Song of the Damned

by Sarah Rayne

  She could see Imogen, but only as a dark, formless outline. She looked smaller in this dimness, or was she simply hunched over the music? No, she looked different, almost as if—

  Olivia shut this thought off, but it was too late, because it had already formed. It was as if it was not Imogen she was seeing at all. She heard her swear, and then there was a faint click. A tiny oblong of bluish light sprang up, and Olivia realized Imogen had switched on her mobile phone. It must have been in her jacket pocket. Was there a torch on it? Was she going to cheat and switch the torch on?

  But Imogen simply left the phone on and directed the glow onto the music. The small illumination lit her face from below. Her hair had fallen over her face again.

  For a moment, behind Imogen’s shoulder, the darkness around one of the alcoves seemed to thin. And there, so faint it was like a pencil scribble on the darkness, Olivia thought she saw the outline of a second face, as if someone was standing behind Imogen, looking over her shoulder. It was a small, heart-shaped face, framed by dark hair. A hand came out, as if reaching for the faint radiance on the phone’s screen …

  Olivia gasped and half stood up, and the small movement and the scrape of her shoes made Imogen look up.

  ‘Livvy?’ she said. ‘Is that you?’

  It was all right. The shadows had folded themselves away, and the impression of someone peering over Imogen’s shoulder vanished. Olivia realized it had been one of those double images you sometimes get with a digital light. Like waking up at three a.m. and looking at the alarm clock and seeing the figures twinned.

  She said, ‘Of course it’s me.’

  ‘Just checking.’

  Imogen reached into her pocket for the recorder, but she did not immediately start singing. She’s absorbing the atmosphere, thought Olivia, and she shivered, because it was creepy enough to sit up here on the stairs, within touching distance of the door. But to be down there in that black well of darkness with the strange whispering shadows, with elusive silhouettes on the darkness, must be very eerie indeed.

  It was eerie and terrifying … You can have no idea how eerie and how terrifying …

  The words brushed against Olivia’s mind and she pushed them away. Stupid imagination again.

  The silence stretched out, and Olivia was just thinking she could not bear this any longer, when Imogen began to sing.

  SEVEN

  The minute the singing began, Olivia knew that, no matter what it had sounded like in the normality of the rooms upstairs, down here something extraordinary had happened to it. Because although this was undoubtedly Imogen’s voice, familiar from school concerts and choir recitals and even impromptu rock-band sessions in the common room, now it was somehow the voice of a terrified girl. A girl who was facing death, and who was singing her way into that death. A bad death, Gustav had said.

  ‘Step by measured step the murderers came to me …

  Inch by measured inch, the light is being shut out from me …

  Breath by measured breath, my life is being cut off from me …

  Heartbeat by measured and precious heartbeat, my life is ending …’

  The words were macabre and menacing, and Olivia wanted to press her hands over her ears to shut them out. But she did not. What she did was to creep down another step to listen more intently.

  The music bordered on being ugly and discordant. But it was the most disturbing music Olivia had ever heard. It really was as if she was listening to the long-ago Ginevra – the girl who might never even have existed – singing her way into death.

  This was not music anyone would associate with the prim, dry – even miserly – man who was Gustav Tulliver. This was music that scraped into your emotions and dredged up your darkest fears. It was filled with dread and despair, and it was the nightmare side of all the fairy stories. It was Tolkien’s Dark Middle Earth with the repulsive Gollum creeping gulpingly along the underground caves of Mordor. Or it was the fateful beckoning of the Pied Piper, or the siren song of the Rhinemaidens who lured unwary sailors to their doom. The images spiked jaggedly through Olivia’s mind, and for a moment she was surprised to find herself knowing about such things. So this was what Gustav had been struggling to bring into existence all these months. The dying voice of the mysterious Ginevra.

  It had an extraordinary effect on Olivia. Like the whispering voice, it seemed to be soaking into her mind.

  ‘Inch by measured inch, the light is being shut out from me …

  Breath by measured breath, my life is being cut off from me …’

  The words and the unusual pattern of the music thrummed through her senses, and they churned up thoughts and emotions Olivia hardly recognized. There had been jealousy of Imogen, certainly, and it was still there, but now there was a bitter hatred as well. She looked at this stupid pretentious girl who was doing what she, Olivia, should have been asked to do – who was being sulky and childish about it – and deep loathing and anger coursed through her. If Imogen were not here – if she could not sing …

  Then Imogen stopped. The recorder clicked off and silence closed down.

  It seemed a long time before Gustav’s voice said, ‘That was very satisfactory.’ He stood in the doorway, a tall, slightly stooped figure, outlined against the dim hall, then came down the cellar steps, brushing past Olivia as if he had forgotten she was there. The door swung slightly inwards, shutting off some of the light from the hall, but the tiny oblong of radiance from Imogen’s phone was still visible. It suddenly erupted into a bright, cold light, and Olivia realized Imogen had switched on the phone’s torch. It was like a small spotlight cutting through the blackness, and she directed it straight at Gustav. He flinched, and put up a hand to shield his eyes.

  But he said, ‘No need for so much light. We’ll go back upstairs now. I’ll take the recording. You can go back to the school – you’ll be all right getting back on your own, will you?’

  Imogen said, ‘It sounds as if I’ll have to be.’ She moved away from him, one hand in her pocket. She’s put the recorder in there, thought Olivia. She’s not going to give it to him.

  ‘I hear it’s not the first time you’ve gone slinking back after a few nights away.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But this recording—’ Gustav took a step closer to her, and she moved back to stand against the brick wall now. ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ said Imogen. ‘It’s unusual.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Just the kind of thing that might get me noticed in all kinds of useful areas. Recording studios. Agents. Record producers. It’s something they won’t have heard before. I think record producers would sit up and take notice of this.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Gustav, at once. ‘This isn’t a shoddy bit of modern music you can play for three minutes to get onto some trashy talent contest.’

  ‘No, and that’s the point. So listen, I’ll make another deal with you. I’ll copy this onto my recorder and we’ll both have one. And we can each do what we want with our own copy.’

  ‘No!’ It came out sharply and the word rebounded off the old bricks. ‘Give me that recording this minute,’ said Gustav, and Olivia heard the authority in his voice.

  ‘I won’t. Not until I’ve copied it.’

  Olivia had been trying to beat the hatred down, but now she felt it well up again. She had been prepared – just about – to accept that Imogen should sing and help Gustav to finish The Martyrs rather than Olivia. She was not prepared, though, for this silly, vain creature, greedy for stardom at any price, to spoil The Martyrs’ chances. To spoil Olivia’s own chances of reaching that marvellous life her uncle had so often described. The hatred bubbled up again, blurring everything, so that she felt as if she was seeing the cellar through a mist, or under water. It scalded through her, sending her down the stairs, not noticing the uneven steep steps. She snatched the phone from Imogen, and Imogen kicked out in instinctive defence. There was a crunch as the toe of one boot made contact, and Gustav gasped and reeled back. Olivia
turned the phone directly onto Imogen, and saw that she was making her way along the wall towards the stairs. The perilously high heels of the boots were hampering her, and it was easy for Olivia to bound up the steps ahead of her and to stand against the door, barring Imogen’s way.

  ‘Move, you bitch!’ yelled Imogen. ‘Open the fucking door!’

  ‘No,’ said Olivia. ‘Give me the recording. You can go then.’ A small part of her could scarcely believe she was actually speaking like this – and to Imogen Amberton, who was so confident and so disparaging of people like Olivia, and who would probably sneer and spread all kinds of horrid things about her at school tomorrow.

  Gustav’s voice from below, cried, ‘Stop it! Both of you, stop it! Come back down here! Imogen, give me that recording!’

  Imogen ignored him. Instead, she lunged forward, her fist raised, and brought it smashing across Olivia’s face. ‘Get out of my way,’ she yelled.

  The blow knocked the phone from Olivia’s hand, and the light cut off as it hit the ground. Pain exploded across her cheekbone, and her eyes were streaming, but she pushed Imogen back against the stone wall and there was a sickening crack as Imogen’s head hit the wall. Good! thought Olivia, viciously. Serve her right. Imogen made a groping movement with one hand, clearly dazed. Below them, Olivia could hear Gustav fumbling through the darkness. Could he see her? No. With all her strength she pushed Imogen towards the steps. Imogen cried out, and tried to resist, and Olivia pushed her again.

  Imogen flailed frantically at the air to stop herself from falling, then tumbled forwards, going down the steps in a series of jolting bumps, all the way to the foot. The sounds seemed to go on for ever, then Gustav was calling out.

  ‘Olivia? Are you all right?’

  ‘I … yes. But Imogen fell. I think she’s at the bottom of the steps.’

  ‘We need light. Push the door all the way back.’

  Olivia was shaking violently, but she managed to do so. Light came in from the hall, and she saw that Imogen was lying at the foot of the steps, half against the brick wall. One leg was stuck out at an impossible angle, and there was something wrong about her head – something dreadfully, grotesquely wrong, because no head should lie at that ugly angle to its body …

  The sounds of the fall were still echoing around the cellar – the sudden shout of fear, the scrambling fall … For a moment it seemed to Olivia that there was a sly, knowing voice inside the echoes … A voice that came from a long way off, and that was fuzzy and uncertain, like not being quite tuned in to the station on a radio. But she could hear what the echo was saying. ‘This is how it was before … This is exactly how it was before …’

  Olivia crammed her fist into her mouth, fighting panic. Most of the feeling seemed to have gone from her legs, but she clung to the rail and managed to get down the steps.

  ‘Is she—?’

  She flinched from the word, but Gustav said, ‘Dead? No, I don’t think so. I think she’s badly injured, though.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll get a torch,’ he said. ‘Don’t move her.’

  He went quickly up the steps, and Olivia knelt down at Imogen’s side. A trickle of dark blood had spilled from Imogen’s mouth. Like dark lipstick. As if somebody had kissed her vigorously and smeared the lipstick all over her mouth. She looked like a broken statue. She looked as if death was about to overtake her.

  Breath by measured breath, my life is being cut off from me …

  Heartbeat by measured and precious heartbeat, my life is ending …

  Almost of their own volition, Olivia’s hands reached down. Her fingers curled around Imogen’s throat. It would not take much – not with Imogen so near to death. Just a little bit tighter … There was a faint tremor of movement beneath the skin – a pulse? – and she tightened her hold. The tremor came again, and then the slight movement died away. Olivia kept her hands in place. She had no idea how long it was before she realized her uncle was standing at the top of the steps, and her heart jumped, because she did not know how long he had been there.

  She moved back from Imogen’s body, and watched him. He thrust a hand beneath the leather jacket, then bent lower to listen for signs of breathing.

  Olivia said, falteringly, ‘She’s dead now, isn’t she?’ and her uncle sat back on his heels and looked at her.

  ‘Oh yes,’ he said. ‘She’s dead now.’ He walked across to the steps, and sat down on the lowest one. His face was gaunt and, speaking slowly, as if he might be testing each word, he said, ‘This has to be carefully handled.’

  ‘Are you sure she’s dead?’

  ‘There’s no heartbeat – she’s not breathing. She’s unquestionably dead,’ said Gustav, impatiently. ‘Even if I hadn’t taught science and physics all those years, I’d know.’

  ‘What do we do? Shall I … call for an ambulance or something?’

  ‘No,’ he said, quietly. ‘No, I don’t think we can do that, do you? Don’t worry, though. I can work something out.’

  ‘We could explain that it was an accident,’ said Olivia, and stopped. It had not been an accident at all. There had been that coursing, burning hatred. There had been that violent push down the stairs and then the pressure of her hands around Imogen’s throat. But no one knew that. Gustav did not know. He had been upstairs, finding a torch.

  He took her hand, which surprised her, because he normally shied away from all physical contact, even a birthday or a Christmas kiss. ‘You pushed her down the stairs,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘As for my part in it,’ he said, ‘I’m in a cellar with two young girls, and it’s one o’clock in the morning.’ He made an abrupt gesture, indicating the cellar. ‘How will that sound to an outsider?’

  ‘But … there was nothing, um, wrong about that.’ Olivia was horribly embarrassed at the implication in his words. ‘It was to record the music,’ she said. ‘OK, Imogen shouldn’t have sneaked out of school, but that wouldn’t be such a big deal. She’s done it before. And she wouldn’t have fallen down the stairs if she hadn’t been wearing high-heeled boots. I can say all that.’

  ‘For pity’s sake, don’t you understand? It wouldn’t matter if you swore a hundred times on the Bible that it was an accident. Some people might believe you, but most wouldn’t. And even if they decided it was an accidental death, it would still look suspicious. People would whisper that something odd – something sick and warped – was going on.’ The deep-set eyes were blazing with fervour now. ‘Even if you were exonerated, I could be ruined,’ said Gustav. ‘I could be charged with any number of offences. God knows what would happen to us then. If I were imprisoned, they’d put you in care – you’re only fifteen. Do you really want that?’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Olivia, in a whisper.

  ‘And if any of that were to happen,’ he said, his voice suddenly quieter, ‘we’d certainly have lost any chance of getting away from this poky cottage and from this introverted place. Because The Martyrs would be stillborn. It would never have a chance.’

  The Martyrs. That’s all he really cares about, thought Olivia. And then, with surprise, But I care about it as well, she thought. It’s that pathway to a different life. He’s right.

  Gustav said, ‘So, let’s think carefully. Imogen said no one knew she was coming here. Can we trust that?’

  Olivia considered, then said, ‘Yes, I think so. She told the others – the girls in her room – that she was meeting somebody important. It sounded as if she hinted to them that it was something to do with singing – maybe with the TV show.’

  ‘A new TV show, she said,’ put in Gustav, almost eagerly. ‘That’s what she told us, wasn’t it? Does it actually exist, that show, do you suppose?’

  Olivia had no idea. ‘Imogen said it was something she found online.’ Reluctantly, she added, ‘There probably was something, but she was … well, she was the kind of girl who’d always make a lot out of anything. That’s a terrible thing to say about her, isn’t it, with her … um … lying there like that.
’

  This sounded good. It sounded as if she was still in shock from what had happened, and deeply distressed. She even managed to put a tremor into her voice at the end and to shiver, as if she might be trying not to cry.

  ‘But,’ Gustav was saying, ‘would anyone at the school – the other girls, I mean – would they believe she was meeting someone at midnight?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Olivia was glad she could answer this truthfully. ‘She’d make it sound really believable. She’d spin some tale about someone fancying her and wanting to make secret arrangements.’

  ‘And she’s done it before,’ he said, thoughtfully. And then, ‘Would anyone make a connection to this cottage? Or to you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. No.’ Olivia did not say most of the students regarded Infanger Cottage and Gustav himself as things to avoid.

  ‘Good.’ He got up, and gestured impatiently to her to hand him the torch. ‘Olivia, you’ll have to trust me from now on.’ He looked at her very directly. ‘I do want to protect you – remember that, won’t you? But you’ll have to do exactly as I tell you.’

  ‘All right.’ The strengthening hatred and anger was starting to recede – not all at once, but in little trickles, like the sea going out. Olivia was beginning to understand that this was a massively terrible situation. She would get out of it, of course. Nobody would try to send Gustav to prison or Olivia to some horrible foster home.

  Gustav walked round the cellar, pausing at intervals to shine the torch onto the walls, as if he was examining the bricks closely. Several times he tapped against the bricks, dislodging sprinklings of dust.

  He stood at the centre, looking around with a small frown, then he went back to one of the bricked-over alcoves, and shone the torch closely onto the surface again. He rapped at the bricks again with his knuckles, then nodded, as if satisfied.

  Olivia said, in a small, frightened voice, ‘What are you going to do?’