Free The Voices by F. R. Tallis Page B

about these questions made him feel light-headed.
    Yet, he had to concede, there was nothing random about the phrase ‘Come to me, Faye’. If, as Christopher was slowly coming to accept, this was what the English voice had actually said, then quite clearly he, the spirit, had demonstrated knowledge of at least one of the house’s occupants.
    Christopher thought about Laura. She had perceived the communication as sinister. Indeed, she had become quite upset. When he had challenged her, she hadn’t been very forthcoming. ‘I don’t like it,’ was all that she had had to say. Later, that night, she had been distinctly moody, and when they were in bed together, and Christopher had tried to reach out to her, she had turned her back on him.
    The basement door opened and two people entered – a couple, dressed identically in flared maroon trousers and yellow T-shirts. They were evidently regulars and engaged the youth in a conversation about the food in the heated trays. It was a curiously solemn exchange.
    Christopher noticed a discarded newspaper on an adjacent table. A partially exposed headline piqued his curiosity, but when he investigated further he found that the story was, in fact, quite dull, so he turned to the arts pages. The name Simon Ogilvy seemed to leap out at him. His friend was mentioned, along with Oliver Knussen and Peter Maxwell Davies, in an article on ‘highlights to look out for’ in the coming prom season.
    A distinctive voice . . . innovative harmonies . . . exceptional command of orchestral resources.
    Every compliment Simon collected seemed to bespatter Christopher’s own achievements with ordure. Christopher yearned for such praise, intelligent audiencesand meaningful plaudits. But it would never happen. Not now. Christopher cast the newspaper aside and picked up Breakthrough. The dust jacket was silver and decorated with a stylized wave pattern. He stared at the pattern for so long he experienced the illusion of movement. An idea had been taking shape in his mind, its constituent elements emerging from an inner vacancy and gradually coalescing into something concrete and intelligible. The voices of the dead could be incorporated into a piece of electronic music. Instantly, the scope and structure of the work were revealed to him: a major undertaking, with extended movements, a kind of anti-requiem, in which instead of the living addressing the dead, their roles would be reversed and the dead would address the living. The boldness of the concept made his heart quicken. He hadn’t felt so inspired in years and he imagined his composition provoking controversy, heated debate. He would be invited to speak on radio programmes, just as he had in the past, and the music critics would refer to him once more as the ‘English Stockhausen’. It was such a good idea, and bound to attract interest from all quarters. He could barely contain his excitement.
    On returning home, Christopher marched down the hall-way and into the kitchen. Faye was in her highchair, foraging through raisins piled on a saucer. When she saw her father enter, she rocked backwards and forwards, pointed and said, ‘Da-da.’ Christopher turned to share the child’s reaction with his wife and froze. Laura was perched on a stool, reading a magazine and about to bite into a chocolate biscuit. What had she done to herself? Their eyes met and her expression darkened. ‘You don’t like it,’ she said tersely.
    Her hair, with its glossy waves and carefully positioned curls, had been shorn off, leaving only a short, spiky fleece that made her face seem much larger.
    ‘It’s not that I don’t like it,’ said Christopher, attempting to conceal his true feelings. ‘It’s just . . . I really liked your hair the way it was.’
    Laura bit a corner off her biscuit. ‘I felt like a change. It’s been so hot lately, and I was getting fed up with having to fiddle around with the tongs every morning. Chris, do stop looking at me like