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Well, it would seem that I at least am still able to produce music.

Feeling more relaxed now, I start playing a Spanish piece, one that I’ve been learning recently. As I play, however, I start to realize that my fingers are feeling rather unusual, as if they’re harder to move. At the same time, my mind is getting muggy and I’m starting to make more and more errors. I manage to play the whole piece, of course, but when I reach the end I can’t help but feel rather unsettled. I’ve been playing the guitar for as long as I can remember, and this morning something’s definitely a little ‘off’.

I tell myself I should play a few more pieces, but I can’t shake a lingering fear that perhaps I – like everybody on the news – might ‘run out’ of music.

“Hey!” a voice shouts, and suddenly I hear a fist pounding on my door. “You!”

Startled, I get to my feet and head out into the hallway, where the pounding continues.

“Were you playing music in there?” the voice continues, and now I realize that this is the disagreeable man who lives opposite. “I heard music!”

I reach out to open the door, but then I hesitate as I realize that Roger sounds unusually frantic. For all his faults, he tends to be rather dull and dour.

“Open the door!” he shouts suddenly, and then I hear another voice out in the hallway. “I heard music,” he continues, clearly speaking to somebody else now. “Didn’t you? I think it was coming from in here!”

He bangs on the door again.

I briefly consider pretending to be out, but then I realize that perhaps I have no reason to be afraid in my own home, so I leave the chain in place and carefully open the door just a little.

“Were you playing music in there?” Roger snaps as soon as he sees me. “I heard you, Watkins! I heard your guitar!”

“I—”

“How were you doing it?” he continues, not even letting me explain. “Open the door! I want to come in!”

“Is it true?” another voice asks, and I see Sandra from 4B peering through at me. “Did you manage to play music in there?”

“Do you mind?” I ask, feeling a little flustered. “What I do in my—”

“Let us in!” Roger shouts, slamming his shoulder against the door in an attempt to break through. The man seems positively feral. “Play for us!”

“I shall do no such thing,” I reply, relieved that the chain held. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t play anything at all and I didn’t even hear anything. I don’t know what you’re going on about, but I’d thank you to leave me alone!”

“Then where did it come from?” he asks.

“I don’t have a clue,” I tell him, keen to get this lunatic to leave me alone. “Now go and bother someone else. I don’t have time for this!”

He stares at me, glaring with stark intensity, and for a moment I worry that he might try to break the door down. Then, finally, he steps back and mutters something before turning and hurrying along the corridor. A moment later, I hear him banging on another door.

“You!” he yells. “Were you the one?”

“Are you sure it wasn’t you?” Sandra asks me, with tears in her eyes. “Please, if you can play, won’t you let me in so I can listen? It’s been hours now and I need to hear some music.”

I open my mouth to reply, but in that moment I hear Roger shouting again.

“I won’t tell him,” Sandra continues, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Just let me in. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” I reply, worried about what might happen if I let anyone into my apartment right now. “I—”

“Please!” she hisses desperately. “Just a few seconds would be enough!”

I hesitate, wondering whether perhaps I should be more trusting. After all, Sandra has always seemed very calm and pleasant, and it’s hard to imagine her causing too much trouble. Still with some concerns, then, I reach out to pull the chain aside.

“Let me in!” Sandra screams, suddenly throwing herself against the door. “Why are you being so selfish? If you can play, you have to play for me!”

Startled, I force the door shut.

“I can’t play for you!” I shout, as she continues to pound against the door’s other side. “I just can’t, I’m sorry! I’m like everyone else! I can’t play a note!”

Five

“These scenes from Los Angeles are very similar to what we’ve been seeing in cities around the world,” the reporter says as I watch the BBC news coverage again. “Civil disturbances are breaking out as people struggle with the sudden loss of music in the world. Casualty numbers are impossible to determine, but I’m afraid it’s very clear that people are dying.”

The screen now shows awful images of fires burning in a street. Some people are screaming, while others are wandering around with dazed expressions.

“In most cities now,” the reporter continues, “we’re hearing that emergency services are struggling to keep up with what’s happening. We mentioned that story earlier about several hospitals effectively losing staff who find themselves unable to work, and now we’re hearing in the past few minutes that all flights in European airspace have been grounded, following similar decisions that have been taken in America and the Middle East.”

I’ve never seen anything like this. As midday approaches, it’s as if the world is on the brink of madness, and all because music is apparently ‘running out’. I dislike that phrase intently, since it’s clear nonsense, but I suppose that in some ways it does seem to describe the situation. And as much as I like to think that I’m beyond superstition, I am becoming increasingly aware that I have been avoiding my guitar.

Then again, the last thing I want is for that dreadful man to come knocking on the door again.

Stepping over to the guitar, as the television continues to run, I can’t help but feel as if I’m suddenly cut off from my best and only friend. I never married, never had children, and I don’t suppose I’ve ever had a truly close relationship with another human being. The guitar has been my life, and this particular guitar has been my focal point since I purchased it twenty-five years ago in Italy. In all honesty, today must be the longest I’ve ever gone without a proper practice session. Yet even now, I hesitate to play, just in case I too begin to ‘run out’ of music.

“There’s a genuine concern here,” one of the voices says on the television, “concerning mental health. We’ve already heard that billionaire Sir Joshua Glass has offered a reward of ten million dollars for anyone who can play for him today, and that’s a clear sign that people from all walks of life are really struggling. Unfortunately, the longer this situation persists, the more severe the consequences might become. We’re already getting reports of suicides being attributed to this lack of music.”

Reaching out, I touch the neck of the guitar.

Do I dare?

Suddenly I hear a faint tapping sound at the door.

Turning, I look through to the hallway. If another idiot from one of the other apartments has come to demand music, I think my best option is just to hide and hope that they go away.

And then I hear a voice.

“Derek? Are you there?”

Sighing with relief, I realize that it’s Sarah. She’s never knocked on my door before, but – as I head through to answer – I’m at least glad that I’m not to be assaulted or shouted at by another ignoramus.

When I open the door, however, I’m immediately struck by the fear on her face.