4
Forlorn Genius
There was nothing more Sam hated than coming home to an empty house, but he’d gotten used to it. However, he still hated the solitude. The quietness of the house sometimes disturbed him, for in these silent moments, the nightmares came. They’d plagued him all his life and he’d never learned to deal with them. Now he was almost an adult, and he missed the feeling of family Caroline had given him as a child. All his father had offered was an empty house and an empty heart.
Sam’s father’s place was a large town house in the suburbs of north London. Quintessentially Victorian, it had a double bay window at the front and dormer window at the top. Sam never used the front of the house and entered through the back, a little tired after Ava’s birthday meal. He unlocked the door and entered the kitchen, moving through to open the double doors between this room and the next, which created an open plan living area.
When he looked into the living room, it appeared he had a visitor, who’d probably some to see his father. Many people came and went in his father’s life, so it wasn’t unusual to find someone in the house. The male visitor was middle aged, with a full head of grey hair and he sat on the sofa, which showed its back to the kitchen, so that only the top part of the man was visible.
“Hi,” Sam said, nonchalantly, “you waiting for my dad?”
“Yes and no, I’ve been meaning to pop by for a while,” the visitor replied.
Sam shrugged in an effort to appear indifferent, although he appreciated the company. Because he was polite and believed in hospitality, he offered the visitor a drink and the man accepted a cup of tea. Sam put the kettle on.
“So,” he attempted conversation, “are you here for business or pleasure?”
The man smiled. “A bit of both,” he said warmly. “I’m Bill, by the way.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Sam.”
“Oh yes, I know your name, you’ve been mentioned many a time, in a positive way of course.”
This surprised Sam, he often felt non-existent and when his father acknowledged his presence, he complained about what Sam chose to do with his time, and his career choices.
“So young man,” Bill continued, “you’re finishing school soon. What are you going to do after that?”
Sam found this a difficult question, as he’d become so used to condemnation.
“I’d love to study music or art at university… express my soul… compose music to move people’s souls.”
“Well, I think that’s wonderful.”
“My dad doesn’t. He wants me to be like Ava and be a scientist, or run a business like him, because he thinks I’ll make a lot of money from it. All I want to do is make music.” Sam popped a teabag into an empty cup, poured on the boiling water and stirred it with vigour. “Music is big business, and as worthy a career as stock broking or science, not that anyone takes me seriously.”
“I’m sure your instincts are correct, you’ll find many of your gut feelings can be safely followed.”
After pouring in a little milk, he took the cup into the main living area and walked around the sofa. A surreal and gross sight confronted him. Bill sat on the sofa but both his legs were missing below the knee, the wounds bleeding, jagged and raw. It was happening again, the visitors…they always looked so real but they weren’t…they couldn’t be. Sam dropped the cup of tea, the drink splashing everywhere.
“Sorry to appear like this,” Bill continued, “I needed to get your attention.”
Sam closed his eyes like he always had done and breathed deeply.
“You’ve shut us out for too long, Sam. You need to start accepting that we’ll always be around, to be seen and heard. We mean no harm.”
He opened his eyes, mortified to find Bill still sitting there, although he now had complete legs. Sam grabbed a cloth from the kitchen to clean the tea stain on the floor. As he rubbed, venting his anger, Bill pursued the conversation.
“You didn’t always ignore us.”
Sam shrugged, with a surly expression on his face.
“Well, times change, don’t they?”
Bill gave him a benign smile, patient of the reluctance Sam demonstrated.
“Who was your first, how shall I say, spirit visitor?”
Sam finished rubbing the stain and set the cloth to one side.
“An old lady.”
“And she stayed with you for a while, didn’t she?”
Sam exhaled sharply in frustration.
“Do you think I really appreciated visitors dropping by my bedroom each night with… their brains hanging out, or their arms missing, or their wasted, diseased bodies to scare the shit out of me? I was a child, for God’s sake.”
“And a gifted child at that,” Bill added.
Sam reached out for his guitar, which was close by and he tuned it with finesse in the matter of a minute.
“What do you want from me?” he asked.
“I want to help you. You need a father figure, someone who understands you. After all, we don’t want you going down the wrong path, do we?”
“I’m fine, really.”
“You know, it doesn’t make you weak to need others.”
Sam began to play his guitar, a mixture of wild riffs and soft melodies. Bill smiled, listening to the music emanating from Sam’s anger, its raw power and energy, and he nodded in appreciation.
“Beautiful.”
Sam paused, damping the vibration of the strings and he remained silent for a moment, breathing slowly and deeply. It was rare he played for another person, although he couldn’t quantify whether a dead person still counted as a legitimate audience. He played a softer, more delicate tune, including an arrangement of chords off the top of his head. As he played, picking the strings delicately, he closed his eyes and visualised the tune as a landscape. In his mind’s eye, it became a symphony of colour and vibration, an undulating horizon of sound and each new hill, or feature on the landscape predicted the next chord or string to pick.`
Sam was now engrossed in the guitar, so Bill decided to make an exit.
“Well, if you need us, we’re always around, but you can’t avoid who you are forever.”
Sam had his own path to follow, but in the war between the soul and the will of the conscious, albeit angry mind, the latter could easily overpower the subtlety of spirit. Another day may yield greater dividends, so Bill faded from sight. Sam paused, those final words ringing in his head.
‘We’re always around, but you can’t avoid who you are forever.’