Ghost Music

by Graham Masterton

  “Don’t you move, Gideon!” Victor warned me. He must have read my mind. “You try anything cute, and so help me you’ll regret it!”

  Jack flicked his lighter, and it scratched, and it scratched, but it wouldn’t light.

  “For Christ’s sake, Jack!” Victor barked at him. “Find the goddamned circuit breaker!”

  The flames inside the gas furnace were throwing a dim, wavering light across the floor, and as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, it was enough for me to make out Margot and Victor and then Jack.

  But then I realized that the four of us had company. There was a fifth person standing in back of the couch, a woman, pale-faced, and very still.

  “Margot,” I said.

  “What is it, Lalo?” She must have been able to hear the warning in my voice.

  Jack was stumbling around, close to the bottom of the steps, trying to find the fuse box. He collided with a tea chest that must have been filled with old china, because I heard a muffled crashing noise, and then Jack shouting, “Fuck! Fuck, my knee!”

  But I couldn’t take my eyes off the woman behind the couch. Her head was covered in a black scarf, and she was holding a black-wrapped bundle close to her face. Protectively, but also defiantly. And I knew who she was, even though her appearance here was impossible, and unbelievable, and scared me so much that I could barely speak.

  “Who is that?” Victor demanded. “Who’s there? Jack will you fix those fucking lights for Christ’s sake!”

  He didn’t need to. Gradually, the lights came back on by themselves. The filaments burned brighter and brighter, although they still shone unsteadily, as if the wires were shorting out.

  “No,” said Victor. Then he raised one hand, as if to shield his eyes. “No, no. This is not happening. No.”

  “Victor?” called Jack, treading on broken china.

  “This is not happening!” Victor shouted. “Jack! What the hell are you doing? Tell me this is not happening!”

  But the woman behind the couch came forward, and stood staring at him. It was Kate, all dressed in black; and in her arms, in a black wool blanket, she was carrying her baby.

  “What’s going on?” Margot asked me. “Tell me, Lalo—what’s going on?”

  Victor sank to his knees on the concrete floor. He kept covering his face with his hands and then opening them up again, like a hymnbook, as if the next time he looked, Kate would have disappeared. Jack stayed where he was, looking tetchy and confused and off-balance. Jack only knew how to solve problems by hitting people or hurting them or killing them, but it was obvious even to him that this wasn’t one of those problems.

  “Kate,” I said, and cautiously approached her, holding out my hand.

  But she didn’t look at me. She continued to stare down at Victor.

  “Victor,” she said. Her voice sounded very distant and breathy, as if it were the wind talking.

  Victor kept his hands closed over his face.

  “You’re not here,” he told her, in a muffled voice.

  “I’m here, Victor. You can hear me, can’t you?”

  “You’re not here! You’re not here! You can’t be here!”

  Kate waited for a moment. Then she said, “Aren’t you ashamed, Victor, of what you’ve done?”

  “I’ve just told you! You’re not here!”

  But Kate persisted. “Aren’t you ashamed of all the pain you’ve inflicted, all the people you’ve murdered, all the property you’ve stolen?”

  Victor lowered his hands and looked up at her. To my surprise, his face was glistening with tears. “They took our son, Kate.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But he would have died anyhow.”

  “I gave them everything. I gave them nearly three million dollars! Three million dollars, Kate! They bankrupted me! And for what? How did you expect me to feel when Michael died? They promised me that he would live but he died!”

  “That’s no excuse for what you did.”

  Victor climbed to his feet. He almost lost his balance, but Jack stepped forward to steady him. “What was their excuse, for what they did? What was their excuse, for killing all of those innocent children, so that they could sell their hearts for millions of dollars?”

  “None,” said Kate. “There was no excuse. It was wholesale murder. Why do you think I tried to stop you from doing it?”

  Victor was so angry now that he had almost forgotten his fear. He stalked up to Kate and shouted, “Michael deserved a chance! He was our son, Kate! He was going to carry on the Solway name, forever! Not just substance, Kate! Reverence! One generation of Solways, after another!”

  Kate pulled back the black scarf that was covering her head. “What was the price of that chance, Victor? You paid for the killing of another child, so that our child could have a new heart. But he died, regardless, as God had probably meant him to.”

  Victor said, “They promised me. ‘The best chance he’ll ever have, Mr. Solway’—that’s what they told me. They were quick enough to take my money, weren’t they? But what am I left with? Nothing. No son. No heir. Not even a fucking refund.”

  “We could have tried again.”

  Victor shook his head. “With you? After you told me that you wouldn’t take some other kid’s heart, to save Michael’s life? That other kid probably came from some slum someplace, Rio or Darfur or Christ knows where. He probably had a life expectancy of seven years, and for all of those seven years he would have been miserable and hungry and sick. Tell me—go on, tell me—what was the best possible use of that other kid’s heart?”

  “We could have tried again, Victor.”

  “And the odds were, the same thing would have happened all over again, you know that. What was the point of trying again? My family carries Ebstein’s anomaly, once every other generation, and that’s all there is to it. There never can be a Solway dynasty.”

  Jack laid his hand on Victor’s shoulder. “Come on, boss. This isn’t real. This is some kind of scam. I’ll deal with this broad.”

  “Oh!” Kate retorted. “You don’t think this is real? What do you think happened to the baby who was murdered for Michael’s new heart?”

  “They said it was going to be painless!” Victor shouted at her. “They said it was an orphan, with no quality of life whatsoever!”

  But Kate unraveled the black woolen blanket she had been carrying in her arms. Inside was a dark-skinned baby of about six months old.

  “Here,” she said. “This is what happened to it, because of you, and all the people like you.”

  She turned the baby around, so that it was facing them. He looked like a grotesque caricature of a ventriloquist’s dummy. His eye sockets were empty, and he had been split open from his chest downward.

  “They harvested his corneas. They harvested his kidneys, his liver, his lungs and his gall bladder. And of course, they took his heart.”

  “I don’t believe this,” said Victor. “I’m having some kind of nightmare.”

  “You’re not the one who’s having a nightmare. This baby was healthy when they took him into the operating theater. Healthy, and alive. He came from Benin, in Nigeria. Under normal circumstances, he would have expected to live to the age of forty-seven, at least.”

  “They promised me that Michael would survive!” Victor screamed at her. “They promised me, those bastards!”

  With infinite gentleness, Kate rewrapped the gutted baby in its blanket. “Kate—” I began, but she touched her finger to her lips, to indicate that she wasn’t finished yet. And I trusted her now, because I knew from what Pearl had told me that she couldn’t do this—not unless I was here to give her substance. There was only one person who could help her to bring Victor and Jack to justice, and that was me.

  “Come on, Victor,” said Jack. “Let me sort this out for you, okay?”

  I don’t know what Jack had in mind, and I never found out, because at that moment there was a sharp shuffling noise from the darkest corners of the cellar. It sounded lik
e people shuffling into church for a funeral service.

  “Holy shit,” said Victor, and he was so frightened that his face had turned a dirty orange color.

  Toward us, through the cellar, came the Westerlund family—Axel and Tilda and Elsa and Felicia—as well as the Philipses—David and Helena and their son Giles—and the Cesarettis—Enrico and Salvina, as well as Amalea and Raffaella and little Massimo.

  But there wasn’t just one Axel or one Tilda or one Elsa and Felicia—or only one appearance of any one of them.

  Jostling close to each other, I saw four different Axels: one bearded, one with his face badly bruised, one with dark brown runnels of blood congealing on his forehead, like a crown, and yet another who was so green and swollen and puffy that he was barely recognizable. Next to him, there was a pretty rosy-cheeked Elsa, with her hair beautifully braided, but there was also a pale straggly haired Elsa like the girl who had been lifted out of the harbor at the Wasa Museum.

  It was the same with the Cesarettis and the Philipses. They advanced slowly toward us out of the darkness, and there were so many different manifestations of each of them. When they were alive, when they were being tortured and beaten and after they were dead. There must have been nearly fifty of them, maybe more.

  I turned to Kate again, although she still wouldn’t look at me. I wanted to tell her that I realized what was happening. Here were dozens of pages from these families’ lives, just the way that Kate had described them, like pages from a flicker book.

  Young Giles Philips stood near the front, in his British school uniform; but next to him stood the same apparition that I had seen in his parents’ back garden, with his eyelids glued together. There was little Massimo, too, unmarked but serious; but close behind him stood another Massimo, his face beaten like a smashed melon.

  The most horrifying of all was Helena Philips. She stood next to Kate’s right shoulder, with a sad but gentle expression, in a flowery summer frock. But she had a terrible twin who was almost hidden from sight, right behind her. A terrible twin whose scalp was raw and whose face was burned black and whose nightgown was still smoldering.

  “What’s this, Gideon?” said Victor, his voice shrill with panic. “Did you do this? These are holograms, right? They’re holograms!”

  He took two nervous steps toward little Massimo, who was standing closest to him, and he reached out and quickly touched his shoulder.

  “Shit!” he said. “They’re real! They’re fucking real! Jesus, Gideon, what the hell have you done here?”

  Jack looked even more confused. He kept looking behind him, as if he expected more apparitions to come down the steps. He was rapidly whispering something under his breath, although I couldn’t hear what it was. Knowing him, it was probably some kind of blasphemy.

  Victor turned to me. “Make them go away!” he demanded. “You hear me, Gideon? Make them go away!”

  “He can’t,” said Kate.

  “I’m dreaming this,” said Victor. “This isn’t true, none of it. I’m having a nightmare. Make them go away, Gideon! Make them go away!”

  Kate said, “Didn’t you hear me, Victor? He can’t.”

  Victor whirled around, off-balance. His eyes were staring and he looked as if he were just about to have an epileptic fit. Jack meanwhile was slowly backing toward the steps, sinking to his knees, still praying. I caught the mumbled words, “. . . forgive me my fucking trespasses, forgive me my fucking trespasses . . . give me a goddamned sign, God . . . forgive me my fucking trespasses!”

  “Kate!” I called her.

  Now she looked across at me and smiled, although her smile looked weary.

  “Hello, Gideon. You did it. And here we are. The moment of truth.”

  I reached out and took hold of her free hand, and she felt real, and warm, and that was all I needed.

  “How did you get here?” I asked her.

  “This was my parents’ house. Well, you know that. I never really left.”

  Victor stalked across to me and screamed at me, so close that I could feel his spit flying in my face. “Make her go away! Make her go away! Make all of them go away!”

  Kate shook her head. “The people you murdered couldn’t accuse you, Victor. After they had died, they had to stay silent. But Gideon can accuse you. He knows what you and Jack did. He’s seen it for himself.”

  “This is a nightmare! This is nothing but a nightmare!”

  “Yes, Victor, this is a nightmare. For you, anyhow.”

  Kate paused. She was breathing very hard, but she seemed to be elated, as if she had been running, and knew that she was going to win.

  “These families couldn’t speak out against you. Neither could I. But Gideon can. You’re finished, Victor. You and Jack. You’re both finished.”

  “Gideon doesn’t have any proof!” Victor shouted at her. “What did he see? When? It’s his word against ours!”

  “Oh, you think so?” Kate asked him. “Where are my parents?”

  “You think I’m going to tell you that? You’re crazy!”

  “What did you do with them, Victor? Where are my parents?”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know? They signed it over to me, and then they left for parts unknown!”

  “You had them murdered, Victor! Where are they?”

  Victor staggered around again, and then he stabbed his finger at her. “Screw you, Kate! Screw all of you!”

  Kate didn’t answer, but looked down at the baby that she was carrying in her arms, and drew down the blanket that was covering his head. Then she turned him around and held him up in both hands, so that Victor could see him clearly.

  I felt a crawling sensation all down my back that was partly dread and partly elation. The baby was white, with blond hair, and he was staring at Victor with dark blue eyes.

  “You bitch,” said Victor. “You just wanted him to die. He was my son, and you just wanted him to die! And I was totally cleaned out! And he still died! And you have the nerve to bring him here, whatever you are, and taunt me!”

  He lunged toward her, with both hands raised, trying to grab the baby. But Kate flung the blanket over the baby’s head, and turned away.

  “Michael!” shouted Victor. And in spite of all the terrible things that he had done, or maybe because of them, his voice was filled with pain and desperation.

  But Kate lifted the blanket, and shook it, and like a parlor trick, it was empty.

  “You bitch,” said Victor. The tears were streaming down his face. Jack came up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  “She killed my son! She killed my Michael!”

  But the murdered families were beginning to crowd forward now, and Jack’s eyes were darting apprehensively from one apparition to another.

  “Victor, I’m telling you. Whatever the fuck’s going on, we need to get out of here.”

  At that moment, however, the scream started.

  * * *

  It wasn’t a scream of anger, or of fear. It was an intensely high-pitched sound, right on the furthest horizon of my hearing. It grew louder and louder, and as it did so, I realized that it was coming from Kate, and all of the other dead people in the cellar. Their mouths were slightly open, and they were letting out the same earsplitting scream that Kate had screamed, whenever she made love, and that Tilda Westerlund had screamed, in her panic and frustration, when she shattered the lantern.

  I looked from one to the other—to Axel and Tilda, to Elsa and Felicia—to David and Helena and Giles—and to Enrico and Salvina, and Amalea, and Raffaella, and Massimo. They were standing here, in the cellar, but there was no living expression in their eyes. They were dead, and they had come here to get their revenge, that was all. The sound rose higher and higher, like fingernails scraping on a chalkboard, until I couldn’t hear it anymore. But Victor and Jack both clamped their hands over their ears, and Victor started to roar with pain.

  “Stop it!” he begged. “Stop
it! You’re killing me!”

  Kate stopped screaming, and approached him, although everybody else carried on.

  “Victor? Where are my parents? Tell me where they are! Where are my parents?”

  Victor dropped to his knees, next to Jack. “Make it stop!” he wailed, thrashing his head from side to side. “You’re killing me, you witch!”

  “Where are my parents?” Kate demanded.

  Victor jabbed his finger at the cellar floor. “They’re here, goddammit! They’re right here! They’re under the goddamn floor!”

  Kate stepped back a little. “There!” she said. “Now Gideon has his proof! You’re finished!”

  She raised her hands again and closed her eyes. She had the same beatific expression on her face as she did when we made love. She uttered a note that began with piercing clarity, and then grew louder and louder until it sounded like a thousand church choirs. She wasn’t directing it at me, but even so my head rang and my vision blurred and my insides felt as if I were being shaken apart, as if I were riding a bicycle down an endless flight of steps.

  A whole boxful of china vases suddenly shattered, and two light bulbs popped. Victor screamed even louder and bent over double, hitting his forehead against the floor. “I can’t see! I can’t see! I’ve gone blind!” But Jack had kept his hands clamped tightly over his ears, and he managed to raise himself up on one knee, and then, very unsteadily, to stand.

  He turned toward me, and I had never seen anybody stare at me with such hatred. He took one lurching step toward me, like a zombie, and then another.

  “You fuck,” he hissed at me. “I’m going to tear your fucking head off.”

  He swung at me, but I stepped back and he missed me by a clear six inches. He almost lost his balance, but then he lurched forward again, and took another swing. I backed off again, but now I was right up against the cellar wall.

  “You thought you could mess with me?” he said. “You thought you could mess with Jack Friendly?”

  He jabbed at me, but I parried him away with my elbow, and he stumbled so close to me that we were almost embracing each other. I could smell him, smell his aftershave and the garlic on his breath. And all the time Kate and all of the others continued to scream that intense, piercing note, so that my eardrums started to ache, too, and my vision started to blur.