A Note of Madness by Tabitha Suzuma Page B

was such a small chink, so subtle, in fact, that he wondered if he might not have imagined it. Terror flooded through him that if he chased it, or even sought it out in any way, then it would disappear or reveal itself to have been nothing but an illusion and he would be left, encased in this black armour of steel, without hope that any glimmer of escape would ever appear in it again. Sometimes the chink would appear in the form of a moment of instinctive laughter at something on TV. Sometimes it would be nothing more than a brief moment of respite caused by the swaying branches of a tree outside a window. Sometimes it would be a sudden thought – lucid and remarkable by its lack of pain – flitting into his mind. But whichever form it took it brought with it, in those moments of bitter anguish,such a desperate surge of hope that it was almost untouchable, and flitted away like a golden butterfly into the bright blue sky – beautiful, unreachable and completely transient.
    He decided not to go back and see Dr Ludic again. There was really no point. He wasn’t down any more. He was fine. Everything was back to normal. There was absolutely nothing wrong. When Rami called him to bend his ear about the cancelled appointment, Flynn told him that he was feeling fine, that they had all made a mistake, that he wasn’t suffering from depression after all. On several occasions he was tempted to stop taking the pills, but something – perhaps a small knot of fear that the nightmare might return – prevented him.
    Neither he nor Harry mentioned what had happened – it was easier not to. It was easier to blot out his hungover conversation with Harry, Harry’s phone call to Rami, the two of them behaving like concerned parents of a wayward child. It was far, far easier to pretend it had never happened, to go back to what they had been, and so life returned to relative normality.
    As usual there was no shortage of work to be handed in; together he and Harry polished their duo for piano and cello and handed it in as a joint Musicianship assignment. Spring continued to blossom and the park began to smell of early summer. Jennah played in a chamber-music recital at St John Smith’s Square. Charles was conspicuous by his absence. The vast oak trees in Hyde Park were heavy with green. Daisiesspeckled the long grass. Flynn started running again.
Don Giovanni
was slowly buried under a mounting pile of CDs, to be replaced by Rossini and Puccini. They continued rehearsing the trio. He conducted ‘The Montagues and the Capulets’ at the Royal College’s charity concert. Life was tolerable rather than sweet, but he could manage, he could manage.
    Professor Kaiser began to smile again. There was a showcase of young musicians coming up at the Royal Albert Hall next month. ‘I would like you to take part, Flynn,’ he said.
    It was at the end of a particularly gruelling two-hour session. Flynn looked down at his hands, splayed over his knees, the fingernails bitten down to the quick. ‘That’s soon.’
    ‘It is a big event. We have been asked to enter just one student for the keyboard category.’
    ‘What about André?’
    ‘We are not talking about André. I am asking you.’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘Do you think you could do it?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    This clearly wasn’t the reaction Professor Kaiser had expected. ‘
Ach,
where is your enthusiasm? This is a huge opportunity! You will have exposure to many important people in the world of music!’
    Flynn gave him a look. ‘The Rach Three?’
    ‘
Jawohl!
Of course!’
    ‘Next month?’
    ‘It’s there, it’s there,’ Professor Kaiser insisted. ‘It only needs now a bit of polishing. Keep up the hard work and you will be ready.’
    ‘That’s huge,’ Harry said when he told him. ‘Rose King did it last year and she started getting concert bookings after that.’
    ‘Maybe I should say no,’ Flynn suggested.
    Harry looked at him in disbelief. ‘Are you joking? This is the