For nearly forty minutes, the tape continued with snippets of music from a wide and varied repertoire of classical works, some familiar, others not, but all possessing that same goose-bump quality which Martin had claimed was the key to the soul. He had argued that moments of such extreme beauty, which, he added, were not limited to music, but extended to art as well as the natural world, provide a brief window through which we glimpse heaven itself. Peter had been characteristically dismissive of the idea, and assumed Martin had eventually dropped it, but perhaps not. The tape finally came to an end and Peter removed the headphones. The sound of voices could be heard down the hall and Peter’s stomach was starting to rumble.
In the kitchen, Isabelle was seated at the table with a young man dressed in black shirt and dog-collar. “Peter, you remember Roger, our curate? Roger, this is Peter, Martin’s brother.”
“Ah yes, the physicist,” said the curate with a grin, “we never got to finish our chat. I hear you’re tackling the den.”
“Just clearing up mainly,” replied Peter. He turned to Isabelle, “There are a few bits of correspondence we need to catch up on later.”
“You mean bills to pay,” said Isabelle, frowning. “Martin used to handle the paperwork, but I was afraid he might have let things slip over the last few months.”
Peter didn't want to discuss this in front of Roger, but Isabelle looked anxious.
“It’s nothing to worry about. I’ll write the letters and fill in all the cheques for you to sign - it’s nothing really - just a few small bills and the usual subscriptions for renewal.”
Isabelle placed a hand on Peter’s forearm as tears welled in her eyes. “Peter, you’re such a strength. Thank you so much.”
Peter touched her cheek with the back of his hand, then gently rubbed her shoulder. He wanted to wrap her in his arms - to hug her tightly, but stopped himself. Roger, who suddenly seemed a little embarrassed at his own presence, had developed an interest in a row of copper-bottomed pans hanging on the far wall. Isabelle regained her composure and stepped over to the Aga.
“Well, I’d better be going,” said Roger. “You must both be very busy.”
“No, please. Why don’t you stay for lunch?” offered Isabelle. “It’s just chicken soup and fresh bread, but there’s plenty here, and you’d be very welcome.”
Roger turned towards Peter, obviously trying to gauge whether he supported the invitation. Peter would have preferred to be alone with Isabelle, but there was something intriguing about this young curate. Perhaps he could throw some light on Martin’s final months. “Yes, why not?” he said. “We can finish what we started.”
Roger eyed the stove then looked at Isabelle. “Well if you’re sure it’s no trouble - it does smell wonderful.”
Peter was usually somewhat wary of entering into discussions with religious people. He objected to the way they often used science selectively to serve their purposes, only to reject it when it didn't. Although Martin had been a regular churchgoer, he had always respected Peter’s scientifically grounded point of view, trying instead to reconcile this with his own unique and often spiritual outlook on the world. Roger, it appeared, was remarkably similar to Martin in this respect. Amid spoonfuls of chicken soup, it transpired that Roger, having graduated from Leicester, had actually started his career as a research chemist. Then, following a series of events including the deaths of his parents, had decided to change track and join the church. For Peter, this was a revelation. He had never known a true scientist be able to fully and wholeheartedly embrace the Christian faith, and longed to ask Roger how he lived with the inevitable conflicts that had eventually led him to abandon his own belief. The timing, however, was not right for such discussions, and he decided to defer asking about Martin until they could be alone. Roger, presumably sensing Peter’s need for a more private chat, suggested a pint down the pub that evening, to which Peter readily agreed.
It took a couple of hours to clear the bills, write the reply letters, and address the envelopes, after which Isabelle suggested a walk to the post office. He had not mentioned the music tape yet, wondering how she might react. For Peter, discovering what might have triggered his brother’s suicide was no longer just a matter of idle curiosity, but something he felt compelled to unravel. He was worried though that for Isabelle, the details of Martin’s obsession might only compound her grief. As they closed the front gate and set off down the narrow country road towards the village, he decided on the direct approach. “Isabelle, I feel I need to know what Martin was up to these last few months.”
She looked taken aback. “I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t know what more…”
“No. I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I know you don’t have the answers, but maybe the papers in the study or the files on the computer can shed some light.”
She sighed. “It won’t change what happened.”
“No… I know it won’t bring him back, but for me it’s important. It’s something I have to do.”
She stopped to watch a butterfly as it alighted on a hawthorn flower in the hedgerow. “Well, then do whatever you need to do,” her voice slow and measured, almost devoid of emotion, “but as far as I’m concerned, it won’t make any difference. He’s dead.” She gave a little Gallic shrug, “He’s dead and now I need to move on.”
Fair enough - if there were answers to be found, it seemed he would have to find them alone. After a few moments of awkward silence, he decided to change the subject. “Roger’s an interesting fellow isn’t he?”
She chuckled. “He’s exactly what this village needs. He’s injected some life into our little church and he makes it relevant to the kids too. Before he came, our congregation must have had an average age of about sixty-five. Now it’s more like thirty-five.”
“That’s quite an achievement for the Church of England. How did he do that?”
“I don’t know really, he just makes it more fun. He runs a youth group, which is very popular - and they have this rock band he invites to play in church from time to time - and his sermons are always short - poignant, but short. I tell you, he’s like a breath of fresh air compared to old Dobson.”
Reverend Dobson was the vicar of Littlewick. Peter remembered him from Martin and Isabelle’s wedding, a cantankerous old codger as he recalled. From the outset, he had seemed reluctant to perform the ceremony, and then proceeded to give a sermon on infidelity and the perils of matrimony in modern society. Martin had been livid. It later came to light that Dobson’s wife of thirty-two years had just run off with the butcher. “Yes I remember him from your wedding,” said Peter. “So when does young Roger take his place?”
“Well that’s the problem. He might not. In spite of all he’s done here, not everyone likes him.”
“You mean Dobson doesn’t like him.”
“He and some of the older members of the congregation. Some of them stopped coming after the electric guitars made their first appearance.”
“Typical!”
“I don’t know for sure, but I suspect he’ll move away if he doesn’t get the job soon.”
“That would be a shame.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d care.”
“Well, I may be an atheist, but I still have a certain fondness for the cultural trappings of the C of E – you know - the architecture, the music, the ceremony, the sense of community and so on.”
“But you still think we’d be better off without it, don’t you? Be honest!”
“Oh I don’t know. Providing they stay out of education and government, I’m not too bothered really.”
“And what if we go the way of America, with creationist theme parks and the teaching of Intelligent Design added to the school curriculum.”
“Okay - don’t get me started. Yes, that would be a disaster. Bloody religious nutters over there are jeopardising the academic future of a nation!” Peter felt the combative juices stirring, then caught Isabelle’s sly grin. He chuckled. “You nearly h
ad me going, there.”
“Sorry, I just love how worked up you atheists can get about religion sometimes.”
“Under normal circumstances, perhaps, but today, with the rare gift of your company, the sun warming my back, and this beautiful countryside bursting with the promise of spring, I doubt even an entire flock of young-earth creationists could dampen my spirits.”
As they continued in happy silence, his mind returned to the extracts of music to which he had listened before lunch. Stopping alongside a gap in the hedgerow, he gazed out across the gently undulating hills fading into the distant haze of the afternoon. A large bird of prey, perhaps a kestrel, circled high above a small clump of trees in the next meadow. For a moment, Peter imagined himself as the bird, his sharp eyes scanning the patchwork quilt of fields below for its next meal. As Allegri’s Miserere replayed in his head, he was soaring like the treble voice and for a brief instant, everything in Peter’s world made sense.
“Are you okay?” Isabelle’s sweet voice bringing him gently back down to earth.
“It’s just so peaceful here. I keep comparing it to the South East, and Bracknell in particular. A few trees in between the houses, and a handful of strategically placed parks with artificial lakes, and you try to kid yourself you’re in rural England. It’s not until you get out here that you realise just how much you’re missing, living out your busy little life in a tiny, overcrowded, over polluted corner of the country.”
“Why don’t you and Abigail move out here?”
Peter thought for a moment. It was his previous job as a full-time design engineer that had taken them to Bracknell, but as a contractor, there was no longer anything actually tying him to one place. Admittedly, most of his contracts were for companies along the M4 corridor, but most of his work now was done from home.
“It’s very tempting, but I’m not sure Abi would go for it. As a born and bred Londoner, she already regards Bracknell as out in the boonies.”
Isabelle laughed, perhaps at the word ‘boonies’ or perhaps at the thought of someone preferring Bracknell to Littlewick. “Well, I suppose it’s not everyone’s cup of tea.” There was something endlessly endearing about hearing such a typically English expression pronounced with a French accent. She turned and saw the way Peter was looking at her, an enquiring smile enveloping her face. “What?” she said playfully.
Peter smiled back at her, gently shaking his head and continued walking.
Littlewick village consisted of a post office, newsagent, florist, bakery and greengrocer. There had also been a butcher’s shop of course, but he and the vicar’s wife had understandably moved away after their romance became public. About a mile further up the road was a garage-cum-petrol-station-cum-convenience-store, but that was it. The nearest supermarket was a good ten miles away and so the row of little village shops did quite a reasonable trade. They also, as Peter soon found, traded well in village gossip. As he and Isabelle approached the steps to the Post Office, he overheard an elderly lady, her voice raised in apparent compensation for mutual deafness, bellowing to another only two feet away. “…very sad occasion. Lovely music though.”
“Word has it, the brother stayed there all last night!”
“What, her brother?”
“No, his! All alone in that big house they were. It isn’t right if you ask m…”
They stopped as they saw Isabelle enter and forced smiles in her general direction. When they saw Peter they exchanged conspiratorial glances and turned to face the counter. This was the downside of living in a small community, Peter realised - no anonymity. Everyone had to know everyone else’s business and when they didn't, someone would invariably make it up. Isabelle appeared either not to have heard the exchange, or was choosing to ignore it. While she waited in line behind the two old ladies, Peter slipped out and into the florist next door. He had noticed that the shop was an agent for Interflora, and arranged for a large bouquet to be delivered to Abigail the following day. He then bought a bunch of red and yellow daffodils for Isabelle. As he came out, the old ladies, who were just tottering down the steps of the post office, immediately clocked the flowers, their eyebrows rising in disapproval.
“Afternoon ladies!” said Peter, his voice loud and deliberate and carrying all the condescension he could muster. The ladies grunted in unison and jostled off down the street, their identical wheeled tartan shopping trolleys trailing like reluctant poodles. A few seconds later, Isabelle emerged smiling. Peter whipped the flowers from behind his back and presented them with a theatrical bow. She blushed.
“Thank you! But really, you shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” replied Peter with a grin, and then blushed himself, suddenly realising how inappropriate the gesture was under the circumstances.
Back at The Fields, Peter returned to the den feeling refreshed and pleasantly contented after the stroll. Sitting at the desk with a satisfied glow, he powered on the computer. Pulling up My Recent Documents from the Start menu, he scanned the list of files last accessed by Martin. At the top was a video file. He clicked on it. File not found! The next few were MP3 audio files. He tried the first. The media player opened, but there was no sound. Once again Peter had forgotten the headphones. He plugged the Sennheisers back into the PC and clicked play. At once there was a curious sequence of rapidly ascending and descending chords, somewhat reminiscent of bell chimes, but more melodic. Peter shut his eyes as a strange feeling of weightlessness enveloped him. It felt as though he was floating and although his eyes registered nothing but the ruddy opacity of his eyelids, there was a definite sensation of rising. Then it was gone, and he was once again staring at the computer screen. For several minutes he sat there trying to understand what had just happened to him, and then he tried it again. The sensation reminded him of the moment earlier that afternoon watching the Kestrel soar above the fields, but there was something else, a feeling he couldn't identify. He tried some of the other files. They were all about the same length, and had a more or less similar effect, each time sending Peter off into a little trance. The sensations were stronger with some than with others. He was intrigued. Somehow Martin had distilled the essence of those magical moments in music and, while the resulting sounds didn't seem to conform to any recognisable musical structure, they were curiously addictive. He tried to analyse his feelings. He felt incredibly calm and relaxed. His mind was clear and focused, his breathing slow and easy. Placing two fingers on his neck to measure his pulse, he counted forty-eight. No, he must have missed some beats. He was in good shape, but had never known it that low, even at rest. All in all, he felt wonderful. It was rather like the feeling after making love, totally relaxed, and yet he felt as if something inside him had changed. He closed his eyes and almost immediately slid into a profound sleep.
Once again he was out on the road with Isabelle by the gap in the hedge. This time, there was a stile, over which Isabelle was climbing, giggling like a young child. “Come on!” she said, holding out her hand. As he took it, the soft warmth of her touch rushed up his arm in waves and her dark brown eyes bore into his own with knowing desire. Vaulting the stile, he took her in his arms, pressing his lips to hers and pulling her down into the long grass where they rolled and kissed and laughed. Eventually, she lay still, on her back, and he sat up to appreciate the full beauty of woman beside him. A few wisps of luxurious black hair had strayed across her cheek. As he leant over her to brush them aside, her expression transformed from one of love to one of horror. Her eyes seemed focused on something behind him. He swung around and there, standing above them, silhouetted against the sun, was a man whose height and shape were instantly recognisable.
“I know everything!” said Martin.
Peter woke with a jolt and looked around, dazed and confused. He was still seated at Martin’s desk. How long had he been asleep? Couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. What a vivid dream! He shut down the computer and drowsily got up to find Isabelle. Allegri’s Miserere was wafting down the s
taircase at the end of the hall. He softly called her name, but to no reply. Hesitantly, he tiptoed up the stairs. The door to the master bedroom was ajar and through the gap he could see her long black hair cascading over the edge of the pillow. He eased open the door. She lay on her side under a single white sheet clasped just below her chin, her face bearing the angelic expression of a child, blissfully unaware of the troubles and anxieties of those around. The thin sheet, hugging the contours of her naked body, rose and fell with each soft breath. Her form was all curves and perfectly proportioned, her right nipple pushing gently at the fabric. He found himself walking slowly towards the bed, leaning over and then kissing her softly on the forehead. She murmured something unintelligible while her eyes remained closed. His hand reached out, gently taking hold of the sheet and drawing it slowly down her body. Presently, the corners of her mouth rose into a smile and her eyes opened dreamily. This can’t be happening, he thought to himself as more and more of her perfect body, almost too perfect, was revealed.
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