door, I peer out to make sure that there's still no sign of anyone, and then I begin to make my way along the darkened path. After just a few paces, however, I stop in my tracks as I spot the bush where I left Sarah's body, and I realize instantly that I can't just walk away like this.

  Maybe I can't bury her, but there's still one thing I can do.

  I set my suitcase and the guitars aside, and then I make my way to the janitorial shed at the end of the building. There's a lock on the door, of course, so I remove my jacket and use it to cover my fist as I break one of the windows. Ordinarily someone would come running, perhaps alerted by an alarm, but on this occasion I believe I am fully justified in my actions. I use my mobile telephone to light the way, and after a few minutes I manage to find what I need. I head back over to the bush where I left Sarah's body, and I see her lifeless corpse still on the ground.

  “I'm sorry,” I say, supposing that I should try to say something deep and meaningful. “I won't forget you. I'll make sure that those bastards pay for what they did for you. I'm so sorry I couldn't save you.”

  With that, I open the can of petrol that I found in the shed and I douse Sarah's body. I'm not sure how I shall explain this to the police when all this drama is over, but I suppose I shall tell them that I feared some kind of disturbance. At least this way the poor girl will have some dignity, so I finally toss the can aside and then I take a lighter from my pocket. Again, I feel I should say something profound, but I can't think of the words so – instead – I simply flick the side of the lighter and set it down, and immediately flames rush across Sarah's body and begin to burn not only her but also the bush.

  Stepping back, I'm rather startled by the realization that I might have started a significant fire that will tear through the entire garden, but then I tell myself that somebody will surely come and extinguish the flames.

  For now, I stare for a moment at the inferno and I think of poor Sarah, and then I turn and gather my belongings. As I do so, however, I happen to glance up toward the side of the building, and then I freeze as I see a human figure hanging from one of the windows.

  The flames behind me pick out the sight of a male body dangling from a rope that has been attached around its neck, and I realize quickly that I recognize this man. I heard Roger sobbing a short while ago, and it was appear that he has now taken his own life. Did he, perhaps, pull out of his frenzy and realize the horror of what he'd done? Even though he acted like a monster, I suppose the original, decent Roger was in there somewhere.

  Finding the whole mess too horrible to contemplate, I turn and carry my belongings along the dark path. Ahead is the main road and, I hope, a way to reach the safety of my friends' home.

  Ten

  By the time the sun begins to rise, I have been walking f
or several hours and I have not been passed by a single vehicle.

  At first I waited at one of the bus stops, before realizing the folly of my choice. There are clearly no buses running at the moment, so I decided to head north and hope that I might hitch a ride. Now, however, my tired and pained body feels as if it's beginning to fail, and I'm not entirely sure what I should do next. Going back is not an option, yet this road is in the middle of nowhere and I am fully aware that there are no buildings for several miles to come.

  Finally I stop for a moment and set the suitcase and guitars down, and then I take a few seconds to listen to my surroundings.

  All I hear is silence. Even now, with the sun poking above the horizon, there is no noise. After a moment I look up and see birds in the trees, but even they are not singing. Has this strange malady affected not just humans, but all creatures? Perhaps I am reading too much into the situation, but I fancy that the birds look a little out-of-sorts, as if perhaps the inability to sing is causing them trouble.

  Still, at least they aren't turning on one another like crazed monsters. Already, then, they're one step above humanity.

  I pick up my suitcase and the guitars, and I once again start walking along the road. This journey feels relentless, and I'm starting to wonder whether I shall ever see another living soul. Just a few seconds later, however, I hear the distant sound of an engine. Turning, I look back the way that I have just walked, and sure enough after a few more seconds I spot a truck coming this way.

  For a moment, I consider trying to step out of sight, just in case this truck is driven by another maniac. Realizing that it's too late to hide, however, I watch as the truck slows and passes me, and then as it comes to a halt at the side of the road with its engine still running.

  Perhaps I was right.

  Perhaps this really is another crazed fool.

  A moment later the driver-side door opens, and it occurs to me that while my fears are justified, the driver might be wondering the same thing about me.