Amy Cross - The Music Man

When I open the door, however, I’m immediately struck by the fear on her face.

“I’m losing it,” she stammers. “The ability to play, I mean.”

“Sarah,” I reply, “try not to—”

“It’s going away!” she says firmly, clearly distressed. “I crawled into my closet and shut the door so no-one would be able to hear me. Even then, someone banged on my door, they were onto me. I got them to go away, but the point is… I could feel the music draining away.”

“Sarah, you must stay calm. Come in, we’ll sit down and talk calmly.”

“It was like I was being drained,” she continues. “It was like they describe it on the TV. The longer I played, the more I could feel the music fading away. It’s as if I have this finite amount left, a few minutes that I can play, and once that’s over I’ll never be able to play again.”

“Sarah—”

“What do I do?” she asks frantically. “Do I just not play, and keep it inside? Then what? Or should I just play and get it over with? It’s like torture, Derek. What about you? Can you still play?”

“I…”

My voice trails off. Sarah is a good girl, very kind and peaceful, but I’m worried about how she might react to this latest development.

“I’ve been avoiding my guitar,” I explain finally, choosing to be truthful. “I’m going to wait until all this madness is over, and then hopefully things will be back to normal.”

“People are looting outside,” she replies. “I saw one of my cousins smashing the window of the corner shop down the road. It’s like the lack of music is turning people into animals. Is that possible?”

“Perhaps,” I reply, “or perhaps people just take any cue and use it as an excuse to go wild. Who can say?”

“I’m going to play,” she says, taking a step back. “I can’t live like this, knowing that it’s inside me. I have to play and get it out.”

“I’m not sure that’s wise.”

“No, you’re right.” She takes a deep breath. “I should save it. It’s precious, I should keep it hidden. I can’t afford to lose it.”

“I think the best thing is to sit tight,” I tell her, “and don’t draw attention to yourself. The less that those idiots notice you, the better.”

“This can’t go on for much longer, can it?” she asks plaintively, as if she’s close to tears. “It’s a sickness, right? And sicknesses always get cured. They won’t let this carry on forever.”

“And who are they , exactly?” I reply.

“The government. Soldiers. I don’t know, but someone has to fix it.”

“Of course,” I say, hoping to reassure her, even though I’m not sure that things will be so simple. “But for now, keep your head down. Those of us who can still play – who might still be able to play – must look after ourselves.”

“You’re right,” she says, before mumbling something as she turns and hurries away.

Once she’s gone, I shut the door and head back through to the front room. I’m minded to pick up my guitar and play at least one note, but then I look at the television and I see truly horrific images of riots in a city. I quickly realize that the city in question is Paris, a city that I happen to love, and I watch as cars are set on fire and rampage gangs of frenzied citizens storm through the streets. Is this really possible? Is all of this carnage occurring in the world, and is it all because of this mysterious loss of music?

Perhaps Sarah was right. They will put everything straight soon enough. Within a day or two, everything will be back to normal and we shall have music again.

One week later

The howl continues for a few more minutes before petering out into a kind of stuttering growl. Then, finally, after several minutes the wretched sound is gone.

Standing all alone in the middle of my front room, with the lights off, I listen intently. As usual, the howl began shortly after midnight and continued for about ten minutes. It’s been a week now since the first howl, and it’s becoming abundantly clear to me that someone somewhere in this building is starting to degenerate entirely. Then again, that shouldn’t be terribly surprising. After all, over the past week I have seen my neighbors turned to savages, to the extent that I barely dare leave my apartment.

Heading to the kitchen, I first try the faucets, to check whether there’s still water. I’m relieved to find that there is, although I worry that soon the basic infrastructure will begin to fail. Clearly someone somewhere is managing to keep the water and electricity systems running, although I can’t help but wonder whether these too will eventually be abandoned.

I open the fridge and see all the bottles of water that I’ve collected, but then I look down at the space where I was gathering food. Until yesterday, I had enough to keep going, but now my stocks have dwindled to almost nothing. Now, however, it has been twenty-four hours since I ate, and my stomach is gurgling loudly. I can certainly stand to lose a little weight, especially from my belly, but the thought of another entire day without food is a little too much to contemplate. In which case, I feel that going out at night would be infinitely preferable to making the same journey during daylight hours.

I shuffle to the window and peer out. There’s no sign of anyone out there. Indeed, the nights seem less dangerous that the days, at least out there on the streets of our little part of London. In which case, I think that perhaps tonight is the night that I must finally go and find something I can eat.

Pulling my coat tighter for warmth, I head along the dark pavement, hoping to keep out of the light. I can’t walk too fast, of course, on account of my bad hips, but I keep telling myself that I can defend myself if necessary. Besides, I’m probably letting my imagination run wild. Would anyone really attack me? I’m just an old man with nothing to offer. If I’m quick and clever, I’m sure I shall be absolutely fine.

I make my way to the corner shop. Ever since I moved here, I’ve been buying pretty much all my food from that place, preferring to avoid the long bus journey to the supermarket. I’ve even become pretty friendly with Pavel, the man who runs the shop, and with his son Adam as well. I’m quite sure that they’ll see to it that I don’t starve, even if I only receive a pack of biscuits.

As I get to the shop, however, I’m shocked to see that while the lights are off, the windows have been smashed and the door has been left hanging wide open.

I peer inside, and I’m shocked by the carnage. All the shelves have been emptied, and entire cabinets have been tipped over. There’s broken glass everywhere, and one of the light fittings is hanging from the ceiling. It’s as if some kind of tornado has passed through the place, and I can’t see so much as a morsel of food anywhere. Still, I’m fiercely hungry and I can’t possibly walk the five miles to a supermarket, so I have no choice but to gingerly pick my way into the shop and try to avoid as much of the glass as possible.

I open my mouth to call out and announce myself, but then I begin to wonder whether that would be wise. What if some monstrous attacker is still lurking here somewhere?

Looking around, I suddenly spot a large patch of blood smeared on the far wall. Somewhere in the patch, there’s the faint trace of a hand print.

Suddenly I hear a bumping sound, and I turn just in time to see something move behind the counter. There’s a glass panel in front of one of the displays, and reflected in that glass there’s a shape that seems to be moving back and forth. The bumping continues, and after a moment I hear the sound of someone muttering under their breath.