Eleven o’clock came and went. The chimes didn’t fail to remind them all that another hour had pushed them sixty minutes closer to the grave. Fisher repeated to Adam and Belle what he’d told Fabian and the others. All about Blaxton, about what the man had called the ‘Death Dream’. And the fact that when Blaxton heard the chimes he panicked. That he ran into the marsh. Fisher didn’t doubt that the man had heard those same doom-laden chimes thundering inside his head as he was sucked down into the mud to drown. Now there was a sense of freefall. As if they’d fallen from the top of a skyscraper. This was the uncanny in-between time, between parting company from the safety of the building and the shattering collision with the earth.
So there’s seven of us left, he told himself. And until the rain eases we’re trapped here in The Tower.
Outside, spring rain had turned to sleet. Even though it was dark, Fisher could make out lawns with a crusting of white. It wasn’t the pristine fresh whiteness of snow, but a greyish, dirty white. More like the off-white of mould growing on a decaying tree-trunk. For a while, Fisher and the rest shifted between kitchen and ballroom. The moment you arrived at the ballroom the kitchen seemed a better place to be. Only the instant you walked through the kitchen door the ballroom became a preferable destination. Fisher told himself: ‘it’s going to be a long, long night …
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.’