Discord
Jez waved
the slip of paper under Lee’s nose and ran full pelt across the graveyard. ‘I
got the code,’ he taunted, ‘the Denbys’ alarm code.’
‘I’ll kill you!’ Lee bellowed after
him. He soon caught up and used his superior weight and strength to bring Jez down, crushing him until he surrendered the slip.
‘I hate you,’ whimpered Jez. But Lee was somewhere else: staring at the scrap of
paper, and plotting…
Mr and Mrs Denby
lived with their two children in a big house just outside the village. Lee knew
it well; he often walked the long drive to deliver stuff for Mr Patel in return
for sweets.
‘Why does your dad work for that paedo', anyway?’ sneered Lee. Jez’s
dad was the gardener; that’s how he’d got the code.
There was a rumour about Mr Denby. Ned Griffin had found something on the Internet and
it had gone round the school faster than nits.
‘You don’t know he’s a paedo'; just ’cause
‘Dunno,
maybe just look around.’ He didn’t want to scare Jez
off completely.
‘It’ll have to be tonight, they’re
back at the weekend,’ said Jez. It was February half
term and they were skiing.
The Denby
children didn’t hang around the bus shelter or the graves like the others, and
Mrs Denby drove them out of the village to school
every morning. The whole family were mad about music. The boy, William, played
the piano and had been a runner up for the young musician of the year. Lee had
caught it channel surfing and was mesmerised by the speed and complexity of his
playing. The girl, whom Lee sometimes saw climbing into the Land Rover with her
riding hat and crop had captivated him in a very different way.
Her shock of red hair and pale skin, and the way she curled her lip as she
kicked the mud off her boots had made her main-feature in his adolescent
stirrings. Lee kept this to himself; she was hopelessly out of reach. He didn’t
even know her name, although in a funny way he didn’t want to, in case it
didn’t fit the fantasy.
Lee had a
piano; his dad had won it from the landlord of the Queen’s playing poker. It
had loads of dead notes and was un-tuneable. He recalled his mum having a fit
when these blokes, stinking of beer, came barging in with it, scraping the
paint off the door frame. She was house-proud then; that’s before Lee’s dad
left (with the piano) and she let herself go. Lee still saw plenty of him, but
you’d hardly call it quality time. It usually involved a broken promise to go
to the pictures or Roller World while his dad slept off a hangover. Lee knew he
was a waster but he still loved his enthusiasm, his optimism and the way he
played the first bit of Für Elise, dodging around the
missing notes by jumping up or down the octave.
After
arranging to meet Jez later that evening, Lee headed
for home. On the way he passed the Old Stud Farm and it brought back memories. A
couple of years ago the owner had accused him of killing a cat that belonged to
his eight year old daughter. She was devoted to the animal and when it was
found mangled in the brook - Lee got the blame. The police took an airgun
pellet from its neck and - as it happened - Lee owned an air rifle. He hadn’t
done it of course. He didn’t have a problem with cats; it was people that made
his life shit. Anyway, no one believed him, it was his word against a ‘stalwart
of the community’. He wasn’t charged because they couldn’t prove it was his
pellet, but it didn’t make any difference - every one thought it was him - even his mum and his brother. The worst part
was, the stud owner moved to
At home, Lee’s mum and his brother,
Greg, were on the sofa watching one of their crappy soaps. They didn’t speak
but acknowledged him in their own paraplegic way, which was fine by Lee; it
meant he could go to his room and contemplate the evening without interference.
He was about to go up when Greg yelled in a Super Hero voice:
‘Hey! Cat Boy.’
His mother jabbed him with her elbow, but Lee could see she was smirking.
‘Piss off,’ Lee hissed (under his
breath.) He didn’t want a kicking from Greg. Lee pulled the door, shutting out the
stink of John Player Specials and boil in the bag fish. As he climbed the
stairs he could hear them giggling. Then, Greg let out a loud meow.
In his room, Lee put his back to the
door and exhaled deeply. He ran his finger along the CD rack passing The
Killers, Linkin Park and The Smashing Pumpkins before
stopping at Chopin; his only classical CD. The music teacher gave it to him
when she heard about the old piano. He put it on - keeping the volume down - he
didn’t want Greg putting on Kylie or some other rubbish, downstairs. Fantaisie-Impromptu in C sharp minor with Lucky, Lucky,
Lucky as counterpoint: crap. Lee really didn’t get his brother – he was a freak - six years older and a real
hard-case - but he liked Abba, Madonna and Kylie.
When it got to Nocturne No10 (his
favourite), Lee lay on the bed and let the music wash over him. It picked him
up, transporting him out through the window across the fields and over the sea.
He was at peace; he was in a better place - until somebody slammed the backdoor
and he plummeted to earth. He tried desperately to get back, but the spell was
broken. He ejected Chopin.
All he could think about now was Denby. Was he a paedophile? They were usually sad old men
who lived alone. Where did he abuse these kids anyway? He never saw him on the rec’ or in the woods. Then a terrible thought struck him:
perhaps it was his own kids. Lee tried to banish the image, but he had pushed
on an open door. Denby and daughter, he couldn’t bear
it.
In desperation he went back
downstairs. Greg had gone out and his mum seemed to be making an effort. Guilt
maybe - or she just didn’t want the social worker calling again. She’d put on
this dopey voice. ‘Why don’t you stay for some tea babe, keep your mum
company.’ He didn’t know what made him more sick: her
voice or her stinking food. He settled for half a pizza left from yesterday,
tucked it in his bag and went down to the garden shed.
Lee put some old tools – the ones
his dad didn’t take when he left – into his bag. It was too early to meet Jez, so he sat on a rickety stool and un-wrapped the pizza.
Without looking he reached under the bench to a shelf, too far back to be
visible, and fished out a pile of magazines. Lee munched his pizza and leafed
through the porno-mags that he’d discovered after his
dad left. Perfect really, if his mum ever found them he only need point out the
dates - and he couldn’t imagine going to Mr. Patel’s to buy new ones.
Lee thought it strange that Mr
Patel, a Hindu, sold pornography. He didn’t know where Hindus stood, but
guessed they wouldn’t approve. Maybe he’d ask; he knew him well enough. In fact
they got on well. Lee didn’t like it when some of the other kids called him
Paki. Thick as pig shit, thought Lee. For a start, Mr Patel was Indian.
Lee found Jez hiding in the bushes near the Denby’s
gate. They walked in silence down the drive, tucking into the edge. Lee was
buzzing but Jez seemed moody. ‘Don’t forget my dad
works here. If we get caught, I’m dead twice over.’
‘Relax,’ said Lee, brandishing the
slip of paper.
At the back door Jez
produced a bunch of keys.
‘Nice one,’ said Lee. It was better
than breaking in like a common criminal. He was
genuinely impressed but hoped too that the praise would fire Jez up.
The heavy oak door creaked as it
swung open; the alarm whined. Jez went into the
cloakroom. ‘There,’ he said, pointing his torch at a box on the wall. Lee
approached.
‘Idiot! It’s the ’lectric!’ There was panic while they flailed about
amongst the coats and hats. ‘Got it!’ said Lee, punching in the four digits.
The alarm went quiet and they stood still and breathless in the dark. Lee felt
his heart pounding in his chest. Jez looked crestfallen.
‘Come on mate,’ said Lee, punching
him playfully on the shoulder. Jez smiled weakly.
They went into the kitchen; it was bigger than
Lee’s whole house. There were rough tiles on the floor and the work-surfaces
were chunky like the woodwork benches at school. There were giant pans hanging
on the wall. Everything looked big and old fashioned. He imagined a castle’s
kitchen to be like this. There was a loud judder that made him spin round. Jez was drinking from the sink – the sort Lee’s Gran grew herbs in - and the pipe work was complaining. He
was about to go for Jez again but he checked himself.
Instead he picked a dusty bottle from the wine-rack. ‘Hey Jez! Drink?’
‘Yeah, Smirnoff Ice.’ For the first time Lee could detect a glint in Jez’s eye. He went to the fridge and
found two bottles of beer. ‘There you
go.’ He gave him both bottles and went to the other end of the Kitchen while Jez searched for an opener.
Lee opened the next door and used
his torch to pierce the darkness. There were paintings on the walls and golden
curtains around a bay window. The torch-beam reflected off a large object. There,
in the middle of the room, like a black coffin, stood a grand piano. Lee walked
slowly, running his fingers around the moulding as he went from tail to
keyboard. He mouthed the wording of the brass inlay: ‘Steinway and Sons.’ There
was music on the desk; inviting, only he didn’t read music. He pushed lightly
on the keys, not enough to get sound but he could see the dampers rise. He
pushed a little harder and this time the hammers hit the strings letting clear,
bright tones ring out. He picked out the first few notes of Für
Elise, gently rocking between the E and the E flat – then the B, D natural, C
and A - and then - at the end of the phrase where the left hand should come in…
BANG!!! He slammed the lid down. ‘FUCK!’
He slammed it up again and crashed both fists down onto the keyboard letting
out a roar.
Jez came
in, beer spilling down his chin. ‘My dad says that piano costs the same as a
flat in
‘Oh,’ said Lee, ripping out the
music desk and hurling it, with the music, across the room. ‘Is that so?’
‘Yeah, that’s so.’ Jez was grinning,
inspired by the violence.
‘Well, that’s just for starters,’
said Lee, grabbing a fist full of dampers and tearing them from the instrument
leaving the strings to howl in protest. Next, he tried to rip out the keys but
the thin ivory coatings just chipped. He levered off the front rail. Now he
could get his hand right under and extract them like teeth.
Eager to join in, Jez lifted the lid sending piles of music to the floor. He
couldn’t support it, so it crashed down sending a shock-wave through the house
and making the windows rattle.
‘Do that again,’ said Lee. This time
they pushed together and the great wing rose up almost touching the beamed
ceiling. One last shove and it went over, tearing the hinges from the rim
before crashing to the floor and sending sheets of music to dance in the
displaced air. Lee took a screwdriver from his bag and levered up the strings,
but they wouldn’t break. He tried the pliers and there was a crack that made Jez jump. They worked together, Jez
levered while Lee cut. The big ones in the bass went flying across the room,
whipping into the shelves, sending photographs and ornaments everywhere. Lee
felt a swell of satisfaction.
When they’d finished, Jez climbed onto the mute instrument, and standing astride,
began to piss on the sound-board. Lee recoiled as the fine spray stung his
face, and a rage consumed him like a tsunami. In the darkness of the waves Lee
could see his mother drowning in his anger. There too, was the stud owner, Denby and Lee’s
father - except they weren’t drowning, but riding the waves like surfers - and
they were pointing at him and laughing. He grasped the sharp-nosed pliers like
a dagger and drew back his arm - he was ready to kill Jez…
…and then - as suddenly as it came – it went from under him, sucking out
his spirit with its under-tow and leaving a desperate sadness.
Lee wiped his face with his sleeve
and went through the next door.
The hall was long and lined with
certificates. The first was William’s grade one piano. The next, Emily’s
dancing preliminary. Emily; so that was her name. Of course it was never going
to be Jade or Charlene, but Emily: it was ok. There were other certificates,
and rosettes for riding. As he progressed down the hall he saw that they
denoted higher and higher achievements. He played a game, adding his own
alternatives. William: distinction for Grade Five Theory – Lee, distinction for
burning down next door’s shed. Emily,
top marks for Dressage level 2 - Lee, top marks for nicking a record number of
sweets from Mr. Patel’s last Thursday. Strange maybe, given Lee’s liking for
Mr. Patel, but the bottom line was: he owned a sweet shop, and was in that
respect, fair game.
With the destruction of the piano
Lee had managed to put Denby, his daughter and the
rumours out of his mind. But now, seeing her name repeated over and over, the
spectre returned - until that was, he reached the last and largest certificate
– and then everything changed.
Jez came
into the hall, his trousers wet. ‘Let’s go,’ he ordered with unnatural
assertiveness.
‘Yeah, hang on.’
‘For fuck sake Lee, I can hear a
car!’
‘Ok. Ok.’
They slipped from the front door and
into the undergrowth as a car drove past and pulled up at the house.
‘You were right,’ said Lee.
‘I know. I heard it on the gravel.’
‘No, not the car, I meant Denby.’
‘’Ey?’
‘Denby; he’s not a Paedophile.’
‘How do you know?’
‘That certificate, the one by the
front door.’
‘So?’
‘From
‘A what?’
‘A children’s
doctor.’
Jez bit
his lip. ‘So, we killed his piano for no reason?’
Lee considered this carefully. ‘Makes no difference.’
© Toby
Peecock 2007