The Voices Read online

  The young man exhaled a cloud of smoke. ‘Could be radio interference – something here acting as an aerial.’

  ‘Why now?’

  ‘Change of weather conditions. A new transmitter, maybe. My old guitar amp picks up radio signals.’

  ‘But there’s nothing here that would do that.’

  ‘I don’t know. A mate of mine swears that his dental fillings pick up radio programmes. When he clenches his teeth together, he can hear voices, like vibrations in his skull.’

  ‘Then we must suppose that this friend of yours has smoked one joint too many.’

  Kaminsky drew on his cigarette. ‘I’ll take another look at your set-up, but I was pretty thorough last time and—’

  ‘You might have missed something,’ Christopher cut in.

  ‘We’ll see. Give me a couple of hours.’

  Christopher went downstairs and began reading a book in the drawing room. Laura had gone out with Faye, so there was little to distract him. He became absorbed by the narrative and when two hours had elapsed he returned to the studio. Kaminsky was sitting next to the mixing desk, deep in thought and massaging his chin.

  ‘Roger?’

  Kaminsky stirred from his reverie. ‘Chris.’

  ‘Well?’

  The engineer shook his head. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean, nothing?’

  ‘I couldn’t find anything wrong.’

  ‘But the voices . . .’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kaminsky. ‘The voices.’ He lit a cigarette and nodded silently to himself. ‘I’ve been listening to them, and if you think about it . . .’ He hesitated and seemed uncertain as to whether to proceed or not.

  ‘Yes?’

  Kaminsky continued. ‘They don’t sound anything like radio broadcasts, do they? She died last night; I’m a stranger here; Come, Tommy. Fate. In French, German, English. I mean, what sort of stations are we picking up here?’ It was true. The voices didn’t appear in an ongoing stream of interference, and it was difficult to imagine them in the context of an ordinary radio programme. ‘And why no music?’ Kaminsky added, foreshadowing Christopher’s own thoughts. ‘No records, no jingles, nothing.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’ Christopher asked.

  The engineer studied the smoke rising from his cigarette. ‘I don’t think these voices are radio transmissions.’

  ‘Then what are they?’

  ‘I don’t know, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘You’ll just say I smoke too much Mary Jane.’

  ‘If you think you know what’s going on, say’

  T don’t know what’s going on. Not really. It’s just a thought.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re transmissions. I think they’re communications.’

  The two men looked at each other and the quiet seemed to congeal around them. Christopher was surprised to discover that he felt uneasy. With cautious deliberation, he said, ‘You think these voices are ghosts?’

  ‘Well, they aren’t radio interference, that’s for sure.’

  ‘When you say communications, what do you mean precisely?’

  ‘Look, Chris, I don’t want to get into some big, heavy scene here. I was just saying, that’s all. My wife’s into all sorts of stuff. You know, spiritualism, auras, meditation . . .’ The engineer’s sentence trailed off.

  ‘And . . .’ Christopher rotated his hand in the air.

  ‘There’s a professor,’ Kaminsky began again, haltingly, ‘who’s written a book about voices that appear on tape. You know, a serious book. Scientific’

  ‘And he thinks they’re the dead trying to communicate with us?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I’ve worked with tape all my life and the dead have never shown any interest in me or my compositions before.’

  ‘Could be the house.’

  Christopher scowled. ‘So what am I supposed to do now?’

  ‘I don’t know, Chris,’ said Kaminsky. ‘But I promise you, there’s nothing wrong with your gear.’

  That night, Christopher found it difficult to concentrate on his work. He kept on thinking about Kaminsky. It seemed a ludicrous idea, the dead communicating with the living through the medium of magnetic tape, but at the same time Christopher’s mind was not entirely closed to extraordinary possibilities. During the late sixties, under the influence of a lover who had travelled around India, he had developed a voguish interest in eastern mysticism, and he was not opposed, as a matter of principle, to belief in the supernatural. The voices were very strange. Their presence on the tape was inexplicable. Furthermore, Christopher was now obliged to reconsider the very first instance of the phenomenon, which had been a German speaker intoning the words How sacred for us dead. This otherwise obscure phrase was now loaded with new significance.

  There was a knock on the door.

  He called out, ‘Come in,’ and Laura entered carrying a mug of tea.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

  ‘OK.’

  Laura placed the mug on the splicing table. ‘I made you some tea.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Will you be working late?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  She turned to leave, but Christopher called out: ‘Wait a minute. I want to play you something.’ Laura looked at him quizzically. He had stopped playing her his compositions a long time ago. Christopher read her expression and said, ‘No, it’s not a piece of music. Take a seat.’ He offered her his chair and found the spool labelled ‘voices’. As he threaded the tape around the tension pulleys, he said, ‘You’ll hear people speaking – a French woman, a German man—’

  ‘Who are they?’ Laura interrupted.

  ‘I don’t know. They just appeared. I’ve manipulated the recordings a little to improve the sound quality, but it’s still quite difficult to make out what they’re saying.’

  ‘What do you mean, they just appeared?’

  ‘Exactly that. One minute the tape was blank, then a few minutes later it had voices on it.’

  ‘How could that happen?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nor does Roger. There’s nothing wrong with the equipment, no faults. Just listen. The first voice says I’m sorry, she died last night in French. The second says I’m a stranger here and Where shall we meet? in German. Then there are some east European speakers before someone says Come, Tommy. Fate!’

  ‘It’s gibberish.’

  ‘Just listen, OK?’

  Christopher pressed ‘play’. The spools revolved, the slack tape became taut and the voices began their odd recitation. Christopher couldn’t see his wife’s face, because her head was bowed. When the Englishman’s inebriate drawl filled the room, Christopher noticed her shoulders tensing. She leaned forward in her chair. It was as though she had recognized the speaker.

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Play that last one again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just play it again, will you.’ An increase in volume betrayed her impatience.

  Observing the counter, Christopher rewound the tape. The wheels ran backwards and the number in the perspex window got smaller. After a beat of silence, the English voice repeated its demand, ‘Come, Tommy. Fate! Come, Tommy. Fate!’

  ‘Jesus,’ Laura hissed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Can’t you . . .’ She looked up and raked her hair back. Her eyes narrowed.

  ‘What?’ Christopher asked again.

  ‘Who are these people?’

  ‘I don’t understand. Why are you getting so agitated?’

  ‘What did you say you thought he said? Tommy . . . what?’

  ‘Come, Tommy. Fate!’

  ‘Well, he isn’t saying that, is he?’

  ‘Yes, he is.’

  ‘No, he’s not. He’s saying . . .’ Laura paused for a moment before continuing: ‘Come to me, Faye.’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’

  ‘Come to me, Fay
e. That’s what he’s saying. Who is he?’

  ‘Just a second.’ Christopher rewound the tape and put the headphones on. ‘Let me hear it again through these.’ He was sure that his wife was mistaken. Even so, he decided that he should at least appear to be taking her assertion seriously. The voice started and Christopher listened. He closed his eyes and was surprised to discover that he was now less sure about what he was hearing. Simply knowing that the speech could be interpreted differently seemed to introduce a subtle shift of emphasis. The consonants softened as he strained to clarify the words. Another replay failed to resolve ambiguities. Christopher realized that he hadn’t cleaned the tape up quite as much as he’d thought. There was still a lot of hiss and rumble to confuse matters. He opened his eyes. ‘Yes, I see what you mean.’

  Laura’s stare was accusatory. ‘What’s going on, Chris?’

  He slipped off the headphones and gestured at the tape machine. ‘Roger thinks that these people are dead.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither do I. Not yet.’

  Christopher parked his car on the Archway Road and walked a short distance, over cracked paving slabs, to The Earth Exchange. Massive lorries and double-decker buses laboured their way towards Finchley, belching black smoke from shaking exhaust pipes. He turned into an open yard and approached an imposing brown-brick house ahead. Some of the windows were decorated with colourful transfers and the front door had been left half open. Christopher ascended the stairs and stepped inside. Immediately, the smell of diesel was replaced by whole-some fragrances wafting up from the vegetarian cafe below. He advanced down the shabby hallway, his heels banging loudly on the exposed floorboards, and turned into a large, brightly lit room. He saw baskets full of pulses and grains, fruit and vegetables, and shelves stacked with cartons of tofu, soya chunks and bottles of sarsaparilla. Sitting by the till was a young woman with straggly black hair. She was wearing a skimpy white vest through which Christopher could see the shape of her small breasts and the raised dark outlines of her nipples.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling. There wasn’t a trace of make-up on her face.

  ‘Hello,’ Christopher replied.

  ‘Nice day.’

  ‘Yes. It is very nice.’

  He went over to a tall bookcase and glanced through the titles. They were just as he had remembered: books on Buddhism, hypnosis, tarot cards, telepathy, stone circles, astrology and ghosts. He picked up a volume by two authors who were identified on the cover as ‘professional ghost hunters’, and then consulted the index for any mention of tape machines or tape recordings, but he couldn’t find anything relevant. He continued his search, inspecting the contents pages of other books without success.

  ‘Can I help you?’ The young woman had emerged from behind the till. He could now see that she was wearing a long, rustic skirt, the embroidered hem of which stopped short of her bare feet.

  ‘I’m looking for a book,’ Christopher replied, by a professor who claims to have made tape recordings of spirits.’ He felt slightly embarrassed by this admission and gave a nervous laugh.

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ said the young woman, ‘I know the one.’ When she moved, tiny bells attached to an ankle bracelet jingled. She stopped next to a carousel of books and spun it around. Standing at her side, Christopher could smell patchouli and a slight undertow of musky perspiration. ‘You must mean this.’ She handed Christopher a thick hardback.

  He took it from her and momentarily their hands touched. ‘Thank you.’

  She turned and sashayed back towards the till. Christopher found that her slender figure held his attention and he had to force himself to avert his gaze. He bowed his head and studied the book. The author’s name was Konstantin Raudive. There was no professorial prefix. Beneath the title, Breakthrough, Christopher read: ‘An Amazing Experiment in Electronic Communication with the Dead’. Inside, he discovered some drawings of tape recorders and circuit diagrams. This was surely the book that Kaminsky had referred to.

  Christopher took the book to the till. ‘Looks interesting.’

  The young woman nodded. He gave her a ten-pound note and asked her if she’d read it.

  ‘No,’ she replied, ‘but it’s supposed to be really good. I’m more into past lives. You know, hypnosis, regression . . .’

  She was obviously bored and wanted to talk, but Christopher recognized that if he delayed his departure, he would be committing himself to an entirely fraudulent conversation. His inclination to tarry had much more to do with the transparency of the young woman’s clothing than any interest he might have in her views on reincarnation. He felt annoyed with himself, guilty, but within seconds something like an alchemical process had transmuted all of his guilt into blame. If Laura had been more sexually responsive of late, then the shaded circles that showed through the young woman’s thin cotton vest wouldn’t have been nearly so distracting.

  Christopher took his change and said, ‘Thanks for your help.’

  ‘See you around,’ the young woman replied.

  He flattered himself that a fleeting shadow of disappointment had passed across her face. With his book tucked under his arm, Christopher made his way down to the vegetarian cafe in the basement. It was entirely empty but for a hairy individual, probably no more than nineteen years of age, standing behind a serving bay of heated metal trays. Christopher bought himself a flapjack and a cup of tea, pulled a chair from beneath one of the old wooden tables and sat down to examine his purchase.

  The bulk of the book consisted of transcripts. Obscure, telegraphic communications that didn’t make much sense without the explanatory notes that the author had provided. They were presented in a variety of languages with English translations. An introductory chapter detailed a range of recording techniques involving microphones, radios and diodes. Christopher read these sections with considerable interest. They were quite technical but not beyond his understanding. He then looked at the photographic plates. Dr Raudive, a balding gentleman with glasses, was shown operating tape machines, conversing with engineers or posing with his scientific collaborators. One of these was described as ‘Germany’s leading parapsychologist’. Another was a Swiss physicist. Christopher had half expected Breakthrough to be a sensational polemic, full of outrageous claims, but it was nothing of the sort. It was more like a treatise, restrained, meticulous and endorsed by respected members of the international academic community. Clearly, in certain circles, the appearance of spirit voices on tape was an accepted phenomenon.

  Christopher closed the book and tasted his flapjack. It was extremely good, a weighty agglomeration of oats and raisins, bound together with honey. As he chewed, his mouth filled with sweetness. He thought about the voices that he had recorded. If it were true that the speakers were spirits trying to communicate with the living, then how utterly extraordinary it was that they should have chosen to make their existence known by interfering with his tape machines. An alternative possibility was that the recordings were simply opportunistic: that the conditions in his studio were, for whatever reason, favourable and that the spirits had no special interest in him or his family. Or perhaps choice and intention were entirely irrelevant in this context? Perhaps the tape machine had simply captured random phrases floating in the ether?

  Just thinking about these questions made him feel light-headed.

  Yet, he had to concede, there was nothing random about the phrase ‘Come to me, Faye’. If, as Christopher was slowly coming to accept, this was what the English voice had actually said, then quite clearly he, the spirit, had demonstrated knowledge of at least one of the house’s occupants.

  Christopher thought about Laura. She had perceived the communication as sinister. Indeed, she had become quite upset. When he had challenged her, she hadn’t been very forthcoming. ‘I don’t like it,’ was all that she had had to say. Later, that night, she had been distinctly moody, and when they were in bed together, and Christopher had tried to reach out to her, she had turned her back
on him.

  The basement door opened and two people entered – a couple, dressed identically in flared maroon trousers and yellow T-shirts. They were evidently regulars and engaged the youth in a conversation about the food in the heated trays. It was a curiously solemn exchange.

  Christopher noticed a discarded newspaper on an adjacent table. A partially exposed headline piqued his curiosity, but when he investigated further he found that the story was, in fact, quite dull, so he turned to the arts pages. The name Simon Ogilvy seemed to leap out at him. His friend was mentioned, along with Oliver Knussen and Peter Maxwell Davies, in an article on ‘highlights to look out for’ in the coming prom season.

  A distinctive voice . . . innovative harmonies . . . exceptional command of orchestral resources.

  Every compliment Simon collected seemed to bespatter Christopher’s own achievements with ordure. Christopher yearned for such praise, intelligent audiences and meaningful plaudits. But it would never happen. Not now. Christopher cast the newspaper aside and picked up Breakthrough. The dust jacket was silver and decorated with a stylized wave pattern. He stared at the pattern for so long he experienced the illusion of movement. An idea had been taking shape in his mind, its constituent elements emerging from an inner vacancy and gradually coalescing into something concrete and intelligible. The voices of the dead could be incorporated into a piece of electronic music. Instantly, the scope and structure of the work were revealed to him: a major undertaking, with extended movements, a kind of anti-requiem, in which instead of the living addressing the dead, their roles would be reversed and the dead would address the living. The boldness of the concept made his heart quicken. He hadn’t felt so inspired in years and he imagined his composition provoking controversy, heated debate. He would be invited to speak on radio programmes, just as he had in the past, and the music critics would refer to him once more as the ‘English Stockhausen’. It was such a good idea, and bound to attract interest from all quarters. He could barely contain his excitement.

  On returning home, Christopher marched down the hall-way and into the kitchen. Faye was in her highchair, foraging through raisins piled on a saucer. When she saw her father enter, she rocked backwards and forwards, pointed and said, ‘Da-da.’ Christopher turned to share the child’s reaction with his wife and froze. Laura was perched on a stool, reading a magazine and about to bite into a chocolate biscuit. What had she done to herself? Their eyes met and her expression darkened. ‘You don’t like it,’ she said tersely.