and breathed in deeply, seeking a centre. And then he knew, he knew easily. A morbid relief went through his limbs, which gave him a kind of weak will, a weary strength. He looked at the shiny keyboard as if to be dead sure, once again, and then rose.
He walked dizzily to the edge of the stage, legs weakening. He looked up at the audience, capturing every pair of eyes. The place was packed.
âLadies and gentlemen.â
The sound of his voice was diffuse, bodiless. He could hardly hear himself.
Hundreds of people were staring at him.
âFor reasons that are impossible to describe, I have decided that I cannot play tonight. I ask your forgiveness and understanding.â
There was a mass exhalation. He could see the shock in peopleâs faces.
He walked across the stage, eyes averted, and as he descended the ramp one man clapped in solidarity. Once through the curtain he ran to his changing room. He needed to be out of the building before anyone caught up with him. He grabbed the music off the upright, chucked things in his case, switched out of his tailcoat and into his jacket. Down the corridor to the right he found an escape door, pushed the bar and slipped out. He hesitated on the concourse. He madly feared someone would be pursuing him. He walked swiftly along the esplanade past the doors of the Royal Festival Hall and ran up the steps to the footbridge. He covered the Thames at a brisk pace and was soon breathlessly descending on the Embankment side. He took out his mobile and clicked it off, wound off his bow tie and loosened his shirt button.
A few minutes later he stood at the bar of a pub, cigarette in a shaking hand, whisky on the counter. There was television laughter and jukebox din and the roar of regulars all around him. He took deep draughts of the cigarette and looked at the backs of his hands hardly knowing what he had done, and then it hit him like a sledge hammer, a drowning tiredness that made his temples pulse and seemed to pack his forehead with cotton wool, so that he no longer cared what had happened, or knew what he was doing, but was content to stand on his own, lost to the world.
Chapter Eight
The light in his bedroom was extremely beautiful. Wind played in the curtains, which gently swelled, manipulating the influx of sunshine. He lay awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling.
He ate breakfast at the small table in the kitchen: egg and bacon, a mug of coffee. He went through the food quickly, con brio, and it was only after a certain fullness set in and he was looking at the yolky residue on the plate that he realised he had come to the end of his life. He stared through the kitchen window at the tree outside, and felt the coffee lift him into an empty trance.
Later, he stood still in the music room, registering the quiet emptiness of his house and the hollow cheerfulness of morning light on bookshelves. He picked up the telephone and listened to his messages: three calls from John, a message from Laura, kindly reassurances from Derek and Arthur, neither of whom could conceal his alarm. Someone from the surgery asked him to fix an appointment.
He trailed through Regentâs Park under the tresses of weeping willows. His legs carried him across football pitches and over ornamental bridges and all the while his thoughts became thinner and vaguer and his head airier, as if the sight of pendulous planes and fluorescent tulips syphoned all sense from his mind. He stared at strolling Arab families, at Japanese tourists taking photos, at pinging joggers evangelically perspiring. The day was violently bright and colourful with sharp outlines and resolute shadows. He would not be found out here.
In the afternoon he ambled around the West End, aware hazily of Dorothy Perkins and Liberty. He had no idea where he was going or what he was doing but needed to keep moving. He looked in a trance through the windows of jewellers, stared in fascination at lingerie mannequins, halted
He walked dizzily to the edge of the stage, legs weakening. He looked up at the audience, capturing every pair of eyes. The place was packed.
âLadies and gentlemen.â
The sound of his voice was diffuse, bodiless. He could hardly hear himself.
Hundreds of people were staring at him.
âFor reasons that are impossible to describe, I have decided that I cannot play tonight. I ask your forgiveness and understanding.â
There was a mass exhalation. He could see the shock in peopleâs faces.
He walked across the stage, eyes averted, and as he descended the ramp one man clapped in solidarity. Once through the curtain he ran to his changing room. He needed to be out of the building before anyone caught up with him. He grabbed the music off the upright, chucked things in his case, switched out of his tailcoat and into his jacket. Down the corridor to the right he found an escape door, pushed the bar and slipped out. He hesitated on the concourse. He madly feared someone would be pursuing him. He walked swiftly along the esplanade past the doors of the Royal Festival Hall and ran up the steps to the footbridge. He covered the Thames at a brisk pace and was soon breathlessly descending on the Embankment side. He took out his mobile and clicked it off, wound off his bow tie and loosened his shirt button.
A few minutes later he stood at the bar of a pub, cigarette in a shaking hand, whisky on the counter. There was television laughter and jukebox din and the roar of regulars all around him. He took deep draughts of the cigarette and looked at the backs of his hands hardly knowing what he had done, and then it hit him like a sledge hammer, a drowning tiredness that made his temples pulse and seemed to pack his forehead with cotton wool, so that he no longer cared what had happened, or knew what he was doing, but was content to stand on his own, lost to the world.
Chapter Eight
The light in his bedroom was extremely beautiful. Wind played in the curtains, which gently swelled, manipulating the influx of sunshine. He lay awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling.
He ate breakfast at the small table in the kitchen: egg and bacon, a mug of coffee. He went through the food quickly, con brio, and it was only after a certain fullness set in and he was looking at the yolky residue on the plate that he realised he had come to the end of his life. He stared through the kitchen window at the tree outside, and felt the coffee lift him into an empty trance.
Later, he stood still in the music room, registering the quiet emptiness of his house and the hollow cheerfulness of morning light on bookshelves. He picked up the telephone and listened to his messages: three calls from John, a message from Laura, kindly reassurances from Derek and Arthur, neither of whom could conceal his alarm. Someone from the surgery asked him to fix an appointment.
He trailed through Regentâs Park under the tresses of weeping willows. His legs carried him across football pitches and over ornamental bridges and all the while his thoughts became thinner and vaguer and his head airier, as if the sight of pendulous planes and fluorescent tulips syphoned all sense from his mind. He stared at strolling Arab families, at Japanese tourists taking photos, at pinging joggers evangelically perspiring. The day was violently bright and colourful with sharp outlines and resolute shadows. He would not be found out here.
In the afternoon he ambled around the West End, aware hazily of Dorothy Perkins and Liberty. He had no idea where he was going or what he was doing but needed to keep moving. He looked in a trance through the windows of jewellers, stared in fascination at lingerie mannequins, halted
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