That happened once before, in a house that was also mine.
Except they can’t have done that here. If they had, the view would have disappeared along with the light, and it hasn’t. I can see everything. At last.
The double doors to the balcony that overlooks the lake are wide open.
They’re there: the choir. I try to count them, but they shift and reassemble. Sometimes there are hundreds of them, sometimes only sixteen, like in Joseph’s choir, but I can see each of their faces so clearly. They must be at least 100 metres from where I’m standing, but their noses and mouths and eyelashes brush against my skin as they sing.
I shouldn’t need to ask who they are. I will see them again and I will know. I can’t ask because their singing is too loud. Almost deafening.
… O come, thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …
There are girls as well as boys. Yes, of course. I think I know who they are now. But I would still like to ask.
Eight boys or hundreds of boys. Eight girls or hundreds of girls. Out above the water, floating over the centre of Topping Lake, where the moon was last night.
Like the moon, they glow silver: the colour of the Swallowfield Christmas lights – a jagged moon made up of the shapes of children, the girls’ long hair streaming in the air, eyes glittering, faces pale and bright. They look so cold: child sculptures carved out of ice, except they’re scream-singing as if they’re afraid no one will hear them.
As if they’re afraid I don’t hear them.
Their eyes lock on to mine, stick into me like pins, their irises blueish-white. I open my mouth to try to tell them that I’m here and they don’t need to sing so loud – they’re not allowed to; they will be stopped if they continue to make such a noise; someone will complain – but I can’t find the words I want, only the words of their song. I am singing with them.
… O come, O come, great Lord of might,
Who to thy tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law
In cloud and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …
Stuart is banging on the door, asking what I’m doing, what’s wrong with me. Demanding that I come out. I can’t. I don’t know why he doesn’t come in. Perhaps for the same reason. I have an open door in front of me: I can leave him behind, get closer to the choir. I know that’s what they’d like me to do.
I step out on to the balcony. The damp wood chills the soles of my feet. When did I take my shoes and socks off? I don’t remember doing it. The children in the choir have bare feet too, dangling: like white upside-down hands, waving from beneath their robes.
I climb down the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the terrace below. Round and down, like a stone. As I run to the lake, I am pushed back. Something wants to stop me from moving forward. The children start to fade. ‘No!’ I cry out. ‘Where are you going?’
I hear Stuart scream my name. The sound of the choir is still audible, but receding, as if it’s coming from further away.
… O come, thou Root of Jesse’s tree,
An ensign of thy people be …
‘Come back!’ I call.
I drag my body forward, to the edge of the water. Should I go down the mud steps? They were cut into the grass verge for easy access to the lake in summer, Bethan told me. If I take one step towards the water, will the choir reappear? Is that where they are – under the surface?
‘Louise? Where are you? Are you out here?’
Stuart. He’s on the terrace. No, he mustn’t leave Joseph alone inside. We have to work together to keep our son safe.
I’m scared of Stuart. Joseph should be too. He will try to stop us.
I sink down to my haunches. It’s impossible to see anything by the lake in darkness like this, but I’m scared Stuart will find me. That’s why the choir disappeared: they knew he was coming.
‘Lou?’ he calls again. Nearer this time.
I want to run, but I’m blinded by the blackness that the children left when they took their jagged choir moon away and left an empty sky. I take a step to the left, then another to my right, but each time I draw back, thinking I can hear Stuart’s breathing.
Suddenly, everything is moving, whispering: the trees, the bushes, the tarpaulins stretched over the garden furniture on the terrace of every house around Topping Lake. It’s not just Stuart coming for me, it’s one man from each house. They are all him. They are coming from all sides.
I can’t stay out here any more. I need to see light so that I know my eyes are still working, that I haven’t gone blind. How did I let myself get so far from my house? Stupid. Crazy. I feel as though I’m miles from home, further than I’ve ever been.
I must sing. If I sing it might bring them back.
… Before thee rulers silent fall;
All peoples on thy mercy call.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …
Faintly but unmistakably, I hear the children singing with me. Time-lagged, like an echo. I crawl along the edge of the lake on my hands and knees, looking for their reflection in the water, but I see nothing until I close my eyes, panting in panic, and find colours on the insides of my eyelids. Purples, reds. It comforts me and gives me the answer. That’s it, I think. I need to get back to safety, back to the lights and colours of my house. To The Boundary.
I stand up and turn round. Open my mouth to scream and choke on the loud singing that pours out of their mouths and into mine, millimetres from my face as my eyes hit the glass.
There they are. There they always were.
Blazing with light, hair streaming. In my house, behind the windowpane, hanging there, suspended from nothing; nothing in the room but them and the blinding glare. They’re so close, I can see the pupils of their eyes widen and shrink. Watching them draws all the breath from my lungs, and more of the song from my mouth. We are singing all together now.
… O come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid thou our sad divisions cease,
And be thyself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel …
‘Who are you?’ I ask through the words of the hymn. It’s a code. Only the choir could hear the true meaning under the cover of the words I am singing. Stuart wouldn’t understand, and besides, I’ve left him outside. He won’t be able to get back in, not while the choir is in the house.
A boy in the front row with hair as long as some of the girls’ says, ‘We’re the Orphan Choir.’
Yes. That’s who you are.
‘What are your names?’
A few of them answer. Alfie Speake. George Fairclough. Lucinda Price.
I know those names. All of them. ‘Thank you for coming,’ I say. We hide all of this beneath the hymn.
… O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.
I know them, and I sing with all their voices. I sing, ‘The Orphan Choir, the Orphan Choir, the Orphan Choir.’
9
‘Were you going to throw yourself in?’ Stuart asks.
‘No. I don’t think so. I don’t know.’ Only one day later, but it feels like a year. ‘It’s hard to remember. I … wasn’t in control.’
‘At one point you started to walk down the steps into the water. You must remember what was going through your mind when you did that.’
‘I don’t. I really don’t, Stuart.’
‘Why did you push the bedside cabinet in
front of the bedroom door? What did you plan to do in there that you didn’t want me to see? If you wanted to throw yourself in the lake, why go up to the bedroom first, and down the spiral staircase? Why come into the house at all?’
Telling him why would involve trying to explain that the ‘why’ didn’t belong to me. That would lead us to questions of how. I don’t know. I agree: there’s no way. All I know is that it happened.
‘I don’t have any of the answers you want,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t … That wasn’t me.’
‘But you are now,’ he accuses.
‘Yes.’
‘How is that possible?’
He is interrogating me the way a policeman would. I’m glad of his strictness. I need his ruthless logic to scare the inexplicable away.
I also need to tell him that it was real and I know what it meant, but if I do, he will write me off as certifiable. He’ll say it’s impossible, completely irrational.
So we have a problem: a paradox. I want him to negate what happened with his disbelief, and yet I need him to believe me so that he can help me to save us. That I can put the dilemma to myself in these terms convinces me, if no one else, that I am not crazy.
I will sound crazy if I tell Stuart what happened. Better to let him think I took off my shoes and socks and sang a hymn by the lake for a reason neither of us knows.
‘You need to apologise to Bethan,’ he says, resting his head in his hands as if his neck can’t bear its weight any more. He’s sitting on the floor of our bedroom, leaning against the closed balcony doors. I’m on the edge of the bed, my bare feet touching the floor, like a hospital patient who hasn’t walked unaided for a long time. Joseph is at the Welsh boy’s house: a temporary evacuee, sharing a normal morning with a normal family, or so Stuart hopes. ‘Sooner rather than later, ideally,’ he says, but I’ve lost the thread and can’t pin down what he means. ‘I can’t believe you swore at her, Lou. Poor old harmless Bethan!’
Right. Bethan.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘I’ll go round and see her. She’ll understand.’
Stuart laughs bitterly. ‘If she does, can you ask her if she’d mind explaining it to me?’
‘I’ll tell her the truth – I’ve no idea what came over me. Only that … it was something bad.’ Our shared experience was worse for me than it was for Bethan. Can I risk telling her that without causing offence? Probably not. ‘I’m not even …’ I break off.
‘What?’
‘I couldn’t swear that her radio was playing “Don’t Stop Me Now”. Maybe it was a different song playing, not the one I heard. Maybe she didn’t have a radio on at all! Look, I don’t know, okay? Don’t recoil! None of this is my fault! When things happen that you think can’t happen, you start to wonder about everything. I’ll go and grovel to Bethan and sort it out. I’ll take her a bottle of wine.’
‘Don’t. Any wine we’ve got, I’m going to need.’
I look at him to see if he’s joking. He isn’t.
‘Stuart?’
‘Mm?’
‘Do you believe in premonitions?’
‘No.’
‘I mean … not seeing exactly what’s going to happen in the future or anything like that, but … some kind of warning?’
‘No,’ he says flatly. ‘I believe you’re cracking up. That’s what I believe. We need to get you back to Cambridge, soon as possible, and—’
‘No!’ The threat of a premature return to our Cambridge life helps me to focus. ‘Stuart, do you want me not to be mad any more? Do you want things to be like they were before? Before Joseph started at Saviour?’
‘Yes. If they can be.’ His voice is full of fear: fear of the wrong thing.
‘They can,’ I say with certainty. ‘But … how much do you want them to? Would you give anything?’
Silence for a few seconds.
‘Yes.’
‘Then listen to me now, do what I say, and I promise you – I swear on all our lives – things will go back to normal.’
‘Lou, you’re not well enough to—’
‘Listen.’ I speak over him. ‘We need to take Joseph out of that school and out of the choir. If we do that, everything will be fine. If we don’t, we’ll die.’
Stuart starts to cry. ‘My God, Lou. Listen to yourself.’
‘I’m sorry. I know it isn’t pleasant to hear, but it’s the truth.’
‘We’ll die? What, all three of us?’
I expected him to ask me how I know, what happened to make me believe this. I’m glad he hasn’t; I wouldn’t have told him. The less I say, the better. There’s only one detail that matters anyway: the danger we must do everything to avoid. Heeding the warning.
‘No, not Joseph,’ I say. ‘Joseph will live, and Alfie Speake will live, and George Fairclough and Lucinda Price, and whatever her brother’s called, but you and I will die. So will other choir parents. Perhaps all of them.’ I can’t work out if it’s all or only most. I didn’t see Nathan Grant, Alexis’s son, in the Orphan Choir. I don’t think I saw Donna McSorley’s son Louis either.
Stuart stands up, wipes his tears away with his hands. ‘I won’t listen to this rubbish,’ he says. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘Yes, I do. I know exactly what I’m saying. Agree to Joseph leaving Saviour or else I’ll leave you today and take him with me, and never come back. Agree to him leaving and I’ll do whatever you want – see a shrink for the rest of my life if you think I need to.’ I have a better idea: more selfless. Nobler. ‘Or you keep Joseph, lock me away in a secure unit for nutters and find yourself a new wife – anything, as long as you agree to take him out of that school.’ I would give up everything, even my son, to save him from becoming an orphan.
‘Jesus, Lou. How can you—’
‘Say yes and I promise you, Stuart, everything will be fine.’ I have to make him agree. ‘Look, what if we just try it? You heard what Dr Freeman said about Joseph, how brilliantly talented he is – he’d have him back like a shot, any time. If I’m wrong, if we take him out of Saviour and I’m still mad two weeks later, I’ll never ask for anything again, but … please, just do what I ask, just this once.’
Silence stretches across the room between us. ‘You’re right,’ Stuart says eventually. ‘Dr Freeman would take Joseph back. Even if he left.’
‘Then you agree?’ I need to hear him say it. I can’t allow myself to hope until I have.
‘Not because I share your ridiculous paranoia that’s based on nothing.’
It wasn’t nothing. Yesterday’s visitation wasn’t nothing.
‘I’ll go along with your plan because I’m desperate,’ Stuart says.
As desperate as I am. Finally. Thank God.
‘That’s the only reason. I want you back – the old you. If there’s even a tiny chance …’ He shakes his head sadly.
‘Wait and see,’ I tell him. ‘You won’t regret it. You’ll get the old me back.’
‘I’m not sure I will – not so easily. I don’t want to lie to you, Lou. Or mislead you, even. You need to know that I think you’re in pretty serious trouble. Mentally. All right, Joseph boarding might have sparked it off, but I can’t believe it doesn’t go quite a bit deeper.’
‘Wait and see, Stuart. I promise you – let me take Joseph out of Saviour and I’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.’
‘All right, then, here’s the deal,’ he says. ‘When does next term begin?’
How can he not know the date? Saviour’s calendar is pinned up on the kitchen noticeboard at Weldon Road; it’s burned into my brain: the day Dr Freeman will reclaim my son if I don’t stop him.
‘January the ninth,’ I say, scared again. Why is Stuart trying to offer me a deal when he’s only just agreed to mine? I don’t want to talk about this any more. I have things to do, important things. I have to apologise to Bethan, then ring round other Cambridge schools and choirs to see which have places for Joseph.
‘If you still feel the same way on
January the eighth, I won’t argue with you,’ Stuart says. ‘We’ll take Joseph out of Saviour, no questions asked. But in the meantime … we go to this extra Choral Evensong as planned. He does the Christmas Day service.’
‘No! He leaves now – we email Dr Freeman today.’
‘Lou, that’s not fair. We’re surely not going to die between now and Christmas Day?’ Stuart attempts a laugh. It comes out as a bark.
But he’s right: the danger is in February, not between now and Christmas. The first danger, anyway. Unless I’m wrong.
I don’t think I am.
Can I risk it? No. I don’t want to.
Stuart sits down on the bed beside me and takes my hand in both of his. Feeling the warmth of his skin, I am suddenly aware of how cold I am. ‘Lou,’ he says. ‘Our son was picked from hundreds of boys to be a member of Saviour College choir. That was and is an amazing achievement.’
‘I know.’
‘I’d like him to do one Christmas service as a Saviour chorister. Please. I tell you what – on Boxing Day, if you haven’t changed your mind, I’ll ring Dr Freeman and tell him Joseph’s leaving. First thing Boxing Day.’
No. Absolutely not.
‘You have my solemn promise. But … please let him do these last two services. Let’s hear him sing with his choir a couple more times. I’ve been looking forward to it.’
I nod. ‘Okay. If it’s so important to you.’ No, no, no. On no account.
Between now and Friday, I must find a way to stop this from happening and still get what I want. I’ll think of something; I have to. I can’t let Joseph do Choral Evensong. Or the service on Christmas morning. I can’t let him anywhere near Saviour’s choir ever again.
‘Thank you, Lou.’
As Stuart kisses my forehead, I wonder if I could make him too ill to travel on Friday without doing him any serious harm. I would never dream of doing that to Joseph, but to Stuart … maybe.
Bethan’s square wooden house turns out not to be called The Cube but The Hush. ‘I thought of the name myself,’ she says proudly as she puts the kettle on to make us both a coffee. Her kitchen/dining/living area is open-plan, like The Boundary’s, and colour-coordinated to within an inch of its life – depressingly so. The cushions are the same yellow as the kettle and the mugs; the coasters, throws and rugs all contain yellow, beige and green, which are also the colours of the bland abstract prints on the walls.
The Orphan Choir Page 16