Alex Gray - Shadows of Sounds

The man at the back of the Upper Circle sat gnawing his fingernails and concentrating on the unbroken shadow cast by the proscenium.

Nothing could go wrong, surely. He’d thought of everything. All the details had been double-checked. The musicians who were only coming on for the second half knew exactly when to be on stage. It had been made quite clear during the rehearsal that there would be no sloping off to the bar until after the performance. The Orchestra Manager had driven home that point.

So why the hell hadn’t the lights in the Concert Hall been dimmed? The programme was already ten minutes late in starting. He bit a flake of skin from his index finger. It was hard and waxy between his teeth. With an effort of will the man wrenched his gaze from the wings to the musicians on stage, as if trying to make sense of the delay.

On the platform the members of the Orchestra were looking bored. They had already tuned their instruments and were only waiting for the Leader to come on to start the evening’s proceedings. Had this been a rehearsal, he knew from experience that the Sunday papers would be spread across their music stands. However, protocol dictated that they assumed an air of gravity towards the actual performance. As his eyes travelled over the players, he saw that the brass section weren’t even attempting to hide their feelings. Typical, he thought.

One French horn player was slouched back in his seat whilst the trumpets at desks three and four were deliberately outdoing one another with exaggerated yawns. They totally ignored the dark looks being fired at them by the Second Fiddle.

Only the Chorus sat silently up in the Choir Stalls, music folders open on their laps, ready to begin. From their vantage point above them, the man imagined the members of the Chorus looking down at the paying customers who’d be examining their watches and frowning towards the wings from where the Leader should have emerged. He looked at his own watch. It was almost a quarter to eight.

A hum of talk out in the auditorium became a ripple as the Orchestra Manager slipped onto the platform and bent to whisper to the Second Violin, a lady in black lace. She paused for a moment as if to reflect on his message, merely giving a quiet nod in reply.

A swift smile passed across her face as she performed her duty as Leader of the Orchestra, standing up and bowing to the audience. The brass section sat up just as Victor Poliakovski, the Russian conductor, came striding on to the platform.

The man sank back into his seat, took out a large handkerchief and wiped the perspiration that had gathered on his brow. ‘Thank God,’ he whispered to himself.

The house lights dimmed at last then, as the Conductor raised his baton, the first drum roll began.

It was business as usual backstage in Glasgow Royal Concert Hall. Now that the wings were cleared of the musicians, there was an obligatory pause in proceedings before the Leader would make his appearance. Tonight, however, that pause seemed unusually prolonged.

‘Old George is keeping them waiting again,’ remarked the Stage Manager to the lanky youth beside him. From his cubicle in the wings he could see the Orchestra on his television monitor; a glance to the left would alert him to any performers arriving from their dressing rooms backstage. The remark might have been intended for the retreating figure of Brendan Phillips, the Orchestra Manager, who was responsible for escorting the Principals to and from their dressing rooms. He gave no sign of having heard the Stage Manager’s words, however, as he walked briskly around the corner and out of sight.

‘Not wanting to come out to play tonight?’ joked the boy who was staring at the empty area behind them.

‘Oh, he’ll be here all right. Brendan will chase him up, don’t you worry,’ the Stage Manager replied confidently, knowing that Brendan Phillips had disappeared off in the direction of the Artistes’ corridor to fetch George Millar. The boy gave a sudden grin and sloped off after Phillips.

‘Making you run around after them tonight, eh?’ The boy’s question made the Orchestra Manager break his stride for just a moment. Colin, the newest recruit amongst the Orchestra’s drivers and shifters, was ever eager to fraternise with the Names as he called them. Phillips had tolerated the lad’s star-struck behaviour but it was becoming a bit of a nuisance. All the other shifters were downstairs in dressing room 1, where they could drink tea and smoke to their heart’s content, no doubt listening to the football on the radio. He pretended to ignore the boy who had latched on to him, continuing along the corridor to the four rooms named after Scottish Lochs that were reserved for guest artistes and management.

Brendan Phillips stopped outside Morar, the second-best dressing room that, tonight, was occupied by the Leader of the Orchestra. Their guest conductor, Victor Poliakovski, would be pacing up and down next door in Lomond, the suite kept for the biggest name.

Phillips was agitated. Normally he would have closed the door stage left after the final musician had trooped out of the wings. Then it was only a short stride to the dressing rooms to alert the Leader. But tonight everything seemed to have gone wrong. He’d spent time dashing back and forth behind the scenes. First it had been a spare reed for a clarinettist who was temping, then a new set of music for the harpist. She had been sitting stage right making frantic gestures at him until he’d translated her sign language into a plea to fill her empty music stand. So he had been later than usual, forced as he was to go all the way round from the Stage Manager’s cubicle to alert the Leader.

Colin, hovering behind him, was an irritant that Phillips could quite do without, yet the Orchestra Manager’s desire to maintain an air of composure overcame his annoyance.

Phillips knocked politely, his knuckles light on the blonde wood of the door. There was no response. The Orchestra Manager gave a rat-a-tat that was intended to sound peremptory.

‘Maybe he’s in the loo,’ suggested Colin who was still hovering at Phillips’s shoulder.

Brendan Phillips didn’t deign to answer but twin creases between his brows revealed a growing anxiety. It was his head that would roll if there were a glitch in the proceedings.

The Orchestra Manager turned the handle and stepped into the dressing room.

At first the room appeared to be empty. Only the violin nestling in its open case gave any sign of the musician’s presence. Brendan scanned the room before taking a further step inside.

Then he saw him.

Even though he was lying face down, the Orchestra Manager knew it was George Millar, Leader of The City of Glasgow Orchestra.

Brendan was aware of a gagging noise behind him but he couldn’t move. Nor could he take his eyes off the body. Half of George’s balding skull shone from the overhead light in the bathroom. The rest was a blackened mass.

Blood from a head wound had dripped onto the blue bathroom tiles creating a dark stain that had spread all the way down, reddening the man’s grizzled beard. Brendan could see the tip of his wing collar sticking up like a bright scarlet flag.

In those first moments all the Orchestra Manager could do was stand and stare at the outrage before him. His mind tried to deceive his eyes. Perhaps he’d slipped? Brendan attempted to visualise George’s black shoes sliding on a wet patch.

He began feverishly scanning the bathroom floor for surface water. The tiles gleamed back at him, dry and polished but for that red halo emanating from George’s head. He found himself blinking hard as if to dispel the vision of the body spreadeagled upon the floor. Even as his mind sought for a decent explanation, his eyes couldn’t ignore the obvious.