The Violin

A concerto to die for

Jocelyn Greene has been surrounded by music and the instruments that played it all his adult life. Over the years he has developed a successful, if slightly eccentric, repair business housed in what used to be a pub whose primary claim to fame, if you can call it that, was its location next to a thriving brothel.

   The good folk of the Cheshire market town where it was situated had put up with its activities for many years until a new clutch of worthy councillors ordered it be closed down. And so it was, followed shortly after by the pub whose clientele were also ‘regulars’ next door.

   That was when Jocelyn moved in. At first, business was slow. The repair and renovation of stringed instruments is not something in great demand. The quality of Jocelyn’s work, however, spread far and wide and within a year or or two, he was in great demand.

   His speciality was the violin, although he would also work on other stringed instruments like the cello, the viola and the double bass. He would repair most woodwind with one exception, the saxophone, which he loathed, calling it an abomination.

   He was also a bit sniffy about guitars until hearing ‘Cavatina’ played by John Williams changed his mind. He would, however, have nothing to do with electric guitars.

   Greene was a solitary man, his only two friends of long-standing being Bill Smithers and Andrew Forshaw both musicians, Smithers a noted concert violinist. Greene never mentioned any family; it was assumed both parents were long dead, and he had never married.

   There was one rather strange aspect to his life, however, which he would never talk about. It began one morning when his next-door neighbour noticed him standing outside one frosty morning and his hair had become completely white. He was staring fixedly at an upstairs window, his hands to his ears. When the neighbour approached him, he shrugged it off, refusing to speak about it.

   Both Smithers and Forshaw were also rebuffed, and Greene became ever more withdrawn and troubled, much taken to leaving lights on and staring at dark corners.

   It was not long after that his body was discovered when the milkman reported to the police that there were six bottles on the doorstep. After breaking the door down they found him, his face contorted into a soundless shriek, his hands firmly clasped to his ears.

   The only people they were able to contact were his two friends, Bill and Andrew, who spent almost a day in his workshop, in an attempt to decide what to do with its contents.

   ‘There are a few instruments worth saving,’ declares Bill, staring disdainfully at the chaos surrounding him. ‘What is supposed to happen when there is no next of kin. Do you know because I have no idea?’

   ‘I suppose it falls to the council,’ says Andrew, shrugging. ‘I guess they will just dump everything in the nearest tip.’

   ‘That would be a shame,’ says Bill. ‘Let’s see what we can rescue and perhaps donate to the local orchestra or school.’

   ‘Ok, so let’s be methodical about this and explore everywhere,’ says Andrew. He suddenly stops and looks around. His voice drops to a whisper. ‘Do you get the feeling we’re being watched,’ he whispers.

   Bill guffaws. ‘Don’t be silly. Just because the old guy died here doesn’t mean he’s haunting the place. You have an over-active imagination. Let’s just sort this stuff out and get out of here.’

   ‘Can you hear a ticking, like a grandfather clock,’ says Andrew.

   ‘Now you mention it, I can,’ says Bill looking around the workshop. ‘I can’t see a clock anywhere though. A bit odd.’ He shrugs and begins emptying out a cupboard muttering. ‘It must be comimg from next door.’

   The workshop is full of cupboards and nooks and crannies stuffed with bows, bits of violins and violas and pieces of wood half shaped. The air is thick with dust and cobwebs. Andrew is piling up stuff that will be thrown away when he reaches to the back of a particularly large cupboard and his hand closes around the neck of violin. He drags it out and calls Bill over.

   ‘Look what I’ve found,’ he says. ‘Looks like it has seen better days.’ The instrument is thick with dust and cobwebs. Bill stares at it and notices a label.

   ‘Could be of interest,’ he mutters studying a small label on the back: ‘It’s by Hill and Sons of London. They are noted for quality.’

   ‘What should we do with it?’ Asks Andrew keeping it it arm’s length.

   ‘I’ll take it home and clean it up,’ says Bill, wrapping it in a dirty cloth laying on a bench.

                                                                   *

It was the next day that Bill gets around to cleaning the violin. It is a major job; he first of all has to remove all the dust, grime and cobwebs surrounding the instrument before he can begin cleaning it and it is only then that he spots a piece of yellowing paper tucked under the G string.

   He carefully pulls it out and unfolds it and as he does so, bits of of mould drop onto his lap; he hastily sweeps it off and attempts to wave away the stench of putrefaction as it falls to the floor.

   There are just three words scrawled unevenly on it, saying: ‘DO NOT PLAY’ . He stares at it. What can it mean? Does it need to be repaired? The strings look fine; probably need tuning. He examines the casing. The are no breaks or cracks; in fact, it looks in remarkably good condition considering how it has been treated. He decides to give it a polish and to look more closely at it later.

   That night he was out with Andrew and a few other musician friends, and they all found the scrawled message intriguing.

   ‘Sounds like it was somebody’s favourite instrument, and they did not want anyone else playing it; I can understand that. I wouldn’t want anyone else playing mine,’ says one of the violinists. Others nod in agreement.

   ‘Well, if it was Jocelyn’s, he’s past caring who plays it, so I would find out what it sounds like when I get back,’ says another.

   ‘It’s a good find if it’s a Hill and Sons. Quality instrument,’ says another.

   When he returns home after three pints of Doom Bar he stares at the violin on his desk. He can hear the same ticking sound that was in the workshop. He looks around puzzled. Where is it coming from? It seems to be everywhere.

   He picks up a bow lying on a music stand and reaches for the violin. He tests the strings. They feel fine. He decides to play a few bars from Sibelius violin concerto in D minor. He is pleased with the sound and stops. He looks around, puzzled. Something has changed. The room feels different somehow.

   After a few moments he realises what it is. The ticking has stopped.

   That night, he is about to get into bed when he hears music playing. It is Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E minor. Where is the music coming from? It seems to be all around him. It stops abruptly and is replaced by a brooding silence.

   He sleeps uneasily that night and is disturbed by a dream in which a violin plays itself while an elderly, gnarled, man in rags looks on with a sinister leer. He attempts to run through a dense fog but is followed by the man who is behind him no matter how fast he runs.

   He awakes in a cold sweat. The violin is on his bedside table. How did it get there? He is sure he left it on the dining room table. He returns it to the dining room. It is then that the same concerto begins playing again. Where is it coming from? He searches the room for microphones but there are none. The music follows him from room-to-room. He presses his hands to his ears, but it does not stop the sound. Only when he is outside does it stop. He decides to go to Jocelyn’s workshop. He knows Andrew will be there. Maybe he will know what to do.

   When he gets there, he sees Andrew surrounded by papers. ‘I thought I might find a will,’ he says leafing through bills, invoices and other documents. He glances at Bill: ‘God, you look awful. Are you alright?’

   Bill tells him about the Mendelssohn concerto playing non-stop and the weird dream. ‘I don’t know where it is coming from,’ wails Bill. ‘I’ve turned the flat upside down but there are no mics anywhere. It must be that bloody violin.’

   ‘It’s all in your imagination,’ says Andrew. ‘Actually, I’ve turned up something interesting while going through all this lot.’ He waves a hand at the pile in front of him and selects one. ‘Look at this. I think it’s a bill for your violin.’ He hands it over.

   ‘Certainly looks like it,’ agrees Bill. ‘There aren’t that many Hill violins around. It looks like Jocelyn bought it not long before he died. Can you make out who he bought it from?’

   ‘Look like it’s somebody called Walter King. Let’s look him up,’ he says turning on his laptop. They type in the name and a list scrolls up. He gasps pointing at a face a third way down the page which shows a dishevelled-looking man with a sinister smile on his face.

   ‘That’s the man I saw in my dream,’ he says quietly. ‘I’m getting scared. ‘What is going on?’

   Andrew is studying the text describing Walter King. ‘I’m afraid it gets even stranger,’ he says. ‘Look at the date of the sale and then look at this.’ He points at the words on the screen. Bill leans over his shoulder and gasps. ‘That’s impossible,’ he cries reading the obituary which shows that Mr King died ten years ago.

   ‘How can he have sold the violin when he’s dead?’ says Bill querulously.

   ‘You tell me, says Andrew grimly.

   ‘I’m bringing the bloody thing back here. I’m scared. All I hear is the concerto day and night and there are the weird dreams too.

   Bill did not return to his flat early that evening. Instead, he went to his local pub and chatted to some locals. It is almost 9.00pm when he lurches to his front door and inserts the key.

   At first, the flat is deafeningly silent. The street lights cast a yellow glow and dark fathomless shadows in his sitting room. He switches on his desk light which flickers ominously.

   At first, he doesn’t see the figure sitting in his armchair. It is only when the concerto begins that the leering smile of Mr King becomes visible.

   ‘What do you want with me?’ Stutters Bill.

   ‘Mendelssohn’s violin concerto in E minor is music to die for, don’t you think?’ says a voice in his head. The music becomes louder and louder, and Bill presses his hands to his ears.

   ‘We have a lot in common,’ says the voice with a sardonic laugh and the face floats up to within inches from his face and becomes distorted into a skull. Bill screams and flings open his front door sprawling in his hallway. The music stops.

   His next-door neighbour, Mrs Marshall, opens her door and stares at him. ‘Are you alright?’ she asks curiously, bending over to help him up and smelling the booze. ‘I heard a scream and thought you were being attacked.’

   ‘I thought I saw a ghost,’ he says brushing himself down.

   ‘You want to go easy on the drink,’ she replies sternly returning to her flat and closing the door.

   He stands outside the door afraid to go back in. He stares past the open door inside the hall. He can still hear the music. He decides to rush in, grab the violin and rush out and then to take it back to the studio. He doesn’t care what happens to it after that.

   He runs down the hall yelling ‘to hell with you’ and into his sitting room. Where is the violin? He left it on the table, but it isn’t there. He looks around the room. It isn’t anywhere. He runs into his bedroom. It isn’t there either. The music stops and is replaced by raucous, sardonic laughter. He can see shadows moving – formless shapes writhing – in the corners on either side of the windows.

    ‘I must be firm, I must be firm,’ he repeats out loud with his hands covering his ears, but he can’t find the door and the room seems to be filling with an acrid mist. Why can’t he find the door? He knows where it should be, but there is just a wall. He can feel panic rising in his chest, in his throat, in his mind. The laughter gets louder and louder.

   The following morning, the police have to break in after Mrs Marshall reported hearing screaming. They find him in his bedroom, on the floor in a foetal position mumbling incoherently. His hair had turned pure white.

   He was admitted to a psychiatric unit. His family called on his friend Andrew to help dispose of his sheet music and instruments. But there was one violin they found, almost hidden away, under his bed. They asked Andrew what they should do with it.

   He took it back to Jocelyn’s workshop. He left a note under the strings. It simply said: Do not play.