When Becky returned to the path, she was so overwhelmed by the strangeness of what had been happening that at first she didn’t see the solitary figure standing by the blotched trunk of a plane tree. It was Johnny Cadman. She became aware of him only when he stepped out into the path almost barring her way. ‘Hello,’ he said.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m allowed to be here, aren’t I? Why?’
Becky shrugged. ‘It’s a free country. No reason why you shouldn’t be here.’
He looked away, swallowing. ‘It’s a short cut, isn’t it?’
‘A short cut? Where to?’
Johnny Cadman swallowed. Becky waited while he looked this way and that quickly, either searching for an escape route, or trying to avoid Becky’s eyes, or both.
‘Town,’ said Johnny Cadman, unconvincingly.
He was such a dweeb, thought Becky. Couldn’t even lie to save himself.
‘Why’d you stop then?’
Johnny Cadman flushed slightly. ‘Well, I stopped because I saw you over there on the lawn with … with that old guy …’
‘So?’
‘So, nothing. You were playing your flute weren’t you?’
‘So?’
‘I heard you, that’s all.’
‘I suppose you would if I was playing it.’
Again Johnny Cadman looked away.
‘It was pretty,’ he said. ‘The music …’
‘It’s Debussy.’
‘Oh …’
Johnny clearly had no idea who Debussy was. He probably only listens to god-awful stuff, thought Becky. By now, she was getting bored with the conversation and wanted to get home. Johnny, who didn’t seem to be getting her signals, though, made no move to get out of her way. Instead, and probably without consciously knowing he was doing so, he’d manoeuvred himself so that he now almost completely blocked her path.
‘Well, I need to be off,’ said Becky.
However, it was clear that Johnny Cadman had not quite finished. He flushed again a little and his face looked troubled. Becky waited for him, taking in his unfashionably long blond hair. It hung over his brow in an untidy fringe giving him the air of a particularly anxious Old English sheepdog. He was small for his age, too, or appeared to be, probably because he always seemed to be shrinking into himself.
‘Well?’ she demanded.
‘Do you think …’ Johnny began.
‘Think what?’
‘Think you should be doing that?’ he blurted.
‘Doing what?’ demanded Becky. She was now quite irritated with the way Johnny Cadman was behaving.
Johnny stared at her desolately. ‘Playing to that old guy,’ he said.
Becky looked at him in astonished anger. ‘What has it got to do with you who I play to? Just who do you think you are?’
Johnny’s face fell once more and he mumbled, ‘Sorry. It’s just that …’
‘It’s just none of your bloody business,’ said Becky coldly. ‘Now move your bloody self and let me past!’
Without looking at her, Johnny backed out of the way and Becky strode past him. ‘Sorry,’ Johnny mumbled again, but in her hurry Becky refused to acknowledge that he’d even spoken.
‘Where have you been?’ her mother asked.
Becky found herself suddenly feeling defensive. It had been bad enough being interrogated by Johnny Bloody Cadman; now her mother was starting in on her.
‘Just out,’ she muttered, turning her back on her mother and making for her room.
‘I know you’ve been out,’ said her mother with growing irritation. ‘I asked where you’d been.’
‘No need to get titchy about it,’ snapped Becky without stopping, but instantly regretted her tone, realising at once that all she would achieve was an increasingly angry mother. And she was right!
Donna Pym rounded on her daughter crossly. ‘I honestly don’t know what’s been getting into you lately, young lady …’
Becky stopped moving and squeezed her eyes shut. She hated being called young lady.
‘But, if you think that’s an appropriate way to talk to me when I’ve asked you a perfectly civil question then you’ve another think coming!’
Becky remained silent but didn’t dare move, although she longed to be able to rush to her room.
‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’
‘Where have you been?’
‘Orchestra practice,’ lied Becky desperately. She turned around and flourished her flute case.
‘But you don’t have orchestra practice on a Thursday.’
‘Paddy wanted one,’ said Becky, improvising quickly, ‘for the break-up concert.’
Her mother stared at her doubtfully, doubting. ‘Even so,’ she said, ‘even with an extra practice. You’re still late.’
‘I know,’ said Becky. ‘I know, but I ran into a kid from my class and I …’
‘Who?’ asked Donna Pym.
‘It was Johnny, actually,’ said Becky, almost gratefully. ‘You don’t know him. Johnny Cadman. We stopped and sort of talked for a bit. He sometimes delivers leaflets round here. That’s all …’
Her mother looked at her shrewdly. She saw Becky’s slightly flustered, slightly guilty face and put two and two together. A boyfriend … well, it wasn’t before time. It was going to happen sooner or later. A boyfriend … That would explain the mysteriousness. That would explain Becky’s almost embarrassed agitation. And the snappiness. A boyfriend … That was all right, then. For a moment, there, she’d thought it might have been something a little more difficult to handle.
Becky closed the door of her bedroom firmly, and then slumped down in the battered easy chair beside her bed. She sat there for some moments, her mind racing, her top teeth nibbling worriedly at her lower lip.
Something strange was happening and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one little bit. Twice now she’d visited the old house by the river, and she knew she’d have to go again. The thing was irresistible. Something was pulling her. It seemed she had no more control now over her legs than she did over her fingers whenever she drew the flute out of its case and put it to her lips.
How could she go, though? She’d lied to her mother once already, and she was already suspicious. Donna Pym was no fool. The truth was only a phone call away to Old Paddy. What could she tell her mother tomorrow? It couldn’t possibly be another music practice. She wasn’t in a sports team. Tomorrow, too, was her turn to cook. Her mother would come home expecting to find vegetables steaming on the elements. She’d go spare if she came home to an empty house and nothing ready for dinner.
Then there was the way her mother had looked when she’d told that story about meeting Johnny Cadman. It had been odd. Her mother had relaxed as if it had somehow been okay. In a strange way, this had erased some of Becky’s irritation with Johnny Cadman and made her feel obscurely grateful to him.
But, thinking about Johnny reminded her of how she had met him on the path at the back of the house called Arcady, not on a street nearby where he’d been delivering pamphlets as she’d implied to her mother.
Why had he been there? She hadn’t for one moment believed his stupid story about it being a short cut to town, for the obvious reason that it wasn’t. It wasn’t a short cut to anywhere that she knew of.
It did not make sense.
Unless …
Unless he’d been following her! Becky sat up. Could that have been true? Was Johnny Cadman stalking her? By his own admission he’d been hiding behind a tree watching her as she’d played the flute to the old man. Why would he do that? Johnny Cadman was a little weird, but his attitude and explanations were even weirder than usual. And he’d had the cheek to try and tell her that what she’d been doing was somehow wrong.
She had every right to have bitten his head off, the nerd! All the same, Becky was honest enough to recognise that part of the reason she’d snapped at him so furiously had been her own feelings of guilt. There was something wrong about what she’d been doing. She hadn’t felt happy playing the flute. Why was that? Even as she asked herself the question, Becky knew the answer.
It was because she’d had no control over what she’d been doing. Somehow, she knew, the old man was manipulating her. She was no more in control of herself than a marionette. The old man was pulling her strings and she was obeying. What made her feel guilty was that the old man almost certainly had some reason to do this. And that was? She had no idea, but it was probably not sweetness and light.
As she pondered this growing certainty, Becky shrank even further into her chair. She had felt bad. She had felt guilty. Now she was beginning to feel frightened again.
The next day, things got worse.
The first difficulty was orchestra practice at lunchtime.
Ms Paddy stopped flailing the air with her baton and banged a cross rat tat tat on the top of the music stand before her. The orchestra had been lurching rather incoherently through the Polovtsian March from Prince Igor, but it was neither their missteps in the rhythm nor the strangulated harmony that was annoying Ms Paddy. She turned directly to glare at Becky.
‘Rebecca,’ she snapped.
Oh god, thought Becky, she’s annoyed. Worse than annoyed. She only Rebeccas me when she’s really angry. And Becky knew why Paddy would be in a paddy, too. She tried to avoid the music teacher’s eyes. Knowing her flute would only play the Syrinx melody, Becky had not actually been playing a note, merely miming with her instrument.
‘I cannot hear you at all,’ snapped Paddy. ‘I need you to lead, girl!’
Becky had to turn and face the teacher. Somehow she managed it.
‘Let me hear you!’
Becky stared at Ms Paddy with a sinking feeling of dismay. ‘I don’t …’
‘Come on!’
Ms Paddy waited. She’d put her hands on her hips so that she looked like a rather squat and angry sports trophy.
Becky looked helplessly from side to side. The other members of the orchestra looked at her curiously.
‘Well?’
‘I can’t …’
‘Rebecca, what’s the matter with you?’
Becky shrugged. She was facing complete humiliation or tears or both. There was only one escape: the door. With a look of wild desperation, she lurched to her feet, and clutching her flute as if it were a defensive weapon, pushed her way between a pair of astonished clarinet players and, without so much as a glance behind her, rushed to the music room door, flung it open, and burst into the sunshine of the quadrangle outside.
Whether news of her odd behaviour had spread or not, Becky did not really know. It felt to her as if the whole school knew, however, and all she could do when classes resumed was find a place near the back of the room and bury herself in her textbook. So, when the Year Nine messenger came into the room and handed a note to Monsoon MacDonald, her maths teacher, Becky did not even notice.
When Monsoon called out her name, she looked up with some surprise. She’d always felt quite invisible in the school. Only the stars or the crims were ever sent for while they were in class. Either that or they were kids whose parents had just been killed in a plane crash or whose house had just burnt down. Her first thought was whether she might have inadvertently left the toaster on when she’d raced off to school after breakfast.
Monsoon crooked his finger, and Becky left her desk and approached the front.
‘Take this,’ he said in a stage whisper, so that the whole class could hear. ‘Mrs Barnard would like to see you …’
Becky took the note soundlessly, nodded and followed the spotty little messenger out of the room. She was sure she could sense amused glances and whisperings from the others in the class, but she ignored them. Mrs Barnard was one of the school’s counsellors.
It was nearly as bad with Mrs Barnard as it had been in the music room, except that this time Becky did not have the terrifying possibility of having to play the flute.
‘Ms Paddy has told me …’ Mrs Barnard began.
Mrs Barnard had the counsellor’s trick of beginning a sentence and then leaving it unfinished. Becky hated it. She knew she was supposed to anticipate how the sentence was to end and to complete it for the counsellor.
Becky decided not to play. She waited, staring at the counsellor, but offering nothing. She could guess what Paddy had told her. Clearly, Becky was a problem and Barnard had been asked to fix it up, as if Becky were a bike with a flat tyre or some piece of malfunctioning machinery.
Mrs Barnard was not fazed. She knew how to wait.
Finally, Becky gave way. ‘I don’t have a puncture or anything, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
Mrs Barnard raised her practised eyebrows. ‘What do you mean by that, Becky?’ she asked mildly.
Becky shrugged. ‘I mean, there’s nothing wrong with me. I’d just had enough. Sometimes you can have enough, can’t you?’
Mrs Barnard nodded wisely. Becky hated it. ‘Oh, of course,’ the counsellor said easily. ‘We can all have enough at times.’
There was another long pause. Outside was the front of the school and an avenue of pin oaks lined the wide drive. They had already turned colour and were quite magnificent in their reds and gold.
This time, Mrs Barnard broke the silence. ‘Was it …?’ she asked.
‘Was it what?’
‘Something at …?’
Becky guessed what she meant. Was it something at home? That was the way these people thought. It couldn’t be just something as simple as not wanting to play your flute because your flute would only play one piece of music. Oh no, it had to be something dreadfully complicated like having an alcoholic mother with a terminal disease and a predatory stepfather with an unhealthy interest in X-rated websites and innocent stepdaughters.
She shook her head. ‘No. It’s nothing …’
Mrs Barnard studied her speculatively for a moment, and then she said softly, ‘Becky, I do want you to know that you can feel quite safe in this office. Anything you feel you can tell me will be kept entirely between us, between us alone …’
Becky returned to the pin oaks. They seemed safer, more reassuring somehow. She wondered how Mrs Barnard would react if she told the truth: that she had bought a flute at a pawnshop and that it would only play Syrinx and that each evening it dragged her across the neighbourhood to play to a mysterious old man in a wheelchair, an old man who seemed to suck in the music and feed on it. Instead, she turned back to the counsellor and gave what she hoped was a brave little smile, and nodded.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
Mrs Barnard clearly thought that Becky’s gratitude would be followed by a confession of some sort. However, she was to be disappointed, for after the murmured thanks Becky lowered her eyes and added nothing. The counsellor waited as long as she bearably could, and then coughed and said, ‘Well, Becky. I’m glad we’ve been able to have this little chat. It’s good to know that you know that you can …’
‘Yes,’ said Becky gratefully.
‘Well,’ said Mrs Barnard. ‘You do know that I’m always here … And I’ll tell Ms Paddy that …?’
Becky nodded. It wasn’t at all clear to her just what Mrs Barnard would be able to tell Old Paddy, but she wasn’t really all that concerned. All she wanted was for the interview to be over, for the day to be over.
‘Thank you, Mrs Barnard,’ she whispered once more, as she backed towards the door and fled.
Things did not get any better when Becky arrived at home after school. She had thought she might be able to placate her mother in advance by hurrying home and preparing the vegetables before making her way back to Landon Road. To her surprise and vague disappointment, however, her mother’s car was in the driveway. This would make sneaking away very difficult. More surprising was the fact that there was another car parked behind her mother’s Toyota. Becky did not know what make of car it was but it was a low slung, little two-seater sports car with wired wheels. It was tomato red. Becky frowned. Few of their friends or relations ever visited them these days, and none of their friends or relations had a car like that. They were all far too serious. This looked like the car of somebody more interested in the silly things of life.
She walked down the drive, easing her backpack off as she reached the porch. The back door was already open, and Becky made her way into the kitchen.
‘Hi, Mum. I’m home.’
Donna Pym wasn’t in the kitchen-dining room. However there were voices coming from the living room next door. Becky paused for a moment, listening. Her mother’s voice. A male voice. For a second she wondered if her father had returned. But the tones were wrong. Her father’s voice would have been scratched, irritable. These voices seemed relaxed. She even heard her mother’s laugh. Her mother rarely laughed.
Curious, she pushed open the double doors and stood there.
Her mother was sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee. The man was sitting in the easy chair, the one her father always favoured as it faced the television. There was a cup of coffee before him on the small wooden table. They looked up, the man bland, her mother smiling uncertainly.
‘Hello, dear,’ she said. ‘Come along in. This is Max. Mr Willis. I don’t think you’ve met. Max is …’
‘Just new to the office. Hi,’ said the man easily, waving at her with familiarity. ‘You must be Rebecca?’
Becky nodded, with a small quick smile, and then turned to her mother for some explanation. ‘You’re home early?’
How come he knew her name? They’d been talking about her …
Was it Becky’s imagination, or did her mother look just a little flustered. ‘Yes. Max is new to the city …’ She gave the man a quick glance. ‘He’s come down from Wellington — head office — to look after human resources. Miriam thought …’
‘We all thought,’ corrected the man named Max.
‘We all thought,’ continued Donna Pym, with another quick glance at the man, ‘that seeing as Max was looking for a place in this part of the city and that we lived here that I could help by …’
‘Bit of local knowledge,’ said Max, laughing. ‘Absolutely invaluable!’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ protested Donna Pym.
‘Oh, I would. I would have been a babe in the woods if it hadn’t been …’
‘So?’ asked Becky.
‘So we’ve been looking at houses,’ said her mother.
‘So many houses,’ laughed the man called Max. ‘I’m all tuckered out. Your mother’s saved my life with this coffee.’
Becky stared at her mother. Clearly she and this man must have been out most of the afternoon looking at houses. Her mother caught her glance.
‘Miriam insisted on it, really,’ she said. Miriam was her mother’s boss. ‘Anyway, make yourself a drink and come and join us if you want to.’
Why would I want to? Becky asked herself. However, she gave them a smile and backed into the kitchen, drawing the doors closed behind her. This guy’s being here was an absolute pest. Within half an hour she needed to be on her way to the house called Arcady. She could feel the draw of the house more insistently even as she filled the jug and switched it on. Idly she saw the telephone, and she lifted the receiver. Instead of a dial tone she could hear the pip pip pip pip of a missed call. She dialled in their code and listened for the message. Mrs Pym? It’s Barbara Barnard here from the school … Mrs Pym, we have one or two small concerns about Rebecca. Nothing especially serious but could I ask that you give me a call at … Becky didn’t even allow the message to finish before she pushed three for delete and replaced the receiver with a small sigh of relief.
But how on earth was she going to be able to get away? She’d tried the music rehearsal line and there was no way her mother would fall for that twice. She glanced at her watch. It had been her plan to hurry home, peel a few potatoes, scrape a few carrots and cut up a salad and leave these on the bench. Then she would have been able to disappear before her mother arrived home and return later with some sort of convincing story. It would have been difficult but at least she would have been able to say she’d been mindful of her chores. But now …
Knowing her mother, it was likely that she’d ask this guy Max to stay for dinner. She’d be expected to stay at home and be the model daughter. It was quite likely her mother would have her play the bloody flute for him like a performing seal. Who was this man? Why would Miriam have given her mother just about a whole day off work to cruise around with him looking at houses? Her mother hated looking at houses. As she spooned some instant coffee into her mug she could hear once again the muffled laughter from the next room. What’s going on? thought Becky. It’s autumn. The leaves are dying. It’s not even spring.
And then, in a rather strange way, the problem of how to get over to Landon Road was solved.
As she sipped at her coffee, Becky heard her mother call.
‘Becky … Becky, come in here.’
Becky shrugged, but put the cup down on the bench and returned to the living room. Her mother was now standing peering out of the picture window that overlooked their street. There was a figure standing there. Becky gave a little sigh of annoyance as she recognised Johnny Cadman. What was he doing there? Couldn’t he leave her alone?
‘Is that him?’
Becky did not much like the conspiratorial tone in her mother’s voice. She sensed an amused glance pass between her mother and the man Max, and felt a flash of embarrassed annoyance.
‘You know,’ said her mother in a slightly teasing way that Becky liked even less. ‘The one you talked about …’
Once again Becky felt that glances were being exchanged, but she resolutely stared out of the window. Johnny Cadman was standing on the opposite side of the street. He was not moving and he did not have his old bike with its delivery basket with him. He appeared to be waiting for something or somebody and Becky realised, with a sinking feeling, that the person he was waiting for was probably herself.
She turned to her mother. ‘If you mean is that Johnny Cadman? Yes, that’s him.’ She wanted to add the little creep, but thought better of it.
Her mother craned a little to get a closer look.
‘Don’t, Mum,’ protested Becky.
‘Sorry,’ her mother whispered, with a little smile. She sat down again and gave Becky a curious look. ‘Are you going to leave the poor boy out in the cold?’ she asked.
Again, Becky swallowed back on something smart like I hope he freezes in hell, and then, as she saw her mother’s expression, she was suddenly grateful she had. Johnny Cadman could be just the excuse she needed. Her mother seemed somehow taken with the idea that a boy was pursuing Becky. There had been that odd conversation the night before. Donna Pym had seemed relieved to know that it had been Johnny Cadman who had delayed Becky. Perhaps Becky could take advantage of this.
‘Perhaps I should,’ she muttered. Then she turned and left the room, aware yet again that her mother was smiling at the man named Max.
As she strode down the drive to the front gate, her mind was racing. For the moment Johnny Cadman was a lifeline but he was a pretty scruffy lifeline, and she didn’t want him to think he was doing her any favours. It was only her need to use him that mattered at this moment. Later she’d have a piece of him for continuing to stalk her. What was he? Some sort of junior league paparazzi?
He gave her a half wave as she strode across the street, but Becky did not wave back. It was infuriating knowing that her mother and the man were probably watching everything that was going on as if it were some sort of reality TV show.
‘Is that your mother?’ asked Johnny Cadman.
Becky looked back over her shoulder and into the well-illuminated living room. She was just in time to see her mother quickly duck down on to the couch again.
‘That your dad?’
‘None of your business,’ said Becky. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? Don’t you have a home?’
‘I heard you ran out of Old Paddy’s practice,’ said Johnny.
‘Did you?’ Becky stared at him. His lightly freckled face was troubled and he seemed to have difficulty meeting her eyes. What was it with this guy? What did he want?
‘Anyway,’ Becky added. ‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘What question?’
‘Why are you hanging round here?’
Johnny Cadman shrugged, but this time he did look at her. ‘Are you going back round to that old guy’s place?’
It was Becky’s turn to stay silent for a minute. ‘I might be,’ she said eventually. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘I thought I ought to go with you,’ mumbled Johnny.
Becky once more stared at him. The cheek of it. ‘Why on earth do you think that?’ she demanded. ‘Don’t you think I can look after myself?’
‘No, it’s not that,’ said Johnny unhappily. ‘It’s just that there’s something creepy about that guy and the way he has you play to him. Something’s happening … I can feel it.’
Becky wanted to tell him that he was talking rubbish, and that he didn’t know anything about anything, and especially that he didn’t know anything about her and wasn’t going to, but something gave her pause. First, right now she needed Johnny to help get her out of the house and away, and second, she knew Johnny Cadman was right. Something was happening. Something creepy. Even as she was standing on the street outside her own house she could feel the call of Dr Petrus Faunus and there was such an urgency in that call she knew she couldn’t resist it.
‘Okay then,’ said Becky simply. ‘Come if you must.’
After an instant of shocked surprise, Johnny’s face relaxed into a relieved smile. ‘Really?’
‘I wouldn’t have said so, if I didn’t mean it,’ said Becky. ‘Wait here. I’ll have to tell Mum …’ She paused. What would she tell her mother? She sensed Donna Pym was happy enough for her to go outside and chat with Johnny on the street, although she’d be expecting her to bring the boy inside for a closer inspection. Becky couldn’t bear that. Her mother might not be so happy, though, for her to rush out before dinner without some permissible destination in mind.
Johnny Cadman saw her hesitation, and guessed the cause. ‘Say you’re coming round to my place. A new PlayStation game …’ he suggested in a whisper.
Becky thought quickly. A crazy idea. Her mother knew she hated computer games. Why would she suddenly want to go and play PlayStation? She gave Johnny a quick look and shook her head. He gave a little grin. Becky thought again. The idea was so stupid it might work. Why would she suddenly want to go out with Johnny Cadman? Her mother had bought that idea. That was even wackier than her wanting to play PlayStation.
‘Might as well,’ she whispered. ‘There’s nothing to lose. Wait …’
At that Becky turned and hurried back inside.
‘He’s asked me round to his place,’ she told her mother with what she hoped was the right amount of rather breathless excitement.
‘Oh?’
‘PlayStation games,’ explained Becky.
Her mother looked at her with amused curiosity. ‘PlayStation games?’
Becky nodded.
‘But what will you do about dinner? Will you be home for dinner?’
‘Oh, I don’t really know,’ said Becky airily. ‘Perhaps not. Some takeaways, I suppose. We’ll think of something …’ She felt it was going to be all right. Perhaps it was because the man Max was there. Perhaps her mother wanted to give him the impression she was a good-natured tolerant woman, a woman with an independent daughter, a daughter who had a boyfriend.
Whatever it was, Donna Pym gave Max a smile, and said, ‘Well, I suppose it’s all right then. I’d better have the phone number …’
It was as simple as that. Becky breathed out easily.
There was only one final moment of anxiety.
‘Why on earth are you taking your flute?’ her mother asked with some surprise.
Before leaving, Becky had hurried to her bedroom to pick up the flute and her mother had noticed the black case under her arm as she bent to kiss Becky goodbye.
Becky’s racing mind could think of no plausible reason. However, the man named Max laughed and said, ‘Must be for when the PlayStation gets boring, eh Becky. A little recital for one.’
Becky, flashed him a look of obscure gratitude, and then with another grin to her mother, turned and hurried from the house.
The shadows were lengthening as Becky and Johnny Cadman made their way along the wooded path beside the river. As they approached the rear of the house named Arcady, Becky paused.
‘There’s a horrible housekeeper,’ she whispered. ‘I’d rather not be seen by her …’
Johnny seemed to understand. He nodded and whispered, ‘Wait here. I’ll check it out.’
It was only a few moments before he had returned. ‘No problems,’ he said. ‘It’s just the old guy with the beret. He’s sitting in the wheelchair, almost as though he hasn’t moved since last time.’
I’m sure he has though, thought Becky. The urge to play the flute was very strong. She lifted the clasps on the case and handed it to Johnny. He watched with interest as she assembled the instrument.
‘You sure about this?’ he asked.
Becky glanced at him. His face was worried. She shrugged. ‘I don’t seem to have any choice,’ she muttered. ‘Wait here …’
‘No,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ll come with you. I want to watch what happens.’
‘Whatever.’
Becky shrugged again and set off down the path. There were only a few metres to walk before the lawn of the house met the path. Sure enough, the old man was there as Johnny had said. He looked to be dozing in the late afternoon light. For some reason, though, he did not look as decrepit as he had when Becky had first seen him. He was not so slumped in his chair and his face seemed fuller, less gaunt. Certainly he did not look nearly so frail.
Becky put the mouthpiece to her lips and the first eerie trill of Syrinx, then the strange melody, began to haunt the air. As she stared over her instrument, she saw the old man stir to the music, rub his eyes, and glance up towards her. He gave a small half-wave, and then beckoned as he had the first time, although this time the beckoning arm was stronger, more sure.
Once again Becky felt that uncontrollable urge to obey. She glanced at Johnny. He saw the alarm in her eyes and put out a hand to try to hold her. No use. Becky shook her head, and still playing, began to walk carefully but inexorably across the grass to where the old man waited for her, his eyes glittering in anticipation. Johnny Cadman gave a small gasp of frustration, but there being nothing else for it, followed Becky, although he did keep several steps behind her all the way.
Eventually Becky put her flute aside. The old man in the wheelchair looked up at her and sighed, a contented smile on his face. Except, he was no longer such an old man. Quite clearly, he was younger, stronger. His hair, which had been white and straggly under the awkward beret, now seemed thicker, shinier, and grey tinted by a reddish gold. The face was fuller, the cheeks less sunken, his mouth less drawn.
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. And his voice no longer quavered. It was richer, deeper.
‘Who are you?’ asked Becky frightened by the strangely transformed figure.
‘I have told you,’ said the man. ‘My name is Doctor Faunus, Doctor Petrus Faunus. Did you forget?’
Becky shook her head. ‘I know your name,’ she said. ‘I want to know who you are.’
The man laughed. ‘Oh, you will discover that in good time,’ he said. Then sitting up with more energy than Becky would have thought possible, he looked beyond her to the trembling figure of Johnny Cadman. ‘But who is this?’ he asked. ‘Another lover of music?’
Johnny appeared to have lost his voice. He nodded.
The man, who hitherto had been pleasant, almost good-humoured, suddenly turned to Becky and said sharply, ‘You should not have brought this boy. No good will come of it!’
His tone was so fierce that Johnny swallowed and paled. However, he stood his ground resolutely. Becky was not sure whether it was courage or terror which kept him there.
The man waved his hand at Johnny as if swatting at an irritating insect. ‘Go! There is room here only for one music lover!’
Johnny swallowed again, but did not move. Becky turned back to him, half-hoping he would spin on his heels and flee, half-hoping he wouldn’t.
‘No!’ Johnny said, with far more determination than he felt.
‘Johnny’s allowed to be here,’ said Becky, feeling she needed to support him. ‘It’s a free country!’
‘A free country is it?’ murmured the Dr Faunus. He shrugged. ‘As you will, then. Play again now!’ He raised his hand as if he were a conductor.
Becky only had time to give Johnny an encouraging smile before she felt compelled to raise the flute to her lips, closing her eyes as she did so.
Some minutes later when she had finished the last sequence of notes she opened her eyes again. There was no mistake this time. The ancient figure had vanished. Sitting before her was a virile man who could have been no more than forty. The hand, which still swayed to the memory of the music, was smooth and steady. The face was no longer lined and the small goatee beard was the deep chestnut colour of polished furniture. Only his eyes, as he stared at Becky, were ancient. They seemed to be dark pools of timelessness and looked so deeply into her she felt that nothing was hidden or could ever be hidden from him.
In this relentless gaze and in the electrifying silence beyond the music Becky felt she could hardly breathe. Just as she thought she’d had more than she could possibly cope with, there was yet a further astonishment.
Dr Faunus jerked the plaid blanket off his legs and, planting a foot on either side of the wheelchair, stood up in one easy movement. It was not, however, his standing up that was astonishing; it was the fact that his legs did not end in carpet slippers or old-man’s boots or anything like that — his stick-like legs were bare and hairy and ended in neat little hooves.