The Voices Read online

  ‘What are you doing?’ Christopher’s voice startled her. She turned and saw him in the doorway, yawning and raking his hand over his scalp. Is something wrong?’

  Laura wasn’t sure how to proceed. ‘I thought I heard something again. You know, something strange – coming from the monitor.’

  ‘A voice?’

  ‘No, something else. I’m not sure.’

  ‘You woke me up,’ said Christopher. He sounded a little irritated.

  Laura nodded. ‘Yes, I’m sorry.’

  Christopher shrugged and returned to the bedroom. When she was sure that the dizziness had passed, she joined him.

  ‘What did you hear?’ Christopher asked. ‘If you didn’t hear a voice, what was it?’

  ‘A noise – clicking. I may have been dreaming. I really don’t know.’

  She heard her husband tut. What did he mean to communicate? Rebuke? Mild disapprobation? Impatience?

  He rolled away, taking most of the bed sheet with him. Laura made no attempt to retrieve her share. The night was hot and she doubted that she would fall asleep again.

  Christopher found Laura sitting on the terrace. She was lying back in a garden chair with a bottle of suntan lotion within easy reach. Her skin glistened and exuded a sharp, lemony scent. She was wearing a long skirt, but she had hitched most of the material above her knees, exposing long, shapely legs, blemished only by a small number of mosquito bites. A pair of sandals had been kicked off and had come to rest some distance from her feet. Christopher’s shadow fell across her face. She stirred, and behind the tinted lenses of her enormous Yves Saint Laurent sunglasses, her eyes opened.

  ‘Faye’s waking up,’ said Christopher.

  ‘OK.’ Laura straightened her back. ‘Sue’s coming this afternoon.’

  ‘Is she?’

  ‘Yes. I told you yesterday.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s she coming for?’

  ‘To do the rockery, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Did you check the savings account?’

  ‘I thought you said Sue wasn’t going to charge?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘No, I didn’t check the savings account.’

  ‘Then what shall I say to her about the rest of the work?’

  ‘Tell her that we definitely want it done. It’s just a question of when.’ He inspected his shirt cuffs. Before Laura could respond, Christopher reminded her that their daughter was awake and he hurried back into the house. On returning to his studio, he watched more scenes from Android Insurrection and felt somewhat disheartened. There was still a great deal of music to compose and the prospect didn’t excite him.

  While he was cutting and splicing tapes, he heard the doorbell ring downstairs, then faint voices and a peal of laughter. He didn’t let the gardener’s arrival distract him. After an hour or so, Laura knocked and entered. ‘Sue’s here.’

  Christopher looked up. ‘Yes, I heard.’

  ‘I’m driving into the village to get some things,’ Laura continued. ‘We’re running out of milk. Sue said she won’t be leaving until about five.’

  ‘OK.’

  The studio was beginning to feel like a greenhouse. Two bluebottles were orbiting Christopher’s head and no amount of swatting could persuade them to alter their trajectories. The buzzing that they produced was like a chainsaw and a heavy sensation, situated somewhere behind Christopher’s brow, was threatening to become more readily identifiable as pain. It was time to take a break. He spliced a final length of tape, hung the loop on a hook, and descended through the house to the kitchen.

  While waiting for the kettle to boil he walked idly to the table and his gaze fell on two paperback books that he hadn’t seen before. The first was titled House Arrest and was written by a sociologist who lectured at the University of Essex. Several paragraphs of text had been underlined. On the inside cover, he found the name Susan Kent scrawled in biro. The second book was titled Against Our Will: Men, Women and Rape. Beneath the title it said: ‘. . . a conscious process of intimidation by which all men keep all women in a state of fear.’ Such casual use of the word ‘all’ annoyed Christopher intensely. He scowled, picked up the book, and flicked through the pages. Again, he observed that certain passages had been underlined.

  He was disturbed by the sound of footsteps and when he looked up he discovered a woman was standing by the door. She was wearing a vest-like T-shirt, denim shorts and a pair of large black boots. Her thick, sun-bleached hair was tied back with a scarf.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, stepping forward and making an arc with her right hand as if she were cleaning an invisible window. ‘I’m Sue. You must be Christopher.’

  He nodded and held up the book. ‘You’re lending this to my wife?’ His use of the possessive pronoun was emphatic.

  The woman looked puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘All men,’ said Christopher, tapping the offending word. ‘All men keep all women in a state of fear. That’s a bit sweeping, isn’t it?’

  ‘Perhaps you should read it first. I mean, before you. . .’

  ‘I’m not sure I need to.’

  Attempting to lighten the atmosphere, Sue smiled and knowingly recited a cliché: ‘You should never judge a book by its cover.’ She crossed to the sink, filled a glass with water, and raised it to her lips. Her thirsty gulping was clearly audible. When she had finished drinking she turned to face Christopher and wiped her chin with a polka-dot handkerchief. Her skin had been burned by the sun and was peeling.

  ‘It’s divisive,’ said Christopher bluntly.

  Her expression, which for a moment had been illuminated by hope, was immediately eclipsed by disappointment. ‘Look,’ said Sue, I think we’ve got off on the wrong foot here.’ Christopher’s tightly compressed lips offered her little encouragement. ‘A book like Against Our Will,’ she continued, ‘is a bit extreme, I’ll grant you that. But sometimes you have to shout loudly to be heard . . . you know?’

  ‘It doesn’t help . . .’ Christopher muttered, vaguely. He wasn’t really addressing the gardener. A half-formed thought had simply slipped out.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Men, women . . .’ Christopher’s irritability had made him inarticulate. ‘How we get along together . . . it’s all so inflammatory.’

  ‘Well, so is rape.’

  His instinct was to rip the book apart and scatter the shreds like confetti, but instead he laid the dog-eared paperback down on the table next to the spider plant. A cloud of steam was escaping from the kettle.

  ‘I’m making a cup of coffee,’ said Christopher, trying to keep his voice steady and level. ‘Would you like one?’ He wasn’t going to give this woman the satisfaction of seeing him lose his temper. He wasn’t going to confirm her prejudices.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said. ‘I need to crack on.’

  After her wary departure, Christopher could still smell her: earth, freshly mowed grass and a hint of tobacco. It was as though her physical departure was incomplete. An olfactory ghost remained. Christopher made his cup of coffee and returned to the studio; however, it was some time before he could concentrate on his work. He kept on thinking about his brief but intense encounter with Sue.

  Much later, Christopher returned to the kitchen. Laura was cooking and Faye was seated in her highchair. The gardener had evidently gone.

  ‘Have you seen the rockery?’ Laura asked. She was unusually animated; even her voice sounded different, brighter and purer in tone.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ Christopher replied.

  ‘Take a look.’

  ‘OK.’

  From the terrace, Christopher could see a stone cascade where previously only shrubs had obscured the rear wall. It was an attractive feature. Getting closer, he saw that the downward flow of the rockery was interrupted by horizontal flower beds of different shapes and sizes. A crescent of coloured stones had been spread around its base and an adjacent area of ground had be
en cleared. From this vantage point it was now possible to enjoy an unrestricted view of the house in all its Gothic Revival splendour. Christopher felt a pang of guilt. It hadn’t even occurred to him to thank Sue.

  ‘It’s great,’ said Christopher, as he stepped back into the kitchen. ‘I can’t believe she did it all for free.’

  ‘Yes,’ Laura replied. ‘It was kind of her, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We must get her something – for her trouble. A small gift.’

  Laura indicated the books on the table.

  ‘What did you say to Sue about these?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘She said that you’d had a chat about them and she’d got the impression that you disapproved.’

  The gardener had obviously chosen to be diplomatic. Christopher experienced a second pang of guilt. ‘Well, look what it says on the cover. All men are rapists! You can’t possibly believe that!’

  Laura tensed and responded firmly, ‘I’ll read the book.’

  Simon Ogilvy was sitting in a nondescript office in the bowels of Broadcasting House with Hugo Hasting-Bass, a senior producer for BBC Radio 3. Hasting-Bass was a shabby individual whose mode of dress did little to betray his privileged background. His hair was a frizzy, undisciplined grey mop, and his glasses listed precariously on the bridge of his retroussé nose. He wore baggy cord trousers, a checked shirt with a crumpled collar and a V-neck sweater with well-worn, threadbare elbows.

  Hasting-Bass had been enthusing about a new programme idea when his assistant arrived with three mugs of coffee. ‘Ah, thank you, Roderick.’ The young man sat beside his superior. Hasting-Bass was middle-aged and plump, whereas Roderick was a vision of lithe, golden youth – blond curls, Russian cheekbones, full, sensual lips and eyelashes that actually glinted when they caught the light.

  ‘You know,’ said Hasting-Bass, tilting his palms at the ceiling, ‘I think a little humility is in order. We can learn a great deal from today’s pop musicians. I’m not talking about groups who achieve success in the hit parade, of course, but rather those who attempt to construct intricate works on a larger scale, those who make – for want of a better term – concept albums. These chaps are able to challenge their audience, make them concentrate for longer periods of time, because they provide an overarching theme. Have you listened to any . . .’Hasting-Bass hesitated, as if what he intended to say next was collecting in his mouth like an excess of saliva, ‘progressive rock?’ Coming from Hasting-Bass, the words sounded forced and absurd.

  ‘A little,’ Simon replied. ‘My wife occasionally plays records that her students give her. To be honest, I’m not overly impressed. I find it all rather crude and episodic’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Hasting-Bass. ‘But that’s rather beside the point.’ He bristled for a moment before smiling benevolently at his assistant. ‘Roderick has been introducing me to some of these artists and I must say I’m intrigued. The more experimental passages are almost atonal. Yet these groups reach an audience of millions, an audience who, until recently, were only prepared to listen to three-chord love songs lasting for less than three minutes. My feeling is that these more sophisticated pop musicians are able to push their audiences beyond their habitual listening habits because of the conceptual element. A narrative – a theme, a concept – makes their music far more accessible. Now, my thinking is this: if it works for them, there’s a good chance it’ll work for us too. I’m keen to broaden our appeal and I’m convinced that conceptual pieces will be the key to our future success.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Ogilvy, although his voice sounded moribund.

  Hasting-Bass transferred four heaped teaspoons of sugar from a plastic bowl to his coffee mug with reckless haste, producing a trail of white granules on his desk. ‘Needless to say, something of yours will almost certainly be broadcast in our new programme – The Pit and the Pendulum, perhaps, or Epitaphs. However, I’m still looking for more pieces, particularly works that haven’t been performed before, but they must be conceptual.’ Hasting-Bass brushed some sugar from his trousers. ‘Do you have any recommendations? Are any of your colleagues, perchance, working on something that might be suitable?’

  Roderick smiled encouragingly. His teeth were alarmingly white and there was something about his physical perfection that saddened Simon, although he couldn’t specify what it was exactly. ‘No,’ said Simon. I’m afraid not.’

  After the meeting with Hasting-Bass, Simon walked to his car and found that he could barely touch the steering wheel it was so hot. He had to conduct some of the heat into his own hands before it was possible to begin the journey home. About halfway, he pulled over in order to use a telephone box. He called Amanda and said that he had been delayed and wouldn’t be back until late. ‘Hasting-Bass wants to discuss a new programme he’s producing. There might be a commission in it, one never knows.’

  Amanda responded with her usual guarded neutrality. ‘OK,’ she replied, ‘I hadn’t cooked anything.’ An odd thing to say, Simon thought, because she rarely prepared his supper.

  He drove up to Jack Straw’s Castle, where he sat at a table nursing a beer and waiting for the sky to darken. He would need several drinks before venturing outside, beyond the car park and down the dusty track that led to the woods of West Heath, where his shame and confusion could be concealed, not only beneath the cover of night, but behind a final bastion of thorny bushes. Looking through the amber lens of his glass, he thought once again of Roderick. The boy (he could only think of him as a boy) had looked like Dorian Gray.

  Laura was tired because she hadn’t slept properly for two nights. Throughout the hours of darkness, she had been tense and excessively sensitive to the slightest sound. Every knock and creak had lifted her heart into her throat and when the baby monitor crackled or buzzed she had strained to hear more – a distant voice or the dreadful clink-clink-clink of swaying chains. After rising, she had examined her face in the bathroom mirror and had been depressed by the appearance of two dark crescents beneath her eyes. She had decided, about a month earlier, to relinquish petty vanities, but she was feeling fragile. Consequently, she had scooped dollops of moisturizing cream from a tub and rubbed the cool white paste into her skin. This ritual, which she used to perform several times a day, had felt comforting.

  Now, lying on the sofa, absorbed by the intricate curlicues of the ceiling rose, she felt guilty. She had been weak. What did it matter if she had bags under her eyes? And what was the point of trying to preserve her looks? Beauty – or at least her kind of beauty – was unsustainable. She did not want to be defined by appearances anymore. It was so shallow. She thought about her husband, how Chris had been angry because of her insistence on throwing away her collection of magazines. He just didn’t understand. Nor could he understand, ever, because in all probability he would never know what the real cost of her success had been.

  The door was ajar and Faye crawled out of the room.

  ‘Faye?’ That’s all she ever seemed to do, call out her daughter’s name, not only in reality but also in her dreams. ‘Faye? Come back, darling.’ Sometimes the child responded, but not very often. ‘Come on, honey. Please.’ Laura sat up, finding that repositioning her body was far more effortful than it should have been. ‘Do I really have to come and get you? Faye? Please, honey.’ Laura sighed and, feeling annoyed (as much with herself for not bothering to shut the door as with her daughter), she stood and stomped across the floor.

  Laura found Faye standing at the bottom of the stairs, her head tilted backwards.

  ‘Faye?’

  The child didn’t move. She seemed to have entered a trance-like state, just as she had before, when Laura had discovered Faye staring at the wall in the empty bedroom on the top floor. Her little body was so still that she looked like a doll, the limbs of which had been manipulated to achieve an even distribution of weight. Laura began to tremble, but she did not lose control. She wanted to study her daughter more closely, to make observations that m
ight inform a diagnosis. The doctor had said that there was nothing wrong with Faye, but he was clearly mistaken. This wasn’t normal.

  Laura sat down on the bottom step and passed a hand in front of Faye’s face. The child didn’t flinch. Leaning forward, Laura examined Faye’s eyes, which were very much like her own. The light was providently striking her daughter’s irises at the precise angle required to turn them gold. Faye’s stare was so fixed, so rapt, that it made Laura uneasy. Against her better judgement, she found herself glancing over her shoulder to make sure that there really was nothing remarkable to look at on the stairs or first-floor landing. Laura clicked her fingers next to Faye’s ear and brushed a knuckle against her cheek. ‘Faye, darling, what’s wrong?’ The child’s eyelids began to droop and the upper half of her body rocked backwards and forwards. When she fell, Laura caught her and clutched her close, kissing her soft blonde curls. Faye began to cry. ‘It’s all right, honey,’ Laura murmured. ‘Don’t cry – everything’s fine.’ She stroked Faye’s spine and kissed her again. ‘Everything’s fine.’

  When Christopher came down from the studio to have his lunch, Laura told him what had happened.

  ‘It was the same thing. Identical.’

  ‘Yes, but the doctor said she was OK.’

  ‘I think he’s wrong. I’m going to take her to see him again.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Can you come with me?’

  ‘I’m working. Why do you need me to go?’

  ‘I don’t think the doctor listens to me.’ Christopher’s expression was so disdainful that Laura quickly added, ‘All right. There’s no need. I’ll deal with it.’

  Christopher expressed his frustration by making juggling movements with his hands. ‘Of course the doctor will listen to you.’

  She shut down the conversation with a curt repetition. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

  Three hours later she was sitting in the doctor’s waiting room dandling Faye on her knee. There were six other patients, one of whom had a bad, rattling cough. A spritely old woman made polite conversation, remarking on Faye’s beauty and disclosing with pride that she was the mother of four ‘strapping’ sons. ‘A daughter . . .’ she said with some regret. ‘I’ve always wondered what it must be like to have a daughter.’