The Bellwether Revivals (29 page)

‘What are you all standing around for?’ came a voice from behind. ‘We’ve got work to do.’ Eden was looming by the
entrance. He was wearing a white silk shirt with a patch of his bare chest showing through, tight black corduroy trousers, and no shoes.

‘We’re waiting for you,’ Jane said. ‘You haven’t even told us what you need us to do.’

‘First—’ Eden heaved the door closed and snapped down the metal latch. ‘First, you can help Dr Crest into that chair.’ He walked towards them determinedly.

Crest refused to be helped. He lowered his body into the armchair with a weary, pained moan. ‘Alright if I keep my hat on?’

‘No. Remove it, please,’ Eden said.

The old man pocketed his baseball cap, smirking. He winked again, as if to say he had everything under control, but his apparent good humour was no consolation to Oscar. The nerves were still crackling inside him. He could tell by the arrangement of the room, the sheer consideration that had gone into the placement of everything, that Eden was taking this very seriously.

‘The rest of you—’ Eden clapped his hands at them, getting their attention. Each little slap of his palms ricocheted in the rafters. ‘I need you all to be quiet and do everything I ask of you, okay? It’s very important that you follow instructions. A man’s health is at stake here.’

They all glanced at Crest, who was lounging in the armchair. He looked like he was taking pictures in his head, trying to capture every detail. Oscar couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking about. What did he make of Jane, and Marcus, and Yin, and the way they were waiting for instructions from Eden like hounds standing patiently at his heels? What did he think about Iris? She was beautiful in the dim candlelight, all free and easy in her summer dress, wool tights and topcoat, yet so removed from everything that was happening, absently lifting the tealights from the organ console and sniffing at them.

Most of all, he wondered what the old man was thinking about Eden, who was speaking now very plainly, eyebrows furrowed,
organising everyone with a pushy composure. ‘Iris, will you leave those candles alone and listen to what I’m telling you? Oscar, are you going to just stand there gawping at me, or do you actually want to be of some use?’

‘Just let me know what to do,’ he said.

‘Hold that thought,’ Eden replied, clapping his hands again. He walked over to the organ stool and flipped back the seat. It was a voluminous thing, and he pulled out a variety of objects from within it, setting them down on the floor: folders of sheet music bound in ribbon, a roll of gauzy fabric, a metronome in a walnut case, tuning forks of many sizes. ‘Come now. Everyone, gather round me, please. You need to listen to me carefully.’

They stood there, studying the objects at his feet.

‘We’ve all done this before—at least, a version of it,’ Eden said, and began to hand out the ribbon-tied folders of notation. ‘I don’t want to hear anybody’s scepticism or sarcastic comments tonight. If you don’t want to help me, leave now.’ He held a folder in front of Iris.

‘But don’t you
need
our help?’ she said.

‘It might not be possible to do this without you, I’ll admit. But if you want to leave, we’ll postpone it. I can always find someone else to take your place.’ He looked at Oscar. ‘His role is expendable; but you lot, I need.’

‘Well, I’m staying,’ said Jane.

‘Me too,’ said Marcus.

‘Me three,’ said Yin.

Iris took the folder of music from her brother’s hand. She looked down at Crest with sympathy. Then she folded her arms at Eden. ‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’

‘I brought your cello from home,’ Eden said. ‘Go and tune it. And stop being so sniffy with me. I don’t have time for that tonight.’ He pointed to a large white case at the far end of the room. She went to retrieve it, and Oscar watched as she took out the instrument and plucked at the strings. She stayed in a patch of
darkness away from the others while she tuned it, sitting with her cheek close to the fingerboard, and he could hear the distant, muted pips of cello notes.

Eden pointed to Herbert Crest and looked right at Marcus. ‘I want you to kneel at his eyeline, two yards away from his right ear. Got it?’

‘Sure,’ Marcus said. He flipped through the pages of the music before taking his place by the old man. ‘Looks like a beautiful arrangement, by the way. Nice work.’

Crest stayed quiet.

‘Jane, be a dear,’ Eden said. ‘Do the same as Marcus, only stand to the left.’

She nodded and went to stand by the old man. ‘How exciting,’ she said.

Eden placed two hands on Yin’s shoulders. ‘Yinny, my good friend,’ he said, and paused. Then: ‘I need that baritone of yours at the back. At his eye level, two yards away. But you must stay standing. No kneeling down for you, got it?’

‘Sure. Fine. Whatever.’

Marcus feigned indignation—’How come
he
doesn’t have to get his knees dirty?’—but Eden dismissed this with a quick snap of his fingers: ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘Concentrate.’

Iris wandered back towards them, clutching a bow in one hand and the neck of her cello in the other. It was a wonderful rosewood colour with two little patches of faded varnish by the bridge—a prettier instrument than the one she’d owned before. ‘Now what?’ she said.

‘One second.’ Eden slid a short breakfast stool across the room—Oscar recognised it from the Bellwethers’ kitchen—and it made an uncomfortable scraping sound upon the laminate as he positioned it directly in front of Crest. Eden gripped his sister by the tops of her arms and steered her towards it, practically pushing her down onto it. Her cello gave out a bouncy, discordant sound.

‘Well, if I’m supposed to play from sight, I’ll need a music stand,’ she said, and Eden obliged by dragging one over. ‘Happy?’ he said, and she canted her head.

There was a perfect line now, from Yin, to Crest, to Iris, to that hulking organ. ‘You lot are the y-axis,’ Eden said, gesturing with a straight arm along the line. ‘Understand?’ Then he gestured towards Marcus and Jane the same way: ‘And you two are the x-axis.’

Crest widened his eyes, rubbing at the top of his skull with his fingers. There was a moment of silence, which he broke with a polite little clearance of his throat. ‘So, what?’ he said. ‘I just have to sit here?’

‘Yes. You have to sit there and be as still as you can. But first—first—’ Eden picked up three tuning forks from the floor, wiping them against his sleeve. ‘Here, grip it like this,’ he said, placing one of the larger forks into Crest’s right hand, manoeuvring the old man’s fingers into a lobster claw around it. ‘And the other hand—’ He put the second biggest into Crest’s left hand. ‘Open up,’ he said, and like some family doctor investigating a child’s sore throat, he took the old man’s jaw and gently levered it apart. Then he placed the flat handle of the smallest tuning fork on the bottom row of Crest’s teeth. ‘Bite down on it—not too hard, just keep it steady.’ Reluctantly, the old man complied. ‘There, there, that’s it.’ Eden stepped away, studying him. ‘Now—’ He went to retrieve the bundle of fabric, unravelling it quickly, until it became two separate strips. It was a light, diaphanous material, rather like muslin, and as he walked with it across the room, the air caught hold of it so easily, trailing it out through the slats of his fingers. He stood in front of Crest with the fabric then reached into the pocket of his trousers and drew out a small glass bottle, lifting the cork out with his teeth. He balled up the muslin and doused it with the contents of the bottle—a clear, thin liquid.

Oscar was so anxious he had to dry his palms on the back of his uniform. His legs felt hollow. Eden’s momentum seemed unstoppable now. There was a kind of rapture about him.

‘What is that, holy water?’ Crest mumbled through the side of his mouth.

Eden just shook his head. He took one of the strips and set it in a straight line on the old man’s skull, in the direction of Yin, Iris, and the organ—the y-axis. Then he placed the other one across it, along the x-axis, taking care that the cross-point met the centre of the old man’s operation scar. Watery trails ran along Crest’s face, dripped from his earlobes, hung in a wen at the tip of his nose. Oscar was amazed how much the old man was willing to tolerate—his face was creased up like he was about to sneeze, like he felt nauseous, and the others all looked on with wide, shifting eyes.

Eden clapped his hands loudly. ‘Okay, now we’re ready. Now we can begin.’

‘Wait, what about me?’ Oscar said. ‘What do you need me to do?’

‘Yes. Right. I almost forgot you were here.’ Eden went back to his organ stool, hinging it open. He pulled out a new-looking video camera and, with a casual, aimless throw, he tossed it into the air for Oscar to catch. ‘You’ve had some experience with these things, so I understand,’ Eden said, his voice low and dry. ‘Just keep it pointed at him, not at me, okay?’ He jabbed a thumb in the direction of Crest. ‘No fancy camerawork. We’re not making
A Bout de Souffle
here. Just keep it simple.’

It began with
tick-tock tick-tock
—the toy-like gears of the metronome clicking out a steady rhythm. Eden rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, eyes closed, listening to its delicate percussion for several bars, and then sat himself at the organ and began to play a volley of notes, slow but intricate. Sounds layered on top of each other, the right hand marking out the path with a gentle, flowery melody, the left hand laying down great boulders of chords behind it. But although the music was languid, it was not exactly mellow. There was electricity underneath it, an energy that was gathering with every new movement of Eden’s fingers.

Oscar kept the camera trained on Crest’s face, struggling to keep his hands steady. He zoomed right up close and the frame shook wildly. The old man had a blank, relaxed expression, but he made for the strangest picture: there he was with a tuning fork gripped between his teeth and another in each hand, with a crosshatch of wet muslin on his head. There was no more laughing or sneering, or any sign of the disparagement he’d shown earlier. In fact, Oscar thought he could see something in those wide-awake eyes: he thought he could see Crest
trying
. Trying not to jinx himself, trying to allow his rational brain to believe in the vague possibility that all this might actually come to something.

Iris, Yin, Marcus, and Jane followed every note of the music on their sheets, turning their pages swiftly. They were all caught up in the moment now, concentrating. Even Oscar felt connected. The organ had a rousing, cajoling effect on him. Everything felt momentous—the way he was holding the camera, the footage he was taking, the position of his feet on the floor, the angle of his body against the light—every last thing was important.

And then there came an enormous, jarring blast from the organ pipes. The pace of the music lurched forward. The volume rose. The timbre of the organ changed, from rasping to full-throated.

Oscar couldn’t help but turn to look at what was going on behind him, keeping the camera trained on Crest. Eden was swaying, stamping his feet, clawing at the console. Gone was the lightness. Gone was the looseness in his shoulders. This was an energetic music, angry and contagious, something feverish and knife-sharp. It was music like gushing water, like frantic animals being herded on a hillside, like all of the conversations in the world being spoken at once, like an ocean prising itself apart, like two great armies converging on each other. With the pressure of Eden’s feet, husky bass notes joined the teeming melody made by his fingers, putting flesh on its bones, thickening the sound. He picked out each low note with effortless pushes of his bare feet, not even glancing downwards, just heel-stepping like a seasoned
ballroom dancer, adding brisk, jabbing chords, all the while continuing that smooth sailing of his fingers. Then he flicked on a switch, shifting his hands downward in the same easy motion, from the top rung of keys to the bottom rung, so that all at once the keys on every tier of the console were following the relentless movement of his fingers. The music grew heavier, darker. Keys were dropping and lifting themselves, as if invisible cats were running across them. Oscar had seen a working pianola once, in some backstreet pub in London, but this was something else—this was a machine that could make itself talk with five thundering voices.

He didn’t think there was anywhere else for the sound to go. Surely the building wouldn’t be able to contain it. Surely it would shatter the roof. But then Iris struck a high, trilling note on her cello, which cut through the dense breath of the organ. Her left hand slid along the neck, and she began to saw out quick, punchy chords with her bow—one two three four, one two three four—and they found their own place amid the rising clamour. Soon, Marcus, Jane, and Yin were singing.

They sang as if they were playing a game of catch, batting notes back and forth to each other over Crest’s head. Short puffs of melody bounced off the chords of Iris’s cello—
pah, pah, pum, pah, pah, pum
—and locked onto the unrelenting music of the organ. It went on like this for a good while, until they stopped to take deep breaths, eyeing each other. They flipped the pages of their notation. As the drone of Eden’s organ began to fall away, they started to sing again with long, stretching notes in perfect harmony, as if to beckon the music down from the rafters. Yin’s deep voice pierced the air, pouring out of his chest like one sad sigh; Jane’s voice was the highest, the sweetest, the most fragile; and Marcus, the anchor between them, had a voice so sure and stable, never wavering with the beat of his arm as he kept them all in time. It was a smouldering lullaby. They sang no words, just sounds. The music was its own language.

Oscar remembered the camera in his hands. When he turned back to check that it was still pointed at Crest, he found that his grip had loosened and the lens was steering itself towards the floor. Quickly, he lifted it, zooming and focusing it again on the old man’s face. He saw that Crest’s eyelids were closed. There was nothing different about him other than that; he was still holding the tuning fork between his teeth and his neck seemed stiff and steady. The muslin was still wet upon his skull, glossing his forehead. His pale skin glistened in the sickly hue of the oil lamps.