The Hero of Tatterwick

A violin bow lay, stick splintered, over an upturned chair. Horsehairs frayed all over. Next to it, a trombone impaled a harp. Bodies were scattered about the community hall, along with music stands and upturned chairs - some individuals were clutching instruments, some nursing injuries, some lay unmoving.

Those who were awake stared at the stage, unblinking, even in fluorescent light. A stage which appeared to be perfectly ordinary. Nothing unusual, just the backdrop to the local theatrical society’s performance of Jekyll and Hyde.

And one lone figure. Mahler Gadsby was poised, elbows out, tweed shoulder pads up by his ears, baton pointed at the scenery - trembling.

‘It’s done, Mahler,’ said a middle aged man, holding up one open palm, and one trombone in peace. He trod carefully towards the stage.

‘How do you know, Colin?’ he asked, gaze fixed in mid-air.

Colin laid a hand gently on his arm, encouraging it to his side.

‘It’s gone,’ said Colin, softly: pressingly. ‘And now we need to clean up its mess.’

***

Mahler was always present to greet the players in the Tatterwick Community Orchestra. Today, however, they were ten minutes into setup, and he was locked in the loo, giving himself a pep talk. Thankfully he’d darted into the sanctuary of the bathroom unseen.

He splashed his face with water for the fifth time. Sooner or later the revelation was bound to come.

The day had shrouded him. He needed rejuvenation, here, from his people - to channel joy and hear it played back to him. Today, he needed that good energy.

He’d woken up to the big splash on social media. Allegro Vittori: winner of this year’s Cadenza Prize. The most prestigious prize in classical music performance, Mahler had never imagined it falling into Allegro’s hands. Hands that were undoubtedly capable, but felt so equal to his. Also at his university, also a pianist, and also the child of performers, christened into the consecrated halls of music.

‘You never wanted that,’ he said to the mirror, raising his eyebrow.

He hadn’t wanted it. He’d long ago swapped gilded practice rooms for limescaled staffrooms. Music as “high art” was a delight, but the lifestyle was lonely, itinerant, bitchy. Mahler chose people. He chose the community groups, schools and theatre of Tatterwick, including leading the community orchestra: TCO. All welcome: in practice, a home for beginners, the rusty, and the optimistic.

He didn’t want the Cadenza Prize, but felt cursed by it nevertheless.

He dried his face, put his glasses back on. TCO needed him at his usual best. Buoyant, reassuring, congenial.

He heard a knock.

‘Mahler, it’s Bethany. You all right?’

He jumped. Bethany Clarke - flautist, and TCO’s Secretary. She scored a ten on officiousness. Zero on logistical skills.

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, opening the door. ‘Just er, sorting out a stain.’

Bethany scrutinised him. She eyed the damp patch on his collar.

‘Are we set up?’ he asked.

‘Almost,’ she said. ‘Someone, er, forgot to remind the flutes it was our turn.’

Of course she’d forgotten. He let it slide.

Mahler, Bethany and George Fellowes, violin, carried on with the chairs - rows for the strings, the wind, percussion at the back. All the proper places, and the TCO extras. Saxophones, ukuleles, a harp, and not to forget Mallory, their electric bassist. She could do a PhD on tone control, but hadn’t yet levelled up her practice to match theory. TCO loved her anyway.

Bethany’s flutes arrived, just as they finished setup. The three always seemed to move as one, like a many-headed Hecate: maiden, mother, crone. Mahler was secretly glad they sat at the back.

Others followed. Familiar faces putting him at ease. Colin Peters, trombonist and social lubricant. Samir Rahman, learning English but fluent in wind - played every instrument under the sun. Eddie Hughes, their late-life trumpeter: hadn’t cracked the embouchure, but cracked every note. Aggie Wong, cello, almost completely deaf, but never missed a week.

But even his brood, his flock, couldn’t dispel the fly-like irritants. Everything was getting at him. This place, usually a heartland, was all dust, old flyers peeling into curls from a decade past, inexplicable bars on the windows. He took his place before them, in the hall’s main space.

‘It’s a beautiful evening,’ he said. ‘ And a warm welcome to you all tonight.’

Dylan Price, percussionist, gave him a wave and nod from the back. Any good rhythmist was gold dust, but Dylan was twenty-four-carat.

They began with a unison warm-up - the Chinese instrumental, ‘Dance of the Yao People’. Eddie’s honking drowned out the violins. Aggie on cello played a different piece entirely. The flutes, as ever, got ahead of the beat. Mahler counted loudly, swept his arms wildly and through sheer force of will edged them up, up, up to the crescendo, but his patience was on the wane, drained by the Cadenza Prize.

The piece ended.

‘Glorious,’ he said, arms outstretched, bathing in the resonance of at least some correct notes. ‘Sounding marvellous. Now we’re all warmed up, some familiar territory. I Put a Spell on,’ with each word pointing at someone different. ‘You, please.’

Amongst the rustling of paper he heard a grumble of a familiar timbre. George, violinist and also a colleague in the Community Music Service. Every week he unpacked from his case a violin, audible critiques, and an artistic vision for TCO which didn’t include “popular music”.

Mahler thought of the time spent figuring out how to realise Screamin’ Jay Hawkins on a ukulele. He swallowed. And instead of saying, ‘move on, you elitist dotard’, he lifted his baton, and said what he always said:

‘Let’s make magic, folks.’

The brass parped up their scale in bass, Colin holding them together. He tried to keep the flutes at bay, but there they were - too soon. Their insistence was anxiety-inducing; he heard a rushing, echoing, somewhere in the back of his mind.

He cued up the violins for their intro. George sat, unmoving, waiting to lift his violin in a flourish like he was at the London Philharmonic. Mahler counted them in - one, two, three -

With a millisecond to go, George whipped his violin under his nose and with strident bows, swept into the intro. The others, watching him for a cue, missed their entrance, stumbling in behind him with all the confidence of a teenager on a first date.

The man was a teacher. Why wouldn’t he lead? The selfishness of it, the me-first in music. It was everything he hated.

It was as though the thought itself tugged at him. A pull at his spine, a sudden magnet drag, and he stumbled backwards, hit the stage.

‘You okay?’ called Samir, jumping up. The orchestra played on.

Mahler nodded, rubbed his back. He turned. Jekyll and Hyde’s London seemed to shimmer, a blur where there should be sharp edges.

Samir lifted the clarinet to his lips, threading the vocal line, eyes on Mahler.

His melody line suddenly faltered, stopped.

Samir’s eyes widened. His mouth opened. Not at Mahler, but past him.

Mahler felt it. He’d felt it pressing all day, a weight on his mind, but now it was here, distilled: a shadowy presence, a veil between who he was and what he could see. Cadenza.

The orchestra continued, but every down beat he heard a warping noise, like a hand, somewhere, bending a pitch lever.

Samir was shouting now, pointing. The ukuleles were too focussed on their music to notice, their strumming too jaunty, as others began to look up, and the music fell away.

A biting wind moved through the hall, shuffling the sheet music, pages fluttering like moths exposed to the light.

He froze, baton suspended.

Mahler turned his head - not a lot - but enough.

The backdrop had been torn open by a vortex, big as the houses in Jekyll and Hyde’s London. Clouds spun at its edges veined by lightning, blackness at its centre. Nobody moved: chilled by the cold air, spellbound by the far-off tempest.

Through the hole came a shoe. Patent leather, polished, crossing from one world into theirs. A man Mahler knew, or had known, all those years ago.

He stared at the creature from the other place.

‘Allegro?’

Stepping through the tear, he rose to at least twice Mahler’s height, looming over them all in a three-piece suit, stage-ready. He had Allegro’s wild hair, but the eyes - black. And the skin: crawling with something. Staves, notes, writhing and shifting across his hands, his face. He seemed so poised it was uncanny.

‘Mahler Gadsby,’ he said. His grin was off-kilter, his eyes slid past Mahler. ‘My, will you stop that awful noise?’ His voice carried its own accompaniment, piano lines shimmering and resonant, exact and brilliant.

‘I m-must say, congratulations,’ said Mahler, buying time, although he was not sure what for. He turned to the orchestra, who were rigid with fear. ‘An old, er, schoolfriend of mine. Allegro has achieved something quite remarkable today. He has won the Cadenza Prize.’

‘Your players have summoned me. They are exhausted by your lack of ambition,’ he hissed. ‘They wish for you to leave.’

Mahler looked out across the orchestra; no one said a word.

‘You must leave,’ said the creature. ‘Or I will make you.’

His eyes flashed. The notes raced and squirmed around his neck.

‘And if I leave,’ said Mahler. ‘Will you go?’

Before the creature could reply, Colin stood up, brandishing his trombone at it.

‘You weren’t summoned by me!’ he said. ‘He’s not going anywhere. He’s the best leader we’ve had.’

‘Too right,’ chimed in Dylan, tapping his palm threateningly with a drumstick. ‘He cares about representation in the repertoire, bro.’

‘He didn’t think twice about letting me join,’ said Mallory.

‘He makes this place my first home in this country,’ said Samir.

‘Your petty human wants bore me,’ said Allegro. ‘And all of you,’ it breathed, ‘are terrible.’

‘Unbelievable,’ said Mallory, anger pushing her forward. She stood up, wielding her bass, her amp spitting feedback. ‘Say that again.’

Unnoticed during this exchange, Mahler felt a current within him, changing. Heaviness had masked him all day. But when he heard his players, it lifted. The lightning of the vortex didn’t drag him down: it energised him. It coursed through him with precision, rising cleanly from his core to his hands - and into the baton.

‘You are worthless,’ said Allegro, pointing his finger at them all. ‘Your ineptitude crosses dimensions. You are without tune, rhythm, musicality, expression or technique. And you -’ he rounded on Mallory, ‘there’s no music in your soul.’

The players barely had time to gasp before he jerked his head to one side. A flourish of notes sounded and Mallory was lifted into the air. She hovered for a moment, then slammed to the floor with a crack. She cried out.

Mahler lifted the baton. He felt his fingers jolt, and instinctively, he pointed it at Mallory, who stopped crying to look at him. Something passed between the baton and her - a flare of light flew from it to her chest. As they locked eyes, they knew what had happened.

‘Play it,’ he said.

She grimaced but turned up her amp, pulled in the bass and played a gritty, deep riff. The creature faltered, its panache slipping, hands pressed to its head. Mahler edged sideways, circling past the cellos.

‘It’s confused,’ said Colin.

George half-rose, ready to bolt.

‘Don’t run,’ said Mahler. ‘I need you. I can give power. To all of you.’

‘He’s pushing through it!’ Mallory shouted, as Allegro began to shake off the blur.

‘Do me next!’ Eddie cried, waving his trumpet. ‘I want to flay.’

‘I don’t think it works like that!’ Mahler called, slipping behind the brass, out of Allegro’s line of sight. ‘But fine.’

He focussed, gathered his power, levelled the baton at Eddie - a beat of light leapt into him.

Then his eyes went to Dylan. Whatever Dylan held, they would need. He sent another into him, then continued to circle, stopping behind the flutes.

‘Eddie, play!’ Mahler yelled.

In a glissando of keys, Allegro burst free from Mallory’s hold. She played through the pain, but he rose above them.

‘He can fly!’ Aggie screamed.

Eddie drew in a long breath, and with one enormous blow, sent out a single, rupturing note. It cracked the air and sent Allegro into the ceiling.

Dylan’s drum roll seemed to encase them in an invisible shell - repelling the creature’s attempts to come down, again and again. Eddie blasted on the trumpet. Mallory kept going with her pulsing undercurrent.

‘We can send him back!’ cried Mahler, rounding the violins and darting across in front of the stage again. He shot Bethany, then Aggie.

The flutes looked mesmerised by the creature - first suspended, then thrown upwards, now starting to crack the ceiling. Plaster was cascading down on them. A chunk struck the violins, they scattered. Chairs and stands went flying. Eddie was going to take the place down. Mahler sent pulses of light into Colin, Samir - each time, it felt more taxing.

‘You’ve got this!’ he shouted. ‘Play, Bethany!’

She snapped out of her reverie, flitted into a scale. It made Allegro speed up. He crashed with even more violent intensity. He flailed, his hand seeking a missile.

‘You’ve done nothing for music, Mahler!’ he bellowed, hurling a cello. Mahler dodged - it hit Eddie instead. He fell to the ground, out cold. Mahler sprang onto the stage, seeking higher ground.

‘PLAY SLOWER!’ George called to Bethany - input Mahler appreciated, for once. He drew up his strength - shot him a spark.

Bethany played a long, sustained note. Allegro faltered, hovering above the orchestra, enormous arms outstretched, spiderlike notes on his skin still: held in time.

Samir struck up a melody, harmonising with Bethany, drifting nearer to her. The closer he came, the stronger she seemed. Allegro’s black eyes looked down from above the one remaining violinist.

‘George,’ called Mahler. ‘It’s on you.’

George held his violin slack under his chin, his bow loosely by his side. He stared at Allegro.

‘Play, god damnit!’

Mahler was about to call to Aggie, when George lifted his violin, wavering, into place. He played one, small, hesitant note.

A cut ran across Allegro’s shoulder. Black smoke poured out, although his face was unmoved, locked in a moment. But Bethany couldn’t hold - her breath ran out, and in the instant she breathed in -

Allegro roared back into life, clutching at his sliced shoulder, his piano accompaniment now jarring like his movements, discordant. Aggie readied her bow, but Allegro dropped from the air and closed one vast hand around her throat. One squeeze and she’d -

- she jerked her bow across the strings.

Aggie’s notes were a scratched scream of protest. It was like a detonation. Chairs, music and bodies were thrown. Lights went out.

Billowing smoke was pouring from Allegro, obscuring the room. Through it, Mahler could just see he’d been blown backwards, hurled onto the stage in front of him. One arm was gone. He limped backwards to the portal.

‘The way is open,’ he snarled. ‘There will be more.’

Suddenly prey, he dashed into the darkness. Cloud closed over it at once. Jekyll and Hyde was restored, as though it had never been there.

Mahler kept staring, waiting for it to break open again.

The players stopped; the cacophony ended.

The whole room held.

‘It’s done, Mahler,’ said Colin, holding up one open palm and one trombone. He trod carefully towards the stage.

‘How do you know, Colin?’ he asked, fixated on the spot where the creature had been.

Colin laid a hand gently on his arm, slowly encouraging it to his side.

‘It’s gone,’ said Colin, softly: pressingly. ‘And now we need to clean up its mess.’

He turned to face the debris and the strewn players, lifting his trombone. He played one, soft note. Eddie suddenly came to. Mallory smiled. ‘Keep going,’ she said.

‘You’re a healer,’ said Mahler.

‘I can mend, as well,’ said Colin, playing again. The harp restrung itself; chairs flew into place. ‘And you - you give power to others.’

‘So it seems,’ said Mahler.

He watched as everyone in the hall came together, began to help Colin in picking up the debris, resetting the chairs, checking in with each other.

Samir and Dylan were gathering up the percussion when Mahler approached. ‘We will fight again,’ said Samir. ‘You tell us what to do.’

‘Just don’t stop coming, all right?’ he said. ‘We need you - for the demons. But mostly for Rhapsody in Blue.’

Samir flashed a smile. ‘Wouldn’t miss it.’

‘The Tatterwick Community Orchestra and Defenders.’ said Dylan.

As the hall began to take shape again, Mahler stepped to his usual spot before the orchestra.

‘How rudely interrupted we were,’ he said. ‘And by one so unappreciative.’ He looked around at the players, who - despite the night they’d had - seemed fresh.

‘I don’t know who opened a hell portal,’ he said. ‘But we reclaim this space. It’s ours. Tonight, despite everything, we were beautiful. All his unharmonious words can’t undo that. We worked together. We are a true ensemble - special and always have been.

‘Don’t take its words to heart: they come from the darkness. To say “you’ve done nothing for music” betrays that it’s emptier than the void from which it came. I come here, week on week, for something more precious than any note-perfect cadenza. I am transformed. Every one of your notes, whether spot-on or out, every beat, whether on or off, transforms me. And I hope you are too.’

He leaned over to Aggie. ‘Did you catch that all right?’

She gave a small salute, eyes fierce.

George cut in. ‘Are we actually playing anything tonight?’ he asked.

‘Ah. I suppose we should,’ said Mahler. ‘Though perhaps - let’s not pick up where we left off. Let’s see…’ he flicked through the repertoire, stopping at a page, and tapping it with his baton.

‘Yes. Hallelujah Chorus, anyone?’