The Piano Player's Son

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  'Have you told Mum he's coming?'

  'No. He can explain himself what he's up to.'

  'I never thought he'd actually do it,' Isabel said. 'I can't imagine the house without Dad's piano.'

  'And what the hell is Rick going to say?'

  Eva and Grace were already there. Eva beckoned her over. 'Cara, you look wonderful.'

  Isabel had chosen her red and gold dress from Naples, the only posh one she owned.

  Eva was wearing a floor-length turquoise gown with a deep décolletage—it looked more as if she was going to a ball than a dinner with her daughters. It was the first time she hadn't worn black since Henry died.

  She ordered a bottle of champagne, flirting outrageously with the waiter.

  'Order anything you like.' She batted a hand towards the menu Grace was holding. 'It's all on me tonight.'

  They ordered their food, and the waiter poured their champagne. Eva raised her glass. 'Salute. I am so lucky to have such beautiful daughters.'

  Her mother had never called her beautiful before, Isabel thought.

  Grace raised her glass, but she didn't drink. 'What's your news, Mum? Are you going to tell us now, or have we got to wait till the end of the meal?'

  Eva clasped her hands together. She was wearing a gold charm bracelet Isabel didn't remember. It already had a cross, a car, a high-heeled shoe and a lipstick hanging from it. 'Now. I'll tell you now and we can celebrate properly.'

  'Let's hear it then.'

  'I'm going home to Italy.' She clapped her hands and the golden charms danced and sparkled.

  'You haven't got a home in Italy,' Grace said.

  'Eduardo has bought a new house. And I am going to live there with him.' Eva looked from Isabel to Grace.

  Isabel didn't dare meet Grace's eyes, but she saw her fingers clenched round the stem of her glass.

  'Let's get this straight.'

  Isabel was glad Grace kept talking. Her tongue felt as if it was too big for her mouth and she was sure no words would come out.

  'You're going to live in Italy with Eduardo?'

  'He's lonely. I am lonely. And he loves me.'

  Isabel stared at her mother. Her hair was newly-dyed black and shone harshly under the lights. Brilliant red lipstick outlined her mouth.

  'This would be the same Eduardo your brothers sent you to England to escape.'

  'Si.'

  'The same Eduardo you slept with while you were married to Dad.'

  'Si, but your father—'

  'The same Eduardo who is George's father?'

  'Si. It's miracoloso.'

  Isabel went back to the house in the taxi with Grace and her mother. Her eyelids wanted to close, and she longed for home and the oblivion of sleep.

  Grace had persuaded her to come when they went to the Ladies at the restaurant: 'I can't do this on my own, Bel.'

  'But you handled Mum brilliantly. I could never have pinned her down like that.'

  'I'm tired. I can't take much more.'

  That makes two of us, Isabel thought, but she agreed to go.

  She was already regretting it as the taxi pulled up at her mother's house. She started to apologise—'I don't feel well, Grace'—but Grace had opened the door and was out on the pavement before they'd even stopped.

  'What the hell?' Isabel heard her shout.

  Eva screamed. Someone's broken in!'

  Isabel stumbled from the taxi. Lights streamed from every window. The front door stood open and next-door's dog began to bark. Isabel followed Grace through the gate and up the path. A figure huddled on the step by the front door. 'Grace, don't…' she began, as Grace bent over the crumpled form. In the glow of the streetlight, Isabel saw a face peering up. It was Flavia. She was sobbing: 'It's Dad. It's Dad.'

  Isabel pushed past Grace and Flavia and stepped into the hall. 'Don't let Mum come in,' she shouted over her shoulder.

  'Rick?' she called. The silence was unnerving. Where was he? What was he doing? She strained to hear the smallest sound. She could almost feel his presence on the other side of the dining room wall. She listened again and heard him breathing, a thin rasping. She looked back. Grace and Flavia stood framed in the front door. Eva was on the path behind them. 'Be careful, Bel,' Grace shouted.

  She turned back to the dining room door. 'Rick?'

  The silence was broken by something infinitely worse. A blood-chilling howl came from the dining room It was the cry of a creature from the wild. A cry of anguish. Her scalp crawled as if spiders had invaded it.

  The wailing died away. What should she do? She needed to go in and talk to him. Tell him she understood. He'd lost Deanna, and there was nothing to live for. The sky was black. The grass was black. The sun was black. If snow fell from the sky, it would be black. But light would come again. However obdurate the blackness, a rainbow would glow, the clouds would lighten.

  Another terrifying howl erupted.

  Isabel flung open the dining room door. Rick was standing in front of the piano. Blood streamed from a wound on his forehead. His face was the colour of brick dust and his eyes bulged. Obscenities gushed from his mouth. His arms were raised above his head. In his hands was an axe.

  Isabel screamed. The axe crashed down on the piano. She covered her ears against the noise of splintering wood and mangled notes. A terrible symphony of sound. Rick raised the axe above his head again. It slammed into the piano a second time, slicing a deep gash in the smooth polished surface. He hauled the blade from the wood. Grunts reverberated from somewhere deep inside him. He steadied his position, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He swung the weapon above his head. It crashed on to the keys. Isabel's head filled with the cacophony. The ivory splintered and cream particles shot in all directions. Rick panted. Spittle foamed at the corners of his mouth.

  The axe smashed down a fourth time. The top caved in. A piece of wood flew off and its sharp point pierced Isabel's cheek. She clutched her face. The axe began its arc again. 'Rick!' She dragged at his arm. 'Stop!' His shirt was wringing wet. He turned to her. The axe was above her. She stared up at the shiny blade. The corner was a foot from her head.

  'Isabel, get back!' She felt arms grasp her from behind. Push her to one side. It was George. She watched as he reached up for the axe. His hands were on it. His fingers tried to prise Rick's away. A flash. Rick. The steel blade. George. They turned and twisted. The weapon between them. Light glinted as the blade scythed downwards. She saw George stagger. He fell on his knees, blood spouting from his head.

  Eva pushed through the others to stand in front of Rick. The axe was still in his hands. 'Il mio bambino,' she sobbed. 'What have you done?' She clung to the piano, now a mess of broken wood. 'You wicked boy. Your father's piano.'

  Isabel heard screaming. 'Get an ambulance!' she screeched. 'The police!' It was her screaming. George was on the floor, blood streaming down his face. Grace shoved her to one side. She dragged the cloth from the table and held it down on George's head.

  Eva was cradling the piano.

  'Mum. It's George. He's hurt.'

  Eva looked round and her eyes focused on George on the floor for the first time. Grace had ripped the tablecloth in two and bound it round George's head. Still the blood pumped out.

  Eva got down on her knees, her head close to George's. 'Carissimo,' she crooned. 'Mio tesoro.'

  George opened his eyes. He must have rallied at the sound of Eva's voice. He fixed his eyes on his mother. 'Bitch,' he said. 'Bitch.' And he closed his eyes again.

  The ambulance men and the police arrived at the same time. The policemen approached Rick. One lifted the axe from his hands, and the other snapped handcuffs on his wrists. 'We'll need you to come with us, sir.'

  A paramedic knelt beside George. He put his fingers to the pulse in his neck. He looked up, shaking his head. 'I'm sorry. He's gone.'

  'Oh… Oh…' The sound of Eva's weeping filled the room. 'Mio tesoro.'

  Isabel bent and stroked George's hair. It felt soft an
d silky.

  A hand touched her shoulder. 'Come on. You'd be better away from here.'

  She looked round at the paramedic. 'He's dead.'

  'I'm afraid he is.'

  'My brother's dead.'

  'I'm really sorry.'

  She stared at her hand stained red. 'There's so much blood.'

  'Bel, let's go.' Grace's voice came from a long way off. 'There's nothing more we can do tonight.'

  'But there's so much blood.'

  Thirty-five

  Isabel stepped out of the taxi. She hesitated, her hand gripping the door handle.

  'You all right, miss?' the driver called.

  She wondered if he'd seen the blood on her face and jacket. She'd swilled water over herself, but there must still be blood on her. She could smell its rusty odour. 'I'm fine.' Her teeth wouldn't stop chattering. 'Is this okay?' She shoved a ten-pound note in his hand.

  'Thank you very much, miss. You go carefully now.'

  She hadn't realised how scared she was until she opened the front door of the flat. She was sure it had never been so dark. She turned on the light and listened. She stood with her back to the door. Listening. The doors leading off the hall were all firmly shut. But what was behind them? Who was lurking there? She rushed through the flat, drawing curtains, turning on lights.

  The chair tapped against the kitchen unit every time she rocked backwards. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound, the normality, comforted her. Tap. Tap. Tap. Samson jumped down from the table and climbed on to her lap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  Isabel had vomited after Rick and George had been taken away, and she couldn't stop shivering.

  'It's shock,' Grace said. 'I'll take Eva and Flavia to a hotel. You go home.'

  'I'll come with you.'

  'Bel, you're not in any state to cope with Eva after what you've been through. Get Brian to come over. You shouldn't be on your own.' She wrapped her arms round Isabel. 'I'll ring you first thing in the morning.'

  Isabel wasn't sure if she'd fallen asleep. The overhead light glared into her eyes. Tap. Tap. Tap. She stretched. Her arm was numb where Samson had been lying on it. Tap. Tap. Tap. The movement of the rocking chair was making her feel sick again. She pulled her mobile from her bag. She scrolled down contacts until she reached S. She pressed her thumb on Simon's name. Call. She clicked on Call. The ringing trilled against her ear.

  There was no answer. He wasn't going to answer. He was asleep. He was out in a noisy bar and couldn't hear his phone. He'd seen her name flash up on the phone and was punishing her.

  'Isabel?' His voice was muzzy with sleep. 'Are you okay?'

  'I'm sorry… can you come over?'

  'What's the matter?'

  'Please. I need you. Can you come?'

  'God, you sound terrible. What's happened?'

  'Simon, please.'

  'I'm on my way.'

  Thirty-six

  Isabel sat on the floor in front of piles of clothes, books and papers. She'd thrown so much away when she and Brian split up, but here she was again weighed down with possessions. She'd also inherited George's painting of Henry. It was propped in the hall, packaged in bubble-wrap and thick masking tape. She didn't know what she was going to do with it, but her mother hadn't wanted it and she couldn't bring herself to get rid of it.

  One of the problems was her piano music. Some of it went back to pieces she'd played when she first started having lessons aged four. She didn't see the point of keeping them when she was going to get rid of her piano. Simon had tried to persuade her not to. 'There's room for it in my flat,' he'd said again last night, 'and once we move somewhere bigger…'

  But Isabel had made up her mind. She couldn't imagine she'd play again.

  Now that she'd decided, she couldn't wait to leave the flat. There were too many memories: of her life, and the one her parents had shared not far away. All her affection for that house where the family had grown up was gone. She'd hated having to go back every day to help her mother pack. But now Eva had left for Italy, and the house was for sale.

  She'd clung to the idea of a family which—in reality—had never existed. That was why she'd been so devastated, she realised, when Brian left. She'd felt such a failure not being able to reproduce the idyllic marriage her mother and father had shared. But that image was now exposed as a sham. And knowing Simon had taught her that her relationship with Brian had been based on lies and secrets. Not of the kind that Henry and Eva had shared. But smaller ones that wore away at fulfilment. The worst secret was the one she'd kept from herself—Brian was not the husband she dreamed of having.

  Her new life wasn't going to be easy. Rose and Josh were both going to live with Brian. Rose wouldn't have anything to do with her. She'd become hysterical when Isabel told her that she wasn't getting back with Brian, that they weren't moving to the big house. She'd punched and kicked like a toddler. 'I hate you!' she screamed in Isabel's face. 'You're a cheat and a hypocrite.' Brian had grinned as he listened to the tirade. He'd put his arm round Rose and walked her to the door. When they got there, he turned back to Isabel: 'That just about sums you up, don't you think?'

  Isabel sorted her clothes into two piles. She'd lost so much weight that she was taking most of them to the charity shop and the pile she was keeping would fit into one suitcase. She snapped the locks shut on the case and stood it in the corner with the trunk and boxes already waiting to go. She stretched backwards, easing the ache in her spine.

  Sitting down on the bed, she reached for the envelope in the top drawer of her bedside cabinet. She drew out the two sheets of paper. They were creased and dog-eared where she'd read and reread them. The first sheet was a letter she'd received from Chloe a few days after George's funeral.

  Isabel and Grace had already started organising the funeral, fending off constant demands from Eva for a requiem mass, a choir, a mahogany coffin—'Everything must be perfetto for my Giorgio', when a letter arrived from a solicitor in Penzance. He was in possession of a document, signed by George, which stated that in the event of his death, George wanted a simple ceremony with only his friends from the art school there, and afterwards his ashes were to be scattered in the sea. Eva had spent a day crying in her bedroom. 'Perché? Perché?' she asked whenever they went up to see if she was all right. 'Why is he punishing me? What did I do?'

  Isabel smoothed down the page with Chloe's loopy schoolgirl handwriting:

  Hi Isabel

  I've been sorting out George's room and I came across a diary he kept for a few weeks last year. There's one entry he wrote while Henry was staying down here. I think you'd be interested to read it—it explains a lot about George.

  I hope you're beginning to recover from the trauma of George's death. From what you said on the phone, it must have been terrible. I hope his brother has to stay in prison for the rest of his life for what he did.

  I miss George more than I can tell you. I loved him so much, and he'd asked me to go to Italy with him. I don't really know what I'll do now, but I can't see how the art school will survive without George. I go down to the sea where we scattered the ashes nearly every day. I know it's silly, but I feel closer to him there.

  'Come on, Chlo,' he used to say. 'Put your sparkle on—we're hitting Penzance.'

  Let me know how you are, and come and see me if you're in Penzance.

  Chloe x

  The letter always made Isabel want to cry, but it helped to know George had someone like Chloe. The other sheet of paper was more difficult. She almost knew it by heart:

  14 March

  Wow, it's been some weird day. Navel-gazing doesn't usually do it for me, but today the old man told me something that's rocked my boat, capsized it, you could say.

  He suggested going down to The Admiral for a quick pint before dinner. He's going back tomorrow and I thought it'd be nice to have a chinwag before he hops it back to the smoke.

  He downed the first pint straight off and then he ordered another. I'm not a great beer drinker, but I thought why n
ot? It's his last night and he's bought my portrait of him. Christ knows if he likes it—he paid a tidy amount.

  So, I'm half way down the second pint, feeling nicely sozzled and planning the third, when he comes out with it: 'I've got something to tell you, dear boy.' If a lottery win depended on it, I couldn't have guessed what that something was.

  It's funny but even writing this—when it's only me who's going to see it, and I already know what the SOMETHING is—it's hard to put it down in black and white. Here goes: the old man is not my father. Even reading that back gives me the shivers. Okay, so he's looked after me, bought me clothes and food, taught me the piano… everything… you name it, he's done it for me. Except for that vital bit of business, which somehow he missed out on—her fanny was feeding some other prick. And what a miserable little prick she chose! He said she wanted it kept secret because her brothers would kill her if they found out. They'd got some sense—those old Italian uncles.

  He told me no one else in the family knows, but I don't believe him. He's joined at the hip to Isabel—there's no way he wouldn't have told her. I expect they all know. I expect they laugh at me behind my back. Bastards and bitches the lot of them. Mind you, it's my dear mamma who's the biggest bitch. I'll tell her so one day as well.

  Isabel stood at the cooker stirring a sauce to go with pasta. Simon would be here soon, and although it had only been a few days, she couldn't wait to see him again. His wife had finally agreed that his son could come down from Scotland to visit. 'I'd like you to meet him,' Simon had said. 'So would I, but let's take it slowly. You don't want to do anything to mess it up.' He'd put his arms round her and kissed her. 'Oh, wise woman.'

  *

  The phone rang. She lowered the heat under the pan and picked up the receiver: it was Grace.

  'How's Rick?' Isabel asked. Grace was staying up in Rothbury with the girls. Rick had been charged with manslaughter and was being held in a secure psychiatric unit until it was decided if he was fit enough to stand trial.