The Voices by F. R. Tallis Page A

or chasm opening up between them. A whispering began to infiltrate the emptiness, first one voice, then another, until the cumulative chatter produced a sustained chaos. The overall effect was vaguely avian and evoked images of mobbing birds and beating wings, or something more elevated, a host of angels, perhaps, cherubim and seraphim. The texture was enriched by an exquisite rippling, like a thousand harpists producing circular glissandi. Brassy Doppler effects receded into an imaginary distance, suggesting boundless space. Occasionally, a word or phrase seemed to escape from the polyglot maelstrom. Quite suddenly, the music came to an end and all that remained was the hiss of blank tape. Christopher pressed a button and the reels stopped revolving.
    He looked at his friend. ‘Well?’
    ‘Those voices . . .
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘They’re dead people?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘That’s what the dead sound like?’
    ‘Not exactly. I use filters to clean the sound up. They don’t always come through clearly.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘Well, what do you think?’
    Simon inflated his cheeks and let the air out slowly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
    That night, lying in bed, Christopher couldn’t stop thinking. Simon’s reaction had been at best lukewarm, and at worst perfunctory. He had made some comments concerning the ‘ingenuity’ of ‘the concept’, but at the same time, Christopher had detected an underlying reticence, an unwillingness to commit himself to a straightforward compliment. After a very brief technical discussion, Simon had wanted to hear the original unadulterated recordings of the voices, and he had sat very still, his elbow on the chair arm, the weight of his head supported on the heel of his palm, listening intently, his expression slightly troubled. Christopher had asked his friend if he knew any producers at the BBC who would be willing to programme the work when it was completed. ‘Perhapsyou could put in a good word?’ But Simon had only responded with vague, empty remarks, and when pressed, he became downright evasive. By the time Simon left, Christopher was simmering with resentment – a resentment that had failed to dissipate and was now keeping him awake.
    The bed felt uncomfortable, the sheets clammy. Laura’s body seemed to be generating an intolerable amount of heat and he could hear Faye’s distracting snore over the baby monitor. It was pointless trying to sleep, so he got out of bed, put on a dressing gown and crept up the stairs to his studio. Christopher plugged in a pair of headphones and prepared to listen again to the music that had so obviously failed to impress his friend. Simon’s cool reception had planted niggling doubts in Christopher’s mind (perhaps it wasn’t as good as he had thought?) and he was a little apprehensive as he waited for the piece to begin. But as the vast emptiness – defined by the oscillators – began to fill with voices, Christopher felt calmer, more confident that his prior estimation of the work’s value was accurate. This was fine music, possibly great music. He even allowed himself to think that Simon might have been threatened by what he had heard.
    Christopher didn’t want to go back to bed. Nor did hefeel like composing, so he decided that he would attempt to record more voices.
    ‘One twenty a.m., Wednesday the second of June, 1976. This is Christopher Norton calling any unseen friends – is anybody there?’ He paused. ‘Would you care to introduce yourself?’ Again he paused. ‘It would be helpful if you spoke loudly and clearly. Could you do that?’ His mind emptied and a few seconds passed before he added, ‘Any special messages?’ And so he continued improvising questions in this manner until the background monotony of the static made him feel sleepy. He sat back in the chair and closed his eyes. When he looked at the tape machine again, the spool that had previously been full was now almost empty. He had obviously been dozing.