The Blasphemer: A Novel (51 page)

As he moved unsteadily with his stick across the flagstones leading to the portico, Philip could see college servants, dressed formally in black waistcoats, lighting the candles in the dining hall. Antique college silver had been brought out and was gleaming gratefully in their light, like nursing home residents allowed out in the sunshine after a winter indoors. To his right, at a bow window with
armorial bearings carved in the mullions, he could see a tall, lean, balding man adjusting his bowtie in the reflection. Wetherby, he presumed. He would need all his strength for this. Could not allow pain to distract him. A gulp of morphine from the small, white bottle in his pocket helped.When he knocked on the door marked VICE PROVOST, he heard a voice say, ‘Enter.’

Wetherby was lying out at full length on a Regency chaise longue. He was wearing a black velvet jacket that added to, rather than subtracted from, the impression he gave of suppressed violence. In one hand he held an antique magnifying glass, in the other a slim volume of poetry, its mildewed pages open in the middle. His face was half in shadow, an effect created by a floriate lampshade, the only lamp that was on in the room. He snapped the volume shut and placed it on the side table next to him, on top of an arrangement of dainty silver spoons. Only now, with graceful movements, did he rise, cross the room and hold out his hand.

As they shook with a testing firmness, the two men eyed one another. Physically, Wetherby was the taller man, but they were not dissimilar.

‘Come in, come in.Take a seat,’Wetherby said, his voice a croaky thread. ‘My dinner is in half an hour. Going to say grace in Latin, I think. Give the college benefactors their money’s worth.’

‘Thank you, but I prefer to stand.’ Philip became distracted by a small watercolour on the wall, a preparatory study by William Blake. It showed a naked and bound young man on his knees, his muscular torso exposed as he leaned back in agony. Two bearded men in robes were stoning him.

‘They knew how to deal with blasphemers in those days,’ Wetherby said. ‘It was left to the college and I suppose it should be locked away somewhere, but I cannot quite bring myself to do it.’ He clapped. ‘So … Can I offer you a port or a brandy? I think I have some gin and tonic somewhere if you prefer. A sherry. I have some dry sherry left.’

‘Not for me, thank you. I’ll come to the point. When Daniel recovers, I want you to reinstate him and give him the zoology chair that should have been his.’

‘Yes, I was sorry to hear about his accident. I trust he is on the mend.’

‘It wasn’t an accident. He jumped to save my granddaughter’s life.’

‘Of course, of course. I will see what I can do, but, as you must know, it is the provost’s decision.’

‘You have the provost’s ear.’

‘Your son was encouraging Islamist radicalization on campus.’

‘You know that’s not true.’

‘I would help him if I could. I regard him as a friend.’

‘You know that’s not true either.’

Wetherby stiffened. ‘Meaning?’

‘I mean you have been no friend to him. You reported him to the counter-terrorism squad. You pushed for his suspension. You blocked his promotion.’

‘He told you this?’

‘I have my sources. I don’t know how he wronged you or why you have been waging this vendetta against him but I want you to know he is a good man.You don’t know him as I do.’

‘I see, I see. So why would I want to stick my neck out to help him?’

‘In return for this.’ Philip reached in his pocket and produced the music score.

Wetherby took it and immediately saw what it was. He tried to disguise his excitement as he read it, his eyes flicking greedily over the notes, his finger following them and twitching as it conducted in his head. Perhaps realizing he was breathing too quickly, he affected nonchalance. ‘Sheet music. Early-twentieth-century German. Part of a larger orchestral score. Bad condition. May be of marginal interest to a collector but … I suppose you want to know if it is worth anything?’ His eyes studied the old man’s face for a reaction.

‘No. I know what it’s worth … to you.’

Wetherby looked up and gave a sickly smile. ‘You know what it is?’

‘Mahler’s alternative opening to the Ninth.’

‘Ah.’

‘I believe you’ve been looking for it.’

Wetherby held his arms up in mock surrender. ‘I have. I have. It is an incredible find, if authentic.’ He laid it out carefully on the table before reaching for a clear folder. ‘May I?’

‘Go ahead.’

Wetherby used a pair of tweezers to pick the score up by its corner and slot it into the folder. ‘I have been looking for this all my life. I almost stopped believing it existed. How did you come across it?’

‘It was tucked inside a copy of
Punch
from nineteen eighteen.’

‘You bought it at auction?’

‘It was among some personal effects left by my grandfather.’

‘Did you photocopy it?’

‘No.’

‘Have you mentioned it to anyone?’

‘No.’

‘Extraordinary. Extraordinary. Do you know how it came to be in your grandfather’s possession?’

‘The copy of
Punch
had belonged to a Major Morris. It had his name on it. He was a conductor. Killed himself.’

‘Peter Morris? My God … I never thought … Ralph Vaughan Williams refers to him once or twice in his letters from the Front. They served together and he mentions that they discussed Mahler, but I had no idea the connection between Mahler and Morris was anything more than—’

‘It
is
genuine, isn’t it?’

Wetherby looked away. ‘I could not say.’

‘It would be easy enough for me to get it authenticated, carbon dating, signature analysis.’

Wetherby sighed. ‘There is no need. It is genuine. May I play it?’

‘If you like.’

Wetherby stood up, silently crossed the room and laid his elongated fingers on yellowing piano keys warped by the sun. By the time he had finished playing, his cheeks were damp with tears. ‘Beautiful. Just beautiful. So contemplative. It has none of the
darkness of the authorized version. Pure light and delicacy … Are you prepared to sell it?’

‘You can have it, in return for reinstating Daniel and giving him the zoology chair.’

Wetherby thought about this for a moment. ‘And no one else knows about it?’

‘No.’

‘You have proof of ownership?’

‘I’m sorry, you speak very quietly. I’m a little deaf.’

‘I asked if you have proof of ownership?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I am not going to have your son reinstated.’

Philip held out his hand. ‘In that case I will have the music back please.’

‘I think not.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, I shall be keeping this and there is nothing you can do about it. As it is out of copyright, even Mahler’s estate does not have a claim on it.’

Philip walked around the side of the desk to reach for the music. ‘Give it back.’

‘No.’

‘I shall report you to the provost.’

‘He is hardly likely to accept your word against mine. He does everything I tell him and, anyway, I have a feeling his days as provost here are numbered. As for Daniel, dear Daniel, yes, you are right, I knew he had nothing to do with the Islamists, but I could not allow that to get in the way of his suspension.’

Philip moved his lips. They looked wrinkled and purple. No sound emerged.

‘Was there anything else?’

Philip found his voice. ‘It’s supposed to be cursed, you know. The Ninth.’

‘I will take my chances.’

Philip hesitated in the doorway, in case Wetherby wanted to call him back. He didn’t. Instead he felt the professor’s eyes on his back
as he crossed the quadrangle and made his way slowly past the Porter’s Lodge to where a car was waiting for him. Once seated, he took a small digital recording device from his pocket and handed it to the driver, a lean man with a heavily lined face.

‘As expected?’ Turner asked.

‘As expected.’

‘Didn’t notice the mic?’

Philip shook his head.

Turner opened a thin laptop, leaned it against the steering wheel and plugged in the digital recorder. He connected to the internet and, with supple fingers moving over the keyboard, sent the sound file as an attachment in an email to the provost. ‘This should be interesting then,’ he said.

DANIEL’S NEXT CONTACT WITH THE WORLD WAS MORE A SENSED
presence. It was Nancy, he knew that much. Nancy was his dentist, the mother of his child, the woman he loved. She was edging her chair closer to his bed with fluid shunts of its legs. And now she was using a cold and damp compress to dab his forehead. He could hear a familiar voice talking in a whisper, too. Not Nancy. Someone he knew well though.

‘He’s not responding. Watch what happens when I do this to his foot … Nothing.’

‘But when he comes out of the coma?’

‘You never know. Don’t get your hopes up.The skin should react to a pinprick.’

Daniel was outside his body now, in a room with a bed. There was someone lying on it. A man. He had a large white brace around his neck, a tube taped to his mouth and a yellow contusion across his brow. There were wires, monitors and drips. This was clearly a hospital but there was something not right about it.The walls were too soft, as if they were melting. He tried to concentrate on the two seated figures by the bed. Though he could not see their faces he knew it was Nancy and the Bear. They were small, as if at the wrong end of a long telescope.

‘Can you hear me, darling? It’s me, Nancy.’ Her voice was cloudy, rising up through layers of consciousness. ‘Martha’s safe.You saved her. A paramedic resuscitated her.’

Daniel was confused. He could not concentrate. His mind was shying away from something.Who was Nancy talking to? Who was the man on the bed wearing the green hospital-issue gown? He felt a numbness, a sensation of hugeness, as if he was filling the room, as if he was part of the fabric of the room. He wanted to tell Nancy he loved her, but his teeth were loose and chalky and his tongue was too heavy to shape the words. There was a weight on his chest and an intolerable sensitivity to his skin, as if he were becoming transparent. Even his thoughts ached – an electrochemical jelly that would not cool and harden.

Days floated by without Daniel noticing them. Then he could hear a song. He recognized the voice singing along to it tonelessly and getting the lyrics slightly wrong. ‘It’s Hall and Oates, Dan. Can you hear it? You hate Hall and Oates. Wake up, Dan. Listen. “Because my kiss, my kiss is on your lips.” Can you hear it, Dan? Tell me to turn it off.’

The room fell silent. Hours passed. Days. Weeks. Then he found himself lying on his back. Eyes open. Miles below the ceiling. Was that Martha he could hear? She was nearby. Crying. A thin blackness descended, slowing his mind.

Now he was on a rubber-wheeled gurney being pushed down a corridor and he could hear Nancy’s voice again. She sounded upset, her voice crackling with anger. ‘Daniel! Daniel! You have to fight this! Daniel! Danny. Please, Dan. Can you hear me? You must fight.’ Her breath smelled of chocolate.

Later, there were strangers’ voices. ‘What happened?’ ‘Jumped through a conservatory roof to save his daughter. Landed on his head. Lacerations all over. Lost a lot of blood.’ ‘The guy in the paper?’ ‘Yeah, him.’

The genes.The survival of the genes.The survival of my daughter. I saved my daughter.

He was outside his body again and the room was tilting. Circulating in his head were fragments of conversation.

Do you think he can hear us? …The scan results were inconclusive … Paul is happily married …We get through this together … I’m assuming it’s a fissure in his brain …You have to fight this!

moments of lucidity Daniel realized that he was delusional, that he was hovering above himself, that this was the madness of paralysis. It was almost liberating, this awareness. It was allowing him to cast adrift from the world of phenomena, become pure thought, a cold brain trapped in an unfeeling body, wandering the universe. But his thoughts would turn to liquid again. Questions, doubts and randomly recalled lines would tangle his senses once more, writhing like worms through his cerebral cortex.

There was an explosion of colour. Kaleidoscopic shapes and patterns. In a rush of images, one merging into the other, he could see the head of a match igniting, a double helix, a spermatozoon, a mushroom cloud, a sun spot … then the images blurred, a runny stream-of-consciousness, now hot, now cold. He was high above the room again, riding the thermals, defying gravity.

You cannot defy gravity.This is impossible.

Daniel was trying hard not to think. His old certainties were weightless. It was his doubts that were anchoring him. He sighed heavily, as if his lungs were being entirely emptied of breath by some outside pressure. His intestines felt at once bloated and shrunken, his lips swollen, his head engorged with chatter.

He was next aware of someone repeating his name, but his eyes felt too heavy to open properly. There was a man’s image on his retina though, a giant, friendly bear towering over him, his chin creasing into chins. He was chewing sympathetically on the inside of his cheek.

‘You know about his vision?’ Bruce asked. The question wasn’t directed at Daniel. Someone else was in the room.

‘Vision?’ It was Nancy’s voice.

‘After the crash. He thought he saw a man in the water when he was swimming for help after the crash. He was about to give up and take off his—’

‘
Dan
said he had a vision?’

The corners of Bruce’s mouth flickered upwards. ‘Well, you know, hallucination. We worked out it was brought on by frontal lobe epilepsy. Did he tell you about the small shadow we found on his brain?’

‘No.’

‘Well, no reason why he should have, really. We don’t think it’s significant. Certainly not malign.’

‘But did
he
think it might have been a vision?’

‘You’re a Catholic, right?’

‘There was a time I could have said yes unequivocally.’

‘But you’re Catholic enough. He would have told you rather than me if he really did think he’d had a vision.’ Bruce lowered his eyes as if what he had to say would be easier were he not looking at Nancy. ‘I loved him too, you know.’