The Boy Who Could See Demons

by Carolyn Jess-Cooke

  I thought of the pictures of the house Anya had brought me, the big back garden and kitchen. I felt excited at the thought of it but didn’t want him to see, so I just nodded.

  ‘And you said you would do something for me if I helped you find your mother this evening?’

  I looked at him and glared. He could take a big hike off the tallest cliff.

  ‘Well, I already told you that the something would be a gift to Anya. But there’s something else now. For your mum.’

  ‘Don’t you dare talk about my mum,’ I shouted. ‘I didn’t get to see her. The door was locked. Now they’ll never let me see her!’

  He swiped the air with his hand. ‘Oh, they will. You’ll see. Just wait until tomorrow morning, Anya will ensure that you get your visit. This is why we need to give her the gift.’ He paused. ‘And if you give her this gift from me, I’ll do something else for you, too.’

  ‘What gift?’

  He stood up, glanced at the sketchpad in my locker and said, ‘Have you got a ruler?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And a pencil?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  He turned to face me, all serious. ‘I have composed for Anya a piece of music. She loves music so this will undoubtedly be a delight for her. It is composed in precisely the sort of style she prefers. When Beethoven and Mozart composed their opuses they always dedicated them to their friends, like Prince Karl von Lichnowsky and, on one occasion, Napoleon. I believe Anya should be pleased to possess a piece of music that is not only dedicated to her, but written especially for her. What I require from you is to write it out for me exactly as I dictate.’

  I stared at him. ‘Whatever. What about the thing you’ll do for my mum?’

  He sat down, coughed and lowered his eyes.

  ‘Has your mother ever mentioned your father, Alex? I mean, since he died?’

  ‘No, but she was really upset about it, that’s what landed her here in the first place. So if you think I’m going to bring that up—’

  Ruen held up a hand. ‘No, no. What I was going to suggest was … well, you may as well know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  He looked away and sighed very deeply. ‘Your father is in Hell.’

  I felt like I’d just walked into a wall.

  ‘In Hell?’

  ‘In the worst part of it, I’m afraid.’

  My mouth opened and I went to speak but no sound came out.

  ‘What’s wrong, Alex?’ Ruen asked, and I shook my head because I couldn’t talk right then because my head was too full of memories about Dad. I remembered him coming to see us one day and he had a floppy black mask in one hand and a big heavy black bag in the other, and when Mum saw it she looked scared.

  ‘You can’t keep that stuff here,’ she’d said.

  Dad threw her a wink and headed towards the piano in our hall. He lifted the lid and set the bag inside and the piano made a sound even though no one touched the keys.

  ‘What’s in the bag?’ I’d asked at the time.

  ‘Nothing you need to worry about,’ Dad said, and he ruffled my hair and lit a cigarette and told Mum she looked beautiful, and all the worry in her face went away.

  And then I thought of the black mask and the blue car and the policemen. And I remembered what had happened after that. I remembered that Mum had cried and cried the day after and I knew that Dad had died. His face was in the newspapers and Mum warned me not to tell a single soul that he was my dad because then we’d be split up as a family and the headlines called him a monster and evil and said he should rot in Hell.

  ‘Dad’s really in Hell, isn’t he?’ I said to Ruen.

  He gave me a long look that told me I was right.

  I felt sick. Mum would be very, very upset if she knew this. I pulled the covers around my face.

  ‘Oh, worry not.’ Ruen groaned. ‘You write this piece for me as a gift to Anya, and I’ll release your father from Hell.’

  I let go of the covers. ‘You can do that?’

  He looked very offended. ‘Of course I can. Don’t you think that would make your mother very happy, knowing he isn’t in Hell? And I’m most certain your father would be grateful, too.’

  ‘So he’ll go to Heaven?’

  Ruen grinned so wide I thought his face might crack.

  Then I had a thought. ‘Why did you write music for Anya?’

  Ruen narrowed his eyes. ‘The title is “A Love Song For Anya”, my boy. Doesn’t that give you a clue?’

  ‘But you don’t love Anya,’ I said. ‘You don’t love anybody. You’re a demon.’

  Ruen sniffed. ‘Penetrating as always, Alex. The simple truth is that reality lurks in the senses. If we are to prevent Anya from separating you and I then we must make her question what she believes to be real. Your questions have already begun that process, but what she hears when she plays this piece of music will surely finalise her self-questioning.’

  ‘What the heck does that mean?’ I said.

  ‘Have we a deal?’ Ruen said.

  I chewed my nails. I thought of Mum lying in that room, all by herself. She looked very small in the bed. I wouldn’t be able to tell her what Ruen had done for Dad, as she’d probably be very freaked out. But maybe, in a few years, I could. And she would be over the moon.

  I nodded. ‘Deal,’ I said.

  20

  A LOVE SONG FOR ANYA

  Anya

  I grab a coffee on my way to the City Hospital. I go into the consultant office and look over Alex’s recent notes. Observations during administration of Risperidone seemed fine, except for one, tiny, microscopic detail:

  Last night, Alex ran away.

  He made it all the way out of the building, across the courtyard and into the adult unit, where he subsequently pounded on his mother’s door and sunk his teeth into a security guard.

  I close my eyes and try to fill my head with the sights and sounds of the Caribbean. This is bad, bad news. It suggests problems with the security in this place, for certain, but it also indicates Alex’s instability and a whole swathe of negative reactions to his treatment. It will also look very bad on my report.

  I look up to find Dr Hargreaves, a cognitive behaviour therapy specialist who works at MacNeice House two days a week, standing in the doorway of the office.

  ‘Alex is your patient, isn’t he?’ Dr Hargreaves says, glancing down his spectacles. We’ve spoken only a handful of times, and from the direction of previous chitchat I’m aware that he thinks I’m a psychotic disorder fascist.

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I say.

  He nods. ‘And you do know one of the side effects of Risperidone is akathisia?’ Akathisia is extreme restlessness. I swallow, and he sees. It’s entirely doubtful that akathisia would have made Alex go to such lengths, but the possibility makes me feel ill.

  I head to the interview room. Alex is seated in a daffodil-yellow armchair beside the shatterproof coffee table, his ankles crossed and hands pressed inside his thighs. He looks very on edge.

  ‘Hello, Alex,’ I say cheerily. ‘Sorry I’m a little late this morning. Did you sleep OK?’

  He shakes his head, still looking down.

  ‘No? Is that why you went for a walk?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Why did you go for a walk, then? And at three in the morning, I might add. Were you just sick of being in hospital?’

  He looks up at me. His eyes are tired and hollow. ‘I want to tell you something,’ he says, ignoring my questions.

  ‘OK,’ I say, following his lead. I take out my notepad. He looks at it for a long time.

  ‘Is this bothering you, Alex?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t care if you write it down or not. I just want you to listen.’

  I set my pen down. He takes a deep breath.

  ‘I know that you think I’m a danger to myself. But Ruen is real. And I have proof.’

  He hands me a piece of paper. It is a piece of music with the title ‘A Love Song For Anya
’ written at the top. The lines, notes and clefs are very awkwardly drawn, with evidence of much rubbing out and rewriting. But there is precision in its composition. There are accurate phrase marks, a time signature and octave sign, and at two points Italian terms are used: andantino and appassionato. A quick scan through the music indicates that it isn’t a love song in the ballad sense.

  But there is something else that causes my mouth to go dry, before I tell myself that it’s nothing more than a coincidence: the opening melody is identical to the one Poppy composed on the night she died. A high B for three beats; a trilled A, G, A, each of them crotchets; another B for three beats; A, G, A; then a G for three beats; A for three; B again – a simple melody, and one that has passed through my head many times over the last four years, as if it held the secret to what happened the night she died.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I ask him.

  ‘Ruen told me that he composed it for you because you like music. He told me to write it down for you as a gift.’

  ‘As a gift?’

  He nods. ‘He said it’s only a short piece because I couldn’t manage to score a whole symphony, not yet.’

  Alex’s voice is less animated than usual, and there is a firmness to his tone and manner that makes him seem to have aged several years since our last meeting. He seems reluctant, not excited, to show me what he’s written. I stare at the piece of music. Alex leans forward and looks me straight in the eye.

  ‘You ask my mum,’ he whispers, his eyes darting around him. ‘I don’t know how to play music, never mind write it. I can’t play any instrument at all. I can’t even sing. So how would I be able to write that then, eh?’

  I put our interview on hold until after his schooling session with a private tutor. I run outside, dial Michael’s number, and leave a message on his phone to call me as soon as possible. He needs to know about Alex’s escape attempt.

  Just as I am redialling his number, my phone rings. It is Michael.

  ‘Why is Alex on Risperidone?’ are his first words. Aggressive and concerned at the same time.

  ‘Did you know he attempted to run away last night?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he snaps. ‘The hospital told me to come in first thing. I’m worried that we’re being over-zealous with the medication, Anya. The last kid I saw with a Risperidone prescription was eighteen and wiped off his face …’

  ‘Alex’s condition requires medical intervention,’ I say levelly. ‘Cindy shows no sign of getting out of the psych unit anytime soon. Would you wait a week before treating a broken leg?’

  ‘Well, you should know that Cindy isn’t doing so well,’ he replies stiffly. ‘Not since she heard she’d been deemed incapable of acting as Alex’s mother.’

  That’s not my fault, I think, then immediately feel guilty. I have had less than nine hours sleep over the last three nights – a combination of stress and playing catch-up with my other cases. I would do anything right now for a long, hot bath and a comfortable bed.

  ‘I’m going to speak to Cindy later this afternoon.’ I say. ‘And there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has Alex ever had piano lessons?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of. Why?’

  I mention Ruin’s ‘gift’. I tell him that, as a pianist, I am astonished by its complexity. Even if Alex has had some musical training, this is quite a coup. More importantly, the piece makes me wonder if Ruin is more than a projection – if he is a living person with whom Alex is having regular contact, and who is genuinely threatening his well-being.

  ‘Where are you?’ Michael says after a pause.

  ‘Still at the adult unit.’

  ‘Stay where you are.’

  Ten minutes later, he’s striding towards me across the car park. I expect him to follow me inside and grab a coffee while we kill time until I can speak to Cindy, but he tells me to get into his car.

  ‘Where are we going?’ I ask.

  He keeps his eyes away from mine. ‘I’ve arranged for us to speak to someone at the School of Music over at Queen’s University.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You said you wanted to prove whether Alex could have written it. Didn’t you?’

  ‘No, I …’ I tail off and glance at his car, parked badly on the kerb close by. ‘What was all that about the other night, Michael?’

  ‘You mean Alex?’

  ‘No. You stroking my face.’ I feel embarrassed questioning it, but I hate ignoring what must be confronted.

  ‘Aye, there’s the rub,’ he says with a broken grin. ‘Look, I was just worried about you, OK?’

  ‘Worried? I said I was just getting some fresh air …’

  I let him find the words he was searching for on the ground. When he looks up, his expression is sad. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he says slowly. ‘I promise.’

  We head in Michael’s car to the School of Music at the university, directly behind the botanical gardens.

  ‘How’s the running?’ Michael asks.

  I think of the fresh blisters on my soles from new track shoes, the suspicious bulge of fluid in my knee that suggests another steroid injection is due this year. ‘Not nearly as exciting as keeping an allotment,’ I tell him.

  I notice a flash of colour in his cheeks at the mention of his allotment. He proceeds to tell me how his Green Windsor broad beans got blackfly and a rogue cockerel from a neigh-bouring patch took umbrage on his beetroot; how he’s taken up horse riding just so he can collect manure and take it home afterwards (‘Couldn’t you just clean out the stables?’ I ask, to which he responds, ‘I’m too polite to take it without paying something’); how his new potatoes were in his belly an hour after being in soil.

  I find my mind turning to my paternal grandmother, Mei, whose English was limited to the phrase she used often: my yin and yang, the balance of my life. She would say Michael is my yang, my opposite. The one who has been sent to teach me, and vice versa. Listening to him describe his rundown shed, Sundays spent up to his knees in compost, I feel the habits of my own life – a Waitrose basket filled with plastic-wrapped, pre-washed organic vegetables, a rented flat on a twenty-eight-day notice tiled from floor to ceiling, the ability to unclip myself from the artificial wall of twenty-first century life and drop into another at any moment – lose their appeal. The other night I dreamed I woke up in a solar-powered, wind-turbined house built entirely of wood, mud and straw on an island in the Hebrides, my plate filled with produce from my own garden. Five years ago this would have been a nightmare. Now, to my astonishment, it feels the kind of life I would embrace.

  Michael’s friend is a beautiful Californian blonde lecturer in musical composition with a PhD in Bach’s fugues and performance diplomas in oboe, tuba, piano and kettle drums. She has so many letters after her name that it reads like a sentence. She tells me to call her Melinda, and we follow her into her office.

  Michael hands her Alex’s piece of music. She puts on her spectacles and glances at it.

  ‘Gee, written by a ten-year-old, you say?’

  I fumble for the right explanation. ‘Well, sort of,’ I tell her. ‘He says he wrote it on behalf of … an imaginary friend.’

  Melinda raises her eyebrows. ‘Wowee, some imaginary friend, huh?’ She glances at Michael. ‘Well, it certainly ain’t anything I’ve ever seen before. Some influences, here.’

  She uses a short but immaculately manicured fingernail to point these out. ‘A little Chopin here,’ she says. ‘Maybe some Mozart in the closing bars. Of course, influence is highly subjective.’

  She stands up, music in hand, and walks from behind her desk to an upright Yamaha piano against the far wall.

  ‘You play it,’ Michael says, nudging me. ‘It’s your song, after all.’

  Melinda turns. ‘Oh, you play? Be my guest.’ She pulls out the piano seat and gestures for me to sit down.

  I wring my hands. ‘I’m a bit rusty.’

  ‘Come on,’ Melinda says, smiling and pat
ting the seat. ‘Don’t be shy. Let’s hear this masterpiece!’

  The truth is, I feel extremely nervous about playing the piece. I’ve already heard the melody in my head by cold-reading the notes, but I’m not sure how I will feel when I play those eight bars out loud. Poppy’s song. It’s a feeling far beyond my professional rationale and it makes me very uncomfortable. A coincidence, I tell myself, but the memories of my previous sessions with Alex are churning in my head, the unsolved riddles of the things he seems to know about her.

  Nonetheless, I get up out of my chair, take a seat in front of the piano, slide my fingers up the smooth white keys, and begin to play. I hold my breath as I chime out the opening melody, gritting my teeth against thoughts of Poppy’s dark head behind the piano in our Morningside flat. When I get to the second section, I allow myself to breathe out and focus on the technique of the piece. There is a simplicity, an impishness and a determination to it that grips me as I perform it. The melody of the second half is demanding, lyrical, passionate. I glance at the title ‘A Love Song for Anya’. Then I note the smaller text beneath it: ‘From Ruen.’ Ruen. I had always thought the name of Alex’s so-called demon was ‘Ruin’.

  When I finish, Melinda and Michael applaud me.

  ‘I liked that!’ Michael says.

  Melinda nods. ‘A very talented performer.’ She winks, then walks over to the piano and bends down to have another look at it. ‘Kid isn’t very good with annotation, though. Needs a little practice with his treble clefs …’ She turns to Michael. ‘You want me to run this through our software, check if it’s plagiarised?’

  Michael nods. ‘Definitely.’

  Outside the School of Music there is a moment when we are due to part ways.

  ‘You want a lift back to see Cindy?’ Michael asks.

  ‘It’s not far. I’ll walk.’ I start towards the botanical gardens and Michael follows.

  ‘I’m parked this way anyway.’

  ‘Thanks for contacting Melinda. She certainly was helpful.’

  He searches my face. ‘Something about that piece bothers you, doesn’t it.’

  It isn’t a question. ‘I don’t think you know me well enough to—’