He scrubs the steps for a few more minutes before going back inside. A light is flashing on the phone in the hall. He must have missed the call when he was outside. He presses the button and hears Phil’s voice coming through the speaker: ‘Hey there, Anton. Happy birthday. Listen, just giving you a call about this evening. I’m sorry, I’m not going to make it.’ Anton listens with a heavy heart, hears the somewhat sheepish tone of apology creeping into Phil’s voice as he continues: ‘I could make up an excuse, but the reality is I just don’t think it’s a good idea right now. It’s too soon after you’ve been out, and, well, people are still upset. It’s kind of brought it all back. Jane’s been crying again over Charlotte, and it just doesn’t seem fair that …’ The sound of him taking a deep breath. ‘Anyway. It’s best if we leave it. Hope you understand.’

The voice dies away, the message ends. Heaviness takes hold of him.

The house is quiet now. He realizes that the piano in the basement has fallen silent. Disappointment is filling out inside him, and his thoughts snake downstairs, wondering at the young couple there, what they might be doing.

He recalls how he’d heard her crying out in pain the previous morning when she had hurt herself in the garden, felt the shock of something old and forgotten going through him as he had watched her crouching in the grass, the way she had drawn up the hem of her dress to examine the wound. Imagines again the pale smoothness of her leg.

A door underneath the staircase leads to another run of steps – narrower and meaner than the grand sweep that ascends to the bedrooms. He hasn’t set foot here in years. When he flicks the switch, the light bulb casts a greyish meagre light on dusty steps. He slips off his shoes, takes the stairs in his socked feet, wincing at every slight creak and groan of the boards against his weight.

The air down here is dense and dank, a stale smell filling his nostrils that makes him think of mouse droppings and decades of balled-up lint. In that cramped dark space, he leans into the door, presses his ear against the painted timber, and listens.

6

Leah

‘Guess what?’ Jake says.

Leah tucks the stool back into its place against the piano. ‘What?’

‘I just saw him.’ Jake’s eyes dart in her direction as he dumps his bag and helmet on the couch and crosses the room to where the little stereo speakers sit. He slips his phone into the receiver and instantly the space is invaded by the music he’s been listening to – some upbeat funk that jars with the mood she’d fallen into while practising the Nyman pieces.

‘Who?’