The Voices

by F. R. Tallis

  Laura lifted Faye out of the highchair, carried her up the stairs and entered the nursery. She put her daughter down in the cot and covered her with a thin cotton sheet. The child rolled over onto her stomach and settled with her face squashed against the mattress. Laura opened the window a fraction, drew the curtains and went downstairs to make some tea – camomile for herself and English breakfast for Christopher.

  She did not enter the studio immediately. Instead, she waited outside for a few moments and listened to the muffled sound of voices coming through the door. It was like listening to a party, but a party in which the background music was supplied by a kind of industrial orchestra. Production-line hammering was punctuated by blast-furnace roars. Laura didn’t knock. She opened the door and saw Chris seated in the middle of his equipment, his hands operating slide controls and his eyes fixed on a row of jittery VU meters. He looked more like an astronaut than a composer. When the voices faded he reached up and switched off two tape machines.

  ‘I’ve made you some tea.’

  Christopher’s office chair rotated through one hundred and eighty degrees. ‘Thanks. How long have you been standing there?’

  ‘Not long.’ Laura advanced and handed her husband the mug. ‘You’re working on it again – the piece?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the android film? I thought that had to be finished soon.’

  ‘It’s almost done – plenty of time – there’s no rush.’

  ‘I’m going to the shops later. There were ants in the kitchen and some of the food got spoiled. Do you want anything?’

  ‘No. No thanks.’

  She wanted him to stop; she wanted him to erase those voices. She could feel something like pressure building up in her chest, a pressure that promised, on release, to provide the means of voicing her objections. But at the very last moment, her courage deserted her and she experienced a sudden deflation that made her think of air escaping from a balloon.

  ‘OK,’ she said.

  The office chair turned and she found herself facing the back of Chris’s head. He rewound the tapes and a moment later the babbling voices and the factory rhythms returned. Clutching her tea with both hands, she left the studio and kicked the door shut behind her.

  The rest of the day was dull and tiring. Laura walked to the shops, did the laundry, then the ironing, and prepared the evening meal. When Christopher came downstairs to eat, the radio was left on and they barely spoke to each other. Laura retired early and Christopher returned to his studio. He did not stay there long. Thirty minutes later she heard him coming down again, and, after he had attended to his ablutions, he got into bed, naked. Laura supposed that this meant that he would want to have sex with her, but he made no approaches and they sat, side by side, propped up by pillows, reading – she a novel, and he the book he had bought about the recording of spirit voices.

  Laura did not find it easy to concentrate. She kept on thinking about Faye’s drawing, the man’s voice coming through the baby monitor and the chill she had experienced in the garden; nightmares, hallucinations and sudden changes of body temperature. The idea that all of these might be side effects of her medication was appealing, but she didn’t believe it. She was simply trying to prove to herself that she was still capable of being rational. What she really thought was that these disturbing phenomena were all connected with Christopher’s recordings. She was concerned that he might be opening a door, extending an invitation, or, even worse, letting something in. Laura put her novel down and said, ‘Chris? Can we talk?’

  He turned a page and said, ‘What about?’

  ‘Something happened when you were away. I didn’t mention it before, I don’t know why.’

  Christopher used the inside flap of the book jacket to mark his place. ‘Oh?’

  ‘I heard a voice coming through the baby monitor – a man’s voice. It was in the middle of the night and I was really frightened. I thought there was someone in Faye’s room, but when I looked, there was no one there.’ She continued, giving more detail and explaining how it had seemed to her as if the voice had been addressing Faye directly, and how Faye had listened and responded. ‘It was really strange – unnerving.’ Christopher remained silent, the slow nod of his head betraying a thought process that he did not feel obliged to share. Laura took a deep breath. ‘I wonder if . . .’ She hesitated before clumsily completing her sentence. ‘I wonder if it’s got anything to do with what you’ve been doing.’ Christopher frowned. ‘The voices. The recordings . . .’

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose.’

  ‘I was worried about Faye.’

  ‘Why? She wasn’t in any danger, was she? Not really.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Darling, it was only a voice.’

  ‘But it was talking to her.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘No, I can’t say for sure. But that’s what it sounded like.’ Laura fiddled nervously with the ribbon on her negligee. ‘You’re dabbling with the supernatural and—’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it dabbling,’ Christopher said, quite plainly piqued.

  ‘Sorry, wrong word.’

  ‘Look, I can see how it must have been frightening. But what actually happened? Faye got woken up a few times and you had to take her out of the nursery.’

  ‘Come to me, Faye? Remember that?’

  ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘Well then.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What are you suggesting?’

  The bluntness of the question made her stop and reflect for a few moments. Chris wasn’t party to her inner world; he didn’t know about the nightmare, Faye’s drawing or the coldness that had seeped into her bones. She could tell him everything – that was an option – but it would be difficult to express the subtle registers of feeling that had accompanied her experiences and she might end up sounding like a hysteric. The prospect of explaining herself suddenly seemed too problematic and arduous. She waved her hand. ‘It doesn’t matter. You’re right, I’m overreacting.’

  ‘Darling, I didn’t say that.’

  ‘I know, I know. But you’re right. Nothing happened – not really.’

  ‘It’s a big house. You were on your own . . .’

  ‘Yes.’ Laura rotated a finger close to her temple. ‘I let my imagination run wild.’ She picked up her novel again and attempted to sound breezy. ‘I’m going to see Sue next week. What shall I say about the garden? Her quote was very reasonable, I thought.’

  ‘I’ll check how much we’ve got in the savings account. Then we’ll make a decision.’

  ‘She said she’d do the rockery for free.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘We’re friends.’

  ‘As long as she doesn’t expect anything.’

  Laura put her novel on the bedside cabinet and turned off the lamp. Christopher read for a few more minutes and then turned his lamp off too. The mattress tilted as he edged over to her side of the bed. She had her back to him and he moulded his body against hers. He flung an arm over her waist and pulled her close.

  ‘Is the French film going to happen?’ Laura asked.

  ‘Yes. I’m seeing Henry tomorrow. There won’t be much money’

  ‘How much money do we need?’

  ‘Always more than we’ve got.’

  As Christopher descended the stairs he could see a letter on the doormat. He walked down the hallway and squatted to pick it up. His knee joints clicked and a sharp pain at the base of his spine reminded him that he was no longer young. Until recently he had found such daily reminders of his own mortality depressing, but since embarking on his electronic voices project, he was more inclined to be philosophical. The prospect of decline and his ultimate physical demise was less daunting given that he now believed that something very clearly followed, although he was still agnostic concerning its exact nature. The voices he had recorded had not been very instructive and Christopher had had difficulty reconciling th
eir brief, sometimes incoherent declarations with notions of a Christian afterlife. Indeed, he tended to think of the spirits existing in some vast, unknowable expanse. Supposing that a familial bond might facilitate communication, he had considered trying to contact his parents, but he had found the idea vaguely repellent, in the same way that he had found their bedroom vaguely repellent when he was an adolescent. Something dark and Freudian prevented him from disturbing their eternal slumber.

  Christopher opened the envelope and registered his solicitor’s letterhead at the top of the page. A single paragraph explained that when Christopher had purchased the house, a comprehensive search for title had been undertaken and that the office copy entries confirmed Mr Edward Stokes Maybury to be one of several former owners. An invoice was stapled to the letter and Christopher tutted when he noted the exorbitant fee.

  Here then was final proof that the spirit voices he had recorded were authentic. He really was doing something completely new. A ripple of excitement produced a private, self-satisfied smile. He put the letter and invoice back in the envelope, folded it to reduce its size, and tapped it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  On entering the kitchen, he saw Laura standing on a chair looking into an open cupboard.

  ‘They’ve come back again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The ants.’

  ‘Must be something to do with the heat. It’s more like Athens than London.’

  ‘I don’t know where they’re coming from.’

  ‘You’ll have to get some poison . . . bait – that’s what they call it, I think.’

  ‘Is it safe?’

  ‘I suppose so. Actually, I can get some. After I’ve had lunch with Henry I’ll buy some in Hampstead village.’

  ‘OK.’

  He paused before leaving. ‘What you were saying last night. . .’

  Laura stepped off the chair and flicked an ant from her finger. ‘Yes.’

  ‘The voice that you heard . . . was it the same voice that said Come to me, Faye on the recording I played you?’

  ‘I don’t know. He was speaking too softly.’

  ‘OK.’

  As Christopher was about to leave, Laura asked, ‘Why?’

  Christopher responded with artful nonchalance. ‘Just a thought.’

  At twelve thirty he was sitting opposite Henry Baylis in Le Cellier du Midi. Baylis had brought three contracts for Christopher to sign and, as usual, Christopher didn’t bother to read them. He turned the pages until he found his name typed beneath a dotted line.

  ‘All pretty standard,’ said Baylis before biting into an oval of sliced French bread. Christopher grimaced when he saw the trifling sum he was going to be paid. ‘Yes, I know,’ Baylis continued. ‘Pitiful, but there it is.’ He handed Christopher a pen. ‘I’m so glad you and Ancel hit it off. And what’s this Baumann character like? I’ve only had the pleasure of talking to him on the phone.’ Christopher finished signing the contracts and handed them back to Baylis, who checked the signatures and said ‘Splendide!’ At that moment, a waitress appeared with their entrées – crêpe aux épinards et saumon for Baylis and escargots de Bourgogne for Christopher. Baylis topped up their glasses from a bottle of Merlot.

  ‘Henry.’ Christopher leaned forward. ‘Do you know anything about Victorian stage magic?’

  Baylis assumed an exaggerated expression of bemusement. ‘I can’t say that I do.’ He raised his glass. ‘To Le Jardin des Reflets and the Palme d’Or.’

  Christopher humoured his agent. The touch of their glasses produced a pure, delicate chime, and Christopher repeated the toast. ‘You see,’ he continued, ‘I want to find out about a Victorian magician called Edward Stokes Maybury.’

  ‘Why do you want to do that?’

  ‘He used to live in my house. I found some of his things in the attic when we moved in. Props . . . I think.’

  ‘And you want to know where you can get a good price for them?’

  ‘No, not at all. What I found was broken, worthless. I just want to find out more about Maybury.’

  Baylis sampled his crêpe. ‘Delicious. Well, you could try the British Library of course . . .’ His face was suddenly illuminated by inspiration. ‘No. Not the British Library, the Magic Circle. If they can’t tell you anything about him, then no one will. That said, the Magic Circle is a private members’ club and they don’t extend a warm welcome to strangers. They can be very cagey.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Christopher, disappointed.

  ‘Even so,’ Baylis continued, his eyes twinkling mischievously, ‘that might not prove to be an insurmountable problem.’

  ‘Don’t tell me that you’re a member!’ Christopher exclaimed.

  ‘No, no, no. Don’t be ridiculous. But I know someone who is. Bill Loxley. He’s actually a criminal barrister – that is to say, a barrister specializing in criminal law rather than a barrister with a penchant for crime. We were in the same set together back in the Dark Ages. He’s a real character. When he isn’t defending rogues he does magic shows as Balthazar, Master of Miracles. He also writes very scholarly articles on the history of magic. It’s one of those peculiar passions, like early music or exotic pets – unaccountable and all consuming. Bill might know something about your Maybury chap. He might even be able to use his advocacy skills to get you into the Magic Circle library. You’ll have to buy him lunch, of course.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘So, this Baumann fellow?’

  ‘You won’t forget, will you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Loxley.’

  ‘No, I’ll give him a call tonight. Well?’

  ‘There’s not much to say about Baumann.’

  Henry rolled his eyes at the ceiling. ‘God give me strength!’

  ‘Well, there isn’t.’

  ‘And Ancel?’

  ‘I thought he was a bit arrogant at first, but I warmed to him in the end.’

  Henry dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and refilled his glass. ‘Come along now, catch up. I’ve got a good feeling about this film, you know.’

  ‘You always do, Henry.’

  Halfway through their telephone conversation, Christopher had realized that Loxley would have agreed to meet him even without Baylis’s intercession. ‘That’s fascinating, quite fascinating.’ The man had clearly been eager to learn more about what Christopher had discovered. Loxley had arrived early and was waiting for Christopher outside Goodge Street Underground station. Identifying him wasn’t a problem. He was tall, big-boned, and the high dome of his head was completely hairless; a Van Dyck beard and tapering ears suggested a certain diabolical but hammy glamour. They greeted each other, shook hands and walked to the headquarters of the Magic Circle in Chenies Mews while exchanging polite generalities. On entering the building, Christopher remarked on the absence of members. ‘Magicians,’ Loxley confided, ‘have a tendency to rise late. Let me show you around.’ Christopher, who had expected his companion to be more secretive, was guided to a small theatre – ‘one hundred seats’ – and an extraordinary club room, the floor of which was decorated with all of the signs of the zodiac arranged between concentric circles. Above the zodiac was a canopy surmounted by an enormous witch’s hat. There were also display cases in which the paraphernalia of several famous magicians were displayed.

  ‘Take a seat,’ said Loxley.

  Christopher lowered himself between the arms of a rather grand wooden chair while Loxley dragged another away from the wall and turned it so that he could sit facing Christopher.

  ‘So,’ said Loxley, ‘Edward Maybury.’ He crossed his legs and removed a notebook and silver pen from his jacket. ‘Would you mind? I’d like to go over a few details.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘When we spoke on the telephone you mentioned finding a theatre bill.’

  ‘Yes. There was a framed theatre bill promoting a Maybury show.’

  ‘Do you recall the venue?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. And the
re was a traveller’s trunk with the letters E.S.M. engraved on the nameplate.’

  Loxley raised his hand, indicating that he wished Christopher to slow down. ‘Please . . . The theatre bill – can you recall anything about the show?’

  ‘The audience were promised secrets of the ancient world . . . vanishings . . . automatons.’

  ‘Automatons?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s interesting. I didn’t know Maybury used automatons. What else did you find?’

  ‘There were some large mirrors and some wire.’

  ‘How thick was it?’

  ‘Not very. And some lacquered boards decorated with Chinese dragons. They looked like the sections of a folding screen.’

  ‘Were they large?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many of them?’

  ‘Four, I think.’ Christopher paused.

  ‘Please . . .’ Loxley gestured for Christopher to continue.

  ‘There was a broken camera and some old 78 records. I suppose the camera might have belonged to Maybury, but not the records.’

  ‘He didn’t die until 1914. It’s possible they were his.’

  ‘And some toys. I kept one of them for my daughter – a clockwork monkey.’ Christopher tried to remember what else he had seen but nothing came to mind. ‘That’s all there was, I think.’