Hide and Seek

by Amy Bird

  Will begins lowering the coffin into the flames. Then he’s doing his speaking thing, his funeral address.

  “We do this in memory of Max Reigate, a gifted and talented pianist, who I’m sure, had he lived, would have been a gifted and talented father, to me, his son. There were four years; I am sure they were happy. Somewhere within me, I will treasure them. Perhaps they will re-emerge. But I will take them with me to a place of contentment, in the future.”

  The flames rise up and seize the coffin. The lid slides open and Max’s face is revealed. Will stares into the fire as the black and white face slowly curls, and then disappears into the heat of the flames.

  When he speaks again, there is more emotion in his voice.

  “Max Reigate, a father much missed.”

  “And a husband,” I contribute. “He was a husband, too, don’t forget. Your mother – your real mother, Sophie – will have missed him too.”

  Will looks up. The sun, not quite fully risen, is covered by a cloud. I shiver slightly.

  “A husband he may have been,” says Will. “But we don’t know if he was missed.”

  Chapter Seven

  -Will-

  Because I have a new theory, you see.

  I’m not telling Ellie, because she’ll just try to shush me. Or give me valium again. And she’s all pro-mothers (real mothers) at the moment, obviously. My theory is anti-mothers. A particular mother. A particular mother who, if she can abandon her four-year-old child, was capable of much more harm.

  And besides, we don’t need to tell each other everything now, do we? That’s what Ellie decided. When she changed the rules.

  But now that Ellie’s given me her permission to go back to work, now that I’ve apparently been cleansed – her words – by the ‘funeral’, I can think about my theory properly. Not that I’m going straight to work. It’s back to the old regime – swimming at the Rotunda first, on my way to the station. Get some serotonin going, get rid of the daddy fat that will otherwise build up. But most of all, just to think.

  I dive in. Miscalculate slightly – my nose almost touches the black and white tiles at the bottom of the pool and I have to pull up quickly to avoid impact. I surface, gasping, then make my way to the edge of the pool to start my routine. Take some air, push the water behind you, then head down again. Count: 1 – 2 – 3. Think: was it her? See the black and white tiles through goggles at the bottom of the pool. Head up, snatch a breath, push behind, behind, behind, with the arms. Look only forward. See the end of the pool, the black and white checks, the goal. Head down again. Count: 1– 2 – 3. Black and white. Up again. Think: hit my father? Black and white. Close your eyes. Still black and white. Think: before the recording? Head down again. Black and white. Count: 1 – 2 – 3. Up again. Think: blood on brain? Black and white and the water. Breathe. Down. Think: talk and die? My eyes are open. Through the goggles, black and white, black and white, black and white and the water.

  Agh! There’s a sudden smack against my head and I open my eyes. Black and white. The end of the pool. I missed my usual two-hand touch at the end of the length. I stand up and tear off my goggles. I pull my hands across my face. A female gym attendant stands at the end of the pool, looming down at me.

  “Are you OK?” she asks.

  I nod and wade through the water away from her. I climb out of the pool, my toes on the black and white tiles. In the changing-room shower area, I slosh through water, looking at my feet against the tiles. Suddenly my feet seem much smaller, the size they were in that dream, and the tiles much bigger. I shake my head. An optical illusion. I step into a shower cubicle. The tap won’t turn so I bang it three times – clang, clang, clang. I look up at the showerhead standing over me and before my eyes it becomes a woman. A woman holding a hammer. I duck out of the shower cubicle, leaving the water running. Breathing heavily, I stand on the concourse between all the other showers. Water, black and white, a woman with a hammer. A man gives me a dirty look and wraps his towel more closely round himself. Thinks I’m staring, some kind of pervert. But I’m not. I’ve hit a memory artery. It’s all flowing out like blood. I turn and head to the locker area. Water, black and white, a woman with a hammer. I dry myself roughly, then pull on a sock, but my foot isn’t dry, so it sticks awkwardly. It doesn’t matter. Water, black and white, a woman with a hammer. I insert myself haphazardly into the rest of my clothes. By the time I am doing up my shirt buttons, I know. The black and white, it’s the piano. The hammer, it’s the hammer held by a woman. The woman is my mother. My real mother. Sophie Reigate née Travers. She is the one who murdered my father. The water is my tears.

  And I have them again, now. Streaming, my eyes are, as I walk to the station and board the train. But these are angry tears. I have done mourning, thanks to Ellie. Now there is just the rage, rage that this woman could have taken a hammer to my father, then negligently, callously, have let him go off to record his concerto. Because that’s what happened: that’s what the dreams are telling me. The woman with the hammer, chasing me down the keys. All her! The classic domestic, like so many other talk and die hammer cases I’ve read about. Maybe at the time, she tried to chase me too, tried to kill me. That would explain why she is chasing me, in the dreams. And why I’m so scared of women standing over me – Ellie, that lifeguard. I’d repressed it, kept it back, the trauma – or maybe she’d repressed it out of me. And she fled justice, ran from the son who might betray her.

  Well guess what, Sophie Travers. You can’t escape. Because I know now. The dreams, the memories, awakened by Max’s music, by the hammer, have told me. Sure, I need some proof that other people can see. But I’ll find that. And then I’ll find you.

  All the way to Waterloo, and then again when I take the Underground to London Bridge, the trains play the Max Reigate concerto. This time it has words to accompany it. And a rhythm. There’s a thumping in my ears. Maybe it’s blood; maybe it’s the water from the pool. But either way, it fits the rhythmic words of my revelation. Water, black and white, a woman with a hammer. Each layered chord, each cadenza, is a reworking of the same phrase. But then, in between, there’s a new motif. ‘Talk and die’, it says. ‘Talk and die.’ Epidural haematoma would not scan so well. Instead, it is: water, black and white, a woman with a hammer (talk and die). And repeat. The music has the answer. Music and memories. The research student must confirm it.

  I cross the road at London Bridge over to the Guy’s Hospital building. I try, as always, to ignore the Shard looming over me. But then, I turn. Why should it menace me? I stare up at it. Confront it. Confront her. Tougher to find than the Shard, perhaps, but I’ll do it. Shard confronted, I can safely turn my back to it again and hurry along. I stop short as I come up to the entrance to Guy’s Campus. Black and white tiles. The entrance is completely covered in them. Why are they suddenly everywhere? Why have I not seen them before? I close my eyes to take a moment.

  But closing them doesn’t stop me seeing. There, imprinted on my eyelids, is a vision. A man on the tiles. I open my eyes again. No man. Shut them. There he is again. The man. Lying stretched out on the tiles. And there is water.

  So the black and white, it is not just pianos. The tiles, from the pool, from the shower, from this entranceway, they are all memories of actual tiles. With the man, spread out on the floor – my father, my Max. After he was hit, with the hammer, by the Sophie bitch. And actual water. Why water?

  Keeping my eyes on the ground, looking for memories, I walk along the corridor towards my office. As I reach the stairs, where the black and white tiles stop, I turn to look back along them. Nothing new. But I already have so much. I climb the stairs two steps at a time. Hopefully the student will already be there. He can get right to work.

  Yes, there he is.

  “James, good morning,” I say, as I walk in the door.

  “Good morning, Dr Spears, how are – ”

  “Important task for you this morning, James. On the talk and die lecture.”

  “Yes,
Dr Spears, I’ve already started writing up the research – ”

  “A new angle. Very exciting. Find me anything you can on Max Reigate.”

  “Max Reigate?”

  “Individual case. Died 1984. Concert pianist. No – piano genius. Suspected epidural haematoma. One of the domestic line of cases.”

  “Right, OK, Dr Spears, but I’ve already got lots of great cases like that – ”

  “This one’s special. Confirms certain new theories I have.”

  “Of course, Dr Spears. Where did you read about him? Just so I can start there.”

  “Wikipedia.”

  “OK, Dr Spears.”

  The student moves away. The teacher in me calls him back.

  “James?”

  “Yes, Dr Spears?”

  “Never use Wikipedia for research.”

  “No, Dr Spears. I know.”

  James crosses the hall to his desk. I bet he is using Wikipedia. Well. It’s a start. But James is thorough. Soon there’ll be a stack of books on my desk. Soon I’ll have the proof I need to confront her.

  Left by myself, I turn on my computer and look at my emails. Black and white, of course, on the screen. None of them holding any clues or secrets. I should just put an out of office auto-reply on: ‘I am the son of Max Reigate, master pianist. And my mother killed him. Go away.’ But that would not end well. I skim the emails. Nonsense messages of sympathy from ‘concerned’ colleagues. Too forced and generic to bother reading properly. Delete. One, no two – five, six, an ever-rising number of emails from my fake parents. Delete. Because, hang on, not only did they not tell me I’m adopted, they are connivers too. They connived with Sophie to let her get away. Maybe they didn’t know she killed him. But they knew the Reigates, right? Or at least Max, earlier. They knew that Max died, this woman left, and they went through this calculated toddler acquisition, bringing cribs and God knows what else that I haven’t yet seen. And let her go away. Better than her killing me, maybe, but they didn’t know that was her game (unless, of course, they did). Double treachery, to everyone, or everyone who counts – to me and to Max.

  So sod the emails. Let’s find Sophie Travers. Type in all I know: ‘Sophie Reigate née Travers Dartington Max’. But they’re nonsense, the results. All Australian, or too young, or missing the critical search terms. Or just advertisements for Dartington crystal glasses. Or just lists and lists of names. I try images, instead. But no. Just, for some reason, letters of the alphabet in bold. And a Hammer horror poster of Peter Cushing. See – hammers everywhere. But Peter Cushing, he is not in the frame.

  I try LinkedIn, I try Facebook, but there are so many Sophie Travers and Sophie Reigates. I should maybe friend request them all? But if she has run, she will not accept me friending her or connecting with her. It will tip her off; she will hide further. I will just have to scrutinise each one. I start, but they are all too young. This killer is not of the Facebook generation; she is without a digital footprint.

  I sit back from my chair, frustrated.

  Maybe James is doing better. I summon him on the internal phone and he comes in. James explains he has found nothing yet. As he rationalises his failure to discover, I doodle on a notebook, creating a chequerboard of black and white tiles. A bit like chess. Had I ever played chess, or draughts, with Max? I don’t know. More stolen, hidden memories. Stolen by her.

  “Did you ever play draughts?” I ask James.

  “Erm, what, Dr Spears?”

  “Never mind, go on. What else couldn’t you find?”

  James continues with his catalogue of failures.

  At the end of the speech, I ask James if there’s anywhere else he can think to look.

  “Well, there are a couple of places I haven’t looked, but really, on timings, Dr Spears, I ought to be – ”

  “Keep looking, James. I’ll give you some space, leave the rest of your work for me until you’ve found it.”

  “But the lecture…”

  “This is for the lecture.”

  “Yes, Dr Spears.”

  I pick up the stack of new journals on my desk, the gesture dismissing James. Once James has gone, I continue to stare at the journals. There is an article on blood clots I ought to read, and another piece by a contemporary I promised I’d look at. Later, maybe. It’s time for lunch. Not that I want food, not even the salad Ellie prepared for me. I just want to sit on the benches in the quad, that face back into the main corridor. So that I can gaze at the black and white tiles.

  Chapter Eight

  -Will-

  I stare and stare at the tiles, willing them to give me a further memory. But they are saying nothing. They just sit there. Like, I suppose, tiles would do, not knowing their own significance. And James is hiding in a library somewhere, not talking to me either. I cannot stand their refusal to provide me with the further Max facts that I need to confront Sophie, so I leave. I go where a search on my phone has told me to: Yamaha Music (formerly Chappell of Bond Street), on Wardour Street. I could walk it or tube it, but that is too slow. I want a Max hit. I want to engage with pianos. Taxi it is.

  And there they are, when I arrive, the pianos. In their black and white shiny glory. I don’t touch them at first. I just marvel at them. There are grand pianos, uprights, and some electronicy-looking ones. It is the grands that interest me most. For it’s a grand that’s on the cover of Max’s first album. I circle round the finest one I can find. Its lid is erect, held up by a long black rod. I can see right inside it; the strings, the hammers, the dampers. Its inner workings, revealed. Like someone has removed a scalp, trepanned away the skull, and shown me the brain. I move to run my hand over the strings, to stroke them, but an assistant moves forward. I see from the sign I am forbidden from touching the piano’s insides. But I must commune with it. I should sit under it, like I must have done when Daddy was alive. Should gaze up, admiringly. Stroke the ghost of the revered feet when they hit the pedals. Cover my hands with delighted horror when the impact of the hammer on the strings gets too much. But I suspect all of this would be forbidden too. So instead, I lower myself onto the piano stool and prepare to play.

  It would be nice, would it not, if there was some genetic predisposition enabling me to play? I wonder. Will I just be able to run my fingers up and down the keys, play something wonderful, something Reigate, on the first go? I place a finger on one of the white keys. It has a wonderful glossiness, a sheen to it. I gently depress it, but not firmly enough to make a sound. Just stroking it for now.

  The sales assistant who doesn’t like touching comes over to me.

  “Do you play, sir?” he asks.

  “My father was Max Reigate,” I say, as though that will explain everything. It should, but the assistant puts his head to one side and scrunches up his mouth and eyes like he’s trying to remember something. Ignorant staff.

  “Max…?” he says.

  “Reigate,” I say. “He was a genius. Wrote concertos. Died young. Murdered,” I say, because I might as well start putting the truth out there. “Tragic.”

  “Gosh, well, I’ll have to look him up. And do you take after your father?” he asks. Because we have to get back to the sale, of course.

  “So I’m told,” I say, thinking of Ellie and her doppelgangers.

  “Won’t you play us a tune, then, sir?”

  “I’m not ready for an audience yet,” I say, because I’m not. I don’t have enough ammunition, for any of it, to go to Sophie. I will soon, if James gets his research done properly. But I’m not meant to be thinking about that now. I’m meant to be spending time with my father.

  “I’ll just continue browsing the keys,” I say to the shop assistant. “If I may?”

  He holds up his hands and backs away. “For the son of Max Reigate, anything!” he says. Bloody sycophant. If I buy a piano it will be from a different assistant.

  Buy one? Really? Should I? A piano. It could sit at home, and I could be with Max whenever I want to be. I could sit under the piano
and smile up at his memory. When I get some more memories, that is. It wouldn’t be mourning; it would be remembering his legacy, like Ellie said I should. I could learn, gradually, to play it. Not a whole repertoire. Just bits of Max’s concerto. I raise my finger from the keys and then put it down again, more firmly, so that the key sounds. And I make my first bit of music. It sings to me, the piano. I play another note, then put my foot on one of the pedals, and it resonates beautifully, filling the shop with sound. I play a chord. Or rather a discord. It doesn’t sound good. Not the kind of rousing discord that Max got away with. He knew exactly how to handle the piano. I try another combination. Yes, that is better. I’ve found a rhythm. I smile with pride. I have made something original here. Daddy would be proud.

  I am sold. I look at the price tag. I bring my fingers down in a crash. I could buy a car for that. One with five doors, like Ellie keeps nagging for. Or pay for a large part of a loft, decorate the nursery in the finest Chelsea wallpapers. There’s no way I could convince Ellie; and no way I could hide the expense from her. I stand up, giving the piano a final stroke as I depart, and wander over to the upright pianos. Hmm. Still temple-thumpingly expensive, but not as bad as the grands. My glance strays to some other, cheaper-looking pianos. Much more affordable. But oh! They are digital. I don’t want digital. I want real, with tangible insides that I can feel in my fingers, that I can gaze on and admire. The strings, the hammers, the dampers. I look back at the standard uprights again. I still wouldn’t be able to convince Ellie to part with the thousands of pounds that it would cost. But maybe I wouldn’t need to? It’s not so expensive that it would hamper our plans for the nursery, thanks to Gillian’s guilt money on the deposit. We would have less in our contingency fund, but so what? I’m not going to lose my job. And Ellie can get a job; I’ll put more pressure on her for that. She could even start before the baby is born. Don’t see why not. Perhaps maybe cancel the antenatal class, too – seems like a lot of money just for Ellie to learn to breathe, which I’m sure she can figure out from the internet, if she doesn’t already know. And I can get the piano delivered to my office. A bit unorthodox, maybe. But there’s nothing to say I can’t. And I don’t need a desk. That can go in the corridor. I can put my notes on top of the piano, and get one of those high-backed chairs to sit on. So really, when you think about the use I’m going to get from this beauty, its dual functionality as a creative work environment, it’s really a bargain. And somebody in the faculty must be able to play – they can teach me. All I need is Max Reigate’s sheet music, and I can have him in my office whenever I want.