The Voices (9 page)

As soon as he had digested the technical pages, Christopher was eager to try out what he had learned. He opened a brand new tape box and removed the spool from its transparent cellophane wrapping, before pressing it onto the vacant spindle of his Akai. He threaded the tape through the guides and poked the laminated end into the hub slot of the empty reel. He then set up the microphone and radio connections as described by Raudive. After turning the dial of the radio so that the needle occupied a position between stations and the speaker was emitting nothing but noise, he tapped the microphone and adjusted the recording levels. Feeling somewhat self-conscious, he said: ‘Two fifteen p.m., Tuesday the eighteenth of May, 1976. This is Christopher Norton. Is there anybody there?’ He paused before continuing: ‘Who are you?’ And after another pause he asked, ‘What do you want?’ He then repeated his questions, rewound the tape and listened to the recording. His voice entered above the radio static, but in the gaps between his questions there were no responses. He made another ten-minute recording, but when he played it back there were still no voices, only lengthy intervals of frothy interference.

Christopher felt deflated. The idea of using the voices of the dead in a serious musical work had offered him a
tantalizing prospect of professional redemption. But now, his vision of concert halls, ovations and interviews had begun to shimmer like a mirage – the light of hope refracting through layers of disappointment. He could not abandon his fantasy of rehabilitation, his return to the intellectual fold, and he consoled himself with the thought that his expectations had very probably been too high. It had been unrealistic to suppose that the dead would communicate at his convenience. Raudive hadn’t achieved instant success, he had applied himself over a period of many years. Moreover, identifying spirits on tape was evidently a skill that developed over time. Investigators became more ‘attuned’ with continued practice. No, he wouldn’t give up. He would persevere. The idea for the new work was simply too good to discard, especially at this early stage. Perhaps the ‘unseen friends’ would be more talkative later on. In the meantime, he would continue composing the next section of
Android Insurrection.

The three hours that followed were spent recording the sound of piano strings being hit with a small mallet. These recordings were then played backwards, at different speeds, and rerecorded onto a master tape. When he had finished, Christopher went downstairs to join his wife and daughter for dinner.

‘I was just about to call you,’ said Laura.

She was serving moussaka from a baking dish with a large spoon. As she broke the cheese topping, the fragrances of cinnamon, oregano and thyme were released into the air. Laura mentioned, in passing, a news item that she had heard on the radio concerning the new Concorde service to Washington. ‘Three and a half hours,’ she said. ‘Amazing.’

They both sat down to eat. Faye was in her highchair, attempting to impale pasta shells on the tines of a plastic fork.

‘Shame the Americans won’t let the thing land in New York,’ said Christopher. ‘People – well, rich people at any rate – would start going to New York for the weekend. When’s the first flight?’

‘Next week, I think.’

The conversation that followed was fitful. Something of their earlier difference of opinion over Laura’s hairstyle still lingered, creating a distance between them that seemed to augment the width of the kitchen table. Laura pushed some food around the rim of her plate. ‘I’d like to go out this evening. If you don’t mind.’

Christopher looked up. He really didn’t like her hair. ‘Sorry?’

‘There’s a speaker appearing at that bookshop in
Islington – you know, where the readers’ group meets. I wasn’t going to go, but I saw something about her today in a magazine and I’ve changed my mind.’

‘OK.’

‘You can carry on working. I’ll put Faye to bed. It doesn’t start until eight.’

‘OK.’

Laura took Faye’s fork and scooped a pasta shell into the child’s mouth. Most of the pasta had been removed from the bowl and dropped onto the highchair tray. The white Formica was smeared with tomato sauce.

‘Sue will be there tonight,’ said Laura.

‘Who?’

‘The garden designer.’

‘OK. We only want an estimate.’

‘I know.’

Faye struck the Formica, demanding to be fed.

‘You’re a big girl now,’ said Laura. ‘You’ve got to learn how to do it yourself.’

The child opened her mouth like a gannet.

Christopher returned to the studio and pressed the ‘on’ button of the radio. He rotated the tuning dial this way and that, listening to brief snatches of incomprehensible speech and bursts of pop music. In the perspex window that covered the frequency markings he noticed
a reflection of his eyes: resolute, focused. When the needle was positioned at the midpoint between two stations separated by a broad band of static, he started recording. Taking the microphone, he said, ‘Seven twenty-five p.m., Tuesday the eighteenth of May, 1976. This is Christopher Norton. Is there anybody there? Any unseen friends? Or enemies? Talk to me. I’d really like you to say something.’

He let the tape run for twenty minutes, then rewound it and listened. Soon after his introductory comments he heard something faint, like the rustling of dry autumn leaves in the static. He stopped the tape, listened and made a note of the number displayed on the rev counter. He then let the tape continue. There were some more indistinct murmurings, and then a female voice said, ‘Do not continue.’ It was very clear and Christopher was so surprised he let out a nervous laugh. A few seconds later, the woman repeated this firm injunction. Christopher made another rev counter note and continued listening. After a minute or so, a man with a distinct Scottish accent said, ‘We cannot intercede and the light is failing.’ This was followed by a French woman, who, after several replays, Christopher understood to be saying,
‘Quels que soient les mots . . . les laisser couler.’ Whatever the words . . . let them flow.
Then the first voice returned: ‘Leave them alone, I implore you. Leave them alone.’ A crackling
within the static seemed to come forward, becoming more sharply defined as laughter. After a few moments it receded, before being lost in the seething effervescence of the radio noise. There were no more communications on the tape.

Christopher stopped the Akai and sat back in his chair.

‘Jesus,’ he said aloud. ‘That’s incredible.’

First week in June

Where was Faye?

She had lost her daughter and was searching for the child on the ground floor. But everything was different. Out of the window she could see a neatly cut lawn, a small orchard and the gazebo, the woodwork of which was painted bright red. Laura ran into the hallway and was confused by the number of doors. There were many more than she remembered. She ran from room to room and discovered more doors and more rooms. The house was like a honeycomb. Gilt mirrors, brocade curtains and benighted oil paintings, yards of intricately patterned carpet, chandeliers and classical figures on columns, deeper and deeper, the rooms went on and on. When Laura tried to call Faye’s name, she produced a sound like a tape recording played at half-speed, a kind of bellow – like a cow. Without having ascended any stairs, she suddenly found herself on the top floor of the house, standing in the unused room opposite the studio. She was facing the empty alcove. Once again, she tried to call
Faye’s name, but her mouth wouldn’t open. The best she could accomplish was a low, prolonged moan.

Mummy. Mummy, help me.

Faye wasn’t old enough to speak properly. But it was definitely Faye, and her voice was coming from the other side of the wall.

Mummy – please. Please help.

Laura stepped forward and reached out to touch the floral wallpaper. Her fingertips met no resistance, and, as her arm extended, her hand vanished up to the wrist.

Mummy. You must help me.

She advanced, passing through the wall and into a windowless cell. Edges hardened, as if everything had been brought into sharper focus. A paraffin lamp hung from a ceiling lagged with cobwebs, and water dripped down into puddles on a concrete floor. She saw exposed brickwork splattered with ochre stains and the carcass of a rat. The creature’s head had been crushed and the contents of its shattered skull had sprayed some distance from its body. She was surrounded by rusty chains of varying lengths and sizes and attached to many of them were hooks or manacles. The latter were very small. One row of chains was swinging gently, as if they had been recently disturbed. Their frequent collisions created a constant
clink-clink-clink.
Laura brushed the nearest
curtain of hooks and restraints aside and discovered a large wooden table. Some tools had been laid out: a hack-saw with blackened teeth, a hand drill and several instruments with opening bills that Laura couldn’t identify but guessed might have some surgical use. A set of meat cleavers were attached to a carousel. Next to the table was a tiny chair, a spinning top and an empty champagne bucket filled with ice.

Faye, for God’s sake, where are you?

She could hear her own breathing – quick and shallow. The dank, cold air seemed to insinuate itself into her bones. She heard a key turn in a lock, hinges groaned and, behind her, a metal door opened and closed. It produced a resonant clang and the flame in the oil lamp trembled. She tried to turn round to see who had arrived, but she found that she was paralysed.

Slow footsteps, the tip of a cane tapping on concrete. Chains collected together and released –
clink-clink-clink
– loud at first, then becoming softer and less resonant, until all that remained was a sound like the dry click of billiard balls.

Somebody was standing behind her. She screamed, but her throat muscles contracted and she could only produce a lengthy exhalation. Her mouth remained open, wide open, fixed in an attitude of mute terror. The threat
that she sensed was not merely physical: any pain that she was forced to endure would be a mere preamble to something far worse, a violation so profound that it would leave an indelible stain on her soul. Already she felt breached, undone, from the trespass of another mind probing her own. She looked at the surgical instruments again, imagined their forceful insertion into her body, the bills drawing apart, the stretching of flesh to its limit, the slow tearing of skin and dribbles of blood . . .

Laura woke up. She could hear her heart pounding: a rapid, irregular beat, like the footfall of a cripple attempting to escape mortal danger.

Little by little, familiar impressions returned – the pressure of the mattress against her back, warmth, Chris snoring. She sighed and raised the upper half of her body on her elbows. Her eyes adapted to the darkness and the light-polluted sky made the windows glow. She got out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom, where she studied her face in the mirror. Her hair had clumped together in places and her skin looked dry. She was about to apply some moisturizer, but she stopped herself. Instead, she opened the medicine cabinet and took out a plastic container full of pills. She tipped a couple onto her palm and swallowed them with some water that she scooped up to her mouth from the tap.

The dream had been so vivid. She wondered if nightmares were a side effect of the medication. Perhaps she had been taking the pills for too long.

She put the container back in the medicine cabinet and crossed the landing. Her failure to find Faye in the dream had left Laura with a strong desire to see her daughter again, to know, without doubt, that she was safe. She recognized that this impulse was irrational, but it was something she felt compelled to act on. Standing next to the cot, Laura wanted to lift the child over the bars and hold her close, but she resisted the urge. It would be selfish to disturb Faye’s sleep just so that she, Laura, could allay her irrational fears. She had to content herself with touching Faye’s cheek and inhaling her distinctive baby smell. The drone of an aeroplane became louder and then faded into the night. Silence flooded the house like black water.

When Laura climbed back into bed, Christopher stirred and said in slurred, thickened speech, ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ Laura replied. ‘Go back to sleep.’

The telephone was ringing. Christopher entered the drawing room and picked up the receiver. It was Henry
Baylis: ‘Bloody hell, Chris, have you stopped returning calls?’

‘I’m sorry, Laura did remind me. I forgot.’

‘You forgot?’

‘Yes, I’ve been preoccupied with something . . .’

‘What?’

‘A project. Nothing to do with films.’

‘You do realize that Dan and Mike will be wanting to meet up soon. How is
Alien . . .’

‘Android Insurrection.’

‘How is
Android Insurrection
coming along?’

‘All right. I’m pleased with what I’ve done – so far.’

‘Good. Now, I hope you haven’t got anything special planned this week.’

‘Why?’

‘Fabrice Ancel wants to meet you.’ Baylis hesitated before adding, ‘In Paris’.

‘Fabrice Ancel?’

‘He caused something of a stir last year at Cannes with a film called
Autodestruction?
Violent but fiendishly clever. The critics compared it to
A Clockwork Orange.
Turns out he’s a great fan of yours.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Paris . . .’

‘Yes.
He’s getting ready to shoot a psychological thriller called
Le Jardin des Reflets.
Sounds very interesting. What do you think? I know it’s short notice but I don’t think we should dither.’

‘Did Marcus and Diane get back to you?’

‘What about?’

‘The Warlock.’

‘Oh yes, that. Cushing said no, I’m afraid, which means that it probably won’t happen. So, as things stand, Ancel’s approach is very timely’ Baylis paused for a few seconds, and when he spoke again his voice was less robust. ‘There’s just
one
thing . . .’

‘What?’

‘I don’t think there’s going to be a great deal of money in this. One of the backers dropped out a few weeks ago.’