‘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 k
nowledge 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.’
‘No! Do you think I’m going to stand here and watch you give yourself a nervous breakdown? Do you think I don’t know how obsessed you’re getting with your playing? Practising all day and all night! Sleep deprivation leads to insanity, Flynn. Is that what you’re trying to do – drive yourself mad?’ Rami was worked up now, wide-eyed and angry.
Flynn felt his throat tighten. He lunged for the headphones again and then let his arm drop as Rami jerked them away angrily. ‘Fine,’ he said numbly. ‘Fine. Whatever you want. I’ll go back to bed.’
Rami’s look of annoyance suddenly turned to concern. ‘I just don’t want to see you overworking yourself like this,’ he tried to explain, his tone gentler now. ‘It’s unnecessary, Flynn.’
Flynn nodded, defeated. He ached all over. His head hurt. His eyes hurt. He switched off the keyboard and shoved it beneath his bed. ‘Goodnight then,’ he said to Rami, pulling off his shoes and socks.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing, I’m just tired.’ He fought to keep his voice steady.
‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’
He brushed the back of his hand rapidly over his eyes, willing Rami to leave.
‘Christ, what is it, Flynn? Has something bad happened?’
‘Nothing, I said.’ Fully dressed, he got into bed, face turned to the wall.
Rami lingered infuriatingly in the doorway. ‘Why can’t you tell me?’
Flynn could only shake his head, rubbing the sleeve of his jumper across his eyes. Go, Rami, he silently implored him. You can’t help me, nobody can. You’ll never understand. You have no idea what it is like to be inside my body, my brain, my mind! Trying to describe my life and feelings to you is like trying to describe colours to the blind, or music to the deaf. It’s simply not possible. We may exist side by side, we may share the same blood, the same upbringing, but our minds exist in different worlds. You exist in the world of the rational, the world where every problem has a logical solution, every question has an answer. Can’t you see that none of my problems have solutions, my questions can’t be answered? Nothing in my irrational brain can be solved by your common sense, none of my pain can be shared by your structured emotions! In my world black is white, one and one never makes two and agony and ecstasy lie irrevocably intertwined. The only way to understand it is to share it and I would never wish this existence upon anybody, not even my worst enemy. You may try and sympathize, help and care with all your soul, but you will never, never understand.
‘Shall I go?’ Rami asked quietly.
Flynn nodded and Rami switched off the light and clicked the door closed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
FLYNN HIT THE chords of the third movement as if he were beating a snake with a stick. Again and again, harder and harder, faster and faster, his fingers grappling with the keys as if with a will of their own. Eyes tightly closed, the music swelled and rose until he could no longer tell whether he was controlling it or the other way round.
‘Feel the music, feel the anguish, feel the pain!’ Professor Kaiser’s voice rose above the chords as he paced the room, stopping now and again to hum along to a section, waving his arms about extravagantly to demonstrate the intensity of the piece, the power of the music.
‘And more and more! And higher and higher! Swelling like a wave! Keep up the momentum, make it bigger. More, more!’
Flynn opened his eyes to a blur of fingers and tried to make sense of the thick fog of music as well as respond to Professor Kaiser’s commands. His fingertips were numb, and his arms and shoulders ached. He bit his tongue hard to dredge up the last burst of energy. A final excruciating bar and then it was all over, hands on knees, head down and breathing hard, the final chord still ringing in the air.
‘This is better, this is better. I can feel the passion now. You were leaving the notes and putting your mind only on the music – the emotion inside the music. Gut, gut . . .’ Professor Kaiser paused by his industrial-sized window and gazed outside.
Flynn straightened up and pressed his hands to his face. His cheeks were burning to the touch and no doubt his ears were glowing too, as they always did after a lesson like this. Professor Kaiser claimed it was a testament to his concentration.
Flynn reached for his bottle of water and drank thirstily. He had been back in London a week now and was filled with a strange energy – an edgy, sleep-deprived buzz like a constant caffeine high that made it difficult to sit still.
Professor Kaiser turned from the window and gave him a rare smile. ‘Do you want a rest?’
Flynn nodded gratefully and swung himself round on the piano stool, putting his elbows on his knees. Professor Kaiser moved away from the darkening window and sat down in his creaky chair. There was a quiet moment.
‘By the way,’ Professor Kaiser said, ‘you’re doing very well with that piece.’
Flynn looked up in surprise. So much praise in one lesson was a rare thing indeed.
‘You are going to be ready, you know.’
Flynn looked down again in embarrassment. Was his self-doubt so transparent?
‘What is worrying you?’
Stunned by this unexpected show of concern, Flynn pulled a face. ‘Nothing.’
‘It is sounding good, ja?’
‘Yes, but—’ He could not finish.
‘But what?’ Professor Kaiser’s tone hardened suddenly.
‘Nothing.’ Flynn sat up with a quick smile. ‘It’s fine. Shall I go over the slow movement again? I think it still needs working on.’
‘Have you heard about Jen?’ Harry asked him between mouthfuls of instant noodles that evening.
‘What?’
‘She dumped Charlie.’
‘Oh, that. Yeah, she told me last week.’
Harry scraped out the bottom of the saucepan with an irritating sound. ‘So,’ he went on without looking up, ‘what did you make of it?’
Flynn sifted wearily through the loose pages of lecture notes strewn over the kitchen table. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t really give it mu
ch thought,’ he lied. ‘I’ve lost the article about Mahler now . . .’
‘Here.’ Harry peeled it off the bottom of his saucepan. ‘Don’t you think it’s strange, though, just like that, out of the blue?’
Flynn gave a faint shrug, skimming the article. Writing a two-thousand-word essay on Mahler was no easy task when his every fibre resonated with Rachmaninov. ‘I suppose so. Apparently there’s some other guy.’
Harry gave him a sharp look. ‘Really? Any idea who?’
‘Nope.’
‘Really?’ Harry’s lips twitched with the hint of a smile. ‘No ideas at all? Really?’
Flynn dropped his hands down to the table with an irritated thud. ‘Why are you quizzing me on this? Do you think it’s you? It’s not you.’
Harry looked as if he were trying not to laugh. ‘I know it’s not me, you moron. Besides, Kate and I are quite happy together, thank you very much.’
‘So why are you so interested?’
‘I’m not. Just thought you might be, that’s all.’
‘She didn’t tell me who it was, Harry.’
‘Bet she didn’t.’
Flynn stopped writing mid-sentence and looked up with a frown. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing,’ Harry answered quickly. ‘Just thought this might be your chance to – how can I put it? – swoop in, maybe.’
‘Swoop in? Jennah fancies someone else, I just told you. Anyway, it’s not as if I – I—’ He ground to a halt and infuriatingly felt himself flush.
Harry looked to be biting back a grin. ‘As if you—?’ he prompted.
‘I’m trying to write this essay,’ Flynn protested quickly. ‘You’re not exactly helping.’
But Harry had that glint in his eye. ‘You’re not getting off the subject that easily.’
Flynn lowered his head and viciously filled the top of the margin with black ink. His cheeks burned.
Harry continued to scrape the bottom of the pan, watching him with amusement. ‘Why are you getting so embarrassed?’ he asked after a moment.