Wolf Tones (Standalone Psychological Thriller)

by JJ Marsh

  Around midnight, Rolf lay on his back with one arm behind his head, the other caressing Anton’s hair as he lay on his chest. He couldn’t attempt to articulate the sensations inside him. It seemed like he was a snow globe, up-ended and shaken by a frenzied hand and now deposited on this mattress, under this duvet, beside this man. All he could do was lie there and watch the snowflakes settle. From the living room came a clattering noise and Rolf tensed.

  “It’s only Blue. He’s either going out or coming in through his cat flap. So long as he’s not bringing in any dead mice – or even live mice – he’s welcome.”

  “Live mice? Does he do that?”

  Anton nodded, his cheek brushing gently against Rolf’s chest. “I love that cat, I really do, but he can be a cruel little bastard. Killing birds, catching mice or shrews to play with when the truth is he’s better fed than some people I know. That’s why I bought him the collar with the bell. Give the wildlife sporting chance.”

  Rolf looked down at him and traced the line of his eyebrow with his forefinger. “You’re an old softy at heart, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged and not ashamed of it. I cry at everything, especially cruelty. People hurting animals, or children, or anyone weaker than them makes me so angry I could weep. The original bleeding heart.”

  A peculiar sensation surged through Rolf’s bloodstream and he pulled his right arm from under his head to embrace Anton closer. “I wouldn’t have you any other way. This is going to sound weird, but tonight felt like … it felt like my first time.”

  Anton went so still that Rolf wondered if he was still breathing.

  “I told you it was going to sound weird. Sorry.”

  They lay in silence, communicating only through touch. The pressure of Anton’s hand on his rib cage. The touch of Rolf’s lips to Anton’s forehead. The squeeze of Anton’s knee against his thigh. They reassured each other, connected by breath, warmth and the touch of skin against skin.

  “There’s no need to say sorry,” said Anton, his voice husky in the silence of the night. “I’m taking it as a compliment. I’m such a fabulous lover I’ve obliterated all memory of the rest.”

  Rolf rolled onto his side to face this beautiful man. “If only you could, I’d lock you in this room and never let you go.”

  “Could be worse,” said Anton, running his fingers over Rolf’s bare shoulder. “How the hell do you have such incredibly soft skin? Is that a Slovakian thing? Do you all feel like butter?”

  The clatter of the cat flap came as a response to his question like a brief round of applause. They smiled at each other, the only illumination in the room provided by the streetlights penetrating the curtains.

  “When I meant by the first time… oh God, this is going to sound so cheesy.”

  “Rolf, do me a favour. Stop policing yourself before you speak. If you’ve got something to say, just say it. I’ll be the judge of whether it’s cheesy or weird or so freaky I want to run away and slam the door behind me. Deal?”

  Rolf squeezed his eyes shut and summoned up his courage. “Deal. What I wanted to say was… with you, it feels like the first time I ever made love.” He covered his face with his hands, embarrassment flaring, wishing he hadn’t spoken.

  Anton’s fingers gently removed Rolf’s hands, kissed each one and placed them on his own face. His right ear pressed into Rolf’s left palm. “That’s a beautiful thing to say.”

  “Thank you. Some things I did in the past I’m not proud of.”

  Anton hummed the tune to My Way, his face vibrating in Rolf’s hands. “I have a few regrets too. Although refusing to kowtow to Hofmeister wasn’t one of them. It was worth losing my position in the orchestra just to see his face when someone said no.”

  “Hofmeister? Did he ...?” Claws scrabbled across the parquet floor and a high-pitched squeal shot alarm through Rolf’s system. “What the hell was that?!”

  Anton switched on the light, revealing Blue crouching on his haunches and staring at the floor-length curtain.

  “What’s he doing?” hissed Rolf.

  “I’m not sure but whatever he’s brought in this time is a lot bigger than a mouse. You stay there, I’m taking this beast outside.” He picked up Blue who wriggled and fought and yowled in protest, but Anton was not to be dissuaded.

  Rolf drew his knees up to his chest and huddled under the duvet. Anton returned wearing slippers and a pair of oven gloves, holding a cat carrier and a colander. Rolf simply stared.

  “I’ve done this before,” said Anton. “You stay where you are. I’ll catch whatever that bloody animal brought in and release it into the garden.” He tiptoed towards the curtain, caught hold of a swag and crouched with a colander in his hand. In one swift move he lifted the curtain. A rat the size of one of his slippers shot under the bed. Anton let out a curse.

  “It’s a rat!” Rolf yelled.

  Anton’s face was pale. “I know. And this colander is nowhere near big enough to catch it. I can’t handle anything that big, not even with oven gloves. Rats bite. Okay, let’s think about this. It’s dangerous because it’s terrified. If we try to catch it, it will panic. We have to find a way of guiding it outside. I’m going to need your help.”

  “It’s a rat!” Rolf repeated. “We should kill it!”

  “Why?” asked Anton. “Look, I’m going to open the French windows onto the garden. Then you and I encourage it to run in that direction. Just let me check it can’t run anywhere else. You should put something on your feet, just in case.” He threw a pair of slip-on trainers in Rolf’s direction. He knotted the curtains so they were raised from the floor, unlocked the French windows and opened them to welcome in the night. Then with a worried glance, he paced around to the other side of the room and beckoned Rolf to join him. They squatted on their haunches and peered beneath the bed.

  “What’s that?” Rolf whispered, pointing at the long rectangle in a waterproof case.

  “My skis,” answered Anton. “Actually, that gives me a good idea. It’s probably on the other side of the skis, closer to the window. You go to the left and block its escape that way while I push the skis forward. If we work together we can funnel it out into the garden.”

  Rolf desperately wanted to ask what he should do if it attacked him, but he couldn’t be quite so feeble. He crept around to the left looking for anything he could use as a weapon against a monster rat. He picked up Anton’s tennis racket from beside the wardrobe and in a flash of inspiration; he rolled up the rug and pressed it up against the leg of the bed. They now had two sides of the room covered; an open escape route for the rodent and the only risk area was if it ran right under the bedside table or God forbid, into the wardrobe. But what if it was not in front of the skis and on the other side, centimetres from Anton’s face?

  “Get ready,” Anton murmured.

  From his standpoint behind the rolled-up rug, Rolf couldn’t see anything of Anton as he shuffled underneath the bed. A soft scraping sound began and all his nerves were on alert. The ski case moved further in Rolf’s direction and he found he was holding his breath.

  “Shit!” A frantic scrabbling came from his right and the rat shot out from under the bed, behind Rolf and headed towards the bedroom door. Its passage to the French windows was now blocked by the rolled-up carpet. Rolf kicked the rug out of the way and ran directly at the rat, wielding his racket. The animal did not look at him but seem to sense the approaching threat, twisting past him and shooting through the French windows like quicksilver. Anton tumbled across the bed and closed the French windows, breathing heavily. They looked out of the garden and watched the silvery shape humping up the steps and scuttling across the moonlit lawn.

  Both panting, they looked at each other. Anton was wearing oven gloves, slippers and nothing else. Rolf, tennis racket in hand, was naked other than some tatty trainers. Their laughter erupted like a summer storm and Rolf doubled over, his hands on his knees, stomach hurting from the ridiculousness of it all.

 
; Eventually, Anton wiped his eyes with the heels of his hands. “I’m going to let that damned cat out of the bathroom, lock the cat flap and get us both a beer. Because you know what? You’re my hero.” His face creased up, sending them both into peals of laughter all over again.

  9

  That night he dreamt of Sokolov again. He couldn’t see him but he could hear leather slapping against his palm and his voice saying, ‘you can run, but you can’t hide.’ He woke with a jolt, his skin clammy and his mouth dry. For a second, he lost orientation. The window was in the wrong place. He lay still on his side, his eyes wide, until a body spooned around him and he remembered where he was. For a second, he lay rigid, waiting for the waves of guilt, shame and self-recrimination. Then he relaxed into Anton’s embrace, feeling safer than he could ever remember.

  They slept late before reluctantly leaving the bedroom to start their Sunday. Anton made Gröstl, a heavy brunch of potato, onion, bacon and fried egg, all cooked in butter. They ate in the garden, with a pot of fresh coffee, Anton wearing a bathrobe over his Jack Wolfskin underpants and Rolf still in his boxers with a borrowed T-shirt. Blue stalked off into the hedge the minute he was allowed out the door, clearly still affronted by their reaction to last night’s present. After their lazy brunch, Rolf faced the fact he had to leave and pack his clothes for the afternoon’s concert. The gardens walls were high and trees in neighbouring gardens shielded them from view, but still he chose not to kiss Anton goodbye and satisfied himself by saying thank you with a smouldering look.

  Anton gave him a knowing smile and simply said, “I’ll see you later.”

  The temptation to take him by the hand and return to bed was overwhelming, but the church bells struck midday and he became aware of how little time he had to prepare. He ran up the stairs to his own apartment, wearing a huge grin. With a shock, he realised he hadn’t looked at his mobile phone since yesterday afternoon. If Leonor had messaged him and received no reply, she would be worried or worse still, suspicious. There was one message on his mobile and it was from the maestro, congratulating him on yesterday’s successful concert. Rolf wondered how he knew, but then remembered the rumours about him and Jun. Of course he knew.

  From Leonor, there was nothing.

  The performance that afternoon contained an extra frisson. As they had done the day before, Anton and Rolf travelled together on the bus to the Salzbacher Gartens. Neither discussed how to behave and they instinctively reverted to the roles of the day before. They talked about the bandstand’s location and the different acoustics, the problems of crying children, planes flying overhead and the occasional drunk intent on heckling players. Rolf found himself laughing at Anton’s tales of woe, impressed at his own ability to behave as if they were merely colleagues after the events of last night.

  He was not nervous about the concert itself, more concerned about their perceptive friend. If anyone picked up on the changed dynamic it would be Trudi. Fortunately, her attention was exercised by the new dresses she and Jun had purchased yesterday. They both looked lovely individually and even better together. Jun’s diminutive height, glossy black hair and fine features contrasted with Trudi’s statuesque blondeness and peachy colouring. They complemented each other perfectly.

  “Ladies! How beautiful do you look? These are yesterday’s bargains, I take it?” Anton paced a circle around them, admiring every angle. “That cutaway shoulder is perfect on you, Jun, and will look terrific with your bowing action. What kind of fabric is that, Trudi? It’s so slinky!”

  “Silk. I know, I’ve made a rod for my own back as it will need dry-cleaning, but the second I saw it, I fell in love. If they hadn’t stocked my size, I’d have had a full-on tantrum. You two look crisp and fresh. No trace of a hangover as far as I can see. So it wasn’t a wild boys’ night out, then?”

  Rolf knelt to open his cello case, afraid to open his mouth.

  “Didn’t you see that storm?” asked Anton. “It’s no fun schlepping from bar to bar in torrential rain. Wild boys’ night is on hold until we have the right kind of weather for wild boys’ hair.”

  Jun gave her tinkling laugh, a sound Rolf wished he could record and use as a percussion instrument. “Not very rock ‘n’ roll, you guys! But I’m glad to see you’re ready for this. Shall we tune up?”

  It was the ideal afternoon for a concert in the park. Unlike yesterday’s church performance, this was more of crowd-pleasing medley, most of which Rolf had been playing since he was a teenager. The applause was not at the same level as that for Schubert’s Death and the Maiden, but it was genuine and enthusiastic. Better still, Rolf was able to enjoy himself, share a smile with his fellow players and glance around the audience. The atmosphere filled him with a sense of love for life, for beauty, for music and for people in the park on a Sunday afternoon.

  They played two encores and although they had not rehearsed a curtain call, each stood and bowed in a different direction of the compass after they finished with the slow movement of Mozart’s Dissonance Quartet. The sound of clapping hands rippled across the park, enlivened by a few whistles and some calls of ‘Bravo’. All things considered, a successful afternoon. They packed up their instruments and were descending the steps when the maestro appeared.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. That was a most entertaining performance and you flew the flag for our orchestra with skill and style. It’s hard to believe that Herr Jaro joined you only yesterday. This quartet is destined for great things. May I buy you all a drink?”

  Despite the summer heat, Jurgen Wilk was still dressed in black, although in a lighter summer shirt and culottes. His praise for their easy-listening performance was fulsome, and Rolf could not keep an expression of puzzlement off his face.

  “I see your confusion, Mr Jaro. When you perform incredibly complex pieces in the rehearsal room, I criticise and insist you improve. When you perform what you perceive to be the lighter things, I enthuse. The reason being is that you and your colleagues are ambassadors for the orchestra when you play a venue such as this. Many of these people have never considered attending the Konzerthalle. Today, they see some of our finest musicians and appreciate the joy a familiar classic played live can bring. On a personal note, I am delighted to see how well you fit in this quartet. In fact, I would go as far as to say you have fitted in to the orchestra, to Salzburg and to our world with impressive ease. I’m very glad you’re with us.”

  Trudi, Anton and Jun burst into applause, causing several other patrons in the café to turn their heads. Once again, Rolf was lost for words. To hear such words from the maestro, to feel such warmth from his colleagues and to remember the extraordinary events of last night left him lightheaded and almost giddy.

  “For my part, I would like to thank you, all of you. Your kindnesses, your professionalism and your patience with my adjustment to a new role,” he took a deep breath to control his emotions. “I couldn’t have wished for a better welcome. I just want you to know, I’m very, very happy here.”

  Again they patted their hands together, their smiles dazzling. Rolf looked down at his coffee, wishing he could keep this moment on film and replay it at his leisure.

  Rolf and Anton lived in the same building, so there was nothing suspicious about them leaving together. They maintained their collegial professionalism on the journey home and said goodbye in the hallway, with a consciousness that someone could be listening. Rolf carried his cello case upstairs and placed it in the music room, changed out of his performance clothes and checked the flat for any sign that Leonor had returned early. He got out his phone and sent a message, ostensibly assuring her the concert had gone well and the maestro had been complimentary. He ended his cheerful update with a question.

  What time will you be back tomorrow?

  He left the phone on the kitchen table and went to put his clothes away. After that he cleaned the kitchen, tidied the apartment and had a shower. When he emerged in his bathrobe, he had received a reply.

  Good for you! My
plans are still fluid, I’ll let you know. Maybe around eleven?

  Rolf got changed, ran downstairs and up the street towards the minimarket. He bought a bottle of champagne, a baguette, rollmops, prawns and scallops, along with a carton of chocolate ice cream. His heart pulsed with excitement and nerves for fear of rejection. He paid the cashier and wished her a good evening. The girl replied with the same and Rolf wondered what the young woman saw. Possibly a good-looking professional white male with disposable income and plenty of self-confidence. Whereas Rolf’s reality was quite different. He looked down at his purchases and identified with the prawns. He was peeled of all his armour against the world. Raw, pink and vulnerable, it would take one single shake of a head to destroy him. Did he dare? Could he knock on Anton’s door and offer him fish and fizz and himself on a plate? Electricity burst through his body right to his extremities and when he arrived back at the house, his breathing was short although he had exerted himself no further than a casual stroll.

  He opened the front door and stood outside Anton’s apartment. He waited, trying to regain his composure. Then he pressed his teeth together and rang the doorbell. Seconds passed, each lasting a full minute in Rolf’s head, until Anton opened the door. He wore shorts, T-shirt, rubber gloves and a wide smile.

  “Not another rat?” asked Rolf.

  “Not another rat,” Anton replied. “Blue was locked in while we had our concert, just in case he brought me another of his gifts. This seems to have displeased him as he ignored his litter tray and shat on the rug.”