Night Music

by John Connolly

  “Then it seems that I have no choice,” he said. “Holmes must fall again, and this time he cannot return.”

  Dr. Watson coughed meaningfully. The others looked at him. The good doctor had finished his soup, for it was a pea-based delicacy of the highest order, but all the while he had been listening to what was being said. Dr. Watson was much wiser than was often credited. His lesser light simply did not shine as brightly next to the fierce glow of Holmes.

  “It seems to me,” he said, “that the issue is one of belief. You said it yourself, Mr. Headley: it is readers as much as writers who bring characters to life. So the solution . . .”

  He let the ending hang.

  “Is to make the new Holmes less believable than the old,” Holmes concluded. He patted Watson hard on the back, almost causing his friend to regurgitate some soup. “Watson, you’re a marvel.”

  “Much obliged, Holmes,” said Watson. “Now, how about pudding?”

  •  •  •

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle never visited the Caxton Private Lending Library, although an open invitation was extended to him. He felt that it was probably for the best that he keep his distance from it for, as he told Mr. Headley, if he needed to spend time with the great characters of literature, he could simply pick up a book. Neither did he ever again meet Holmes and Watson, for they had their own life in his imagination.

  Instead, he carefully set out to undermine the second incarnation of his creations, deliberately interspersing his better later stories with tales that were either so improbable in their plots and solutions as to test the credulity of readers to the breaking point—“The Adventure of the Sussex Vampire” being among the most notable—or simply not terribly good, including “The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter,” “The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez,” or “The Adventure of the Blanched Soldier.” He even dropped in hints of more wives for Watson, whom he didn’t actually bother to name. The publication of such tales troubled him less than it might once have done, for even as he tired of his inventions he understood that, with each inconsequential tale, he was ensuring the survival of the Caxton and the continued happiness of his original characters.

  Yet his strange encounter with the Caxton had also given Conan Doyle a kind of quiet comfort. In the years following his meeting with Holmes and Watson, he lost his first wife, and, in the final weeks of World War I, his son Kingsley. He spent many years seeking proof of life after death, and found none, but his knowledge of the Caxton’s existence, and the power of belief to incarnate fictional characters, to imbue them with another reality outside the pages of books, gave him the hope that the same might be possible for those who had been taken from him in this life. The Caxton was a world beyond this one, complete and of itself, and if one such world could exist, then so might others.

  Shortly after Conan Doyle’s death in July 1930, copies of the first editions of the Holmes tales duly arrived at the library, including The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes with its enlightening manuscript addition. By then Mr. Gedeon was the librarian, and he, Holmes, and Watson endured a slightly nervous couple of days, just in case the plan hatched by Watson and enacted by Conan Doyle had not worked, but no new incarnations of Holmes and Watson appeared on their doorstep, and a strange, warm gust of wind blew through the Caxton, as though the great old institution had just breathed its own sigh of relief.

  A small blue plaque now stands on the wall of the Caxton, just above the shelf containing the Conan Doyle collection. It reads: “In Memory of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, 1859–1930: For Services to the Caxton Private Lending Library & Book Depository.”

  I LIVE HERE

  This is a true story. I’ve changed one or two small details, but no more than that. It seemed appropriate that, in the discussion of supernatural fiction to follow, I should somehow manage to sneak in something which is not quite fiction at all.

  Writers are, in general, solitary beings. Oh, we mix with friends, and family, and one another. Some of us even manage to form relationships that last long enough to produce offspring. There is always a part of us, though, that prefers to be alone. We keep it walled off. It is this hidden aspect that enables us to be writers.

  There was a time when publishers were content to permit writers to be themselves—that is, to let them write, and make no demands upon their time other than the occasional interview with a suitably serious literary journal or newspaper, or the signing of some pages for a limited edition to be sold through subscriptions, or a lunch with an editor during which wine would be drunk, complaints aired, and rivals belittled.

  Now, though, writers are expected to be salesmen and hucksters. We have to promote our wares. We are enjoined to meet our public. Some writers are very good at this, and are happy to do it. Personally, I don’t mind the promotional aspect of the job, just as long as it doesn’t take up too many hours, for the more hours I spend away from my desk, the less I write.1 Overall, I suspect my readers would prefer to have more of my books to read than the dubious pleasure of my company, but I find that the demands on my time increase commensurately with the number of titles I produce, and I could now spend an entire year promoting my books in various countries, if the mood took me.

  For some writers, such touring is a way of bringing in extra income from appearance fees, workshops, and unspent per diems. For others, it’s simply a break from routine, a chance to see a new city at a publisher’s expense, and perhaps catch up with friends and colleagues in exotic surroundings. Again, all of this presupposes that the writer in question enjoys such affairs and is capable of putting on a bit of a show for the public. This is not always the case. There are writers who should not be allowed out of the house, and should never, under any circumstances, be permitted to meet their public, for it does neither party any favors.

  I have seen some writers behave desperately poorly toward their readers, and spent time with others who simply don’t know how to behave at all. At a French literary festival I once sat between two American writers of mystery novels with Western settings, neither of whom had the good manners or common sense to remove his cowboy hat in the lovely converted church in which the session was taking place. I watched as a future winner of the Man Booker Prize turned to his fellow panelists and said, “Don’t you just hate all . . . this?” while gesturing disdainfully at a small, damp audience, of which I was a part, that had come out on a miserable night to listen to them speak. In a children’s bookstore, I sat with two authors who had collaborated on a series of cynically created but moderately successful books for young adults and listened while they whispered scornfully to each other about their readers.

  But no matter: that’s not the point of this tale, and writers will, in turn, have stories of drunken members of the public interrupting readings, or rubbishing their efforts, or taking the opportunity offered by audience questions to shill their own self-published work. I have, at various times, been followed through the dark streets of Birmingham by an overenthusiastic reader who later wrote to tell me that she’d never stalked anyone before and was happy that I was her first; been mistaken for the writers Ian Rankin, Michael Connelly, Joe Connelly, and James Patterson, all of whom, I would venture to suggest, are slightly older gentlemen than I, bear no physical resemblance to me whatsoever, and are not even Irish; had water poured over my head and wine spilled on my nice new trousers; and been kicked in the face by a bookseller in Glasgow who was very anxious that I should take a look at her new shoes. In the end, it’s enough to accept that authors now have to publicize their books in a way that their predecessors in a gentler age did not, and one might as well approach the task with a degree of good humor and goodwill, and remember that there are far worse ways to earn a living.

  So it was that, some years ago, my publicity tour took me to a city in northeast England. Quite often, I’ll drive myself around on such jaunts, as the journeys between signings offer a little welcome alone time. On this occasion, my publisher’s northern sales rep was driving me,
which was fine as I have huge affection for him, and he’s good company on a long trip. The event was to take place in a city center library and was scheduled to start long after most of the shops had closed for business, so the streets were quiet as we made our way to the venue.

  The event itself was largely unremarkable, as these things go. There were no fights. Nobody died. I read a little, and talked more, and those in attendance appeared to have a good time—or were polite enough to keep it to themselves if they didn’t—and bought some books afterward. When I visit bookstores and libraries to talk, I’m acutely aware that people have other things they could be doing instead, and I try to make the evening pass as entertainingly as possible. If nothing else, I’d like people to leave with a feeling of pleasant surprise at how painless the whole business was, and have them consider attending another at some point in the future, rather than have them vow to cut their own feet off before they ever again darken the doors of a literary event.

  Finally, when I thought that the members of the public had all departed, an older lady, who had been waiting quietly in a corner, approached the table at which I was seated. A younger woman, clearly in attendance to offer some form of moral or even physical support, hovered uncertainly behind her.

  “Mr. Connolly?” said the older lady. “I have a question to ask.”

  It was late, and I was signing books for the local bookshop, but I can multitask to some degree. I told her that I’d be happy to answer any questions she might have, if I could. She seemed nervous, frightened even. I rarely have that effect on people. I try not to, to be honest. It’s bad for sales.

  “I’ve read your books,” she said, her voice shaking, “and I’ve enjoyed them a great deal. I have a difficulty, and I was hoping that you might be able to help me with it.”

  She was very serious. She did not smile. I set aside the book that I was signing.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “There is a house here in town,” she said. “Something bad lives inside it. It’s dangerous. It hates everything, but it hates children most of all. I live near this house. I watch it, and I do my best to keep children away from it, but I’m getting old, and I’m going to die soon. Somebody has to watch that house when I’m gone. What I was wondering is: do you have any knowledge of such things, or would you be aware of anyone who has?”

  She waited for a reply. I looked at the sales rep standing beside me. He looked at me. We both then looked at the old woman.

  Here’s the thing: on occasions such as this, one tends to assume that people may be slightly mad. It’s terrible, I know, but it’s true. Perhaps mad is the wrong word. Eccentric might be more appropriate.

  Except that this woman didn’t look mad. I know that it’s not easy to judge, and I’m no expert. Quite frankly, if we could spot madness just by looking in someone’s eyes then a great many tragedies might be averted. But the woman appeared to be in full possession of her wits, as far as I could tell. She was also definitely very, very scared.

  “Are you talking about an exorcist?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “We’ve had the house blessed, but it did no good. I don’t think that this presence is ever going to leave. I suppose I was hoping that you’d know if there were ‘watchers’—you know, people who guard old, dangerous places.”

  But I didn’t, of course, because I’m not really that kind of person.

  I’m this kind of person.

  •  •  •

  I am frequently asked if I believe in the supernatural, but my direct experience of any realms beyond this one is minimal to the point of nonexistence. I consider myself to be a healthy skeptic: it may be that ghosts exist, but I’ve never seen one. On the evening that my father’s body was taken to the church to await its funeral Mass and burial the next morning, the inhabitants of our house—which included my mother and brother, along with a visiting aunt and uncle—were woken in the dead of night by the sound of loud snoring. My father was a terrible snorer, and this was snoring on a quite epic scale. My mother, brother, aunt, and uncle gathered on our landing to listen to it. I was the only person who was not there, as I was fast asleep. I later suggested that it might have been me that they heard, although my mother assured me this was not the case. I was quite relieved, as I didn’t want to be labeled the kind of snorer who could wake an entire house, even if it meant entertaining as an alternative explanation the possibility of some intervention from the afterlife. Anyway, what I’m saying is that even when my childhood home may or may not have experienced some form of paranormal visitation, I remained completely unaware of it. It may be that any number of ex-girlfriends are right, and I am just unusually insensitive.

  My interest in matters ghostly is largely literary in origin. I have been fascinated by stories of the supernatural ever since childhood. Initially, I hunted down anthologies aimed at younger readers, including works that claimed to be nonfiction but strained the credulity of even my preteen self, but I quickly progressed to more adult fare.

  During the writing of this little essay, I returned to the bedroom of my childhood home in Rialto to look for evidence of my juvenile fascination with the uncanny.2 On the shelf by my bed, I found the following:

  The Pan Book of Horror Stories (1959), edited by Herbert van Thal

  All editors of volumes of horror stories should have surnames like “van Thal.” Herbert van Thal was born Bertie Maurice van Thal, but Bertie—or Maurice—van Thal doesn’t have quite the same ring about it, and, if nothing else, Herbert (or Bertie) had a fairly sure knowledge of the trappings of the uncanny. The Pan collections run to thirty volumes, although van Thal edited only the first twenty-five before death put an end to his anthologizing. The first is still probably the best, featuring stories by Bram Stoker (“The Squaw”) and Muriel Spark (“The Portobello Road”) among others. As the covers became more lurid—which is saying something, as they were never exactly understated to begin with—the quality of the tales inside grew steadily worse. They also, if I remember correctly, became a bit seedy, but I may just have been easily shocked. Still, this book was certainly among my first introductions to supernatural fiction, and I therefore owe van Thal a debt of gratitude. Incidentally, my friend Professor Darryl Jones, himself a fine anthologist of supernatural fiction, assures me that van Thal was also known as the ugliest man in London, which, if true, seems strangely appropriate.

  The Hammer Horror Film Omnibus (1973) The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus (1974), both by John Burke

  During my childhood and early adolescence, horror films were a staple of BBC2’s Saturday night television programming. This invariably took the form of a double bill, the first of which was typically an earlier Hammer horror with, therefore, little or no nudity, while the second tended toward the more adult. I was, unfortunately, cursed with parents who didn’t really go out much on weekends, and their interest in watching horror films on a Saturday night was less than zero. In fact, my first exposure to the Hammer oeuvre came through my best friend at the time, whose family had a holiday home in Rush, Co. Dublin.

  I never quite understood why a family would bother buying a holiday home that was only about half an hour away from where they lived. It seemed to defeat the whole notion of holidays as being a break from the norm. Then again, my father disliked holidaying in any location a) to which he could not drive; and b) which might cost him money, so most of my summers were spent in my grandmother’s cottage near Ballylongford, Co. Kerry, where my father could holiday for free while keeping a close eye on his car.

  Anyway, Dan’s parents (let’s call him Dan, because that was his name) were considerably more liberal than my own mum and dad, especially when it came to the viewing habits of their three children, so they were quite happy to let us all sit up and watch 1966’s Dracula, Prince of Darkness on their small black-and-white portable television.

  The film, as you may already have guessed, was a revelation to me. I had never seen anything like it before, and it is still one
of my clearest movie-watching recollections, even after almost forty years. I still believe that Dracula, Prince of Darkness is the best of Christopher Lee’s outings as the Count, helped by the fact that Lee had not yet begun to tire of his association with the role, although the absence of Peter Cushing, who graced Dracula (1958) as Van Helsing, is regrettable. It should be noted that the film also made a strong impression on Dan, although not entirely a favorable one: he endured a spectacular nightmare as a consequence of watching it, during which he wet the bed, although it would have been more distressing for me if I’d been on the lower bunk. I like to think of it as a lucky escape.

  All of this occurred in the days before home video recorders. These were also the days before color television, at least for anyone I knew. Oh, and my parents never owned a video recorder, so the first time I ever had movies on demand was when I left home and bought my own TV and VCR. Therefore the only way to relive a movie-watching experience during my childhood was to hunt down the novelization of a beloved film and reread it at will. Thus it was that The Second Hammer Horror Film Omnibus was a godsend, featuring, as it did, not only Dracula, Prince of Darkness in prose form, but also three other Hammer films that I had not yet seen—and wouldn’t get to see for many years to come.

  Among these was The Reptile, which, like Dracula, Prince of Darkness, was released in 1966. (This was a pretty good year for Hammer, as it also saw the appearance of Rasputin: The Mad Monk, featuring Christopher Lee in the title role, and the possibly not-entirely-historically-accurate One Million Years B.C., starring Raquel Welch in a fur bikini.) Many years later, I would write a story entitled “Miss Froom, Vampire,” which was produced for BBC Radio 4 by my friend Lawrence Jackson.3 Lawrence persuaded Jacqueline Pearce, who had starred as the unfortunate Anna in The Reptile, to read the story. By that point Pearce was better known for playing the evil Servalan in the BBC science fiction series Blake’s 7, and for appearing in a state of quite spectacular nakedness in Michael Radford’s 1987 film White Mischief.