A Note of Madness (12 page)

‘Of course not! You got in a great state about your audition for the Royal College last year and you still got in.’

‘Exactly. It’s normal to feel under pressure for these kinds of things. If I want to make it as a concert pianist then I’ve got to get used to it.’

‘Well there’s pressure and then there’s pressure.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘A little pressure might be good for one, but too much is not.’

‘And you think I’m under too much pressure?’

‘I’m not inside your head, darling. I can only tell you what I see. But I’m a bit worried about all this night-time practising and lack of sleep.’

Flynn took a sharp breath, ready for a belligerent reply, and then forced it back. His mother was only showing her concern and maybe she was right – maybe she and Rami were both right. Maybe he
was
letting things get out of perspective. Maybe he
was
going mad. He put his hands over his cheeks and rubbed his face hard.

‘I just can’t stop thinking about it,’ he admitted desperately. ‘I’m so tired.’

‘Of course you are, sweetheart. You’ve hardly slept.’

He looked at her, her lined face now framed by greying wisps of hair, and felt as if the mother he had known as a child was now out of reach. She no longer had the answers. She could still show her concern but no longer had the power to put things right. He could try to share his problems with her but knew that, try as she might, she would not truly understand. The realization filled him with inexplicable sadness.

‘I can’t – I can’t stop thinking about it,’ he told her doggedly.

‘I know. That’s why I’m thinking it might be better to postpone it for another year.’

‘You don’t understand,’ he said frantically. ‘I can’t just do that – it doesn’t work like that. It’s supposed to be an incredible honour that the Royal College has
asked me to perform in the first place. I can’t just pull out of it. And I certainly can’t just say I’ll do it another year. I may never get this kind of chance again.’

‘Flynnie, they obviously think you’re incredibly talented or they wouldn’t have asked you in the first place. It may seem like a huge opportunity but no opportunity is so big that it’s worth sacrificing your health for. There will be lots of other opportunities in your life, darling, this isn’t going to be the only one.’

He ran his hands through his hair in frustration, wanting to pull it out by the roots. ‘But don’t you see? If I can’t manage this, then how am I ever . . . ? It puts the whole idea of becoming a concert pianist into jeopardy. It’s not supposed to be a big deal! Like Professor Kaiser said, it would just – it would just be good experience. If I can’t manage this then – then how am I ever going to be able to play professionally?’

‘Sweetheart, you’re not always going to feel like this. You’re just going through a bit of a rough patch. As a little boy you were very laid-back about concerts and things. You were very confident, especially about your playing. You really loved those competitions. I don’t remember you ever being worried about playing in front of an audience.’

He continued to run his hands through his hair, pressing hard against his scalp as if trying to manipulate his brain. ‘So why – why am I like this now? I’m so – I know I’m obsessing about it. But I feel that if I don’t, something terrible is going to happen. I feel like I
should be practising all the time. Even now, just talking to you, I feel guilty. I feel like if I don’t practise I’m going to – I’m going to go mad.’

‘Flynn, just try and give yourself a break today. Go back to bed for a bit. You can afford to take a couple of days off.’

He stared at her, the blood rushing to his face, and entwined his fingers, jamming them together hard. ‘No way.’ His voice shook. ‘There’s no way—’

‘Then, Flynn, you’ve got to call this off. If you continue pushing yourself like this, you’re going to make yourself seriously ill.’ Her voice was sharp and she suddenly looked frightened. He had said too much.

‘Let’s go for a cycle ride,’ Rami announced after lunch. ‘It’s a beautiful day.’

Flynn opened his mouth to opt out but their father immediately voiced his enthusiasm and before Flynn could think of an excuse, Rami was organizing everything as usual, from borrowing the neighbour’s bicycle to getting their mother to put her feet up and suggesting she invite Mrs Coats over for coffee. Flynn looked suspiciously from Rami to their father, suspecting that this had been pre-planned but, as it was Dad’s birthday, he didn’t have the heart to refuse.

They set off through the village – past the Red Cow, the church and Flynn and Rami’s old primary school – the light wind almost balmy, the sky a brilliant blue. Compared to London, the village looked picturesque,
almost quaint. Their father stopped twice in the high street to talk to acquaintances, and Flynn thought, I’m so glad I don’t live here any more. Everyone knowing each other, everyone talking about each other.

Rami headed up the hill, calling back at them to hurry up, and Dad gave Flynn a conspiratorial roll of the eyes. As they reached the edge of the fields, they stretched out into a line, skimming the edge of the road. Rami was setting the pace and Dad was doing well to keep up as the smooth, flat tarmac allowed them to gather speed and the low fence beside them dissolved into a blur. Flynn looked out away from the road, across the fields with their perfectly rolled barrels of hay, to the sheep dotted beyond and the thin curve of the horizon where the forest met the sky. He heard the gentle notes of the second movement start up as if from an invisible orchestra, gifting the familiar English countryside with an air of plaintive mystery.

It is there, he thought. It is there in my head. I can hear it as clear and as pure as if I were playing it myself. It has become a part of me. I can forget the notes now. I can play with my eyes closed. I can play in my sleep. It is me and I am it. He could feel the smooth keys beneath his fingers and suddenly the music was not coming from an invisible source at all but from his own hands, each note resonating beneath his touch.
The fields are alive with the sound of music
. . . He laughed aloud.

The ground sprang up to hit him with a resounding crack. He felt himself bounce forwards. A brief moment
of relief and then another crack as the tarmac came up to punch him again. The clatter of his bike falling behind him, a roaring in his ears – it seemed to take an age for everything to become still. The music had gone and he was left with the sound of the bike’s wheels still spinning. He tasted dirt in his mouth and found himself staring at a scattering of small stones and a few tufts of grass. The road tilted away from him and he closed his eyes, trying to get his thoughts back.

‘Flynn, for goodness’ sake, are you all right?’ He opened his eyes and his father’s face swam into view.

He struggled to get up, to find the breath to speak. His arms stung.

‘Hey, hey, you nutter. Have you broken something? Do we need to call an ambulance?’ Rami’s hand hauled him up to a sitting position.

Flynn grimaced from the grit in his mouth and spat into the hedge. ‘I’m fine.’ He rubbed his elbow where it hurt. His shirt sleeve was wet with blood. He examined his hands carefully. There was only a slight graze on his left palm. He breathed deeply, head reeling.

‘Oh, look at you. I’ll go home and get the car,’ Dad said.

‘No, I’m OK!’ He struggled to his feet. ‘I’m OK,’ he repeated dully.

Rami handed him a tissue. ‘You’ve cut your chin,’ he said. ‘Do you think you can get back on?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’ Rami asked him quietly when they had remounted. ‘Hit a stone?’

‘Yeah.’

They cycled home slowly. Flynn kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, trying to ignore the pain in his arms and knees. He did not hear the music again.

That evening, soaking in a hot bath, he gazed blindly at a crack in the ceiling, the warm water melting the dried blood on his elbows and chin . . . Mum had made her usual carrot cake, Dad’s favourite . . . His scraped arms burned . . . ‘This is happiness for me,’ Mum had said, ‘having my family all under the same roof’ . . . Maybe the hot water would make him sleepy . . . Dad had looked weary but contented, Rami had taken some photos . . . His limbs ached, his mind hurt . . . He had played ‘Happy Birthday’ on the piano and then, later, some Scriabin . . . I want to sleep, he thought. I wish I could sleep . . .

He lay in his childhood bed, arm under his head, staring out through the open curtains. Sleep was light years away; the moonlight on the treetops, the faint curve of the fields, the orange glow from the street below causing his heart to pound. Shutting out the view was not an option – he felt he would suffocate alone with his thoughts. At least the window offered a distraction of sorts. His fingers twitched from the desire to play. Was it desire or was it simply fear of what would happen if he
did not? He closed his eyes and felt hot tears pressing against the lids. Was he losing his mind?

I don’t want to play, he told himself resolutely. I’m so tired, I just want to sleep. I must sleep or I won’t be able to practise properly tomorrow. I must sleep or I’ll go crazy. A moment’s relaxation, a moment’s distraction and his fingers had begun to move against the sheet. He didn’t notice until the sound of the notes started falling into his head like shards of ice. No! He rolled over, pinning his hand beneath him, eyes wide, concentrating on the corner of the bedspread, willing the sounds away. He just wanted to sleep. Why wouldn’t his mind let him sleep?

He did not have to play in the concert. Professor Kaiser might make life difficult for him but he could not force him, after all. Yet the idea of pulling out filled him with inexplicable dread. If he chickened out then what was he? Nothing. A pathetic dreamer who, at the end of the day, could not deliver. The laughing stock of the Royal College and an embarrassment to his teacher. André would never pull out of a concert. André would never let Professor Kaiser down. André would never doubt his abilities as a pianist, damn him, but continue to play concert after concert with effortless ease while Flynn choked and floundered and humiliated himself for all to see. He could not live with himself if that happened. Music was all he had, all he was good at – he could not fail at this. He had worked too hard; the investment of time, energy and money was too great. He
would not let his parents down, he would not let his friends down. Damn it, he would not let himself down. This was his chance! If he was not grateful for it, did not seize it with both hands, then how could he expect to ever have a chance like this again?

Rami had told him that the concert didn’t matter. His mother had told him the same. But that was nonsense – of course it mattered. It mattered not only to him but to them too. They wanted him to be successful. Mum wanted a son who had made it in the world. Rami had always been a high achiever – at school, at university, at medical school . . . Rami could say what he liked but he would hardly want a brother who was a failed musician, a jingle writer or pub player. Rami believed in him. Rami expected him to make it. They all did. And if he didn’t? What if he didn’t?

He had to get up, had to move. The walls were closing in on him, the air was stifling. He pulled on his clothes and grabbed his iPod, scrolling through the playlists to try to find something other than classical music. He found some rap he had copied off Harry last summer. He turned the volume up high, let himself out of the slumbering house and set off at a run. The noise blasted through his head, wrenching his thoughts away, his skinned elbows raw against his denim jacket. He sprinted up the road, through the deserted village, towards the woods. His breath came out in painful bursts – he was sobbing but did not care. He wanted to run, to run for ever, to escape . . . what exactly? He could
run as long and as fast as he wanted but how would he ever escape himself? To be Rami, in an upstanding profession that was not only meaningful but implied intelligence by definition, to have his own home, to be solidly married, to want the things that were expected of him and to know that he could deliver . . . To be Harry, always confident, always entertaining, secure in the knowledge that he was good at other things besides music, to appear stressed about essay deadlines but have the ability to laugh about it, to be able to talk to anyone, mix with everyone . . . To be Dad, secure with a woman who had loved him for so many years, to fill his days with bowling and tennis, to be popular and well-respected, to know that he had made a meaningful contribution to the world and that he could now retire in peace . . .
To be anyone but me. Anyone but me!

The pain in his side forced him to stop. He slumped against a tree, his sides heaving, gasping at the ground. Eminem screamed at him to kill his mother and suddenly he felt unbearably sick. He could not sleep like normal people did, could not play for an audience like normal musicians did, could not party the night away like normal students did. Instead, he frightened his brother with his outlandish behaviour, worried his parents by his obsessive practising, alienated his best friend by passing out drunk in his flat and ignored Jennah when she, ironically, appeared to be the only one who might possibly understand . . .

‘Stop it.’ Rami pulled off Flynn’s headphones and stood there in his pyjamas, blinking blearily down at him.

‘What are you doing?’ Flynn protested.

‘Telling you to go to bed. It’s quarter to four, Flynn. You’re going to be finished tomorrow and we’ve got a long drive back.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

Rami’s eyes darted to his muddy trainers. ‘Have you been jogging?’ His words slowed in disbelief.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Flynn said again. He did not have the strength to start an argument with Rami now, exhaustion pulled at his every muscle. But Rami was not going to let this go.

‘What the hell are you trying to do?’ he went on in an angry whisper. ‘If you can’t sleep then stay in bed and at least try. Or if you can’t do that, then go and find something to read. But jogging? Are you out of your mind?’

Flynn reached for his headphones. ‘Just leave me alone, Rami.’