[ebooktalk] sophie Hannah, the orphan choir

• From: "David Russell" <david.russell8@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
• To: <ebooktalk@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
• Date: Thu, 6 Jun 2013 19:42:21 +0100

Not sure whether I have sent this before or not.  Must be old age.

A few more to come very soon.


David

Published by Arrow Books in association with Hammer 2013
I 3 5 79 108642
Copyright © Sophie Hannah 2013

Sophie Hannah has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs
and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work

This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the
author's imagination and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade
or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the
publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that
in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this
condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2013 by
Arrow Books in association with Hammer
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SW1V2SA

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A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN 9780099579991

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The liturgical responses in this book come from real choral services I have 
attended at St Catherines College in Cambridge -- a wholly wonderful and 
non-spooky institution whose girls' choir, through no fault of its own, planted 
the seeds of a spooky story in my mind.
Vouchsafe, O Lord,

To keep us this night without sin.

O Lord, have mercy upon us, Have mercy upon us.


O Lord, let thy mercy be upon us: As our trust is in thee.

Turn us again, thou God of hosts:

Show the light of thy countenance, and we shall be whole.

O Lord, hear our prayer;

And let our cry come unto thee.

The Lord be with you; And with thy spirit.

Let us pray.

Give us light in the night season we beseech thee, O Lord, and grant that what 
we sing and say with our lips we may believe in
our hearts
and what we believe in our hearts we may show forth in our daily life
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
ONE


September, October
I







It's quarter to midnight. I'm standing in the rain
outside my next-door neighbour's house, gripping his rusted railings with cold 
wet hands, staring down through them at the misshapen and perilously narrow 
stone steps leading to his converted basement, from which noise is blaring. 
It's my least favourite song in the world: Queen's 'Don't Stop Me Now'.
There's a reddish-orange light seeping out into
the darkness from the basement's bay window that
looks as unappealing as the too-loud music sounds.
Both make me think of hell: my idea of it. There are
no other lights on anywhere in my neighbour's four
storey home.
My lower ground floor next door is dark and silent. We mainly use it as guest 
accommodation,


3
and as we don't often have guests it is usually empty.
It comprises two bedrooms, a playroom-cum
Xbox room for Joseph, and a large bathroom. All of
number I9's internal cellar walls have been knocked
down to make a single, vast area: either a chill-out
den or an entertaining space, depending on whether
you're talking to my neighbour or his girlfriend.
I think the label 'entertaining space' worries him
because of its public-spirited implications. The word
'entertain suggests that one might give a toss about
people other than oneself. My next-door neighbour
doesn't.
Freddy Mercury's reflections about supersonic
women are making me glad that I've never met one:
they sound like a bit of a handful -- not very easygoing.
I've never had ambitions in the direction of
supersonicness, whatever it might be. What I want is
far more achievable, I hope: to be warm, dry, asleep.
At the moment, those are the only things I want, the
only things I can imagine ever wanting.
The stairs leading from the pavement down to
number I9's basement are slimy with moss, rain
and street gunge. Each step's surface was a perfect
rectangle once, but more than a hundred years' worth
of feet and weather have worn away corners and edges,
making them too uneven to use safely, especially in
tonight's waterfall-style downpour. Normally I look


4
at them and feel a twinge of satisfaction. The woman
who sold us number 17 had recently had all of its
eroded stonework replaced. The steps from our lower
ground level up to the street are beautifully straightedged,
with a new black-painted iron handrail bolted
on to them for added safety, but what does that
matter, really? If I can't sleep in my house when I
want to, all its other virtues are somewhat redundant.
Number 19 has no handrail. I don't fancy
attempting the descent while water cascades from
one step down to the next like a liquid Slinky toy
without boundaries, but what choice do I have? If I
want to get my neighbour's attention, I'll have to put
myself where he can see me, or wait for a gap between
songs and bang on the window of the room that he
and his friends are in. I've rung the front doorbell
seven times and he can't hear me. Of course he cant;
Freddie Mercury is drowning out all other sounds.
I'm wearing pink-and-white checked pyjamas,
drenched from knee to ankle, a black raincoat and
trainers that were waterlogged five seconds after I
left the house. My feet now feel as if they're in two
flotation tanks, weighing me down. It's the opposite
of people putting slabs of concrete in their pockets
to make them sink when they wade into water; I am
weighed down by water, on the pavement's concrete.
This is the kind of rain the skies pour over your


5
head in a never-ending torrent. It's hard to believe its
composed of light individual drops.
I cant help laughing at the absurdity of it as
Freddie Mercury invites me to give him a call if I
want to have a good time. The problem is that my
definition of a good time differs greatly from the
song's, and from Mr Fahrenheit's. That's what Stuart
and I privately call our neighbour, though his real
name is Justin Clay, and I've heard his friends and
his girlfriend Angie call him Jub. My definition of
a good time is being able to get into bed whenever
I want to -- yes, even quite early on a Saturday night
-- and for there to be no pounding rock anthems
booming through my wall, preventing me from
getting to sleep.
It only happens every two or three Saturdays.
Thankfully, Mr Fahrenheit spends at least every
other weekend at Angie's house, but when her kids
are with their dad, Angie comes to stay at number 19
and it's party time -- or at least, it sounds to me like a
party whenever it happens. Sometimes they decide to
make the most of their child-free weekends and play
loud music on two consecutive nights, Friday and
Saturday. Mr Fahrenheit assures me that it is never
a party, always a 'little get-together'. I have tried on
four separate occasions to explain to him that I don't
mind what we agree to call it as long as he's willing to


6
lower the volume of his music to an acceptable level.
The get-together guests are always the same --
the man who wears walking boots with the laces
untied and tucks his jeans into his chunky socks;
the stooped, too-tall man with the floppy hair and
the rucksack; the frizzy-haired chain-smoking dance
teacher who works at the performing arts school on
Woolnough Road; the fat woman with red glasses
and oddly sculpted hair dyed the colour of a blue
Persian cat -- and Mr Fahrenheit always plays the
same songs for them to sing and shout along to,
though, to be fair, he does vary the order: '9 to 5'
by Dolly Par ton, 'Livin' on a Prayer' by Bon Jovi,
Blondie's 'Heart of Glass', A-ha's 'Take on Me', 'Love
Shack' by the B-52's, 'Video Killed the Radio Star' --
I can't remember who that one's by.
And the centrepiece of his every musical gathering:
'Don't Stop Me Now' by Queen, which expresses my
noisy neighbour's attitude to life far better than he
himself does. I'm sure he hasn't analysed the lyrics
as I have, but I don't think it can be a coincidence
that he is a ruthlessly selfish hedonist and the song
he blasts out more often than any other -- usually
two or three times on a party night -- is a hymn to
his ideology. The narrator in the song is not merely
someone who wishes to have a good time (which
would be reasonable) but someone who is acutely


7
aware that the fun he intends to have (out of control,
like an atom bomb) will adversely affect others to the
point that they will find it unbearable and seek to put
a stop to it. He anticipates this, and makes it clear
that he only wants to hear from those who agree with
him about what constitutes a good time.
Stuart would say -- has said, often -- that it's only a
song and I'm reading too much into it. The inaccuracy
of the criticism irritates me. The menacing lyrics are
there for anyone and everyone to hear; there's nothing
ambiguous about them. Stuart would be closer to
the truth if he accused me not of finding meaning
in the words that isn't there, but of imagining that
'Don't Stop Me Now' is more than a song, which is
of course scientifically impossible.
Unscientifically, it is the putrid essence of Justin
Clay, encapsulated in music. His soul made pop.
Finally, Queen's rant-with-a-tune ends. This
is my chance. I know from experience that one
song never follows swiftly on from another on
these evenings. Efficient DJ'ing is not one of Mr
Fahrenheit's strengths. I used to think that the long
gaps between musical assaults were his sadistic
attempt to lull me into a false sense of security in
order to blast me again just as I'm nodding off, but
that was unfair of me. I underestimated how long
it takes to transfer the various ingredients of an


8
unrolled spliff from a lap to a coffee table without
mislaying any of them, especially while stoned, and
then shuffle over to the stereo and make a decision
about what to play next.
Now that the music's stopped, I can hear muffled
voices, though I cant make out what they're saying
over the drumming of the rain. Carefully, I make my
way down the stone staircase backwards so that I can
hold on to the steps above me as I go. Once at the
bottom, I turn and find Angie, the girlfriend, looking
at me through the window, which, tonight, is a water
feature. 'Jub, the lady from next door's here again,' she
says after a few seconds of mute staring, as if shock
has delayed her reaction. She's wearing a short greenand-white
dress -- fabric inspired by a lava lamp, by
the look of it -- with a longer beige knitted cardigan
over it. Bare feet.
'Oh, you are giving me the jokel' Mr Fahrenheit
cries out. I resist the temptation to ask him if that
expression is popular in the playground at the
moment. He's bent over his music system, his back to
the window. At this proximity, I can hear him easily
thanks to the single glazing. He's in no hurry to turn
round and engage with me.
Neither he nor Angie seems to have grasped basic
cause and effect. They know that I object to their
playing of loud music late at night because I've told


9
them so unequivocally, yet they seem surprised when
they do it and I turn up at their house to complain.
Its clear every time that they have not anticipated my
arrival. Afterwards, I cant help pointlessly reciting
to Stuart the conversation they must regularly fail to
have:
You know, if she can't sleep because of our music, she'll need
to find something else to do to Jill up her night. What if that
something else is coming round here and giving us a hard time?
Oh, yeah. I see your point. I'd say that's pretty likely to happen,
since it's what always happens. If we don't like her coming round
and moaning, maybe we shouldn't prevent her from sleeping.
Mr Fahrenheit walks over, opens the window,
stands well back from the rain. 'Hello, Louise,' he
says, his voice as sullen and weary as his face. 'Come
to give me a bollocking?'
I try not to feel hurt, and fail. Was I secretly
hoping he'd say, 'Come and join us, grab yourself a
drink?' I think I might have been, stupid and naive
though it undoubtedly is. I've often thought that if I
can't sleep and there happens to be a party going on
next door, I could do worse than join in and try to
have some fun. I'd have to decline, of course, even if
Mr Fahrenheit were to invite me.
I wonder if he knows that I would gladly stop
hating him and be ready, even, to like him a bit if he
would only show me a tiny bit of consideration.


IO
'I find my midnight visits as inconvenient as you
do, Justin,' I tell him. 'Especially when it's cold and
the rain's bucketing down. Are you finished playing
music now? It's nearly midnight.'
'No, I'm not finished playing music' He sways
backwards.
'Tell her to fuck off,' his walking-boot friend calls
out, waving at me from his cross-legged position on
the floor next to a free-standing lamp that's as tall as
he is, seated, and has what looks like a red tablecloth
draped over it. He and the lamp are two islands in a
sea of empty wine bottles on their sides. The room
looks as if a couple of dozen games of Spin the
Bottle have been abandoned in a hurry.
I say to Justin, 'In that case, can you please keep
the volume low from now on, so that it doesn't travel
through the wall to my house?'
The fat woman with the red glasses appears at
Mr Fahrenheit's side. 'Be reasonable, love,' she says.
It's not midnight yet. Midnight's the cut-off point,
isn't it? It is where I live. You've got to admit, you
sometimes try to shut us down as early as quarter to
eleven.'
'And Justin often plays his music until at least
one-thirty,' I say. 'Why don't you encourage him to
be reasonable? If I've come round before eleven it's
because that's when I've wanted to go to sleep.'


ii
'God's sake, Louise, it's fuckin' Saturday night,' Mr
Fahrenheit protests.
'I sometimes go to bed early on Saturdays, and
stay up late on Tuesdays,' I tell him. 'What if I was
an airline pilot, and had to get up at four in the
morning to--' I bring my sentence to an emergency
stop, not wanting to give Mr Fahrenheit the chance
to tell me I'm not an airline pilot and imagine he's
proved me wrong. 'Look, all I want is to be able to
go to bed when I want and sleep uninterrupted by
your noise. Please, Justin.' I put on my best friendly,
hopeful smile.
He raises his hands and backs away from me, as
if I've got a gun pointed at him: one he knows isn't
loaded. 'Louise... I'd like you to fuck off back home
now, if you wouldn't mind. You've spoiled my evening
again, like you've spoiled I don't know how many
evenings -- well done. Nice one. I'm not wasting any
more of my time arguing with you, so ... go home, or
argue with yourself, whichever you'd prefer.'
'Chill out, next-door neighbaaah!' the man with
the floppy fringe yells at me from the far side of the
room. He's sitting at the big dining table that's dotted
with torn Rizla packets and wine stains. The table
stands directly beneath the elaborate glass chandelier,
pushed up against the room's only wallpapered wall.
The paper is pale blue with gold violin-shaped swirls


all over it. It's beautiful, actually, and was probably
expensive, but brings on eye-ache if you look at it
for too long. Mr Fahrenheit cares a lot about interior
design. He cares equally about getting drunk and
high, and not at all about tidying up. His house is
an odd mixture of two distinct styles: camera-ready
aspirational and documentary-reminiscent den of
vice -- ashtrays kicked over on expensive sisal flooring,
takeaway cartons sitting in front of designer chairs as
if they're matching footstools.
Floppy Fringe Man shares Mr Fahrenheit's dress
sense: checked shirt over a white T-shirt, faded jeans.
The only difference is in their choice of shoe: Mr
Fahrenheit favours a hybrid trainer-clog and Floppy
Fringe wears a range of cowboy boots. I spot his
rucksack, leaning against tonight's pair. The drugsack,
I call it.
'Liking the raincoat,' the frizzy-haired dance
teacher says loudly to the room, not looking at me.
'Hood up, drawstrings pulled tight -- stylish.' The
rest of them laugh.
This is the first time Mr Fahrenheit has sworn at
me, the first time his friends have weighed in on his
side. I wait for the feelings of humiliation to subside,
and tell myself that it doesn't matter what some rude
strangers think about my raincoat. I hope I don't cry.
When I feel calm enough to speak, I say, 'You can


ignore me tonight, Justin, but my problem with your
behaviour isn't going to go away. If you won't listen
to me, I'll have to find someone who will. Like the
police, maybe.'
'Good luck, mate,' says Angie, stressing the last
word sarcastically. 'And... dream on. No one's going
to stop us listening to a few songs in our own house
on a Saturday night.'
'Whose house?' Justin teases her. She pretends to
laugh along but I don't think she enjoys the joke as
much as he does.
'Louise!' He points at me, arm raised. More of
a salute, really. 'I promise you, one day you'll find
yourself on the receiving end of the killjoy shit you're
so keen on giving out. Yeah! Wherever you're living
when your boy's a teenager, unless it's somewhere out
in the sticks with no neighbours, some twat's going
to bang on your windows when your lad and his pals
are letting their hair down and you're going to think,
"What a fucking twat, they're just having a laugh."
You know what, Louise? You're that twat, right here
and now.' He nods as if he's said something profound.
'Oh, wait, sorry -- I forgot, your son's already left
home, hasn't he? You've sent him away -- isn't that
right? How old is he, again? Seven? Bet your house
is nice and quiet without him. That why you did it?
All this choir shit just an excuse, is it? What, did he


turn up the theme tune of fuckin' ... Balamory a bit
too loud one day?'
I am a solid block of shock. I cannot believe my
neighbour would say that to me. That he would
think it, even when angry. He couldn't have said it if
he hadn't first thought it.
He did. Both: Said and thought.
I can't find anything to say in response. It would
serve Justin rightif I were still standing here this time
tomorrow, glued to the ground by his cruel words.
'Leave it, Jub,' Angie warns. She sounds anxious.
I wonder if I look alarming: as if I'm considering
climbing in through the window -- a dripping,
hooded black figure -- and choking the life out of
him. What an appealing idea.
'She sent her seven-year-old son away?' the dance
teacher asks. 'What thefuckY
'Would you rather I played classical music?' Mr
Fahrenheit taunts me. 'Would you still be such a
fuckin' killjoy if I played, I don't know... Mozart?'
I wonder why he's imitating Hitler, with his finger
in a line over his upper lip. Then I realise it's not
a moustache; he's pushing his nose up to indicate
snobbery.
'Mozart?' Walking Boots laughs. 'Like you've got
any.'
'I have, as it goes,' Mr Fahrenheit tells him. 'You've


got to have your classical music. Isn't that right,
Louise?' To his friends, he says, 'Wanna hear some,
you lowbrow wasters?'
No one does. They groan, swear, laugh.
'Looks like it's just you and me, Louise -- the
cultured ones. Culture vultures.' He leans closer to
the rain barrier between us to wink at me.
I can't be here any more. As quickly as I can without
slipping, I climb the steps to the street and hurry
home, to the riotous applause of Mr Fahrenheit and
his friends.

I

'Stuart. Stuart!' Words alone aren't going to do it. I
push his shoulder with the tips of my fingers.
He opens his eyes and stares at me, flat on his
back. 'What?'
'Can you hear that? Listen.'
'Louise. It had better be the morning.'
I disagree. Until I have had at least six hours'
sleep, it had better not be. I can sleep in later now
that I don't have to get Joseph ready for school,
which is why I never do. Every morning I switch on at 6.30, exactly the time I 
used to have to get up;
it's my body's daily protest against the absence of
my son.


'Sorry. Middle of the night,' I say. I cannot allow
myself to define the present moment as morning,
even though technically it is. I haven't had my night
yet. This is the Noisy Neighbour Paradox: does one
say, 'But it's three in the morning!' to impress upon
the selfish oaf next door that it's very, very late? 'Four
in the morning', 'five in the morning'? At what point
does it start to sound as if, actually, busy people
are already singing in trie shower, pushing the 'on
buttons on their espresso machines, preparing to jog
to the office?
Stuart reaches up with both hands for the two
sides of his pillow, left and right of his head, and
tries to fold them over his face as if he's packing
himself carefully for delivery somewhere. 'Middle of
the night,' he says. 'Then I should still be asleep.'
'Can you hear the music?'
'Yes, but it's not going to stop me from sleeping.
I've got a wife for that.'
'It's Verdi. Before that we had Bizet, a bit of
Puccini.'
The security light on the St John's College flats
at the back of us comes on, shines in my face. A
car must have driven too close to the building. I
lean forward and drag our single bedroom curtain
to the right. The curtain is too narrow; we have to
choose which side of the window we want to leave


exposed: the security light side or the students'
bedroom windows side.
'Mr F must have got a "Best of the Classics" CD
free with his Saturday paper,' Stuart says, closing his
eyes again.
'It's aimed at me,' I tell him. 'A melodic "fuck you".
He's bored of attacking me with his music, so now
he's doing it with what he thinks of as mine.'
'Isn't that a bit paranoid?'
I could admit that I've been next door, had yet
another argument with Mr Fahrenheit, that the
subject of classical music came up. That's the context
Stuart's missing. If I told him, he would concede that
I'm right about the malice in this latest noise-attack,
but he would also criticise me -- critisult me, Joseph
would say; his invented word that he's so proud of,
a hybrid of criticise and insult -- for going round on
my own: a defenceless woman without my husband
to protect me. And then I might critisult him back,
because I'm exhausted and frustrated and would find it hard to be tactful. I 
might raise my voice and point
out that whenever I suggest we visit Mr Fahrenheit
together to lodge our complaint, or that Stuart goes
instead of me for a change, he always responds in the
same way: 'Come on, Lou, let's not steam in there.
Look, we don't want a scene if we can avoid one, do
we? He might call it a night soon.'


Call it a night, call it a morning. Call it a party,
call it a little get-together.
That's why I go and complain alone. Because
my husband always wants to give it more time, to
satisfy himself that we're not a pair of troublemaking
hotheads.
'I'm going to ring the police,' I say.
'What?' Stuart hauls himself into a sitting
position and rubs the inner corners of his eyes with
his thumbs, his hands protruding from his face like
antlers. 'Lou, put the brakes on a second, please. The
police?'
Yes, yes, the police. The Cambridge police. Not the SS, just a
nice, polite, helpful PC in uniform, to say something soothing like,
'Can I respectfully ask that you turn the volume down, please, sir?'
They're hardly going to storm Mr Fahrenheit's Farrow~&-Ball
reinforced drug den and riddle him with bullets. More's the pity.
'I can't get to sleep with that coming through the
wall, Stuart. What else can I do? I've tried talking to
him more than a dozen times, and nothing changes.
He doesn't even pretend it will! He's proudly, defiantly
noisy, except he calls it "not noisy".'
Stuart reaches for the chain on his bedside lamp
and pulls. Then, as if the light is an affront to the
room full of night that he ought to be sleeping in,
he turns it off again. 'Maybe ringing the police is a
sensible next step, but not tonight, Lou.'


'When, then?'
'First thing tomorrow?' Stuart says hopefully.
'What, when Mr Fahrenheit's asleep and there's
no music playing?' I assume this will be enough to
alert my husband to his temporary lapse into idiocy,
but apparently not.
'Yeah. You don't need "Video Killed the Radio
Star" pounding out to prove your point. You can
explain the situation, the history. It's not as if the
police are going to doubt you.'
'Really? You don't think their first thought will be,
"Hmm, I wonder if the neighbour's music really is too
loud or whether this woman is a neurotic spoilsport
trying to make sure no one has any fun. If only we
could hear the music and judge for ourselves -- that
would be really helpful"?'
'All right, look, I just think... I need to go to
sleep, Lou. Imran's coming first thing in the morning.
If you can't sleep in here, go up to the attic and sleep
on the sofa bed in my study.'
No. No. I want to sleep in my own bed. If I sleep
anywhere else, Mr Fahrenheit has won. And I wouldn't
be able to fall asleep, anyway; I would lie flat on my
back, rigid as a floorboard, with my heart pounding,
and the knowledge that I had allowed myself to be
driven out of my own bedroom buzzing in my brain
like an unswattable fly.


Stuart says, 'If you ring the police now and they
say they'll come out, that means me staying up God
knows how long --'
'No, it doesn't,' I say, in what I hope is a calm
and helpful voice. I employ the same tactics with my
husband as I do with my inconsiderate shit of a next
door neighbour: better not to let them see how angry
I am in case they use it against me. 'You can sleep. I'm
awake anyway. I'll deal with the police, assuming they
can come at such short notice.'
Stuart jolts in the bed, as if I've dropped a hand
grenade into his lap. 'I'm not letting you do that on
your own,' he says. 'Please, can we just leave it for
tonight? I'm knackered, Lou. You must be too.'
Him first, me second. It doesn't mean he's
selfish, I tell myself. It's only natural to think of
yourself first. We all do it. I'm selfish too. It's
lucky no one can read my mind and see the list of
things I would allow to happen to Mr Fahrenheit
rather than have him disrupt any more of my nights.
Stuart hasn't spotted that my pyjama bottoms are
drenched from the knees down. I suppose it must be
hard to see a detail like that in the dark. If he notices,
he will accuse me of lacking a sense of proportion;
he wouldn't willingly get his clothes soaked unless
someone's life was at stake and even then it might
have to be a blood relative.


'You're right,' I say neutrally. I'll go up to the attic.
You go back to sleep. Sorry I woke you.'
'Good Stuart says with relief. He is so gullible. I
love my husband, but there is no doubt that my life
flows more easily when I tell him as little as possible.
This isn't a new development; I first noticed it shortly
after Joseph was born, though I would find it hard to
point to any actual secrets I've kept -- it's always tiny
things I've forgotten by the next day. I have the form
of a deceiver without the content.
Stuart makes his 'I'm too tired to say goodnight'
noise. I know he'll be unconscious again within
seconds, loud Verdi notwithstanding. His talent for
ing in almost any conditions is the reason he is
able to be so sanguine about Mr Fahrenheit's weekend
disturbances: his sleep is not threatened, only mine.
'This ... Imran, tomorrow,' I say. 'Can you... delay
him?'
'Not really. He's coming at eight-thirty.
Realistically, he's going to be here an hour at least,
and we have to be at Saviour for ten --'
'No, I mean... can you tell him not to come at
all? Just... I mean, we don't have to rush into it, do
we?'
'He's supposed to be starting a week on Monday.
What?' Stuart turns on his bedside lamp. 'What does
that face mean? Louise, we've been through this.'


'Thirty thousand pounds is a lot of money
to spend on a house we might not be staying in,
especially when there's no real need.'
'Might not be staying? Since when? Is this about
Mr Fahrenheit?'
'I don't want to live next door to him,' I say.
Stuart expresses his displeasure by leaning forward
and falling on to his side across the bed. He picks
up my pillow and covers his face with it. 'That's the
opposite of what you said yesterday. You said, "I'm
not being driven out of--" '
Tve changed my mind.'
'Well, look, if you're serious about moving,
definitely don't ring the police. You have to declare
any official noise disputes with neighbours when you
sell a house, or your buyer can sue you.'
I wonder if this means we could sue our vendor.
She told us she wanted to move because the house
was too big for a woman living alone. I wonder if
that was only part of the reason.
'I can't live next door to Justin Clay,' I tell Stuart.
'Even if he never plays a single song ever again, I can't
stand being so close to him, not now that I know
what he's like. It's like... living in enemy territory.
Seriously, Stuart, can you text Imran now and cancel
him?'
If I told him what Justin said about our sending


Joseph away in order to have a quieter house, would
it make a difference? For the moment, I can't face
it. All I want is to push as far away from myself
as possible the knowledge that it happened, the
memory of it.
'I'm not making any decisions now, Lou, and
neither are you. We both need to get some rest.
Please?'
Which means he is not going to text Imran and
tell him not to come tomorrow. By the time he wakes
up it will be too late: Imran will be on his way.
A sharp spurt of disillusionment dulls and
solidifies, as they tend to these days, into a small grey
stone that rolls slowly down a spiral slide -- one that
narrows as it descends -- until it falls off at the bottom
and into the pit of my stomach, and then I don't feel
anything any more, once the slight discomfort of the
dropping and landing is over.
Obviously I know that there isn't really a spiral
slide inside my body, and that a flattened hope
cannot transform into a grey pebble. It's funny that
sometimes you can only describe something with
perfect accuracy by being wildly inaccurate.
'Tomorrow afternoon, soon as we get back, I'll
go next door and have a word with Fahrenheit, the
ignorant tosser,' Stuart promises. I'll tell him, final
warning, or we're going to make an official complaint.'


'Why wait till the afternoon?' I ask. 'Why not
eight in the morning, before Imran gets here?'
Stuart chuckles. 'Have you ever known Mr F to
surface before midday?'
'So ... you don't want to wake him up?'
He looks caught out. Then he says, 'We might as
well give the peace talks a chance, Lou. If we wake
him at eight, he won't be amenable to anything we
say.
Cowardice dressed up as strategy. Another little
grey pebble loops down the helter-skelter, slowing as
it goes, contrary to the laws of whatever the scientific
term is for the acceleration of small things rolling
downwards.
I pat Stuart's arm. 'Go to sleep,' I say. 'Busy day
tomorrow.'




The phone rings once before I pounce on it. 'Hello?'
'Mrs Beeston?'
'Yes, it's me.'
'It's Trevor Chibnall, environmental health officer
for Cambridge City Council, returning your call.'
'Yes.'Who else would it be at two in the morning?
And he isn't returning my call; that makes it sound as
if I left a message for him.


'I believe you contacted the police with regard to a
noise nuisance issue, and they advised you to contact
the council?'
He believes? Its what I told him when we spoke
a few minutes ago. I'm tempted to say, 'No, that's
completely wrong,' to see if he says, 'But... it's what
you told me yourself, before.'
'Thanks for ringing me back,' I say instead, though
I don't understand why he created the need by ending
our first telephone conversation. He didn't explain,
just asked for my name and number and said he'd be
in touch shortly. I assumed the worst -- that he meant
days, maybe even weeks -- and asked what 'shortly'
meant, only to find that my outrage had nowhere to
go when he said ten to fifteen minutes.
He is as good as his word, and now I have nowhere
to put my unsubstantiated feelings of abandonment.
They flap around my heart like empty sacks of flesh
after liposuction.
'The number the police gave you is the out-of
hours emergency number. Do you have a noise
situation that you'd classify as an emergency?'
I try to focus on Chibnall's question and not
his tone, which, in isolation, would be enough to
convince me that nothing will happen soon if he has
anything to do with it. His voice is deep, serious and
devoid of drive. It would be great for telling a coma


victim not to resist, to move towards the light.
'It's an emergency in the sense that I'd like
something done about it now,' I say. 'I'm still hoping
I might get some sleep tonight.' In my own bed. 'Can
you hear that music?'
'Yes.'
'Loud, isn't it? It's not playing in my house. That's
my neighbour.' Knowing nothing about Chibnall's
musical preferences, I do not add, ItmightbeRachmaninov
at the moment but it was Wagner ten minutes ago.
'Your address, please?'
'Seventeen Weldon Road.'
'Cambridge?'
No, Southampton. That's why I rang Cambridge's
environmental health department. 'Yes.'
'Your full name, please?'
I'm not liking the way this is going. His reactions
seem off Or rather, he's not reacting at all, when he
ought to be. I was hoping that our dialogue might go
as follows:
Loud, isn't it? It's not playing in my house. That's my
neighbour.
You're kidding me? Seriously? Wow, that is beyond appalling!
There's no way you should have to put up with that at this time of
night! Right -- sit tight, and I'll come round and sort the bastard
out.
What's the point of having an emergency noise


officer if tidings of inappropriate noise don't send
him over the edge into vengeful hysteria?
'Louise Caroline Beeston,' I tell him.
And your postcode?'
'CBI 2YL.'
'Your neighbour's full address?'
'Nineteen Weldon Road. Same postcode, I assume.'
'Yes, it is.'
How does he know that? Is he sitting next to a
whiteboard covered in photographs of Cambridge's
most malevolent noise pests, with the details of each
one scrawled in blue wipe-off pen beneath his or her
mugshot: the public enemies Chibnall and his team
have been hunting for years, but they've never been
able to make anything stick?
Either that or I watch too much television.
'And you've lived at number seventeen for how
long?' he asks me. No intonation whatsoever.
'Five months.' What does it matter how long I've
lived here?
And your neighbour's been at number nineteen
for how long?'
I take a deep breath. Then another. How long is
he going to linger over boring, unimportant details?
'Since we moved in. That's all I know.'
'What's your neighbour's full name?'
'His name's Justin Clay. I don't know if he's got a


middle name.' Wanting to remind Chibnall that I'm
a person and not merely a data source, I say, 'My
husband and I call him Mr Fahrenheit. You know,
from the Queen song, "Don't Stop Me Now"? He
plays it all the time. So... please do. Stop him now.' I
fake a laugh, then feel like an idiot.
'And Mr Clay has "been resident at number nineteen
since you moved into number seventeen?' Chibnall
asks, his bland manner unaffected by my attempt to
make our conversation more interesting.
'Yes.'
'How many people live at number nineteen in
total?'
Oh, God, this is unbearable. Is he going to ask me
if Mr Fahrenheit has any pets? Is his plan to solve
my problem by asking me pointless questions until I
die of old age? 'Just him. Though his girlfriend stays
a lot.'
'But she isn't a permanent resident of the house?'
'No.'
'Can you describe to me the nature of the
problem?' says Chibnall.
'Every second or third Saturday night, he plays
loud music that stops me from getting to sleep. I can
feel the bass-line pounding in my house.'
'Approximately from what time until what time,
or does it vary?'


'Not really. They always go to the pub for a few
drinks first, so it tends to start at about ten. And
finishes between one and one-thirty. Hello?' I say,
when Chibnall doesn't respond.
'It's later than one-thirty now,' he says.
'Yes. This is the latest he's ever gone on, and it's
his way of saying "Screw you". I went round about
two hours ago and asked him to turn it down. This
is my punishment. But even when he's not punishing
me, the music is always this loud or louder and it
usually has lyrics, and Mr... Clay and his friends
all yell along to them.' Drunkenly. I don't say that, in
case I sound prudish. Which I'm not. I have friends
who drink far too much and who wouldn't dream
of depriving their neighbours of sleep or peace of
mind. It's possible to be a considerate alcoholic. 'I
mean, that's not okay for him to do that to me, is it?
Can you... I mean, is there something you can do to
stop him? He must be breaking a law -- disturbance
of the peace, antisocial behaviour --'
'Someone would need to come out to you to assess
the situation before offering an opinion.'
'Right.' My rage pulls itself tight inside me.
'So... could that person be you, tonight?' I try to
disguise my sarcasm as harmless banter, and end up
sounding like a grotesque parody of a Hollywood
romantic comedy. I grimace at myself in the mirror


3°
above the fireplace. My skin looks faded. I have too
little colour, while everything else in my lounge has
too much: the purple flowers on the curtains seem
to throb against the mint green background; the
white wall behind me looks almost yellow. It's the
light: up too high, parodying daytime. It should have
been switched off hours ago. I would turn it down,
but I'm too far from the dimmer switch, and there's
something grimly satisfying about this ghastly vision
of my haggard self: this is what Mr Fahrenheit has
done to me.
'If I can fit you in before handover, I'll attend
myself,' Trevor Chibnall says. 'If not, it'll be my
colleague. I think that's going to be more likely.
Either way, someone should be with you within the
hour.'
'Oh.' This is unexpected. I run his words through
my mind a few times to check I understood them
correctly. Yes, it seems so. Apparently something is
going to happen. The inert voice misled me; Trevor
Chibnall is about to spring into action. I hope it's the
action of sending his colleague rather than himself. I
am willing to wait longer if I can have someone who
knows how to put expression into his or her voice.
'Great,' I say.
'Thank you for your call.'
'Wait, I... if you send someone out to me, is that


an official thing?'I ask. 'I mean, does it get... recorded
somewhere, formally? My husband thinks we might
have trouble selling the house if we register a noise
problem and then --'
'No, nothing becomes official in that sense simply by our coming out to you.'
'Not that we want to move, and hopefully we won't
have to, but --'
'It's not helpful to us when people spread scare
stories about it being impossible to sell houses
because of a noise dispute with a neighbour,' he says.
'If we find that there's a noise nuisance, we take steps
to remedy the situation.'
From someone more imaginative, this might be a
euphemism for slicing Mr Fahrenheit's head clean off
his neck. Not from Chibnall, I don't think. I picture
him thinking inertly about the filling in of forms,
looking as washed-out under the glare of the neon
lights in his office as I look in my lounge mirror. I
can't assemble a face for him in my imagination: a
featureless taupe blur is the best I can do.
'Once it's remedied, there's no reason why
someone wouldn't buy a house that formerly had
a noise problem,' he drones on. 'But we can't find
evidence of a noise nuisance and set about rectifying
it if people don't report these things because they've
heard from a friend or a colleague that they reported


a similar problem and were then obliged to declare it
and couldn't sell their house.'
'I agree,' I tell him. Though in theory I'm happy
to gang up with the council's environmental health
officer against my husband, I'm slightly concerned
that he seems more exercised about scaremongering
in relation to the sale of houses than about Mr
Fahrenheit's behaviour. 'That's why I'm reporting it,
and very much looking forward to your rectification.'
An environmental health officer will be with you
shortly, Mrs Beeston,' says Chibnall.
'Thank you.'
The line goes dead. I put the phone back on its
base, go to the kitchen where Mr Fahrenheit's music
is slightly less audible, fill the kettle with water and
switch it on. I need strong tea. It's past two in the
morning, I'm exhausted, and I'm about to have what
I can only think of as a very important meeting.
I wonder if I need to prepare in any way. Nothing
about the house needs sorting out; everything is in
order and ready to give a good impression: no empty
wine bottles on their sides, no upturned ashtrays.
No evidence that a child lives here. All Joseph's
toys are tidily packed away in his room, as they have
been since the beginning of term.
I drum the palms of my hands on the kitchen
countertop while I wait for the kettle to boil. Will


Chibnall, or his colleague, need to inspect the whole
house, every floor? What if he asks me why there's
a room that clearly belongs to a child but is empty?
He's bound to be thorough, to want to see how far
the noise from Mr Fahrenheit's stereo travels, but
maybe if I close Joseph's door then he won't go in
there.
I have a better idea: if I close Joseph's door, I
can tell Chibnall that Joseph is in there, asleep. Yes,
it's a lie, but a harmless one. I might not even need
to tell him explicitly. There's a sign Blu-tacked to
the door saying 'Joseph's Room', each shaky capital
letter a different colour. If Chibnall sees that on a
closed door, he will assume that there's a sleeping
child behind it, and won't ask to be let in. Anyone
would make that assumption. Where else would
a seven-year-old boy be in the early hours of a
Sunday morning but at home, safely tucked up in
his bed?
Stop it. Don't think it.
Safe in his bed, with his mum and dad just along the hall in
case he needs anything in the night, in case he has a had dream
and needs a cuddle...
I bend over, gasp for breath. Why do I do this
to myself ? It might not be so bad if I didn't fill my
mind with the very words that will hurt me the most.
There's another way of defining Joseph's absence,


one that's nowhere near as painful. Other words to
describe the situation, which is, in so many ways, a
good and fortunate situation -- so why do I never use
them?
The sound of the kettle clicking off snaps me
back to sanity. I move towards it, put my face near the
steam; close enough to feel its wet warmth without
risking a burn.
Was I really, only a few seconds ago, planning to
deceive the council's emergency noise person about
the whereabouts of my son? Crazy. I mustn't do it.
It would imply guilt that, according to Stuart, I have
no need to feel. We have done nothing wrong: the
opposite. We'd be harming Joseph by keeping him
at home, harming his future. I will tell Chibnall the
truth, and, if he looks disapproving, I will pretend to
be Stuart and say all the things he says to me several
times a day.
Warning myself that I shouldn't -- silently insisting
that I won't and am not -- I open the drawer where
I keep tea towels. I lift them all out and take out
the small plastic pouch full of cannabis that I stole
from Mr Fahrenheit's house a few weeks ago when
I went round to complain. We were standing in his
kitchen, which has a large granite-topped island at
its centre -- extra drug preparation space -- and shiny
silver pans hanging down from the ceiling above it


like a contemporary art chandelier. Mr Fahrenheit
got angry with me and left the room, and I picked
up one of the three little bags of marijuana from the
island and slipped it into my jeans pocket.
I wonder what effect it would have on me. Would
I relax so much that I wouldn't care about anything
any more? I haven't got any cigarettes or Rizlas in
the house, so I can't roll a joint, but I've watched Mr
Fahrenheit do it another way: with a plastic bottle,
a hole burned out of its bottom. The bottle fills up
with smoke at a certain point, I think, but I'm not
sure how or if there's any other equipment involved
-- I only saw Mr Fahrenheit do it once, when I was
walking past his house and he'd forgotten to close the
curtains. He was on his own in his lounge. He takes
drugs in every part of his house, every day, Stuart
and I have worked out, but only ever listens to music
in the basement.
Sighing, because I would try some if it were easier
but it isn't, I put the little plastic bag back in the drawer
and cover it with the tea towels. I probably ought
to throw it away in case Trevor Chibnall stumbles
upon it, but I don't want to. And he's unlikely to root
around in my kitchen drawers. How ridiculous that
I'm worried about him discovering my son's absence
but not my stash of illegal drugs.
I stir two sugars into my milky tea, although


I don't normally take sugar. It will give me some
energy.
The Rachmaninov stops. I wonder what Mr
Fahrenheit will play next. He must be sick of classical
music by now.
Come on, Mr F. Put something on, anything. Something
really crass and intrusive that will prove my point, so that I won't
need to say anything at all when Chibnall arrives.
My doorbell rings'?

I

'It stopped a few seconds before you rang the bell, literally,' I tell Patricia 
Jervis, the Trevor Chibnall
substitute who is sitting on my sofa, holding the
mug of Earl Grey I made her in one hand and
a pen in the other. She is short and stocky -- in
her late fifties, I'd guess -- with curly grey hair
held back from her make-up-free face by a green
sweatband that is consistent with the rest of her
PE teacher look: navy blue tracksuit, ribbed white
socks, blue-and-grey trainers. I have been told to
call her Pat because everyone else does, though she
sounded far from happy about everyone else doing
so when she said it. She's writing in a notebook
that is balanced on her lap. 'Are you parked right
outside?' I ask her.


'Hmm?' she says without looking up. 'Yes. Yes, I am.'
Five seconds to lock her car and check its
locked, another seven to walk to my front door... I
know from my own experience that whenever Mr
Fahrenheit's music is audible in my house, it's also
audible from the street. 'Didn't you hear anything
when you first got out of the car?' I ask. 'Classical
music. It was loud. You must have heard it.'
Pat Jervis smiles down at her notebook. 'There's
nothing wrong with my hearing,' she says, dodging the
question. 'We all have to take hearing tests regularly.
If you're worried that I don't believe you, don't be.
Our department handles upwards of two hundred
noise disputes a year. Would you care to guess in how
many of those cases the complainant turns out not
to have a valid objection?'
I shake my head.
'This year so far, none. Last year there was one.
People don't sit up all night chatting to environmental
health officers because they like the attention. It
tends to be a desperate last resort.'
'Yes.' She wouldn't like it if I threw myself at her
feet and said, 'Thank you for understanding.' Does
everyone do that as well as calling her Pat? Has
anyone ever done it?
'Seems to be an unfortunate fact of life that those
adversely affected by noise nuisance are often so


doubtful they'll be believed and so reluctant to cause
trouble that they suffer in silence for years.'
'Or suffer in noise,' I quip.
'Yes, they suffer in noise for years.' She repeats my
silly joke, straight-faced, then smiles at her notebook
again. 'Meanwhile, the antisocial neighbours
responsible for the anguish and disruption tend
to have no such confidence problems,' she says.
'No doubts about their rights and righteousness
whatsoever. They're convinced that any official
procedure will find in their favour, and couldn't be
more astonished when we tell them we're going to be
taking legal action against them if they don't adjust
their behaviour.'
Anguish. Legal action. These are all good words.
I prefer Pat Jervis to Trevor Chibnall. I prefer her
vocabulary. She bends forward to rub her ankle with
her left hand. I noticed as she wandered around my
kitchen looking at the seascapes on the wall that she
rocks slightly to the left and right as she walks. 'You
like paintings of the sea, then,' she said, touching the glass of one frame 
with the tip of her index finger. I
told her the sea was only in the kitchen; none of the
other rooms have themed art. I am averse to themed
anything, generally, and have no idea why I decided
to fill the walls of one particular room of my house
with pictures of boats, sandy beaches, waves against


distant horizons; I told Pat Jervis that too. 'Very
interesting,' she said, sounding as if she meant it, but,
at the same time, wanted to draw a line under the
subject.
I am working on a theory that people employed
by the council are not the same as the rest of us. It's
still in the early stages of development.
Pat asks me all the same questions that Trevor Chibnall asked and more. She 
writes down my
answers. I notice that her hands look older than the
rest of her -- the skin dry and creased like paper --
and decide that it would make a good horror story:
a woman whose job it is to transcribe -- day after
day, night after night -- the details of other people's
suffering, and whose hands age prematurely as a
result.
Her voice is friendly enough, though making eye
contact- seems to be a problem for her. Does each
member of the environmental health department
have a different strength that compensates for
another team members weakness? Maybe Chibnall,
if he were here, would give me the most amazing,
sympathetic, bonding looks to offset his monotone
and I would end up liking him better.
'Any children live in the house with you?' Pat asks.
I pull myself up straight. 'Yes, but... not at the
moment.'


'That's fine.' She writes on her pad. 'Joint custody
situation? Child from a previous marriage?'
'No, I...' It's not fine. It's not fine at all. 'My son
Joseph lives here during the school holidays. He's
seven.'
'But he lives here at least some of the time?' Pat
asks.
Did she notice how terrible that sounded? How
bad a mother it made me sound? If her manner were
less straightforward I would suspect her of snideness,
of deliberately crafting a double-edged comment
that I can't prove she meant in the worst way.
'Just that it's useful in a noise case if we can say
a child lives in the affected house. Homework, good
night's sleep, all that stuff. We trot it all out.' Pat
chuckles into her tea. 'Ironic, since children are far
less bothered by noise disturbances than adults, as a
rule, but there you go.'
Did she say 'the afflicted house'? No. 'Affected', it
must have been.
Stuart and I don't have to worry about Joseph's
homework, and neither does Pat Jervis; the doing
of it will never take place at home. This has been
put to me as one of the great advantages of the
status quo. When our family is reassembled, in the
school holidays, we can relax and have fun together,
and Stuart and I will never have to harangue Joseph


about learning his times tables, as the parents of dayschoolers
have to.
'All right,' says Pat, looking down at her notes.
'So you've attempted to discuss the situation with Mr Clay on numerous 
occasions, and he's been
consistently unsympathetic to your predicament
-- would you say that's an accurate description of
what's occurred?'
'Yes.'
'Yes,' Pat repeats.
'Until tonight, what's always happened is that he's
argued with me, then reluctantly agreed to turn it
down a bit, but he's always turned it back up by the
time I've got back home and taken off my coat.'
'Doesn't surprise me at all,' says Pat. 'It's a classic
tactic. He's banking on you being too embarrassed
or tired to go back a second time in one night. Have
you ever?'
'No.'
'No,' she echoes me again. 'If you did, do you
know what he'd say? "I turned it down. You asked
me to turn it down and I did." And he'd think he was
clever for saying it. Now, is there anything I haven't
asked or you haven't told me that you think I need
to know?'
'Nothing that has anything to do with the noise
issue specifically,' I say.


'Spit it out,' Pat says briskly.
'Just... about my son not being here. Justin Clay's
probably going to tell you that I sent my son away
because he made too much noise in the house, and
that's just rubbish. It's a lie.'
Pat looks up at me. Finally. 'You'd better tell me
the situation with your son,' she says.
'He's a pupil at Saviour College School, a boarder.
He has to be -- they won't let you be in the choir
and live at home. Yeah.' I nod, seeing Pat raise her
eyebrows. 'They're the great Saviour College and
they know best about everything. My son's a junior
probationer in the boys' choir, which is the absolute
elite of the school -- oh, it's all so ridiculous to
anyone outside Saviour's stupid, closeted, music
obsessed little ... bubble! I mean, does it make sense
to you? A school with four hundred-odd pupils,
three hundred and eighty-four of whom have a choice of whether to board or not, 
or they can
board during the week and go home at weekends,
and then there are the sixteen choirboys who are
forcibly separated from their families for the whole
of each term, no matter what those families happen
to think about it. It's like some kind of... awful
primitive sacrifice!'
'Mrs Beeston...' Pat Jervis leans forward.
'You can call me Louise.'


'Louise. I don't mean to sound uncaring, but...
how does this relate to the dispute between yourself
and Mr Clay? This is about his antisocial behaviour,
not your family's educational choices.'
'Yes.'
Except I don't have a choice. Dr Ivan Freeman, director
of music at Saviour, believes that Joseph, as one of
his precious choir's probationers, belongs to him at
least as much as he belongs to me and Stuart. In Dr
Freeman's eyes, we have as little right to comment as
Mr Fahrenheit has in mine.
'I know a bit about Saviour College,' Pat says.
'Friend of mine's a bed-maker there, took me to see
the boys' choir once, in the chapel.They were brilliant.
I say go for it, much as you'd rather have your son here
-- I appreciate that, but it's an amazing opportunity
for him. My friend says Saviour's choristers have
gone on to have amazing musical careers, some of
them -- famous opera singers, prize-winning classical
composers, all sorts. Real star stuff, she says. If your
boy does well in that choir, he'll be set up for life.
And don't they waive the fees for choirboys? You can't
say no to a deal like that, can you?'
'On the noise nuisance front, what's the next step?'
I ask abruptly. Pat's speech about the benefits of a
Saviour chorister education is uncannily similar to
the one Dr Freeman regularly delivers. I've also heard


versions of it from several of the other choirboys'
parents. I suppose they have to try and believe it's
worth it.
'Next step.' Pat slaps her notebook closed, making
me jump. 'If you're happy to make it official, I can
arrange to have a communication sent out to Mr
Clay on Monday morning, first class post, so he'll
get it Tuesday. At first all we do is notify him that
a complaint's been made, what might happen down
the line --'
'Which is what?'
'Well, we'll inform him that we'll be monitoring
the situation,' says Pat.
Monitoring. That sounds like a terrifying
disincentive.
'Any instances of unwelcome noise in the future,
you call us out straight away, we assess the disturbance.
If we agree it's a problem, we speak to Mr Clay in
person, give him a final chance to behave reasonably.
If he persists with the nuisance, we serve him with a
noise abatement order.'
I try to listen to her, but the paranoid babble in
my head is drowning out her voice. What if he does
what he did tonight every time: turns off the music
when he sees her car pull up outside my house so that
she never catches him, never has a chance to assess his
noise and label it problematic?


I'm so tired; my brain feels like a swollen balloon
that's about to burst.
After that, assuming he violates the order, we're
into serious measures,' Pat is saying. 'Confiscating his
music equipment -- speakers, sound system. Sometimes
it goes as far as a court case. People are fined,
some spend time behind bars.'
A custodial sentence for playing Queen at too
high a volume? 'Really?' I say.
'I've known noise pests to be that stubborn, yes.'
I picture Mr Fahrenheit in the dock, facing a
stretch in solitary confinement. I kind of hope it goes
as far as a trial at least, though I wouldn't honestly
want him to be locked up: that would be excessive. I
am feeling more lenient, now that Pat has convinced
me she can solve my problem.
I realise that until she does, I can't put the house
up for sale. Legal obligations notwithstanding, I
couldn't live with myself if I sold it with an untamed
Mr Fahrenheit next door. No, there's a better way:
Pat will sort everything out, and then I'll be able to
tell our buyer the full story, complete with happy
ending. And give them Pat's phone number, just in
case Mr Fahrenheit tries his luck again once I'm
gone.
'Nine cases out of ten, the first letter we send out
does the trick,' Pat says. 'Oh, it'd be very useful if


you could log all incidents, keep a noise diary -- also,
of any interactions between you and your neighbour,
your husband and your neighbour, even your son,
though obviously he's not here at the moment. But
when he is. Anything at all. There's no knowing at
this point what we're going to need, so, if in doubt,
put it in the log. Depending on how stubborn your
neighbour is and how much he wants a fight, it might
come in useful.'
'All right,' I say. 'Should I log what happened
tonight?'
'Yes, might as well.' Pat stands up. 'And remember,
next time it happens, ring me straight away. Me or Trevor or Doug. You've got 
all the numbers, have
you? Office hours, emergency call-out?'
'Yes, thank you.'
Pat walks up to the mirror and touches its surface
with the index finger of her right hand, exactly as
she did with the glass of the framed painting in the
kitchen. What an odd woman she is. Still, she's also
the noise nuisance Terminator, so she can do no
wrong as far as I'm concerned.
Once she's had enough of pressing my mirror
with her fingertip, she turns to face me and stares
past my right shoulder into mid-air, as if that's where
I'm standing. 'People whine that there's no point
ringing the council, they never do anything,' she says.


'Nothing could be further from the truth. You watch
-- you'll see. We'll sort out your Mr Clay. I don't see
it taking very long.'
I feel less reassured than I did a few seconds ago. Is
she allowed to be so cocky? Doesn't the same council
rule book that forbids eye contact in case a member
of the public misinterprets it and falls in love with
you also warn against promising people favourable
outcomes that you can't possibly guarantee?
'I'm not allowed to tell you that officially.' Pat
plays with the zip on her tracksuit top, pulling it up
and down. 'Trevor wouldn't. Doug wouldn't. Never
get their hopes up, that's what we're told, but I say
if it goes our way, there's no harm in having started
celebrating early, and if it doesn't go our way, well...'
She spreads her arms as if it's obvious. 'You're not
going to feel any worse because you spent a few
months hoping for the best, are you? I've yet to meet
someone things have gone wrong for who wishes
they'd started feeling miserable a damn sight sooner.
Have you?'
'No. But...'
'Goodnight, Mrs Beeston. Louise, sorry.' Pat
shakes my hand without looking at me. 'Get some
sleep. But fill in the log for tonight first, if you would.
You'd be amazed how much detail a night's sleep can
wipe out.'


I open the front door for her and she hurries away,
bobbing from left to right as she goes.

4

I sit up, my eyes still glued together with sleep. My
mind slumps forward inside my body: boneless grey
mush that I must force into an upright position
because something is happening and it's frightening,
and I need to think about what it means. Music. Different. Too close.
I open my eyes and feel as if I'm breaking them.
Something's not right. I run my fingertips along
the hollows beneath them. They don't feel hollow.
They stick out: lumpy. It's as if they've been filled in
with a thick substance that has swollen and started
to rot. Perhaps it's just tiredness, or a build-up of
angry tears I've held back. Moving my eyelids is
like driving two sharp pins into the back of my
skull.
What time is it? I could find out by reaching for
my phone on the bedside table.
The singing isn't coming from next door's
basement this time. It can't be. This is sound that has
travelled no distance. Children's voices. Boys.
Stuart snores beside me: a different rhythm from
the music playing on the other side of the wall. That's


where it must be coming from: Mr Fahrenheit's
bedroom.
That's Joseph singing.
No.
The tune isn't one I've heard, but I know the
words very well. It's the Opening Responses. Saviour
College's chaplain and the boys' choir sing them at
the beginning of every Choral Evensong.


O Lord, open thou our lips:
And our mouth shall shew forth thy praise.


O God, make speed to save us: O Lord, make haste to help us.


Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the
Holy Ghost.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall
be, world without end. Amen.


Praise ye the Lord.
The Lords name be praised.


There are many different musical settings for
these words, just as there are for what Joseph calls the
'Mag' and the 'Nunc': the Magnificat and the Nunc
Dimittis. Before Saviour College School kidnapped


5°
my son, he didn't know the street names of any
liturgical pieces of music.
That's Joseph singing.
No. Impossible.
I can hear my son singing to me through the
bedroom wall.
I am shaking. Trying very hard not to scream. I
think I'm about to fail.




Noise Diary - Sunday 30 September, 5.25 a.m.


I have just put the phone down after having had
the following conversation with Doug Minns from
Cambridge City Council's environmental health
team. What follows is pretty much word for word, I
think.


Me: Hello, could I speak to Pat Jervis, please?


Him: Can I ask what it's in connection with?


Me: A noise problem. My name's Louise Beeston. I
live at 17 Weldon Road--


Him: Your details are in front of me. Mrs Louise


Beeston. Noise disturbance from a neighbour
at number 19. Loud music.


Me: Yes, that's right. If Pat's still on duty, I'd really
like her to come out to me again and--


Him: You first rang this number to report a noise
nuisance at 1.45 a.m. Is that correct?


Me: I don't know. Yes, probably. It was around that
time. But since then--


Him: Is the noise still continuing at an unacceptable
level?


Me: If you'd listen to what I'm trying to tell you, you
might know the answer to that by now. Will
you please let me speak?


Him: I'm trying to establish the current situation,
Mrs Beeston. Is the noise nuisance ongoing?


Me: He's not making a noise now this second, but
he just woke me up, only about half an hour
after I'd fallen asleep. Deliberately. I'd like Pat
to come and--



Him: It's not possible for anybody to come out
to you if there's no noise being made at
present. First thing on Monday, I can send a
communication to your neighbour to the effect
that there's been a noise complaint made
against him. Also, if you could log--


Me: You don't understand. Yes, I'll log everything
and yes, please, send him a letter, but I
need someone to put the fear of God into
him now, tonight. Otherwise what's to stop
him waking me up again in another hour,
even assuming I could fall asleep? This is
more than noise nuisance - it's deliberate
torture.


Him: This is our only emergency line, Mrs Beeston.
I'm on duty as the emergency officer. At
present there's nobody in the office aside from
myself. I can't stay on this line talking to you
once I've established that you're not suffering
an ongoing noise nuisance that needs urgent
attention.


Me: If you'd bloody well listen to me, you'd find
out that it is ongoing. He was playing music
before, loudly - ask Trevor Chibnall. He heard


it, when I rang him at 1.45. Then he stopped
when--


Him: 'Ongoing' means that the music is playing
now. Is it?


Me: No. I've said that. But--


Him: Then I'll have to ask you to ring again on
Monday morning. I'm sorry, Mrs Beeston, but
that's our policy.


Me: You are the least helpful human being I've

ever had the misfortune to speak to. Goodbye.


So, as I hope the above script demonstrates, I was
not allowed to explain the situation. I will attempt to
do so here, where there is no danger of my clogging
up an important phone line.


At 2 a.m., when I rang the council's out-of-hours
noise number for the first time, my neighbour at
number 19 Weldon Road, Justin Clay, was playing
loud music which Trevor Chibnall heard. Mr Clay
had been playing loud music continuously since
shortly after 10 p.m. What I did not tell Trevor
Chibnall was that at first he was playing pop and


rock music as he always does, but that after I went
round to complain and ask him to turn it down
(during which conversation he accused me of being
a music snob who only likes classical] he turned
off the pop and put on loud classical music instead.
I cannot see any way to read this apart from as a
deliberate taunt.


Pat Jervis then came out to my house to assess the
situation, but by the time she arrived the music had
stopped. I worked out that she must have parked
outside my house at the exact moment that Mr Clay
turned off his music, and i believe he timed this
deliberately, to make it look as if I had exaggerated,
imagined or spitefully invented the problem.


After Pat Jervis left, I went to bed and took a while
to fall asleep because I was so upset and agitated.
I finally fell asleep and was then woken again
at 4.20 a.m. by more music, again coming from
Mr Clay's house, except that this time it wasn't
coming from his basement but from his bedroom.
Previously, he has always confined his musical
activities to the basement. His bedroom is right next
to mine (our two houses are mirror images of each
other), separated only by an inadequately insulated
Victorian wall, and he knows this. When he and I


first met, shortly after my family and I moved in
next door to him and before there was any problem
between us, we looked round each other's houses at
his instigation. I thought it was an odd thing for him
to suggest, since we didn't know one another, but it
soon became obvious that he wanted to show off his
no-expense-spared interior. So I hope I've proved
that he knows very well where his bedroom is in
relation to mine.


The music he was playing in his bedroom was choral
music. Specifically, it was a boys' choir, singing
liturgical responses of the exact sort that my son
sings every Tuesday and Thursday evening at Choral
Evensong in Saviour College's chapel: another
deliberate taunt. Mr Clay played the responses over
and over again - I don't know exactly how many
times because I became too upset to count. How
loud was it? I suppose these things are relative.
My husband, woken by my distress rather than the
music, said that it was barely audible. Yet it was loud
enough to wake me.


I believe that Mr Clay waited until he saw Pat Jervis
leave my house, allowed me just enough time to
calm down and fall asleep, and then deliberately
woke me up, using a piece of music that he'd


specially selected in order to provoke me. What
has happened to me tonight is far more serious
than a simple noise nuisance. It started as that, but
has turned into something vicious and menacing
that an unimaginative man like Doug Minns has
no predetermined procedure for. Although there is
currently no music spilling from my neighbour's
house into mine, the problem is ongoing in the
sense that there is basically zero chance of me
getting any more sleep tonight. I'm too scared of
being woken again, which is precisely the effect
Mr Clay must have wanted to achieve. Given his
malicious and calculating track record, he might
well decide to turn the music back on in another
half-hour, and if he doesn't it will be because he
knows he doesn't need to - he knows he's instilled
enough fear and dread in me that I won't risk
closing my eyes. So, yes, the problem is very much
ongoing, because I'm terrified that he will do this
again - maybe not every night but as often as he
feels like it. He can do it any time he wants, and
stop whenever he sees a council officer's car pull
up outside my house, so that no one ever hears or
witnesses anything. And he knows I know that.


Look, I'm not a fool. I get it. Obviously emergency
out-of-hours noise officers can't waste their time


rushing to houses where once, long ago, there was
a noise somewhere in the vicinity - that would be
ludicrous. I understand why you lot have the rules
you have, but would it kill you to be a bit flexible?
Actually, I'm sure if Pat Jervis had picked up the
phone instead of Doug Minns, the response would
have been quite different. Pat seems to be properly
on my side. I'm sure she'd have bent the stupid
rules, come round, knocked on my neighbour's
door and told him in no uncertain terms, 'Cut it
out right now, or you could end up in court. This is
harassment.'


Maybe I ought to try the police again and tell them
that the council's environmental health department
has no interest in preventing a gruesome murder on
Weldon Road. That would get their attention.















2

0





I open my eyes and see wooden slats above me. That's
right: I lay down on the bottom bunk of Joseph's bed
at about 6 a.m., not for a moment imagining that I
might fall asleep. That I did feels like a victory, briefly.
Then my triumph gives way to disappointment that
I didn't manage to sleep for longer. I feel worse than
I did before: as if someone's scraped the insides of
my eyelids and scrubbed at my brain with a pumice
stone.
What time is it? It's fully light outside, and no
darker in here. The curtains in Joseph's room are
useless: white and gauzy, thin as tissue paper. I've been
meaning to replace them since we bought the house
and not getting round to it. Joseph, thankfully, cares
no more about daylight seeping in than he minds


about the noise Mr Fahrenheit makes every other
Saturday night. He's completely unaware of both. I'm
lucky. Or I used to think I was, until he left home.
Don't say 'left home'. He still lives here. You know that.
Joseph has always been a brilliant sleeper:
7.30 p.m. until 7 a.m., however light, dark, loud or
quiet his surroundings. Other mothers think I'm
lying when I say this but it's true: he has slept all
night every night since he was four weeks old. Even
his rare sick spells have always involved the kind of
illnesses that have made him need to sleep overtime
and more heavily. I used to feel sorry for my friends
who had it harder -- Eniola, who went three nights
without sleep when Matthew had terrible colic, and
Jenny, with her frequent dashes to A&E on account
of Chloe's asthma.
I envy them now, both of them, and not only them.
I envy any parent whose child hasn't been stolen by
a school for no good reason, which, come to think
of it, is nearly every parent I know -- any mother
whose son is too insecure and clingy to settle or be
happy away from home. It's my fault that Joseph is as
relaxed and independent-minded as he is. As a new
parent, I wasn't anxious or neurotic. I regularly left
him with babysitters; I believed there was a strong
chance they'd be at least as good at looking after a
baby as I was, if not better.


If I'd foreseen a conspiracy to take my son away
from me, I'd have made sure to be one of those mums
who never lets her child out of her sight. I'd have
done everything I could to turn Joseph into the sort
of boy who believes something bad will happen to
him if his mother's not there to protect him.
If I were less tired, I might put the counterarguments
to myself. I would challenge my shameful
retrospective plotting, my hyperbolic use of certain
words -- 'conspiracy', 'stolen', 'fault' -- but at the
moment I have neither the energy nor the inclination.
I hear Stuart's voice say, 'I thought you were going
to sleep in the study,' and realise I'm not alone in the
room. I throw back the duvet, trying not to notice the
small blue and red sailing boats on its cover. Joseph
chose it himself. He ought to be the one throwing it
back this morning, not me.
A cross-section of my husband appears in front
of me, blocking out some of the light: part of his
legs, his waist and chest. The top bunk blocks his
face from my view, but I can imagine what it looks
like when he says, 'You'd better get up. Imran'll be
here in fifteen minutes. And remember, soon as he
leaves we'll have to set off to Saviour, so you need to
get properly dressed now.'
I spring up off the bed and am on my feet before
he gets to the door. 'I'm sorry?' I say belligerently.


'Since when do you tell me when and how to dress?'
He looks surprised by the strength of my reaction,
and I feel guilty. 'You've just woken up, so I thought
I'd... you know.'
He's right. I have just woken up, less than two
hours after falling asleep for the second time. Why
would I do something so foolish? I wouldn't -- not
of my own accord. I would do the sensible thing and
stay asleep until quarter to ten, which would still
give me enough time to leap into the shower before
setting off to Saviour College's chapel for Joseph's
gig. That's how I irreverently think of the services.
'Did you wake me up?' I ask Stuart.
'Yes. Eventually. It wasn't easy.'
'Thanks a lot. You know what time I got to sleep?
Probably about ten past six.'
'Well, I know it was after five-twenty-five a.m.,'
Stuart says irritably. 'What should I have done, Lou?
Imran's coming all the way from Stamford and he'll
be here in--'
1 don't give a fuck about Imran at this precise
moment, Stuart! He's not a visiting dignitary that I
need to impress, he's one of my oldest friends. You
could have said, "Sorry, Imran, Lou's asleep -- she's
had a hellish night and I didn't want to wake her."
He'd have been totally fine about it.'
'Right.' Stuart raises his eyebrows. He takes an


unsteady step back, as if an unpredictable wind has
knocked him off balance. 'Sorry, I assumed that
since we re going to be talking about the work to the
house, you might want to be there.'
'Why? You're not going to listen to what I say
anyway. You didn't last night, when I asked you to
text Imran and put him off. I don't want the house
sandblasted! The last thing on my mind at the
moment is the colour of the brickwork...'
'And yet you're saying I should have left you to
sleep and given Imran the go-ahead without you,'
Stuart points out with infuriating patience. 'It
sounds like you, me and Imran all need to be there,
since we're likely to have different opinions. Mine's
certainly different from yours.'
He tries again to leave the room. 'Wait,' I say. 'How
do you know I didn't get to sleep till after twenty-five
past five?' As I ask, I realise that there can only be one
answer.
'I found your noise diary,' says Stuart accusingly.
And nothing else? I really ought to hide the drugs I
stole from Mr Fahrenheit's place somewhere cleverer.
It's not inconceivable that one day Stuart might
decide the tea towel currently in use needs washing;
it's unlikely, but just about possible, that instead of
taking a clean one from the top of the pile in the
drawer, he might take the whole lot out and have a


look at them all. If he did that, he would spot the
small plastic bag full of marijuana underneath and
subject me to a horrified interrogation.
'Obviously you were busy last night after I went
back to sleep,' he says. 'Much as I'm keen to hear
all about what you got up to, we don't have time.
Seriously, Lou, since you are now awake and Imran's
going to be here any minute--'
'I rang the council, not the police,' I say. Then,
with heavy sarcasm, 'I didn't disobey you, Master,
if that's what you're annoyed about.' It isn't true -- I
called the police first -- but Stuart doesn't need to
know that. I don't believe that all is fair in love or in
war, but I am coming to believe that all might be fair
in marriage, which is a combination of the two.
'I thought I made it pretty clear that I didn't want
you ringing anyone,' says Stuart. 'But you did, so
there's no point discussing it, is there? Though I have
to say, if someone told you to keep a noise diary, I'm
sure that... thing on the kitchen table isn't what they
had in mind.'
'I was told to keep a record,' I say as neutrally as
possible. 'I'm keeping a record.'
'Yeah, well, it reads like the obsessive ramblings
of a sleep-deprived neurotic. And while we're on the
subject, since you evidently don't care about being ready when Imran arrives... 
would you mind sleeping


on the sofa bed in the attic instead of in Joseph's bed
if you cant sleep in our room? As I suggested last
night.' Stuart sighs as if there's no point trying to
reason with me. 'Remember? I said why don't you
make up the sofa bed in my study?'
While we're on the subject? We weren't. Where I ended
up sleeping last night has nothing to do with what
I wrote in my noise diary. I am baffled by this until I
realise what Stuart must mean. His 'subject' is neither
of those things, though both are instances of it. I
wonder how he'd define it if I asked him: my dubious
behaviour? My insistence on acting in accordance
with my own ideas rather than his?
'Don't make out this is that, Stuart, okay?'
Stupid. I should have phrased it differently. There
is no 'that'. 'That' is something Stuart believes in that
doesn't exist. It's one of the more distasteful strands
of his campaign to prove that his specialist subject,
'Isn't Louise Mental, Folks?', deserves a place on our
core curriculum.
'Three things,' I say. My voice is an ice sculpture.
'One: at six in the morning, on no sleep, why would I
choose to make up a sofa bed when there's an already
made bed in here, nearer and warmer than the attic?
Two: I didn't sleep in Joseph's bed. He always sleeps
in the top bunk. I slept in the bottom bunk, where
he never sleeps, and there's absolutely nothing wrong


with me sleeping there if I want to. Three: all this
is irrelevant in this instance because I didn't plan to
fall asleep in Joseph's room or anywhere. I'm amazed
I was able to after all that stress. I only lay down
because I was too knackered to stand up--'
'In Joseph's room, which you haunt like a
fucking--' Having cut me off mid-sentence, Stuart
does the same to himself. He turns away and stands
still with his back to me, as if we're playing 'What's
the Time, Mr Wolf ?' and he's counting.
' 'Haunt?' I say.
'That was the wrong word. You know why?'
Angry Mr Wolf turns round. 'Because no one's
dead! You're not dead, Joseph's not dead, I'm not
dead.' We're among the most fortunate people on
the planet, in fact. So why do I keep finding you in
here, moping around your son's ever-so-tidy room as
if you're... mourning him or something? It's creepy,
Louise. Can't you see that?'
The doorbell rings.
'And now there's Imran,' Stuart snaps, though the
emotional charge of his words is And now look what
you've done. Even though I never wanted Imran to
come round this morning and asked for him to be
put off.
Your son's ever~so~tidy room . . .
Most people would zoom in on the references


to death and mourning, which I agree were pretty
unforgivable, but the 'ever-so-tidy' was worse. Subtler,
but more potent if you take the time to unpack it.
'This feels a bit like a witch-hunt,' I say calmly,
thinking that the defendant always dresses presentably
for a court appearance, and this is my feelings doing
the same. 'I'm not mourning Joseph in this room or
any other because, as you point out, he's very much
alive. There's another word that begins with an "m"
that fits much better -- missing. I'm missing my son,
who's only seven and who isn't here. Is that all right
with you?'
Stuart walks over to the sash window and opens it.
'We'll have to talk about this later. Imran!' he shouts
down to the street. 'Hang on. I'm just coming down.'
I consider tearing out two smallish clumps
of my hair, to demonstrate my frustration. In my
current mood and predicament, hair doesn't feel like
something I need each individual strand of. I'd still
have plenty left after my grand gesture. 'Don't ever
talk about death and mourning in connection with
Joseph, ever again,' I say. 'And don't say that his room
is ever-so-tidy, because that's a death reference too.
Don't... yes, it is!' I'm not interested in hearing him
deny it. Tears sting the insides of my eyelids, bitter,
like a wash of acid. 'Joseph's bedroom is tidy because,
since he's not here at the moment, he hasn't had a


chance to mess it up since I last tidied it. It's a tidy
room -- that's all it is! Call it that!'
Stuart is thinking only of Imran: closing the
window so that he doesn't overhear.
'Lou, you're massively overreacting to something
completely innocuous. I--'
'It wasn't innocuous! "Ever-so-tidy" -- I know
what that means! Parents whose children die and they
meticulously keep the room exactly as it was while
they were alive. Like a shrine!'
'I didn't mean that at all.'
'Don't lie to me!' I yell in his face. 'If you didn't
mean that, why didn't you just say "tidy"? Why the
"ever-so"? Well? You've got no answer, have you?
Because I'm right -- you were trying to make the
point that Joseph's room's too tidy, like some kind
of... museum-preserved bedroom of a dead boy!'
Stuart flinches. He backs away from me. 'I'm
going downstairs to talk to Imran,' he says. 'Please
don't join us if you're going to be like this. I wish I'd
listened to you and cancelled him, to be honest.'
'So do I,' I say. 'Cancel him now. Send him away.'
I know it isn't going to happen.

I

Imran smiles at me as I walk into the kitchen. I wave at


him and mouth 'Hello' but say nothing, not wanting
to interrupt Stuart, who is sitting with his back to me
and is in full flow: 'If I could afford to pay you to do
all my neighbours' houses too, believe me, I would.
So far I've managed to focus my dissatisfaction on
our house looking knackered -- and let's face it, at
the moment it's the grottiest by some distance -- but
as soon as you've worked your magic and it looks
brilliant, I'm going to start minding the way all the
other houses look.'
'Losing battle,' says Imran, his eyes still on me.
He is trying to include me because it would be rude
not to. I hang back, not yet ready to be part of the
conversation. Several sections of this morning s Sunday
Times lie before Imran in a neat rows-and-columns
pattern that makes me think of a card trick. I can
guess what's happened: Stuart left them scattered
messily on the table as he always does, and Imran felt
the need to impose some kind of order.
'Not a battle,' says Stuart. 'A positive-spirited
campaign, that's how I like to think of it. Leading
by example. Hopefully people'll see how stunning
our house looks and think, "Hey, why don't we do
that too? It's obviously possible." I think that's it,
you know: people assume that if they buy a soot
blackened Victorian house, there's nothing they can
do about it -- that's just the way it is. It's crazy. They


think nothing of ripping out the innards, but getting
the outside cleaned? Doesn't seem to occur to anyone,
even those who wouldn't dream of letting dirt pile up
anywhere else in their house -- they're happy to leave
more than a hundred years of the city's belched-out
waste smeared all over their brickwork. Which ought
to be, and once was, yellow! Our voluble next-door
neighbour's a perfect example.'
'Of someone who ought to be yellow?' Imran
chuckles at his own joke.
'No, of a tosser,' I chip in.
Stuart turns. 'Oh, hi, love. Come and join us.'
I have always admired my husband's optimism,
his willingness to leave the bad stuff behind. If
only Imran were able to sandblast the crust of dark
thoughts and memories off the surface of my brain.
'Do you want a cup of tea?' Stuart asks me.
I nod.
A new day. A new start. Light pours in through
the kitchen's two large windows.
If I sit down at the table with Imran, will he
notice what's happened to my face? The swollen
patches under my eyes have burst and torn the skin. I
now have two semicircular red slits, like tiny lipstick
grins, one beneath each eye. If I touch them, they start to bleed. And the 
swellings have not subsided.
I've tried to cover the marks with concealer but it


hasn't worked as well as I hoped it would.
'I assume Stuart's filled you in?' I say to Imran.
'Our noisy neighbour woes?'
'He has. I feel for you. It's got to be up there in the
top five nightmare scenarios.'
Imran likes ranking things. He has ever since
university, where the three of us met. One of the
first things Stuart and I learned about him was that
courgettes are his numbe one vegetable. I asked him
why and he said, 'Isn't it obvious?' Stuart and I still
laugh about it.
'You've got to be up there in the top three wild
exaggerators,' Stuart says, filling the kettle. 'Noisy
neighbours might be nightmare number thirty-five
if it's lucky.'
'I knew you'd say that,' Imran crows. 'You're wrong.
Top five for sure. Maybe number five, but a solid five
-- nothing's going to knock it off its spot. And before
you start listing murder, torture, rape, fatal illness --'
'Dinner with vegetarians,' I mutter, sitting down
opposite Imran at the kitchen table. 'At their house
or yours.'
'Right.' Imran nods enthusiastically, as I knew he
would. 'Of course all those things are qualitatively
worse, but they're not as widespread. You have to
take that into account. Not everyone I knows been
murdered. Not everyone I knows had a fatal illness --'


'You mean "got" a fatal illness,' says Stuart.
'Because--'
'If I were a political party and I wanted to get
elected or re-elected, you know what I'd make my
number one policy?' Imran talks over him. 'Any more
than three complaints made against anyone for noise
that affects neighbours, bang, they're out on the
street. No appeal, no due process, nothing. If you
rent privately, if you're on housing benefit -- out you
go. If you own your own home -- sorry, it's not yours
any more, it's been repossessed.'
'Superb idea.' Stuart winks at me as he hands me
my cup of tea.
'You think?' Imran sounds surprised.
'No. But I'm not going to waste my time attacking
an opinion you're pretending to hold just to provoke
me.'
'I suppose it's too open to abuse.' Imran frowns,
criticising himself instead. 'Anyone could pretend
their neighbour was noisy just to get rid of them. It
would lead to innocent people being culled.'
'You think? Stuart echoes, teasing him. 'Actually, if
someone wants to get rid of a next-door neighbour
that badly, chances are the neighbour's an arse, like
ours is. I was chatting to him the other week about
the sandblasting -- warning him there'd be some
noise and mess. Know what he said, the pompous


sod? "It's your decision, obviously, but I'd never
have that done. I bought a Victorian house because I
love the history, you know? If I'd wanted something
shiny and clean, I'd have bought a new-build." As if
centuries of grime all over your facades some kind
of period feature, like a ceiling rose or cornicing! I
said to Lou, "I bet he'd do it like a shot if he could
afford it, but he's spent every last penny on his flash
interior.
Imran opens his mouth to respond, unaware that
he's interrupting. We haven't quite reached the end
of the story. I know this because I've heard it several
times already. The hammering home of the moral
is still to come, and it's Stuarts favourite bit. Now,
seeing Imran poised to break into his flow, he's going
to have to rush it. 'The fact is, this will still be a
Victorian house once you've buffed it up,' he says.
'It'll look the way it looked the day it was built --
an unspoiled Victorian house, restored to its original
glory.'
Record time, and word perfect.
A disloyal thought passes through my mind:
is this why Stuart has been determined, since we
bought 17 Weldon Road, to tackle the outside first
and leave the redecorating of inside until later? So
that all the neighbours who can't afford to have their
brickwork sandblasted, including Mr Fahrenheit,


can start to envy us without delay? I wanted to have
the inside done first because it's where we live, but
Stuart wouldn't hear of it. In the end I capitulated,
worried that I might develop an aversion to him if I
heard him say 'the fabric of the building' one more
time.
'What if Mr Fahrenheit complains about Imran's
noise?' I ask him, surprised I didn't think of it
before. 'It puts us in a weaker position if our house is
generating as much noise during the day as his does
at night.'
Imran's shaking his head. 'Everyone has the right
to do work to their home during working hours.
If he tries to stop you, he'll fail. I've seen it happen
time and again. Sometimes council jobsworths come
and have a poke around, but I've never been stopped
midway through a job and I'm confident I never will
be.'
'Lou's got a point, though,' Stuart says. 'This
guy works from home a lot. There's no doubt we'll
disturb him.' He turns to me. 'Perhaps you should
ring the council first thing tomorrow morning and
withdraw your complaint.'
'What? Why would I do that?' Another small grey
pebble, poised at the top of the chute, ready for the long roll-down.
'Well, it's hardly fair, is it?' Stuart says. 'Whatever
position the council might take, and even if Imran's


right, if we're going to subject Fahrenheit to weeks
of sandblasting noise, perhaps we should wait to
complain until it's over and we're no longer noise
pests ourselves. Otherwise it looks hypocritical.'
'No,' says Imran firmly. 'You're comparing two
things that aren't equivalent. One's legitimate noise,
the other isn't. When it comes to noisy neighbours,
you show no mercy. Appeasing them never works.'
'I'm not planning to appease anybody,' I say. Not Mr
Fahrenheit, not my husband and not Imran. 'I was thinking
that maybe we should delay the sandblasting. Or even
cancel it altogether.' Since I have made the effort to
attend this meeting, I might as well say what I really
think. 'I'm sorry, Imran, I know this is the last thing
you want to hear, having come all this way --'
'Don't worry about me, Lou. It's no problem at
all. I've got jobs to last me two years. Believe me, a
cancellation's always welcome --'
'Whoa, hold on.'' says Stuart. 'No one s cancelling
anything.'
'I might be,' I remind him.
'Lou, you're overreacting. Until all this happened
with Fahrenheit--'
'That's irrelevant, Stuart. That was before. It has happened, and it's 
convinced me I don't want to live
next door to him. Imran, this is nothing to do with
you or your work. I know you'd do a fantastic job, but


what's the point in our spending the money, really, if
we're not staying?'
'Imran. We're not cancelling you.' Stuart's words
gang up with the tone of his voice to pull rank. As
if nothing I've said matters. 'We want you to start
as soon as possible, for the very reason Lou gave. It
seems we might end up selling the house, if Lou's
serious about escaping from Fahrenheit no matter
what --'
'Why you do keep saying "Lou" as if it's just me?
What about you? Do you want to live next door to
a man who persecutes us in the middle of the night
with the sound of choirboys?'
' What? says Imran.
Stuart closes his eyes. 'Long story.'
'Well, not that long,' I say.
'I'm sure it was just a one-off,' Stuart insists.
He obviously doesn't want Imran to hear the story,
whatever its length.
'You have no way of knowing that!'
'Even if we decide we want to move, spending
thirty grand on the sandblasting now is absolutely
the right thing to do. It'll add at least fifty grand to
the value. Probably more, on a street like this, so
close to the station.'
'He's right, Lou. And bear in mind I'm doing this
for mate's rates.'


'Right. So, we go ahead. Proceed as planned.'
Stuart drums the flats of his hands on the table,
rocking it and spilling my tea. I reach for the section
of the Sunday Times that's nearest to me, and lay it
down over the small beige puddle. I hope it's the
news section. I further hope that Stuart hasn't read
it yet and now won't be able to.
The liquid soaks all the way through to the top,
despite the segment of newspaper being several pages
thick. I turn it over and see that it's the property
section -- my favourite. I haven't read it yet and now
won't be able to. Does what goes around normally
come around so quickly?
'So you're prepared to be in the dark for a while?'
Imran asks.
'In the dark?' I say.
He looks at Stuart, puzzled. 'You didn't tell her?'
'It went right out of my head, I'm afraid. It
won't be for long, will it? And I mean... we've got
electricity. And candles in the event of a power cut.'
'So?' I stare at him. 'Now that you've remembered,
are you going to tell me what you're talking about?'
Stuart looks at Imran, who says, 'There's going
to be scaffolding up all round the house. You knew
that, right?'
I nod.
'We're going to need to cover the scaffolding with


thick plastic sheeting, front and back, and cover the
windows with cardboard, tape them up. You're not
going to be seeing much natural daylight until we re
finished, I'm afraid. But hopefully since you're at
work all day it won't make that much difference. And
with the nights drawing in --'
'No natural daylight,' I repeat, looking at Stuart.
I'm very aware of my heartbeat, suddenly. He wants
to bury us alive. I feel as if it's happened already. The
room seems darker than it did a few seconds ago.
'That's the advantage of the nights drawing in,'
Imran says cheerfully. What is? I missed it, if there
was one. I didn't hear anything I liked the sound of.
'Disadvantage is, the job's going to take a lot longer
than it would in summer, because we can't work in
the dark. So I'm afraid you're going to be stuck with
our scaffolding and sheeting for a while.'
'Can't you do it in sections?' I ask. 'Cover the
windows one floor at a time, or do the back first and
then the front?'
'Sorry,' Imran says. 'It's just not the way we work.'
'Even if customers want you to work a different
way?'
'Lou,' Stuart mutters.
Tt'd double the costs if we had to get the scaffolders
out twice,' says Imran.
'Then we'll pay double!'


'No, we won't,' says Stuart. 'Lou, don't be crazy.
It'll be fine. Like Imran says, you're at work all day --'
'Not at weekends! And what about the Christmas
holidays? Joseph will be home then.' I turn to Imran.
'Will you be finished by the fourteenth of December?
I'm not bringing my son home to a house with no
natural light. I'm not! I'll tear the plastic sheeting off
myself if I have to.'
'It's unlikely to be finished that soon,' says Imran.
'Sandblasting's a fiddly job if you do it right -- and I'm
a perfectionist. Look, call me oversensitive, but the
vibe I'm getting isn't one of unbridled enthusiasm.
Maybe you two need to--'
'We need to go ahead and get it done,' Stuart
insists, cutting him off.
It isn't only the light that we'll lose. The views will
go too. Nothing but blackness at every window.
'There must be an alternative,' I say, panic building
inside me. 'I'm not agreeing to this if it means living
wrapped up in a dark box for months. I'll move out!
You can live in the dark on your own,' I snap at Stuart.
'Lou.' He puts his hand over mine. Looks worried.
'You're tired, and you're massively overreacting.'
'You are a bit, Lou,' Imran agrees. 'I've been doing
this for years. People get used to the no-light thing.
Honestly -- you'll be surprised how soon it seems
normal. And if we don't do it, we'll have people


queuing up to complain within half an hour of us
starting the work. If you were in the depths of the
countryside with no neighbours for miles around, we
could forget the sheeting and you could keep your
light, but...' He shrugs.
Countryside: the word lodges in my brain. I heard
it very recently. Where? No, I didn't hear it; I read it.
On wet newsprint.
I look down at the tea-stained Sunday Times 'Home'
supplement in front of me and see a full-page
advertisement for something called Swallowfield:
'Where Putting Nature First is Second Nature'. No,
that can't be right. Swallowfield must be its name,
whatever it is, and the rest is advertising. 'The perfect
peaceful countryside retreat, only two hours from
London.' There's a background picture of fields
at dusk, separated by hedges; a row of trees in the
distance; a sunset of purple and orange streaks. On
top of this, blocking out parts of the idyllic scene,
are three other pictures in small boxes: a woman's
bare tanned back with a row of round black stones
dotting her spine and a white towel covering her
obviously toned bottom; a large outdoor swimming
pool with water that looks dark green and stone
fountains at its four corners pouring new water
into it; and a long, one-storey house that seems to
be made almost wholly of glass with only the odd


strip of metal holding all the glass together. The
caption reads: 'Our award-winning Glass House'. It's
beautiful. Like a jewel, with nothing around it but
green emptiness.
I like all the words I can see on this page. I like
them a lot more than what Stuart and Imran are
saying.
A gated second~home community in the Culver Valley. That
might be two hours from London -- a little bit more,
actually, more like two and a half -- but it's only an
hour from Cambridge.
The perfect peaceful countryside retreat.
Our heated outdoor green slate 25~metre swimming pool,
open to residents and their guests 365 days a year.
A hot stone treatment at our award~winning £YO~million
Lumina Spa.
There's a phone number. For a sales office. I tear
my eyes away and look up, aware that I don't want
to get caught. Now my heart is beating too fast not
with dread but because of a phone number. I wonder
why I feel guilty. Since the number doesn't belong to
another man, I have no reason to.
Imran is still talking. 'It's up to you if you want
to take the risk,' he says, 'but on a street like this,
with people waiting to jump down our throats if we
put a foot wrong, I'd suggest we wrap you up good
and tight, or else there'll be dust clouds in all your


neighbours' houses and spilling out all over the road.
Did Stuart warn you about the dust?'
'No. He didn't.'
'I'm sure I did!
'How much dust?' I ask.
'A not insignificant amount,' Imran says earnestly.
'We'll do our best to protect you by taping up the
windows as thoroughly as we can, but... realistically,
you're going to be living with dust for a while.'
Dust. Taped-up windows. No air, no light. This is how
I might be warned about death -- in exactly this
way, with qualifications like 'realistically' and 'not
insignificant'. As if nothing horrifying is about to
take place. Terror lands in my heart from nowhere,
without warning, and grips me. For a few seconds I
can't breathe or speak. Silently, in my head, I recite
what I hope are the magic words, and what Stuart
would say: One day the work on my house will end and, when
it does, the light will return and the dust will go away.
I have to make it clear to Stuart that the
sandblasting can't happen. Later, when Imran's gone.
He has already witnessed more than enough marital
disharmony.
The perfect peaceful countryside retreat.
'I promise you, Lou -- it'll be worth it,' he says.
Stuart nods along.
Where putting nature first is second nature.


'I know.' I realise too late that I shouldn't have
said that, but my mind is busy trying to memorise
Swallowfield's phone number.

I

Dr Ivan Freeman, Saviour College School's director
of music, has the kind of beard I hate. It's tidy and
shaped and dense, as if someone has fitted a rust
coloured carpet with a high pile count around his
mouth. I see it every Sunday morning, and also on
Tuesday and Thursday evenings. During term time it
is not possible for me to see my son without seeing
Dr Freeman's beard at the same time. I've started to dread its appearance, even 
though the first sighting of
it on any given day means that I will soon see Joseph.
I'm trying to picture it now, before Dr Freeman and
the choir arrive, to prepare myself.
Stuart and I are sitting where we always sit in
Saviour's chapel on Sundays,Tuesdays andThursdays.
All the choirboy parents have fixed places that they
rush to as soon as the chapel doors open: the ones
that offer the best views of their sons, each of whom
always stands in precisely the same spot to sing.
Our sons.
We, the parents, arrive first: before our boys and
before the rest of the congregation. We hurry into


the cold, silent chapel, not giving a toss about its
beautiful stained-glass windows or the elaborate
woodcarvings on its centuries-old panelled walls
because those things have nothing to do with our
children, and we sit on hard benches, awaiting the
agonising proximity. Were excited because were
about to be close to our sons for a short while, and
already devastated because we know this blissful state
will last only forty-five minutes, or an hour, or two
hours if there's a buffet lunch afterwards as there is
today.
And we won't be close enough; we'll be trapped,
by custom and politeness, in our pews, several metres
away, unable to hug our boys as we yearn to: audience,
not participants. Dr Freeman will be closer. When
todays festivities are over, he will lead our sons away
into the recesses of the school, and we won't see them
again until the next service.
Perhaps not all the parents feel the way I do. I
know Stuart doesn't. He's always delighted to see
Joseph, but ready and willing to say goodbye to him
when the time comes. As long as he's happy, Lou, I'm happy,
and he's quite clearly in his element.
I don't want Joseph to be in his element. I want
him to be in his house. Sleeping in his bed every
night.
It would sound sexist, so I never say it, but I don't


care how Stuart or any of the fathers feel. They're
men. It's different. I wonder about the mothers: how
many of them loathe the set-up as much as I do? I'm
particularly suspicious of the ones who stridently
parrot the lines we've all been fed by Dr Freeman, the
chaplain and the headmaster about how lucky we all
are and how grateful we ought to be. I secretly hope
that one day one of them will crack -- ideally during
an important service -- and scream abuse at the top
of her lungs before grabbing her son and making a
run for it.
I only know three of the mothers by name: Celia
Morris, Donna McSorley and Alexis Grant. All
of them arrived before me today for the first time.
This bothers me. I want to be first into the chapel,
always, seconds after the doors open to the public. I
want the chaplain to notice that I come earlier and
wait longer than anyone else, and I want him to pass
this information on to Dr Freeman, who, if he's
ever tempted to release one boy only, like a terrorist
holding a room full of hostages at gunpoint in an
action movie, might be more likely to choose Joseph
if he's heard about my extended, devoted vigils.
I know this is superstitious rubbish; I might as
well believe in elves or fairies. Dr Freeman isn't as
willing to compromise as the average Hollywood
hostage-taker, who has his crazed and trigger-happy


moments, true, but who ultimately is usually prepared
to set free the occasional frail old man or pregnant
woman.
I noticed Alexis Grant smirking as Stuart and I
hurried in, cutting it fine thanks to our meeting with
Imran. She's worked out that I like to be earlier than
early, and is pleased that on this occasion I've messed

UPI
knew I didn't like Alexis ten minutes into my
first conversation with her. She asked me where I
lived and, when I said Weldon Road, she pulled a
face and said, 'Oh, poor you, stuck in the centre of
Cambridge. Have you got one of those big Victorian
town houses?'Without giving me a chance to reply, she
went on: 'Let me guess -- a maintenance nightmare?
With a tiny garden, right?' I told her we didn't have
a garden as such -- only a small courtyard -- and
watched the delight spread across her face. 'We've got
two acres,' she said proudly. 'In Orwell. I wouldn't
swap it for anything.' I thought, but didn't say, that
I wasn't offering to swap. When I told Stuart later,
he snorted and said, 'There's one thing you can say in
Orwell's favour. Only one. It's close to Cambridge.
That's it.'
Celia Morris is less obnoxious than Alexis, but
equally irritating. She's a timid, insecure woman
who seems prepared to worship, instantly, anyone


who dares to express an opinion, or, indeed, to do
anything. Shortly after meeting me, she got it into
her head that I was a brave warrior who feared
nothing and no one -- I've no idea on what basis she
formed this opinion -- and now whenever she sees me
she says the same thing in a new way: 'Look at me,
I'm soaked! I forgot my umbrella. I'm so useless. You
probably never forget your umbrella, do you? I bet
the rain wouldn't dare to fall on you even if you did.'
Or: 'I would kiss you hello but I've got a streaming
cold. I'm not like you -- you probably never get ill.
Look at you, you're the picture of health.' She makes
these absurd pronouncements in a tone of deep
admiration, with a fawning smile on her face, and
if I try to point out that I'm capable of getting as
wet or sick as the next person, she smiles even more
adoringly and says, 'I can't believe how modest you
are.' I would love to say to her one day, 'Celia, you
know literally nothing about me. What on earth are
you talking about?' She would either burst into tears
and run from the room, or giggle affectionately and
say, 'You're so funny. I wish I had a sense of humour
like yours.'
Donna McSorley is by far the best of the three:
a plump solicitor with an apparently endless supply
of too-tight suits that show a lot of cleavage, and
chaotic hair that she always wears not entirely down


and not entirely up, with lots of bands and clips and
bits sprouting out at odd angles, like a character from
a Dr Seuss book. She has an enormous mountain
of a second husband who dresses like an aristocratturned-vagrant
-- expensive but scruffy -- and whom
she clearly adores. The first time he came to a choir
service, she propelled him towards me, one hand on
his back and one on his stomach, calling out, 'Louise!
Have you met my lovely man?' They giggled and
kissed while the boys were singing.
I would never admit it to a single soul, but it
bothers me that Donna, whom I hardly know, has
a new husband that she is so enthusiastic about.
I'm jealous of her second helpings. I don't want to
divorce Stuart, but, all other things being equal, I
think -- no, I know -- that I would love to have a
second husband I adored enough to introduce to
people as 'my lovely man', with my hand on his belly.
I would like to have the chance to choose a husband
now that I'm older and know how expertly I would
choose, leaving nothing to chance.
According to Alexis Grant, Donna's first husband
was a disaster: violent, alcoholic, unfaithful, racist.
All the bad things. 'Did she add "unimpressed
by Orwell"?' Stuart asked when I relayed this
information. I smile as I remember laughing at the
time. My first husband is witty and clever and loves


me. He doesn't drink too much, doesn't cheat on me,
isn't violent, isn't racist, seems always to be in the same
stable good mood. He has a steady and important job
that I'm in awe of: Applications Group Manager for
the Cambridge Crystallographic Data Centre. Alexis
didn't like it when I told her that. Her own fault: if
she hadn't demanded to know why we'd chosen to
live in the noisy centre of the city, I wouldn't have
been forced to mention Stuart's two-minute walk to
work and what that work was.
The organ starts to play. My heart springs up in
my chest. This means Joseph is here: outside, in the
antechapel. We wait. The minutes feel like weeks.
Then the doors to the main chapel open and Dr
Freeman walks in, with his carpet-beard, smiling an
I've-got-all-your-sons smile. Two columns of sombre
faced boys follow him in, dressed in red cassocks
with white surplices over the top and holding black
files full of today's hymns, songs and prayers. I am
desperate to catch a glimpse of Joseph, but I know it
will be a while before he moves into view. As a junior
probationer, he is at the back of the line. When he
finally appears, I gasp. He looks healthy and happy.
Radiant. Stuart puts a restraining hand on my arm. It's okay, I want to say to 
him. I'm not going to do anything
crazy.
Joseph smiles up at us. I smile back and wave. At


this point Stuart always looks at me anxiously, to
check I'm not crying, and today is no exception. A
few of the mothers always cry, smiling furiously at
the same time to make it clear that these are happy
aren't-we-lucky tears, not the kind that are likely to
cause problems for the school.
My eyes are swollen, with red-mouthed wound
grins beneath them, but dry. Crying would be too
risky. There's a fiery ball of outrage inside me that
would blind me if I were to let any of it pour out.
Dr Freeman would only need to catch one glimpse
and he would guess that I'm secretly plotting the
destruction of his career, Saviour College, its school,
its choir, its reputation -- everything it has worked for
hundreds of years to consolidate.
Joseph's hair shines. His shoes are scuffed. His
face, pale and oval-shaped, draws all the light in the
chapel to it and is the only one I see. Beside him, all
the other boys look like cardboard cut-outs.
When the chaplain starts to sing the Opening
Responses, I tear my eyes away from my son and look
up and down the pews to check that Mr Fahrenheit
isn't here. Silly; why would he be?
Because it's another thing he could do to intimidate you: a
variation on a theme.
Some elements of the service are always the same,
and these are by far my favourite bits. I am starting


to think of them as part of my son. I have no choice
but to love them if he's singing them whenever I
see him. Not the psalm: that's different every time.
Today, it contains a line explicitly stating that only
he who does no evil to his neighbour will sojourn in
the Lord's holy tent. Hear that, Mr Fahrenheit? No holy
tent for you, just a great big theological 'Fuck Off' sign at the
entrance flap.
After the reading of the psalm, the chaplain says,
'Let us now offer to God our prayers and petitions.'
Like the Opening Responses, this is a regular
feature, but I don't love it because Joseph isn't part
of it -- it's one of the chaplain's solo pieces. No
tune either.
'This morning we pray for the sick and the injured.
We pray for Betty Carter, Andrew Saunders, Heather
Aspinall...'
I block out the names, and pray only for my son
to be allowed to come home with me today after the
service.
'We pray for the recently deceased, and in particular, for the repose of the 
souls of Dennis
Halliday, Timothy Laws, Edith Kelly...'
I pray that Joseph will suddenly be found to be
tone-deaf, so that he can no longer be a member of
Saviour College boys' choir. So that he can be sent
home.


'...We pray for peace on earth, but also for the
establishment of justice, without which there can be
no peace.'
'That's debatable,' I whisper to Stuart.
'Ssh,' he says.
'Peace will have to stand on its own two feet, since
no one's ever going to agree on a definition of justice,
let alone bring it into being.'
'Can we discuss this later?'
'I hate the way he veers from the sad death of
a congregation member's auntie or gran to global
misery and... massive abstract platitudes,' I mutter.
I say this every Sunday. On Tuesdays and Thursdays,
for variety, I bitch about the words of the endlessly
repeated Magnificat: 'He hath filled the hungry with
good things, and the rich he hath sent empty away.' It
sounds vindictive, and makes no sense, because those
sent empty away will soon constitute the new hungry.
Will the Lord feed them then? How hungry would
they have to be to qualify? Does God want everyone
to be equally well fed, or is he more interested in
punishing the privileged for their good fortune
thus far? That's certainly how it sounds, especially
in conjunction with 'He hath put down the mighty
from their seat'. Are we to assume God has Bolshevik
tendencies?
I'm prepared to concede that whoever wrote those


lines of the Magnificat probably didn't intend them to
sound as bad as they do, but still -- a quick edit could
have solved the problem. 'He hath filled the hungry
with good things, and the rich he hath pointed in the
direction of a Michelin-starred restaurant, knowing
they'll be well catered for there.'
'Lord in thy mercy...' intones the chaplain.
That's our cue. 'Hear our prayer,' we all say in
unison. I like that bit: saying the same words as my
son. I try to breathe in his breath from across the
room.
'We pray for individuals who have asked for our
prayers, and for those for whom prayers have been
asked by others: Cath and Dan Taylor, Margaret,
Elsie...'
Worried he's upset me by trying to shut me up,
Stuart leans over and whispers, 'I bet Elsie's the one
who's asked for the prayer for herself. She sounds like
a rampant egotist.'
I smile.
'On the anniversaries of their deaths, we pray for
Nora Wallis, Anne Dobson, Peter Turner, Emma
Kobayashi. Lord in thy mercy...'
'Hear our prayer.'
Stuart says into my ear, '"We pray for the
prosecution of Mr Fahrenheit, who has totally asked
for it with his crap and inconsiderate behaviour over


several months." I dare you to write that in the big
blue prayer book on your way out.'
'I'd do it,' I whisper back. 'Would you?'
'I might.'
'I dare you.'
'All right. I will. If you promise never to tell
Joseph. Have you mentioned Mr Fahrenheit to
anyone connected with Saviour? By that name?'
'I've not mentioned him at all.'
'Good. Then there's no way they can link it with
Joseph.'
'You're not really going to do it, are you?'
'Why not?' says Stuart. 'I'll disguise my writing.'
'There's no way he'd ever read it out, even if you
left out the word "crap".'
'Doesn't matter,' Stuart whispers. 'Once it's in the
big blue book, it's between me and the Lord.'
I stifle a giggle. Joseph gives me a pointed look: his
embarrassing mother.
I love my husband a little bit more than I did
when we arrived. For the first time in this chapel
since Joseph started at Saviour, and thanks to Stuart,
I was separated from my anger and misery for long
enough to laugh.
'Imagine if I murdered Fahrenheit and wrote his
name in the blue book under "Recent Deaths RIP",'
Stuart says quietly behind his hand. 'That'd get read


out. You'd hear the chaplain praying for the repose
of the soul of Justin Clay and you'd turn to me in
astonishment. Then you'd see the look in my eyes --
the knowing glint -- and you'd realise I'd killed him,
and this was my way of telling you -- I'd have used
the chaplain as a conduit for my confession, without
his knowledge.'
'And then I'd stand up and shout, "May his soul
burn in hell",' I suggest, not liking my passive role
in Stuart's story. Which isn't to say that I don't like
it as a whole; I do. I don't care if he's going all out
to please me, and only because he feels guilty about
the sandblasting and the dust and his ability to sleep
through noise. He has a talent for making me want
to forgive him.
This is why God, if he exists, will never allocate
me a second husband. Donna only got one because
her first was so unremittingly awful. That must be
the deal: you either get an execrable one followed by
a second who is close to perfection, or you get one
for life who makes you feel abandoned and let down
one minute, and rescued from painful exile the next.
I'm not sure I still wouldn't rather swap my deal
for Donna's.

I



The buffet is in Saviour's cavernous and subterranean
Old Kitchen. It's high-quality boring: the best volau-vents
and little sausages, the creamiest coleslaw,
the most expensive chicken legs, quiches and sliced
baguettes, but nothing I couldn't have predicted, and
not only because it's identical to every other Saviour
buffet I've attended.
We parents are waiting for our sons again. Joseph
and the other choristers and probationers are getting
changed out of their cassocks and surplices, into
what they call their 'play clothes'. Its another part of
the routine that I resent. What does it matter what
they're wearing? Give them to us, O Lord, for ten
minutes longer.
'I'm not sure I can eat this lunch again,' I complain
to Alexis, whose one useful characteristic is that if
you feel like bitching about something, she usually
joins in enthusiastically.
'It's Groundhog Lunch,' she says. Dr Freeman
is chortling loudly on the other side of the room,
through his Groundhog Beard. A circle of parents
has gathered round him. It includes my treacherous
husband.
'Next time, I'm going to bring my own supplies
from the Botanic Gardens cafe,' I tell Alexis as I pick
up a vol-au-vent I have no appetite for and put it on
my plate.


'You don't like it there, do you?' She wrinkles her
nose.
1 love it. I go most days for lunch. The food's
really different, in a good way. Last time I went, I
had sweet potato and cottage cheese salad -- it was
delicious.'
'If you say so. Sounds gross to me. You're making
me like the look of those chicken legs a whole lot
more.' She laughs, picks one up with a paper napkin
and starts to nibble at it.
I ought to drop the subject, but I can't resist
saying, 'The Botanies cafe also does soup, pork pie,
lovely cakes -- do you like any of those? And you can
sit and eat with a fantastic view of beautiful gardens.
You like gardens, don't you?'
'I can look at my own garden for free, thank you
very much. Four quid a time, just to get through the
gates, when it used to be free? No, thanks.'
Alexis is as predictable as Saviour's buffets. She
can't admit that the Botanic Gardens have anything
worthwhile to offer because they're in Cambridge.
Also counting against them is their proximity to
my house and to my office, which reminds Alexis,
presumably, that she's stuck out in Orwell, miles
from where she and her husband work, at KPMG.
Coincidentally, that's also very close to the Botanic
Gardens: just across Hills Road.


'She'd be a lot happier if she just admitted she'd
love to live in Cambridge but can't afford to,' Stuart
has said more than once. 'You should tell her.'
'Here are the boys!' a female voice calls out, and
then they flood in, running towards their parents. All
over the room, small arms fling themselves round
waists. Not Joseph's; he's heading for the buffet,
shouting, 'Hi, Mum! Hi, Dad!' with his eyes on the
cocktail sausages. I walk over to him and give him
a big hug, hardly able to bear the joy and pain that
spring up inside me: the way each recoils like the head
of a snake as it senses the presence of the other and
prepares to fight to the death, having forgotten that
this always ends the same way; the winner is always
the same -- less deserving but stronger.
Does it ever get any easier? I could ask some of
the older choristers' mothers, but I'm afraid to, in
case they look puzzled and say, 'Why, are you finding
it difficult?' and make me feel like a freak.
Perhaps Stuart's right. Perhaps I'm too invested
in Joseph, too dependent on him. Except, in my
defence, I'm sure I wouldn't be if only I had the
standard eighteen years in which to learn to let go.
No one warned me I'd have to do it in seven.
'You were brilliant, darling,' I say, holding on to
him. He wriggles free. I never used to do this: crush
him against my body at every opportunity and keep


him there too long, so that he feels he has to escape.
Saviour College School has created the problem of
my clinginess; this time last year, it didn't exist.
'You always say I'm brilliant, Mum. Because you're
my mum.' He seems fine. Happy. Exactly as he used
to be. No harm has come to him. That's good; I can
use it to console myself later, when he's gone.
'You're always brilliant, that's why,' I say. All around
me, I hear parents saying the same thing to their sons.
I wonder how many of them have wished for sudden
tone-deafness to put an end to the brilliance. None
as acutely as I have, I'm sure.
'Mum, you know you said I wasn't allowed to have
high-tops?'
'What?'
Joseph grabs a handful of small sausages and tries
to put them all in his mouth at once. One falls to the
floor. I cover it with my foot and crush it into the
carpet.
'Mum!'Joseph chastises me, looking left and right
to check no one noticed. 'And you and Dad were
talking during the service! I saw you.'
'Sorry,' I say.
'I'll let you off if you buy me some high-tops,' he
says hope fully.
'What are they?'
'You know, those trainers I wanted from Sports


Direct -- you said you'd read somewhere that they're
bad for your feet or your ankles? Well, they're not.
Louis wears high-tops all the time and he says it's not
true. I've seen his feet and ankles and there's nothing
wrong with them.' Louis is Donna McSorley's son.
Like Joseph, he's a junior probationer.
It would be too easy to say, 'There's nothing
wrong with his feet and ankles yet, but you watch --
he's sure to be disfigured in later life because he wore
the wrong trainers.' I don't know if there's anything
dangerous about high-tops and I never did; I added
a half-remembered rumour about the lace-up knee
length boots I wore as a teenage Goth to my desire
to leave Sports Direct as soon as possible; the ankleand-foot-damage
line was what I came up with.
I can't admit this, so I say, 'You can probably have
some high-tops, yes. Maybe for Christmas.'
'Really?' Joseph looks astonished. 'Epic!'
'What's epic?' Stuart asks, joining us. He ruffles
Joseph's hair: a typical 'affectionate father' gesture
that could have come from a manual. I want a demonstration
of my husband's passionate love for our son,
not something that looks as if it's been inspired by a
building society advertisement.
Alexis Grant tugs at my sleeve. 'You're number
nineteen Weldon Road, aren't you?' she says.
'No. Seventeen. Why?'


TOO
She taps the screen of her iPhone. 'Christmas card
list,' she says.
I don't believe her. If she wanted to send me a
Christmas card she could hand it to me after a choir
service any time between now and 25 December.
'Well, if you're delivering by hand, there's no
number on the door. Just look for the dirtiest, most
pollution-stained house on the street.'
She perks up like a dog at the mention of walkies,
eager to hear me list more of my house's faults.
'Still, not for long.' I proceed swiftly to my punchline:
'We've having the brickwork cleaned, starting a
week tomorrow. It'll look amazing once that's done.'
'My mum says I can have some high-tops for
Christmas,' Joseph tells Nathan and another boy who
has wandered over: Sebby, I think. I don't know his
surname.
'Epic,' they both say in unison. Then Sebby turns
to Nathan and says, 'Jinx padlock.''
'You've been padlocked,' Joseph tells Nathan, as
if this is something serious and final that cannot be
revoked.
My son has become bilingual in the languages of
school and home.
I see Dr Freeman approaching and feel my skeleton
stiffen, as if its hardness can protect me from the
inside. Instead of saying, 'Hello, Mrs Beeston,' or


IOI
'Hi, Louise,' he says, 'And here's Joseph's mum,' as he
sidles up to me. I would so love to reply, 'And here's
Joseph's choirmaster.'
'The boys did well this morning,' I say instead.
'Didn't they?' Dr Freeman beams. 'I think it
was the best service so far this term. They've
made amazing progress in only a few weeks -- it's
incredible, actually.'
I wouldn't go that far. They sang a few songs. Nicely. How
hard can it he?
'Our junior probationers are quick learners this
year. It makes a big difference. Joseph's coming on in
leaps and bounds.'
'That's great to hear,' Stuart gushes. 'Working
hard, is he?'
'I could probably work harder,' Joseph says.
'He's extremely committed,' says Dr Freeman,
and my son looks relieved. 'All the new boys are. It's
wonderful. Don't let all this praise go to your head,
young man.' He pats Joseph on the shoulder, then
turns to me. 'I know it's hard for parents at first, but
I hope you can see there's no need to worry, Mrs
Beeston. Joseph's blossoming.'
'Yes, he seems ...' This is the most I can manage,
and it nearly chokes me. It will have to do. In order
to avoid looking at Dr Freeman, I turn to my left
and stare at Alexis's back instead. She's talking to


the organ scholar, Tobias, about something he has
applied for or is about to apply for.
Blossoming. He could have said 'getting along fine'
or 'settling in nicely', but he chose to say 'blossoming'
instead: a word that brings to mind a flower suddenly
bathed in light and water, with plenty of room to
grow after years of confinement in suboptimal
conditions. The arrogance takes my breath away.
'Oh, I can Google it for you,' Alexis says to Tobias.
Before she has a chance to key anything in, I see the
screen of her phone over her shoulder. On it is my
address, the price Stuart and I paid for our house and
the purchase date. I read the line beneath and see that
number 27 Weldon Road sold in November 2011
for £989,950. To the Shamirs. It doesn't say that on
Alexis's phone, but I know Salma Shamir; we go to
the same yoga class.
It takes me a few seconds, but I get there in the
end: a sold-house prices website. I've heard about
them, but never seen one before.
I tap Alexis on the shoulder blade and she turns
round. 'We'd have gone up to one point five million if
we'd had to,' I say in a matey, confiding voice, nodding
at her phone's screen. Since she seems at a loss for
words, I help her out by saying, 'In your shoes, I'd
still send me a Christmas card, however embarrassing
it might be. Not sending one'd be worse.'


I turn back to Dr Freeman and Stuart, who are
talking about a national classical composition prize
for under-twelves. Joseph, Nathan and Sebby have wandered off to the far end of 
the buffet table where
the cakes are. I wait for a gap in the conversation and
say, 'I've been thinking about the boarding thing.'
Stuart widens his eyes at me: a clear 'Stop' signal.
'The boarding requirement. For choristers,' I
clarify.
'Yes.' Dr Freeman looks solemn. 'I know you had
your reservations when we spoke in the summer --'
'Only that it's taken to such an extreme. I
don't mind the idea of boarding per se, but I was
wondering -- would it be possible to consider a
minor modification to the system, to reflect more of
a balance?' I smile brightly. Stuart will tell me later
that I wasted my breath and made a fool of myself; I
ought to know that no aspect of the Saviour College
choirboy routine has changed since the early 1700s. I
should infer from this, as everyone else seems to, that
it never will.
'Balance?' says Dr Freeman. The expression on
his face -- one of genuine open-minded enquiry --
is flawless. From years of practice, no doubt. I can't
believe I'm the first mother to suggest change, or
complain.
'Yes, between the school's need to have the boys 104
on site as much as possible and the need for them
to have a proper home life,' I say. 'I mean, what if
during term time they boarded for four nights a week
and lived at home for three, for example? They could
still have choir practice four out of seven mornings
before school -- mightn't that be enough?'
Ah. Oh, dear.' Dr Freefnan smiles sympathetically.
I'm sorry if you're finding it hard to adjust to Joseph
not being at home. It really will get easier, you know.'
'Yes, but one way to make it easier would be to
change the rules, wouldn't it?' I say. 'Just because
something's always been done one way--'
'We believe it's for a sound reason, Mrs Beeston.
The choirboys have so much on their plates -- so
much more than our non-chorister pupils, probably
double the workload. It just wouldn't be feasible for
them to be ferried back and forth from home to
school every day, I'm afraid --'
'I didn't say every day --'
'It would be so disruptive.'
'What about five, two then? Five nights at school,
two at home.'
'They need the boys living at school during
term time, Lou,' Stuart intervenes. 'Otherwise they
wouldn't make it a requirement.'
1 accept that you and Dr Freeman think that,
darling, and that you might be right and I might be


i°5
wrong,' I say in a Sunday-best voice that I've never
used before. Nor have I ever called Stuart 'darling',
nor sided against him with people who are trying
to steal his child for no good reason. 'What I'm
asking is -- is it possible to get this on to some kind
of... school agenda, so that it can be debated by
everyone with a stake, including the parents and the
boys? If I'm outvoted, I'll concede defeat, but I think
it's something that ought to be reviewed.'
'Mrs Beeston, I really wouldn't want to raise your
hopes --'
'You haven't. And I'm sure you won't.'
'Give it a few more weeks. I'd be very surprised if
you didn't feel happier by then.'
'You're misunderstanding me. You don't need
to worry about my emotional state -- that's my
responsibility, not yours.'
'Lou, for God's sake. I'm sorry, Dr Freeman.'
'For what?' I ask. 'Taking the Lord's name in vain,
or me asking a reasonable question?'
'It's quite all right, Mr Beeston. No need to
apologise.'
'It's a simple procedural question, Dr Freeman.
How would I go about raising this as a topic for
discussion, so that opinions can be solicited from all
the appropriate parties?'
'There's always Jesus College,' Alexis suggests from


behind me. 'The Jesus choristers all live at home.'
I didn't realise she was listening.
Everyone is listening.
'It's not the same,' says a mother whose name I
don't know. She sounds nervous. 'They don't get the
same fully rounded experience. Nipping to choir a
few times a week's not the same.'
Dr Freeman says, 'Jesus has an excellent choir.
Of course, I think ours is far superior, but then I'm
biased.' He chuckles. 'Now, parents, do come and
help yourselves to more food before your sons eat
it all'
Please, sir, can we have some more? As Oliver Twist
might have said. He was a boarder.
The five or six faces that looked anxious a few
seconds ago have reverted to bland, smiling normality;
Dr Freeman made a couple of light-hearted remarks
and now all is right in the world of the choir mothers
once again.
They would all vote against me. Even Donna,
probably. Because of history, because of tradition.
If one day Dr Freeman announced that, thanks to
advances in science, it was now possible to dig up
the original sixteen Saviour choirboys from 1712,
the first intake, and re-power their voices using
fragments of DNA found in their burial soil, the
choir mothers would probably all vote in favour of


that too, even if it meant their sons would have to be
sacked as choristers. 'I do love the sense of history
you get here,' they would warble from their cold pews
in chapel as the sound of the Magnificat rose from
sixteen piles of grey bone dust.
When Dr Freeman next looks in my direction, I
take the uneaten vol-au-vent off my plate and put it
down on the buffet table beside a large bowl of fruit
salad.

I

Stuart turns the car in to Weldon Road, then pulls in
by the kerb several hundred metres from our house.
We have driven this far in complete silence.
'Why are we stopping here? I thought we were
going home. Home's up there.' I point.
'Do you want to tell me what the hell you thought
you were playing at?' he asks.
'I want to go home. This isn't some kind of Mafia
style hit you and Dr Freeman have arranged, is it?'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'Sorry. I didn't realise jokes were forbidden.'
'Did I say that?' he snaps.
I decide to put it to the test. 'Everyone knows what
happens to women who say too much to the wrong
people. They're driven to unexpected destinations by


men who won't look them in the eye, and then shot.'
It has started to rain again. It is also sunny, in a
cold, bright, white way: jagged shiny patches all over
the sky. If Joseph were here, I would tell him to look
for a rainbow.
'I asked you a serious question,' says my serious
husband.
'If you mean what I said to Dr Freeman, I wasn't
playing at anything, f dared to suggest that something
might change, that's all. For the better.'
'I don't want to get a reputation as a troublemaker,
Lou.'
I laugh. 'I don't think there's much danger of
that. I'm sure you're already well established in Dr
Freeman's mind as the pushover of his dreams.'
'You were only asking, I suppose. Dr Freeman
surely can't hold that against us, can he? At least you
were straightforward.'
This must have been going on all the way home,
inside his head: his argument with himself about how
culpable I am. I should keep out of the discussion,
since I'm hardly impartial.
I can't.
'He has our son, Stuart. He has him right now. We
don't, and won't until the fourteenth of December at
four o'clock. I think that gives me the right to ask a
few questions, don't you?'


'Probably,' Stuart says grudgingly, as if he wishes
it weren't the case. 'I'd hate to think he'd... I don't
know, take against you and take it out on Joseph in
some way.'
'If you think that's a possibility, you should have
insisted on bringing Joseph home with us after lunch.'
'Based on what? Some groundless fear?'
Based on the principle that you remove your son from the
control of a man you don't trust.
'Look, fair enough -- you wanted to ask your
question and you asked it --'
'And was ignored.'
'No, you got your answer -- nothing's going to
change. And, frankly, I think you either accept that,
or--
'Did you write anything in the prayer book, about
Mr Fahrenheit?' I ask.
Stuart frowns at the interruption. 'What's that got
to do with anything?'
'You said you would.'
'Well... I will at some point, yes. Frankly, I
couldn't give a toss about Fahrenheit at the moment.
I'm talking about our son's education, our family --
that's more important. Lou, if we want to get on
with our life in any kind of sane and functional way,
your attitude to Saviour's going to have to--'
'Change,' I cut him short. 'I agree. I think there's a


no
way I might be able to feel okay about things.'
'Really?'
It's time for my pitch, the one I've been preparing
all the way home. I didn't expect to have to present it
so soon; at the same time, I can see the advantage of
putting it to Stuart here in the car rather than inside
the house. It feels more' appropriate somehow.
'You and Dr Freeman are right. Joseph's thriving.
Happy. He seems to have settled in very quickly.' It
pains me to admit this. 'And... Saviour's demonstrably
one of the best schools in the country, and he's
got a free place there. It would be wrong to pull him
out just because I hate him not living at home. Selfish.'
'Yesss,' Stuart hisses with relief. How lonely it must
have been for him, waiting for me to be reasonable.
As lonely as it was for me. If he had made any
concession to my feelings, even the tiniest, I would
never have attained this level of rationality.
I would never have reached the point of coldly
evaluating my bargaining power.
'So Joseph can stay -- at the school and in the
choir. Which will make you and Dr Freeman happy,
right?'
'It should make you happy too,' says Stuart.
'It possibly should, but it doesn't,' I tell him briskly.
'But let's not give up too easily. Maybe something
else could make me happy, or at least happier. I


in
need something, Stuart. However wonderful an
opportunity Saviour is for Joseph, I feel as if I've
suffered a devastating loss.'
'Loss?' If he could trap the word in a net and haul
it away, he would. 'Isn't that a bit strong? Joseph's
only down the road, not on another continent. We
see him three times a week --'
'I know the situation.' I raise my voice to block out
his words. 'If I can't have my way, at least allow me to
have my feelings.'
'I'm trying to make you feel better!'
It depresses me to think that this might be true. Is
my husband really so ineffectual? I'd prefer to think
of him as skilfully selfish. 'It's different for you,' I say.
'You've got what you want -- Joseph at Saviour, the
sandblasting of the house --'
Stuart laughs. 'What do you mean, I've "got" the
sandblasting of the house? That's a means to an end
that benefits us both. It's your house too.'
'I've given way on two things that really matter to
me -- my seven-year-old son effectively leaving home,
and the revamp of the outside of the house, which I
would very much like to cancel, except you won't let
me. So ... you've won. Twice.'
'That's absurd. It's not a competition, for goodness'
sake!'
I can't decide if he's being modest or unappreciative.


'You won,' I repeat. Td rather Joseph lived at home
and joined Jesus College choir instead. Id rather have
sooty brickwork like everyone else on the street, and
not have to live without natural light for months, in a
dust-trap. Also -- and I know this isn't an instance of
you winning in quite the same way but it still counts
-- you're not disturbed by Mr Fahrenheit's noise when
it happens. I am.'
Tm not sure what you're saying, Lou.'
That's because I haven't said it yet.
'Or why you're being so... weird and cold. Are
you angry with me?'
'I want us to buy a second home,' I say.
Rain comes at us on a slant, propelled by a strong
breeze. It hits with a loud splatter, like dozens of
transparent fingertips tapping on the windscreen.
'Don't be daft,' Stuart says.
'Why's it daft?'
'Where do you want me to start? We can't afford
it..:
'Yes, we can. Instead of using your gran's money
to pay off half our mortgage...'
'Lou, this is crazy! Of course we're going to
pay down the mortgage, soon as the fixed term
ends -- why wouldn't we? Were deeper in debt than
bloody... Greece! Manageable in the short term, but
we've got to get on top of it.'


'I've seen an advert for a gated second-home
community in the Culver Valley.' I don't want to tell
Stuart its name, not yet. In my head, Swallowfield is
already a magic word. 'It's in today's Times. I noticed
it when we were talking to Imran. Two words jumped
out at me -- "peaceful" and "retreat". '
'A gated community? Have you gone mad?'
'You have an objection to gates?' I ask. Counsel for
the prosecution. 'You've got a front door on your house,
haven't you? One you lock?'
'That's different.'
'Yes, it is,' I agree. 'Just not in a way that matters.'
'Lou.' Stuart exhales endlessly. 'You don't want
another house. This is nothing more than a reaction
to what happened last night with Fahrenheit --'
It doesn't need to be more. When I want food,
it's a reaction to hunger. Doesn't mean I don't really
need or want the food. I'm asking you to let me have
something I want, Stuart. Whether I'm right to want
it or not.'
'Lou, with the best will in the world, this is a want
that would cost hundreds of thousands of pounds!'
'An investment,' I say, standing firm. 'You lose
nothing. Long term, you stand to gain. But to be
honest, I don't really care what's in it for you.'
'That much is apparent,' Stuart mutters.
'I want this. Even just thinking about it this


morning has really... lifted my heart.' In case that
sounds like an empty cliche, I add, 'At a time when
it badly needed lifting and nothing else was even
coming close.'
Silence.
I can't bear to look at Stuart; if I saw anything but
understanding I might have to pack a suitcase and leave
him tonight. 'I think I deserve to be compensated for
losing every other battle and conceding defeat with
good grace,' I say. 'For noisy, broken nights, for my
missing child --'
'Joseph's not missing! We know exactly where he is.'
'... for the threat of taped-over windows and
darkness that's going to last for months. Do we?' I
turn on Stuart, twisting round in my seat. 'Do we
know exactly where Joseph is at this moment? Where
is he? Tell me. I'd like to know. Is he in the boarding
house common room? Playing football? Lying on his
bed? Where is he?'
Stuart puts his hands on the steering wheel. Grips
hard. The windows are starting to mist up. Soon we
won't be able to see our escape route: we might be
trapped in this car and this argument for ever. If only
we'd driven all the way home while we could, and
gone inside.
'This is some kind of weird displacement,' Stuart
says.


'It's an investment opportunity. At least come
with me and have a look before you rule anything
out.' Who sounds hysterical now? And who sounds measured
and mature? 'This place is a residential nature reserve.
Five hundred acres of stunning natural beauty --
lakes, woods, fields. All kinds of rare species of
birds, animals, plants.' I stop short of saying 'a fully
immersive experience of nature', though I liked the
sound of it when Bethan from Swallowfield's sales
office said it to me on the phone. It made me realise
how devoid of nature my life has been: forty-one
years of living only in cities.
'There's an outdoor heated pool and a spa,' I tell
Stuart. 'Twenty-four-hour security, totally safe for
kids to wander about freely. No cars are allowed
beyond the car park at the entrance. They have little
golf-buggy-type contraptions to--'
'How do you know so much about it from glancing
at an ad in the Sunday Times)' Stuart asks.
'I rang them.'
'When?'
'After Dr Freeman ignored my questions. Joseph
was busy with his new mates. I went outside and rang
the number I'd memorised from the paper.'
'Lou, this is...' Stuart breaks off, shakes his head.
'It's just some mad fantasy you've latched on to. It's
absolutely crazy. We've never talked about buying a


second home, never even thought about it.'
'Both those statements are false, as of today,' I
point out. 'There was a picture of one of the houses
in the ad -- the Glass House. It was made almost
entirely of glass. No shortage of natural light there.'
'Is that what this is about? The sandblasting? That
won't last for ever, you know.'
'It'll last until December the fourteenth and it'll
last all through Joseph's (Christmas holidays,' I remind
him. 'Imran said it would. I'll have three weeks with
my son before school snatches him away again. I don't
want to spend those three weeks in the dark recesses
of a dusty house that doesn't feel like home, that I
might be selling soon. And the noise -- Imran's guys
during the day, Mr Fahrenheit all through the night.
It's... not a prospect I find bearable, I'm afraid.'
Stuart says nothing. He is trying to think of the
definitive argument that will stop me wanting what I
want. I wait for him to say that 14 December is too
soon, that we'd never be in by then even if he were to
agree in principle. Which he doesn't.
Not true. Bethan from Swallowfield said we could
be in by mid-November, early December if we were
keen.
'Can we at least go and look?' I ask. 'We could go
now -- we'd be there by three if we set off now. The
sales office is open till five.'


'Now? No. Definitely not.'
'Why? Shouldn't we make the most of being a
spontaneous child-free couple? You haven't got any
plans for the rest of the day, have you?'
'I've got work to do, Lou -- lots of it.'
'Work,' I say flatly. 'Anything else?'
'Like what?' Stuart looks puzzled.
'So just work, then?' I have to check. I wouldn't
want to be unfair to him.
'Yes. Work. If I'm lucky, I'll finish in time to get a
reasonably early night.'
'Let's hope so,' I say innocently. 'You need your
sleep.' Stuart is the sort of person who would never
lay a trap, which is why he has fallen so readily into
mine. Pitiful.
He has completely forgotten his promise to have
a word with Mr Fahrenheit -- this afternoon, as soon
as we get back from Saviour, having taken care not to
wake him too early.












3







Noise Diary - Monday 1 October, 11.10 a.m.


Last night there was more noise disturbance from Mr
Clay, for the first time ever on a Sunday night. At about
11 p.m., just as I was on the point of falling asleep,
loud pop music started playing in his basement.
Despite it being two floors away from my bedroom, I
could hear it clearly - and by clearly I mean the bass
line of each song pounded through the party wall and
travelled up to my room. I could hear all the lyrics,
and I could hear the distinct voices of Mr Clay and his
friends singing (or rather screaming) along at the top
of their lungs. He played this pop music from exactly
11 p.m. until exactly midnight, when he switched it off
- literally, at midnight on the dot.


This has never happened before - not only the
playing of music on a Sunday night, but also the
disturbance lasting precisely an hour. Mr Clay's loud
pop singalong parties are always long and drawn
out; they typically last for several hours. I simply
don't believe that on this occasion he wanted to
play music only for an hour. This was a malicious,
planned noise attack. Its sole aim was to upset and
intimidate me. In the past when I've been round to
Mr Clay's house to complain about noise, he has
stressed (in his defence) that he only ever does
this on Fridays and Saturdays: the nights when it's
acceptable to use sleep deprivation to drive your
neighbours insane, according to his bizarre moral
code. I therefore take his decision to play loud music
on a Sunday night as his way of saying, 'You didn't
appreciate how considerate I was before and you
wouldn't let me have my fun, so let's see how you
like this. From now on I'm going to stop you from
sleeping whenever I feel like it, Sunday through
Thursday, every night if I want to.'


I didn't go round to complain. Partly because my
husband was against it - he thinks that, having
reported the matter to the council, we must now
leave it in their hands and do nothing but log all
disturbances as instructed - and partly because


I didn't want to give Mr Clay the satisfaction of
seeing how much he'd riled me. Actually, I was
more than riled; I was (and am) in a pretty bad way
- the technical term would probably be 'a severely
distressed state'. Does the council have any protocol
for dealing with that? On previous occasions I've
been very annoyed by the inconvenience, but now
that Mr Clay has escalated to personal nastiness
and targeted attacks, and especially given his use
of boys' voices singing choral music as a weapon,
I would describe myself more as distraught than
angry. At about quarter past eleven last night, while
Dolly Parton's '9 to 5' was booming through the wall,
I was violently sick.


It wasn't food poisoning, as my husband suggested,
and I am not coming down with anything. I can't prove it, but I know that what 
made me ill was
the horrifying (and I don't use this word lightly)
sensation of having my home invaded, yet again,
by a man who seeks deliberately to harm me. I no
longer feel safe here in my house. He can torment
me with his noise whenever he wants, and there's
nothing I can do to stop him. I can't believe this is
allowed to happen. If a burglar broke in and I called
the police, they would remove him from my home
immediately. Why isn't there a law that allows


people to banish, instantly, noise that has intruded
and threatened someone in their own home? A
home is meant to be a refuge from the world, a safe
haven. Mine at the moment feels like the opposite
- so much so that the only way I can survive this
ordeal, psychologically, is by latching on to the idea
of buying a second property, somewhere far away
from Justin Clay, to escape to at weekends. I would
be tempted to escape during the week as well if
it weren't for the need to stay here near my son's
school so that I can go to his choral services three
times a week.


After the music stopped at midnight, I tried to get
back to sleep. I failed. At 1 a.m., very quiet choral
music started playing: a boys' choir singing the
hymn '0 Come, 0 Come, Emmanuel'. The second
verse was sung by a soloist who sounded uncannily
similar to my son (and no, all choirboys do not
sound the same). At one in the morning, exhausted
and distressed, I'm sure I would have been paranoid
enough to think, 'That's Joseph,' and be convinced
that Mr Clay was using my own son's voice to torture
me. The only reason I didn't think this is that I know
Saviour College choir hasn't made any recordings
since Joseph joined the school.



I did wonder for a chilling moment if Mr Clay had
somehow illicitly made a recording of my son
singing. Thankfully, I was able to reassure myself on
this front: whenever Joseph has sung with the choir
and it's been possible to get anywhere near him, I've
been there. And Mr Clay hasn't. So it's impossible
that it was Joseph's voice coming through my
bedroom wall at 1 a.m. The similarity must have
been a coincidence.


The hymn, like the choral music of the night before,
was coming from Mr Clay's bedroom. It was loud
enough to make it through the wall, though if I'd
been asleep, it wouldn't have woken me. Stuart,
my husband, struggled to hear it when I woke him
and asked him to listen. So ... while I might not
classify this as a noise disturbance under normal
circumstances, it is certainly a crucial component of
Mr Clay's campaign of persecution.


After playing the hymn once, Mr Clay then didn't
play any more music. I am able to attest to this
because I was awake crying for the rest of the night.
And today I've had to phone in sick because I'm in
no fit state to go to work, thanks to my arsehole of
a neighbour. I can hardly think a coherent sentence
let alone speak one out loud, and I look awful. I have


puffy swellings and two semicircular scabbed-over
red ridges underneath my eyes. I wouldn't want to
inflict the sight of myself on other human beings.
How often is this going to happen? One day off is one
thing, but I can't make a habit of it.


Can the council PLEASE do something, quickly,
before this man destroys my career, health and
sanity? Or before I murder him?





Noise Diary - Monday 1 October, 5.18 p.m.


This is going to be a rather unconventional noise
diary entry, but I feel I need to include it for the sake
of full disclosure. There would be no point in my
withholding it, in any case, because Mr Clay will be
sure to mention it, assuming I go through with my
plan and don't chicken out. Since I was off work
today and had time on my hands, I decided to do
something useful, after first crashing out for three
hours and catching up on sleep. I went into town and
headed for Fopp on Sidney Street. In case you don't
know it, Fopp is a music and DVD shop that has a split
personality. It's a weird mixture of HMV-style commercial
and weird beat-generation dive-cum-boutique.


On one wall there's a neat display of the top twenty
chart CDs, but by the counter there are piles of books
about Kafka, Hunter S. Thompson, William
Burroughs, Frida Kahlo. The staff always seem to
have fashionably edgy hairstyles, unconventional
clothes, earrings that look like rings designed for
fingers except inserted into an ear lobe to create a
bordered hole.


It was only because of the confused identity of the
shop and its alternative-looking employees that I
thought to ask the question I asked; if I'd been in
HMV, I'd have managed on my own and done my
best, but the baggy-eyed, indoor-hatted young man
behind the counter looked as if he might be able to
give me expert advice and so I thought, 'Why not?'
I told him about Mr Clay. Well, I didn't mention him
by name, but I said that I had a noisy neighbour
who seemed intent on sabotaging my sleep every
night, and that I wanted to arm myself with a means
of getting my own back. I asked him which CD he
would least like to be woken by at 6 a.m. Mr Clay is
not an early riser. I've seen him open his bedroom
curtains at ten-thirty, eleven, eleven-thirty. Certainly
I've never seen him up and about earlier than ten.
And once when he was telling me about a holiday
he'd booked, in the days before relations were as


strained as they are now, he said there was no way
he was getting up before nine to catch any flight.
Cruel and unusual punishment, he called it.


The man behind the counter at Fopp grinned
and said, 'I've been asked that before. I always
recommend the same CD: Prophecy. Capleton.' I
didn't know which of those was the band and which
the album title. 'I can recommend a specific track
too,' he said.' "Leave Babylon". Best song on the
album. Either that or "Wings of the Morning", but
"Leave Babylon"'s less conventionally tuneful - it's
kind of got a dissonant sort of tune, you know?
Really jarring - perfect for disturbing a neighbour.
Like, the melody's there underneath, but there's,
like, this kind of anti-melody overlaid on top? And
they strain against each other, in a totally brilliant
way? Masterpiece, it is.'


I told him my neighbour didn't deserve to have any
contact with a masterpiece and asked if there wasn't
an equally jarring and dissonant song he could
think of that had no musical redeeming features
whatsoever. He laughed. 'No, this is the right song,
trust me. It's angry - you want angry, to show him
you're not taking any more of his shit.' He started
to sing at that point, in a put-on Jamaican accent,


about equal rights, justice and revolution - an
extract from 'Leave Babylon', I assumed.


It sounded impressively fierce, the way he sang it.
'All right, I'll take it,' I said. He seemed pleased and
said he'd go and find it for me. Then he frowned
and said, 'Oh, one thing I should say. Capleton, the
singer, songwriter, whatever - he's, well, he's got
some dodgy views. He s seriously homophobic. I
mean, I listen to him all the time - I personally don't
think you can boycott works of art because their
creators are dicks, but... it wouldn't be fair not to
tell you, in case you disagree.'


I thought about it and decided it would actually be
perfect if the artist had abhorrent views. Mr Clay
and I are at war, I explained. Why would I want to
wake him with something inoffensive when instead I
can blast the angry words of a horrible homophobe
through his bedroom wall? I want to send as much
negative energy his way as I possibly can. The shop
assistant laughed and said, 'Fair enough.'


I left Fopp feeling happier and more powerful. I could
and would do to Mr Clay exactly what he'd been doing
to me. What was to stop me? Obvious answer: Stuart,
if he was at home, but he often wasn't. He often


has to get up at four or five a.m. to fly somewhere those
were the mornings I would choose to execute
judgement and justice according to the words of
the song, I decided. In fact, I knew Stuart would be
leaving home before six tomorrow morning, which
was why I was keen to go to Fopp today.


As I walked home, I became obsessed by one
question: why hadn't Mr Clay anticipated that I
would have this idea? Did he think I was too middle
class and civilised to stoop to his level and give as
good as I got? Or did he not care if I fought back,
because he knew what his next retaliatory move
would be and knew it would totally wipe me out?
Then I thought: what could his next move possibly
be that would be worse than what he's doing
already but not land him in serious trouble with the
police? And if he did do something truly terrible,
he would have no way of knowing that it wouldn't
push me over the edge into doing something equally
appalling in retaliation.


By the time I arrived home, I'd decided that I would
take my chances. Just one song to make my point 'Leave
Babylon', only a few minutes long - and then
I'd turn off the music and let him go back to sleep.



I haven't changed my mind. After what he's put
me through two nights running, I'm sure even the
council wouldn't begrudge me my three-minute
protest. I am looking forward to it. Of course, I hope
it goes without saying that if by any chance tonight
is a different story and Mr Clay allows me to sleep
uninterrupted, I wilt cancel my planned Capleton
offensive.

I

Noise Diary - Tuesday 2 October, 3.04 a.m.


I know what he does. With the choral music, through
the bedroom wall. I've worked it out. He must start
by turning the volume up to the maximum setting, to
create a high enough level of auditory shock to wake
me from a deep sleep. Then, after maybe only a few
seconds of loud, he turns it right down. By the time
I realise I'm awake and that I can hear choirboys'
voices, the music is playing at an acceptable volume
that would be incapable of waking anybody - that
even I have to sit quietly in order to hear. I woke
Stuart when I first heard it, half an hour ago, and I
don't think he could hear it at all this time. I say 'I
don't think' because he refused to answer when I
asked him. He snapped at me that he had to be up in


about three hours and could I please let him sleep?
Then he rolled over and was snoring again within
seconds.


I know what Justin Clay wants me to think: why did
I wake up? It's not loud. Could I be imagining this
barely audible music? Tonight there wasn't even
a prelude of obnoxious pop or country-lite. He is
trying to drive me mad, I think, in the literal as well
as the metaphorical sense. He wants me to doubt
the evidence of my ears and wonder whether it's
possible that he would wait silently until 2.30 in the
morning and then play a strange, atonal version of
the Magnificat at an inoffensive volume. Except it
was offensive at first - it must have been. I woke
in shock, my heart pounding. I was dragged from
my dream by what felt like a sudden explosion of
young boys' voices. The only thing I can't work out
is how he manages to time it so perfectly. How does
he know exactly how long the loud part has to last to wake me up? He's bound to 
miscalculate one
day; I'll find myself fully awake before he's turned it
down and I'll know for sure. Maybe I'll set up some
kind of recording device - I assume the council has
some of these that they loan out to the victims of
noisy neighbours, in order to acquire the proof they
might later need in court?


And the rich he has sent empty away. 'Has', in this
version of the Mag. Not 'hath'. Did Mr Clay do any
work at all yesterday, or did he devote his Monday
to building his library of choral CDs to torture me
with? It took me no more than an hour to walk to
Fopp, buy the Capleton CD and walk home. After
that, I got on with other things and even succeeded
in forgetting about my war with my neighbour for a
while (mainly because I was busy missing my son,
but still). Now I feel stupid and naive. So I've bought
one CD - so what? If I want to defeat the noise
plague next door, I must be as single-minded as
Justin Clay. Instead of making do with only one CD
and congratulating myself on how reasonable I am
because I'm only going to blast him with one song,
I must set aside time to build up a library of music
with which to bombard his early mornings over a
period of weeks, maybe even months.


Well, there's no point in my going back to sleep now
if I've got to be up at quarter to six, preparing to give
Clay his alarm call. Also, the swollen patches under
my eyes have split again and are simultaneously
stinging and throbbing. I am in too much pain to
sleep. All this crying I'm doing lately means I'm
having to rub my eyes a lot, though I'm trying to
avoid doing so. I hope that when you read this,
council, you will take urgent action (as I've been
pleading with you to do all along). It's not only my
sleep and my eyes that this bastard is wrecking. At
this rate my marriage won't be far behind. At the
moment, I couldn't possibly hate my husband more,
on account of his lack of support. I doubt I'll see
things differently in the morning, since I will be as
tired then as I am now. And, actually, it's already the
morning.

4

Noise Diary - Tuesday 2 October, 12.10 p.m.


Hello, Noise Diary! Sorry - I sound like a teenager.
My excuse is that I am feeling triumphant. While
I don't want to tempt fate by saying anything as
blatant as 'My plan worked,' or 'That went better
than I could have hoped,' I must admit that my
feelings at the moment are along those lines. At
exactly six o'clock this morning, I pressed the
'play' button on my old ghetto blaster, having
first positioned it right next to my bedroom wall, which was as close as I 
could get it to Justin Clay's
sleeping head. Capleton's 'Leave Babylon' started
to blast out (the Fopp guy was right, its melody is
subtly hidden beneath a surface of cacophonous


aural assault). While it played, I danced around the
room, jumping up and down as heavily as I could,
hoping that the pounding bass effect would be
accompanied by shaking floorboards on Mr Clay's
side of the party wall.


I succeeded in waking him up. When the song
finished, I switched off the ghetto blaster, stopped
leaping around and waited in silence. Three seconds
later I heard him shout, 'All right, for fuck's sake.
Point made and taken.'


I really don't want to get my hopes up (too late they're
up, and there's nothing I can do about it J,
and I've replayed his words over and over again in
my mind, hunting for other possible interpretations,
but I've found none. What he said and the way he
said it sounded to me like someone unambiguously
conceding defeat.


Can it really be as easy as that?










4







Pat Jervis isn't listening to me. Not looking and not
listening. Instead, she's standing in front of the window,
pressing the tip of her index finger against the pane.
It can't be a coincidence. Either it's a nervous
tic or she has an obsession, perhaps even a fetish.
Glassophilia -- does such a thing exist? Last time she
was here, she did exactly the same thing with the
lounge mirror and the glass in one of the picture
frames in the kitchen. If it were a fetish, surely she'd
stroke it rather than prod it with her fingertip.
'Pat? Did you hear what I just said?'
'Oh, yes.' Still, she doesn't take her finger off the
window.
'I hate myself for being so naive. I feel like tearing
up my stupid noise diary --'


'Don't do that.'
I could quite easily start howling. How would Pat
react? I don't think she would. I can't see her rushing
over to give me a hug; it's probably against council
rules, and since she can't bring herself to look at me,
I'm assuming actual physical contact is out of the
question.
'It's very dark in here,' Pat observes suddenly.
I stare at her. Is that all she's got to say? I didn't ring
the environmental health department this morning
and beg them to send someone round in order to
have my house criticised.
'Funny, isn't it?' she says in a matter-of-fact tone,
looking straight ahead at the reflection of the room
in the window's framed blackness. 'If it were dark
outside, we'd think it was light in this room with the
light on. But this time of the morning, same light on
-- it seems dark. Because it should be light without
the light.'
'It's as light as I can make it,' I say sharply. Imran's
men wrapped us in cardboard and plastic yesterday
afternoon, stealing all our views, sealing us in. 'At
least it's not dusty yet. Next time you come, you
won't be able to breathe quite so easily. They start
the sandblasting tomorrow.'
Finally, Pat moves away from the window, sits in
a chair opposite me. 'Next time I come? I might not


need to come again. You never know your luck.' She
smiles down at her bag as she pulls her notebook out
of it.
I've had enough of this. 'Why are you being so
non-committal all of a sudden?' I ask. 'Last time, you
were all gung-ho and "Don't worry, we'll sort him
out." Today you can hardly be bothered.'
'Let me tell you something you're not going
to want to hear, Mrs Beeston. I've spoken to your
neighbour. I didn't want to tell you until I'd heard
your version of events --'
'You've spoken to him? When?'
'Today. Before I came here, I nipped next door.'
My insides clench around a hot spurt of rage,
squeezing it dry. If my windows weren't covered with
cardboard, I'd have known this; I'd have seen her park
and go into number 19.1 hate Imran, hate Pat Jervis,
hate Mr Fahrenheit.
My 'version of events'. As if others might be of
equal interest and validity.
'Mr Clay admits to having disturbed you with
his noise on many Friday and Saturday nights since
you moved in. He admits to having played a classical
CD to annoy you after the last time you went round
to complain, which was the night you made your
first call to our out-of-hours service -- Saturday the
twenty-ninth of September.'


Did she stress the word 'first', or did I imagine the
emphasis? Is she subtly digging at me? I have phoned
the environmental health department dozens of
times this week, pleading with them to send someone
round -- Pat, ideally, though now that she's here and
disappointing me with every word she utters, I wish I had asked for anyone but 
her.
If the council don't want to be telephonically
stalked by people like me who grow progressively
more hysterical with each call, they need to think
about introducing some kind of fast-track help for
sufferers of extreme neighbour noise victimisation.
'Mr Clay also admits to having played loud music
again the following night, Sunday 30 September. He
was still angry with you from the Saturday night, so
he played his music between eleven and midnight -- exactly an hour, as you 
said. He corroborates.'
'I don't give a toss if he corroborates or not.' I've
told you the truth about every aspect of the situation
-- whole and nothing but. I don't need his agreement.'
'I'm afraid I can't disregard his account of what's
taken place,' Pat says to her notebook. 'He denies
absolutely that he has ever played choral music of any
kind, or anything that involves children, boys, singing.
In his bedroom, with the intention of disturbing you
in yours, or anywhere else in his house.'
'That's a lie. Read my diary. He's woken me up at


two or three in the morning every night for the last
four nights. Always with choral music, always boys --
or maybe some girls too, some pieces, but definitely
children, sometimes even singing the music my son
sings at Saviour.'
Pat shrugs. 'That's not what Mr Clay says. He
assured me he'd done nothing of the sort.'
'And you don't think someone who deliberately
plays loud music to intimidate a neighbour with a
valid complaint is capable of lying?' I snap.
'Oh, I have no doubt he's capable. Mrs Beeston--'
'Louise. It's bloody obvious what he's up to. He
thinks that if he pleads guilty to some bad behaviour,
he can get away with hiding the worst of what he's
done -- the nastier, more sinister, more insidious
strand of his campaign. Look, ask Stuart if you don't
believe me. He's not here now, but come round when
he is and he'll tell you. It might not disturb him in
the way it does me, but he's heard it several times.'
'He's your husband, though, isn't he?' says Pat.
I laugh. And you think that means he'd support
me no matter what? Far from it. I can't...' I cut
myself off in time. I was about to say, 'I can't rely on
him for anything.'
'Louise. Believe me when I tell you that in my
long career in environmental health, I have met
every kind of noise pest on this earth. I'm not naive.


I know problem neighbours lie -- some a hundred
per cent, others to a lesser degree. I've got a good
nose for lies.' She sniffs as if to prove her point.
'But I've never come across anyone who seeks out a
particular kind of music with a view to hurting a
neighbour's feelings. I've never met a noisy neighbour
who plays music loudly for only a few seconds, to
wake someone up, then turns the volume down just
in time so that the person on the receiving end can't
swear to it having been louder at first and imagines
they're going crackers.'
I can't believe what I'm hearing. Cannot believe
it.
Taking care to compose myself first, I say, 'All
you're telling me is that you've never come across
Justin Clay before. That proves nothing! I've never
lived in a cardboard-swaddled, light-resistant house
before -- doesn't mean I'm not living in one now! Tell
me this -- have you ever known anyone with a noisy
neighbour to grow bags under their eyes that swell up
and burst?'With the index fingers of both my hands,
I point at the two raw patches of skin on my face.
'And yet here I am, looking like something out of a
horror film, and proving that not all people behave
and react in the same way as all other people!'
Pat leans forward: eye contact at last. She squints
at me. 'You need to put some St James's Balm on


that -- it'd clear up overnight. Trouble is, it's harder
to find than the Holy Grail.' Instead of sitting back,
she stays in the leaning position long after she's said
her piece, long after she's stopped looking. It's as if
the top half of her body has locked into a slant. She
doesn't seem to have noticed that this is making it
much harder for her to write in her notebook.
I want to know what she's writing. That I'm rude
and aggressive? A reminder to herself to buy me the
ointment she thinks I need, as a Christmas present?
It could be anything.
She's mad. Must be, completely mad. That would
explain everything: the change in her attitude, her
noise Terminator bravado last time she was here,
her lack of support now, the fingertip-pressing of
random pieces of glass.
'You're evidently very upset, Louise. You've been
off work how long?'
'How can I go in to work in this state?'
'I'm not accusing you of malingering. However...
I'd bet good money that whatever's going on with
your eyes is a psychosomatic reaction to your conflict
with Mr Clay '
1 agree.
'-- and possibly also to the upset of having your
son living away from home, which you alluded to last
time we spoke.'


'I didn't allude. I told you straight out.'
'Right,' she agrees. 'You did. And that's why I'm
asking you to consider if there's any chance this boys
choir music you're hearing, or think you're hearing,
might be... something else? Not real, and nothing
to do with Mr Clay?'
'There is no chance,' I say. Each word is a heavy
stone in my mouth that I have to spit out. 'Stuart hears
it too. Unless you think we're both suffering from the
same trauma-induced auditory hallucination -- and I
promise you, Stuart isn't distressed about anything.
Apparently he isn't even worried about me looking
like Frankenstein's monster. He just keeps saying,
"Oh, it'll clear up.'"
'Hmm.' Pat sits back, finally. 'Maybe I should talk
to your husband.'
'Why, to check I'm not crazy? I'm not. The choral
music is real. I don't know how you have the nerve
to sit there and say these things to me! You promised
you'd help me!'
'That's exactly what I'm trying to do.'
'You've got a strange way of showing it. What's
stopping you from serving Mr Clay with a noise
abatement order right now?'
'Mr Clay assured me that he's not going to be
making a nuisance of himself in the future,' Pat says.
'Your tactic worked -- you should be pleased. After


you socked it to him with a bit of loud music of
your own, he drew the conclusion someone more
sensible might have drawn weeks ago -- he can't
get away with it, not without paying a price. Oh,
I've seen it countless times. It always makes me
laugh. Noise offenders assume, for some reason
best known to themselves, that their noise-averse
neighbours wouldn't play them at their own game.
Why? Well...' Pat looks up at the ceiling. 'I have a
theory.'
I'm not going to ask. I don't give a shit about
her theories. If she isn't going to help me, I'm not
interested in anything she has to say.
'I think the mindset is along the lines of "If she
can't bear loud noise then she can't use it against
me because that would mean having to listen to it
herself." A bit like someone who can't stand the sight
of blood -- they wouldn't train to be a doctor, would
they?'
'That's ridiculous,' I say, wondering if she's
right. 'It's loud noise you can't control that's the
problem.'
'Quite. But many people are unimaginative and...
well, a little bit stupid,' says Pat. 'Mr Clay strikes me
as a prime example. Which is why when he told me
that he wasn't going to risk making you angry again if
that was how you were likely to react, I believed him.'


She leans forward again, stares down at her shoes. 'I
don't see him as being cunning enough to dream up
a spiteful plan like the one you've described in your
noise diary. I honestly don't.'
I'm too furious to speak. Furious with myself. A
voice in my head is whispering: She's right. You know she's
right.
'Louise, I think you ought to make an appointment
with your doctor.'
'No! So what if he's unimaginative? He's got
friends, hasn't he? A girlfriend? Anyone could have
suggested the choral music to him -- who says it was
his idea?'Too late, I realise she might only have meant
my eyes: that I should see a doctor to sort out the
skin eruptions.
'Where are you going?' Pat asks out of the blue.
'What?'
She points at the car keys I'm clutching. 'You said
when I arrived that you were on your way out.'
'Oh. I... just...' I don't want to tell her. I don't
have to. It's none of her business.
'I hope you're not planning a long drive,' she says.
'You don't look anywhere near well enough.'
'I'm going to the Culver Valley. For a sales tour
of a second-homes development. I'm thinking of
buying a place there. So that I get can away from
here, at least at weekends.'


Holidays will be trickier, because Stuart won't
always be able to take the time off work. It won't be
a problem for me, thankfully; as soon as I heard that
Joseph had got a place at Saviour, I reorganised my
work schedule so that I could work longer days in the
office during term time and from home during school
holidays, when I would also take all my annual leave.
I didn't think work would agree, and was planning to
resign if they didn't, but to my surprise they said it
was fine.
The tricky part will be confessing that my plan is
for Joseph and me to live at Swallowfield whenever
he's not at school, even if that means leaving Stuart
behind in Cambridge, as it often will.
Am I trying to stealth-leave my husband, subtly
and by degrees? Trying to make a point by insisting
on taking Joseph as far away from Saviour as I can,
whenever I can, just to prove to Dr Freeman that I'm
in charge?
Whatever my motivation is for wanting to leave
Cambridge, I would prefer not to know. It's as if I'm
receiving my instructions from an authority that has
nothing to do with me and isn't even part of me --
one I trust absolutely. I know what I need to do and
that's enough. It's a weird feeling. Like none I've ever
had before.
I need to buy a house on Swallowfield Estate.


'I'd advise against,' says Pat. For a minute, I forgot
she was there.
'Sorry?'
'Now's not a good time to be making important
decisions, Louise. Trust me. It sounds to me like
you're trying to run away. What you should be doings
sorting things out here -- at home.'
'Excuse me?' I laugh. 'First, I did trust you, to a
ridiculous degree, and look where it got me -- you
believe my neighbour's lies over me. Second, who are
you to tell me how to arrange my life? I don't even
know you. You know nothing about me.'
'I know you shouldn't drive to the Culver Valley.
Don't do it, Louise.'
The room has darkened, as if someone has
adjusted the dimmer switch, but that's impossible.
Pat and I are the only people here. Shaking, I haul
myself to my feet and say, 'I'd like you to leave now,
please.'
Pat stands too. 'Stay here,' she says, looking past
my shoulder, at the wall behind me. 'Get some sleep.
Forget buying a second home. The noise will stop. It
already has. Mr Clay won't bother you again. Please
take my advice.'
'That's not true! You've not listened to anything
I've said. Look, just... go.'
She nods, apparently unoffended, and begins to


rock her way to the door, tilting from side to side as
she goes.
'Ring me if you need me. You know where I am,'
she says before leaving. 'And keep writing the diary.'
































5

-if





It is like falling in love. It is falling in love. I knew it
was going to be. I knew Swallowfield would be the
right place. Two hours ago, as I drove past the sign
that says 'Welcome to the Culver Valley', I imagined
myself doing the journey with Joseph, his happy
voice asking, 'How much longer?' from the back seat.
He'll be beside himself with excitement whenever
we come here, desperate to get out of the city and
back to his other house in the beautiful countryside
outside Spilling.
Of course, I didn't know for sure, on my way to
Swallowfield, that I'd want to buy: this is what I tell
myself and, although it doesn't feel true, it must be.
I hadn't seen the estate yet, or any of the houses. I
hadn't been on Bethan's sales tour. All I knew was


that I felt drawn, as if by a magnet, and couldn't
resist. Didn't want to resist.
As I drove along the approach road to Swallowfield,
I imagined that it might have been rolled out, brand
new and only seconds ago, for my sole use. There
were no other cars on it going in either direction. I
lowered my window to see if I could hear traffic in
the distance; I couldn't. The only sound, apart from
my car's engine, was that of the birds -- so many and
so varied that it made me realise I'd never really heard
or listened to anything like it before. People say birds chirp -- they call it 
'song' -- but I heard no tunes and
all kinds of other strange utterances, most of which
couldn't be summed up so easily. It was like listening
to an uncoordinated orchestra playing above my head,
one that contained dozens of different instruments.
When I saw, coming up on the left, the large pale
green sign with 'Swallowfield' printed across it in
lower-case white letters, I had a crazy idea. I was a
little early for my meeting with Bethan Lyons, the
sales director, so I decided to try something that, in
Cambridge, would be regarded as a suicide attempt:
I slowed down, drove into the middle of the road
and parked horizontally across the white line that
separates eastbound traffic from westbound.
Nothing bad happened. No other cars came. I
wasn't worried that they would, either. I felt utterly


calm and at peace, as though nothing could happen
here that would threaten my safety or happiness in any
way. It was the oddest feeling. I opened the car door
and looked to my right at the fields, hedges and trees
-- at the hills in the distance with white and pastel
coloured cottages, warm beige stone farmhouses
and black-painted barns dotted across them -- and
I almost closed my eyes and fell asleep on the spot.
Finally, I could relax. 1 was home. (Technically, the
opposite was the case, but I didn't, and don't, and
never have cared about facts when they don't feel
true.)
It was cold -- and still is -- but the sun was
shining brightly, lighting up patches of vivid green
everywhere I looked. It was as if I'd strayed into some
kind of magical other-world, a sparkling alternative
reality that most people knew nothing about. And
this was before I'd set foot on the estate itself. I don't
know how I'd have dealt with the disappointment if
Swallowfield had turned out to be hideous. All I can
say (and Stuart won't believe me, unless he feels the
same way himself, which he won't) is that I knew it
wouldn't happen. I knew Swallowfield would exceed
my expectations.
'So, the nature-only part of the estate starts here,'
Bethan says, bringing me back to the moment. We
have been round the stunning glass sculpture of a


show home, the cafe and the shop, and now we are in
the official crested Swallowfield Range Rover, about
to go through wooden gates, off the gravelled lane
and on to a wide grassy path that has a lake to one
side of it. Swallowfield has five lakes, and residents
are allowed to swim and fish in all but one of them.
Three of them, the smallest, have houses around
them and still a few bare plots for new houses to
be built, and the two largest lakes are in the purely
rural bit that Bethan is driving me around now, on
the land that will never be developed, Swallowfield's
residents' own private cultivated wilderness. I want
it for myself, and for Joseph, with a desperation that
verges on hysteria, though Bethan wouldn't be able to
guess from looking at me. I stare out of the Range
Rover's window at the ripples on the surface of the
water and the wooden jetty, and I can see Joseph
throwing off his clothes and diving in on a stifling
hot day. I picture myself leaping in after him, Stuart
shouting after us, 'Rather you than me! I'll save my
swimming for the spa, thank you very much.'
I can't wait to see the spa. Bethan says I can have a
swim and a complimentary half-hour back, neck and
shoulder massage. Well, it's only complimentary if I
end up buying a house here, but I already know that
I will. I made up my mind for certain when Bethan
buzzed me in and I drove through the gates on to the


estate; my feeling of 'This is right, this is the one and
only right thing in my life' intensified, and has been
intensifying ever since.
'So, this is the rural idyll bit,' Bethan says, laughing.
She has an odd habit of looking in her rear-view
mirror every time she addresses me, as if she's talking
to someone sitting in the back instead of beside her
in the front passenger seat, as I am.
Maybe she doesn't understand that I would only
be able to see her eyes in the mirror if she could see
mine. I think about Pat touching the mirror in my
lounge with her index finger...
Am I such a frightful sight at the moment that
anybody would prefer to look at their own reflection
than at me? Actually, I wouldn't blame Bethan
if she felt that way, even if the skin beneath my
eyes weren't such a mess; she's got thick shoulder
length hair the colour of dark honey, big brown
eyes, perfectly straight teeth, flawless skin. Her
only not-ideal features, if I'm being strict, are too
thin lips and a too-small nose that looks sharp,
even though it wouldn't be if you touched it. In
spite of these minor physical blemishes, ninety
nine out of a hundred men would choose her over
me, I'm sure.
'Honestly, it sounds silly, but it is an idyll, this
part of the estate,' she gushes. 'It's the heart and soul


of Swallowfield, really -- that's what all our homeowners
say. This is where you and your family will
come when you want a purely rural experience -- no
houses, no car noise, hardly any people -- you might
bump into one or two walkers or picnickers, but
most of our residents tell us they never bump into
anyone out here. And no one who isn't a resident can
get in, obviously, so you'll have five hundred acres of
beautiful countryside all to yourself?
'Wow,' I breathe. 'It's like paradise, it really is.'
Privately, I am thinking, 'All to myself apart from
having to share it with all the other homeowners,
and there are at least fifty houses here.' I don't care;
if anything could put me off, it certainly isn't that.
Stuart and I could buy a holiday home that we
wouldn't have to share with anyone, but it wouldn't
have 500 acres attached to it, or an award-winning
£I0-million spa, or a helipad (not that we'll ever
need it) or a concierge service, whatever that is. No
doubt I will find out.
It must be satisfying to be Bethan, I think to
myself, especially when the person she's trying to sell
to is me. I'm a sure thing. She is peddling desire to
someone who is already head over heels, and I can't
imagine that anyone would come here and not be
instantly smitten. Bethan's job-satisfaction levels
must be sky high.


'Unlike a lot of gated second-home communities,
we don't allow subletting or holiday rentals,' she tells
me, 'so the only other people you'll ever see anywhere
on the estate are the staff and other residents. Our
homeowners love the exclusivity of Swallowfield.'
She laughs. 'To be honest, they love everything about
it -- the beauty, the incredibly fresh air, the quiet, the
absolute safety. We're gated, obviously, and there's
a discreet but constant security presence, so from
a lock-up-and-leave point of view, you won't find
better, and the best thing is that it's totally safe for
children to roam around unsupervised, and where
else is that possible? Not even in a village these
days. Course, the other thing with a village is that
people resent you, don't they? City folk buying up
the houses to use as second homes -- here you don't
get any of that because it's a community where it's everyone's second home. And 
what everyone forgets
about villages is that they can be incredibly noisy --
all that agricultural machinery, farmworkers going
about their daily business. There's none of that
here.'
Her use of the word 'noisy' has unsettled me.
There might be no agricultural machinery at
Swallowfield, but there are other people. What's to
stop Mr Fahrenheit buying a second home here? Or
someone like him?


'And all the amazing animal and plant life we've
got!' Bethan goes on. 'Fascinating though many of
our homeowners are, they're unlikely to be your
most interesting neighbours -- there's all kinds of
rare species living here. You'll be amazed by what
you see when you nip out for a walk -- rabbits,
deer, dragonflies, frogs, all different kinds of
birds. And almost the best thing of all is watching
the changing of the seasons at Swallowfield. You
just don't notice it in a city in the same way, but
here ... oh!' She half closes her eyes, as if in ecstasy.
She is overdoing it, but I don't mind.
'You said the homeowners love the quiet. Is it
always quiet here?'
Bethan giggles. 'So much so, it'll freak you out.'
Good. And no, it won't.
'Most of our homeowners are city dwellers like
yourself, and 50 many say they find it spooky at first,
the silence. You hear birds and animals and, apart
from that, nothing.'
We have driven nearly all the way round the lake
on the way to another one that looks even bigger.
'What's that little wooden building?' I ask. 'Is that for
the security staff ?'
'No, that's a bird hide. That's where you'll come
with your son -- how old did you say he was?'
'Seven.'


'Perfect age,' Bethan says, making me wonder
what's wrong with six and eight. 'What's his name?'
'Joseph.'
'That's a beautiful name. And it won't matter here
that he's an only child -- he won't be lonely, I can
assure you.'
I do an internal double take. What an
extraordinarily tactless thing to say. For all Bethan
knows, Stuart and I desperately wanted more children
and couldn't have them.
It doesn't matter anywhere that Joseph's an only
child, I want to say but don't. It only matters that Dr
Freeman has stolen him.
'You can bring Joe here in the evening and watch
all the birds, try and catch a glimpse of the beavers.'
Bethan turns to face me, briefly, before looking back
at the track ahead. 'Swallowfield's what childhood
ought to be,' she says. 'Parents let their kids wander
out of the house without even saying where they're
going or when they'll be back. I bet you can't believe you'll ever be willing 
to do that, but I promise you,
once you get used to life here, you will.'
Joe? For a second, I almost say, 'Who's that?'We've
never called him Joe.
'It's unimaginable in the city, but here children
head off into the woods, meet up with friends at the
trampolines or by the climbing frame -- we've got an


amazing playground, I'll show you on the way out--'
'I'm just thinking about noise,' I say, interrupting
her. Rude, no doubt, but I can't help it.
'I told you, there is no noise.'
'Yes, but... let's say I were to buy a house and the
person in the house next door starts to play his stereo
too loud --'
'Ah!' says Bethan knowingly. 'I see what you're
driving at. You've no need to worry, honestly. Ensuring
that Swallowfield is peaceful and quiet at all times is
our number one priority. All our homeowners come
here to escape from the noise that you just can't
get away from in a city, so we take it very seriously
indeed. No one's allowed to make any noise, at any
time of day or night, that disturbs anybody else. It's
in the lease that everyone signs. We've not needed to
yet, but, believe me, we'd be rigorous about enforcing
it if we had to. If you're ever sitting on your balcony
or on your terrace, or inside your house, and you're
disturbed by the sound of anyone's television, or
even a too-loud conversation, you'll just give Bob a
ring and he'll deal with it straight away. There was
an incident last year -- one of our homeowners had
a hen party in her house. The noise was audible to
the house next door, who rang Bob, who was straight
in his van and driving round to the hen-night house
to very politely remind the lady of the rule about


absolute peace and quiet. She was mortified and
switched the music off straight away. That's quite
honestly the only noise issue we've had in the seven
years Swallowfield has existed. And I promise you,
everybody here -- everybody -- cares as much about
preserving the tranquillity as you do.'
I doubt it. What abiout the hen-night woman?
Why did she need Bob to mortify her before she
realised that her music was too loud and might annoy
people?
'We don't even play music in the gym or at the
swimming pool,' says Bethan. 'The spa rules are very
strict about noise. If children shout and scream in or
by the pool, they're asked to get out. Jumping in isn't
allowed -- that's a new rule since last year. Some of
the homeowners complained about children jumping
in and making loud splashing noises while they were
trying to have a quiet, relaxing swim.'
I smile. These are the kinds of neighbours I want
to have: ones who regard a loud splash as unreasonable
and are not willing to put up with it. I will have to
explain to Joseph that he must enter the swimming
pool silently, via the steps. He won't mind.
'Similarly, the rural parts of the estate. If you and
your family go out into one of the fields for a picnic
and you happen to bump into a homeowner who's
having a little disco, making a bit of a racket -- not


that that would ever happen -- give Bob a ring and he
or one of his men'll be straight round. If children
are shrieking as they leap into the lake, call Bob. Not
allowed. That's in the lease too, at the insistence of
certain homeowners.'
All right, now I'm impressed. No noise allowed,
even in the wilderness. Have I found, by some miracle,
somewhere I can live and be the least-obsessed-with
noise member of the community? The idea makes
me want to explode with joy.
'Of course, it's something you'll need to think
about before you sign on the dotted line,' says Bethan,
as we drive through what looks like a river into a field
bordered on two sides by tall evergreen trees. 'Source
of the River Culver -- right here in Swallowfield,' she
tells me as an aside.
'What will I need to think about?'
'The requirement not to make noise. I mean,
obviously you're not expected to glide silently from
your house to the spa -- the normal sounds of
everyday life are fine, but we do expect homeowners
to keep in mind that Swallowfield is a tranquil haven
for all of us, so to keep noise to a minimum. So,
if you're on your way from your house to the spa
or the shop and you're chatting to your husband or
Joe, do it with consideration for others rather than at
the tops of your voices -- that's all we ask -- so that


if someone's coming along in the opposite direction
and seems to be lost in their own thoughts, you won't
intrude on their peace of mind.'
I can't wait any longer. I need to live here, as soon
and as much as I can. 'You said on the phone that I
could buy and be in within a couple of months. Can
a house be built that quickly?'
'Oh -- no, I meant if you bought one of our resales
and if you were a cash buyer you could maybe be in
that quickly. But if you want to buy a plot of land
and have a bespoke--'
'A resale's fine,' I say, not knowing what one is,
I assume the clue is in the name: houses that were
bespoke built for other homeowners who now want to
sell. 'How many do you have available? Vacant possession,
ideally. Or someone who can move out quickly.'
Bethan laughs. 'Wow, you're keen, aren't you? Are
you sure you don't want to go the bespoke route?
Most people who buy here--'
'I need to be in by the fourteenth of December at
the latest,' I tell her. 'That's when my son breaks up
for the Christmas holidays. I want to pick him up
from school and drive him straight here.'
'Oh... well, yes, then a resale it's going to have
to be.' I hear the enthusiasm in her voice dip, and
the way she then tries to resurrect it artificially. Less
money for Swallowfield with a resale, presumably; less


commission for her. 'We've got three at the moment.
If you like, we can go back to the sales office now
and--'
'Are any of them all glass, like the show home? Or
anything like the show home?'
'Two of them are actually barn-style homes, so,
no -- wooden, not glass. The third has a whole wall
of glass at the front, covering all three storeys, so it's
completely glass-fronted.'
That's the one I'm buying.
'It's a lovely light house -- perfect for a tidy family,
I'd say!'
'Tidy?' I wasn't expecting that. I can't think what
she might mean.
'The Boundary -- that's its name -- overlooks
Topping Lake. If you buy it and your living room
or your bedroom's messy, it'll be seen by swimmers
in the summer, and sailors out on their boats, and
paddle-boarders.'
'Oh, I see. That won't be a problem. I'm pretty
tidy. My husband and son aren't, but...'
I break off. Does Bethan honestly imagine I would
care what another Swallowfield resident in a passing
canoe thought about the state of my house? I wonder
if this is her subtle way of telling me that the lease
has issues with domestic disorder as well as noise. I
wouldn't be altogether surprised; homeowners who


complain about splashing noises in swimming pools
might well object equally to the sight of a dishevelled
duvet as they sail on the lake.
The Boundary, Topping Lake. That is my house, my
new address.
'Can I look at The Boundary today? Now?' I ask
Bethan.

¦4



























6







Noise Diary - Friday 12 October, 9.20 a.m.


We have entered a new phase. Last night, for the
first time since my noise war with Justin Clay
started, my husband was away overnight. Which Mr
Clay knew, because when Stuart's at home his car
is parked in one of the residents' bays on the street
rather than in Stansted airport's short-stay or long
stay car park.


I couldn't sleep. Not that I've been sleeping
particularly well since all this unpleasantness
began, and since the house has been full of builders'
dust. Predictably, I have turned out to be far more
sensitive to the dust than Stuart, who it seems is not


very sensitive to anything. Most nights I find myself
waking four or five times, either needing to cough
or jerking to attention in a panic after dreaming that
Mr Clay is playing choral music. Which, recently, he
hasn't been. Having told Pat Jervis he'd never done
it in the first place, I knew he would stop completely
for a while to make me wonder if he might have
been telling the truth - if Pat could be right and
I'd imagined the boys' voices coming through my
bedroom wall.


I understand Mr Clay's psychology better now than
I did before. He's not a little bit stupid, as Pat said.
He might present as crass and dense when he's
coasting along happily on autopilot, but lurking
somewhere beneath the cannabis-fugged surface of
his brain is a shrewd strategic sensibility that he is
able to access when he applies himself. And, despite
the current poor state of my own exhaustion-eroded
mind, I am obviously capable of similarly astute
calculation, because I knew he would choose last
night for his first attack in a while. That's why I
couldn't sleep. Well, to be more accurate, I decided
not to sleep. I sat in bed and waited. I thought
about the expression 'going to the mattresses'. I
first heard it in The Godfather movie and it stuck
in my mind. It means preparing for war: moving


out of your house, going to hide in a warehouse
with nothing but mattresses to make it more
comfortable. Not an exact analogy with my situation,
but close enough.


I wanted to prove or disprove my own theory, to
try to catch Mr Clay's few seconds of loud music
designed to make sure I wake up before he turns the
volume down to audible-but-inoffensive. That was
the only thing I turned out to be wrong about. This
time he went for full-on loud. Two in the morning,
a boys' choir blasting out King of Glory, King of
Peace'. Of course, I should have anticipated this too.
There was no need for Mr Clay to bother with the
quiet phase last night, since there was no possibility
of engineering a row between me and Stuart: 'But
it's so quiet, you can hardly object.' 'I don't care
how quiet it is, it's still the middle of the night and
he's only doing it to hurt rne.'

I think this is what Mr Clay intends to do from now
on: persecute me when I'm alone and he knows I
won't be able to prove anything.


Except I will. I can buy some kind of recording
device. (God knows where from. I haven't owned one
since the tape recorder I had in the 1980s. I don't


know what people use to record things these days.
Maybe I'll ask the man in Fopp.) What I need is a
machine that can record sound and also log the time
and date that the sound was recorded. Though how
would I prove the sound was coming from Mr Clay's
house and not my own? His obvious defence would
be to allege that I was so vindictive and obsessed
with punishing him that I was trying to frame him creating
noise myself in order to blame it on him.


It shouldn't be too hard to distract him somehow
and then sneak some impartial witnesses into my
house the next time Stuart's away. I'm sure I can
think of something. A surprise phone call to Mr
Clay; a staged fight between students at the back
of our houses (whom I would pay handsomely, of
course) involving lots of swearing and threats of
violence. While Mr Clay hurried to one of his back
windows to see what was going on, I could let my
witnesses in at the front. They'd have to be people
who wouldn't mind staying up all night. I'd need to
pay them too, probably.


Maybe Pat Jervis would agree to be the visiting
nocturnal witness? She might be fickle in her
loyalties, but my sense is that she's someone who
likes a challenge. If I said to her, 'Do this one thing,


and you'll see I'm right. If I'm not, I'll accept that
you're right and I'm going crazy.' Or maybe it would
be easier to ask one of her colleagues, Trevor
Chibnall or Doug Minns, who would be less likely to
try and interfere in the rest of my life.


(This is a side issue, but it's totally out of order for a
council environmental health officer to tell someone
she's visiting in a professional capacity not to run
away from a problem by buying a holiday home in
the Culver Valley. I still cannot believe Pat Jervis
said that to me with a straight face. Even hospital
staff, in real life, don't intrude in that way, despite
the misleading impression given by TV shows like House and Casualty in which 
surgeons say, 'While
I remove your appendix, let's discuss your fear of
romantic commitment.' In spite of the inappropriate
discouragement I received, I am buying a second
home in the Culver Valley - it's all going through at
the moment. Not that it's any of Pat's business.)


Whatever plans I make, they need to be beyond Mr
Clay's imaginative capacity, since he will be trying
to second-guess me at every stage. I need to think
about this more when I'm not so tired.





Noise Diary - Thursday 18 October, 11 a.m.


I don't have much energy for writing today, so I'll
keep this as brief as possible. I'm not sure there's
much point in my continuing with this diary anyway,
since I'm unlikely to be believed. I have no proof, and
it would sound insane if I told anyone. Because it is;
Mr Clay must be quite, quite mad to be doing what
he's doing to me.


This can't only be about noise - his right to make it,
my complaints about it. Perhaps that was the catalyst,
but the seeds of his aptitude for the kind of sustained,
escalating vindictiveness he is now displaying must
have been sown in his personality long before he met
me. I know nothing about his background or childhood.
Maybe he was the victim of a heinous wrong that
planted a fountain of anger and vengefulness in his
heart that's been spouting ever since. Maybe he was
too scared of the person or people who injured him
to do anything about it, and that's why he needs to
get stoned all the time, to numb his rage. And then
I entered his life, with my unwillingness to let his
fun disrupt my nights, and suddenly his suppressed
acrimony started to froth and bubble until it spilled out
all over me - a polite, law-abiding woman he's not at
all afraid of; a convenient proxy target.


I can't prove that any of that's true either.


Anyhow, the bald facts are as follows: Stuart is away
again, and Mr Clay has taken his campaign to a new
level. Last night, I spent the evening in the lounge
watching television. There was nothing good on,
but I hate being alone in the house and I'd rather
have the TV on than off, if only to hear the sound
of human voices. (Pathetic, I know. But if I sat in
silence, I might start to think about how much easier
it is for Stuart to cope with Joseph's absence during
term time than it is for me, because he's away quite
regularly himself. I might then start to wonder if
this has occurred to Stuart at any point. He hasn't
mentioned it, if it has. Before too long, I might be
roaming the dark streets of Cambridge screaming,
'Where is my superior second husband?' All of that
sounds like something worth avoiding, so I watch
television instead.)


At about ten-thirty I turned off the TV and the lounge
light, and was about to go upstairs to bed when I
heard boys singing. This time it was 'Lift Thine Eyes',
and it wasn't coming through any part of the wall
my house shares with Mr Clay's. It was coming from
outside. I wasn't sure at first, so I walked over to
the window. As I got closer, my doubts evaporated;


the voices were directly outside my lounge, on the
street. The only thing separating me from them was
a pane of glass and Imran's cardboard, scaffolding
and plastic sheeting.


At first I was pleased. If Mr Clay was standing on
the pavement with his ghetto blaster, I thought,
then someone apart from me would hear it: one of
our other neighbours, or a passer-by. If I could find
even one person to back me up then I could prove
to Pat Jervis that I was genuinely the victim of a
hate crusade. I wondered if Clay was finally losing
his grip - if he was so puffed up with venom that
he'd forgotten about plausible deniability, which
originally was the lynchpin of his campaign. Was the
temptation of my wrapped-up house, which from
the outside looks like a Christo and Jeanne-Claude
artwork (if that means anything to you, Cambridge
Council - if not, they're sculptors whose USP is that
they wrap things up, big things like the Pont Neuf
bridge), too much for him to resist? Perhaps he
decided it was worth the risk of revealing himself to
our neighbours in order to experience the intense
joy of pure, undiluted victory, however fleeting. He
knew I couldn't run to the window and catch him at it
because my view is blocked by cardboard and plastic.



I ran to the front door instead, but by the time I got
there and opened it, he and the music were gone. As
I knew they would be. A man in a checked flat cap
was walking his dog along the pavement and had
almost reached the corner of Weldon Road, where
it meets Hills Road. 'Excuse me!' I called to him. He
came back. I asked him if he'd heard the music and
seen a man with some kind of device for playing it.
He said he hadn't. He must have been lying. There's
simply no way he could have been where he was,
having walked past my house when he must have,
and not heard it.


A friend of Mr Clay's, strategically placed to
impersonate an innocent bystander, and torment
me still further? I put my coat on, went out and rang
number 15's bell, to see if they'd heard anything, but
their house was in darkness and no one came to the
door.

I

Noise Diary - Friday 19 October, 10.54 p.m.


I don't know how he's doing it. Is it possible that
the whole street is in league with him against me?
Tonight he didn't wait till I turned off the TV and the


light. He started to play choral music outside the
lounge window while I was watching, or trying to
watch, EastEnders. He must have had the volume
up as high as it would go. What equipment is he
using? Some kind of boom box - a relic from the
break-dancing-on-street-corners era? Does he have
some cunning way of angling the speakers so that
the sound pours into my house but not out into the
street? I wonder if he's pulled back Imran's plastic
sheeting and set down the ghetto blaster on the
horizontal wooden platform inside the scaffolding,
but even if he has, the noise would still spill out on
to the street. And yet no one heard it, no one but me.


Tonight it was another hymn: "Dear Lord and Father
of Mankind'. I was nearly sick when I heard the first
notes and realised which song it was. Saviour's choir
sang it at the first Choral Evensong Stuart and I
attended after Joseph started school in September. It
was the first hymn I heard my son sing with his choir.
I started to cry as I listened, because it sounded so
beautiful and Joseph was part of that, and yet I was
so unhappy; I felt as if my heart was cracking into
ever smaller pieces. Every note strained my soul
nearly to breaking point, like a heavy boot leaning its
full weight on cracking ice. I used to love 'Dear Lord
and Father of Mankind' - it was my favourite hymn


- but since that first Choral Evensong I haven't been
able to think about it and would take steps to avoid
hearing it again. Strangely, I don't feel that way about
any other piece I've heard Joseph sing with the choir.
I don't know why. Perhaps because 'Dear Lord and
Father of Mankind' was the first, or because it meant
more to me than any other hymn - but how could
Mr Clay have known this? I don't believe it can be a
coincidence that he chose that song.


At first, when I heard it playing outside the lounge,
I was too horrified to move. Then I stood up and,
foolishly, ran to the window. It's pathetic that even
after so many days with no natural light, this is my
automatic response when I hear a noise from the
street. You'd think that by now my brain would be
subliminally aware that I need to head for the front
door instead.


Predictably, the window showed me nothing but
blackness and the reflection of my lounge - of
myself in it, wild-haired with scabbed-up puffy eyes,
wearing old pyjamas that, after several days, aren't
particularly clean or fragrant. It's ironic that I've
spent so much more time in my pyjamas since I've
been unable to sleep properly. I pretty much only get
dressed now to go to Saviour to hear Joseph sing.


I turned and was on my way to the front door to
try to catch Mr Clay in the act - the music was still
playing - when something made me turn back. I
don't know what it was; something to do with what
I'd seen reflected in the window, I think. I moved
closer to the glass and looked again. There was
nothing unusual or unexpected about what I saw: a
sofa, two chairs, a lamp, a coffee table, two alcoves
containing messy shelves with too many books
crammed into them. Just my lounge, with me in
it. Yet something about what I was looking at was
making my heart beat dangerously fast, and a tiny
voice inside me was warning me to turn away before
I saw something I wouldn't be able to bear. I had to
get out of the room as quickly as I could, so I ran
out into the hall, then had to lean against the wall
for a few seconds to get my breath back. I decided
there would be plenty of time later to wonder what
disturbing thing I might have noticed that wasn't
immediately obvious when I looked again, whereas
I might only have seconds to catch Mr Clay, so I got
to the front door as quickly as I could and threw it
open.


Nothing. No sound, nobody on the street. Not even
a passer-by. This time I knew beyond doubt that
what seemed to be the case simply couldn't be: it
was physically impossible. Seconds earlier, 'Dear
Lord and Father of Mankind' had been playing. Mr
Clay couldn't have switched it off and got himself off
Weldon Road and back inside his house so quickly.


I had an idea: maybe he'd left some kind of hi-tech
music system on the pavement, then gone back to
his house and controlled it remotely, from inside
number 19. If so, he could have pressed 'Stop' at
the exact moment that he saw my door open. I ran
outside and looked: nothing. No ghetto blaster. No
machine of any sort.


How did he do it, then? Could he have done it
without a machine on the street? Maybe he broke
into my house yesterday while Stuart was away
and I was out at Choral Evensong. He could have
implanted some kind of invisible or well-concealed
speakers in my lounge, somewhere near the
window. Under the floorboards perhaps.


I took the lounge apart (and am too shattered, for
the time being, to put it back together again) and
found nothing. I concluded that it was more likely
that Mr Clay had devised some way to project music
into the night - maybe he opened his lounge window
and balanced a speaker on the sill, angled so that
the sound was aimed directly at the pavement
outside my house... That strikes me as feasible.


One thing seemed to me to be certain: someone
else must have heard a hymn played that loud. I
brushed my teeth and my hair and went outside
again. There were ground-floor lights on in three
houses apart from mine: Mr Clay's, number 16 and
number 12. I decided to try number 16, since it's
directly opposite. The man who lives there alone,
Philip Darrock-Jones, is a relatively famous musical
conductor who has worked with all the major British
orchestras and many international ones too.


I like Philip. He has lived on Weldon Road for more
than twenty years, he once told me, and, unlike
most of the privacy-obsessed newer residents who
install shutters or opaque glass in all their windows
the instant they move in, he never even bothers to
draw his lounge curtains, despite having what are
very obviously rare and valuable paintings all over
his walls. Being as left-wing as he is, he probably
feels morally obliged to share his art collection
with passers-by who can't afford to buy original art
themselves. I follow him on Twitter, so I know, for
example, that he would very much like to be forced
to pay more tax than he does at the moment. He


doesn't seem unduly worried about people like me
and Stuart who don't want to but would have to if
he had his way, but despite disagreeing with him
about this, I can't help thinking that the altruism
that is so obviously behind his opinions is quite
sweet. I also like him because he annoys Mr Clay,
who strongly objects to the 'Vote Labour' poster
that is on permanent display in Philip's bedroom
window, even when there is no election in sight;
I've heard Clay complain to his girlfriend Angie that
the poster lowers the tone, makes the street look
scruffy and studenty, and brings down the whole
neighbourhood: the same view Stuart holds about
houses with pollution-blackened brickwork. For all I
know, Philip Darrock-Jones's idea of tone-lowering
might be lounging on your sofa, in full view of
anyone who walks past, inhaling marijuana smoke
through a plastic bottle with a hole burned at one
end of it. These things are all relative.


Philip came to the door when I knocked, and seemed
genuinely pleased to see me. If he noticed that I
was wearing pyjamas under my coat he showed no
sign of it. I had to fight quite hard not to be dragged
in for a cup of coffee, but eventually I managed to
convince him I didn't have enough time. I told him
I just wanted to ask a quick question: had he heard


a boys' choir singing about twenty minutes ago?
Was he in his lounge then? Had he seen anyone on
the street, since he never closed his curtains? He
frowned. No, he hadn't, he said. He'd heard nothing,
seen nothing, and he'd been in the lounge the
whole time.


I nearly fell down in a heap on his doorstep. I'd been
frightened of him saying what he said, because I
knew I would believe him if he did. Philip wouldn't
lie to me. If 'Dear Lord and Father of Mankind'
were blaring out at top volume outside his house,
he would notice it more than any other neighbour,
being a music man.


I must have turned pale or looked shaky, because
Philip asked me if I was all right and tried again to
get me over his threshold with offers of recuperative
brandy. He asked me what was wrong and why I
was asking about a boys' choir. I had the weirdest
physical sensation: as if someone was drawing, very
gently, all the arteries, veins, nerves and muscles
out of my body, leaving me empty and floppy,
without substance. I shook my head and said it
didn't matter. If my own husband doesn't believe me
- if Pat Jervis, whose life's work is to defeat noise
vandals, doesn't believe me - why should Philip,


who believes that people are fundamentally nice and
all want to look after each other? I can imagine him
furrowing his capacious brow and asking, 'But why
on earth would Mr Clay want to be so nasty to you?'
and I couldn't have held myself together if he'd said
that.


Philip was certain there was no music playing on the
street twenty minutes earlier. He was an eye- and
ear-witness to the absence of boys' voices singing. I
wouldn't have been able to convince him that he was
wrong and I was right.


I didn't bother asking any of the other neighbours.
Once again, I realised, I'd underestimated Mr Clay.
Of course he wouldn't play empirically verifiable
loud music in the street. He wouldn't be so stupid.


So. Hidden speakers in my lounge. It's the only
explanation.


After I got back from Philip's, I locked the door, went
to the kitchen and took the little packet of cannabis
out of the drawer. From another drawer, I pulled out
a box of matches, and from the counter I picked up a
half-empty bottle of mineral water. I took all three to
the lounge and sat down on the sofa, thinking, 'I am


going to take some drugs. Maybe if I get high like
Mr Fahrenheit (that's what I call Mr Clay) I will be
able to access his mindset more easily - the druggie
wavelength; I will be able to look around this room
and intuitively know where he's planted the invisible
speakers.'


I didn't go through with my plan to get high. I
remembered that Mr Fahrenheit, when I saw him
do this, had a piece of what looked like silver foil
stretched over the top of the bottle. I couldn't be
bothered to go back to the kitchen for foil, so I
stayed where I was and cried instead.


At this rate, if no one helps me to prove what's going
on and put a stop to it, my next-door neighbour is
going to kill me.















j
TWO


December
7







'Mum, look how high I'm going!' Joseph yells at me,
bouncing up and down on the trampoline. He's with
a friend who, so far, has jumped silently, as I'm sure
his watching mother must be smugly aware.
'Ssssh!' I hiss, running over just in case I need to
tell Joseph again because he didn't hear me the first
time. As I move towards him, I glance to my left at
the hard-surfaced tennis court, on which a young
blond married couple, protected from the cold by
tracksuits and fleeces with hooded tops, are playing
half-heartedly and laughing at their own uselessness.
I met them at the spa last week and we talked for
a bit -- everyone seems keen to chat to the new
homeowners, probably so that they can gossip about
us later -- but I can't remember their names. Hers was


something unusual like Melody or Carmody, but not
either of those.
Only about one in five of their shots makes it over
the net. As I move towards the trampoline, I watch
them to see if they are going to react at all to Joseph's
enthusiastic outburst or to my 'Ssssh!', but they don't
seem interested. They are too caught up in their own
giggling, which isn't much quieter than the noise I
made, and is going on for longer. The mother of the
other boy on the trampoline doesn't seem concerned
about the breach of the peace either. And Joseph is
already mouthing, 'Sorry, Mum! I forgot!'
We moved into The Boundary less than a week ago,
but I am already starting to work out the unwritten
rules. It isn't noise that people worry about so much
as noise that no one is taking steps to deal with. My
'Ssssh!' would have reassured everyone in the vicinity
that I was aware of the problem and would sort it
out, and that is all people want here: the comfort
of knowing that their neighbours value quiet and
tranquillity as much as they do. After my experience
with Mr Fahrenheit, I know that the killer aspect
of unwelcome sound is not the decibels but the
disempowering feeling of having no control over your
own environment and life. Anyone could cope with
loud music if they knew that it would soon stop, or
could be made to if it didn't.


When I reach my son, I say, 'You can stay here
if you want, but I need to go and make a start on
lunch.'
'He'll be okay here with me,' says the other boy
quickly, alarmed by the prospect of losing his
playmate. 'I'm staying out for a bit yet.' He has a
Welsh accent, copper-coloured hair and large freckles
and, I notice, is dressed like a gentleman farmer -- the miniature version -- 
whereas Joseph looks like a city boy in trendy jeans and without a proper coat
on, his high-top trainers sitting on the grass next to
the trampoline beside a far more appropriate pair of
small brown walking boots. I'll have to take him into
Spilling and buy him a green padded coat like the
Welsh boy's, Wellington boots, a cagoule.
'I'm not hungry,' he says. 'I don't want lunch.'
'Okay, stay here, then,' I tell him. 'Come when
you're ready. I'll save some pasta for you -- you can
have it whenever you want.'
Joseph rewards me with a radiant smile. 'Thanks, Mum! You're sickl'This is 
another word he has picked
up at Saviour. He assures me that it means cool and
generally brilliant.
I head back to the house, having said nothing to
the Welsh boy's mother about keeping an eye on my
son. I know I don't need to. The Swallowfield security
detail is meticulous. Bethan made it sound too good


to be true when I came for the sales tour, but it turns
out she was spot on: discreet but ever-present was
what she told me and it's quite true. I haven't noticed
security staff patrolling the grounds -- haven't felt
overlooked or spied on at all -- but when I left my
car window open by mistake, a friendly man in a
Swallowfield-crested tunic-top knocked on my door
to advise me of my lapse, and when I dropped my
phone's case while out for a two-hour walk around
the estate that took in Reach Lagoon, Swallows
Lake and The Pinnacle, another smiling man in an
identical tunic returned it to The Boundary within
half an hour of my return.
I love it here. I love everything about it, but
especially the benefits I didn't know that I or my
family would get when I signed on the dotted line.
I knew Swallowfield was beautiful, special, peaceful,
but I didn't anticipate the effect it would have on my
mental and physical health, or Stuart's, or Joseph's.
A mere four days here have extracted the grey-yellow
pallor of the city from our skin, the etiolated aspect
we didn't know was there until we saw how different
we looked after a couple of days breathing in the
pure air at Swallowfield. I am not imagining this;
Stuart was the one who first remarked on it, and
he's right: our skin looks buffed here, rosy pink,
properly oxygenated. Our eyes have more shine to


them. We are bundles of energy who take far longer
to get tired than we did in Cambridge, and when we
eventually do it's because we've swum for an hour
and a half in the heated outdoor pool and then
walked a full circuit of the wild-flower meadow, not
simply because we've had to wait twenty minutes
in the queue at Tesco on Hills Road and then kick
through too many Domino's Pizza boxes on our
way back home. "
We sleep better here, thanks to the darkness and
the silence. The swollen patches beneath my eyes have
subsided -- this after no cream my Cambridge doctor
had me try did any good at all. The same doctor
told me I must take at least six months off work
and suggested I see a cognitive behavioural therapist.
Before we moved into The Boundary, I hadn't been
into the office at all for more than a month; I couldn't
imagine ever being able to drag myself in there again.
Now I am thinking that on 9 January 2013, Joseph's
first day back at school, I will be able to report for
duty bright and early and tell everyone that I'm fine
now, thanks: the trauma is over.
Mr Fahrenheit can try to wind me up by playing
choral music if he wants to, but I shall outwit him.
I've already told Stuart: we're going to get the attic
properly insulated and swap our bedroom with his
study. Mr Fahrenheit will have no way of knowing


we've done this; he'll never know that there's no longer
anyone sleeping in the room on the other side of the
wall from his bedroom, and he'll waste hours of his
time fiddling with the volume, turning boys' voices
up and down in the night whenever Stuart's not there
and he thinks he can get away with it. Meanwhile,
I will be in the attic, fast asleep, wearing the best
earplugs money can buy.
I could and should have thought of this in
October or November, but I was in no fit state to
save myself then. Swallowfield has saved me, as I
knew it would. It's strange. All the things that were
out of control and threatening in Cambridge seem
manageable from this safe distance. I am ready to
throw away the drugs I stole from Mr Fahrenheit's
house; I've decided that I will leave the house late one
night, while Stuart and Joseph are asleep, and scatter
the tiny clumps of cannabis over Topping Lake as if
they are the ashes of someone I loved who died. If
I'm between my house and the lake, I'm fairly sure no
security guard will spot me, as long as I take no more
than a few seconds. I don't think it will contravene
the estate's no-litter rule; the drugs look like tiny
clippings from some kind of tree in any case, so it's
all natural and organic; it isn't as if I'm planning to
dump a truck load of empty Coke cans. I don't know
much about horticulture, but I think it's unlikely


that an enormous marijuana plant will start to grow
outside my house as a result.
Its strange to think that I brought the drugs to
Swallowfield thinking I might need them. Luckily,
the security guys don't have sniffer dogs, but still, it
was a crazy risk to take -- one I only took because
the woman I used to be, the Louise Beeston who
packed to come here, was well on her way to crazy
and heading for a life as a drug addict.
I realise now that, though I never admitted it to
myself, that was my back-up plan all along, from the
moment I stole the little plastic bag with its illegal
contents from Mr Fahrenheit's house: if I couldn't
make his noise stop, I could numb myself with drugs
instead, so that I didn't care any more -- just as soon
as I learned how to do that thing with the burned
bottle and the silver foil. I might have ended up
needing to ask Mr Fahrenheit for lessons.
The memory of my desperation unnerves me as
I walk past the entrance to Starling Copse on my
way to Topping Lake. I could so easily have failed to
save myself. Thank God I didn't; thank God I paid
no attention to Pat Jervis, or Stuart, or Alexis Grant.
Alexis took great exception when I told her about our
plans to buy a second home, as I'd known she would.
She winced and said, 'You don't seriously want to be
going endlessly back and forth to the Culver Valley,


do you? Why not save yourself the hassle and the
money and move to a village outside Cambridge
instead? You'd have the best of both worlds, like we
do in Orwell.'
I smiled and said something non-committal. If
she asked me now, I would have an answer for her:
I needed, and need, more than the highlights of
two worlds squeezed into one. I need two separate
worlds: two physically distinct places. I have to know
that my Swallowfield life still exists and is waiting to
welcome and shelter me whenever I need it to. If you
only have one world, one life, then however brilliant
it is most of the time, you have nowhere to run when
you need to escape from it for a while.
It still shocks me how quickly Swallowfield
rescued my sanity. Four days here was all I needed to
get me back on track -- four days with the guarantee
of many more to come -- and I am happy again, able
to put things in perspective. I know that term time
will be hard, with Joseph away at Saviour, but I will
simply think about us all being here together during
the holidays and I'll be able to get through the weeks
of school. And if Stuart can arrange it so that he
can work from home more -- and he seems fairly
confident that he can -- that will be even better. In
Cambridge, I thought I might prefer it to be just me
and Joseph at Swallowfield. The pressure of the city


was slowly killing my bond with my husband; here,
I have rediscovered it. When we first unlocked The
Boundary's front door and walked in, Stuart beamed
at me and said, 'Fuck, this is amazing, Lou'You were so right about this place. 
And this house. Look at that
view.' That was when I knew we would be okay, that
it was safe for me to love him again.
He's on the terrace behind the house when I get
back, kneeling beside the new bike we bought for
Joseph yesterday, trying to pump up its wheels. 'This
pump's knackered,' he says. Tm going to have to drive
into Spilling and get a new one. Have I got time
before lunch?'
'Easily,' I say. It is already what I would normally
call lunchtime, but it will take me at least an hour to
prepare the food and I don't intend to rush. As Stuart
hauls himself to his feet and starts to mutter about
finding his wallet and 'bloody bike shop -- sold me a
dud', I stare at the ripples on the surface of Topping
Lake, at the thirty-odd houses that surround it.
Winter sun glints off their roofs, lights up the facades
of the glass-fronted ones. Each house is unique and
yet they look like a coherent collection. Swallowfield
has won several prestigious awards, Bethan told me
as we took the sales tour -- prizes for aesthetics, for
ecological soundness, for just about every aspect of
its conception and design.


I can see why people would be queuing up to
bestow honours. At night all the Topping houses,
lit up from the inside, duplicate themselves on the
shimmering surface of the lake and its like looking
at a mixed media work of art: light, water, stunning
architecture. No wonder most of the houses here
don't bother with curtains or blinds apart from in the
bedrooms and bathrooms; the estate has been laid
out carefully so that no house is intrusively near to
any other, and who would want to deprive themselves
of such amazing views?
'Right, I'm off,' says Stuart, leaning out of the
French doors. I didn't notice him go inside. He's
holding his wallet in his hand. 'Oh, before I forget --
Dr Freeman rang.'
A stone lands in my heart. A stone thrown from a
very long way away. Far enough to be out of reach, I
thought. Apparently not.
'Don't panic' Stuart smiles at the expression on
my face. 'What, you think I'm going to say Joseph's
Christmas holidays have been cancelled and he has to
go straight back to school?'
You've just said it. Why say it if it's not true?
The stone is growing. Hardening.
'Tell me,' I say.
It was just a reminder about Friday. I must admit,
I'd forgotten, but I'm sure you hadn't.'


'Friday? What's happening on Friday?'
'Oh. Well, its lucky Dr Freeman rang, isn't it?
Since we'd both forgotten.' Stuart is trying to make
light of it. I am a lead weight. Waiting. 'There's an
extra Choral Evensong -- last one of the year.'
'On the twenty-first of December?'
That will mean taking Joseph back to Cambridge
twice during the hoildays. No. No. I'm not doing it.
'It's because the chaplain's retiring. It's kind of like
a leaving thing for him. Anyway -- in view of the
Christmas Eve rehearsal and Christmas Day service,
I don't think there's much point in our coming back
here in between, is there?'
'Yes, there is,' I say quietly. I want to be emphatic
but I can't get my voice to carry. Tm not going back
to Cambridge twice. Neither is Joseph.'
'Don't be silly, Lou. All right, if you want to come
back in between, we can. I suppose it's only an hour
and a quarters drive, isn't it? Some people do that
twice a day to get to work and back. We can drive
back here on the evening of the twenty-first, then
back to Cambridge again on Christmas Eve morning.
Okay?'
I nod and say nothing, keen for Stuart to leave
so that I can allow myself to cry. I'd have liked to
stand firm and say no to this extra Choral Evensong
-- that I'm sure we have never been told about before,


that I suspect Dr Freeman of hastily scheduling with
the sole aim of destroying my composure and my
plans -- but I don't want to be unreasonable. Stuart
backed down from his initial suggestion that we stay
in Cambridge from 21 December until Christmas
Day; as soon as he saw how much I hated the idea,
he withdrew his proposal. I need to prove that I'm
willing to compromise too.
When he finally gets into the car and drives
away, I say to myself, 'Right, it's safe to cry now,'
and find that I'm unable to. I go inside, close and
lock the glass doors and sit down on the sofa. I will
remain calm, I promise myself, and deal with this
sudden feeling of doom in a rational way. I am not
Louise Beeston of 17 Weldon Road any more; I
am Louise Beeston of The Boundary, Topping Lake,
Swallowfield Estate. I must act and think differently,
just as I have furnished my home here differently.
I look around me at the brand new chairs and
sofas: all contemporary, bright colours, all bought
in one go from Heal's in London and delivered last
Friday. No one who saw this room and my lounge in
Cambridge would believe that the two might belong
to the same family. The furniture in our Weldon
Road house is old and shabby, some of it antique,
much of it fairly battered from having been dragged
by me and Stuart from house to house over the years.


But I'm at Swallowfield now, I remind myself,
which means I must be capable of thinking brand
new thoughts. I have been up until this point, and
I must force myself to continue, since I was doing
so well. I have all the natural light I need, fresh air
instead of builders' dust, peace and quiet...
Telling myself all this makes me feel a little calmer.
Nothing has really changed. It's only one extra trip
to Cambridge, and won't even involve an overnight
stay. It won't make any difference. It's the idea of Dr
Freeman being able to reach into our Swallowfield
life and pluck us out of it at will that has disturbed
me, and I've already thought of a solution to that: I
will have a word with him at the beginning of next
term and tell him that he's not to contact us when
we're at Swallowfield -- ever. This is our retreat; he
must learn to respect that.
I stand, take a deep breath and make my way
across The Boundary's huge open-plan living space
towards the kitchen. I am starting to feel hungry,
which means that Joseph is bound to be. He could
be back any second, demanding the lunch he was so
dismissive about half an hour ago.
The kitchen component of our living area is
relatively small, but it doesn't matter because the
room itself is so vast. I can watch the action on the
lake as I prepare food, and there is always some action


to watch, whether its birds hovering, swans gliding,
or simply patterns made by light on the gunmetal
grey skin of the water. I can hardly take my eyes off
it for long enough to chop a vegetable.
I open the cutlery drawer to pull out my favourite
knife. That's when I hear it.
Boys.
Singing.


O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.


O come, thou Wisdom from on high,
Who orderest all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
And teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


No boys in sight. These are the same voices I
heard in Cambridge. This is the same choir. I don't
know how I know this, but I do.



O come, thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny;
From depths of hell thy people save,
And give them victory over the grave.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


I shut my eyes. No point looking out of any
window for what I know I won't see.


O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


I put the knife back in the drawer and close it. Go
back to the sofa. Sit very still, waiting for Stuart to
come home.




Stuart closes the lounge door behind him. Leans
against it. 'Right,' he says. 'I took him up a sandwich
and a drink, and I've started him on FIFA on the
Xbox. We should be safe for a while.'


What he means is that Joseph will be safer in
a part of the house that doesn't contain his crazy
mother. He's right. I don't remember Stuart making a
sandwich, and yet I must have been here when he did
it. I can see the bread, butter and cheese still out on
the countertop, the smeared knife. I haven't moved
since Stuart got home.
I don't feel safe. I did until recently -- here; only
here at Swallowfield, not in Cambridge -- but I can't
remember the feeling. And so, although I have an
idea about what I need to do in order to recreate it, I
don't believe it will work. It is hard to imagine myself
being able to tap into any kind of calm, ever again.
'Lou--'
'Before you start on me... I know it wasn't real.'
Stuart's eyes dart from left to right. Is he looking
for clues? A prompt? He wasn't expecting me to say
that. He thought he would have to convince me.
Now he sees that he doesn't, he has no idea what to
say next.
I tell him what he was about to tell me, because
I want it to be out there, explicit: the only possible
truth. 'Justin Clay's miles away, in Cambridge. Even
assuming he could get past the security and break
into Swallowfield, there's no way he'd go to all that
effort. He might hate me, but not that much.'
'I doubt he does.' Stuart moves away from the


door, perches on the edge of the sofa. 'Hate's too
strong a word. Minor irritation's probably more like
it, assuming you feature in his thoughts at all. It's
over from his point of view. He'll have turned his
attention back to making money and getting pissed
and stoned. You blasted him with loud music, showed
him you were his equal, and he caved. What did he
say? "Point taken"?'
'"Point made and taken.'"
'There you go, then.'
I nod. 'Pat Jervis was right. Apart from the "Best of
the Classics" CD that one time, he's only ever played
pop music. In his basement. Never played choral
music, never anything through the bedroom wall. He
doesn't have any CDs of boys' choirs singing. That
was all...' I break off. 'It felt real, so real, but... it
can't have been. I see that it wasn't, now. It was all in
my head.'
Stuart looks uncomfortable. He's probably wondering
whether and when to agree; not too readily, given
that he claimed to be able to hear the boys' voices too.
He always made sure to say that it was barely audible,
he could only just hear it. I understand why. It was
his idea of a compromise: supporting me a little bit,
while at the same time being fair to Mr Fahrenheit by
insisting that the non-existent choral music couldn't
be said to constitute a noise nuisance.


It was the opposite of what I needed. He should
have given me a shake and said, 'Louise, there is no
music playing. None. You re imagining it.' If he'd done
that, I might have pulled myself together sooner.
'You never heard it, did you? The choral music'
'Not really.'
'Not at all.' Its important that we be precise.
Stuart shakes his head. 'Sorry. I only lied because
I... well, I believed you. At first -- until the stuff
about Fahrenheit starting off loud and then turning
down the volume at the exact moment you woke
up -- that's when I started to wonder if it might be
some kind of paranoid delusion. Before that, I just
assumed you could hear it and I couldn't. You re more
sensitive to noise than I am.'
'So because you thought I was right and you were
wrong, you pretended to hear what I heard?'
'It was the middle of the night, Lou! Every time
you asked me! I didn't want to argue, I just wanted to
go back to sleep.'
He thinks I'm angry with him. How can he
imagine that this is what I want to discuss: his
dishonesty, his level of culpability? I don't care that
he let me down again. I don't care if every single
word that comes out of his mouth is a lie; that's his
problem. My only concern at the moment is for my
own sanity. If I'm mad, I can't look after my son,


and that's all that matters to me: Joseph is the only
thing that counts.
'I've thought about it and it all makes sense,' I tell
Stuart. 'I was fine at Swallowfield, absolutely fine, until
you told me Dr Freeman had phoned. That's why I
heard the boys' choir again. It's a reaction to stress.
It must be -- some kind of weird... psychosomatic
aural hallucination.'
Stuart is nodding. 'I've thought so for a long time,'
he says.
Thanks for being too gutless to mention it.
'I'm glad you can acknowledge it. There's no
shame in it, Lou.'
Tm not ashamed.' I'm frightened.
'Stress can do strange things to a person. And,
look, now that you're aware it's not real, it'll probably
stop happening anyway.'
'No, it won't. Not unless I make some changes.' I'm
scared you won't let me. You have to let me.
Stuart says, 'You've taken the most important step
already -- admitting it's an illusion. It can't have any
power over you once you've seen through it.'
'Can you stop spouting vague platitudes?' I snap.
'It'll happen for as long as there are things in my life
that I can't live with. I need to eliminate those things.'
Stuart frowns. 'I don't get it,' he says. 'Didn't we
just agree that Mr Fahrenheit--'


'This isn't about Mr Fahrenheit. It's about Dr
Freeman.'
'Dr Freeman? What's he got to do with anything?'
I stare down at the floor, thinking that I shouldn't
have to spell it out; it should be obvious. And
whatever Stuart thinks or wants, or used to think or
want, he should be willing to do whatever it takes to
make me feel better again. If I can see that I can't go
on like this for much longer, why can't he?
I've never felt more alone in my life.
'Oh, God.' Stuart sighs; it goes on for a long time.
I hear no concern for my welfare in the sound he
makes. 'Lou, please don't say what I think you're
going to say.'
The stinging sensation beneath my eyes has
returned: just a prickle at the moment -- barely
noticeable, threatening worse.
'I want to take Joseph out of Saviour,' I say. 'Out
of the school and out of the choir.'
'No. No way.'
'There's a reason why I'm hallucinating choral
music, Stuart.'
'You said it yourself -- you were stressed about Mr
Fahrenheit!'
'Yes, but not only about him. And this music I'm
hearing that isn't real -- it's not Queen, is it? Its not
"Don't Stop Me Now". It's boys. Boys in a choir,


singing the kind of thing Joseph might sing at
Saviour -- has sung.'
'That doesn't mean--'
'Yes, it does!' Inside me, a dam bursts; desperation
gushes out, filling me to the brim. 'What else could
it mean? What do you think made me hear a boys'
choir again today, if not your news about Dr
Freeman's call, his plan to snatch Joseph away for
this extra Choral Evensong? It's completely bloody
obvious what it means that I keep hallucinating
the voices of boys I can't see, and feel as if I'm
being tortured -- it means I hate not having Joseph
at home! I can't bear it! And if I don't get him back,
if I don't take him out of that school, I'll lose my
mind! That's what it means!'
'Louise, can you please get a grip?' says Stuart.
'Shouting's not going to do anyone any good.'
He's wrong; I feel better for having expressed
myself without any element of calculation for once
-- with no fear of the effect my words might have.
'If you don't want a wife who's a wreck, you'll let me
take Joseph out of Saviour,' I say quietly, to prove to
Stuart that my tone is irrelevant; however I deliver
the message, he won't accept it. 'If you want me to go
back to work, and be able to cook meals and pay bills
and drive the car... if you care about me at all, you'll
agree. Please, Stuart!'


'This isn't fair, Lou. You said Joseph could stay at
Saviour. You admitted he was thriving there--'
'I'm not thriving.' I cut him off. 'Joseph needs
a mother who can function. If only in the school
holidays,' I can't resist adding snidely.
'What about our deal? I only agreed to buy a
house here because you promised you'd stop cutting
up rough about Saviour if I did.'
'I know. I'm sorry.' Because, after all, you hate Swallowfield
so much, don't you, Stuart? That's why you've said it's heaven on
earth at least fifty times since we moved in, and how clever I
was to spot the ad in the paper. 'I thought having a home
here would be enough,' I say. 'I hoped. But one phone
call from Dr Freeman and I'm hearing things again,
feeling as threatened here as I did in Cambridge
when Mr Fahrenheit's crap music was shaking my
floorboards. I didn't realise when we made our deal
that I'm going to fall apart if I don't get my son back.'
My throat closes on these last words, choking me. 'It's
that simple, Stuart. This isn't a whim I've dreamed up
out of nowhere. I've really tried, you know. I've given
myself every pep talk and lecture and talking-to that
I can, and nothing's worked. Losing my son to Dr
Freeman is destroying me. I have to take him back.'
Seeing that Stuart's about to protest, I hold up
a hand to silence him. 'I know Saviour's a brilliant
opportunity, and I'm truly sorry to have to spoil it


for Joseph, but there are other schools -- day schools,
good ones. There are other choirs. Its Cambridge,
for God's sake! He can join Jesus s choir -- how bad
can that be? Jesus College, Cambridge -- it's bound to
be amazing.'
'Are you asking me or telling me?' says Stuart. 'It
sounds to me as if you've made up your mind. What
I thinks irrelevant.'
'The only thing that's relevant at this point is
whether you want a wife who's a gibbering lunatic,' I
say, numbed by his lack of empathy. 'Whether Joseph
wants a mother who's on suicide watch.'
'Oh, don't be melodramatic! There are other ways
that you can... get better that don't involve ruining
our son's potentially amazing musical career -- therapy,
antidepressants, talking things through with me.'
I want to laugh hysterically. I manage not to.
'How about just giving it a bit more time and
seeing if you feel any happier by, say, Easter, or next
summer?' Stuart suggests. 'Joseph's only been at
Saviour for one terml That's no time at all.'
I hear a noise from the hall: the sound of something
shifting. Stuart and I look at each other. He heard it
too; either that or he's pretending because lying is
easier. 'Joseph?' I say. 'Are you there?'
The door clicks open. My beautiful son walks in.
He's been crying. I hope Stuart feels as guilty as I do.


'Dad, I don't care about Saviour,' he says in a shaky
voice. I'll go to any school. It'll be fine. I just don't
want Mum to be upset any more.'
Stuart turns on me. 'Well done,' he says angrily. 1
told you to keep your voice down.'
And I don't care what you say, or think, or do. And,
apparently, neither does your son.
I open my arms to Joseph. He runs towards me.



























8







For the first time since we moved to Swallowfield, I
am swimming during the spa's adults-only hours of
7 a.m. to 10 a.m. Apart from me, there is only one
other woman here; we have a huge outdoor heated
pool all to ourselves, surrounded by wood-and
stone-sculpture-strewn terraces and bordered on all
four sides by green hedges as tall as they are thick.
Privacy is important to people here. A couple of the
homeowners I've spoken to have given the impression
that they would ideally like to have Swallowfield's
500 acres all to themselves; they seem rather sensitive
about having to share their country estate with others.
I wonder if my fellow swimmer feels that way,
and is fuming because I've come along to spoil her
solitude. She is evidently a serious sportswoman,


with her tight-fitting cap, plastic nose clip and super- fast end-of-length 
turnaround times, whereas I'm
doing a slow length approximately every ten minutes
-- leisurely breaststroke rather than her turbo-charged
front crawl -- and quite a lot of aimless drifting in
between. I like watching the rabbits pottering about
on the grass next to the pool. I love floating on my
back and gazing up at clouds and the branches of
the tallest trees overhead while my face and the top
side of my body chill in the winter air. Plunging fully
back into the water afterwards is heaven. When I first
arrived, it was raining; I swam a few lengths with the
contrast of cold drops splashing on my face and my
body immersed in a block of liquid warmth -- it was
an amazing sensation.
I thought freedom from noise would turn out to
be the best thing about Swallowfield, but I was wrong.
It's the sheer transcendent beauty of the place; none
of its other attributes can compete with that one.
Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, I fall in love
with what I see: the fringe of Christmas lights on the
spa building's sloped roof, like a trim of glittering
silver frost; the spouting fountains at the corners of
the pool; the different shades of green beyon d; the
bare tree and hedge branches reflected in the water;
the vast open spaces. My surroundings excite me in
a way that they never have anywhere else. Cambridge


is full of impressive buildings that I've admired and
still admire, but the sight of them has never made my
heart hurt with a need to make them part of me. At
least four times a day at Swallowfield I think, 'I must
never take for granted that I have this in my life.'
I hate to admit it, but it is blissfully, almost
hypnotically calm at the spa with no children here.
I wouldn't have come for the adults-only session if
I'd had my way; I'd have waited until I could bring
Joseph with me, but Stuart asked for some time alone
with him this morning. It's not a request he's ever
made before, and I agreed without question. Maybe
he has missed Joseph too, more than he's been willing
to acknowledge. Or maybe he wants to explain to our
son that he does care about my happiness, whatever
impression he might have given yesterday.
Surprisingly, I am not worried that I have been
shunted aside so Stuart can persuade Joseph that
it is his destiny to be a Saviour College chorister. I
keep asking myself whether this is a real danger that
I ought to be concerned about, and concluding that
it isn't. Definitely not. Something has changed since
yesterday. Stuart was preoccupied and withdrawn
last night, then much happier this morning. He was
up before me, singing to himself as he loaded the
dishwasher. He made a point of coming over to kiss
me, and apologised for what he'd put me through.


'I should have paid more attention to how you felt,'
he said. 'A lot more.'
'Yes, you should,' I agreed. Keen to capitalise
on his good mood, I said, Til make you a deal --
if you start now, I'll forgive you for everything.' He
nodded as if he understood what I meant, and didn't
challenge my implication that there was much to
forgive. We couldn't say any more because Joseph
came downstairs then, but I am optimistic.
I swim a last length and haul myself out of the
water. The shivering dash from the edge of the pool
to the door is bearable only because it's so short, and
because I can see the sauna and steam room through
the glass. I do five minutes in each, with a three
second dip in the indoor plunge pool in between,
then head for the ladies' changing room to shower
and get dressed. I think again of Stuart loading the
dishwasher and decide I want to sing something --
people are supposed to sing in showers, aren't they?
-- but I don't know what. Not anything a choir
might sing. Or Queen. In the end I settle on a song
I used to love, one that hasn't crossed my mind since
I was thirteen: 'Never Surrender' by Corey Hart.
Having chosen it, I find I can't sing it; I feel too
self-conscious. Who puts this much thought into
selecting a shower song? It's not as if I'm a DJ in a
fashionable nightclub and my choice really matters. I


2IO
should have just opened my mouth and let any old
thing come out.
I dry my hair, rub some Body Shop Vitamin E
moisturiser into my face and make my way back to
Topping Lake, thinking that in future I might pay a
pound a time and treat myself to a towel from the
spa when I swim. I'm always envious of the people I
see dropping a white Swallowfield-crested towel into
the wooden hamper in the changing room on their
way out; it's a pain having to lug a cloth bag full of
lumpy wet towel home with me after every swim, and
wash it afterwards. And the bag is always still damp
the next day, when I want to put a clean, dry towel
and swimming costume in it.
I stop in front of The Boundary. There's a car
outside it that shouldn't be there, in our visitor
parking space. I'm not expecting any guests. Who do
I know that drives a blue BMW?
Stuart throws open the front door, beckons me
in. I make a questioning gesture with my hands, and
mouth the word 'Who?' He mouths something back
that I can't decipher, then disappears inside again. I
sigh as I walk up our path. Only one way to find
out. Whoever it is, Stuart's pleased they're here, so
it can't be any of our relatives. Perhaps it's Bethan
from the sales office with some goodies left over
from someone else's sales tour; she popped round


the other day with some chocolates for Joseph that
some other children hadn't wanted to eat, silly them.
Bethan likes Joseph; whenever I see her she tells me
how clever or charming or handsome he is. I find
it annoying that she calls him Joe, but it's hard to
protest in the face of her barrage of compliments.
With my swimming bag still over my shoulder,
I walk into the lounge, eager to see who Stuart is
so enthusiastically telling about Swallowfield's
keyholder scheme, run by the wonderfully efficient
Michelle and Sue who, for a small addition to the
standard service charge, are willing to sit in your
house whenever you need them to, awaiting delivery
of a sofa or a painting if you can't be there to receive
it yourself.
At first I don't see who our visitor is; Stuart is
standing in the way. When he moves, I see a collage
of features and limbs that don't belong in this house,
but the one that leaps out at me is the tidy beard like
a fitted carpet. Around a smiling mouth.
I gasp and recoil. It's Dr Freeman. Ivan Freeman
from Saviour College. Or an apparition that looks
exactly like him. Sitting on my sofa, holding a mug
from which steam is rising. No. No. He can't be here. He
mustn't be. How could this happen?
'Hello, Louise,' he says. 'What a fantastic house!
And a superb location. I was saying to Stuart, you'd


never find Swallowfield unless you were looking and
had detailed directions -- it's so tucked away.'
Detailed directions. From Stuart. Traitor. Bastard.
'Where's Joseph?' I ask. I picture my son trapped
in the boot of Dr Freeman's car, myself screaming
as I try to pull it open, but I can't, and Joseph will
suffocate if I don't. I've only got a few seconds to
save him...
'He's upstairs playing on the Xbox,' says Stuart.
'Lou, I promise you, this isn't what it looks like. I
didn't invite Dr Freeman here so that the two of us
could bully you into accepting a situation you hate.
Really.'
Stuart. My first husband.
'Get out,' I say to Dr Freeman. I don't mean to
be rude, but they are the only words that suggest
themselves. I search my brain for more. 'Joseph's
leaving the school and the choir, so there's no reason
for you to be here.'
'Lou!'
'I'm sorry if either or both of you are shocked.'
I address them as a job lot, feeling no closer to
one than the other. 'I'm shocked that you arranged
this... meeting without consulting me. If I'd been
consulted, I'd have refused. I don't want you here, Dr
Freeman. Now, please go.'
'I quite understand, Louise. I did say to Stuart


that perhaps he ought not to spring this on you.' He
is nodding, but not getting up to leave.
'Stuart doesn't care how anything affects me.
That's why he didn't take your advice.'
'Lou, that's completely untrue!'
'Louise, listen,' says Dr Freeman. 'I have no wish to
stay here if I'm not welcome, but I think I might have
come up with a solution to our problem that we can
all be happy with. Please may I put it to you before
I go? If you don't like the sound of it, say so and I'll
be out of your hair as soon as I can. But... I've come
all this way not to collude with Stuart against you,
believe it or not, but to offer you terms that I think
might make you very happy indeed. It's an offer I've
never made to another Saviour family.'
'We're not a Saviour family,' I say. 'We're my family.
Not yours.'
'Lou, for goodness' sake.' Stuart puts his hand on
my arm. I shake him off.
'Fair enough,' says. Dr Freeman. 'Point taken. It
was a figure of speech, that's all. Let me rephrase --
it's an offer no director of music at Saviour has ever
made to a choirboy's family. It's unprecedented.'
His words swim in my mind, drifting out of focus
when I try to grasp them. Offer. Unprecedented.
'Lou?' Stuart prompts. 'Did you hear what Dr
Freeman said?'


I heard an introduction, a teaser, that sounded
promising, but perhaps that's the ruse: an irresistible
lead-in designed to make me believe that something
wonderful is coming, so that I mistake whatever
comes next for wonderful because I've been groomed.
Brainwashed.
I cannot believe that this is anything but a trick.
'There's only one thing you could say that I'd
want to hear,' I tell l5r Freeman. 'If Joseph can stay at
Saviour and be a chorister and live at home, be a day
pupil -- great. Anything short of that, no, thank you.'
'What I had in mind is something in between
full boarding and day pupil status. I've spoken to the
head and our two chaplains, outgoing and incoming.'
Dr Freeman pauses to appreciate his own witticism.
'We'd be willing to allow Joseph to spend every Friday
and Saturday night at home during term time, as
long as you wouldn't mind bringing him in for seven
thirty every Sunday morning. Each week he could
spend a significant chunk of the weekend with you,
at home -- from Friday at four o'clock until Sunday
first thing. How does that sound?'
'Lou, it's an amazing offer,' Stuart says. 'I don't see
how you can say no. Two nights a week at home --'
'And five at school,' I say. Dr Freeman still gets
more of my son than I do. Inside me, a huge grey
boulder is spiralling a slow descent, rolling over my


lungs and gut, squashing them flat. I can't breathe,
can't think.
'Louise, I wish I could make you understand how
talented Joseph is,' says Dr Freeman. 'I wouldn't be
prepared to be flexible in this way for any other boy
in the choir at the moment. I can't remember the last
time I had as promising a probationer. It would be a
devastating blow to lose him.'
'Yes,' I mutter. 'That's how I feel.'
'Lou?' Stuart says hopefully. 'Come on, it has to be
a definite yes, doesn't it?' He wants this decided now,
nailed down, while Dr Freeman is still in the room.
Fine. Let me nail it down for him. 'No. There are
other good schools, other good choirs. If Joseph is
as gifted as you say he is, it must be possible for him
to have a brilliant musical career without the help of
Saviour College.'
Dr Freeman tweaks his grimace into a patient
smile. 'Of course. But--'
'I'm sorry, I have to go out now,' I say, cutting him
off. If he won't leave, I will.
'Where are you going?' Stuart asks.
'Swimming.'
'But you've just got back from the pool!'
'I've decided I'm going to board at the spa,' I tell
him on my way out of the room. I carry on talking to
myself as I march out of the house and into the cold.


'Five nights a week. The other two, I'll live at home.
As long as you're somewhere else.'
I scratch Dr Freeman's car with my fingernails as I
run past it, hurting only myself.

4

I run and run. Across the fields, away from The
Boundary, not towards anywhere. I don't mind where
I end up, as long as it's far away from Stuart and Dr
Freeman. I drop my swimming bag into the brown
reeds by the edge of Topping Lake, sick of it weighing
me down. Litter. Not allowed at Swallowfield, but this
isn't an ordinary situation. I wonder if I'll ever find
myself in one of those again. It's all I want: normality;
not to be scared any more.
I run as fast as I can, as if someone is running
after me who will kill me if they catch me. Is Stuart
out searching for me? If so, he must have left Joseph
alone in the house or with Dr Freeman. Both are
unthinkable. I should go back, check my son is all
right.
I should go back.
I can't.
A light rain has started; it mingles with the sweat
that's pouring down my face. I stop for a second, out
of breath, on the stone bridge that leads into Starling


Copse. I remember what Bethan told me on our
tour: '... the highest density of trees, all evergreens.
The homeowners here love having their own private
little wood.'That's where I need to go; high density
means lots of places to hide, and someone will come
looking for me eventually even if they aren't already.
I start running again, along the path that leads
to the twelve wooden lodges that were the first to
be built here: phase one of Swallowfield, before the
architects had the idea of using mainly glass. There
would have been no point in Starling Copse; from
what I remember of my sales tour, the houses here
are circled by tall trees and don't get much natural
light anyway.
I feel too visible on the path -- anyone could see
me -- so instead I head across the grass and into the
wood. Keep running, keep running. I don't want to see
anything apart from wood; no way out. Once I'm
surrounded on all sides by tree roots and bark and
dirt, I feel safer, safe enough to stop for a proper rest.
I can hear the rain falling on leaves overhead, but it's
not hitting me. Maybe I've reached the centre of the
wood, where the overhead cover is thickest. I sink
down, intending to sit, but my body gives way and I
find myself on all fours like an animal. Everywhere
I look, the view is the same: tree trunks, an uneven
maze of them, with narrow leaf-strewn dirt paths


in between. I try to move my knees and make a
squelching sound; I'm stuck in mud, like a car that
can't move no matter how hard its wheels spin.
It doesn't matter. I don't want to go anywhere. I
feel more protected here than I would in my own
house -- in either of my houses. I want to burrow
in and bury myself, sink down and never come up
for air. I fall on to my stomach, lie flat against the
ground, with my cheek pressed against the wet mud.
It feels oddly satisfying. Swallowfield's spa should
consider offering it as an off-site treatment: the
Outdoor Mud Experience.
The thought shocks me; it's the kind of thing I
might have thought before. Before what, though? I
haul myself up and into a sitting position, wiping
the mud from my face with the sleeve of my shirt.
What has just happened? Maybe nothing. Maybe
something that most people -- sane people -- would
regard as trivial. The physical evidence of my shaking
body proves only that I am very upset.
Stuart and Dr Freeman cooked up a deal without
telling me. It was a deal I could never accept, but
perhaps they didn't realise that. Perhaps they both
genuinely thought I'd be delighted by the offer.
Stuart invited Dr Freeman to our house at
Swallowfield without consulting me, without warning
me. Is it reasonable to expect him to have known


that my safe haven would be ruined the second
that anybody from Saviour crossed the threshold?
Probably not; I have never told him in so many words
how important it is to me to keep our Swallowfield
life and our Cambridge life completely separate.
I could forgive those two transgressions, but not
the third. Lou? Come on, it has to he a definite yes, doesn't it? I will always 
be able to hear him saying those words
in my head.
I feel tears starting and see no reason to subject
them to any kind of restriction. I cry fiercely, for
a long time, to the sound of the rain drumming
on my roof of leaves. There couldn't be a more
appropriate backing track. If I were sobbing like
this in the sky, my tears would make exactly the
noise I can hear.
How dare Stuart try to bully me into making
up my mind about something so important in the
presence of a man he knows I distrust? How can I
ever feel love for him again, with the memory of that
in my mind?
I don't know how much time passes before I
realise that I can't feel anything but painful tingling
in my legs. Pins and needles; I've been sitting in this
position for too long. I stand up and hobble around
until the uncomfortable prickling stops and I can
walk easily again. I need to get out of this wood and


back to my son now that I'm capable of stringing a
few sensible thoughts together, now that I can feel
my legs and my anger towards my husband.
I am me again, no longer a wild animal. If Dr
Freeman is still at The Boundary, I'll be able to cope
better: at least it won't be a surprise like the first
time. I will evict him, with the help of Swallowfield's
security staff if necessary, and then I'll give Stuart
an ultimatum: either he agrees to take Joseph out of
Saviour -- completely, with no caveats -- or else our
marriage is over.
I almost hope he refuses, so that I can experience
the adrenalin rush of expelling him from my life.
Though if he agrees to everything I want, I will be
pleased in a less visceral, more rational way. I'll get
my son back in a way that allows him to keep his
father too. No doubt my resentment towards Stuart
would subside over time, like a painful swelling.
I can see both sides. This more than anything
reassures me that I am ready to try and find my way
home. I don't know how I'll explain why I'm covered
in mud; I'll worry about that later. First things first:
I need to get out of this wood. It's strange to think
that only fifteen or twenty minutes ago I wanted to
immerse myself in it so that I couldn't see the edges.
That same desire is still bubbling inside me, deep
down, but the voice that says I mustn't act on it is


stronger. No one who has a child can afford to lose
themselves for ever.
If I don't return to The Boundary, Joseph will have
only Stuart to rely on. The prospect horrifies me.
I start to walk between the trees, picking a direction
at random. I'm not going to panic. I have my phone
with me, in my pocket. If I were to get seriously lost,
I could ring Stuart and...
My phone. I scrabble for it with muddy fingers, pull
it out of its case, keen to see if there's a message for
me.
My husband has sent me a text. Ten minutes ago. 'I've got rid of Dr Freeman. 
Safe to come back, assuming
you're willing to talk about this tike grown-ups? Joseph
fine - still playing on Xbox upstairs, blissfully unaware. S.'
In all the time I've known Stuart, he has never
signed a text or email with a kiss -- not once.
I trudge through mud until I see, in the distance,
something that isn't trees: a perfectly square wooden
house standing alone on a small grass-covered island, close to the edge of an 
expanse of water that's too small
to be a lake, I think, though I don't know what else to
call it. It's long and thin, not much wider than the
island that protrudes from it. And the water is moving
sideways quite fast; does this mean it's a stream?
The house is unmistakably Swallowfield-architect
designed, and I wonder why I didn't spot it when


Bethan drove me around; I thought she'd shown
me everything, but there's no way I wouldn't have
noticed a wooden cube house with an island all
to itself. Automatically, I try to assess its position
in the Swallowfield housing hierarchy: the system
that no residents ever mention, but we all know is
there. The Cube (that must surely be its name, or
someone has missed a trick) is smaller than most
of the properties here, and the glass houses are seen
as preferable to the wooden ones on the estate, but
surely hundreds of superiority points would have to
be awarded for private island status? Perhaps this is
why The Cube isn't included in the sales tour -- if
there is only one house in this special position and
it's already taken, why drive other prospective buyers
wild with envy?
As I get closer, I see that there's a raised walkway
leading from the edge of the field that borders the
water to the little island. I hear something too.
Music. From an open window. Good. This must
mean someone's in; hopefully they'll be able to
direct me back to Topping Lake and won't report
me for the heinous crime of trespassing on their
land and privacy. Is whoever owns the house also
the leasehold owner of the island? That too would
make a difference, hierarchy-wise. Before Stuart
and I bought The Boundary, we were sent plans


with a red line drawn around the exact part of
Swallowfield that we would own: the house itself
and the twenty or so square metres between it and
Topping Lake.
The music starts to sound familiar as I get closer
to the house, but the wind carries the notes away
before I can identify the song. There are lights on. A
woman at the window. Is that... Bethan?
It is. It's her. She's moving around behind what I
guess must be the kitchen window; she looks as if
she's putting things away. Either this is a new show
home and she's sorting it out, or else she has a house
at Swallowfield herself.
I hurry towards her, waving to catch her attention,
then stop when I hear a tune that knocks the breath
out of me, and lyrics that seem to be all about my
Cambridge next-door neighbour.
Mr Fahrenheit.
'Don't Stop Me Now' by Queen. No. Not here. It can't be.
But why not? If he was ingenious enough to find
a way to play music on the street so that no one but
me would hear it, he can do anything.
I stand, still and solid, unable to move, subject
to a law that's the opposite of gravity: shocked bolt
upright. Bethan will deny everything, of course.
'Louise? Is that you?' She pushes the window open


wider and leans out. 'Hang on, let me turn the radio
down.' She ducks back into the house. Mr Fahrenheit's
musical manifesto subsides.
When she reappears, I say, 'How much is he
paying you?'
'Sorry?'
'How much is Justin Clay paying you?'
'Who? Sorry, you've lost me.'' Bethan smiles. He
must have chosen her for her innocent face. If she
genuinely doesn't understand what I mean, why
doesn't she look puzzled instead of so blandly
friendly and well-intentioned? Why isn't she asking
me more questions?
'Why didn't you tell me you've got a house here?'
I ask.
She looks uncomfortable. 'Do you want to come
in for a coffee, so we can have a chat?'
'No. I want to know what you and Justin Clay
are planning. I assume it involves driving me mad at
Swallowfield, like he did in Cambridge? How do you
know him? How long? Whatever he's told you about
me, it's not true. I don't deserve this.'
'Louise, I don't know who you're talking about.'
'Whatever he's paying you, I'll pay you more!' I
shout.
'You seem very upset. Why don't you--'
'Why don't you fuck off?' I yell at her, because I can't


bear to listen to any more lies. I turn and run back the
way I came, back into the trees and the darkness.

4

I hear their voices as I enter the woods again. I know
who they are without knowing their names. Their
names don't matter; I will know them when I need
to. I'm not worried about being lost, though the trees
have formed a ring around me and seem not to want
to let me pass. I know the voices will lead me home.
That's where I will find them: at The Boundary.
I walk slowly. There is no need to run; if I ran,
I might scare them away. I must arrive at the house
at the right moment -- not too soon. The song has
only just started. I can hear it faintly, in the distance,
drawing me like a magnet. I follow the melody.


O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel...


One foot, another foot. One note, another note.
Boys' voices marching me home, telling me which
way to go. Bethan and Mr Fahrenheit: it doesn't matter any more, whatever 
they're doing. The choir
is all that matters: they're the ones I must listen to,
the only ones.


... That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


They get louder as I get nearer. I'm back at the
entrance to Starling Copse. Inconceivable, now, to
think that Dr Freeman was at Swallowfield today. He
was here in the way that Stuart is here: not seeing, not
understanding -- presence that's a kind of absence.
They weren't in the same place as me or the choir.
I don't understand it yet, but I will. The boys'
voices sing me a promise that I will soon make sense
of everything. All I need to do is keep listening.


... O come, thou Wisdom from on high,
Who orderest all things mightily ...


I pass the trampoline and the tennis court.
Swallowfield is still in every detail, silent apart from
the choir. The clouds above are fixed in place, not
drifting. There's no shaking of leaves, no breeze to
disturb the grass. No breath but mine, and mine
makes no movement in my chest. I could be travelling
through a landscape architect's three-dimensional
model laid out on a 500-acre table. I could be a
plastic figure on a board that someone has taken


out of a box and unfolded -- at the moment. I will
become real when I am shown the truth.


.. .To us the path of knowledge show,
And teach us in her ways to go. Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


I am coming. I have to get home before the
song ends, but I don't know how much of it is left.
As I approach Topping Lake, I feel myself being
pulled faster. Its like suction. I'm not even sure if
I'm walking any more. I am drifting, gliding, as the
motionless clouds stare down at me. They are all in
on the secret: the clouds, the hedges, the fields, the
jetties, the wooden bird hides. The landscape knows.
Swallowfield knows.


.. .0 come, thou Rod of Jesse, free
Thine own from Satan's tyranny; From depths of hell thy people save,
And give them victory over the grave.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


There's a space where Dr Freeman's car was.
Good. I don't need to think about him any more. I


must make room in my mind for what I'm about to
learn. All other thoughts fall to the ground: leaves in
autumn. Natural. It's nothing to be scared of as long
as I don't look away. As long as I let myself see.


... O come, thou Dayspring, come and cheer
Our spirits by thine advent here;
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night...


The Boundary's front door is open. Stuart is
standing in the way. I feel sorry for him because he
has to say so much that I won't hear. He has started
already. Without guidance, there is no way for him
to know there's no point, and I can't tell him. I can't
explain because I am too busy listening: the guided,
not the guide, not yet. I push past him, walk to the
foot of the stairs. Stop. The voices are really loud here.


... And death's dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


Upstairs: that's where I have to go. To the master
bedroom. My bedroom. That's where it is. Slowly,
I ascend. 'Don't follow me,' I say. I am the follower.
Chosen. He is the left behind. I can't take him with
me for this. 'Look after Joseph. Keep him downstairs.'


I pull open the bedroom door and, in the same
moment, hear it slam shut. What was in front of me
is now behind; I am in the room, unaware of having
moved forward from the landing, no memory of
crossing over.
I fumble for the light switch. Press it. Nothing
happens. The room is still dark. It was light when
I arrived at the house -- midday -- but in this room
it's as dark as if someone had taped over the glass to
exclude all natural light.
That happened once before, in a house that was
also mine.
Except they can't have done that here. If they had, the view would have 
disappeared along with the light,
and it hasn't. I can see everything. At last.
The double doors to the balcony that overlooks
the lake are wide open.
They're there: the choir. I try to count them,
but they shift and reassemble. Sometimes there are
hundreds of them, sometimes only sixteen, like
in Joseph's choir, but I can see each of their faces
so clearly. They must be at least 100 metres from
where I'm standing, but their noses and mouths and
eyelashes brush against my skin as they sing.
I shouldn't need to ask who they are. I will see
them again and I will know. I can't ask because their
singing is too loud. Almost deafening.


... O come, thou Key of David, come,
And open wide our heavenly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


There are girls as well as boys. Yes, of course. I
think I know who they are now. But I would still like
to ask.
Eight boys or hundreds of boys. Eight girls or
hundreds of girls. Out above the water, floating over
the centre of Topping Lake, where the moon was last
night.
Like the moon, they glow silver: the colour of the
Swallowfield Christmas lights -- a jagged moon made
up of the shapes of children, the girls' long hair
streaming in the air, eyes glittering, faces pale and
bright. They look so cold: child sculptures carved out of ice, except they're 
scream-singing as if they're
afraid no one will hear them.
As if they're afraid I don't hear them.
Their eyes lock on to mine, stick into me like pins,
their irises blueish-white. I open my mouth to try to
tell them that I'm here and they don't need to sing
so loud -- they're not allowed to; they will be stopped
if they continue to make such a noise; someone will


complain -- but I can't find the words I want, only the
words of their song. I am singing with them.


.. .0 come, O come, great Lord of might,
Who to thy tribes on Sinai's height
In ancient times once gave the law
In cloud and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


Stuart is banging on the door, asking what I'm
doing, what's wrong with me. Demanding that I
come out. I can't. I don't know why he doesn't come
in. Perhaps for the same reason. I have an open door
in front of me: I can leave him behind, get closer to
the choir. I know that's what they'd like me to do.
I step out on to the balcony. The damp wood chills
the soles of my feet. When did I take my shoes and
socks off? I don't remember doing it. The children
in the choir have bare feet too, dangling: like white
upside-down hands, waving from beneath their robes.
I climb down the wrought-iron spiral staircase to the terrace below. Round and 
down, like a stone. As
I run to the lake, I am pushed back. Something wants
to stop me from moving forward. The children start
to fade. 'No!' I cry out. 'Where are you going?'
I hear Stuart scream my name. The sound of the


choir is still audible, but receding, as if it's coming
from further away.


... O come, thou Root of Jesse's tree,
An ensign of thy people he...


'Come back!' I call.
I drag my body forward, to the edge of the water.
Should I go down trie mud steps? They were cut into
the grass verge for easy access to the lake in summer,
Bethan told me. If I take one step towards the water,
will the choir reappear? Is that where they are -- under
the surface?
'Louise? Where are you? Are you out here?'
Stuart. He's on the terrace. No, he mustn't leave
Joseph alone inside. We have to work together to
keep our son safe.
I'm scared of Stuart. Joseph should be too. He
will try to stop us.
I sink down to my haunches. It's impossible to
see anything by the lake in darkness like this, but
I'm scared Stuart will find me. That's why the choir
disappeared: they knew he was coming.
'Lou?' he calls again. Nearer this time.
I want to run, but I'm blinded by the blackness
that the children left when they took their jagged
choir moon away and left an empty sky. I take
a step to the left, then another to my right, but
each time I draw back, thinking I can hear Stuart's
breathing.
Suddenly, everything is moving, whispering: the
trees, the bushes, the tarpaulins stretched over the
garden furniture on the terrace of every house around
Topping Lake. It's not just Stuart coming for me, it's
one man from each house. They are all him. They are
coming from all sides.
I can't stay out here any more. I need to see light
so that I know my eyes are still working, that I haven't
gone blind. How did I let myself get so far from my
house? Stupid. Crazy. I feel as though I'm miles from
home, further than I've ever been.
I must sing. If I sing it might bring them back.


... Before thee rulers silent fall;
All peoples on thy mercy call.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


Faintly but unmistakably, I hear the children
singing with me. Time-lagged, like an echo. I crawl
along the edge of the lake on my hands and knees,
looking for their reflection in the water, but I see
nothing until I close my eyes, panting in panic, and
find colours on the insides of my eyelids. Purples,


reds. It comforts me and gives me the answer. That's
it, I think. I need to get back to safety, back to the
lights and colours of my house. To The Boundary.
I stand up and turn round. Open my mouth to
scream and choke on the loud singing that pours out
of their mouths and into mine, millimetres from my
face as my eyes hit the glass.
There they are. There they always were.
Blazing with light, hair streaming. In my house,
behind the windowpane, hanging there, suspended
from nothing; nothing in the room but them and the
blinding glare. They're so close, I can see the pupils
of their eyes widen and shrink. Watching them draws
all the breath from my lungs, and more of the song
from my mouth. We are singing all together now.


... O come, Desire of nations, hind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Bid thou our sad divisions cease,
And he thyself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice!

Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel...


'Who are you?' I ask through the words of the
hymn. It's a code. Only the choir could hear the true
meaning under the cover of the words I am singing.
Stuart wouldn't understand, and besides, I've left him


outside. He won't be able to get back in, not while
the choir is in the house.
A boy in the front row with hair as long as some
of the girls' says, 'We're the Orphan Choir.' Yes. That's who you are.
'What are your names?'
A few of them answer. Alfie Speaker. George Fairclough.
Lucinda Price.
I know those names. All of them. 'Thank you
for coming,' I say. We hide all of this beneath the
hymn.


... O come, O come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.


I know them, and I sing with all their voices. I
sing, 'The Orphan Choir, the Orphan Choir, the
Orphan Choir.'








9







'Were you going to throw yourself in?' Stuart asks.
'No. I don't think so. I don't know.' Only one day
later, but it feels like a year. 'Its hard to remember.
I... wasn't in control.'
'At one point you started to walk down the steps
into the water. You must remember what was going
through your mind when you did that.' 'I don't. I really don't, Stuart.'
'Why did you push the bedside cabinet in front
of the bedroom door? What did you plan to do in
there that you didn't want me to see? If you wanted to
throw yourself in the lake, why go up to the bedroom
first, and down the spiral staircase? Why come into
the house at all?'
Telling him why would involve trying to explain


that the 'why' didn't belong to me. That would lead
us to questions of how. I don't know. I agree: there's no
way. All I know is that it happened.
'I don't have any of the answers you want,' I say.
'I'm sorry. I wasn't.. .That wasn't me.'
'But you are now he accuses.
'Yes.'
'How is that possible?'
He is interrogating me the way a policeman would.
I'm glad of his strictness. I need his ruthless logic to
scare the inexplicable away.
I also need to tell him that it was real and I know
what it meant, but if I do, he will write me off as
certifiable. He'll say it's impossible, completely
irrational.
So we have a problem: a paradox. I want him to
negate what happened with his disbelief, and yet I
need him to believe me so that he can help me to save
us. That I can put the dilemma to myself in these
terms convinces me, if no one else, that I am not
crazy.
I will sound crazy if I tell Stuart what happened.
Better to let him think I took off my shoes and socks
and sang a hymn by the lake for a reason neither of
us knows.
'You need to apologise to Bethan,' he says,
resting his head in his hands as if his neck can't


bear its weight any more. He's sitting on the floor
of our bedroom, leaning against the closed balcony
doors. I'm on the edge of the bed, my bare feet
touching the floor, like a hospital patient who hasn't
walked unaided for a long time. Joseph is at the
Welsh boy's house: a temporary evacuee, sharing a
normal morning with a normal family, or so Stuart
hopes. 'Sooner rather than later, ideally,' he says,
but I've lost the thread and can't pin down what he
means. 'I can't believe you swore at her, Lou. Poor
old harmless Bethan!'
Right. Bethan.
'I know,' I say. I'll go round and see her. She'll
understand.'
Stuart laughs bitterly. 'If she does, can you ask her
if she'd mind explaining it to me?'
'I'll tell her the truth -- I've no idea what came over
me. Only that... it was something bad.' Our shared
experience was worse for me than it was for Bethan.
Can I risk telling her that without causing offence?
Probably not. 'I'm not even...' I break off.
'What?'
'I couldn't swear that her radio was playing "Don't
Stop Me Now". Maybe it was a different song
playing, not the one I heard. Maybe she didn't have
a radio on at all! Look, I don't know, okay? Don't
recoil! None of this is my fault! When things happen


that you think can't happen, you start to wonder
about everything. I'll go and grovel to Bethan and
sort it out. I'll take her a bottle of wine.'
'Don't. Any wine we've got, I'm going to need.'
I look at him to see if he's joking. He isn't.
'Stuart?'
'Mm?'
'Do you believe in premonitions?'
'No.'
'I mean... not seeing exactly what's going to
happen in the future or anything like that, but... some
kind of warning?'
'No,' he says flatly. 'I believe you're cracking up.
That's what I believe. We need to get you back to
Cambridge, soon as possible, and--'
'No!' The threat of a premature return to our
Cambridge life helps me to focus. 'Stuart, do you
want me not to be mad any more? Do you want
things to be like they were before? Before Joseph
started at Saviour?'
'Yes. If they can be.' His voice is full of fear: fear
of the wrong thing.
'They can,' I say with certainty. 'But... how much
do you want them to? Would you give anything!'
Silence for a few seconds.
'Yes.'
'Then listen to me now, do what I say, and I


promise you -- I swear on all our lives -- things will
go back to normal.'
'Lou, you're not well enough to--'
'Listen.' I speak over him. 'We need to take Joseph
out of that school and out of the choir. If we do
that, everything will be fine. If we don't, we'll die.'
Stuart starts to cry. 'My God, Lou. Listen to
yourself
'I'm sorry. I know it isn't pleasant to hear, but it's
the truth.'
'We'll die! What, all three of us?'
I expected him to ask me how I know, what
happened to make me believe this. I'm glad he hasn't;
I wouldn't have told him. The less I say, the better.
There's only one detail that matters anyway: the danger
we must do everything to avoid. Heeding the warning.
'No, not Joseph,' I say. 'Joseph will live, and Alfie Speaker will live, and 
George Fairclough and Lucinda
Price, and whatever her brother's called, but you and
I will die. So will other choir parents. Perhaps all
of them.' I can't work out if it's all or only most. I
didn't see Nathan Grant, Alexis's son, in the Orphan
Choir. I don't think I saw Donna McSorley's son
Louis either.
Stuart stands up, wipes his tears away with his
hands. 'I won't listen to this rubbish,' he says. 'You
don't know what you're saying.'


'Yes, I do. I know exactly what I'm saying. Agree
to Joseph leaving Saviour or else I'll leave you today
and take him with me, and never come back. Agree
to him leaving and I'll do whatever you want -- see a
shrink for the rest of my life if you think I need to.' I
have a better idea: more selfless. Nobler. 'Or you keep
Joseph, lock me away in a secure unit for nutters and
find yourself a new wife -- anything, as long as you
agree to take him out of that school.' I would give up
everything, even my son, to save him from becoming
an orphan.
'Jesus, Lou. How can you--'
'Say yes and I promise you, Stuart, everything will
be fine.' I have to make him agree. 'Look, what if we
just try it? You heard what Dr Freeman said about
Joseph, how brilliantly talented he is -- he'd have him
back like a shot, any time. If I'm wrong, if we take
him out of Saviour and I'm still mad two weeks later,
I'll never ask for anything again, but... please, just do
what I ask, just this once.'
Silence stretches across the room between us.
'You're right,' Stuart says eventually. 'Dr Freeman
would take Joseph back. Even if he left.'
'Then you agree?' I need to hear him say it. I can't
allow myself to hope until I have.
'Not because I share your ridiculous paranoia
that's based on nothing.'


It wasn't nothing. Yesterdays visitation wasn't nothing.
Til go along with your plan because I'm desperate,'
Stuart says.
As desperate as I am. Finally. Thank God.
'That's the only reason. I want you back -- the old
you. If there's even a tiny chance...' He shakes his
head sadly.
'Wait and see,' I tell him. 'You won't regret it.
You'll get the old me baclL'
Tm not sure I will -- not so easily. I don't want
to lie to you, Lou. Or mislead you, even. You need
to know that I think you're in pretty serious trouble.
Mentally. All right, Joseph boarding might have
sparked it off, but I can't believe it doesn't go quite a
bit deeper.'
'Wait and see, Stuart. I promise you -- let me take
Joseph out of Saviour and I'll be fine. We'll all be
fine.'
'All right, then, here's the deal,' he says. 'When
does next term begin?'
How can he not know the date? Saviour's calendar
is pinned up on the kitchen noticeboard at Weldon
Road; it's burned into my brain: the day Dr Freeman
will reclaim my son if I don't stop him.
'January the ninth,' I say, scared again. Why is Stuart
trying to offer me a deal when he's only just agreed to
mine? I don't want to talk about this any more. I have


things to do, important things. I have to apologise
to Bethan, then ring round other Cambridge schools
and choirs to see which have places for Joseph.
'If you still feel the same way on January the
eighth, I won't argue with you,' Stuart says. 'We'll take
Joseph out of Saviour, no questions asked. But in the
meantime... we go to this extra Choral Evensong as
planned. He does the Christmas Day service.'
'No! He leaves now -- we email Dr Freeman today.'
'Lou, that's not fair. We're surely not going to die
between now and Christmas Day?' Stuart attempts a
laugh. It comes out as a bark.
But he's right: the danger is in February, not
between now and Christmas. The first danger,
anyway. Unless I'm wrong.
I don't think I am.
Can I risk it? No. I don't want to.
Stuart sits down on the bed beside me and takes
my hand in both of his. Feeling the warmth of his
skin, I am suddenly aware of how cold I am. 'Lou,' he
says. 'Our son was picked from hundreds of boys to
be a member of Saviour College choir. That was and
is an amazing achievement.'
'I know.'
'I'd like him to do one Christmas service as a
Saviour chorister. Please. I tell you what -- on Boxing
Day, if you haven't changed your mind, I'll ring Dr


Freeman and tell him Joseph's leaving. First thing
Boxing Day.'
No. Absolutely not.
'You have my solemn promise. But... please let
him do these last two services. Let's hear him sing
with his choir a couple more times. I've been looking
forward to it.'
I nod. 'Okay. If it's so important to you.' No, no, no.
On no account.
Between now and Friday, I must find a way to
stop this from happening and still get what I want.
I'll think of something; I have to. I can't let Joseph
do Choral Evensong. Or the service on Christmas
morning. I can't let him anywhere near Saviour's
choir ever again.
'Thank you, Lou.'
As Stuart kisses my forehead, I wonder if I could
make him too ill to travel on Friday without doing
him any serious harm. I would never dream of doing
that to Joseph, but to Stuart... maybe.

4

Bethan's square wooden house turns out not to be
called The Cube but The Hush. 'I thought of the
name myself,' she says proudly as she puts the kettle
on to make us both a coffee. Her kitchendining


living area is open-plan, like The Boundary's, and
colour-coordinated to within an inch of its life --
depressingly so. The cushions are the same yellow as
the kettle and the mugs; the coasters, throws and rugs
all contain yellow, beige and green, which are also the
colours of the bland abstract prints on the walls.
'Normally new homeowners pick a house name
from the estate's list, but you can choose your own
if you want, as long as the board approves it. The
Hush went through with no hassle -- they only really
object if someone wants to use something that's
not in keeping with the ethos and atmosphere of
Swallowfield. Once we had a chap who applied for
permission to use the name This Is My Smallest
House.' Bethan giggles. 'He meant it in a tongue-in
cheek way, but the board thought some people might
take offence. It was one of the biggest houses he was
buying, and other homeowners might have thought
he was boasting.'
I wonder if I should interrupt her flow, try again
to apologise. I tried as soon as she opened the door,
several times, but she wouldn't let me. 'Let's put it
behind us and move on,' she insisted, beaming at me.
'I could tell you weren't yourself yesterday.'
I'm grateful for her willingness to let bygones be
bygones, but also suspicious of it. Why won't she
let me explain even a little bit? Has she really cast it


from her mind as if it never happened? How can she
have? If someone I knew who had previously always
been friendly and polite suddenly swore at me for no
reason, I'm pretty sure I'd want to hear what they had
to say about it afterwards.
Perhaps Bethan's cheery banter is a cover for
embarrassment: she doesn't want to get into a heavy
or awkward conversation. Which would be fair
enough. She hardly knows me, really.
'The Hush is the perfect name for this house,' she
says. 'It's 50 quiet. I mean, the whole of Swallowfield's
quiet, obviously, but here you literally don't even
hear another voice from one day to the next. That's
why I sometimes have the radio up quite loud --
there's no danger of anyone being disturbed by it.
Apart from you, no one's ever wandered over here
before. I don't know how you managed to find it --
it's really tucked away, on the far side of Starling
Copse. Most of our homeowners don't know this
little area exists. To be honest, the board kind of
made that a condition when I told them I wanted
to buy.'
She brings our coffees over to the lounge part of
the room, hands me mine. I expect her to sit opposite
me in one of the two armchairs, but instead she sits
beside me on the sofa. A strange choice; now I will
have to move either my head or my body in order to


see her. She's wearing Coo much perfume. It smells
the way fruit with far too much sugar on it would
taste. I wonder if she's one of those women who gets
all drunk and giggly on nights out and then expects
other women to share a toilet cubicle with her as a
sign of close friendship.
'When I first started here as sales director, I never
for one minute imagined I'd end up buying a house,'
she says. 'I couldn't afford it, to be honest, not even
one of the apartments over by the main playground,
but then I fell head-over-heels in love with the place.
I had to buy a house here, I yearned to. So we did.' She
smiles, but not happily. There's a sadness in her voice
too. 'We sold our house in Rawndesley -- downsized
to a two-bedroom flat. It's a bit poky, but I've never
regretted it.'
Then why do you sound as if you do?
'Swallowfield had to come first.' Bethan nods as if
to assure herself that she's right. 'If you've got two
homes, it makes sense to have the best one in your
favourite place, like my husband said at the time. And
how could Swallowfield not be anybody's favourite
place? It's like paradise, isn't it?'
It wasn't like paradise yesterday. I'm starting to feel as
if I might have to leave in a hurry. Normally I can
handle small talk as well as the next person, but today
it feels almost negligent to be indulging in it. I'm not


sure I can fight the rising tide of everything I'm not
saying for much longer.
'Trouble is, it's obviously a bit funny for one of the
Swallowfield sales team to be a homeowner too -- bit
of a conflict of interests, maybe?' Bethan prattles on.
'That was the board's worry. They didn't want to lose
me as sales director, though -- not to blow my own
trumpet, but I'm pretty good at my job -- so they
offered to build me a house miles away from any other
homeowners, at a knock-down price, and here we are!
The Hush.' She looks admiringly around her own
lounge. 'I was amazingly lucky. But, much as I'd love to
rave about my lovely home at Swallowfield when I'm
showing prospective buyers round, the board asked
me not to. That's why I didn't say anything to you
about living here. I think they think... well, I've got
my own island, haven't I? I can hardly say, "Sorry, none
of the other properties have got that, only mine." The
sort of people who come here wouldn't take kindly
to a sales pitch from someone with a better second
home than she's offering them. Not that the other
houses aren't just as special in their own way,' Bethan
adds quickly as she realises what she's said and how I
might take it. She pats my arm. 'Yours is particularly
lovely -- I've always thought that.'
'The music you were playing yesterday, when I was
outside,' I blurt out. 'What was it?'


'Music? Oh, you mean on the radio? I don't
remember. Why?'
'Was it "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen? If it
wasn't, then I really am losing my mind.' I start to
weep, except it doesn't feel as if it's coming from
me. It's as if a flood has started inside me without
warning. Normally I know a few seconds in advance
when I'm about to start crying; I can get away from
whoever I'm with and do it in private. I hate crying
in front of people.
I try to apologise but can't get the words out
through the tears.
Bethan takes the mug from my hands and puts
it down on the coffee table next to her. I pray that
she won't hug me or, even worse, pat me on the
back. If she says and does nothing, and doesn't
touch me, I might be able to pull myself together.
'I think it was,' she says. 'It was definitely something
by Queen. Yes, I'm pretty sure it was "Don't Stop
Me Now".'
I pull my bunched fists out of my eyes and look
up at her. She's frowning. Wanting to be certain she's
given me the right answer. I feel guilty for thinking
bad thoughts about her perfume, and her bathroom
habits.
'Louise, what's wrong?' she says gently. 'I don't
want to pry, and you don't have to talk about it if


you don't want to but... well, I'm always happy to
listen. And I never judge.'
How is that possible? I judge all the time. So
does everybody I know: Stuart, my family, his family,
my colleagues, the choir parents, Dr Freeman, Mr
Fahrenheit. Even Pat Jervis, who has no bloody right.
I wonder if 'I never judge' is the polite way of
saying, 'So you'd better not judge me.' If so, I can't
imagine that it's a particularly effective strategy.
The judgemental would surely blacklist the non
judgemental ahead of any other group.
I can't figure Bethan out. At all.
The urge to cry is gone, completely vanished. I
couldn't if I wanted to, even though my face is still
wet. What I feel compelled to do instead is tell the
story from the beginning. To someone who isn't
Stuart, someone who doesn't know me very well
and is capable of being objective because there's
nothing at stake for her. Someone whose reaction I
can't predict: a woman who sits too close to me on
the sofa but doesn't hug me when I burst into tears.
Who appreciates the beauty of Swallowfield, but
furnishes and decorates her home here like a buyto-let
inner-city landlord with no time and little
imagination.
I want to know what Bethan thinks. I need to
know.


. I tell her everything -- the whole story, even the
parts of it that I might have imagined or hallucinated.
I tell her about Mr Fahrenheit, Pat Jervis, Joseph
being a boarder at school and how much I hate it, the
choral music that I heard in my bedroom and then
on the street -- the music no one else heard.
And then, because I can't allow the secret to swell
inside me any longer, I tell her about the Orphan
Choir. She listens without interrupting, without
looking scornful. When I get to the end of the story
and she's sure I've finished, she hands me my mug of
coffee. 'It'll be cold by now, but...' She shrugs.
'Thank you.' I take a sip. It tastes disgusting.
'I can make you another one if you like? A hot
one.'
Then why wait to offer until I'm drinking the cold one
again?
'This is fine,' I say.
'My son's very musical too,' Bethan says. 'Ed, he's
called. He's nine, so a bit older than Joseph, but
he's in his school choir. He's one of the best singers
they've got, and I'm not just saying that because I'm
his mum. It's only a state school -- we can't afford
private -- but the music teacher's brilliant. They learn
all sorts -- songs in Latin, Irish folk music. They're
absolutely incredible.'
It's a relief not to have to justify, immediately, the


more implausible aspects of the story I've just told. A
relief to hear anything that isn't: But you can't have seen
that. It can't have happened. It's just not possible.
'Where's Ed now?' I ask. 'Hasn't his school broken
up yet?'
'No. Tomorrow they break up.'
Why is she saying nothing about the Orphan
Choir? Is she too non-judgemental to tell me that my
story sounded like complete nonsense? I interrogate
myself silently: did I definitely tell her? Could I have
imagined telling her?
'But... Ed doesn't live with me, so . . .' A shadow
passes across Bethan's face. 'I won't be seeing him,
even over Christmas. He lives with his father. Rod.
We're separated.' She blinks away tears: more discreet
ones than mine -- tears that will take no for an answer.
'I know how painful it is to lose a child, Louise.
Believe me. Death and abduction aren't the only ways
it can happen, though they're the only ways people
sympathise with. Ed's getting on with his life, getting
on well at school. He seems happy. I see him every
fortnight, for the weekend. No one can see that I've
lost him except me. I mean, people know he lives
with Rod, but... that's different from a tragedy, isn't
it? In most people's eyes. It feels like a tragedy to me,
though.'
'I'm so sorry,' I say. 'Did you... Could you...' I


don't know how to ask without making her feel as if
it's her fault, or as if I think it might be.
1 didn't fight Rod for custody, no. No point.'
'He'd win?'
'No, I think I would. But winning would be losing.'
She shakes her head, murmurs something under her
breath. 'If I tell you, you'll think I'm spineless.'
'No, I won't.'
'Rod told me from the start -- before we had kids,
before we were engaged, even -- that he'd never let any
woman take his child away from him to live under
another man's roof. He wouldn't have married me if
I hadn't agreed. I was in love -- I thought it was sweet,
that it was fine because we were never going to split
up. Rod was so serious about being a dad, he wanted
it so much, but he wouldn't have gone into it if there
was even a chance that some woman would separate
him from his kids. It used to really worry him -- even
stopped him from having relationships for a while.
Before he met me. We used to tease each other about it when things were okay 
between us. If Ed and I
were nipping into town, Rod'd say jokily, "Taking my
son away, are you? I seem to recall promising to kill
any woman who did that." And I'd say, "Don't worry,
you'll have him back in a couple of hours -- you'll
be poorer though, because we're going into town to
get him a new coat. Lucky you've not sworn to kill


anyone who spends too much of your hard-earned
money!
Seeing my expression, Bethan says, 'I know it
sounds awful but it was just one of our running gags.
Neither of us thought the situation'd ever arise.' She
falls silent.
'And when it did, you let Rod keep Ed because
you knew it wasn't really a joke?' I ask.
1 don't know if he'd actually go as far as killing me.
I'd rather not find out. He'd do something, that's for
sure. Kill himself, maybe. I can't risk it. Anyway...'
Bethan smiles determinedly and pats her lap with
both hands: the signal for a cat to leap up into it,
except there is no cat. 'You didn't come here to listen
to me pouring my heart out with a tale of woe. We
should be talking about you and what happened to
you yesterday. I must say, that's something we don't have in common: I've never 
had a... an out-of-body
experience like that. What do you think it means?'
'The Orphan Choir?' It feels so odd saying the
words out loud. 'It wasn't an out-of-body experience
exactly. I was in my body, and my mind, but they
were... different. Everything was different. It's so
hard to explain. But I do know what it means -- I
think. No, I know. But it'll sound crazy if I tell you.
Crazier than what you've already heard.'
'Try me,' says Bethan. 'Like I said, I don't judge.'


'Then can you start now?' I am joking but not
joking. Like Bethan's ex, Rod. 'I need someone to tell
me if everything I'm thinking is a complete fantasy
and I'm stark raving mad or if there could be any
truth in it. I don't trust myself any more.'
'Go on.'
'I think the Orphan Choir's ... visit was a warning.
It was Joseph's choir.'
'You saw Joseph with them?' Bethan asks. 'You
didn't mention that.'
'No, he wasn't one of them, but the three that told
me their names -- they're Saviour choirboys.'
'But one of them was a girl, you said -- Lucinda
Price.'
'Yes. Sorry.' Why is my brain not working
properly? Bethan shouldn't know more about what
happened yesterday than I do. 'The two boys, Alfie Speaker and George 
Fairclough -- they're choristers.
Lucinda Price isn't, obviously -- no girls are allowed
in Saviour's choir. She must be one of the choirboys'
sisters. In fact, all the girls I saw must be. That's why
it's the Orphan Choir -- what else can it mean? If the
choirboys are orphans, their parents must be dead. If
their parents are dead, that would make their sisters
orphans too.'
Jagged and silver in the night; blue-white eyes shining. Wide
black mouths scream-singing.


'So... you said you thought it was a warning?'
Bethan prompts.
'Sometimes Saviours choir sings in other places
apart from the college chapel. Not often, but it
happens. In February they're going to be singing at
St Paul's in London. They're going by coach, with the
choirmaster, Dr Freeman. There's a separate coach
booked to take parents and families.' Since yesterday,
my mind has been full of all the terrible things that
might happen to that coach. Will it plunge off a hill
road and crash into the valley below, killing everyone
on impact? There are no hills between Cambridge
and London, so probably not. Will it overturn on
the Mil and burst into flames?
'And you're worried it's going to crash and kill you
all?' Bethan asks.
'Not me, not Stuart. We're not going to be on that
coach. I need to warn all the other parents, but how
can I? They won't believe me. You don't believe me,
do you? I won't blame you at all if you don't. I'd rather
be wrong. I'd rather be mad! At least if I'm the crazy
one then the rest of the world still makes sense!'
'The girls, though,' Bethan says, frowning. 'That's
where your theory falls down.'
'What do you mean?'
'Well, if they're sisters of choirboys, they'd be on
the second coach too, wouldn't they? The parents'


and families' coach, the one laid on to transport the
audience. Not the one that's taking the choirboys.
So-
'They wouldn't be alive and orphaned. They'd be
dead along with the parents.' I finish Bethan's sentence
for her. 'Yes, I thought about that. But... maybe not
everyone on the second coach died? Or some of the
choirboys' sisters might have been left at home with a
sitter, a grandparent -- maybe those girls are the ones
I saw and heard in the Orphan Choir.'
'"Dies", you mean. Not "died". None of these
parents and sisters are dead yet, are they?'
I appreciate Bethan's matter-of-fact approach.
She's the one making it possible for us to continue
this conversation, not me.
'Should I warn them?' I ask. 'We're going to
Cambridge this Friday for a Choral Evensong. I'll see
all the choir parents there.'
Bethan rubs the palm of her left hand with
the thumb of her right as she thinks about it. 'I
don't think you need to warn anybody,' she says
eventually. 'Why wouldn't the Orphan Choir
warn the other parents, if they warned you? To be
honest...' She stops. 'Do you want to know what I
really think?'
I nod. A grey stone of dread has started to form
at the base of my throat. I need to be right about


this. I know I can avoid that coach trip; I need it to
be that and nothing else that I have to avoid. In case I can't.
'I think it was a warning, like you say, but nothing
to do with a coach trip,' says Bethan. 1 honestly don't
think all the choir families are going to die on the
way to St Paul's Cathedral. I don't believe in ghosts or
anything supernatural like that -- do you?'
'No. Nor premonitions, not usually, but... I can't
deny what happened to me yesterday. It definitely
happened.'
'Yes. It happened in here' -- she taps the side of her
head with her finger -- 'because you desperately want
your son back. You want and need to get him out of
Saviour College School -- you've been miserable since
he started there. That's the warning. You're missing Joe
so much, you're seeing orphaned choirboys who've
been tragically separated from their parents. You
don't like this Dr Freeman, or trust him further
than you can throw him... The mind's a powerful
machine, Louise. It can do an awful lot to us that we
don't understand.'
'I know that.'
She's wrong. The Orphan Choir means more than
she thinks it does. It didn't come from inside my
head.
She's wrong because of the girls.


Why would my mind produce girls, when the
choir from which I am desperate to extricate my son
is a boys-only choir?
'Your subconscious is panicking, Louise -- that's
what's going on. Here at Swallowfield you've got Joe
with you and you're happy, but this holiday period
can't last for ever. Subconsciously, you know that the
start of term's going to be even more painful because
you've had Joe back for a bit -- and soon you'll have
to say goodbye to him again.' Bethan shrugs. 'Or
else it's this Dr Freeman -- maybe you don't like him
for a different reason from the one you assume. He might not be fit to look 
after children -- he might be
a monster.'
No. Ivan Freeman isn't a monster; he is someone whose wishes
and self-interest clash with mine, that's all. That's enough.
'Maybe on a gut-instinct level, you've worked
out that you need to get Joe away from Dr Freeman
double quick.'
My son's name is Joseph. Not Joe.
'I don't believe in ghosts, but I definitely believe
dodgy people can give off danger vibes that can make
alarm bells ring,' Bethan says. 'And so can situations. I
don't know if its separation from Joe you're afraid of
or Dr Freeman, but whichever it is, you should heed
the warning your brain's trying to give you -- all the
warnings you've had since Joe started school -- and


move him Co a different school, a day school. Get
him back for good and I promise you, you won't be
seeing any more choirs of orphans hovering above
lakes.'
Wrong. I will see and hear them again. Until I understand.
I intend to get Joseph back for good, of course,
but she's wrong about the rest. I would say so, but I
can no longer motivate myself to tell her what I'm
thinking.
I stand up. 'Thank you,' I say. No swearing this
time. 'I need to get home.'

4

Outside Bethan's house, there is a boy. He has been
waiting for me, barefoot on the wooden bridge: a
choirboy in a dark red cassock, tall and thin with a
prominent Adam's apple. His hair is blond and fine, his eyes blue-grey. He 
smiles at me, then starts to
sing the first hymn I ever heard my son sing:


Dear Lord and Father of mankind,
Forgive our foolish ways.
Re~clothe us in our rightful mind,
In purer lives thy service find
In deeper reverence, praise...



As he sings, his skin fades around the black hole
of his open mouth.
I should be scared, but I'm not. He is not my son.
He's nobody's son. He's an orphan.
Was. Now he's gone, his unfinished song is gone,
and there's nothing and no one on the bridge apart
from me and a few stones and dried-up brown leaves.




























z6z
10

3





The chaplain of Saviour College, whose last service
this is, has a serious cold and should be in bed with a
mug of Lemsip, not here in this chilly echo-chamber.
He is doing his best, spluttering over some of his
words.
Seeing him walk into the chapel reminded me that
I didn't respond to any of Alexis Grant s emails about
the leaving present that she'd decided we were all going
to buy him, communally. I didn't even read them. Ours
is probably the only family that hasn't contributed.
I'm not even sure what the present is. A quick glance
at Alexis's first round-robin email on the subject told
me everything I needed to know: it was something complicated and partially 
home-made that involved
taking one's child's fingerprints and then posting them


to Alexis, having first taken care not to smudge them
and made sure the envelope was hardbacked to avoid
it getting bent in transit... I stopped reading when it
became apparent that more effort would be involved
than I was prepared to put in.
It shouldn't matter. I shouldn't be here. Neither
should Stuart. Neither should Joseph. Part of the
reason I ignored and deleted all of Alexis's emails is because, in my mind, we 
were already gone: an ex
Saviour family, with no further need to be involved
in choir business on any level. We were gone, as far
as I was concerned, from the moment I first saw the
Orphan Choir and fully understood that Joseph had
to leave.
Yet there he is: singing.
Yet here we all are: in Saviour's chapel, as if
nothing has changed, with Alexis beaming her stony
disapproval at me from the pews opposite. I try to
beam back the words 'I am not really here,' but it
doesn't deter her.
Until the last minute -- until half an hour before
we set off from Swallowfield -- I believed that I
would find a way out of coming tonight. Then Stuart
appeared with his car keys in his hand, and Joseph
was standing next to him with his coat on, and I saw
that I had misled myself yet again. There was never
going to be a way out.


That's when I realised: maybe we need to go back
and face the college and the choir once more, or
twice more, before we can sever all ties. If everything
happens for a reason -- and they say it does, don't
they? -- then perhaps it will do me good to sit here,
listen to the service, appreciate what's being discarded.
Perhaps this, like the visit from the Orphan Choir, is
happening for a very good reason -- something to do
with the difference Detween achieving closure in an
active way and going into hiding like a coward.
For the first time at a Saviour service, I scan the
faces of boys who aren't my son, as they sing the
Magnificat. I steel myself for my least favourite line.


... and the rich he hath sent empty away...


Normally I can't tear my eyes away from Joseph,
but today I am keen to see Alfie Speaker and George
Fairclough. And the Price boy, Lucinda's brother.
Except... none of them is here today.
That's peculiar. Saviour choirboys have it drummed
into them from day one that they must attend every
service unless they're seriously ill. I wonder if they
have caught the chaplain's lurgy. Leaning in to Stuart,
I whisper, 'Three boys missing. Not seen that before.'
'What are you talking about?' he says. 'They're all
there.'


'Alfie Speaker and George Fairclough aren't.'
The Magnificat finishes. 'Let us now offer to God
our prayers and petitions,' says the chaplain m his
cold-muffled voice. 'Let us pray for all those who are
going to be alone this Christmas, those who have lost
a loved one this year and will miss them on Christmas
Day, those without adequate food and shelter, those
suffering in the war-torn parts of the world -- in
Syria, the Gaza Strip ...'
'Who?' Stuart whispers.
'He can't mention everyone in the Gaza Strip by
name,' I say.
'No, I meant Alfie ... who did you say?'
'Alfie Speaker, and George Fairclough. And... what's
the name of the Price bov?'
'Who are you talking about?' Stuart stares at me
oddlv.
'Ssh.' I nod in Joseph's direction. I don't want us to
embarrass him. This service and one more and then
he's out of here for good. I can't wait.
'We pray for the recently and prematurely deceased,'
intones the chaplain. 'For the repose of the souls of
Cordelia Overton, Martin Moss, Walter Hepworth,
Carole Waugh, Gary Donald. Lord in thy mercy...'
'Hear our prayer,' I mutter. Playing my part for the
second-to-last time.
'Lou,' says Stuart.


'What?' I whisper.
'There's no one called Price in the choir.'
I turn to face him. What's he talking about? 'Of
course there is.' I roll my eyes at him. 'I promise you,
there is. You never know anyone's name.'
'We pray for individuals who have asked for our
prayers, and for those for whom prayers have been
asked by others -- Katie Nally, Felix and Antonia
Blackwood, Maureen and Roger. Lord in thy
mercy...'
'Hear our prayer.'
'I know that there's no boy with the surname Price
in the choir,' Stuart persists. 'There's no Alfie Speaker
or George Fairclough either.'
'What are you talking about? Of course there is.'
'No. There isn't.' There are tears in my husband's
eyes. They scare me, and I don't want to be scared,
not after believing and hoping that I was well on
the way to leaving fear behind. That solitary orphan
choirboy on Bethan's bridge, outside The Hush... As
we drove to Cambridge, it suddenly dawned on me
what he meant. One choirboy, not lots. Singing softly,
not screaming out the words. And he faded almost
immediately. Another warning, but a milder one --
more of a gentle reminder: 'Don't forget. I know you
won't, but just in case...'
'Look,' Stuart says, bringing me back to now.


'Everybody's here -- all the choristers. Count them.
How many boys are there in Saviour's choir?'
No. I don't want to do this.
'How many, Lou?'
'Sixteen.'
'And how many are here this evening? Count them.'
I don't want to.
'Do it,' Stuart insists.
One, two, three. Four, Jive, six. Joseph is number seven. Eight, nine. 
Teneleventwelvethirteenfourteenjifteensixteen.
'But... I don't understand,' I whisper. Alfie and
George aren't here. Where are they? How can there
still be sixteen choirboys?
There were hundreds. In the Orphan Choir. Hundreds. I
saw all their faces.
Only sixteen in Saviour's choir. Only ever sixteen.
I gasp at the shock of this revelation as the
chaplain says, 'On the anniversaries of their deaths,
we pray for Adele Nolan, Jared Pazdur...'
'Lou? You okay?' Stuart grips my arm. 'You've
gone pale.'
I'll be fine. I'll work out what it means and then
I'll be okay.
'.. .Tamsin, Fluffy Heywood, Damian Cricklade...'
I'd be better if the chaplain would stop listing
dead people. It's macabre. Did all of them really die
on 21 December, or have some people rounded their


loved ones' death anniversaries up or down to the
nearest Saviour chapel service? Is Fluffy Heywood a
person or a former pet rabbit, for Christ's sake?
'... Agnes Barrow, Patricia Jervis and Gillian Voss.
Lord in thy mercy...'
Hear
our
prayer
I press my eyes shut. No. No. It's not true. He can't
have said it. Patricia Jervis. I open my mouth, not sure
if I'm going to breathe or scream.
'Lou -- what is it?' Stuart asks.
He must be talking about a different person:
someone who's been dead for at least a year, not
someone who works for the council, who came to
my house twice. Pat isn't dead. She isn't dead. She's Pat, not
Patricia -- short for Patricia, but she said everyone calls her Pat.
This is a terrible mistake.
'Out,' I say, standing up. 'Now.' I have to get out of
here, away from this endless remembering of death.
Have to get back to Swallowfield, back to safety.
Stuart tries to pull me down. I shake his hand off my
arm and run across the black-and-white tiled floor
of the chapel to Joseph, with my arms stretched
out in front of me. 'Mrs Beeston?' Dr Freeman says.
'What...?'
It feels like hours before I am close enough to grab


my shocked son. I hug his warm body against mine.
'We re leaving!' I shout. If I can make it to the door
and out into the courtyard, we'll be all right. Run. Run.




'Where did you take him?' I call out when I hear the
front door close. I yell it twice more before Stuart
appears in the lounge. He's taken too long; that must
mean he's taken Joseph far away, irretrievably far. I'm
sitting on the floor at The Boundary, in the corner of
the room, my knees drawn up to my chest, pressing
the sides of my back into a right angle of walls.
Sitting on a chair or on the sofa I would feel too
exposed. I'd like someone to wrap my whole body
in a blanket, round and round, so that I can't move.
That would make me feel safer.
'Where did I take him?' Stuart snaps. 'Where do
you think I took him? To Bethan's house, like we
agreed.'
'No! I don't agree.'
'But... you were the one who rang Bethan
and asked her if she'd have him overnight!' My
husband's face is grey. I am destroying him. It's not
me, though; I have to make him see that. It's not
my fault, none of it. If I rang Bethan -- and Stuart's


right, I did -- that must mean I want Joseph to be
there, with her.
1 don't think you took him to Bethan's,' I say
slowly. 'I bet you took him back to Cambridge, didn't
you? Handed him over to Dr Freeman!'
'Lou, I've been gone forty minutes. To Cambridge
and back's two and a half hours. It's a bloody
nightmare finding_Bethan's place in the dark. I also--'
'Get him back!' I sob. 'I want Joseph! I want my
son!'
'Lou.' Stuart sits down next to me on the floor.
'We discussed this. Remember? The drive home
was bad enough -- do you want to traumatise him
permanently? We need to talk, and Joseph needs not
to be within earshot... Look, he's fine with Bethan.
He'll be asleep by now.'
'Bury me behind the walls,' I say. 'Bury me under
the floorboards. Let me die. I can't bear this any more.'
'Stop it! You sound crazy.'
'I am crazy?
'Look, we're going to try and make sense of all
this, all right? All of it. Even though it makes no
fucking sense whatsoever. Pat Jervis -- the Pat Jervis
you claim to have met twice, in our house -- is dead.'
'No!'
'Yes, Louise. I've been sitting in the car with my
phone for the last quarter of an hour, doing a bit


of research. Patricia Jervis, worked for Cambridge
City Council's environmental health department.
Murdered on the twenty-first of December 2009.
She was investigating a noise complaint, went to the
house in question to try to reason with the party
animal who lived there. He pushed her off a fourth
floor roof terrace.'
I need him to stop talking. I can't breathe while
he's talking.
'She broke her neck and back.'
Which is why she walks funny, rocking from side to side. I
think back to my telephone conversation with Doug
Minns. I asked to speak to Pat. He didn't tell me she
was dead.
He must have been being tactful. Easier, less
shocking, to say, 'Let me help you instead,' or words
to that effect, than to say to a stranger, 'I'm sorry, my
colleague was murdered some years back. Can I help
you at all?'
'She's dead, Lou. Which means she didn't turn
up to our house in the middle of the night, and
you didn't meet her and speak to her. So... is there
anything you want to tell me?'
'You think I'm lying} Why would I make that up?'
'You tell me. While you're at it, why don't you tell
me who Alfie Speaker and George Fairclough are?'
i..:


'Saviour choirboys, are they?' Stuart says, his voice
leaden with sarcasm.
'No. I... I thought they were, but... no. They
belong to a different choir.'
'A different choir? Jesus Christ, Louise...'
'They belong to the Orphan Choir.'
'Oh, orphans now, are they?'
I don't understand why he's being so cruel to
i
me.
'Shall I tell you what I think?' he says. 'I think
you've developed some kind of... twisted obsession
with death. You knew Pat Jervis was dead. How much
time do you spend on the Internet, Googling macabre
deaths?'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'If I look at the browsing history on your laptop, I
wonder what I'll find,' Stuart says knowingly.
'Whatever you suspect me of, you're wrong,' I tell
him. I'm exhausted; I need to stop, to sleep for ever,
but I can't stop. I must carry on. It isn't up to me.
'Alfie Speaker was a Cambridge chorister, like
Joseph, except at King's, not Saviour,' Stuart says.
'There was a documentary about him on telly two
months ago. As if you don't know all this.'
I don't.
'Tell me,' I say.
'Do we really have to go through this charade?'


Stuart sighs. All right, then. Alfie was a composer -- a
musical child prodigy. He died in 1983, aged nine:
his father accidentally reversed his car over him.'
Oh, yes. I remember this now. Stuarts right about
Alfie.
'George Fairclough died in 1979 of leukaemia,
aged twelve,' I say, not knowing how I know this --
only that I do. 'George was a brilliant singer too,
though he wasn't in a choir. He wasn't well known,
wasn't any kind of celebrity apart from in private,
where he was, very much so.'
He was picked for the Orphan Choir because his
was one of the best voices. It didn't matter that he
wasn't famous and had never been a chorister at an
Oxbridge college.
Stuart stares at me, confused.
'George's parents used to invite all their friends round for musical evenings,' 
I tell him. 'His mother
would play the piano while George sang. It became a
regular thing -- everyone looked forward to it.'
'How do you know that, if he wasn't famous?'
Stuart asks quietly. 'I couldn't find any useful Google
results for George Fairclough.'
And Lucinda Price -- she died last year, aged ten.
In Prestatyn. Her uncle raped and murdered her.'
'Right, just... stop this now!'
'He was supposed to be babysitting. She was a


brilliant singer, Lucinda was. Won the Eisteddfod
two years running.'
'The... what?'
It doesn't matter. A warm calm settles over me
as I let the knowledge sink in. I was wrong before,
so wrong, but it doesn't matter. I see it all now and
there's no point fighting. There's no avoiding it.
The Orphan Choir. They're all dead. Children who
were talented singers. Children who, wherever they
are now, have no parents because their parents are
still here: in this world. That's why they're orphans.
Their parents, still alive, are lost to them.
Boys and girls. Saviour College choir, with its
archaic traditions, excludes girls. The Orphan Choir
excludes no child who can sing as beautifully as Alfie
and George and Lucinda.
And Joseph. And the boy who sang to me outside Bethan's
house...
I shiver. Wrap my arms round my knees. Stuart is
saying something but I can't hear him. I'm consumed
by my own thoughts, and I'm so close now. I can
allow myself to remember, to know, to see.
Pat Jervis, pressing her fingertip against the glass of
my light-blocked lounge window... Me, looking at
my reflection in the same black window later, feeling
strongly that something was wrong, but it wasn't --
not then. It was wrong before, when Pat looked, when


2.75
I saw her looking, saw what she saw. That's what I
half-remembered when I stood where she had stood:
the lounge was reflected in the window, everything in
the lounge but her. She didn't see herself there.
She wasn't there.
That's why she presses her finger against panes of
glass and mirrors. She can't see her reflection. She
touches to check that the surface that ought to reflect
her presence is there. Wonders why, if it is, she can't
see herself in it.
She doesn't understand that she's dead. Not fully. I'm the same.
No. I'm not dead. I'm still alive.
Think, Louise. Think hard.
The Orphan Choir didn't mean what I thought it
meant: it wasn't about dead parents -- that wasn't why
the children were orphans. I got it the wrong way
round. I saw dead children singing above the lake.
Dead, like Alfie Speaker. Dead, like...
No.
'What's that noise?' Stuart asks. 'Someone's
playing...' He stops to listen, frowning.
'She warned me.'
'Who?
'Pat Jervis. She told me not to buy a house here.
She knew the danger wasn't in Cambridge.'
I replay her words in my mind: I know you shouldn't
drive to the Culver Valley. Don't do it, Louise. Stay here.


'Louise! What's that singing? I can hear boys
singing.'
'It's the Orphan Choir.'Who else would it be?
Slowly, Stuart walks towards the French doors.
Opens them.
There's no hurry. It's all much too late.
The children are brighter tonight, glowing gold
and silver, huge radiant eyes and endless black mouths
like tunnels to purest nowhere. They're singing their
favourite: 'O Come, O Come, Emmanuel'.
'Joseph,' Stuart whispers. He looks tiny beneath
the enormous jagged moon of children. Powerless.
As we both are and have always been. 'Joseph's there.'
I join him on the terrace. My feet are bare, as I
need them to be. 'Yes,' I say. And Ed, look, next to
him. Ed's his best friend in his new choir.'The blond
boy I saw on the bridge that leads to Bethan's house,
with the prominent Adam's apple.
'Ed?'
'Bethan's son.' Somehow, I know what happened
to him too, just like I know all about Alfie Speaker
and George Fairclough.
Murdered by his father, Rod. Strangled with the lead of a
laptop computer after Bethan said she wanted a divorce and
really meant it this time. It wasn't enough for Rod to be his son's
primary carer; he had to punish Bethan, had to deprive her of a
son altogether.


I'm not angry that she didn't tell me. I understand.
I would never have let Joseph go anywhere near her or
her house if I'd known the truth.
'Lou, we've got to get Joseph. I... I don't think
he's safe at Bethan's.'
'Joseph's dead,' I tell him. 'He's dead because Ed
needed a friend.' I wonder if Bethan understands why
she did it.
'No!' Stuart says. 'Don't say that!'
'You know it's true. You just don't want to face it.'
'Shut up! I'm going to get my son back!'
I remember that I used to say that. Used to think
it, all the time. Had no idea what it might come to
mean.
Stuart disappears round the side of the house.
I hear him unlock the car. Good. I want him gone. I
can't do what I have to do with him here. He would
stop me; he's still in denial. I need it to be just me
and the choir. They know what has to happen next.
My son is lying on the bottom bunk of a bed
that once belonged to a murdered boy. Poisoned, not
strangled; Bethan's a coward.
Eyes closed. Pale skin. Wearing his favourite
pyjamas: the ones with a grey smiling shark on the
top.
And Stuart is driving, and crying. Soon he'll be
running...


I don't want him to see what I see, but how can I
stop him?
Across the bridge, pushing past Bethan, up the
stairs, second door on the left; he'll be drawn to the
room Joseph's in. He will turn on the light and be
blinded by pain.
I don't want him to fall to his knees and howl, but
he will. I can't stopit.
My son is a murdered boy, lying on another
murdered boy's bottom bunk.
But. The Orphan Choir would not still be singing
to me if there was nothing I could do. They are
showing me, Joseph is showing me, that he doesn't
need to be an orphan. Not at all. I can join him if I
want to.
How could I not want to? He's my only child.
I walk through the bodies of long-dead children
to the edge of the lake. Descend the steps that one
of Swallowfield's gardeners cut into the bank, one by
one. The children sing to me as I go down.











II







The antechapel is cold, as I knew it would be. Grey
stone everywhere. Behind the closed wooden doors, I
have no doubt that the chapel proper is colder. I have
never seen or sat inside it; this is the first time I have
been here, at the invitation of the choirmaster.
I don't know who decided, and when, that religion
and central heating were incompatible.
Actually, it was more of a summons than an
invitation. I had no choice but to attend at the given
time. He'd have come for me if I hadn't.
It's odd that I don't know his name.
Still, it is better this way round. I can afford to
let things happen as they will, knowing I'll get the
outcome I want. With Dr Freeman there was so
much resistance; I had to make such an effort, had to


hatch plans and strategise. Today, a new choirmaster
will offer me what Dr Freeman never would have,
however long I'd waited, and I will have to make no
effort at all.
The wooden doors open with a creak. He is on
the other side of them and stays where he is; doesn't
walk towards me. 'Mrs Beeston.'
'Yes.' I approach. Close as I can. I want to catch a
glimpse of Joseph inside. I can hear him singing the
Nunc Dimittis. I hear all the voices -- Alfie's, Ed's --
but especially Joseph's.
'You know why I asked you to come?'
'I think so, yes.'
'Joseph's voice is exceptional and he's a hard worker.
We'll be very sorry to lose him, but... he has you now.
He no longer meets our eligibility criteria, and there
are other boys... And girls,' the choirmaster adds, as
if he's surprised to have remembered this detail. I
would like to ask him if, before, he led a boys-only
choir like Saviour's, but I would feel inappropriate if
I did. There's a lot that no one talks about. Ever.
'I'm only sorry to lose Joseph so soon,' he says.
'Obviously all the children have to move on eventually
when their parents come, and it's always a blessing for
a parent to arrive, however unexpectedly, especially
a mother, but... well, Joseph's very special. As you
must know, of course. I'll be sad to see him go.'


'Thank you.' I smile at him.
'Mum?'
I look down and find Joseph standing next to me.
'Darling,' I whisper. 'I missed you.'
'I missed you too,' he says. 'Can we go home?'
'Yes, of course.'
It is true. I am going to take my son home. Finally,
there is no one who £an stop me.

I

The scaffolding is still up, the plastic sheeting still
wrapped around our house on Weldon Road. Inside,
though, it's brighter than it's ever been: a silver-white
glare. So bright that, at first, I can't see Joseph. I
have to let my eyes adjust. I squeeze his hand and
he squeezes back. I will never let go of him again.
Everything will be all right. Everything has to be all
right now, because now is for ever.
'Mummy?'
'Yes, darling?' He hasn't called me Mummy for a
long time. It was Mum, as soon as he started primary
school.
'Will I still see Ed, now that I've left the choir?'
How do I answer him? I have no idea how this
kind of thing works, no idea where to go or what to
do.


Perhaps, because this is home, there will be no
more going and doing. I will have to work it out.
'I don't know, darling. Maybe. I'll know soon. I'll
sort it out, I promise.'
'Will you ask Ed's mummy?'
'Ed's mummy?' I have no idea what to say to this.
'She's coming soon, you know. Ed told me today.'
I nod, distracted, as the shine from the window
pulls me towards it. When Pat pressed her fingertip
against it, it was black. Not any more. I put my finger
where hers was and, for a second, the brightness clears
and I see my reflection in the glass. There's someone
standing behind me.
It's Bethan. She opens her mouth as if to tell me
something, then fades to a pinprick of movement
in the surrounding stillness before disappearing
altogether.
'Mummy?' Joseph tugs at my sleeve.
'Yes, Joseph?'
'When will Daddy come?'
'I don't know. Soon, I hope.' I wonder, as I say this,
if it's true.








Give us light in the night season, we beseech thee, O Lord,
and grant that our rest may be without sin,
and our waking to thy service;
that we may come in peace and safety
to the waking of the great day;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

9
Let us bless the Lord. Thanks be to God.


The Lord Almighty grant us a quiet night and a perfect
end.
Amen.


All remain standing.

















MY RELATIONSHIP WITH GHOSTS




I have always loved ghost stories, for the same reason
that I've always loved crime fiction: the suspense. In
both genres, the reader or viewer knows that something
untoward is afoot, but doesn't know exactly what or why,
and the main thing driving her on through the narrative
is the desire to find out and solve the mystery.
Though I haven't read nearly as many ghostly novels
as I've read detective stories, my strong impression
from the few that I have read is that the overwhelming
majority of ghost stories are mysteries. There might be
some supernatural fiction in which the ghost is upfront,
announcing himself and declaring his agenda right
from the start, but if there is then I certainly haven't
stumbled across it. All the ghosts I encounter in films
and in literature are as sneaky and elusive as murderers
who wish to avoid exposure. Even those with grudges
that border on obsession seem oddly reluctant to rant
explicitly about their various beefs with the living; they
all seem to feel it's more effective to make a door slam
shut or a floorboard creak, hoping to get their message
across in a long-drawn-out and incredibly indirect way
instead. This makes no sense, when you think about it.
If I were dead and angry, and had magic non-earthly


SOPHIE HANNAH


powers, I would defy ghostly convention and stand next
to those who'd wronged me, screaming, 'You poisonous
git! I'll never forgive you! Just you wait and see how many
of your relatives I'm going to kill and maim before the
weekend!' All right, it's not subtle, but since I'd probably
be shimmery and transparent at the time of yelling, I like
to think I could achieve some pretty devastating effects
by combining verbal straightforwardness with physical
ethereality.
Perhaps this is why I so admired the recent and utterly
brilliant Hammer film adaptation of Susan Hill's equally
brilliant novel The Woman in Black. The ghost in that movie
is a comparatively direct communicator. At one point,
she writes on a wall in capital letters, 'YOU COULD
HAVE SAVED HIM', and, in doing so, helpfully reveals
what, precisely, she's cross about. (Admittedly, she is less
forthcoming about why she chooses to vent her anger
on the innocent; I'd be interested to see what she might
write on a wall on the subject of legitimate targets and
collateral damage, but that's another story.)
Like all my favourite ghost and horror films -- Dead of
Night, The Others, The Innocents, The Haunting, The Shining, The
Sixth Sense -- The Woman in Black was completely terrifying
from start to finish; I watched most of it from behind my
woolly scarf. I was sitting next to an elderly couple in the
cinema, and throughout the film they regularly asked me
if I was okay. I wasn't, and nor did I want to be. There is


THE ORPHAN CHOIR


no point in a fictional ghost if he or she doesn't frighten
the life out of you.
Which is why, when I was invited to write a novella
for the new Hammer imprint, my first thought was 'Ooh,
yes, but it must be terrifying.' And mysterious too --
because all my favourite stories are driven by mysteries
and the need to find out the truth and outwit the
cunning author who annoyingly trying to withhold it
for as long as possible. So I resisted the temptation to
redefine the genre by creating a loud-mouthed ghost who
yells at people obsessively and informatively, and tried
as hard as I could to frighten myself instead. Just as, in
my crime writing, I have always resisted the (sometimes
very strong) temptation to write a psychological thriller
that begins with the heroine receiving a phone call from
someone from her shady past to whom she hasn't spoken
for twenty years, and immediately announcing to her
happy middle-class family in a cheery voice, 'Hey, it's Soand-So
-- remember, the one I committed that murder
with twenty years ago? Remember, I did tell you


Sophie Hannah
January 2013







About Hammer




Hammer is the most well-known film brand in the UK, having made
over 150 feature films which have been terrifying and thrilling
audiences worldwide for generations.

Whilst synonymous with horror and the genre-defining classics it
produced in the 1950s to 1970s, Hammer was recently rebooted
in the film world as the home of "Smart Horror", with the critically
acclaimed Let Me In and The Woman in Black. With The Woman
in Black: Angel of Death scheduled for 2014, Hammer has
been re-born.

Hammer's literary legacy is also now being revived through its new
partnership with Arrow Books. This series features original novellas
by some of today's most celebrated authors, as well as classic
stories from nearly a century of production.

In 2013 Hammer Arrow will publish books by Melvin Burgess, Julie
Myerson and Sophie Hannah as well as a novelisation of the
forthcoming The Woman in Black: Angel of Death, continuing a
programme that began with bestselling novellas from Helen
Dunmore and Jeanette Winterson. Beautifully produced and written
to read in a single sitting, Hammer Arrow books are perfect for
readers of quality contemporary fiction.

For more information on Hammer
visit: www.hammerfilms.com or
www.facebook.comhammerfilms
IF YOU LIKED THE ORPHAN CHOIR THEN YOU MIGHT ENJOY THE QUICKENING

Rachel and Dan want to go somewhere hot in January.

Recently married and expecting their first baby, they decide on the
Caribbean. Why not turn it into a honeymoon, Dan says?

It sounds like the perfect solution. Except that, for Rachel, it's not.

Things start to go wrong as soon as they arrive.

As furniture shifts and objects fly around, as a waitress begs her to
leave and a fellow guest starts to frighten her, Rachel realises
something very sinister is going on . . .












'Myerson has a talent for making the unthinkable readable.'
Observer

'A beautiful conjurer of subtly disturbing atmospheres.' Sunday Telegraph



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