“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Dean replies, but his voice sounds heavy and tired, and I think he knows that I’m right. “I know Donald has some thoughts that he wants to share with us all. He’s been a farmer all his life, he knows how to live off the land. If anyone can figure out what we should do next, it’s him. Now, please, try to get some sleep. Something tells me that if the weather’s really bad tomorrow, we’ve got a real bad day in store.”
He turns and heads back through to the others, and I realize after a moment that he might be right. Besides, I’m exhausted and in pain, so I haul myself up from the chair and wince slightly as I feel a flicker of pain in my right leg.
“Are you okay?” Craig asks.
“Never better.”
“I hope you don’t mind the question,” he continues, “but did you get beaten up recently?”
“I don’t mind at all,” I tell him, “and yes, as a matter of fact, I did.”
“Before or after the music went away?”
“After,” I explain. “It was last night, actually. I think I’ll be okay, though. Nothing too important seems to be broken.”
With that, I turn and start limping toward the door.
“What was the name of your song?” he asks.
I turn to him, startled by the question.
“Sorry,” he continues, “but I heard Dean telling Sharon that you had some kind of hit song.”
“You wouldn’t have heard of it,” I tell him. “It was released before you were born.”
“Try me,” he replies. “I might know.”
“As a matter of fact, it was called Picture in Your Pocket,” I explain. “Three minutes and twenty-eight seconds of the poppiest nonsense you ever heard.”
“I know that song,” he says with a faint smile. “It shows up in TV shows sometimes.”
“That’s good,” I reply, “I’m glad someone somewhere is getting some royalties for it.”
“Do you still write songs?”
“I’m more into classical music these days,” I tell him. “Elizabethan is my favorite, the likes of John Dowland. Some of his…”
My voice trails off as I suddenly realize that there’s no point explaining. Besides, it’s not as if I can go and fetch my guitar to play him some examples, even if he seems genuinely interested. The boy seems keen, however, so I put my lips together and whistle a few bars of Dowland’s In Darkness Let Me Dwell. At least I can still whistle a little, although even this is probably being subtracted from whatever musical ability I still possess.
“That’s cool,” he says. “That’s the first music I’ve heard in well over a week.”
“Me too,” I reply. “I hope I shan’t run out now.”
“Can you play me something when this is all over?” he asks. “If it ever ends.”
“When this is over,” I reply, “I imagine there will be some very special concerts all around the world. And I will certainly get involved in some capacity.”
“I can’t wait,” he replies. “Sometimes I see people going nuts without music, and I worry that I might join them. I’m holding it together so far, but it’s hard. I really need to hear music soon.”
“Fingers crossed, eh?” I say, before turning and heading out of the room.
The kitchen is mostly empty as I head through to the room in which I am to sleep, although I notice that Jessie is still tapping at her phone. She must have spent all day glued to that thing, and I’ve barely seen her move from her spot at the table. I tell her that I’ll see her in the morning, but she doesn’t respond and I doubt that she even heard me. By the time I reach the next room and push the door shut, I feel as if I’m absolutely exhausted. Despite the pain throughout my body, and the thoughts that are rushing through my mind, I think I shall sleep rather well.
Once I have settled on the camp-bed, however, my thoughts turn to poor Sarah, and I find myself staying awake for hours, reliving the moment of her death over and over again.
Fourteen
Hearing a whispering sound in the dark, I open my eyes and turn to look across the room.
I have no idea of the time, but it’s still dark outside as I sit up. I instinctively reach out for a light-switch, before remembering that there’s no point. I must have dozed off after thinking about Sarah, but now I’m wide awake and I’m quite certain that I heard somebody whispering close to my ear.
I listen, but all I hear now is silence.
“Hello?” I say cautiously. “Is somebody in here?”
I wait, and I watch the darkness, but there’s nothing.
“If somebody’s here,” I continue, “I should like very much to get back to sleep.”
Again, I wait.
Perhaps I was mistaken. Perhaps the whisper was something that existed merely at that point between sleep and wakefulness. Besides, after everything that has happened over the past few days, I wouldn’t be surprised if I start hallucinating and hearing things. Why, it’s a miracle that any of us have managed to remain even remotely sane.
Once I’m satisfied that there was no whisper, I settle back down onto the camp-bed and try once more to find a comfortable position.
Almost immediately, however, I hear the whisper again.
Sitting bolt upright, I look yet again into the darkness. Apart from the faint outline of the door, I really can’t make out much in this room, and I suppose it’s entirely possible that somebody could be lurking nearby. After a moment I look over at the window, and I start to feel as if I’m being watched. I tell myself that this is nonsense, of course, but the feeling persists and finally I get up from the camp-bed, which creaks as it’s released from the burden of my weight.
I stare at the window for a moment, and then I take a step forward.
Instantly, I’m hit by a strong sense of hunger. It’s as if sheer, uncontrollable hunger has filled my body, and I immediately step back. This doesn’t help, however, and I have to steady myself for a moment against the wall. Still the hunger burns through my soul, but I’m starting to realize now that this hunger isn’t physical at all. It’s as if I’m hungering for something intangible, for something that should be a part of me.
Finally I let out a faint gasp, and I’m forced to sit back down on the edge of the camp-bed.
“Help me,” I whisper as the sense of hunger gets stronger and stronger. “Please, someone…”
For a moment, I start to wonder whether this is the end. Is it possible that after all the extremes of the past few days, not to mention the beating that I endured, perhaps my heart is failing? This strange sensation doesn’t feel like a cardiac arrest, but – as I lean back against the wall and struggle for breath – I can’t shake the fear that my time is up. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, hoping against hope that I might miraculously recover.
And then, suddenly, I feel a breeze against my face.
Startled, I open my eyes and find that I am no longer in that dark little room. I am on a beach of brilliant orange sand, staring ahead at a calm, tranquil purple sea. Above, a bright sun burns high in an auburn sky, and after a moment I realize I can hear the sound of water lapping against rocks. Turning, I see that the purple sea is pushing against a set of green rocks that rise up from the sand.
Getting to my feet, I realize that the sense of hunger has left me as swiftly as it came.
“What is this place?” I whisper, turning around and seeing that behind me there is a vast green cliff-face. “What—”
Before I can finish, I hear music playing.
I turn and look out toward the sea, and then I realize that the music is coming from just a few paces away. Hanging in mid-air, there is a flickering black line barely a couple of inches wide, with flashing stars twinkling in the heart of a small void.