by Simon Clark
Satisfied with what he saw he nodded. In fact, the satisfaction came as a surge of relief that made his neck muscles relax. He’d begun to wonder if he’d left it too long. Maybe he should have added another rat or bird to the poles, otherwise things might have gotten a whole lot worse. No, he wouldn’t leave it as long next time. But he hadn’t anticipated the arrival of the bunch of young men and women yesterday.
When the old people left at the end of last year, he thought he’d have the ancient house with its sandstone tower to himself forever and ever – amen! Strangers unsettled him. They’d no right to be here. Ideas of talking to them filled him with deep unease. What if they were inquisitive? However, a more powerful instinct told him to learn why they were here. Those kind of pressures on him to converse with people after all this time, coupled with a fear that they might invade the private world he’d built for himself, made him increasingly edgy. One rat wasn’t enough, was it? Best catch another soon, or a magpie maybe. If only he still had the motorcycle he could ride into a nearby town and pick up a cat. He slipped off his canvas gloves. These he pushed into the pockets of his leather jacket. Before he left, he crouched down to put his face so close to the rat on the rod that his nose almost touched it. Its pink mouth was partly open, he could see the moist tongue; it had blanched from pink to a white. The mouth would soon go like that, too. The animal didn’t move. The limbs were still; the tail hung limp. He blew on it. The force of his breath ruffled its brown fur. He blew again. No movement. Not a flicker.
‘You’re dead, old son,’ he told the rat with satisfaction. Still nodding, he picked up the wire cage and headed for the door. As he fished the key from his pocket, he worked out what he should do today. Bait the cage. Shave away the stubble from his face so as not to make the strangers suspicious if they should see him. He opened the steel door in the bunker just an inch so he could check there was no one about. From this side of the building no one in the house could see him leave. A second later he exited the door. After locking it behind him, he stood at the edge of the runway. The cold March air felt good on his skin. As well as refreshing his blood it cleansed him like a stream of fast-flowing water. He gazed out along the runway that ran like a causeway through the lake. Although it was no more than ankle deep in places he knew there were submerged hollows and ditches. If you didn’t watch your step you could easily plunge out of sight. That’s exactly what happened to an old man who had wandered from the house when it was a nursing home. It had been one summer when the swamp water had turned bright green with algae blooms. He’d watched the old man walk out along the runway, waving his arms as if beckoning to an invisible aircraft to land. After that he’d begun wading through the shallow water. He’d gone about thirty paces; a shrunken figure with an untidy shock of white hair then … Ffftt! He’d simply dropped out of sight as the submarine ditch had swallowed him from view. The man’s hands had broken the surface as if he tried to stir the air above the water. Then the hands had slowly sunk beneath green scum. It took the staff in the home the best part of a week to find the old boy. The state of his face proved to everyone that one animal that wasn’t scarce round here was king rat.
The man checked the cage. Soon it would perform its duty again. With a glance back at the brooding presence of the house he followed the path to his home in the woods.
CHAPTER 7
Fabian made his speech. Topics: work ethic, rehearsal schedule, band name change, musical aesthetic, the targeted approach as opposed to hoping to attain success on a wing and a prayer, and … and …
… and Fisher wondered if he should be taking notes as he sat here in the ballroom at the back of the house, with Fabian standing in a lordly manner on a plastic crate, beside Marko’s drum kit. Behind Fabian, the ceiling-to-floor windows revealed the expanse of grass that Fisher had walked through to a runway that stretched out like a finger of concrete into the marsh. The speech began fifteen minutes ago. Fabian was, it seemed, only just getting into his flow.
‘Being a success isn’t achieved by the quality of the music alone.’ Fabian made a fey movement of his hand to push his lank, blond fringe from his eyes. ‘Yes, we have the songs.’ He pointed to his leather briefcase that lay on the electronic keyboard. ‘They’re excellent songs … excellent. I’ve been honing them for the last twelve months. But as well as having great material we need a great name.’
‘What’s wrong with Cuspidor?’ Marko sat on the floor with his back to an amplifier.
‘You know what a Cuspidor is?’
‘Sure. A pot for spitting in.’
‘Then a spittoon isn’t a great name for a rock band, is it?’
‘The Beatles were named after an insect. They did all right. And look at REM, they—’
‘Marko … Marko. I’ll open this up for discussion at the end. I’m wanting to present the band’s manifesto here.’
‘Manifesto?’
‘Hey, Marko.’ This was Mr Teeth & Hair, Adam Ambrose. ‘Let the man finish speaking, OK?’
Marko assented with a shrug. He adopted a bored expression that challenged Fabian to continue unfazed. Fabian didn’t seem to notice.
So this is how it’s shaping up, Fisher told himself. Fabian and Adam have junked Cuspidor. They’re only recycling elements that are useful to them. Now they’re putting together a new band. He glanced at Marko. The guy was probably thinking the same thing. Cuspidor had started as a bunch of friends playing the music they loved. Now it had become a commercial enterprise. Forget the music; it’s about the product.
Fisher let his gaze drift around the ballroom (at least that was the name on the door). When The Tower was a nursing home this would have been a communal lounge. It was thickly carpeted, while the walls were painted in warm shades of orange. Someone had pushed all the armchairs back against the walls to create a big open area where the band’s equipment now sat. There were half-a-dozen amplifiers that were as big as refrigerators. They were all painted black and stood in line like tombstones in a cemetery. Marko’s drums were in place. The gleaming cymbals appeared to hover like a squadron of golden flying saucers on their stands above an array of drums. Fabian’s keyboard stack faced where the rest of band would play, so he could assume the role of conductor rather than fellow band member. The guitars were still in their cases. Even in rehearsals it was so easy for them to be knocked over or trampled on as people moved around or flounced out if they felt offended for any reason. And these were the very people that he’d be holed up with for the next month in a remote country house. Fisher counted them. Seven men and women. Not one over the age of twenty-five. As his mind drifted away from what Fabian was saying he found himself listing them:
Adam Ambrose, lead guitar, vocals. A willowy man with hair and teeth that somehow seemed to outshine the rest of his body. Aged 21 (and if you believe that, then keep watching the skies for flying pork chops; Fisher guessed the man was much, much closer to 30, but waddya’ know, this is show-biz). Adam sat in a wooden straight-backed chair that, the more Fisher thought about it, resembled a throne. Adam’s two girlfriends sat on the floor at his feet. Apart from their names, Belle and Kym, Fisher didn’t know much about them. They were exotic beauties who moved with the grace of catwalk models.
Marco. Drums and percussion (and bullhorn/harmonica fusion that had to be heard to be believed). A compact, muscular guy of 22 with light-brown curly hair that had already started to recede at the temples. He was raised by his grandmother. Father absent prior to birth; mother working the cruise ships as a waitress. Not spectacular wages, Marko would say, but she couldn’t bear being in the same place for more than forty-eight hours.
Sterling Pound, rhythm guitar and saxophone, aged 25. Shaven headed with a black goatee. Fisher endured the same school as him. Although Sterling had been three years Fisher’s senior, they played in the school’s weird orchestra, Ad Hoc. It consisted of fifteen lead guitarists, including Fisher, two drummers and four keyboard players and an odd-looking kid who played a dented tuba
in between sucking lollipops. Fisher had seen a way of improving his status in the band by switching to bass guitar. So he did. Good move, too. The plethora of wannabe guitar heroes was dispensable, but as sole bass player the music teacher always made sure that Fisher had privileged treatment. This meant he managed to escape hated mathematics lessons for band practice. He and Sterling became good friends. Back than, Sterling was known by his real name John Smith. When they’d formed Cuspidor in their mid-teens, and they’d got as far as writing their own songs, John insisted that he be credited as Sterling Pound. Surprisingly, the name stuck. Sterling was easily the most placid, centred member of the band. He sat patiently through all those ‘musical differences’ arguments, then, when the others had run out of points to wrangle over, he’d ask in a laid-back way, ‘Shall we play some music now?’ His adopted role in life seemed to be a form of human glue. Sterling’s presence became the adhesive that kept the band members bonded together. Fisher didn’t know if the man could still keep them cemented in place. The old band members of the now defunct Cuspidor had little in common with newcomers Fabian and Adam Ambrose, other than the ambition to have hit records. Whether that was enough to create a viable rock group was debatable. Anyway, that’s Sterling Pound: an agent for human cohesion.
Fabian, aged 23, there on the plastic crate declaiming his ‘musical manifesto’. Maybe he wasn’t joking when he’d told them he had aristocratic blood. His blond hair framed a face with fine-boned features. Body language? Yeah, if you imagine the way an English lord walks – holds his head with a tendency to look down his nose – his gestures a blend of louche and elegantly casual. That was Fabian to a T. His wealthy family background reinforced the impression of aristocracy. The times he began one of his loquacious anecdotes with the words, ‘When we wintered in San Tropez …’ No doubt about this, either. Fabian is the architect of the band. He’s its songwriter; its driving force. He’d told them right from the start he’d decide musical direction. He’d produce the recordings for the album. Fabian’s going to be controlling all the levers.
Josanne, 24 years old. Fabian’s lover, or should it be factotum? As Fabian talked she didn’t listen like the rest. She checked points on a clipboard. Several times she handed him colour photocopies of album covers by other bands to demonstrate examples of a particular image concept. When she wasn’t doing those things she took photographs with a classy digital camera. Fisher experienced what he could only describe as a flash forward. He thought: in ten years time there’s going to be a big glossy coffee-table book with ‘by Fabian’ on the cover. Those photographs are going to be in the first pages. Under what heading? Genesis of a rock band. Our first steps. Fabian had sold her the same dream of success. So now they’d all subscribed to his Faustian pact. We’ve all surrendered a chunk of personal integrity for the promise of being famous and very, very rich. So, what other price do we have to pay for that? Flash forward. Another chapter in the book headed Fisher speaks! My months of rehab hell. No, the price won’t be paid in ten years’ time. There’s a price to pay now. Right here in The Tower. The first flippant musing on the imaginary band history was suddenly brutally shouldered aside by the revelation that they’d have to confront a menace within these walls.
Yeah, right. That was another attempt to be flippant, but it didn’t have the muscle to suppress a conviction that he’d have to face dangers here in The Tower. Then was it so melodramatic? He remembered only too forcefully what had happened last night when the room seemed to collapse inward to crush him. Was that a hallucination brought on by unresolved grief over the death of his father just weeks ago? Was it the result of an abrupt departure from his old life? Walking out on his day job? Then suddenly finding himself here on the threshold of a new chapter? Changes were taking place at breakneck speed; it didn’t take a psychiatrist to explain that this must be traumatic. Anyway, that’s it. Fisher had completed the list of the people he’d be sharing his life with here, in an old country house miles from anywhere. That would be a test of nerve in its own right. Wait … there was one person he’d missed from the list. He looked round the ballroom until he found him. Yup, there he was. Dark hair, with black eyebrows over-arching eyes that were thoughtful enough to suggest that the owner of those had something on his mind. There he is John Fisher, bassist, aged 22. Fisher gazed at his reflection in the window. The Fisher caught in the window pane gazed back at him. Hello, Fisher. You’ve sold your soul for a chance of fame, haven’t you? Flippant thought, part million and one. The reflection had his father’s eyes. It had the same way of his father’s of tilting his head a little to one side with a faraway expression when lost in thought. At that moment the clock chimed. Shimmering notes ghosted through the ballroom. The dog began to bark. Fisher hadn’t realized it was anywhere near the ballroom. For a moment his own eyes reflected by the window pane held his attention with a mesmeric power. The reflection smiled back at him; its eyes hardened into a penetrating stare. The explosive barks, the chimes. Fabian stopped speaking; the sheaf of papers slipped out of his fingers to fall to the ground. The smile on Fisher’s reflected face grew wider. Fisher’s hands darted to his face to explore his lips.
I’m not smiling, he thought, stunned. I’m not smiling. But my reflection is.
CHAPTER 8
‘For crying out loud!’ Fabian’s lordly poise had vanished. ‘That bloody clock! Is there anyway of stopping it making that damn awful noise?’
Marco shrugged. ‘I told you: I can’t even find the clock, never mind stop it.’ As Josanne rushed to pick up Fabian’s fallen papers, he continued to rage. ‘And shut that blasted dog up!’
Fisher moved as if he was in a dream. Seeing his reflection smile like that when he wasn’t smiling produced that same sense of internal chaos he’d experienced when the walls of the room had lost their cohesion and closed in on him last night. When something you take for granted – like rooms generally possess immovable walls, and reflections don’t behave independently of the object they reflect – when those physical laws are demolished, then it explodes your image of the world. Dear God, Fisher had covered the lower half of his face with his hands when he’d checked if he was smiling insanely to himself. No, he wasn’t smiling. What’s more, a mirror image of his hands should have appeared in the window pane. They hadn’t. There’d only been a reflection of his entire face wearing a smile that morphed into a leer. Something else had generated the image.
‘Fisher, are you going to shut that dog up or what?’
‘OK, OK, I’m going.’ He reached the doorway to find Jak standing in the centre of the corridor with his front legs splayed and his hackles standing upright on his neck. Without let-up, he barked explosively.
‘There’s nothing there, Jak,’ he told the animal as he looked along the corridor in the direction of the main entrance. Immediately, the dog stopped barking, shook himself then sat down with his amber eyes fixed on the entrance hall, some thirty yards away. ‘Are you coming in here?’ Fisher stepped back to allow him through into the ballroom. Jak was calm again, but instead of moving into the room he remained sitting. ‘So, you want to stand guard? Is that it, boy?’ The dog resolutely watched the corridor as if he expected the arrival of a visitor at any moment. ‘There’s a good boy, you keep watching out for us, eh?’ The conviction that Jak was standing guard against an intruder wouldn’t leave Fisher as he returned to the others.
Fabian stood with his hands on his hips. ‘I thought you were taking that stray to the police?’
‘Why not hang on to him?’
‘Whatever for?’
‘He’ll come in useful as a guard dog.’
‘A guard dog?’ Fabian didn’t believe he was hearing this.
‘Why not?’ Marko asked. ‘Look at all this equipment. It only needs someone to break in and we’re screwed.’
‘Yeah, keep him,’ Sterling said. ‘I like dogs. We’ll be able to have a laugh with him.’
‘OK, OK … only do something to stop that bloody clock from chi
ming. We’ll be recording these rehearsals – the last thing we need is ding-fucking-dong all the way through the damn music.’
‘As I said,’ Marko told him patiently. ‘I couldn’t find the clock.’
‘It must be somewhere. It’s not a ghost clock, is it? It’s not invisible.’
Fisher found his attention being drawn back to his reflection in the glass. Yeah, this time it was just a reflection. Just an everyday, regular, run-of-the-mill reflection. When he rubbed his jaw, the mirror image man copied. Only this niggling fear remained that the Fisher trapped in the atoms of the window pane might suddenly rebel again to smash the laws of physics.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, as he made an effort to look away from the window. ‘Marko and me will find the clock this afternoon.’
Fabian appeared relieved. ‘Fair enough. Only don’t break it. Or they’ll dock our wages, and we need all the cash we can get to buy studio time. Just unplug it or tie your ruddy sock around the striker. OK?’