A Note of Madness

by Tabitha Suzuma

  She gave a little yawn and blinked sleepily. ‘Ooh good, you’ve got the kettle on. Can you make me some coffee?’

  ‘OK.’ He felt his pulse quicken. ‘Did I wake you?’

  She gave a little smile and looked pointedly at his feet. He realized that he was drumming his heels against the cupboard doors again and stopped. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Got to get up anyway – rehearsal at ten.’ She brushed the hair ineffectively out of her eyes. ‘Have you recovered from your midnight run?’

  He bit his lip to hold back a grin. ‘I’ve almost finished the overture.’

  Her face registered mild shock. ‘What?’

  ‘You know, the opera!’

  She frowned in disbelief. ‘Have you been writing all night?’

  He nodded triumphantly.

  ‘And you’re going to lectures today?’

  ‘No! Well I’ll have to see Professor Kaiser after lunch but I’ll keep going until then.’

  Jennah sat down on a stool, drawing her knees up under her jumper. ‘Flynn, why?’

  ‘Because it’s great! Because I’ve got all these ideas and they keep coming! Because I love composing!’

  Jennah regarded him silently for a moment. She looked pale in the morning light. ‘Why not save it till the next Musicianship assignment?’ she asked quietly. ‘Why are you wearing yourself out like this?’

  ‘I’m not wearing myself out!’ he exclaimed. ‘I couldn’t sleep if I tried. I don’t need to sleep.’

  ‘Flynn, everybody needs to sleep.’

  ‘Yes, but not all the time.’

  Another long silence. Jennah looked keenly at her toes. The kettle clicked and Flynn jumped off the counter.

  ‘I know it’s really none of my business,’ Jennah began softly, ‘but you’re one of my closest friends and I don’t – I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.’

  ‘Nothing’s going to happen to me!’

  ‘I’m just scared that if you carry on having no sleep and working so hard, you’ll go all funny again like before.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ He looked at her, stung.

  She glanced away awkwardly. ‘Come on, you know – last week, for example. You nearly bit my head off when I suggested you came to the pub and then you went underground for about three days. Harry said you wouldn’t even get out of bed.’

  ‘I was feeling ill.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I said I was sorry.’

  ‘It’s not that, Flynn. I’m just afraid that you’re going to – I don’t know – burn yourself out again.’

  ‘No I won’t! This is great – I feel brilliant!’ He finished pouring the coffee and handed her a cup.

  Jennah didn’t smile. ‘You were acting so weird last night.’

  ‘I was just feeling energetic!’

  ‘We thought you were drunk.’

  ‘I wasn’t – I just felt like going for a run!’

  ‘OK. But, Flynn, you know this whole Royal College thing? It’s really high pressure for all of us this year and especially for you, with that mad professor. Just – just try and take things easy, OK?’

  He smiled and shrugged. ‘I will. I am.’

  ‘OK.’ Jennah looked down, her eyes troubled. She drank her coffee in silence.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘NO, NO, NO, no, no.’ Flynn rolled over, head hanging off the side of his bed, and scrunched up his eyes. There was no pain this time, no headache, and yet he knew – as sure as he knew from the late-morning sunlight streaming through the curtains that it was a fine day – that it was back, and back with a vengeance.

  Getting out of bed was unimaginable, going back to sleep impossible. There was a familiar weight on his chest – a crushing weight of interminable sadness from which there was no escape. After ten minutes or more of lying absolutely still, wishing the day away with all his might, he sat up and blearily surveyed the room around him. Manuscript sheets scattered the floor amidst empty beer cans, dirty plates and scraps of paper covered with his own familiar scrawl – lines from a poem, verses. God, what was this? Memories of the last few days began to jar together like pieces of a poorly edited film. An opera? He had been writing an opera? Jesus Christ! The sight of such a ridiculous flight of fancy sent a shrill stab of agony through his head. He fell back against the pillows, closing his eyes. Who had he told? What had he said? Oh no, Jennah! She must think he was a complete idiot! What had he been thinking? There was the HS essay for Monday. Why couldn’t he have done that while he had the energy instead of trying to write a stupid opera?

  He rolled over on his side and squinted down again at the music lying on the floor. He couldn’t even read it properly – his eyes wouldn’t focus. He couldn’t hear the notes in his head, couldn’t imagine that they made any sense, couldn’t comprehend how he could have possibly imagined that he was in any way capable of composing anything – anything at all. He wished he could burn it all, set fire to the damn floor, but he didn’t even have the energy to stuff the papers in the bin. He didn’t need to look at his alarm, he could tell by the sunlight that it was gone eleven and he knew he had been asleep for more than thirteen hours, although he felt as if he hadn’t slept at all.

  It was Wednesday. He had already missed Aural and Musicianship. He went into the kitchen to find a scrawled note from Harry explaining that he hadn’t been able to wake him. With a jolt, he remembered that he had a piano lesson at twelve and lectures all afternoon. The last time he had missed a lesson with Professor Kaiser when he had been holed up with flu, the professor had come round in person to check he was all right – or rather to check that he wasn’t lying. The idea of him coming round again was intolerable.

  A shower was far too much effort. Cold water splashed over his face would have to do. A feeble attempt with the toothbrush – the taste made him want to retch. Puffy white face, purple smudges under his eyes. Two angry red lumps appearing on his forehead. God, he was hideous with his acne spots and crazy blond hair sticking out at all angles. He tried to flatten it with water, but it made no difference. He tried again. His fist hit the mirror with such force that it cracked down the middle. He bit his lip to hold back furious tears.

  ‘Jesus, there you are! You were sleeping like the dead this morning. I banged on your door but couldn’t wake you up.’ Harry fell into step with Flynn as he headed down the second-floor corridor. ‘I picked up some handouts from Aural and Musicianship for you. We just—’

  Jaw clenched so that it ached. ‘Harry, not now, OK?’

  ‘Yes, sure. Are you – do you want to get some lunch?’

  ‘I’ve got a lesson.’

  ‘All right, but hold on a minute. Are you OK?’

  ‘I’m fine!’ The tone was more aggressive than he had meant it to be, but losing Harry at this point was imperative before he exploded. He burst through the fire door and let it slam behind him.

  The final movement of the Rach Three had too many notes, Flynn decided. Too many notes with too little time to play them in. It was killing him, having to play this particular bit over and over again until his shoulders ached and his fingers felt numb.

  ‘Ach nein, that is not right,’ Professor Kaiser said coolly for the third time that morning.

  Flynn could have hit him. Instead he dropped his arms to his sides and let out a long, deliberate sigh of exasperation.

  ‘Let’s take it from the start again,’ Professor Kaiser said evenly.

  No. The start was too far back. The start was nothing but fragments of music he could barely remember. The whole piece was completely alien to him today. Flynn stared at the blurred page numbly, unmoving.

  Professor Kaiser flicked back a few pages. ‘From the start,’ he commanded, tapping the page. ‘Come on, try and put a little more emotion into it this time. I can see that you are tired, Flynn, but you are not trying as hard as you could be today.’

  Hands clenched so as not to punch the bloody piano. Jaw clenched so as not to shout at the
bloody professor. Staring at the page through a thick fog, trying to make sense of the masses of tiny notes, trying to translate them into some sort of sound in his head, some sort of feel in his fingers. Deep breath. Forget the notes, just feel the music. The music. Concentrate on the music. But where had it gone? Forgotten in some rotting cavity of his decaying mind, buried under a thousand thoughts of death and despair. The loud ticking of an irritating clock he had never noticed before. Professor Kaiser’s small impatient sigh. He held his breath. Played the first three chords. Then a blank wall came up and hit him in the face. He stared down at his fingers, still holding down the notes from the last chord. They had to move somewhere, but where, he had no idea. It was a cruel joke. All those glossy black and white notes to choose from and not an idea where to go.

  ‘Are you not well?’

  The words cut through him like a knife, making him jump. Professor Kaiser’s tone was heavy with concern – or was it irritation? Flynn was too tired to tell.

  He looked up, his jaw set. ‘I can’t play this piece.’

  ‘Ja, I can see that you are having some difficulty, which make me surprised because of how well you played it last Monday. There is for sure something not right today.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just can’t play it. I’ve forgotten the notes.’ He was surprised by the flatness of his own tone as he raised his gaze to meet Professor Kaiser’s.

  Professor Kaiser smiled. ‘You have not forgotten anything, Flynn, you are just tired. Burning the candle at both ends, as the English call it. You must be more careful – you have much to do this year. Go home to bed, have some sleep and take some vitamins. I know you have been practising very hard recently and that is maybe some reason too. I will see you on Friday if you are feeling better. If you are not, then next week.’

  Flynn was being dismissed and that was it. Obviously he was tired or coming down with something, there was no other logical explanation. It was simply not possible that he had just forgotten the notes. It was simply not possible that he should not be able to play a piece that he had been practising every day for the last six months. He was at the Royal College of Music, for Christ’s sake – it was only meant for talented people. He had to have talent, or else he wouldn’t have been accepted here. And yet that was the greatest joke of all. That somehow he had fooled them. Somehow he had duped them all into believing that he was this great musical talent when really – really he was just a nobody.

  When competing against André for the scholarship he’d just ended up looking like a fool. When the chips were down he couldn’t play a note. His brain had shrivelled up and died and all that practice on the Rach Three had gone to waste. The music had disappeared into some kind of abyss and he was unable to retrieve it. He was a fraud, he was an idiot and, worst of all, he couldn’t play the piano to save his life.

  There was a scrawled note on the kitchen counter. Staying over at Kate’s. See you tomorrow. Flynn crumpled the note as soon as he had read it, and tossed it onto the floor. At least that meant he wouldn’t have Harry breathing down his neck tonight, acting all brotherly and concerned. At least he wouldn’t have to make an effort to be civil. At least he could just be left alone.

  He stood in the middle of the living room, the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, and looked around him. It wasn’t even five o’clock. What on earth was he going to do? His eyes rested in turn on the piano, the TV, the pile of library books for his Musical Analysis essay. Of course there were things to do, there were always things to do. But the thought of doing anything filled him with unbearable apathy. Even turning on the television for the usual evening menu of soaps and quiz shows didn’t seem worth it.

  The weather had been glorious all day and the golden light outside promised a magical sunset. He thought of the couples and families strolling in the park, enjoying the late-afternoon sunshine, and was filled with an inexplicable sadness. The light would be shimmering on the Serpentine, the raised voices of children echoing from a distance. The leaves on the trees would be stirring in the breeze, the sunlight flooding the grass with golden confetti, the sky a deep, painful blue. The thought of going to the park was inconceivable – the sight of such aching beauty would infuse his soul with pain.

  Sinking down against the living-room wall, Flynn thought back to Jennah’s comment that other morning. You went underground for three days. Was it happening again? Was he going underground? He couldn’t play a note, couldn’t tolerate the presence of others, couldn’t tolerate his own presence, for that matter. Why is this happening to me? he asked himself desperately. What is wrong with me? He pressed his fingers over his eyelids and took some rapid, shallow breaths. I can’t bear this, he thought. I can’t bear feeling like this. I can’t bear living like this. I can’t bear being me. I want to be Harry, or Jennah, or anyone else who seems happy most of the time, or at least not miserable. I feel as if someone close to me has died, or as if I’ve suffered some terrible loss. Yet nothing bad has happened and there is no reason for me to feel this way. A few days ago I believed I could write an opera, I was a musical genius and playing was effortless fun. I loved my friends, I loved my life. But now, just existing is pure agony and all I want is escape. Escape from this world, escape from this life, escape from myself. And the only way to achieve that is through death. His breathing had grown ragged and he was aware of a hot wetness beneath his fingers. What is wrong with me? he screamed silently to himself. Oh God, what is wrong with me? Why can I feel nothing but pain?

  Sleep, he thought to himself suddenly. Sleep might be the answer. This was a transitory experience, he would get through it. Three days it had been last time, Jennah had said. Three days was not so long. If he slept then at least he wouldn’t be able to think and his senses would cease to be barraged with stimuli that he couldn’t bear. Yes, he would sleep until this intolerable feeling passed.

  Flynn double-locked the front door, turned the ringer off the phone and pinned his curtains to the wall to block out as much daylight as possible. He undressed and rolled into bed, pulling the duvet over his head and breathing in the hot, stuffy darkness, his eyes tightly closed. Don’t think, he told himself. Don’t think, don’t feel – just sleep and forget.

  He lay motionless for what seemed like an eternity, determined not to toss and turn. Finally he felt just too uncomfortable and rolled onto his back, his arm across his eyes. The bed was too hot. The dusk sun reached him through the curtains, drenching the room and filling his closed eyes with a bright pink luminance. He felt restless and thirsty, his leg itched and he needed to pee. Jesus Christ! He sat up, kicking off the duvet, and saw from his clock that he had been lying there for nearly two hours.

  Sleep felt a million light years away. The sun was setting now and his bedroom was filled with a gentle warm glow. His heart began to thud painfully. If I don’t go to sleep now, I’ll go crazy, he thought. Why won’t you let me sleep, God, why? You allow me to suffer like this and yet you refuse to let me sleep! What are you trying to do to me? Biting his lip, he got up and furiously pulled on his clothes again. He would get himself to sleep, damn it, he would. He would knock himself out if he had to.

  He grabbed his wallet and rushed out of the flat. He strode down the street towards the off-licence, resisting an urge to run, hating the last of the evening sunlight, warm against his face. He bought a bottle of whisky with the last of his change and returned home, heart still thudding, the glass chinking irritatingly against the loose coins at the bottom of the plastic bag.

  There was a bottle of aspirin in the kitchen cupboard. He thought of taking them all before remembering it was a slow and painful way to die. Downing four with a swig from the bottle, he felt a certain flash of self-destructive satisfaction. The whisky burned his throat. He felt as if he were giving God the finger. I can beat you on this, he told him. If you make me suffer, then this is what I’ll do.

  He returned to his bedroom with the bottle. He felt too hot. He threw open the windows and cranked
up his stereo. Don Giovanni was still in the machine. Perfect. Always Don Giovanni when he was down. He threw off his jeans and collapsed against the pillows, bottle in hand. How much till I pass out? he wondered. He would get there eventually. He had all the time in the world . . .

  As it was, he never found out. Time ceased to exist, although suddenly the window had filled with darkness and the air wafting through was chilled. Every time he went to the loo, the room spun a little bit more. It was strangely satisfying. The last time he tripped and banged his elbow against the door jamb. It didn’t even hurt. He could no longer feel pain. This is what I want, he thought. This is what I want all of the time.

  Ow, stop! Ow, ow, stop! He realized after a while that he was only thinking these words, not speaking them. Speak! he told himself angrily. Tell them to stop shaking me like that!

  ‘Wake up! Flynn, for Christ’s sake, wake up!’

  Stop shouting, he tried to say. Stop shouting. Get off!

  ‘Open your eyes! Would you just open your eyes?’

  He took a deep breath to reply and found himself blinking at the strangely patterned blue carpet. It looked vaguely familiar but was at an odd angle, stretching out from beneath his nose. The shaking stopped. His arm felt sore from where it had been gripped. He lifted his head and closed his eyes as the carpet began to whirl. There was a hand on his chest, pushing him backwards. He felt a hard wall behind him and sat leaning against it, his head falling back with a dull thud. Harry’s face swam into view.

  ‘What?’ he demanded irritably. What was wrong with the guy? Why did he have to wake him up like that?

  Harry swore. Flynn blinked hard, trying to keep his eyes open and his head up. Harry hardly ever swore.

  ‘What the hell have you been doing?’ Harry’s voice was breathless as he sank down to a squatting position against the opposite wall. They seemed to be in the hallway, outside the kitchen.

  The bottle of aspirin was now in Harry’s hand. ‘Whisky and aspirin? Are you trying to kill yourself?’