by Amy Cross
“I think you'd have done well in Eurovision,” he continues. “That hit song of yours could have won in Eurovision. That's not an insult, by the way. It's a compliment. Actually, it's a huge compliment. I love Eurovision.”
“You're a murderer,” I reply.
“It was self defense,” he says firmly, and now his grin is gone, as the helicopter swoops out toward the horizon. “I didn't want to hurt him, but he gave me no choice. If I'd failed in my mission, Mr. Glass would have either had me killed, or he'd have cut me loose. I did what I did in order to survive. I'd suggest that you start acting the same way.”
Turning and looking out the window, I'm shocked to see the glinting tops of London skyscrapers. As the helicopter races across vast empty fields, I look toward the distant city and search for any sign of life, but somehow the whole place looks dead.
“There's not much there anymore,” Jerry explains. “London's not the place to be, not anymore. I'm sure there are a few people scrabbling for survival, but the metrics aren't good. Disease, violence, unrest... I wouldn't want to go to London now. Even the proto-governments are ignoring the place, they're setting up in places like York and Winchester instead. I guess they're aiming for some historical significance.”
“There's really nothing out there,” I whisper, watching the tombstone-like skyscrapers and buildings of that once-great city. “London has fallen, and all because we lost music.”
“Don't feel bad about it,” Jerry replies. “Change is good. Change is vital. If you really think about it, the world was in something of a rut, we needed something to come along and shake things up. And men like Mr. Glass are leading the way. Give it another ten years, and I think you'll see some kind of new order start to rise from the ashes. That's when humanity's really going to take a great leap forward, although it'll never be the same without music. I have a feeling that the next phase of human existence is going to be fundamentally different from everything that's gone before.”
“With murder and brutality at its heart?” I ask, still watching the vast, still land as the helicopter races through the morning air. “With men like Joshua Glass getting exactly what they want?”
“I didn't have you down as a pessimist, Mr. Harrisford.”
“I have always had a rather innate aversion to tyrants,” I tell him. “And to murderers.”
“Things will shake out eventually,” he replies, sounding rather amused by the whole situation. “Do you remember when all people had to talk about was politics and celebrity gossip, Mr. Harrisford? Those days seem so long ago now. And I for one am very excited to see where men like Joshua Glass are going to lead us next.”
The helicopter takes a sharp turn, banking left at great speed. I feel my stomach turn, but I suspect that this is not due solely to the helicopter's rather rapid movement. Indeed, I fear that at the end of this journey I am going to come face to face with the very epitome of everything I hate in this world. Worse still, I cannot even stand up to Mr. Glass when I meet him, for today I learned that I am a coward.
Thirty
“I recognize this place,” I say several hours later, as I step out of the helicopter and see a set of ruins rising up high above us. “Where are we?”
“Lindisfarne,” Jerry replies. “Mr. Glass has always had an affinity for the place. When it became available after the collapse of civilization, he decided to move here. He's had the most wonderful home built for himself and his family, combining modernity with the ancient ruins of the old abbey.”
As he speaks, I realize that I can indeed make out glinting glass and metal running between the ruined abbey walls. I came to Lindisfarne once when I was a child, and I remember my father attempting to tell me all about the Viking raids that ruined this place. I was too young to really absorb the tale at the time, but I do recall being awestruck by the sight of what remained of the abbey. Now it seems that this Mr. Glass fellow has put his own stamp on the place, and the result is singularly hideous.
A grander example of opulent bad taste, I cannot possibly imagine.
“We are entering the age of barbarians,” I whisper.
“And here's Mr. Glass himself,” Jerry announces, as I turn to see a man in a dark suit coming to meet us. “He's very pleased to see you, Mr. Harrisford. Oh, here -”
He thrusts my guitar into my hands.
“You should be holding this,” he explains. “It looks a lot better.”
“Now this is a sight for sore eyes,” Glass says as he reaches us and holds out a hand for me to shake. His eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. “A real musician, for the first time in more than five years. Mr. Harrisford, I must admit that I was beginning to lose hope that such a rare thing could still exist. You're priceless, absolutely priceless.” He takes my hands and shakes it firmly, even though it was not offered. “And I mean that in the most literal sense.”
“I imagine that Mr. Harrisford is tired,” Jerry suggests. “He hasn't slept at all during the night.”
“Then you must be shown to your room at once,” Glass replies, taking a step back and looking me up and down, as if he's admiring my presence. “I want you to be fully rested before you give us the honor of a performance. I trust that Jerry and his men have been treating you well?”
“Actually,” I reply coldly, “they murdered my friend.”
Glass hesitates, before lowering his sunglasses slightly to reveal a pair of piercing blue eyes.
“I beg your pardon?” he says.
“Your associate here killed my friend in cold blood,” I explain. “For no other reason than that he refused to do as he was ordered.”
“Is that so, Jerry?” Glass asks, turning to him. “I thought we discussed this.”
“It was self-defense,” Jerry replies. “I'm sorry, Mr. Glass, but I did what was necessary in order to acquire the asset. If I hadn't, I'd probably still be there arguing with him now.”
“I see,” Glass replies, before putting a hand on my arm and trying to lead me toward the path that leads to his home. “Please, come with me,” he continues. “You'll be looked after, I assure you. Whatever hardships you've endured over the past five years, they are over now. Your miraculous survival is going to be well-rewarded.” He reaches into one of his pockets. “And I can assure you that nothing else will happen that might unsettle you in any manner.”
With that, he pulls out a gun and turns, and I watch in horror as he aims at Jerry and then fires. He hits the man straight in the forehead, blasting a chunk out of his brain and sending Jerry falling back and crashing to the ground.
“Again, my apologies for Mr. Sudbury's actions,” Glass says as he calmly puts the gun back into his pocket. “As you can see, I do not tolerate that sort of thing. Jerry disobeyed my orders by hurting your friend, and I can only hope that this trauma will not harm your playing in any manner.”
Staring down at Jerry's body, I watch as two uniformed men come and pick him up. They carry him away, heading toward the beach as if they mean to simply dump him into the water.
“Please, come,” Glass continues, touching my arm again. “I think you'll be very surprised when you see what I've created here.”
This time, too dazed to really resist, I let him lead me along the path. I'm still holding the bodged-together guitar that I fixed back at the farm.
“The first thing you must understand,” Glass says, “is that you're not here for me. Not really. I'll explain later, but you're here for the future. For the future that I intend to create. I don't know whether you're aware, Mr. Harrisford, but we didn't simply lose the music in our world. It was taken from us. My men have been examining the evidence, and it's quite clear that creatures of some sort came here and stole our music.”
“Yes, I'm quite aware of that,” I reply.
“So many people lost their minds,” he continues, “but I see that as a sort of culling of the herd. The weak are gone, Mr. Harrisford, and now the likes of you and I are left to propel the world forward. Really, we should
be grateful to those creatures. Whatever they were, and wherever they took the music, they most likely did us a great favor. Do you remember how music was everywhere? The night that it was taken, I was holding a concert in London, and I was astonished to realize that most of my guests were ignoring the music itself. They were too busy talking. Music became something for the background, something we took for granted. And now?”
Ahead, two more uniformed men open a door at the front of the building.
“Now music is the most precious thing around,” Glass adds. “More precious than gold, more precious than diamonds. And you possess it, don't you? You're one of the very few people in the world who can still play, even if your gift will only last for a few more minutes. That's why I had you brought here, to my villain-like lair. Something so precious must be cared for and used only when it can give the maximum possible benefit to the world. Now, what do you think of my home?”
Stepping into the foyer, I look around and see vast glass windows that stretch between the ancient ruins of the abbey. Even the roof is glass, as if this Mr. Glass fellow has an unhealthy obsession, and I can't help but feel that this whole place is utterly sterile.
“Actually,” I say, turning to him, “I think it's a disgusting travesty. Even the Vikings showed this place more respect.”
He stares at me for a moment, as if shocked, and then he smiles.
“A perfect answer,” he replies finally, patting me on the shoulder. “Truly perfect, Mr. Harrisford. If you'd lied and said you liked it, I would have been very disappointed. I trust you will be able to make yourself comfortable, however. You must rest now, and later you will bless us all with your gift.”
I look around for a moment, unable to ignore the goons in uniforms who seem to be guarding the place, and then I turn back to Mr. Glass.
“And what makes you think,” I say cautiously, “that I will play anything for you?”
“Because when you realize why I have brought you here, and for whose benefit,” he replies, “you will have no other choice.”
Thirty-One
Stopping at the window of my room, I look out and watch for a moment as water laps at the shore of the nearby beach. We're so far north now, just a few miles from the Scottish border. The scene is rather beautiful, and I am heartened by the realization that – despite all the travails of mankind – the natural world continues on its way.
“Humans need to hear music,” I remember an old girlfriend saying to me one day, as we rested in bed after a heavy night out. “Nature doesn't. For humans, music is this separate thing. For the rest of the world, even birds, music is part of their core. We're so desperately unlucky, really.”
I didn't know what she meant at the time, and to be honest I think perhaps she was inspired by a few too many tokes on a funny cigarette, but perhaps she was trying to get at some deeper point that she didn't quite understand. For the first time, I find myself wondering whether it might be better for the world if the human race died off entirely. Then we wouldn't be around to interfere, and the natural world could get back to the simple pleasure of singing to itself without our constant interruptions.
Then again, deep down, I'm already trying to plan my escape. Sure, Mr. Glass has a lot of guards, but I'm certain I can slip away, and then I'd have to make it to the beach. From there, I think my best bet would be to head north along the coast, so that hopefully I can eventually slip into Scotland. I have no idea what I would find there, but I can only hope that perhaps the Scots are making a better fist of this brave new world malarkey.
Suddenly hearing a bumping noise, I turn just in time to see a young lad – no more than five years old, I'd say – watching me from the open doorway. He has blue eyes, much like the man I must assume is his father.
“Good morning,” I say, forcing a smile. I have never been good with children. “My name is Derek Harrisford. And who might you be?”
The boy stares at me, but he does not reply.
“It seems that I am a guest of your father today,” I explain. “Whether I like it or not.”
I wait, but still he says nothing. After a moment, however, he turns and looks over at the corner of the room, where my guitar rests on the floor.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?” I ask. “It's really two guitars. Both were damaged, but out of their remains I was able to construct something semi-decent. One of the guitars belonged to me, and the other belonged to a girl named Sarah who... Well, I don't suppose that you need to know that now, she was -”
Suddenly he raises his right hand and gestures for me to follow him, and then he slips out of view.
“Excuse me?” I call out, but I can already hear his footsteps walking away.
I hesitate, wondering whether I should perhaps focus on trying to find a way out of this place, but then I tell myself that perhaps I should go and see what the child wants.
Stepping out into the corridor, I see that he's heading around the far corner, so I follow. I feel faintly ridiculous, but I suppose that it would behove me to trust a child. He might be the son of Joshua Glass, but I refuse to believe that at such a young age this boy could already have learned to replicate his father's deceit and cunning.
Reaching the corner, I see the boy turn to check that I'm coming, and then he walks calmly into another room.
I look around, feeling rather as if I'm being drawn into a trap, and then I follow the boy through, and to my surprise I find myself in a large room lined – on either side – with musical instruments on various stands. There are saxophones and trombones and clarinets, and violins and violas, and drums and guitars and lutes and pianos, and scores of other instruments, some of which I don't even recognize.
“What is this,” I ask, “some kind of museum?”
The boy walks over to one of the stands and carefully takes a black recorder, which he then puts to his lips. He attempts to play it, but of course no music emerges.
“You should be glad that thing doesn't work,” I tell him. “Trust me, the screeching sound of the recorder is far from pleasant.”
He lowers the recorder for a moment, before setting it back onto the stand and then moving along and picking up a saxophone. He struggles with the heavy instrument, but finally he manages to try blowing into it. Yet again, there is no music.
“Now that is a finer instrument,” I explain. “Not that I was ever very good at playing the saxophone, you understand, but I knew some fine musicians who were masters on the thing.” I pause for a moment, watching the boy's relentless and rather sad attempt to play. He even presses his fingers against the pads, mimicking the proper method, as if he's been taught a pantomime version of the art of musicianship. “Perhaps it's a little big for you,” I suggest. “You should start with something smaller.”
“You misunderstand,” a familiar voice says suddenly, and I turn to see that Mr. Glass is watching us from the doorway.
He steps into the room as the boy continues to blow futilely into the saxophone.
“This is Joshua Jr., my son,” he explains. “On the night the music vanished, Joshua was still in my wife's belly. So you see, he was born into a world without music. He's fascinated by the instruments, he spends hours every day pretending to play them. It's rather tragic, really, for the truth is, he has never heard music. I've told him about it, but I don't think he really understands what it was. Still, I think he has some instinctive understanding that something is wrong. That something is missing from the world.”
Turning, I watch for a moment longer as the child tries again and again to play the saxophone. The scene is, indeed, very tragic, although I must admit that there's a hint of comedy as well.
“Can you imagine how hard it has been,” he continues, “trying to explain all of this to him? He knows that there exists this precious thing, but he also knows that he doesn't understand it. It's impossible to explain music to someone who has never heard it being played. I worry that as he gets older, this sense of loss will drive him insane. Eventu
ally he will have to succeed me, and he'll need to be strong. Perhaps now, Mr. Harrisford, you're beginning to understand why I went to such extreme measures in order to bring you here.”
I turn to him, and I swear I can see fear in his eyes.
“My son is the reason,” he says firmly. “Tonight, once you have rested, we shall stage a performance in my purpose-built auditorium. And Mr. Harrisford... I assure you, you will play.”
Thirty-Two
Sitting in silence, I watch as the two uniformed men make their way across the open foyer. They seem to have some kind of routine, and I've been studying them for over an hour now. Sure enough, they quickly head into a side-room, and I find myself completely alone.
This is my chance.
I hurry across the foyer, with my guitar in my arms, and I head quickly to the exit. I had been expecting to find the door locked, but to my surprise I find it open, so I slip outside and immediately feel a strong wind blowing against me. I can hear distant waves, too, crashing against the beach far below, and for a moment I look out at the vast wilderness and I realize that I don't really have much of a plan beyond escaping the home of Joshua Glass.
Still, I suppose I can come up with a plan once I'm on the road. For now, I really have to get moving.
I glance around to make sure that I haven't been spotted, and then I hurry across the patch of open grass that leads to the path. Looking over my shoulder, I'm surprised to find that I still haven't been spotted, but a moment later I see a guard coming around from the rear of the building.
I duck down behind some rocks, still clutching my guitar, and then I wait. I can hear voices in the distance, but as far as I can tell my absence has not yet been detected. The wind is really picking up now, causing the grass to rustle loudly, and I suppose that perhaps this extra noise will aid my escape. After a few more seconds, I begin to peer around the side of the rock, and I watch as the guard heads into the main building. All seems calm so far, but I am quite sure that soon an alarm will be raised.