Oscar realised what Crest was trying to say. It was clear that the others had not been told the full story about what they were involved in. They seemed to think they were only going to be helping the old man with his pain tonight—not working towards healing him. And as much as Oscar wanted to fill in the rest of the picture for them, he was aware of Crest’s widened eyes, instructing him to stay quiet.
‘Come on, I’ll walk you to the O. H.,’ Marcus said, placing his hand onto the old man’s shoulder, and Crest allowed himself to be escorted through the dark house towards the kitchen. Oscar and the others followed behind. He listened as Marcus and Crest chatted amiably, walking towards an anaemic light that was filing in from the sitting room. ‘Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?’ Marcus said. ‘I read one of your books in school, and now here you are.’
‘You did? Which one?’
‘The one about the God Complex.’
‘Ah, you’re in a very small club there.’
The house was so vast it took several strides just to reach the middle of the hallway, where the hardwood branched off in three directions, and the solid doors of four other rooms hung closed. Oscar was starting to feel calmer now. Yin and Jane had a way of steadying his heart somehow, and the squeeze of Iris’s hand was as grounding as it always was. He loved the way she hooked her fingers around his thumb.
‘I hardly sold more than a thousand copies of that one when it first came out,’ Crest went on, walking slowly beside Marcus. ‘Now I’m obsolete my demographic is expanding. Typical luck. What brought you to reading it?’
‘I took psychology A level. It was on the reading list—suggested reading, not compulsory.’
‘Story of my life,’ Crest said.
‘Well, we had a very progressive teacher. John Fahey. Do you know him? I think he did his Ph.D. at Trinity, Dublin.’
‘Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.’
Iris turned up the dimmer switches as they reached the end of the hall, and the sitting room revealed itself like a Polaroid image. Marcus continued, his hand upon the small of Crest’s back, steering him. ‘He’s only been at Charterhouse for a few years, I think. I would’ve failed for sure if it weren’t for Mr Fahey. Eden didn’t like him very much, but he was definitely the best teacher I ever had. One of those people who really makes you see things, you know?’
Crest seemed to make a note of this in his head. He gave a short, curious hum. ‘Why didn’t Eden like him?’ he asked.
Marcus took his hand away to fasten a loose button on his collar. ‘Clash of personalities, I suppose.’ They were nearing the kitchen now and Oscar thought he could smell something burning.
‘Meaning?’ Crest said.
‘Meaning they were too similar. Mr Fahey was young and brainy. And so was Eden. Every lesson was like a—’ Marcus turned his head, briskly. ‘What’s that phrase you always use, Yin?’
‘A pissing contest,’ Yin said.
The kitchen was doused in a warm, wavering light coming in from the garden. The countertops were messy with apple juice cartons and an opened box of Jacob’s crackers; the remains of a blue cheese and a French loaf had been left to harden on the breadboard. Marcus opened the back door. He motioned his arm towards the winding path outside, its surface bright with the candle-flicker of mosquito lanterns flaming in the lawn borders. ‘Here we are. The yellow brick road. Let me show you the way.’
They walked along the pathway as if it were some ceremonial march, and arrived at the great oak doors of the organ house, one of which was held ajar by a large white rockery stone. Oscar felt a spike of trepidation in his gut, remembering the times he had come here to visit Iris’s bedside, wondering what they were now heading into. There was a strangely chemical smell in the air, like the burnt-out stench of a camping stove. He expected to hear music, but there was no sound except for the noise of their footsteps.
Herbert Crest went in first. He didn’t seem to give it a second thought.
As the door swung back, a woozy orange colour radiated from the building, and Oscar could see a circle of twenty or thirty old-fashioned oil lamps with glass flame-covers, glowing in the middle of the room. There was no sign of Eden.
‘Woah, check this place out,’ Yin said.
‘It’s like the bordello of my dreams,’ said Marcus, pressing further inside.
The organ console was adorned with tealights in jam jars. At the centre of the circle, between the lamps, was a worn green armchair. Everything else had been moved aside to make space: the four-poster bed was now shoved against the back wall, and the couches were turned on their sides, banked against each other near the entrance. ‘Well,’ Crest said, looking at Oscar and smiling, ‘I might not have been so wrong about those lithe young virgins.’ He seemed to think there was nothing disconcerting about what he was seeing, and casually wandered towards the organ to study its keyboard, its ornate stops and pedals, its pipework. The others followed. ‘I bet these things aren’t cheap.’
‘It was here when my parents bought the place,’ Iris said. ‘The pipes are eighteenth century, so my brother says.’
‘He’s always tinkering with it, taking it apart,’ Jane added. ‘He fiddles more with that thing than he does with me.’
Marcus laughed. ‘Have you ever tried getting the registration right on one of these things? They’re much harder to please than women are. Can take years to get them humming properly. And you know Eden—he’s a perfectionist.’
‘Oh, I know Eden alright,’ Jane said.
Crest ran his fingers over the ivory stops. ‘My father had an old sailboat in the garage that he liked to fix up on weekends.’ He turned to Iris. ‘I guess this is your brother’s version.’
Oscar thought about the Honda trail bike his father kept back home, leaned against the side of the house—a project he’d worked on so sporadically over the years that the flame-red paintwork had faded to a strawberry ice-cream pink, and the undercarriage had rusted away. He remembered that motorbike with a certain fondness. The only goal he and his father ever shared was to get it going again, even if they never got around to actually fixing it—even if it was sure to end up at the scrapyard with all the other father-son projects in the borough.
‘What are you all standing around for?’ came a voice from behind. ‘We’ve got work to do.’ Eden was looming by the entrance. He was wearing a white silk shirt with a patch of his bare chest showing through, tight black corduroy trousers, and no shoes.
‘We’re waiting for you,’ Jane said. ‘You haven’t even told us what you need us to do.’
‘First—’ Eden heaved the door closed and snapped down the metal latch. ‘First, you can help Dr Crest into that chair.’ He walked towards them determinedly.
Crest refused to be helped. He lowered his body into the armchair with a weary, pained moan. ‘Alright if I keep my hat on?’
‘No. Remove it, please,’ Eden said.
The old man pocketed his baseball cap, smirking. He winked again, as if to say he had everything under control, but his apparent good humour was no consolation to Oscar. The nerves were still crackling inside him. He could tell by the arrangement of the room, the sheer consideration that had gone into the placement of everything, that Eden was taking this very seriously.
‘The rest of you—’ Eden clapped his hands at them, getting their attention. Each little slap of his palms ricocheted in the rafters. ‘I need you all to be quiet and do everything I ask of you, okay? It’s very important that you follow instructions. A man’s health is at stake here.’
They all glanced at Crest, who was lounging in the armchair. He looked like he was taking pictures in his head, trying to capture every detail. Oscar couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. What did he make of Jane, and Marcus, and Yin, and the way they were waiting for instructions from Eden like hounds standing patiently at his heels? What did he think about Iris? She was beautiful in the dim candlelight, all free and easy in her summer dress, wool tights and topco
at, yet so removed from everything that was happening, absently lifting the tealights from the organ console and sniffing at them.
Most of all, he wondered what the old man was thinking about Eden, who was speaking now very plainly, eyebrows furrowed, organising everyone with a pushy composure. ‘Iris, will you leave those candles alone and listen to what I’m telling you? Oscar, are you going to just stand there gawping at me, or do you actually want to be of some use?’
‘Just let me know what to do,’ he said.
‘Hold that thought,’ Eden replied, clapping his hands again. He walked over to the organ stool and flipped back the seat. It was a voluminous thing, and he pulled out a variety of objects from within it, setting them down on the floor: folders of sheet music bound in ribbon, a roll of gauzy fabric, a metronome in a walnut case, tuning forks of many sizes. ‘Come now. Everyone, gather round me, please. You need to listen to me carefully.’
They stood there, studying the objects at his feet.
‘We’ve all done this before—at least, a version of it,’ Eden said, and began to hand out the ribbon-tied folders of notation. ‘I don’t want to hear anybody’s scepticism or sarcastic comments tonight. If you don’t want to help me, leave now.’ He held a folder in front of Iris.
‘But don’t you need our help?’ she said.
‘It might not be possible to do this without you, I’ll admit. But if you want to leave, we’ll postpone it. I can always find someone else to take your place.’ He looked at Oscar. ‘His role is expendable; but you lot, I need.’
‘Well, I’m staying,’ said Jane.
‘Me too,’ said Marcus.
‘Me three,’ said Yin.
Iris took the folder of music from her brother’s hand. She looked down at Crest with sympathy. Then she folded her arms at Eden. ‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’
‘I brought your cello from home,’ Eden said. ‘Go and tune it. And stop being so sniffy with me. I don’t have time for that tonight.’ He pointed to a large white case at the far end of the room. She went to retrieve it, and Oscar watched as she took out the instrument and plucked at the strings. She stayed in a patch of darkness away from the others while she tuned it, sitting with her cheek close to the fingerboard, and he could hear the distant, muted pips of cello notes.
Eden pointed to Herbert Crest and looked right at Marcus. ‘I want you to kneel at his eyeline, two yards away from his right ear. Got it?’
‘Sure,’ Marcus said. He flipped through the pages of the music before taking his place by the old man. ‘Looks like a beautiful arrangement, by the way. Nice work.’
Crest stayed quiet.
‘Jane, be a dear,’ Eden said. ‘Do the same as Marcus, only stand to the left.’
She nodded and went to stand by the old man. ‘How exciting,’ she said.
Eden placed two hands on Yin’s shoulders. ‘Yinny, my good friend,’ he said, and paused. Then: ‘I need that baritone of yours at the back. At his eye level, two yards away. But you must stay standing. No kneeling down for you, got it?’
‘Sure. Fine. Whatever.’
Marcus feigned indignation—’How come he doesn’t have to get his knees dirty?’—but Eden dismissed this with a quick snap of his fingers: ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Concentrate.’
Iris wandered back towards them, clutching a bow in one hand and the neck of her cello in the other. It was a wonderful rosewood colour with two little patches of faded varnish by the bridge—a prettier instrument than the one she’d owned before. ‘Now what?’ she said.
‘One second.’ Eden slid a short breakfast stool across the room—Oscar recognised it from the Bellwethers’ kitchen—and it made an uncomfortable scraping sound upon the laminate as he positioned it directly in front of Crest. Eden gripped his sister by the tops of her arms and steered her towards it, practically pushing her down onto it. Her cello gave out a bouncy, discordant sound.
‘Well, if I’m supposed to play from sight, I’ll need a music stand,’ she said, and Eden obliged by dragging one over. ‘Happy?’ he said, and she canted her head.
There was a perfect line now, from Yin, to Crest, to Iris, to that hulking organ. ‘You lot are the y-axis,’ Eden said, gesturing with a straight arm along the line. ‘Understand?’ Then he gestured towards Marcus and Jane the same way: ‘And you two are the x-axis.’
Crest widened his eyes, rubbing at the top of his skull with his fingers. There was a moment of silence, which he broke with a polite little clearance of his throat. ‘So, what?’ he said. ‘I just have to sit here?’
‘Yes. You have to sit there and be as still as you can. But first—first—’ Eden picked up three tuning forks from the floor, wiping them against his sleeve. ‘Here, grip it like this,’ he said, placing one of the larger forks into Crest’s right hand, manoeuvring the old man’s fingers into a lobster claw around it. ‘And the other hand—’ He put the second biggest into Crest’s left hand. ‘Open up,’ he said, and like some family doctor investigating a child’s sore throat, he took the old man’s jaw and gently levered it apart. Then he placed the flat handle of the smallest tuning fork on the bottom row of Crest’s teeth. ‘Bite down on it—not too hard, just keep it steady.’ Reluctantly, the old man complied. ‘There, there, that’s it.’ Eden stepped away, studying him. ‘Now—’ He went to retrieve the bundle of fabric, unravelling it quickly, until it became two separate strips. It was a light, diaphanous material, rather like muslin, and as he walked with it across the room, the air caught hold of it so easily, trailing it out through the slats of his fingers. He stood in front of Crest with the fabric then reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a small glass bottle, lifting the cork out with his teeth. He balled up the muslin and doused it with the contents of the bottle—a clear, thin liquid.
Oscar was so anxious he had to dry his palms on the back of his uniform. His legs felt hollow. Eden’s momentum seemed unstoppable now. There was a kind of rapture about him.
‘What is that, holy water?’ Crest mumbled through the side of his mouth.
Eden just shook his head. He took one of the strips and set it in a straight line on the old man’s skull, in the direction of Yin, Iris, and the organ—the y-axis. Then he placed the other one across it, along the x-axis, taking care that the cross-point met the centre of the old man’s operation scar. Watery trails ran along Crest’s face, dripped from his earlobes, hung in a wen at the tip of his nose. Oscar was amazed how much the old man was willing to tolerate—his face was creased up like he was about to sneeze, like he felt nauseous, and the others all looked on with wide, shifting eyes.
Eden clapped his hands loudly. ‘Okay, now we’re ready. Now we can begin.’
‘Wait, what about me?’ Oscar said. ‘What do you need me to do?’
‘Yes. Right. I almost forgot you were here.’ Eden went back to his organ stool, hinging it open. He pulled out a new-looking video camera and, with a casual, aimless throw, he tossed it into the air for Oscar to catch. ‘You’ve had some experience with these things, so I understand,’ Eden said, his voice low and dry. ‘Just keep it pointed at him, not at me, okay?’ He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Crest. ‘No fancy camerawork. We’re not making A Bout de Souffle here. Just keep it simple.’
It began with tick-tock tick-tock—the toy-like gears of the metronome clicking out a steady rhythm. Eden rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, eyes closed, listening to its delicate percussion for several bars, and then sat himself at the organ and began to play a volley of notes, slow but intricate. Sounds layered on top of each other, the right hand marking out the path with a gentle, flowery melody, the left hand laying down great boulders of chords behind it. But although the music was languid, it was not exactly mellow. There was electricity underneath it, an energy that was gathering with every new movement of Eden’s fingers.
Oscar kept the camera trained on Crest’s face, struggling to keep his hands steady. He zoomed right up close and the frame shook wildly. The old man had
a blank, relaxed expression, but he made for the strangest picture: there he was with a tuning fork gripped between his teeth and another in each hand, with a crosshatch of wet muslin on his head. There was no more laughing or sneering, or any sign of the disparagement he’d shown earlier. In fact, Oscar thought he could see something in those wide-awake eyes: he thought he could see Crest trying. Trying not to jinx himself, trying to allow his rational brain to believe in the vague possibility that all this might actually come to something.
Iris, Yin, Marcus, and Jane followed every note of the music on their sheets, turning their pages swiftly. They were all caught up in the moment now, concentrating. Even Oscar felt connected. The organ had a rousing, cajoling effect on him. Everything felt momentous—the way he was holding the camera, the footage he was taking, the position of his feet on the floor, the angle of his body against the light—every last thing was important.
And then there came an enormous, jarring blast from the organ pipes. The pace of the music lurched forward. The volume rose. The timbre of the organ changed, from rasping to full-throated.
Oscar couldn’t help but turn to look at what was going on behind him, keeping the camera trained on Crest. Eden was swaying, stamping his feet, clawing at the console. Gone was the lightness. Gone was the looseness in his shoulders. This was an energetic music, angry and contagious, something feverish and knife-sharp. It was music like gushing water, like frantic animals being herded on a hillside, like all of the conversations in the world being spoken at once, like an ocean prising itself apart, like two great armies converging on each other. With the pressure of Eden’s feet, husky bass notes joined the teeming melody made by his fingers, putting flesh on its bones, thickening the sound. He picked out each low note with effortless pushes of his bare feet, not even glancing downwards, just heel-stepping like a seasoned ballroom dancer, adding brisk, jabbing chords, all the while continuing that smooth sailing of his fingers. Then he flicked on a switch, shifting his hands downward in the same easy motion, from the top rung of keys to the bottom rung, so that all at once the keys on every tier of the console were following the relentless movement of his fingers. The music grew heavier, darker. Keys were dropping and lifting themselves, as if invisible cats were running across them. Oscar had seen a working pianola once, in some backstreet pub in London, but this was something else—this was a machine that could make itself talk with five thundering voices.
The Bellwether Revivals Page 23