5

Wolfie

A bell tinkled outside Steve’s room. He pushed the door open and edged into a hall. There was no one around. If he could get to the front door he might find out what was going on.

Steve crept on tiptoe, towards the front door. In the corridor, ticking loudly, was a grandfather clock. Steve tried to time his footsteps with the ticks, but the wooden boards still creaked as he crossed them. Steve noticed a couple of wooden crutches resting against the side of the clock. Then he heard the noise again. Crashing down the staircase from the top of the house was the strange, horrible music. It sounded really bad, thought Steve, much worse than when he practised.

He stopped in his tracks. Now he could hear a new sound. The staircase descended below ground level and someone, or something, was grunting and puffing their way up. Steve shrank back from the hall, back into the empty room. He watched through a crack between the door and its frame.

A small man, wearing a huge scraggy ginger wig, with a wooden leg and patch over one eye stumbled up into the corridor from downstairs. He hobbled to the front door, picking up his crutches as he went. Steve could see the jewel-encrusted handle of a long sword sticking out from under his coat.

The man pushed the front door open to reveal a crowd of people. A young woman with an angry look on her face shouted from the front.

‘Will you tell whoever it is that keeps playing that damned harpsichord at the top of your house to stop it,’ demanded the woman. ‘Day in day out, in the middle of the night, first thing in the morning, none of us can get any sleep. It’s keeping my baby awake.’

‘The worst thing is,’ said a tired-looking man at the back of the crowd, ‘it doesn’t change — it’s the same old song over and over again. After a while it does things to your mind … terrible things. I CAN’T STAND IT ANY MORE!!!!’

A big man in a black coat, with a bald head and a gold earring, produced a pistol from inside his jacket.

‘I say we just go up and shoot the varmint,’ he added. ‘I’m not a violent man, but after three days of listening to that racket, it’s him or me. Either he shuts up, or I shoot him or…’

The man thought for moment. Then a rather tired look of realisation crossed his face.

‘Or I shoot myself.’

He held the gun to his own head.

The man with the wooden leg held his arms up. He waved his crutch, silencing the crowd.

‘Alright, alright, I’ll see what I can do. But remember, Wolfie is a tenant. He rents his room fair and square. So long as he coughs up the dough once a month I’m not going to pick a fight.’

The music stopped.

Everybody looked around.

A bird tweeted.

Then, just as the neighbours sighed with relief, it started again. A terrible discordant racket crashed down to the street from a room high above them in the rooftops.

‘That’s it,’ said the man, pulling back the firing pin on his pistol.

‘Wait,’ shouted the man with one leg. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

He span around on his wooden leg and stepped back into the hall, slamming the front door behind him. He swung himself towards Steve’s door. But he didn’t open it.

‘Oi, mush.’

Steve gulped. The man appeared to be talking at him.

‘Yeah, you,’ said the man peering through the crack before shoving the door open with his crutch.

Steve stared at the man. His wig was almost the same size as his body.

‘Get up to the top room. Tell Wolfie if he don’t shut up he’s going to start a riot. Emphasise the fact that if he don’t desist playing that loathsome tune of his, one citizen of our district will feel compelled to blow his own brains out as a means of extracting himself from the infernal noise. And if that don’t work, you could mention the fact that I’ll be up there with Slicer if he wants to take things any further.’

And, with surprising agility for an old-looking fellow in a ginger wig with one leg, the man slid his silver sword from its scabbard and swished the air with it.

Steve gulped again. He could hear the sharpness of the blade as it cut the air.

‘T … t … top flat,’ he stammered.

‘Yeah,’ said the man, replacing his sword, ‘then we’ll talk about what you’ve come to see me about.’

Steve looked blankly at the man in the huge wig. He had no idea what he’d come to see him about.

‘Lodgings,’ said the man. ‘Rooms. You’ll be wanting to know what rooms I’ve got on offer and how much a month’s board is. You’ll be wanting to see the accommodation.’

Steve nodded and rushed up the stairs.

The building was tall and thin, the staircase seemed to go upwards forever. On each landing there were two doors. Most were closed, but some were open. Steve could see that almost every room was occupied. At the very top of the staircase, right under the roof, there was a low door. Steve tapped on it and stepped into a tiny room.

A young man sat at the keyboard of an instrument that looked like a very old piano. Steve hesitated.

‘Err, sorry to bother you, Mr, ummm, Wolfie,’ said Steve. ‘But they’re asking you to stop. They’re begging you to stop.’

‘Never.’ The man hit the keys and began playing again.

The sound was terrible.

‘STOP!’ yelled Steve, bringing the keyboard lid down with a crash, just missing Wolfie’s fingers.

Wolfie pulled his hands away. Steve guessed that Wolfie was young, about eighteen years old. He was skinny and pale, wearing the same kind of clothes as Steve. A jacket, weird knee-length trousers, big buckled shoes and a completely ridiculous brown wig that looked like a rat hat. Steve looked at Wolfie. There was something strangely familiar about him. Maybe it was the wig, or the jacket, or the fact that he kept playing the same song over and over again, but there was something about Wolfie that reminded him of his sister, Miffany. He remembered how excited she was as they drove to the Pendown’s Got Talent competition.

‘It’s terrible,’ said Wolfie, interrupting Steve’s daydream. ‘I’ve been trying for days to compose a tune, and I just can’t do it. I get so far into it and then it stops.’

Steve looked at the keyboard.

‘It’s a harpsichord,’ said Wolfie. ‘Haven’t you seen one before?’

‘Oh yes,’ lied Steve. ‘My brother was sick in one of these.’

Wolfie scrutinised Steve. He noticed the baton in his hand.

‘I see you carry a conductor’s baton,’ said Wolfie. ‘You’re a little young to be a conductor, unless, of course, you’re a child prodigy.’

Steve smiled. He nodded, although he didn’t know what ‘child prodigy’ was.

‘Can you help me?’ asked Wolfie.

He pulled a grey handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Then he started to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ blubbed Wolfie. ‘You must think I’m a terrible fop. I just get emotional. I keep telling myself it’s normal, musicians are known to be emotional sorts. But this problem is simply too much for me. You’re a musician. You understand what it’s like.’

Steve swished his baton around.

‘Yeah,’ he said ‘I get a lot of problems when I’m doing my conducting stuff. I don’t cry though. Well, I don’t cry much.’

Wolfie sniffed. He looked up, straight into Steve’s eyes.

‘I’ll tell you – but first, please, say you’ll help me?’

‘Of course I will,’ said Steve. ‘It’s what I’m here for. I think.’