The Yeare's Midnight (6 page)

Tonight,
however,
the
area
is
deserted
apart
from
a
cluster
of
birds
huddling
together
for
warmth
on
a
steel
pylon
and
Crowan
Frayne
who
walks
in
the
centre
of
the
southbound
track.
It
is
almost
nine
p.m.

This
section
of
track
is
long
and
straight.
He
can
see
two
miles
in
both
directions.
He
has
plenty
of
warning,
plenty
of
time
to
avoid
oncoming
trains.
There
is
a
small
risk
that
he
might
encounter
maintenance
staff
working
on
the
track
but
he
is
unconcerned.
Granite
splinters
crunch
hard
underfoot.
Cro
wan
Frayne
stares
ahead.
There
is
blackness
on
either
side.
Blackness
above.
Only
the
path
ahead
is
lit,
the
rails
stretching
endlessly
to
the
horizon.
He
has
walked
three
miles
from
his
house
and
is
nearing
his
destination.
He
has
decided
not
to
drive.
His
car
is
not
distinctive
but
he
does
not
wish
to
attract
attention.
Eyes
are
everywhere.
Like
the
dead.

New
Bolden
Cemetery
sits
next
to
the
main
line.
It
is
a
huge
sprawling
place
that
predates
the
new
town.
Frayne
finds
its
proximity
to
the
railway
unfortunate.
He
thinks
of
the
dead
jarring
in
the
ground
with
every
express
train;
two
trains
an
hour
in
both
directions.
Fifteen
minutes
of
blissful
oblivion
between
each
disturbance.
There
is
a
splintering
fence
half
swallowed
by
hedgerow.
He
is
over
it
quickly
and
inside.
The
cemetery
is
dark
and
vast.
There
are
trees
that
seem
to
ache
with
cold.
Most
of
the
graves
are
terribly
overgrown.
Tall,
unkempt
grass
obscures
the
inscriptions
on
many
of
the
headstones.

Crowan
Frayne
moves
like
a
ghost
along
the
dark
pathways.
He
is
not
afraid.
He
is
energized
by
the
concentration
of
nature.
There
are
elemental
forces
focused
here:
disease,
war,
fire,
flood,
life,
birth,
death.
He
feels
a
strange
energy,
as
if
the
numberless
infinities
of
the
dead
have
risen
and
surged
up
within
him.
There
is
a
quieting
as
he
moves
deeper
inside.
Crowan
Frayne
looks
at
the
star-strewn
sky.
He
is
familiar
with
the
constellations
and
the
bright
spots
of
planets.
He
listens
for
the
harmonies.
In
this
place
he
can
sometimes
hear
the
Harmoniae
Mundorum:
the
harmonies
of
the
planets.

He
is
familiar
with
the
writings
of
Pythagoras
and
Aristotle.
He
is
attracted
to
the
idea
that
each
of
the
planets
produces
a
particular
musical
note
determined
by
its
distance
from
the
Earth.
This
celestial
music
is
the
most
beautiful
sound
imagin
able
and
is
so
exquisite,
so
rarefied,
that
is
beyond
the
compre
hension
of
ordinary
mortals.
He
has
explored
the
Pythagorean
notion
of
musical
intervals
expressed
as
simple
numerical
ratios
of
the
first
four
integers:
octave
2:1,
fifth
3:2,
fourth
4:3.
In
this
context,
the
relative
distance
between
the
planets
corresponds
to
a
musical
interval.

Frayne
remembers
Kepler’s
attempts
to
‘erect
the
magnificent
edifice
of
the
harmonic
system’
and
one
occasion
attempted
to
recreate
the
sound
himself.
He
spent
considerable
time
translat
ing
the
distances
of
the
various
planets
from
the
sun
into
musical
intervals
that
could
be
applied
to
a
piano
keyboard.
He
applied
the
same
logic
to
the
largest
asteroids
in
the
Solar
System
–
Ceres,
Pallas,
Juno
and
Vesta
–
and
even
tried
to
work
in
variables
such
as
orbital
velocity
that
were
not
available
to
Kepler
in
the
seventeenth
century.
In
a
fury
of
excitement
he
transcribed
the
notes
into
a
repeating
musical
pattern
and
recorded
it.
The
result
was
frustratingly
discordant:
a
leaping,
falling
cacophony.
He
has
blamed
the
failure
on
mathematical
miscalculations
and
is
determined
to
correct
his
errors.
However,
behind
the
silences
of
this
place,
he
sometimes
hears
snatches
of
the
Musica
Mundi:
brief,
distant
but
heartbreakingly
beautiful.

His
grandmother’s
grave
is
at
the
far
side
of
the
cemetery.
It
is
one
of
the
newer
plots.
The
area
is
not
yet
overgrown
but
Crowan
Frayne
tears
any
weeds
from
the
ground.
He
eats
the
colourful
ones.
He
is
a
regular
visitor.
The
headstone
is
black,
marbled
and
inscripted
with
gold
text.
‘Violet
Frayne
1908–1999,
beloved
mother
and
grandmother:
One
short
sleep
past,
we
wake
eternally,
and
death
shall
be
no
more.
Death,
thou
shalt
die.’
Crowan
Frayne
chose
the
inscription
himself.

He
speaks
to
his
grandmother
for
a
while,
sitting
squat
on
the
cold
earth.
As
is
his
habit,
he
recites
two
or
three
of
her
favourite
poems
from
memory
and
tells
her
how
his
own
studies
are
progressing.
He
can
feel
her
reaching
out
for
him
and
drives
his
hand
into
the
damp
soil
as
deeply
as
possible.
The
music
is
much
louder
now
and
its
colossal
beauty
wells
up
within
him,
tearing
at
his
soul.
He
begins
to
cry.
He
can
hear
Violet’s
voice
–
encouraging
and
learned
–
floating
between
the
notes
of
time
and
space.
He
will
be
with
her
soon.

A
train
clatters
behind
him
as
Crowan
Frayne
smoothes
the
soil
that
he
has
disturbed.
An
hour
has
passed.
It
is
time
to
leave.
He
has
lots
to
plan:
a
thousand
variables
to
pitch
and
sound.
He
steps
over
another
grave
as
he
leaves.
He
does
not
allow
himself
to
read
the
headstone.
He
tries
to
beat
away
the
bad
memories
that
rise
from
the
soil
and
scratch
at
his
ankles.

Underwood had left the station and driven to the end of his own road. He had a clear view of the front door of his house but remained in the car. He waited. There was a debate on Radio Four about the ethics of genetic engineering. He listened without hearing. Shortly after nine a minicab drew up at his house and Julia came out. He couldn’t make out what she was wearing but he saw her best necklace sparkle briefly against the porch light. The minicab drove off and indicated left at the end of the street. Underwood thought for a second. He felt curiously excited by the experience. He started his engine and followed.