The Voices Page 8

  ‘Paris . . .’

  ‘Yes. He’s getting ready to shoot a psychological thriller called Le Jardin des Reflets. Sounds very interesting. What do you think? I know it’s short notice but I don’t think we should dither.’

  ‘Did Marcus and Diane get back to you?’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘The Warlock.’

  ‘Oh yes, that. Cushing said no, I’m afraid, which means that it probably won’t happen. So, as things stand, Ancel’s approach is very timely’ Baylis paused for a few seconds, and when he spoke again his voice was less robust. ‘There’s just one thing . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t think there’s going to be a great deal of money in this. One of the backers dropped out a few weeks ago.’

  ‘Oh? Why was that?’

  ‘God knows. Anyway, Ancel’s decided to push on regardless – still thinks he can get the film made with a few cuts and a bit of recasting. Look, Chris, I know all this doesn’t sound very promising, but I’ve been hearing good things about Fabrice Ancel. He’s a young man who’s going places. Katie and Brad think it’s only a matter of time before he wins the Palme d’Or. If Le Jardin des Reflets turns out to be the one, and you’ve written the score, well, imagine what a big difference that’ll make.’

  ‘When you say that you don’t think there’s going to be a great deal of money . . .’

  ‘It was only a preliminary conversation and the production team are an extremely pretentious lot – art for art’s sake and all that. They would have considered any horse-trading at this stage very bad form. You know what the French are like. Well, what do you say?’

  Their conversation lasted for another ten minutes, and at its conclusion Christopher found that (perhaps against his better judgement) he had agreed to fly to Paris at the end of the week. Somehow, in spite of being disconcertingly vague, Baylis had managed to persuade Christopher that Le Jardin des Reflets was a prestigious undertaking and that his involvement would lead to many more commissions in the future.

  Christopher sauntered into the kitchen. Faye was running around the table, her curious elastic step producing an exceptional degree of buoyancy. Laura was watching her with detached interest. Christopher caught his daughter, tickled her and said, ‘Slow down, honey, or you’ll fall over.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ said Laura.

  ‘She might.’

  ‘She does this every day. She’s fine.’

  ‘I wasn’t being critical.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Christopher dismissed Laura’s question with a frown. He released Faye and the child continued circling the table.

  ‘I’ve got to fly to Paris on Friday.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Henry wants me to meet a director.’ The muscles around Laura’s mouth tightened. She raised her hand and touched a finger to her lips. Suddenly she looked confused, vulnerable. ‘What is it?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ she replied.

  ‘It’s all right, isn’t it? There’s no reason why I shouldn’t go this Friday, is there?’ She shook her head. ‘Well then . . .’

  Christopher and Simon Ogilvy had arranged to meet at Jack Straw’s Castle – a large pub with a slatted, timber exterior that overlooked the western extremity of the heath. They conversed as equals on most subjects, but when it came to music and especially their own compositions, a precedent favouring Simon’s eminence had been firmly established. This inequality was, so Christopher thought, acceptable under the circumstances as his friend’s music was serious and merited extended discussion, and although Simon might not have starved for his art, he had certainly struggled and made significant personal sacrifices. Simon had earned the right to talk at length about his musical development, his clever conceits and artistic goals, even if his rhetoric often became immoderate and close to self-indulgence. That evening, however, Christopher was less content in his listening role. He found it difficult to permit his friend the customary laxities; he was impatient and fidgety, eager to tell Simon about his own extraordinary undertaking.

  Simon was in full spate. ‘It’s a rather interesting harmonic device. The listener experiences the illusion of movement – a musical paradox, where journey and stasis coexist without contradiction.’

  ‘I’m working on something too,’ said Christopher, clumsily interrupting Simon’s train of thought. He couldn’t contain himself a moment longer. ‘Something I’m really excited about.’

  Simon made an inadequate attempt to conceal his irritation and, feigning curiosity, asked, ‘What’s the film called?’

  ‘No,’ Christopher responded. ‘No, it’s not a film score.’

  ‘What then? A new . . .’ Simon hesitated.

  ‘Piece,’ Christopher said. ‘Yes, a new piece.’

  One of Simon’s eyebrows ascended a fraction. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, an electronic work. Like I used to write, you know, back in Cologne, and when I was at the BBC. Let me tell you about it.’

  Simon raised his hand. ‘Can I get you a drink first?’ He indicated Christopher’s empty glass. ‘Same again?’

  ‘All right. Thanks.’

  Christopher watched Simon cross the patterned carpet and lean against the bar. The atmosphere was smoky and created a glowing halo around every light. A strikingly handsome young man, perhaps in his early twenties, came and stood next to Simon. He was wearing a short black leather jacket and jeans. They started talking and Christopher noticed that Simon was shaking his head. The drinks arrived, Simon paid for them, and he was about to leave the bar when the young man said something else and tapped his wristwatch. Once again, Simon shook his head. Although Simon appeared to be refusing a request, he was smiling, and the exchange seemed to be good-humoured. The young man nodded, walked off, and vanished into a crowd at the back of the pub.

  Simon placed the drinks on the table.

  ‘What did that boy want?’ Christopher asked.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ Simon shrugged, seeming a little flustered. ‘He asked me for some money, actually.’

  ‘Why? What did he want it for?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He didn’t say. He was here a couple of weeks ago and he did exactly the same thing.’

  ‘I wonder why he chooses to bother you.’

  ‘Perhaps I look gullible.’ Simon pushed a pint glass in Christopher’s direction. ‘So, this new piece of yours. I’m intrigued.’

  Christopher took a deep breath. ‘You’re going to have to keep an open mind, OK? Because what I’m about to tell you will sound, at least initially, very peculiar indeed; however, I’m convinced there’s something in it – well, more than that really.’ Simon’s brow furrowed as Christopher continued. ‘Have you ever heard of electronic voices before? Or voice phenomena?’

  ‘Electronic voices? No, I haven’t.’

  ‘The name Konstantin Raudive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Right.’ Christopher proceeded to give an account of how voices had, quite inexplicably, begun to appear on his recordings, and how he had subsequently learned that the phenomenon was recognized by scientists. He braced himself before saying, ‘It’s controversial, of course. But there seems to be an emerging consensus that these voices are spirit communications.’ He was conscious throughout that he was in danger of sounding a little unhinged, and made every effort to maintain a level delivery in spite of his excitement. He told his friend about the drawling, aristocratic voice that had called his daughter’s name, and then explained how he intended to incorporate these ‘communications’ into an original work. As he spoke, he was encouraged by Simon’s expression, which gradually changed from sceptical dismissal to rapt interest. When Christopher had finished, Simon leaned forward and said, ‘That is . . . fascinating. But how can you be sure that these voices don’t have a terrestrial origin?’

  ‘They don’t sound like any broadcast you’ve ever heard. They speak in many different languages. And the voice that called out to Fay
e is surely pretty convincing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes. That is very odd.’ Simon drained his glass and looked across the pub. He seemed distracted for a moment but when he fixed his eyes on Christopher again, he repeated the word ‘Fascinating.’

  ‘Look,’ said Christopher. ‘Why don’t you come and hear what I’ve done.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve only got a few minutes of material. It won’t take long.’

  Simon shrugged. ‘All right. Why not?’

  They went to the car park, got into Simon’s Austin 1800 and drove the very short distance along East Heath Road and down into the Vale of Health.

  Christopher unlocked the front door of the house and ushered Simon into the hallway.

  ‘I’m home,’ Christopher called.

  Laura stepped out of the drawing room. She was wearing a baggy green T-shirt and a pair of flared slacks. Under her arm was a paperback book with a creased spine.

  ‘Simon,’ she said, surprised.

  He advanced and gave her a peck on both cheeks. ‘You’ve had your hair cut.’

  ‘Yes,’ Laura replied. ‘Chris doesn’t like it.’

  ‘I didn’t say that,’ Christopher protested. ‘I’ve never said that.’

  ‘But you don’t,’ Laura said. ‘Not really.’

  Christopher looked at Simon and sighed. ‘I can’t win.’

  ‘It looks rather good,’ said Simon. He glanced at Christopher. ‘No? I like it. Honestly, I do.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Laura, inclining her head.

  ‘We’re going upstairs,’ said Christopher.

  ‘OK,’ said Laura. ‘Do you want some tea, coffee?’

  ‘Not for me,’ Christopher replied.

  ‘Nor me,’ said Simon. ‘But thanks for offering.’

  The two men ascended the stairs and entered the studio. Christopher switched on a lamp and offered his friend a seat. Around the horseshoe arrangement of electrical equipment an array of dials emitted a soft yellow glow. Christopher approached a large, centrally positioned tape recorder and pressed the ‘play’ button. ‘Listen to this.’ The sound of two oscillators floated out of the silence. They were so widely separated that the listener could not escape an impression of a void or chasm opening up between them. A whispering began to infiltrate the emptiness, first one voice, then another, until the cumulative chatter produced a sustained chaos. The overall effect was vaguely avian and evoked images of mobbing birds and beating wings, or something more elevated, a host of angels, perhaps, cherubim and seraphim. The texture was enriched by an exquisite rippling, like a thousand harpists producing circular glissandi. Brassy Doppler effects receded into an imaginary distance, suggesting boundless space. Occasionally, a word or phrase seemed to escape from the polyglot maelstrom. Quite suddenly, the music came to an end and all that remained was the hiss of blank tape. Christopher pressed a button and the reels stopped revolving.

  He looked at his friend. ‘Well?’

  ‘Those voices . . .

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re dead people?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s what the dead sound like?’

  ‘Not exactly. I use filters to clean the sound up. They don’t always come through clearly.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Well, what do you think?’

  Simon inflated his cheeks and let the air out slowly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  That night, lying in bed, Christopher couldn’t stop thinking. Simon’s reaction had been at best lukewarm, and at worst perfunctory. He had made some comments concerning the ‘ingenuity’ of ‘the concept’, but at the same time, Christopher had detected an underlying reticence, an unwillingness to commit himself to a straightforward compliment. After a very brief technical discussion, Simon had wanted to hear the original unadulterated recordings of the voices, and he had sat very still, his elbow on the chair arm, the weight of his head supported on the heel of his palm, listening intently, his expression slightly troubled. Christopher had asked his friend if he knew any producers at the BBC who would be willing to programme the work when it was completed. ‘Perhaps you could put in a good word?’ But Simon had only responded with vague, empty remarks, and when pressed, he became downright evasive. By the time Simon left, Christopher was simmering with resentment – a resentment that had failed to dissipate and was now keeping him awake.

  The bed felt uncomfortable, the sheets clammy. Laura’s body seemed to be generating an intolerable amount of heat and he could hear Faye’s distracting snore over the baby monitor. It was pointless trying to sleep, so he got out of bed, put on a dressing gown and crept up the stairs to his studio. Christopher plugged in a pair of headphones and prepared to listen again to the music that had so obviously failed to impress his friend. Simon’s cool reception had planted niggling doubts in Christopher’s mind (perhaps it wasn’t as good as he had thought?) and he was a little apprehensive as he waited for the piece to begin. But as the vast emptiness – defined by the oscillators – began to fill with voices, Christopher felt calmer, more confident that his prior estimation of the work’s value was accurate. This was fine music, possibly great music. He even allowed himself to think that Simon might have been threatened by what he had heard.

  Christopher didn’t want to go back to bed. Nor did he feel like composing, so he decided that he would attempt to record more voices.

  ‘One twenty a.m., Wednesday the second of June, 1976. This is Christopher Norton calling any unseen friends – is anybody there?’ He paused. ‘Would you care to introduce yourself?’ Again he paused. ‘It would be helpful if you spoke loudly and clearly. Could you do that?’ His mind emptied and a few seconds passed before he added, ‘Any special messages?’ And so he continued improvising questions in this manner until the background monotony of the static made him feel sleepy. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. When he looked at the tape machine again, the spool that had previously been full was now almost empty. He had obviously been dozing. Christopher switched off the radio, stopped the tape, then pressed ‘rewind’ and ‘play’. He listened to his introductory remarks and his first question, ‘Anybody there?’ Almost immediately a familiar drawling voice responded, ‘I am here.’ Christopher leaned forward. ‘Would you care to introduce yourself?’ The static continued for a few moments before the same voice, with slow, effortful deliberation, replied, ‘Edward Stokes Maybury.’ Christopher pressed the ‘stop’ button, rewound the tape and played the recording again. ‘Edward Stokes Maybury.’

  Where had he heard that name before?

  Christopher strained to remember. Suddenly, his hitherto opaque memory became perfectly clear.

  Mr Edward Maybury . . . secrets of the ancient world . . .

  The name had appeared on the framed theatre bill that he had discovered in the attic. Carriages had been mentioned and seats priced at only one shilling.

  Automatons . . . manifestations and vanishings.

  Maybury must have been an Edwardian or Victorian stage magician. Christopher remembered the broken Chinese screen, the large mirrors and the traveller’s trunk engraved with the initials ‘E.S.M.’ Had Maybury been a former occupant of the house? Christopher remembered seeing other discarded items in the attic: a camera, some broken records, a reel of thin wire, toys. Everything – apart from the clockwork monkey that he had rescued for Faye – had been thrown away. Christopher now wished that he had kept more of it, especially the theatre bill. He pressed ‘play’ again and listened to the rest of the tape. There were no further communications, although somewhere in the middle of the static that had been recorded while he had been dozing there were a few Russian phrases. They were very faint and not worth cleaning up. Christopher turned the radio on, pressed ‘record’ and spoke into the microphone. ‘Maybury? Are you still there? Did you once live in this house?’ Christopher left enough time for an answer and continued, ‘What do you want?’

  When he played the tape back, he could hear
only his own voice against the steady rush of radio noise. May-bury had gone.

  The following morning Christopher telephoned the estate agent. He didn’t expect Mr Petrakis to remember him, but he did, and evidently very well. ‘Your wife was pregnant? What did she have in the end, a boy or a girl?’ They made polite, inconsequential conversation for a few minutes before Christopher broached the subject of former occupants. ‘I was wondering, Mr Petrakis, do you have any idea who lived in this house before us? Would you have anything in your files – a list of prior owners, perhaps?’

  ‘Nobody lived there before you. It was owned by developers and was empty for years. Didn’t I mention that? I’m sure I did.’

  ‘But people must have lived in the house before the developers acquired it.’

  ‘Of course. Many people – probably. It’s an old house. Mr Norton, the person you need to talk to is your solicitor. He would have contacted the land registry and authorized a search for title. I don’t know how far back he went, but if he’s still got your particulars, he might be able to give you some answers. Why do you want to know who lived in your house?’

  ‘I think someone quite famous might have lived here once. A stage performer.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ Christopher heard the ringing of a telephone in the earpiece.

  I’m sorry, Mr Norton. The other phone’s going. I’m in the office on my own today. I’m afraid I’ve got to pick it up.’

  ‘That’s fine. Thank you for your help.’

  Christopher put the telephone down and flicked through his address book. He found his solicitor’s number and was about to call him, but hesitated. Perhaps it would be better if he put his question in a letter. Yes, that was probably a better way to proceed. He put the phone down once again, crossed the room and searched in the bureau for a writing pad. At that moment, Laura entered. Their eyes met and she said, ‘Middle drawer.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m looking for.’

  She frowned and bit her lower lip. ‘Paper?’

  Christopher raised his eyebrows. ‘How did you know that?’

  ‘Just a hunch.’