Connected (5 page)

Peter was usually somewhat wary of entering into
discussions with religious people. He objected to the way they often used
science selectively to serve their purposes, only to reject it when it didn’t.
Although Martin had been a regular churchgoer, he had always respected Peter’s
scientifically grounded point of view, trying instead to reconcile this with
his own unique and often spiritual outlook on the world. Roger, it appeared,
was remarkably similar to Martin in this respect. Amid spoonfuls of chicken
soup, it transpired that Roger, having graduated from Leicester, had actually
started his career as a research chemist. Then, following a series of events
including the deaths of his parents, had decided to change track and join the church.
For Peter, this was a revelation. He had never known a true scientist be able
to fully and wholeheartedly embrace the Christian faith, and longed to ask
Roger how he lived with the inevitable conflicts that had eventually led him to
abandon his own belief. The timing, however, was not right for such
discussions, and he decided to defer asking about Martin until they could be
alone. Roger, presumably sensing Peter’s need for a more private chat,
suggested a pint down the pub that evening, to which Peter readily agreed.

It took a couple of hours to clear the bills,
write the reply letters, and address the envelopes, after which Isabelle
suggested a walk to the post office. He had not mentioned the music tape yet,
wondering how she might react. For Peter, discovering what might have triggered
his brother’s suicide was no longer just a matter of idle curiosity, but
something he felt compelled to unravel. He was worried though that for
Isabelle, the details of Martin’s obsession might only compound her grief. As
they closed the front gate and set off down the narrow country road towards the
village, he decided on the direct approach. “Isabelle, I feel I need to know
what Martin was up to these last few months.”
She looked taken aback. “I’ve told you everything I know. I don’t know what
more…”
“No. I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I know you don’t have the answers, but
maybe the papers in the study or the files on the computer can shed some
light.”
She sighed. “It won’t change what happened.”
“No… I know it won’t bring him back, but for me it’s important. It’s something
I have to do.”
She stopped to watch a butterfly as it alighted on a hawthorn flower in the
hedgerow. “Well, then do whatever you need to do,” her voice slow and measured,
almost devoid of emotion, “but as far as I’m concerned, it won’t make any
difference. He’s dead.” She gave a little Gallic shrug, “He’s dead and now I
need to move on.”
Fair enough - if there were answers to be found, it seemed he would have to
find them alone. After a few moments of awkward silence, he decided to change
the subject. “Roger’s an interesting fellow isn’t he?”
She chuckled. “He’s exactly what this village needs. He’s injected some life
into our little church and he makes it relevant to the kids too. Before he came,
our congregation must have had an average age of about sixty-five. Now it’s
more like thirty-five.”
“That’s quite an achievement for the Church of England. How did he do that?”
“I don’t know really, he just makes it more fun. He runs a youth group, which
is very popular - and they have this rock band he invites to play in church
from time to time - and his sermons are always short - poignant, but short. I
tell you, he’s like a breath of fresh air compared to old Dobson.”

Reverend Dobson was the vicar of Littlewick. Peter
remembered him from Martin and Isabelle’s wedding, a cantankerous old codger as
he recalled. From the outset, he had seemed reluctant to perform the ceremony,
and then proceeded to give a sermon on infidelity and the perils of matrimony
in modern society. Martin had been livid. It later came to light that Dobson’s
wife of thirty-two years had just run off with the butcher. “Yes I remember him
from your wedding,” said Peter. “So when does young Roger take his place?”
“Well that’s the problem. He might not. In spite of all he’s done here, not
everyone likes him.”
“You mean Dobson doesn’t like him.”
“He and some of the older members of the congregation. Some of them stopped
coming after the electric guitars made their first appearance.”
“Typical!”
“I don’t know for sure, but I suspect he’ll move away if he doesn’t get the job
soon.”
“That would be a shame.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d care.”
“Well, I may be an atheist, but I still have a certain fondness for the cultural
trappings of the C of E – you know - the architecture, the music, the ceremony,
the sense of community and so on.”
“But you still think we’d be better off without it, don’t you? Be honest!”
“Oh I don’t know. Providing they stay out of education and government, I’m not
too bothered really.”
“And what if we go the way of America, with creationist theme parks and the
teaching of Intelligent Design added to the school curriculum.”
“Okay - don’t get me started. Yes, that would be a disaster. Bloody religious
nutters over there are jeopardising the academic future of a nation!” Peter
felt the combative juices stirring, then caught Isabelle’s sly grin. He chuckled.
“You nearly had me going, there.”
“Sorry, I just love how worked up you atheists can get about religion
sometimes.”
“Under normal circumstances, perhaps, but today, with the rare gift of your
company, the sun warming my back, and this beautiful countryside bursting with
the promise of spring, I doubt even an entire flock of young-earth creationists
could dampen my spirits.”

As they continued in happy silence, his mind
returned to the extracts of music to which he had listened before lunch.
Stopping alongside a gap in the hedgerow, he gazed out across the gently
undulating hills fading into the distant haze of the afternoon. A large bird of
prey, perhaps a kestrel, circled high above a small clump of trees in the next
meadow. For a moment, Peter imagined himself as the bird, his sharp eyes
scanning the patchwork quilt of fields below for its next meal. As Allegri’s
Miserere replayed in his head, he was soaring like the treble voice and for a
brief instant, everything in Peter’s world made sense.

“Are you okay?” Isabelle’s sweet voice bringing
him gently back down to earth.
“It’s just so peaceful here. I keep comparing it to the South East, and
Bracknell in particular. A few trees in between the houses, and a handful of
strategically placed parks with artificial lakes, and you try to kid yourself
you’re in rural England. It’s not until you get out here that you realise just
how much you’re missing, living out your busy little life in a tiny,
overcrowded, over polluted corner of the country.”
“Why don’t you and Abigail move out here?”
Peter thought for a moment. It was his previous job as a full-time design
engineer that had taken them to Bracknell, but as a contractor, there was no
longer anything actually tying him to one place. Admittedly, most of his
contracts were for companies along the M4 corridor, but most of his work now was
done from home.
“It’s very tempting, but I’m not sure Abi would go for it. As a born and bred
Londoner, she already regards Bracknell as out in the boonies.”
Isabelle laughed, perhaps at the word ‘boonies’ or perhaps at the thought of
someone preferring Bracknell to Littlewick. “Well, I suppose it’s not
everyone’s cup of tea.” There was something endlessly endearing about hearing
such a typically English expression pronounced with a French accent. She turned
and saw the way Peter was looking at her, an enquiring smile enveloping her
face. “What?” she said playfully.
Peter smiled back at her, gently shaking his head and continued walking.

Littlewick village consisted of a post office,
newsagent, florist, bakery and greengrocer. There had also been a butcher’s
shop of course, but he and the vicar’s wife had understandably moved away after
their romance became public. About a mile further up the road was a
garage-cum-petrol-station-cum-convenience-store, but that was it. The nearest
supermarket was a good ten miles away and so the row of little village shops
did quite a reasonable trade. They also, as Peter soon found, traded well in
village gossip. As he and Isabelle approached the steps to the Post Office, he
overheard an elderly lady, her voice raised in apparent compensation for mutual
deafness, bellowing to another only two feet away. “…very sad occasion. Lovely
music though.”
“Word has it, the brother stayed there all last night!”
“What, her brother?”
“No, his! All alone in that big house they were. It isn’t right if you ask m…”
They stopped as they saw Isabelle enter and forced smiles in her general
direction. When they saw Peter they exchanged conspiratorial glances and turned
to face the counter. This was the downside of living in a small community, Peter
realised - no anonymity. Everyone had to know everyone else’s business and when
they didn’t, someone would invariably make it up. Isabelle appeared either not
to have heard the exchange, or was choosing to ignore it. While she waited in
line behind the two old ladies, Peter slipped out and into the florist next
door. He had noticed that the shop was an agent for Interflora, and arranged
for a large bouquet to be delivered to Abigail the following day. He then
bought a bunch of red and yellow daffodils for Isabelle. As he came out, the
old ladies, who were just tottering down the steps of the post office,
immediately clocked the flowers, their eyebrows rising in disapproval.
“Afternoon ladies!” said Peter, his voice loud and deliberate and carrying all
the condescension he could muster. The ladies grunted in unison and jostled off
down the street, their identical wheeled tartan shopping trolleys trailing like
reluctant poodles. A few seconds later, Isabelle emerged smiling. Peter whipped
the flowers from behind his back and presented them with a theatrical bow. She
blushed.
“Thank you! But really, you shouldn’t have.”
“I know,” replied Peter with a grin, and then blushed himself, suddenly
realising how inappropriate the gesture was under the circumstances.

Back at The Fields, Peter returned to the den
feeling refreshed and pleasantly contented after the stroll. Sitting at the
desk with a satisfied glow, he powered on the computer. Pulling up My Recent
Documents from the Start menu, he scanned the list of files last accessed by
Martin. At the top was a video file. He clicked on it. File not found! The next
few were MP3 audio files. He tried the first. The media player opened, but there
was no sound. Once again Peter had forgotten the headphones. He plugged the Sennheisers
back into the PC and clicked play. At once there was a curious sequence of
rapidly ascending and descending chords, somewhat reminiscent of bell chimes,
but more melodic. Peter shut his eyes as a strange feeling of weightlessness
enveloped him. It felt as though he was floating and although his eyes
registered nothing but the ruddy opacity of his eyelids, there was a definite
sensation of rising. Then it was gone, and he was once again staring at the
computer screen. For several minutes he sat there trying to understand what had
just happened to him, and then he tried it again. The sensation reminded him of
the moment earlier that afternoon watching the Kestrel soar above the fields,
but there was something else, a feeling he couldn’t identify. He tried some of
the other files. They were all about the same length, and had a more or less
similar effect, each time sending Peter off into a little trance. The
sensations were stronger with some than with others. He was intrigued. Somehow
Martin had distilled the essence of those magical moments in music and, while
the resulting sounds didn’t seem to conform to any recognisable musical
structure, they were curiously addictive. He tried to analyse his feelings. He
felt incredibly calm and relaxed. His mind was clear and focused, his breathing
slow and easy. Placing two fingers on his neck to measure his pulse, he counted
forty-eight. No, he must have missed some beats. He was in good shape, but had
never known it that low, even at rest. All in all, he felt wonderful. It was
rather like the feeling after making love, totally relaxed, and yet he felt as
if something inside him had changed. He closed his eyes and almost immediately
slid into a profound sleep.

Once again he was out on the road with Isabelle by
the gap in the hedge. This time, there was a stile, over which Isabelle was
climbing, giggling like a young child. “Come on!” she said, holding out her
hand. As he took it, the soft warmth of her touch rushed up his arm in waves
and her dark brown eyes bore into his own with knowing desire. Vaulting the
stile, he took her in his arms, pressing his lips to hers and pulling her down
into the long grass where they rolled and kissed and laughed. Eventually, she
lay still, on her back, and he sat up to appreciate the full beauty of woman
beside him. A few wisps of luxurious black hair had strayed across her cheek.
As he leant over her to brush them aside, her expression transformed from one
of love to one of horror. Her eyes seemed focused on something behind him. He
swung around and there, standing above them, silhouetted against the sun, was a
man whose height and shape were instantly recognisable.
“I know everything!” said Martin.
Peter woke with a jolt and looked around, dazed and confused. He was still
seated at Martin’s desk. How long had he been asleep? Couldn’t have been more
than a few minutes. What a vivid dream! He shut down the computer and drowsily
got up to find Isabelle. Allegri’s Miserere was wafting down the staircase at
the end of the hall. He softly called her name, but to no reply. Hesitantly, he
tiptoed up the stairs. The door to the master bedroom was ajar and through the
gap he could see her long black hair cascading over the edge of the pillow. He
eased open the door. She lay on her side under a single white sheet clasped
just below her chin, her face bearing the angelic expression of a child,
blissfully unaware of the troubles and anxieties of those around. The thin
sheet, hugging the contours of her naked body, rose and fell with each soft
breath. Her form was all curves and perfectly proportioned, her right nipple
pushing gently at the fabric. He found himself walking slowly towards the bed,
leaning over and then kissing her softly on the forehead. She murmured
something unintelligible while her eyes remained closed. His hand reached out,
gently taking hold of the sheet and drawing it slowly down her body. Presently,
the corners of her mouth rose into a smile and her eyes opened dreamily. This
can’t be happening, he thought to himself as more and more of her perfect body,
almost too perfect, was revealed.
“Come on in, the water’s fine,” she said, in an unfamiliar American drawl, but
at the same moment, he became aware of another shape on the far side of the bed.
With mounting dread, he continued to pull away the remaining sheet, part of him
silently screaming to turn and run, yet compelled by some invisible force to
continue. Even before it was revealed, Peter knew what the shape was. As the
cotton came away, there appeared the greying dark hair, wan forehead and
finally the staring dead eyes of his brother. “Go home,” said the dead man,
“before it’s too late!”