The Music Of Bones And The Meaning Of Ghosts Chapter 5

It was late when Tom got back from work. I heard the hum of a taxi dropping him off. It took him a while to unlock the door, the jabbing of the key at the lock, before he got it in...
There was the opening of the fridge and the clink of another bottle, and his dragging footsteps going into the sitting room, the television turned on and the sound of the dialogue of a late night film, burbling into the room, trying to fill it with life. The rest of the house lay silent and dark around this one single room, just Tom passing out on the sofa in front of a flickering film, like the beacon in a lighthouse, flashing a warning to the surrounding neighbourhood.

I strained every sinew of my wooden body to make out the words.

"I wanna know, who ya think ya are,
talkin' ter me like that..."

There was the sound of studio gunfire, and then, just above the din, I could hear the musical score lift up. Slow strings, muffled to begin with, and then rising in volume. I trembled with delight. The melody rose in pitch, the minor chords turning to major, and the rhythm increasing in pace...

The house had once been filled with music. Tom and Jack didn't even own a TV or a laptop when I first arrived. There was a record player in the front sitting room, where Tom was now slumped, a sea of records forever wheeling out all kinds of wonderful music from all over the world. An Irish jigg, or Missippi Delta Blues song, a love song from Mali, or an English punk anthem...On Friday nights there was always a session, which would spill down into the basement room where Delphine, still sits, her keys covered by the locked lid, that has embossed by the keyhole with a curling gold script reading:

Made in Paris.

Those were the nights... We played together. We made beautiful music together, and now...

I sit in my case thinking of Delphine singing out a waltz, with Jack sat astride the stool, with his chestnut hair, and Tom cradling me in his arms, picking out the rhythm and the melody in an open tuning.

Those were nights.

I listened. Tom snored below, the television credits ran, and a weather forecaster could be heard just, proclaiming the onset of low pressure on the way. I strained to sense anything else in the brickwork, the floorboards, from the garden outside. But nothing... No sign of Delphine awakening again...

The house was emptier and quieter than it had ever seemed before.