The Voices Page 4

  Laura discovered that she was capable of being quite ruthless and that disowning tokens of her former existence was curiously liberating. This sartorial exorcism, this casting out, made her feel less encumbered by the past. She was embarrassed by her old wardrobe: her buckskin jacket with tassels, her Mary Quant hot pants, her gold lame boob tube. It all seemed so tawdry.

  Up until that moment, she had been dimly aware of Faye making noises outside, a constant babble of laughter and baby talk. Now there was silence. Laura stopped what she was doing, listened, and waited for Faye to resume her play. The house was strangely becalmed.

  ‘Faye?’ Laura raised her head and looked through the architrave. ‘Faye? Where are you, darling?’ She could hear her own pulse, which began to quicken slightly. ‘Faye?’

  Laura tossed aside the hot pants she was holding and walked out onto the landing. It was empty. A mental picture sprung unbidden into her mind: her unconscious child, sprawled at the bottom of the stairs. The image possessed the startling clarity of a scene illuminated by a flashbulb. Laura ran to the stair gate and looked down to the next landing. After a moment’s reflection, she realized that her premonition could never have become a reality. Faye didn’t have the ability to release the bolt. Her fingers were too small and she didn’t have the strength.

  So where was she?

  The door of the studio was closed, as was the door to the box room where Christopher stored his records and tapes. Another door, which led to an as yet undecorated and empty bedroom, was also closed.

  ‘Faye?’

  Laura was sure that all of the doors had been closed when she and Faye had come up the stairs. Faye couldn’t have reached and turned the handles, so one of them must have been left slightly open. The toddler would have pushed the door open, stepped inside one of the rooms, and then shut the door behind her – which was odd, because Faye didn’t like to be on her own and Laura hadn’t heard a thing.

  She checked the studio first.

  ‘Faye? Where are you?’

  Laura walked past banks of tape recorders and speakers, around the central horseshoe of equipment and Christopher’s office chair, but Faye was nowhere to be seen. She then poked her head into the box room. The tiny floor space was littered with cassettes and tangled leads. But no Faye. Laura crossed the landing to the empty bedroom, grasped the door handle, turned it to the right and pushed. The door didn’t open. She then tried turning the handle to the left. Still the door didn’t open.

  ‘Faye? Are you in there?’

  Laura listened. She couldn’t hear anything apart from her own heavy breathing.

  ‘Faye? Faye!’

  She looked around the landing. Faye could only be in the empty bedroom. There was nowhere else she could have gone. In which case, why wasn’t she making any noise or crying? Laura rattled the handle and leaned against the door. It didn’t budge. Somehow, the door had become stuck. Laura clenched her fist and struck the paintwork several times. Some flakes fell to the floor and it seemed to Laura that their descent was unnaturally prolonged.

  ‘Faye? It’s all right – don’t be frightened. It’s only Mummy’

  Why wasn’t she making any noise? Why wasn’t she crying?

  Two more flashbulb images made Laura freeze: an open window, Faye standing on a chair and leaning out; Faye’s face, turning bright red, her windpipe blocked by some small and inconsequential object that she had just picked up and innocently pressed into her mouth. The terror that seized Laura was fierce and explosive. She mounted a ferocious attack on the obstinate door. Eventually, the futility of her violence made her stop and she paced backwards and forwards, running her hands through her hair.

  ‘God!’ Fear had made her throat dry. What do I do? What do I do? She turned to face the door again and gave it another kick. ‘Faye! Oh God, honey, please say something, please, please say something!’

  A few moments earlier, when Laura had been in the studio, she had registered a framed poster leaning against a wall. It was for a film called Night Carrier and showed a silhouetted figure standing in front of a taxi with blazing headlights. Why was she thinking of that poster? Christopher had been intending to hang it up after breakfast and Laura had offered to help, but for some reason he hadn’t got round to it. Then it came to her. She wasn’t really remembering the poster at all; she was remembering what she had noticed on the mat beside it. A hammer. Laura dashed to the studio, picked up the heavy tool and charged back to the empty bedroom. Raising her arm, she hit one of the door panels with the flat end. The blow created a dent. She raised her arm again and continued hitting until the wood began to crack and splinter. ‘Hold on, Faye,’ she cried. ‘Mummy’s coming.’ The head of the hammer smashed through the panel and Laura struggled to pull it out again. Another blow created a hole big enough to see through. Laura closed one eye and looked through the hole with the other. She couldn’t see her daughter. ‘Faye? Where are you?’ Laura stepped back and used the claw to tear away more loose wood. She thrust her arm through the opening and felt blindly for the latch. It was an old-fashioned mechanism and her fingers closed around a metal bar. She pulled it up and the door moved forward. Jagged points of wood tore her smock and pierced her skin but she was beyond feeling pain. Ahead of her, she could see the window that she had imagined Faye leaning out of. It was closed. An empty expanse of bare floorboards stretched between herself and the motionless net curtains. There were some rolls of wallpaper, a tin of paint and a wicker chair. She registered each of these and withdrew her arm from the ragged hole in the door. Where was Faye? Laura’s legs weakened and she thought they might give way. She reached for the door jamb. As she turned, an alcove came into view, and in that alcove she saw her daughter, standing still, swaying slightly, and totally oblivious to her mother’s violent entry. Laura couldn’t see Faye’s face, because Faye was standing with her back to her, transfixed by the wall.

  ‘Faye?’

  Laura’s instinct was to run forward and scoop Faye up, to cuddle her and smother her with kisses. But the peculiarity of the situation caused Laura to check her initial impulse and hold back. The atmosphere felt brittle, as though a wrong move might cause irreparable harm. She noted the normality of her daughter’s appearance – the large nappy, the white cotton vest, the sparse blonde curls – and felt less wary, less confused. Even so, the unusual stillness of the child prevented Laura from experiencing relief.

  ‘Faye?’ Laura whispered. ‘What are you doing, honey?’ Faye didn’t respond and Laura stepped closer. ‘Faye, darling. What’s the matter?’

  There was a metallic clap. It made Laura jump and she spun round in surprise. On the other side of the room was a clockwork monkey, an ugly thing that Christopher had found in the attic. The cymbals that the animal held in its paws had been brought together.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Laura. She turned her attention back to Faye. It was as though the child was sleepwalking or in a trance. Laura tiptoed into the alcove and knelt down in front of her daughter. ‘Faye, darling, what’s the matter?’ The child’s eyes were open but glassy. ‘What are you looking at?’ She stroked her daughter’s forehead, laid a hand on her shoulder, and gave her a little shake. Faye’s gaze became more focused and her expression showed surprise. She blinked a few times and then started to cry. Laura wrapped her arms around Faye and drew her close. ‘There, there. Don’t cry, honey. Everything’s fine.’ It was only then that Laura noticed the blood seeping through her smock and felt the pain in her arm.

  Henry Baylis was a stout man with a jowly face and undisciplined, fly-away hair. The temperature had climbed into the mid-seventies but he had chosen to wear a three-piece pinstriped suit. Prior to setting up his agency, he had worked in orchestral management, and before that as a barrister. Although his legal career had been short-lived, he hadn’t forsaken the habit of formal dress.

  The two men were sitting at their preferred table in Le Cellier du Midi, a dark, subterranean restaurant in Hampstead village favoured particularly by loc
al residents connected with the arts and television. Christopher and Baylis had finished their filets de boeuf dijonnaise and were now waiting, respectively, for a crème brûlée and a mousse au chocolat. A bottle, their second, contained only an inch of burgundy. Baylis had been gossiping throughout the meal and they had only just started to discuss prospective commissions.

  ‘If they can get Cushing,’ said Baylis, ‘then they’ll go ahead. Almost certainly. But he’s a bit tied up at the moment.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘Oh, a rather silly American film. Well, I say American, but they’re making it over here to save money’

  ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘Star Wars. Dreadful nonsense, apparently. Cushing thinks it’s utter twaddle.’

  ‘Star Wars? That sounds . . .’ Christopher cleared his throat. ‘That sounds like something I might have been interested in.’

  ‘Oh, no, Christopher, really.’ Baylis produced a handkerchief and mopped his glistening brow. ‘You wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with this one. I’m hearing very bad things. The director’s young and doesn’t see eye to eye with his cinematographer. The actors think it’s rubbish . . .’ Baylis indicated that he could go on.

  ‘So, Henry, what do you think? Is it going to happen?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Baylis poured the last dregs of their burgundy.

  ‘The Warlock.’

  ‘Well, if Marcus and Diane can get Cushing on side, I’m sure they’ll be able to raise the capital. And the script is very good. A nice meaty part for Peter to get his teeth into. He’ll want to do it, I’m sure. Especially after this Star Wars fiasco.’

  Christopher folded and unfolded his napkin. ‘It’s just . . .’He paused before adding, ‘I’ve had a lot of outgoings lately. You know, what with the house and the baby.’

  Baylis offered him a sympathetic and slightly pained expression. ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’

  ‘And . . .’

  The agent nodded. ‘Things could be better, certainly. But I have every confidence in Marcus and Diane. They make a great team and they absolutely love your work. Ah, here comes pudding!’

  Thirty minutes later, they climbed the stairs and emerged into brilliant sunlight. They shook hands and went their different ways. Christopher walked up to the tube station and turned right onto the High Street. As he approached Flask Walk, he couldn’t stifle his disappointment. He had been expecting more from Baylis. Much more.

  Christopher closed the front door and put the keys in his pocket.

  ‘Laura?’ He looked in the kitchen first and then the drawing room, but his wife and daughter were absent. He knew that they must be somewhere in the house, because he had noticed the pushchair and Faye’s shoes beneath the stairs. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Laura? I’m home.’

  His call disturbed the stillness and he observed a flurry of motes in the air. He was about to call again when Laura’s voice filtered down from above.

  ‘I’m up here.’ There was no gladness in her voice, no warmth, merely a flat statement of fact concerning her location.

  Christopher found the stairs surprisingly difficult to negotiate. His legs felt heavy and the large amount of burgundy he’d drunk was starting to make his head ache. He had expected to find Laura in the bedroom, but when he craned his neck around the door jamb he discovered that she wasn’t there. He saw her on the upper landing leaning over the banisters.

  ‘Where’s Faye?’ he called up.

  ‘In the nursery.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He tilted his arm and looked at his wristwatch again. ‘At this time?’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure but I think she might be unwell.’

  Christopher continued his ascent.

  ‘What are you doing up there?’

  ‘I . . .’ She seemed confused. ‘Something happened. I damaged one of the doors.’ He detected a certain strained quality in her voice and made an effort to climb faster. On arriving on the landing he paused to take in the scene: Laura, the right sleeve of her smock stained with blood; the door of the empty bedroom, smashed; wood splinters on the carpet.

  ‘Jesus. What happened?’

  ‘The door got stuck. Faye was on the other side.’

  He noticed the hammer. ‘So you took a hammer to it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Laura,’ he said in disbelief. ‘We were going to have it stripped and revarnished.’

  ‘I was sorting out my old clothes and she was playing out here. The latch got stuck. What was I supposed to do?’

  ‘You didn’t have to do this,’ he said, pointing at the damaged panel, ‘surely.’

  ‘What if the window had been open? Faye could have fallen out.’

  ‘We don’t use this room. Why would the window have been open?’

  ‘Chris, I wasn’t prepared to take the risk, OK?’

  Christopher crossed the landing and examined the door. He ran his finger around the jagged hole. ‘We won’t be able to get this repaired.’ He took a step back. ‘And look, there’s a crack that runs right down to the lower panel. We’ll have to get a new one.’ More expense. Christopher supposed that a Victorian door wouldn’t cost very much, but it would have to be restored and fitted. ‘What happened to your arm? Is that blood?’

  ‘I cut myself trying to get the door open.’

  Christopher scratched his head. ‘I don’t understand. It’s never got stuck before.’ He opened the door, pushed it shut, and repeated the action several times.

  ‘It was stuck.’ Laura’s tone was tetchy. ‘The metal bar thing on the back got jammed.’ Christopher continued to demonstrate the ease with which the door could be opened and closed. ‘Chris, stop doing that. What are you trying to prove? It doesn’t change anything. I’m telling you, the door was stuck.’

  Christopher let the door close one last time and they stood, very still, staring at each other. Eventually, Christopher asked: ‘What’s wrong with Faye?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Laura replied.

  ‘You said she was unwell.’

  ‘When I got the door open I found her gazing at the wall.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound so bad.’

  ‘It was like she was in a trance or something – a world of her own. You’d have thought the noise I was making would have frightened her. She should have been upset, crying.’ Laura’s hair had fallen in front of her face and she pushed it aside. ‘She was all right for a bit but then she got really tired and fractious so I put her to bed.’

  Christopher sighed. ‘She’s probably coming down with something.’

  ‘She hasn’t got a temperature. Maybe I should take her to the doctor’s.’

  ‘If you want.’ Christopher shrugged. ‘No harm.’

  The atmosphere was suddenly less tense. Christopher took off his jacket. ‘It’s hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura. ‘How was Henry?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘Nothing concrete. There’s a film called The Warlock that might be coming my way.’

  ‘When will you know?’

  ‘Henry didn’t say.’

  Laura nodded and indicated the splinters on the carpet. ‘I’ll clean this up.’

  The doctor completed his examination of Faye and smiled. ‘She’s fine.’

  Laura picked up her daughter and gave her a plastic hoop to play with. ‘Then what happened?’

  ‘Nothing that you need to be worried about,’ said the doctor, permitting himself a reassuring chuckle. ‘Look at her! I’ve never seen a healthier child.’

  ‘I thought she was having a fit or something.’

  The doctor drew his head back sharply and adopted an expression that declared his amusement and incredulity. ‘No. I think not.’

  ‘Then what was it? What happened?’

  ‘A little absence, that’s all.’

  ‘An absence?’

  The doctor’s eyebrows drew closer together.
‘Mrs Norton,’ he continued with weary forbearance, ‘I could refer your daughter to a specialist, but it would serve no purpose, save, perhaps, that of easing your anxiety.’ Laura felt a creeping sense of shame. Yet again she had wasted his time. The hiatus that followed made her feel uncomfortably exposed. She was desperate for the doctor to say something else, to end the silence and, with it, her humiliation; however, he remained impassive and she was forced to mutter, ‘Yes, yes. I’m sorry.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘Oh, good heavens, Mrs Norton, please. You’ve no need to apologize. Motherhood is a demanding occupation.’ He stood up and extended his hand. ‘Your daughter’s fine.’

  Mid-May

  Christopher was so engrossed in his work that he’d lost track of time. It was probably two o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts. He could only estimate the hour because he’d left his wristwatch on the kitchen table. Christopher liked working late – the absence of distraction. It reminded him of his years spent at the BBC when he would stay behind to use the equipment for his own compositions and musical experiments. He felt a twinge of sadness, a nostalgic yearning for his younger days – the solitude and cigarettes, the sleepless nights and grey, autumn mornings. Just before sunrise, he would leave the BBC studios in Maida Vale and walk up and down Elgin Avenue. There was usually no one about, apart from the occasional prostitute dressed in a raincoat and high heels. Of course, there was something contrived about his behaviour. Even then he knew that he was adopting an attitude, a posture, but the romance of it all was so very seductive, and the excitement of being part of something entirely new was a powerful drug. The fact that he was able to create music from sounds that had never before been heard by the human ear was, as far as he was concerned, utterly miraculous.