The Voices Page 18

  The boy sneered, tossed the beer can aside and lunged forward. Christopher raised his arms, a clumsy warding off; however, his spastic gesticulations proved entirely redundant when his presumptive adversary swerved away. ‘Wanker,’ the boy growled before hawking with bitter vehemence. A moment later the lame adolescent was dragging his leg down the scorched incline on the other side of the hill in the direction of Highgate.

  Christopher let out a sigh of relief, but when he bowed his head he saw a thick string of mucus attached to his linen trousers. ‘Little shit!’ He picked up an empty crisp bag and used it to remove the sputum, a task that proved remarkably difficult. For the next twenty minutes he sat on a bench, recovering from his unfortunate encounter and gazing out over a landscape of post-apocalyptic emptiness.

  On his way home he discovered a dead dog. It was an elderly, overweight mongrel that must have dehydrated. Flies were crawling in and out of its mouth and buzzing around its head. ‘Jesus,’ said Christopher, almost reverentially. The freakish weather was making London unrecognizable. The last time he’d seen a dead animal in a public place was during a holiday in Sicily.

  The house was silent when he stepped into the hallway. He wondered whether Laura had gone out for a walk too, but then he spied the pushchair parked beneath the stairs. He went to the kitchen and drank water directly from the tap. It was difficult to stop once he’d started, and he carried on gulping until his stomach felt uncomfortably distended. He re-entered the hallway and craned around the drawing room door. Laura was standing by the French windows and she turned to look at him. He hadn’t made any noise and it was odd how she seemed to have sensed him there. She then provided him with the answer to the question he was about to ask: ‘Faye’s upstairs, asleep. The heat is exhausting her.’

  ‘It’s exhausting all of us,’ he replied.

  As he was about to withdraw, Laura protested: ‘No, don’t go. We need to talk.’

  Surely he hadn’t been found out already? How could that have happened? He thought of Amanda. How well did he know her, really? Doubts began to multiply. Had Amanda spoken to Laura? Or had she confessed to Simon and was it Simon who had called? His mind became a chaotic hubbub. Laura saw that something was wrong and asked, ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied, stepping into the room. ‘I think I overdid it on the heath, that’s all. I shouldn’t have gone out when it’s like this.’ He fanned his face to emphasize the point.

  ‘Can we sit?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Laura looked anxious. She placed her hands in her lap and they moved against each other as if she was washing them very slowly. Christopher noticed that her eyelids were rimmed with pink and her cheeks were puffy. It was obvious that she had been crying.

  ‘Well?’ His voice was a dry croak.

  ‘Chris . . .’ She offered him a faint, tormented smile, but seemed unable to find the language to express her thoughts.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m not happy here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m not happy here . . . in this house. I want to move.’

  For a few seconds he experienced an airy lightness that threatened to become laughter; however, this euphoria soon melted away when the meaning of his wife’s words finally sunk in. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I want to move.’

  ‘We can’t. We don’t have enough money. It cost us a fortune getting this place sorted out; we can’t move again, just like that!’ He snapped his fingers in such a way as to suggest that the satisfaction of her wish would require an expedient as outlandish as stage magic. ‘Why on earth do you want to move?’

  ‘I told you. I’m not happy here.’

  He knew that she took pills. Didn’t everybody these days? Especially women. Pills to lift you up, pills to let you down. He had tried to talk to her about her ‘moods’ but on every occasion she had underplayed their significance. ‘Hormones,’ she had replied dismissively. As a result, Christopher had consigned her ‘hormonal problem’ to a category of female biological mysteries traditionally ignored by men.

  ‘Moving house won’t make you happy.’ He paused to select his words with greater care. ‘What I mean is . . . if you’re unhappy, then maybe that’s because of other things. You can’t blame it on the house. Maybe you should see the doctor.’

  ‘He doesn’t listen. I told you.’

  ‘All right, see another doctor – someone private, someone in Harley Street.’

  ‘I thought you said we didn’t have any money.’

  ‘Harley Street doctors are expensive, sure. But not as expensive as moving home.’

  ‘Chris, I know what I’m asking is a lot—’

  ‘No. No.’ He couldn’t allow her to continue. She was being ridiculous. ‘It’s just not possible, OK?’ Laura removed a piece of dark fluff from her smock and stared blankly at her feet. ‘You need to find the right specialist,’ Christopher added.

  Laura looked up again and Christopher watched sunlight collecting in her eyes until they turned gold. ‘You want me to see a psychiatrist. That’s what you want, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, I said you need to find the right specialist. If you think that your hormones have got something to do with it, then go and see an endocrinologist. But if you did need to see a psychiatrist . . . if that’s appropriate, why not? As long as you get the right treatment and get better.’ She had been such a striking woman. She had looked like a goddess. Now only her eyes attested to her former divinity. Christopher took one of her hands and squeezed it. He noticed that several of her fingernails were torn and ragged. She would never have been so remiss in the past; her nails were always filed to perfection and expertly painted with varnish. ‘You haven’t been yourself, have you? Not for a long time, probably not since Faye was born.’

  She responded as if she hadn’t really been listening to him. ‘I want to move. And please don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Christopher.

  ‘I’m worried about Faye.’

  ‘The doctor said she was fine.’

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling.’

  ‘That’s because you’re not well, not because of the house.’

  She wanted to tell him more: she wanted to tell him about her recurring nightmare and Faye’s drawing, and how she had seen correspondences between them. She wanted to tell him about how she had felt something terrible, something cold and unspeakable, when she had stood by the stone cherub that Sue had discovered in the garden. She wanted to tell him about the strong intuitions she had had throughout her life, and how she had always ignored them or suppressed them because they had frightened her. But she couldn’t say any of these things, because the thoughts were coming into her head too fast and if she opened her mouth the words would come tumbling out and she knew that she would sound hysterical. So instead she said a single sentence as calmly as she could. ‘Please stop recording those voices.’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘No. You can’t expect me to do that. I haven’t felt so excited about a piece in years.’ The previous exceptionally productive night was still fresh in his memory.

  ‘Please, Chris. You’re out of your depth. It’s making me very uneasy . . . and I’m worried about Faye.’

  Christopher withdrew his hand. Laura could feel his anger building and saw his expression turning ugly as he struggled to control himself. His efforts failed. ‘Just when I find a really worthwhile project, a project guaranteed to make people take me seriously again, you want me to drop it. Well, isn’t that just typical!’

  Laura turned away as though he had slapped her across the face. How was it typical? she wondered. There were no precedents for the conversation they were having. Christopher was snorting like an enraged bull. ‘Listen to yourself. Just consider for a moment what you’re demanding. You want to move. You want me to stop working on my new piece. Anything else I can do for you? Any other reasonable request
s?’ He paused before continuing even more emphatically. ‘We don’t have the money to move and I don’t see why I should stop working on my piece. I know you’re worried about Faye, but that’s another issue. You’re imagining things!’

  Ordinarily, Christopher wasn’t a man prone to outbursts. Consequently, it wasn’t long before he was feeling slightly ashamed. ‘Look,’ he started up again, his voice softer. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have shouted. But what you’re suggesting . . . it doesn’t make sense. It’s all too drastic. Why don’t you see someone and maybe all this,’ he continued, making a sweeping gesture that invited Laura to consider the ornate fireplace and the plush furnishings, ‘won’t seem so bad. Please?’

  Laura was still looking away from him. ‘Just leave me alone for a minute, will you?’ This was not said as a rebuke. There was no hostility in her voice. She was simply expressing a genuine need for solitude.

  ‘OK,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll be upstairs.’ And with that, he stood up and walked to the door, pausing before his departure to look back at his wife as she curled into a compact ball and rested her head on a cushion. The tableau was so pitiful he was overcome with regret.

  Surprisingly, Christopher found that he was able to compose. Sometimes emotional upheaval made concentration impossible, but at other times it seemed to facilitate an escape from reality. The creative process became a refuge, a place of safety or healing. He worked for almost an hour before the telephone rang. Laura didn’t answer it so he went down to the bedroom and picked up the extension.

  ‘Christopher. It’s Henry. How are you?’ They made a little inconsequential conversation before Henry said, ‘I spoke to Mike Judd today, and he’d like to hear something soon. What shall I tell him?’

  ‘The deadline isn’t up yet.’

  ‘True. But it isn’t terribly distant either.’

  ‘There are a few more scenes that I need to work on.’

  ‘Yes, but if Judd wanted to pop over and listen to what you’ve done so far, that wouldn’t be a problem, would it?’

  ‘It isn’t convenient, Henry.’

  ‘There isn’t anything wrong, is there?’

  ‘No. Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘You see, Judd’s getting a bit jittery.’

  ‘I’ll be finished on time.’

  ‘Will you? Because if you’re in any doubt—’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Any doubt at all, it would be advisable to give me advance warning so I can launch a precautionary charm offensive.’

  ‘You won’t have to do that.’

  ‘Good. How did you get on with Bill Loxley, by the way?’

  ‘We got on very well indeed. He was extremely knowledgeable.’

  ‘Knew about your man then, did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Extraordinary.’

  ‘Thanks for putting me in touch with him, Henry. I appreciate it.’

  ‘Where did you take him to lunch?’

  ‘A little Italian place near Russell Square – a bit dilapidated but the food is always very good.’

  ‘Perfect. Listen, there’s a chap pressing his face against the window so I think I’d better see what he wants before he gives my new secretary a fright. She’s a bit neurotic and I haven’t got a clue what to do if she faints.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘I’ll tell Judd that everything’s under control.’

  ‘Yes, you do that, Henry.’

  ‘Bye, Chris.’

  ‘Bye, Henry’

  Later, the door of the studio opened and Laura appeared holding Faye. ‘OK,’ she said, as if she were continuing the conversation that they had had earlier and there had been no interval. ‘I’ll talk to Martha.’

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘The psychotherapist I met at the bookshop in Islington. I’ll ask her for some names. I’ll try to get some help, but if I’m still unhappy at the end of the year, I want to move.’

  Christopher got up and walked over to his wife. He put his arms around her and his daughter and hugged them both before kissing Laura on the lips and rubbing his nose into Faye’s curls. ‘OK,’ he said. Christopher observed their reflection in the window and it struck him that they looked like an ideal family in a TV commercial. But at the same time, he understood that although all three of them were touching, their points of contact were few.

  ‘I love you,’ he said to Laura. It was the first time he had said those words in over a month and they made his betrayal complete.

  Even with the curtains drawn the bedroom was already full of light by five o’clock in the morning. Simon Ogilvy was able to study the network of fine red lines on his wife’s back at leisure. She was still fast asleep. It was not the first time he had seen such marks and he knew what they represented. Over the years he had learned how to read his wife’s body like a book. He could even tell her lovers’ particular preferences by the location of the bruises. The symmetrical patterns of discolouration positioned above the kidneys showed clearly where she had been grabbed from behind. How ironic. And then there were the more obvious tokens of her infidelity: the excessive use of perfume, coinciding with the appearance of her most expensive underwear in the laundry basket. Who was it this time? he wondered. A colleague, perhaps, or one of her students? He could see the attraction of the latter. Students were never around long enough to cause problems. After completing their A levels, they obligingly left the capital for university towns and were generally never heard of again. All very convenient.

  Did he care? Yes, he did. Was he jealous? Yes, in a way. But how could he object to her adultery? He had deceived her as much as she had deceived him. More so, in fact.

  Could their marriage last for much longer? It seemed improbable. It was coming apart just like everything else was in the intolerable heat. Surfaces were slipping, edges curling. Whatever had been stuck together was loosening and separating, falling open to reveal stringy cobwebs of goo.

  And what would happen when Amanda finally lost patience with his sterile affections? He had imagined and reimagined the scenario time and time again. Amanda packing her bags, the front door slamming shut, the sound of the car engine fading into the night. What then? Would he have the courage to be himself? Or would he continue to inhabit a world of lies.

  Ogilvy got out of bed and walked to the window. He tugged the curtain aside and blinked at the harsh brilliance of a vindictive sun.

  August 1976

  Christopher stared up at the screen and watched the silent, steady progress of the android. It stopped and the camera zoomed in for a close-up of the machine’s eyes. The glowing red irises swivelled to the left and then to the right, suggesting suspicion.

  Why had he lied to Henry? He had been working intermittently on the score of Android Insurrection but not enough to ensure its completion before the deadline. As a rule, Christopher was a consummate professional, but on this occasion he had allowed himself to become completely preoccupied by ‘The Speech of Shadows’. He had spent far too much time recording the voices of the dead, clarifying their messages, and devising new effects to give their communications a fitting context. If he made a concerted effort, there was a slim chance that he would be able to finish the score of Android Insurrection by the end of the month; however, he resented having to work on anything other than his ‘serious’ piece.

  Christopher forced himself to concentrate on the action.

  The android was firing a laser gun and pursuing a child through a warren of metal corridors. Christopher had patched the routing matrix and adjusted the control-panel settings of the VCS3 synthesizer in order to produce a repetitive beat that resembled the noise of helicopter rotors. He moved the small joystick and altered the quality of the sound, removing some of its harsher registers. It was an acceptable effect, one that created a sense of urgency, but an element was missing: an ingredient that would express the child’s terror.

  Christopher got up from his chair and walked over to a shelf on which a number of slim boxes had bee
n placed in a neat row. Each one had a handwritten label on the side and he ran his finger along the containers until he found the word ‘scream’. He opened the box, took out the spool, and wound it onto the Akai 4000DS, after which he pressed ‘play’ and listened. A child’s scream filled the studio. It was Faye’s scream, the scream that he had inadvertently taped in June when his daughter had stepped on broken glass in the kitchen. He recorded his improvisations on the synthesizer and then introduced Faye’s scream into the mix – a lazy way to heighten emotion, but effective nevertheless.

  When Christopher played the soundtrack and the video clip simultaneously he was surprised by the result. Even though he had felt uninspired, he had managed to create an accompaniment that was genuinely disturbing. He congratulated himself, decided that a reward was in order, and went downstairs to the kitchen where he took a beer from the fridge. He held the cold can against his forehead for a few moments before tugging the ring pull. The noise it made was like a human exhalation.

  Laura had left the radio on. For as long as Christopher could remember, the ten o’clock news had been heralded by the portentous chimes of Big Ben, but it was now introduced by the less dramatic expedient of the Greenwich Time Signal. This was because Big Ben, the clock that once regulated a prosperous global empire, had broken down. Christopher took a swig of beer and laughed; it was such an apposite symbol for the demise of Great Britain, almost too just, almost too contrived to be accepted as an example of mere happenstance. Its precise irony suggested divine intervention, the existence of a frivolous God prone to displays of sharp, merciless wit.

  The newsreader began his dismal litany. And how dismal! It was difficult to believe what was being said. The country was bankrupt and the government had had to go cap in hand to the IMF to beg for a £2.3 billion rescue package. A commentator pointed out that such a large sum of money would not be given unconditionally and that demands for drastic cuts in public expenditure were inevitable. ‘It will be the IMF, not the government, who will determine domestic policy from now on.’ And there was even more bad news to follow: a report on the British army’s attempt to regain control of no-go areas in Belfast, Derry and Newry. Christopher considered the term ‘no-go areas’. When the drastic financial cuts imposed by the IMF began to take effect, would there be ‘no-go areas’ in London too? He gulped the remainder of his beer and crushed the can in his hand. It was oddly satisfying, the illusion of superhuman strength. His mind wandered but he was still dimly aware of a continuous stream of grim announcements. A change in the newsreader’s tone signalled a final, lighter item, which concerned the imminent West End opening of the controversial musical Jesus Christ Superstar. Again, Christopher laughed. If ever the country needed a saviour it was now.