By half past eleven Fisher mooched back to the ballroom. He’d picked up his bass guitar from his room first. He didn’t have a plan in mind. However, to walk with the guitar in his hand recaptured a little of that childhood comfort of climbing the stairs to bed while gripping a teddy bear. He found the ballroom to be empty. The others were probably opening wine bottles in the kitchen. They were trying to find their own safe platform over the fathomless abyss that appeared to be widening beneath their feet. As he plugged the lead into the bass, he recapped what Belle had told them. She’d fallen asleep in the car. Then came a nightmare: hearing the chimes as she watched a stranger plunge a blade into her flesh. Belle’s eyes had widened as she described the agony. And all the time, those damn chimes.
Fisher pulled a wooden chair toward him. Instead of sitting on it he rested his foot on it so his knee was raised. Lovingly, he sat the female-shaped body of the Rickenbacker on his lap. The fingers of his left hand pressed taut steel strings to the frets. Then with his right hand he thumbed a string. The deep sound thudded from the speaker. It didn’t so much enter his ears as nudge his stomach in a way that was nothing less than muscular. He sighed. This felt like a release from the madness. With the guitar in his hands he sensed he could take control of his life again. He ran through old bluesy bass lines. The ordered progression of notes stroked his nerves. They soothed him. Tense muscles unknotted in his shoulders. Fisher filled the room with velvety notes. They ran through the air like heartbeats. An antidote to the metallic hardness of the clock chimes. The bass notes were so deep that he felt them in his chest and stomach. He allowed his eyes to close as his own heart opened up to the mellow sound. When he opened his eyes again he saw Marko watching him from the door. Fisher didn’t stop playing. The music dampened down anxieties. The structure of the notes shaped his own thoughts; they imposed order where there had been disorder. There was something beautifully sane about the simple melody he played. He never even noticed Marko move, but when he heard the tap of the stick against the hi-hat he glanced back. Marko sat on the stool behind the drum kit. He tapped a simple rhythm to compliment Fisher’s bass line. Marko smiled and nodded. They were back in the saddle again, they were doing what they loved.
What’s that saying? Fisher asked himself. A band of musicians is greater than the total sum of its parts? His and Marko’s old kinship reasserted itself. Every so often they made eye contact, maybe exchanged a nod. They were flying in formation now. A moment later Sterling appeared. Instead of the guitar he carried his sax. When the spirit moved him he could play that shining instrument of sculpted brass with such soul that Fisher had seen people shed a tear. Now that the three were playing together Fisher could sense their power impose itself on their world. This felt so good. He experienced that melting sense of release that comes when he played without consciously directing his fingers.
Sterling used a light touch on the finger keys. Gentle notes sighed from the flared horn of the saxophone. Next, Adam drifted in with his electric guitar. He plugged in, switched on. If he harboured ambitions to be the band’s shining star he didn’t reveal them now. Tonight he was content to sit on the floor against the amplifier and play muted chords on the guitar. Adam didn’t dictate the pace or the mood of the music. He fell in step with the other three to play an introspective improvization around Fisher’s bass line. As they played Belle and Josanne drifted in. They sat on the sofa to listen to the music. Their expressions were calm; the melody had the power to soothe jangled nerves. Even Jak curled up on the rug beside the sofa. Those amber eyes were relaxed as he watched the musicians play. This was his pack now. He belonged to it; he felt at ease.
Fisher glanced up to see Fabian standing in the doorway. Fabian watched for a long time before he made a move. At last he stepped up to his keyboards. He said nothing. For once he buried his ego out of sight. Setting the volume low, he played gentle runs on the piano. The sound conjured images of drops of water falling from melting icicles. The music filled a room with positive, life-enhancing energy. It empowered musicians and audience of two alike. This was tapping into a primal force. For thousands of years music forged bonds between individuals. It lifts hearts. It energizes. Fisher closed his eyes. The instruments magically combined to create a living being of pure sound. That’s how it felt to him. A vital entity that had its own rhythmic heartbeat enclosed by a body of musical notes. Feel the energy. This entity has its own melodic voice. That’s why he wanted to be a musician. When he wasn’t playing it was a case of going through the motions until he could play his bass again, and revel in the life force that sizzled through his veins.
The chimes that mourned the passing of twelve o’clock must have sounded. This time Fisher didn’t hear them. Neither did anyone else.
By midnight, hail rode the north wind. White, twisting veils emerged from the darkness to strike the windows. Fortunately, the heating system kicked out plenty of warm air so the ballroom was a comfortable place to be. The music they played together had been a welcome respite. Now they were relaxed enough to wind the day to a close.
As they switched off the amps, Sterling said, ‘We might be able to make better sense of all this in the morning.’
Adam nodded. ‘In the cool light of day. Yeah, I’m all for that.’ He headed for the door with the guitar in one hand while Belle linked arms with him. ‘Goodnight one and all,’ he said, in that faux gentleman way of his.
Fabian gave a thumbs-up. ‘Sweet dreams.’
Marko sauntered away with his drumsticks under his arm. He waved a good night. Jak followed him out of the room.
Fabian pulled the covers over his keyboards. Josanne unplugged the amps at the mains. Everyone had developed a safety-first mentality over the last forty-eight hours.
‘Fisher?’ The expression on Fabian’s face was no way near as hostile as it had been. ‘I guess what you’ve told us, and played for us’ – he nodded at the tapes on the table – ‘have given us all food for thought.’
‘That’s a classic example of understatement,’ Josanne said with feeling.
Fabian sniffed. ‘Well, my good people, as the ever trustworthy Sterling Pound so rightly declared: perhaps we can all make better sense of death dreams, curses, hexes and the like in the morning.’
‘You still don’t believe me, do you, Fabian?’
‘Look, Fisher, we’ve had a difficult day. Everyone’s dog tired….’ Josanne?’ He held out his hand to her. ‘Oh, Fisher? Consider yourself unsacked by the way. I was being unforgivably tetchy.’
Again that lordly manner reasserted itself. Fisher felt as if he was being tossed a favour by a passing nobleman. Fabian continued in a cut-glass English accent, ‘Might as well turn in now, old boy.’
‘You want more proof?’
‘What I don’t want is to talk the hind legs off this particular mule.’
Josanne was curious. ‘What have you got?’
‘And I’m not listening to any more of those old audio tapes tonight.’ Fabian waved a dismissive hand. ‘Anyone could have faked those.’
‘No. What if I said …’ Fisher turned from one to the other. ‘What if I said you could watch a video recording that proved everything?’
Josanne gripped Fabian’s hand. ‘Please, Fabian. I need to see it.’
He nodded. ‘OK, Fisher. Show us your proof.’
CHAPTER 28
‘Make yourselves comfortable.’ Fisher nodded at the bed. Fabian and Josanne sat down side by side. The tick-tick of sleet hitting the window was the only other sound apart from their muted voices. Fisher switched on the TV. It fizzed white sparkles on a dead channel. He pulled the video camera tape out of its case. ‘Remember when I asked to borrow the camera earlier today, Josanne?’
She nodded.
Fabian asked, ‘Didn’t you have plans to catch whoever jerked around with our instruments this morning?’
‘That was the plan. But watch this.’ He slotted the tape into the camera, then thumbed play on the control panel. ‘I
hope you don’t mind, Josanne. I’m using your camera as a player.’
She shook her head. With a tense expression she asked, ‘What did you film?’
‘See for yourself.’
Just like when he’d watched before the image appeared of the ballroom with the amplifiers lined up in a wall of upright oblongs. Standing in the centre was his bass guitar. There were fleeting glances of Fisher as he finished setting up the camera to run, then Fabian asking off-camera: ‘You’re not going to lock the Rickenbacker in your room?’ Then Fisher’s reply: ‘Bait.’
They sat for twenty minutes. The image held steady on the bass guitar standing in front of the amps. No sound came from the TV speaker. There wasn’t so much as a flicker of movement.
So, he asked himself, what happened to the camera rushing down the corridor to find me in The Good Heart? What happened to the scene of me being crushed by something invisible?
Fabian yawned then checked his watch. ‘Well, Fisher?’
‘I don’t understand.’
Josanne’s eyes held his. They were trusting. She believed. ‘There was something on the tape? I mean, something more than what we’re seeing now?’
Fisher nodded. ‘A hell of a lot more.’
‘So?’ Fabian prompted.
‘So it’s not there now. It’s gone!’ Fisher slammed his hand against the wall. ‘It’s this house. It’s tricked us. It’s always tricking us!’
He saw Fabian exchange glances with Josanne. Meanwhile sleet made the tap-tap sound against the pane as it floated out of the night sky to make contact with The Tower.
After Josanne and Fabian had returned to their own room Fabian replayed the tape. There was a perfect view of his Rickenbacker bass in its Fireglo livery of warm yellow melting into an orange surround. He could even make out the subtle grain of the rosewood fingerboard. Only there was this problem. The view remained static. It didn’t present the same turbulent images that Fisher saw the first time around. No wild flight down the corridor to the medieval core of the building. Neither was there the high-level shot looking down on Fisher when an invisible mass smashed down to destroy his face in a crimson burst of blood. When the tape ended, Fisher sat on the bed to brood. Perfidious tape. Treacherous tape. The Tower had made a fool of him in front of Fabian and Josanne. The atmosphere of the room was charged. He was aware of the tons of masonry above him. The crossed beams of the timbers helped it all defy gravity yet there was a sense of all that accumulated downward pressure. Even the air locked away in all those silent rooms above him added to the ominous mass. The darkness, too. Darkness to the house was like blood to the human body. It ran thick in those arteries of the building, its corridors. It pooled blackly in the cellar. When a light was extinguished it flooded into the cavity. Darkness oozed through the building. He glared at the walls. He defied the house to hurt him. But he knew it was waiting now. For the right moment …
Marko made Jak’s bed out of a whole hill of pillows in the corner of the room. He saw how Jak turned round three times before lying down. If by chance the dog made contact with the wall, he flinched away from it as if its touch was unpleasant. Marko pulled back the covers of his own bed and climbed in.
‘Don’t worry, boy,’ he told the dog. ‘We’ll soon be away from here.’
Jak fixed his eyes on the man.
‘We’ll sleep now, then we’ll tell Fabian we’re packing up in the morning and going home.’
The dog wagged his tail.
‘Are you coming home with me, old feller?’
The dog gave a single bark as he wagged his tail even harder.
‘That’s the answer that I wanted to hear.’ Marko grinned. ‘Hear that, House, you ugly heap of crap? We’re leaving you tomorrow. You can rot in peace.’ Marko switched off the light. ‘Good night, Jak.’ He lay there in the dark. It’s something about this house, he thought, even the darkness is heavy. I can feel it pressing against my eyelids. Feels like fingertips …
In the next room Fabian made love to Josanne. She marvelled continually how he could compartmentalize situations. It was as if the day’s events had never happened. For her, however, memory nagged. A few hours ago she was marooned in the lake. Then she opened her eyes to find herself sitting on the central staircase in the house. Kym had vanished. Fisher had played them the tape recorded by the Blaxton guy. Then there was talk about this hex.
‘Lift your legs higher,’ Fabian ordered. ‘That’s it.’ He pushed into her. She looked up at his throat as it reddened with exertion. Veins stood out from the skin. The Adam’s apple moved like some bulbous animal through its burrow. She wasn’t in the mood, but Fabian was different. He’d been brought up in the African city of Khartoum, the son of wealthy ex-pats. Fabian had lived among a coterie of English noblemen who continued to live on in Africa as if the British Empire had never withered away. Fabian had grown up with the same lordly manner that could so easily manifest itself as reserve at best, and arrogant disdain at worst. As he thrust his hips against her body she thought: that’s my curse. I’m attracted to those characteristics. They’re indicators of power. And power over people is erotic. I wish I didn’t find his manner enticing, but there you go. I do. And there isn’t a thing I can do about it.
Fabian squeezed her breast. This gave him enough pleasure to make him sigh. Still he didn’t look down into her eyes as he thrust into her. He stared at the wall in front of him, his eyes blazing at it like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.
Look at me, Fabian. I want you to look at me.
He jerked hard enough to shake the bed and grunted as his respiration quickened. At that moment the clock struck one. The chime pealed through the room.
Fabian paused. She watched his head turn as he listened to the metallic reverberation slowly fade back into the walls. ‘My God. It’s time someone killed that bloody clock.’
The interruption piqued him enough to discharge his anger into Josanne with a dozen hard thrusts into her that knocked the air out of her lungs.
Adam drank the glass of red wine as Belle sat naked in front of the mirror to brush her hair. As they heard the single chime of one o’clock they paused to look up. In The Tower it was easy to imagine the metallic note manifestingitself in the air above their bed. When the reverberations died away, Belle examined the reflection of Adam. He flicked back his long hair with his fingers before taking another sip from the glass.
‘You shouldn’t be drinking red, you know,’ Belle told him. ‘It stains the teeth.’
‘Hell, I need something to make me sleep.’
‘Do you want out of here?’
Adam shrugged. ‘I liked those demos that Fabian played me. They’ve got commercial potential, you know?’
‘You think so?’ Belle studied the man in the mirror. He was good-looking, but she suspected those fine features might be fleeting. And, make no bones about it, show business is the profession where your face really is your fortune.
Adam drained the glass then poured himself another from the bottle on the nightstand. ‘But from that look in your eye, Belle, I can see you think otherwise.’
‘The songs have potential. A good producer will smooth out the rough parts …’
‘But?’
‘Do you really think Fabian’s got the killer instinct?’
‘Killer instinct?’
‘He must get the rest of those musicians working hard all day and every day before they play like a band.’
‘A lot of shit hit the fan today, Belle.’
‘You know what Napoleon asked people when he was thinking of promoting a general?’
‘You do love your history books, Belle.’ He grinned as he raised the glass to his lips. ‘What did Napoleon ask, dear formidable old Belle?’
‘Before Napoleon put a general in charge of fighting a battle he never wanted to know about the man’s qualifications. The only thing he asked was: is he lucky?’
‘Lucky? You’re becoming profound in your old age, dear thing.’ r />
‘Adam, I don’t think Fabian is lucky.’
Adam took a deep swallow of wine. ‘After what happened since we arrived here you might well be right.’
She walked across to Adam as he lay there half-asleep on the bed. Deliberately she allowed her hips to sway so they caught his eye. And as he sipped wine from the glass she gently stroked his head. ‘I’ll brush your hair before you sleep. I don’t want this lousy damp to dull it.’ She eased herself on the bed beside him so her bare breast pressed against his shoulder. Slowly she inhaled deeply to increase the pressure of her body against his. A subtle move. It worked though. Adam moved his hand so it rested against her inner thigh.
‘You know, Adam?’
‘Hmm?’
‘When we reach a phone it might be worth giving your agent a call. He mentioned there’s a band needing a genius on guitar and vocals.’
Adam shrugged. ‘They’re just wanting some bloody metro-gnome to play rhythm. I play lead. Amazing lead. I’m not chugging chords for any fucker.’
‘I know, darling.’ She kissed his forehead. ‘But I can help them decide what they really need is the best guitarist in the world.’ She kissed him again. ‘You.’ She stroked his hair. ‘Besides, they’ve already had a top twenty album. Fabian’s still to get his feet wet in the top one hundred.’
Drowsily he murmured, ‘I’ll think about it.’
Her voice grew husky as she whispered between kisses. ‘A little, hmm … phone … call … can’t hurt … can it?’ Gently she eased the covers from his body with one hand while her lips touched his nose, chin and throat as they worked their way down to his chest.