A Voice in the Distance, Page 2

  We are heading across the busy main road, pausing in the middle to try and dodge the traffic. A taxi takes pity on us and flashes its lights to let us past. As soon as we reach the pavement we break into a run towards the open gates of the park.

  'Flynn, ow – ow – I've got a stitch.' I dig my fist into my side and bend double, still being pulled along relentlessly. The slap of my feet against the footpath slows as we leave the bright lights of the high street behind us. Tall trees reach up towards a velvet sky sprinkled with stars. Flynn drags me up a small hill and down the other side, towards the lake. Finally we come to a halt, and I collapse face down on the wet, cold grass.

  After several minutes of desperate gasping, the pounding in my head begins to recede and my lungs cease to cry out for air. I lift my face from the dampsmelling earth and prop myself up on my elbows, looking across at a large shimmering expanse of water, silver in the moonlight. The swans look ghostly, gliding effortlessly by.

  Flynn has walked down to the water's edge and is standing, hands in pockets, gazing out. I watch him for a moment or two but he is completely still. I pull myself up to a kneeling position and button the jacket around me.

  'Flynn?' I say.

  He doesn't move.

  'Flynn?' I stand up slowly and walk towards him. At the rim of the lake I take his hand and lean against him.

  'Isn't this better than a room full of people?' He looks at me, his eyes bright.

  'I suppose.' I pull his arm around me. 'But colder.' I look down at his feet and start to laugh. 'God, look at your socks, they're soaked!'

  He ignores me and leans forwards and his mouth meets mine. I teeter for a moment and try and pull him back, away from the water's edge. 'Careful,' I say.

  He refuses to move back and tries to kiss me again.

  'If you fall in, don't think I'm going to rescue you,' I warn. I pull him back towards me and we sit down on the grass. 'Happy birthday, by the way.'

  He looks at me and smiles. My heart does a funny fluttering thing in my chest. Even though it's been over two years, it still feels so strange that we are together. I have known Flynn since we were eleven, ever since I met him and Harry at music camp and we started hanging around as a threesome. I've fancied him for years. Apparently he's fancied me for years. But it took us a long time to get together.

  'Thank you for the party,' Flynn whispers in my ear.

  I start to laugh. 'Yes, well, I can see that you enjoyed it.'

  He laughs too. Then kisses me again, so hard I can feel my teeth digging into my lip. He pushes me backwards. I wrap my arms around him and look up at the stars. I wonder if it's possible to explode with happiness.

  He is kissing my neck with a familiar urgency. I ruffle his hair and wriggle under the weight of his body. 'Ouch, your keys are cutting into my leg!'

  He props himself up on one elbow and digs the bunch of keys out of his jeans pocket, tossing them away onto the grass. His mouth descends back over mine. He kisses me harder, his fingers in my hair. I close my eyes but a sudden sharp pain from the side of my head forces them open again. 'Ow – ow – Flynn, my hair . . .'

  He tries to disentangle the offending strand from the clasp of his watch. His face is flushed, his breathing laboured. I screw up my eyes in pain as I feel several hairs being ripped straight out of my head.

  'Oh God, it's really hurting!'

  'I'm trying!' Flynn exclaims. He snaps open the clasp of his watch, pulls it off his wrist and disengages the last remaining hairs. The watch slips from his fingers and smacks me on the forehead. 'Ouch!' I yell.

  'Sorry, sorry . . .' He tosses the watch into the grass and lowers his face back to mine. I taste his lips, his mouth, his tongue . . . There is something digging into my back, just against my spine. I try to ignore it. Flynn shifts against me and the pain intensifies. It feels like a twig – a twig with a knobbly bit sticking out, jabbing into my bone . . . Maybe it's not even a twig, maybe it's a piece of glass—

  'For heaven's sake, what is it now?' Flynn shouts as I wince with pain.

  'I'm lying on something – just get off me for one second . . .'

  Flynn pulls himself up to a kneeling position, breathing hard. 'I swear to God, Jennah, if you think this is funny . . .'

  'I don't, I don't!' I sit up and feel behind me in the grass. 'Look, it was a stone! Look how sharp—'

  Flynn tries to pull me back down onto the grass, but there is a rustling sound coming from the path behind us. I pull away and hold my breath. Between the trees I can make out the figure of a late-night jogger. I motion to Flynn to be quiet. He heaves a loud sigh and drops back onto the ground with his arms spread out. I watch the man continue along the path, around the curve of the pond and over the grass towards the gate. I look down at Flynn. He has his eyes closed.

  I start to laugh. 'I don't really think I'm the outdoorsy type.'

  He opens his eyes and sits up. 'What about being adventurous and spontaneous?'

  I laugh and lean back on my hands, resting my head against his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' I start to giggle again.

  He glares down at me. 'You are so not forgiven.'

  I inhale deeply and look up at the night sky. 'Oh, look at the moon!'

  It is round and full, a large cardboard cut-out hanging low in the sky. 'Make a birthday wish,' I say.

  Flynn closes his eyes. There is a silence. Then he opens them.

  'Done?' I ask.

  'Done,' he says.

  'What was it?'

  He glances at me. 'Can't tell you or it won't come true.'

  'Oh please!' I say. 'Please, just one tiny clue?'

  He looks at me and smiles. 'Something about you.'

  Chapter Two

  FLYNN

  I teeter on the edge of wakefulness, the pink glow behind my closed eyelids suggesting it is already late morning. Voices drift up from the street below and I find myself gliding effortlessly into a meadow as sleep takes me again, spiriting me along, weightless as a breeze. The voices take on the form of two old men sitting on a bench in the middle of a forest, and I brush the tops of their felt hats as I pass, and then I feel myself rising up, towards the dappled sunlight falling between the leaves. The trees are hundreds of metres high and the sun is nothing but a shimmering corner of distant gold. I'm rising, rising, reaching out, trying to touch the tops of the trees and the clear blue sky that I know lies above. I wake.

  The room is flooded with sunlight, slanting in through the partly drawn curtains. Around the bed, remnants of a late night – clothes on the floor, an overflowing laundry basket, a toppled pile of library books, a scattering of hairgrips across the carpet. Beside the window, the desk is piled high with clutter from the living-room table – bills and uni notices and photocopies and lever-arch files. Beside me, her head falling off the pillow, Jennah lies sprawled on her front, her arm hanging off the side of the bed. Her shoulder blades are visible under the thin white T-shirt she sleeps in and a fine golden down covers her bare arms, still tanned from the hot summer. Her long chestnut hair is spread out across the white pillow. I roll onto my side, propping myself up on one elbow to look over at her still-sleeping face. Her lashes are dark against her cheek. I lean over her slowly, carefully, and kiss her forehead. I want to do more but I stop myself, afraid of waking her. I content myself with looking at her instead. I was touched that she went to all that trouble yesterday – once I got over the initial shock of finding our tiny flat crammed full of people. I remember the descent down the fire escape and smile to myself. That was the highlight of my day. Leaving the heaving flat and walking through Hyde Park with Jennah. Kissing her next to the moonlit water. I break my resolve and reach out a hand and stroke her cheek. She sighs and stirs but does not wake. I still can't believe it. Still can't believe she is here, with me, in our flat, in our room, in our bed. Still can't believe she is my girlfriend.

  I get up quietly and pad to the bathroom. When I've finished peeing, I pull on some jeans and go into the kitchen to put the c
offee on. I fill a tall glass with tap water and take my pills at the sink, looking out over the small back gardens. I put two slices of bread in the toaster and peel and cut up an apple. Hm, apple and toast, not exactly a luxurious breakfast. There are some tinned cherries in the cupboard. I open them and add them to the apple slices. I put some honey on top for good measure. The toast pops up and I spread butter and jam. I make up a bowl of cereal and put the lot onto a chopping board. I carry it back to the bedroom. She is still asleep. I sit cross-legged on the floor, the chopping board on my knees, and look hard at her, willing her to wake. As I watch her sleeping, I feel suddenly frightened – frightened that all this could be taken away. She blinks at me and smiles.

  'Morning, you.' She rolls onto her side and stretches. 'What time is it?'

  'Twelve.'

  She sits up, rubbing her eyes sleepily. 'What are you doing down there?'

  'I brought you breakfast.' I carry the chopping board over to the bed.

  She kneels up and kisses me as I hand her a mug of coffee. 'Has anyone ever told you you're an angel?'

  'Well, it is the weekend.'

  She smiles down at the chopping board. 'You made fruit salad!' She tucks in while I sip my coffee. She tries to feed me cherries. I decline. I can never eat till the caffeine has kicked in.

  'Ah, Sunday,' Jennah says between sips of coffee. 'My favourite day of the week.'

  I give a wry smile. 'I take it you've blanked out yesterday then?'

  She gives me a look. 'Oh God, is the mess awful?'

  I pretend to consider the question for a moment. 'Depends how you define awful.'

  We get up soon after and attack the living room. Jennah is something of a neatness freak. I am not. But I try. When the last ashtray is emptied and the final rubbish bag carried downstairs, I get stuck into the mountain of washing-up and Jennah does the vacuuming. An hour later and we collapse together into a hot bath.

  It is late afternoon before I get down to any serious practice. Jennah has an essay to do for her Psychology of Performance module so I use the keyboard and headphones. I am halfway through my third hour when my brother comes by to take me out to supper. Jennah won't come because her essay is overdue.

  'So how are things?' Rami asks as our food arrives. We are in a pizzeria, sitting at a small table next to the window overlooking the street. 'Have lectures started up again yet?'

  'Yeah, we've got a shitty timetable this year,' I reply. 'We don't even have Fridays off any more.'

  'My heart bleeds,' Rami says. 'And I bet the ten o'clock lectures are a real shock to the system after the three months' holiday.'

  I take a gulp of Coke and shoot my brother a look. 'Finals are only eight months away. I don't remember you being so glib when you were cramming for your medical exams.'

  'Oh right, and I suppose a sound knowledge of the human anatomy and embryological development is the same as listening to a piece of music and saying how it makes you feel—'

  I take a swipe at Rami's head. 'Fuck off.'

  Rami grins. 'Sorry I couldn't make it yesterday. There just wasn't anyone to cover my shift.'

  Rami and his wife Sophie are doctors at the same hospital and often work at weekends.

  'Sounds like you all had a cool time. Did you really not see it coming?'

  I shake my head. 'Jennah seemed a bit on edge in the morning but I thought she was just having an essay crisis.'

  'How are things going with you two?'

  'Fine,' I reply guardedly. I tend to be reluctant to discuss the subject of my love-life with my older brother, who, being twelve years my senior and happily married with a baby daughter, feels it his duty to dole out barrels of unwanted advice.

  'I know it's only been a couple of months, but do you think it's working out, the two of you living together?'

  'Yes.' I nod vigorously, unable to hide my enthusiasm. Rami starts to smile.

  'What?' I demand, my cheeks hot.

  'You have that look.'

  'What look?'

  Rami is grinning. 'The loved-up look. And now you're going red.'

  'Fuck off!' I say again loudly. The waitress turns in surprise.

  I press my fists to my cheeks and lower my voice. 'So how's work?'

  'Uh-uh. You're not getting off that lightly,' Rami protests. 'How are you finding it, living with a woman? Bet you're having to shower on a slightly more regular basis!'

  I kick him under the table but laugh despite myself.

  Rami picks up his glass. 'Well, cheers. Happy birthday.'

  I smile. 'I think it's going to be a good year.'

  Harry is seated at the kitchen table when I arrive back at the flat. Jennah is at the counter, making coffee. Harry is my closest and oldest friend. We shared a flat together during our first three years at the Royal College of Music. We are opposites in every way. He is a beanpole with black corkscrew curls and a permanent look of amusement on his face. Despite being a talented cellist, he has his feet firmly on the ground and is essentially conformist. He is a good guy though. I see less of him now that Jennah and I are living together – the dynamics of the group have changed since we used to hang around as a threesome – and of course there is his relationship with Kate.

  'Hey, it's the birthday boy!' He gets up and slaps an arm round my shoulders.

  'Not till Tuesday actually. How's it going?'

  'Crap,' Harry says bluntly. 'I've got an essay for tomorrow.'

  I laugh. Harry is renowned for making heavy weather of essays.

  'Coffee, Flynn?' Jennah asks me.

  'It's all right, I'll make it.'

  Jennah takes a cup off the rack. 'It's already made.'

  I sit down at the kitchen table opposite Harry. 'Did you have fun last night?' I ask him.

  'It was a good night,' Harry replied. 'And I can't believe you two have got this place looking spotless so soon after. Talk about nesting instincts . . .'

  I flick a grape across at Harry's head. 'Shut it!'

  'And where the hell did you disappear to, anyway?' Harry wants to know. 'Ellen ended up blowing out the candles herself.'

  Jennah's gaze meets mine and I try not to smile.

  Harry notices. His eyes widen with a look of amused horror. 'Don't tell me you were . . . Oh no, you weren't—'

  'It's not what you're thinking!' Jennah squawks, turning pink. 'My God, you men only have one thing on the brain! We went for a walk in the park!'

  'Well, we didn't exactly do very much walking,' I interject, determined to wind her up.

  Harry begins to laugh.

  Jennah gasps in outrage. 'We sat and watched the swans on the lake, thank you very much, Harry!'

  Harry is still laughing. 'Now could that possibly be a euphemism for—'

  Jennah yelps and whacks Harry on the back of the head. Harry cries out in mock outrage. 'Aargh! Is this how she treats you, Flynn? Whacking you if you don't make the bed in the morning, whacking you if you don't put the loo seat down—!'

  Jennah pretends to throttle him. I laugh.

  We spend the rest of the evening together. Jennah is meant to be helping Harry with his essay but not a lot of work gets done. She uncorks a bottle of wine and we end up playing a rather drunken game of What's That Tune? Harry provokes no end of hilarity when it transpires he can't sing when pissed.

  'Listen! Listen!' Harry is shouting, bouncing up and down on the sofa in annoyance. He tries the song again, a lengthy string of na-na-na-nas, accompanied by some rhythm-less drumming on the coffee table.

  'Theme tune from Lord of the Rings!' I shout. 'No, Star Wars, Star Wars!'

  'Stop doing action films!' Jennah wails. 'That's not fair, I told you—'

  'Listen!' Harry yells, drowning out our protests. 'Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na!' He karate-chops the coffee table for emphasis.

  'Oh my God, it isn't even a tune!' Jennah yells. 'I know, it's rap! It's a rapper! Eminem!'

  'Are you tone deaf or what?' Harry yells at her. 'Of course it's got a tune! It's i
n F minor, you idiot! Na-nana- na-na . . .'

  'Couldn't you at least choose a different syllable?' I beg.

  'I'll give you a clue,' Harry offers generously. 'Something to do with strawberries and cream.'

  'I know! I know!' Jennah dives off the end of the couch, sprawling at Harry's feet. 'The Wimbledon tune!'

  'Ta-da!' Harry declares, holding out his arms.

  'No way!' I roar. 'Na-na-na-na is the Wimbledon tune?'

  'It's not the kind of thing you can really sing.' Harry is defensive.

  'The Wimbledon tune sounds nothing like that!' I yell, jumping to my feet. 'That's crap! The Wimbledon tune is completely different! It goes like . . .' I hesitate, trying to think.

  Harry explodes with a triumphant guffaw. 'You see! You can't sing it either!'

  'I've got it, I've got it!' I la a few bars.

  'That's what I said!' Harry yells.

  We don't get to bed until three in the morning, by which time Harry has passed out on the couch. I sleep lightly and wake at dawn. I have noticed that I need less and less sleep lately, which pleases me. Since being diagnosed with bipolar disorder two and a half years ago, I have been taking a mood-stabilizer, a drug called lithium, which is supposed to iron out my moods. It does the trick – stops me from swinging between being hyper and awake all night, to depressed and unable to get out of bed. But the side-effects – feeling sluggish and often queasy – are a right pain. Recently, however, I seem to be getting some of my old energy back, and I'm delighted. The Royal College of Music is a pressurecooker environment at the best of times, filled with aspiring young musicians dreaming of stardom and prepared to make a hell of a lot of sacrifices to get there. You need to be on top form just to survive, just to keep up with the rest, let alone get ahead. And if you want to stand a chance of making it as a professional musician in the big wide world, you have to get ahead, even while still at uni. You have to find a way of rising above the rest, of sticking out from the crowd. And the only way to do that is to practise, practise, practise, and then go out and win a hell of a lot of competitions. I have won three international competitions this year and I've already received a handful of concert bookings for after I graduate. But it's not enough. It's never enough.