Sarah Pinborough - Into the Silence

With a big sigh, Annaliese hurried them outside and towards the battered minibus. 'The caretaker will be here in a minute to lock up. I'll explain it to him. I'm damned if they're going to charge us for the damage.'

Wearily, the women hauled themselves onto the minibus and waited in the damp chill for their conductor to join them, Hannah already looking forward to the four-storey climb to her bed. It had been a very long day.

The creature hung suspended somewhere at the edge of the dark space that had carried it so far from its origin, a void within a void, blackness coated in dark. It was too tired to pull itself into a physical form and it felt defeated. Feelings, emotions, the curse it carried: the creature endured them all in its silence. Too much loneliness. It had been pulled across the universe to this place, through the yawning cut in space and time that had found it desolate and alone and teased it with the noise of a different world; a world of sound, of communication, of emotion. It needed some of that. It needed to take this world home, to make its life bearable.

The shapeless form howled silently with frustration, the emotion a vibration across its surface. It was failing. It couldn't get what it wanted. The absorbed parts worked only on a barely functional level, reproducing primitive sound when the creature forced them to work, mentally manipulating the parts as if they were a mechanism but, however it tried, it couldn't make the air resonate and fill and touch its emptiness in the way that they did in their original hosts. Rage filled it and it came as bursts of cymbals and drums and soaring rich song in the alien's head. Until the sounds had come through the tear in the sky, it had only ever known empty silence, and now it couldn't bear to give those sounds up. It wouldn't go back, it couldn't, not until it could take the sound with it.

And so, after blinking in and out of the city seeking in vain, it waited, nothing at the edge of nothing, until the voices called it again.

After the short drive from the Millennium Centre to Mermaid Quay, Maria Bruno, or plain Mary Brown as she had been christened not so very many miles from here, waited until Martin was ready with the umbrella and then stepped out of the well-polished modern black Sedan and walked elegantly into the five-star St David's Hotel. She didn't acknowledge her supposed manager and unfortunate husband as he scurried beside her, holding the umbrella to make sure her perfectly set hair didn't get wet. Perhaps that was all he was really good for, being the hired help.

She fought an itch of irritation that threatened to force its way onto her face. It never did to show one's feelings. If only she'd realised Martin's limitations in their early days. But then, they'd been caught up in the flush of love, hard as that was to remember now, and who ever doubts the objects of their desire? All women want to believe their men strong and capable. Just like the heroes and lovers in the operas that she'd spent so much of her life performing.

The sleek doors slid open, and she stepped into the lobby holding her head high and back straight, flicking her wrist at Martin to shoo him and his umbrella away from her side. The bright lights bathed on her face and she pushed her chin out ever so slightly in order to make any lines on her neck less defined. Every entrance to every room was like an entrance on stage for Maria Bruno. She was a star, and for stars there were always people watching. If only these so-called celebrities would realise that these days. Then perhaps they'd remember to put their knickers on when they went out. The world had forgotten about class, and she intended to remind them of it.

Although she had to admit in her quieter moments, if only to herself, that some of those tasteless flash-in-the-pan pop stars had more fans than she did now. But she could blame that on Martin. He wasn't getting her the auditions she needed to keep herself on the premiere stages of Europe. Auditions. Even just thinking the word almost made her choke. Who would have thought that Maria Bruno, the finest soprano to come out of the Valleys, would have to audition for anyone. Until a few years ago, she had had to fight her way through the offers.

Her heart sinking a little, she forced her chin upwards to compensate. Dotted around the vast and clinical lobby a few heads turned her way, muttering amongst themselves with a buzz of recognition. A few pointed in her direction. It was barely surprising they knew who she was, even though she doubted any of them had ever heard her sing. Her face was on the posters for the competition that were spread on every billboard across the city. She pretended not to notice them. There was no class in acknowledging the fans. A cool aloofness was the way of true stars. And these weren't her fans, not really. They weren't the people who had waited outside the stage doors of the Royal Opera House on nights when Covent Garden had suffered worse rain than even Cardiff was getting, huddling there for hours just for a chance of getting an autograph. And yet here she was, judging a plebeian talent show simply in order to remind the world that she was still around. At least the final was being televised and she would be singing on it. That was something. Perhaps it would lead to an album deal. And the hotel was world class; she had to give the organisers credit for that. It seemed like a long time since she'd been pampered like this.

Her heels tip-tapping across the endless marble floor, she didn't pause as Martin struggled to take down the umbrella that'd had approximately thirty seconds' use.

'I'm going straight up. I'll see you in the morning.' She spoke without looking at him, focusing instead on pressing the button to call the elevator. 'Be a dear, and ask room service if they can send a fresh fruit salad up to me in half an hour.' If she looked at him he might see her disgust and pity and, as much as whatever love they had once shared was long gone, she didn't want him seeing that. He was mumbling something to her as, thankfully, the doors closed and the lift purred as it rose up through the atrium and to her suite on the fifteenth floor. It was bliss just to have a moment's peace.

An hour later and she'd soaked in the bath and nibbled the occasional piece of watermelon from the deliciously arranged fruit salad that the waiter had politely left on her table while she bathed. Having scrubbed her face clean, she reapplied a light base coat of make-up and a touch of natural pink lipstick and mascara. She wasn't planning on having visitors, but you never knew when someone might knock on the door and at ten o'clock it wasn't yet late enough to know that she'd be left undisturbed. Only just before turning out the final light would she let her skin sag as if it were letting out a long breath of air like any 52-year-old's would, even with regular Botox. Then she would reset her hair in curlers, before wrapping a scarf around her head and carefully going to sleep on her back. But for now, she'd stay casually glamorous.

Her open curtain lifted as a light breeze brushed past them and, picking up her champagne glass, Maria Bruno looked out onto the balcony and beyond. The air was cold and crisp and, after the heat of the bath, her skin prickled and tightened. It felt good. Sliding the doors open a little wider she stood in the opening, gazing out at the water, the moonlight dancing and winking back at her from its surface. She smiled a little, suddenly looking effortlessly younger than her years. It was beautiful. Wales was beautiful. At some point over the years she'd somehow forgotten that.

To her left, the lights of Cardiff Bay sparkled, the bars and restaurants staying valiantly vibrant despite the continual onslaught of dismal rain. If it weren't for the cold air, she could almost imagine herself somewhere on the Mediterranean. Her face tingled. But it was precisely the cold air that was giving the Bay its magical quality.