Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Foreword
Epigraph
One: September, October
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Two: December
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Three
Chapter 11
My Relationship with Ghosts
Copyright
About the Book
Louise is bereft.
Her seven-year-old son Joseph has been sent away to boarding school against her wishes. and she misses him desperately.
And the neighbour from hell is keeping her awake at night by playing loud, intrusive music.
So when the chance comes to move to the country, she jumps at it as a way of saving her sanity.
Only it doesn’t
Because the music seems to have followed her. Except this time it’s choral music, sung by a choir of children that only she can see and hear …
About the Author
Sophie Hannah is the internationally bestselling author of eight psychological thrillers, the most recent of which is The Carrier. Her crime novels featuring Simon Waterhouse and Charlie Zailer have been published in more than 25 countries, and adapted for ITV1 as Case Sensitive, starring Olivia Williams and Darren Boyd. In 2012, Sophie’s novel Kind of Cruel was shortlisted for the Specsavers National Book Awards Crime Thriller of the Year, and in 2007 she was shortlisted for the TS Eliot Prize for her latest poetry collection, Pessimism for Beginners. She is a Fellow Commoner of Lucy Cavendish College, Cambridge, and her website is www.sophiehannah.com.
The liturgical responses in this book come from real choral services I have attended at St Catherine’s College in Cambridge – a wholly wonderful and non-spooky institution whose girls’ choir, through no fault of its own, planted the seeds of a spooky story in my mind.
Vouchsafe, O Lord,
To keep us this night without sin.
O Lord, have mercy upon us,
Have mercy upon us.
O Lord, let thy mercy be upon us:
As our trust is in thee.
Turn us again, thou God of hosts:
Show the light of thy countenance, and we shall be whole.
O Lord, hear our prayer;
And let our cry come unto thee.
The Lord be with you;
And with thy spirit.
Let us pray.
Give us light in the night season we beseech thee, O Lord,
and grant that what we sing and say with our lips we may believe in our hearts
and what we believe in our hearts we may show forth in our daily life
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
ONE
September, October
1
It’s quarter to midnight. I’m standing in the rain outside my next-door neighbour’s house, gripping his rusted railings with cold wet hands, staring down through them at the misshapen and perilously narrow stone steps leading to his converted basement, from which noise is blaring. It’s my least favourite song in the world: Queen’s ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’.
There’s a reddish-orange light seeping out into the darkness from the basement’s bay window that looks as unappealing as the too-loud music sounds. Both make me think of hell: my idea of it. There are no other lights on anywhere in my neighbour’s four-storey home.
My lower ground floor next door is dark and silent. We mainly use it as guest accommodation, and as we don’t often have guests it is usually empty. It comprises two bedrooms, a playroom-cum-Xbox room for Joseph, and a large bathroom. All of number 19’s internal cellar walls have been knocked down to make a single, vast area: either a chill-out den or an entertaining space, depending on whether you’re talking to my neighbour or his girlfriend.
I think the label ‘entertaining space’ worries him because of its public-spirited implications. The word ‘entertain’ suggests that one might give a toss about people other than oneself. My next-door neighbour doesn’t.
Freddy Mercury’s reflections about supersonic women are making me glad that I’ve never met one: they sound like a bit of a handful – not very easy-going. I’ve never had ambitions in the direction of supersonicness, whatever it might be. What I want is far more achievable, I hope: to be warm, dry, asleep. At the moment, those are the only things I want, the only things I can imagine ever wanting.
The stairs leading from the pavement down to number 19’s basement are slimy with moss, rain and street gunge. Each step’s surface was a perfect rectangle once, but more than a hundred years’ worth of feet and weather have worn away corners and edges, making them too uneven to use safely, especially in tonight’s waterfall-style downpour. Normally I look at them and feel a twinge of satisfaction. The woman who sold us number 17 had recently had all of its eroded stonework replaced. The steps from our lower ground level up to the street are beautifully straight-edged, with a new black-painted iron handrail bolted on to them for added safety, but what does that matter, really? If I can’t sleep in my house when I want to, all its other virtues are somewhat redundant.
Number 19 has no handrail. I don’t fancy attempting the descent while water cascades from one step down to the next like a liquid Slinky toy without boundaries, but what choice do I have? If I want to get my neighbour’s attention, I’ll have to put myself where he can see me, or wait for a gap between songs and bang on the window of the room that he and his friends are in. I’ve rung the front doorbell seven times and he can’t hear me. Of course he can’t; Freddie Mercury is drowning out all other sounds.
I’m wearing pink-and-white checked pyjamas, drenched from knee to ankle, a black raincoat and trainers that were waterlogged five seconds after I left the house. My feet now feel as if they’re in two flotation tanks, weighing me down. It’s the opposite of people putting slabs of concrete in their pockets to make them sink when they wade into water; I am weighed down by water, on the pavement’s concrete. This is the kind of rain the skies pour over your head in a never-ending torrent. It’s hard to believe it’s composed of light individual drops.
I can’t help laughing at the absurdity of it as Freddie Mercury invites me to give him a call if I want to have a good time. The problem is that my definition of a good time differs greatly from the song’s, and from Mr Fahrenheit’s. That’s what Stuart and I privately call our neighbour, though his real name is Justin Clay, and I’ve heard his friends and his girlfriend Angie call him Jub. My definition of a good time is being able to get into bed whenever I want to – yes, even quite early on a Saturday night – and for there to be no pounding rock anthems booming through my wall, preventing me from getting to sleep.
It only happens every two or three Saturdays. Thankfully, Mr Fahrenheit spends at least every other weekend at Angie’s house, but when her kids are with their dad, Angie comes to stay at number 19 and it’s party time – or at least, it sounds to me like a party whenever it happens. Sometimes they decide to make the most of their child-free weekends and play loud music on two consecutive nights, Friday and Saturday. Mr Fahrenheit assures me that it is never a party, always a ‘little get-together’. I have tried on four separate occasions to explain to him that I don’t mind what we agree to call it as long as he’s willing to lower the volume of his music to an acceptable level.
The get-together guests are always the same – the man who wears walking boots with the laces untied and tucks his jeans into his chunky socks; the stooped, too-tall man with the floppy hair and the rucksack; the frizzy-hai
red chain-smoking dance teacher who works at the performing arts school on Woolnough Road; the fat woman with red glasses and oddly sculpted hair dyed the colour of a blue Persian cat – and Mr Fahrenheit always plays the same songs for them to sing and shout along to, though, to be fair, he does vary the order: ‘9 to 5’ by Dolly Parton, ‘Livin’ on a Prayer’ by Bon Jovi, Blondie’s ‘Heart of Glass’, A-ha’s ‘Take on Me’, ‘Love Shack’ by the B-52’s, ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’ – I can’t remember who that one’s by.
And the centrepiece of his every musical gathering: ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ by Queen, which expresses my noisy neighbour’s attitude to life far better than he himself does. I’m sure he hasn’t analysed the lyrics as I have, but I don’t think it can be a coincidence that he is a ruthlessly selfish hedonist and the song he blasts out more often than any other – usually two or three times on a party night – is a hymn to his ideology. The narrator in the song is not merely someone who wishes to have a good time (which would be reasonable) but someone who is acutely aware that the fun he intends to have (out of control, like an atom bomb) will adversely affect others to the point that they will find it unbearable and seek to put a stop to it. He anticipates this, and makes it clear that he only wants to hear from those who agree with him about what constitutes a good time.
Stuart would say – has said, often – that it’s only a song and I’m reading too much into it. The inaccuracy of the criticism irritates me. The menacing lyrics are there for anyone and everyone to hear; there’s nothing ambiguous about them. Stuart would be closer to the truth if he accused me not of finding meaning in the words that isn’t there, but of imagining that ‘Don’t Stop Me Now’ is more than a song, which is of course scientifically impossible.
Unscientifically, it is the putrid essence of Justin Clay, encapsulated in music. His soul made pop.
Finally, Queen’s rant-with-a-tune ends. This is my chance. I know from experience that one song never follows swiftly on from another on these evenings. Efficient DJ’ing is not one of Mr Fahrenheit’s strengths. I used to think that the long gaps between musical assaults were his sadistic attempt to lull me into a false sense of security in order to blast me again just as I’m nodding off, but that was unfair of me. I underestimated how long it takes to transfer the various ingredients of an unrolled spliff from a lap to a coffee table without mislaying any of them, especially while stoned, and then shuffle over to the stereo and make a decision about what to play next.
Now that the music’s stopped, I can hear muffled voices, though I can’t make out what they’re saying over the drumming of the rain. Carefully, I make my way down the stone staircase backwards so that I can hold on to the steps above me as I go. Once at the bottom, I turn and find Angie, the girlfriend, looking at me through the window, which, tonight, is a water feature. ‘Jub, the lady from next door’s here again,’ she says after a few seconds of mute staring, as if shock has delayed her reaction. She’s wearing a short green-and-white dress – fabric inspired by a lava lamp, by the look of it – with a longer beige knitted cardigan over it. Bare feet.
‘Oh, you are giving me the joke!’ Mr Fahrenheit cries out. I resist the temptation to ask him if that expression is popular in the playground at the moment. He’s bent over his music system, his back to the window. At this proximity, I can hear him easily thanks to the single glazing. He’s in no hurry to turn round and engage with me.
Neither he nor Angie seems to have grasped basic cause and effect. They know that I object to their playing of loud music late at night because I’ve told them so unequivocally, yet they seem surprised when they do it and I turn up at their house to complain. It’s clear every time that they have not anticipated my arrival. Afterwards, I can’t help pointlessly reciting to Stuart the conversation they must regularly fail to have:
You know, if she can’t sleep because of our music, she’ll need to find something else to do to fill up her night. What if that something else is coming round here and giving us a hard time?
Oh, yeah. I see your point. I’d say that’s pretty likely to happen, since it’s what always happens. If we don’t like her coming round and moaning, maybe we shouldn’t prevent her from sleeping.
Mr Fahrenheit walks over, opens the window, stands well back from the rain. ‘Hello, Louise,’ he says, his voice as sullen and weary as his face. ‘Come to give me a bollocking?’
I try not to feel hurt, and fail. Was I secretly hoping he’d say, ‘Come and join us, grab yourself a drink?’ I think I might have been, stupid and naive though it undoubtedly is. I’ve often thought that if I can’t sleep and there happens to be a party going on next door, I could do worse than join in and try to have some fun. I’d have to decline, of course, even if Mr Fahrenheit were to invite me.
I wonder if he knows that I would gladly stop hating him and be ready, even, to like him a bit if he would only show me a tiny bit of consideration.
‘I find my midnight visits as inconvenient as you do, Justin,’ I tell him. ‘Especially when it’s cold and the rain’s bucketing down. Are you finished playing music now? It’s nearly midnight.’
‘No, I’m not finished playing music.’ He sways backwards.
‘Tell her to fuck off,’ his walking-boot friend calls out, waving at me from his cross-legged position on the floor next to a free-standing lamp that’s as tall as he is, seated, and has what looks like a red tablecloth draped over it. He and the lamp are two islands in a sea of empty wine bottles on their sides. The room looks as if a couple of dozen games of Spin the Bottle have been abandoned in a hurry.
I say to Justin, ‘In that case, can you please keep the volume low from now on, so that it doesn’t travel through the wall to my house?’
The fat woman with the red glasses appears at Mr Fahrenheit’s side. ‘Be reasonable, love,’ she says. ‘It’s not midnight yet. Midnight’s the cut-off point, isn’t it? It is where I live. You’ve got to admit, you sometimes try to shut us down as early as quarter to eleven.’
‘And Justin often plays his music until at least one-thirty,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you encourage him to be reasonable? If I’ve come round before eleven it’s because that’s when I’ve wanted to go to sleep.’
‘God’s sake, Louise, it’s fuckin’ Saturday night,’ Mr Fahrenheit protests.
‘I sometimes go to bed early on Saturdays, and stay up late on Tuesdays,’ I tell him. ‘What if I was an airline pilot, and had to get up at four in the morning to—’ I bring my sentence to an emergency stop, not wanting to give Mr Fahrenheit the chance to tell me I’m not an airline pilot and imagine he’s proved me wrong. ‘Look, all I want is to be able to go to bed when I want and sleep uninterrupted by your noise. Please, Justin.’ I put on my best friendly, hopeful smile.
He raises his hands and backs away from me, as if I’ve got a gun pointed at him: one he knows isn’t loaded. ‘Louise … I’d like you to fuck off back home now, if you wouldn’t mind. You’ve spoiled my evening again, like you’ve spoiled I don’t know how many evenings – well done. Nice one. I’m not wasting any more of my time arguing with you, so … go home, or argue with yourself, whichever you’d prefer.’
‘Chill out, next-door neighbaaah!’ the man with the floppy fringe yells at me from the far side of the room. He’s sitting at the big dining table that’s dotted with torn Rizla packets and wine stains. The table stands directly beneath the elaborate glass chandelier, pushed up against the room’s only wallpapered wall. The paper is pale blue with gold violin-shaped swirls all over it. It’s beautiful, actually, and was probably expensive, but brings on eye-ache if you look at it for too long. Mr Fahrenheit cares a lot about interior design. He cares equally about getting drunk and high, and not at all about tidying up. His house is an odd mixture of two distinct styles: camera-ready aspirational and documentary-reminiscent den of vice – ashtrays kicked over on expensive sisal flooring, takeaway cartons sitting in front of designer chairs as if they’re matching footstools.
Floppy Fringe Man shares Mr Fahrenheit’s dress sense: checked shirt over a white T-shirt, faded jeans. The only difference is in their choice of shoe: Mr Fahrenheit favours a hybrid trainer-clog and Floppy Fringe wears a range of cowboy boots. I spot his rucksack, leaning against tonight’s pair. The drugsack, I call it.
‘Liking the raincoat,’ the frizzy-haired dance teacher says loudly to the room, not looking at me. ‘Hood up, drawstrings pulled tight – stylish.’ The rest of them laugh.
This is the first time Mr Fahrenheit has sworn at me, the first time his friends have weighed in on his side. I wait for the feelings of humiliation to subside, and tell myself that it doesn’t matter what some rude strangers think about my raincoat. I hope I don’t cry. When I feel calm enough to speak, I say, ‘You can ignore me tonight, Justin, but my problem with your behaviour isn’t going to go away. If you won’t listen to me, I’ll have to find someone who will. Like the police, maybe.’
‘Good luck, mate,’ says Angie, stressing the last word sarcastically. ‘And … dream on. No one’s going to stop us listening to a few songs in our own house on a Saturday night.’
‘Whose house?’ Justin teases her. She pretends to laugh along but I don’t think she enjoys the joke as much as he does.
‘Louise!’ He points at me, arm raised. More of a salute, really. ‘I promise you, one day you’ll find yourself on the receiving end of the killjoy shit you’re so keen on giving out. Yeah! Wherever you’re living when your boy’s a teenager, unless it’s somewhere out in the sticks with no neighbours, some twat’s going to bang on your windows when your lad and his pals are letting their hair down and you’re going to think, “What a fucking twat, they’re just having a laugh.” You know what, Louise? You’re that twat, right here and now.’ He nods as if he’s said something profound. ‘Oh, wait, sorry – I forgot, your son’s already left home, hasn’t he? You’ve sent him away – isn’t that right? How old is he, again? Seven? Bet your house is nice and quiet without him. That why you did it? All this choir shit just an excuse, is it? What, did he turn up the theme tune of fuckin’ … Balamory a bit too loud one day?’
The Orphan Choir Page 1