Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer's gone, and all the roses falling, It's you, It's you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow, It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow,— Oh, Danny boy, Oh Danny boy, I love you so! But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say an Ave there for me. And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me, And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be, For you will bend, and tell me that you love me, And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me! (Lyrics by Fred Weatherly)
Chapter 1
It is hot and even under just a sheet with the windows open it is too warm to sleep. The August air is heavy and there is a time in the night when the edge of town is quiet and it is completely dark.
Jake can see nothing but the glow of the bedside clock telling him it is 2:30 AM. He is physically tired, after spending the day unpacking boxes left over from the move last week, but his mind is still active; full of plans for the new house; work they must do, things they must buy, plans to make. He lies on his back, his eyes open, listening to the sounds of the night. A rustle in the ceiling above him, probably mice; something to add to his list. A slight breeze moving curtains. Outside somewhere a dog barks, and faintly he can hear music, the sound of a cello playing. He strains to hear it, but it has gone. He hears it again. A few random phrases that come and go. Now alert, he listens for more, but there’s nothing there.
He gets out of bed and crosses to the open window; outside is just darkness. He goes out onto the landing. The house is old, and he creaks down the stairs into the large hall, switching on a light to show a room that is formal, old fashioned, but comfortable, with a polished wooden table in the middle that you want to touch, and a large fireplace. In the kitchen he pours himself a glass of water. He can hear the music clearly now, louder, and a continuous melody that he recognises. It is the song Danny Boy, but played slowly, beautifully, a soft, sad arrangement. He walks slowly around the house, listening to the faint music. But there is no suggestion of where it is coming from. He pauses in the sitting room. The curtains stir and there’s a draft, as if a window is open; but the downstairs windows are all locked shut. Perhaps the sound is coming from outside. He opens the kitchen door out onto the terrace. The night air edges and focuses his senses; but on the terrace the music is no louder; the sound is within the house. He listens for a few minutes, held by the power of the song; disturbing, unsettling, the cello singing with grief. He can hear the bow touching the instrument, the fingers on the strings, the sound vibrating through the wood. It is someone playing, not a recording, and there is no one else to listen, a private performance for him. He is sharing someone’s hope, and their sadness.
The song ends. He strains to hear more, to hear something, but there’s no more to hear. He shivers, and goes back into the house, checking the lock on the the kitchen door. The house is quiet again.