‘Du bist die Ruh, du bist der Frieden,
Du bist von Himmel mir beschieden.
…

Sarah’s contralto soared above the piano accompaniment and my heart soared with it. How could it not? Her voice was the most beautiful I’d ever heard and it was matched only by her physical beauty. I adored her; my only aim in life was to possess her completely to shower her with my love and all I owned, however little that may be.

My rest and peace I find in thee,
From heaven you were sent to me,

Ruckart’s words, born on Robert Schumann’s music, pierced my very being and tears trickled unbidden down my cheeks. All too soon …

‘Du hebst mich liebend über mich,
Mein guter Geist, mein beßres Ich!’

Lovingly you raise me high,
My spirit soars to a better I.

The closing words hung in the air as the accompanist quietly played the closing bars and Sarah, eyes closed, stood silently in the curve of the Bechstein on the stage of the Wigmore Hall. Total silence for a few seconds before the audience rose as one to applaud the new star of the lieder performance. Her incredible vocal range made her either the new English Elizabeth Schwarzkopf or even Kathleen Ferrier brought miraculously back to life. Widmung was the final song in a programme that had included both Schumann and Schubert as well as the aria ‘What is life to be without thee?’ from Gluck’s Orfeo made famous by Ferrier herself all those years before. I knew that she had dedicated Widmung to me because we were bound by an invisible thread. Even though we had never met in person she must have realised the flowers and cards she received daily had been sent by me. How could she not?

Sarah Bowler acknowledged the ecstatic applause graciously with down cast eyes and a shy smile. Strands of her blonde hair had escaped the confines of the combs that held it clear of her face and part hid her sweet face. I couldn’t take my eyes from her as I clapped more vigorously than any of my neighbours. They had merely enjoyed the performance but I, I had absorbed her very essence into my soul. I knew with certainty that once she became aware of my devotion she'd fall into my arms and sing only for me – only to me.

The accompanist stood beside her as she turned to hold his hand and kiss him gently on the cheek in thanks. She owed everything to Steven Gale it was said. He was the one who had discovered her latent talent only months before and it was he who had introduced her to eager audiences always looking for the latest, beautiful young musician to laud and admire. It was Gale who managed her; it was Gale who taught her; it was Gale who always accompanied her; it was Gale I hated. He was the barrier to our everlasting happiness and he was the one whom I planned to kill if necessary. There was no other way. Sarah’s future happiness depended on it.

The changing of the clocks a couple of weeks earlier seemed to have brought real Autumn weather in its wake. Even after this lunch-time concert the weak November sun struggled to have any effect on the cool, damp, misty afternoon. I was glad of my long dark woollen overcoat as I dawdled opposite the main doors, leaning against the barrier above the grey river, my breath adding to the mist ... waiting.

After half an hour my wait was rewarded and two figures arm in arm emerged from the hall. One, tall, gaunt and , like me, wearing a long dark overcoat, the other, smaller, slim rather than gaunt, a scarf covering fair hair, kept warm with an ankle length fake fur coat, high heeled knee length boots bringing her head almost to his shoulder.

Gale’s dark beard and swarthy complexion all but hid his features but he was clearly in deep conversation with his companion for she kept nodding or shaking her head in agreement whilst alternately staring into his all but invisible eyes or at the ground immediately in front of her pointed toes. Sarah appeared to be almost in a trance; it was as if, without the support of Gale’s arm, she would fall to her knees.

Eventually, after a final intense and somewhat one-sided exchange, Gale turned abruptly and headed briskly away in the direction of Westminster Bridge. My love watched him go for a moment before turning and glancing in my direction. I’m sure she felt my love, even through the intervening 30 metres but she was so overwhelmed and unable to trust her intense feeling towards me she quickly hurried away in the opposite direction from Gale.

I knew she would want me to follow so that we could explore our mutual love in a more private place and did so at a discreet distance. I was taken by surprise when she turned abruptly into the vast Bankside building that housed the Tate Modern art gallery. Surely she would have crossed the footbridge into the City and into a quiet wine bar where I would have joined her to discuss our future life together but perhaps she had a deeper purpose.

She knew exactly where to go and hurried past the entrance towards the Turbine Hall, that huge space which had once housed the mighty steam turbines which drove the alternators when the building had been a power station. She stopped on the balcony above the hall and stared at the current exhibition. The huge red disc opposite glowed brightly through the artificial mist. Of course what appeared to be a disc was, in fact, merely a semicircle, its reflection in the mirrored ceiling giving the illusion of a circular red sun on such a day as the reality outside. Even the drifting mist, hanging low over visitors lying supine on the floor enjoying their reflections and becoming part of the installation, was an eerie echo of cold, damp London just outside. Yet somehow Olafur Eliasson’s installation became more significant, the more it reflected the real weather.

I had never seen this exhibition before but it was clearly not Sarah’s first visit. The huge red disc totally absorbed my attention. The sounds of people became lost and confused in the echo of the vast open space. It was truly another world … and we, my love and I were sharing it. At last I knew why she had led me here. This was the place where we were to become one. On an impulse, I rushed towards her calling her name.

Inexplicably, she recoiled as I approached. Had she underestimated my passion? I moved towards her, my arms outstretched to embrace her, my lips ready to whisper my love into her ear. Again she stepped back. Her eyes were wide and her mouth opened to scream as she toppled backwards over the barrier head first onto the hard concrete floor 10 metres below.

There were only a dozen or so other people on the balcony and we all rushed to the place from which she’d fallen. She lay on her back, eyes closed, a red stain surrounding and within her beautiful hair. Her fur coat flung wide open revealing the long black dress she’d worn for her Wigmore debut. No-one noticed me – not even Sarah, who’d never notice anyone again. For the second time that afternoon tears ran down my cheeks.

Suddenly the crowd surrounding my love was violently pushed away as a huge bearded figure forced his way to her side. How Gale had heard so quickly of the accident was a mystery to me but there he was, gently caressing her face with the long slender fingers which contrasted sharply with his bulk. All I could see was his long dark hair as he bent over Sarah. Then, he turned sharply and looked upwards straight into my eyes. Where before his eyes had seemed almost hidden by dark bushy brows now they stood out, intense with hatred as he seemed to penetrate my very soul with his will. I was unable to move until he withdrew his gaze and turned his attention once more to the fallen girl.

In a daze, I walked away as emergency ambulance staff ran down the steps into the hall. The ambulance, its blue flashing lamp making another, but unwelcome, installation in this museum of the unexpected, still at the entrance already gathering a small crowd of the curious.

********************

For the rest of the afternoon I wandered aimlessly around London, seeing nothing and almost getting knocked down by swearing cabbies on several occasions. I eventually fetched up in a Starbucks near Leicester Square with an Evening Standard I’d bought after seeing ‘Singing Star Unconscious after Tate fall’ on a bill board. So she wasn’t dead after all.

‘New opera singing sensation, Sarah Bowler, is in Charing Cross hospital after falling inexplicably from the balcony above the Turbine Hall in Tate Modern this afternoon. She had only an hour before given her debut Wigmore hall song recital to huge critical acclaim. Her companion and manager, Steven Gale, said she had a great future in the classical music world and he had every hope that she would recover completely and achieve her full potential in both opera and the more intense field of lieder.’

There was more but it told me all I needed to know. Sarah was going to be all right. I needed to see her for myself. I checked the time. Six o’ clock so visiting time was probably still OK but I needed first to find out just where in that huge hospital she was being kept and, second, to get in to see her without raising suspicions.

*****************

The taxi dropped me right outside the hospital entrance and I joined what appeared to be a gradual influx of what I assumed to be other visitors. It looked as though my timing was perfect. All I needed to do was find out which ward Sarah occupied. I searched the list of different wards and decided that women’s medical looked the most promising and began to follow the signs. I often wonder how the staff in big hospitals ever manage to find their way to work. Every corridor, every lift, every flight of stairs seemed identical but eventually I found what I thought could well be the right place. Fortunately Sarah wasn’t, yet, a major star or there would have been newsmen and paps all over the place. As it was there was just one bored man with a camera and tape recorder sitting half asleep in a small waiting area near the ward entrance. He looked up as I sat near him.

“You ‘ere for that singer woman who fell on her bonse at the Tate?” he asked.

“Yeah. Seen her yet?”

“Nah, not a chance, mate. That bloody great minder of ‘ers is keeping everyone out. ‘im and the ward sister. She’s a tartar and no mistake. Keep clear of ‘er or she’ll ‘ave yer guts for garters. I tried to get a quick shot and she damn near chucked a bedpan of piss all over me. Who you wiv?”

I thought for a moment. He was probably either the Standard or one of the red tops. So I made a quick choice.

“Opera World” I said “Sarah Bowler’s a real up and coming star. It’ll be big news if she’s not able to sing any more. You?”

My temporary colleague nodded “Yeah, I ‘eard she was. Not my fing really. I’m more your Amy Winehouse myself. Quite fancy Maddona an’ all. I reckon she’s a bit of a goer if you know what I mean.” He grinned lewdly. With his less than stunning personality I reckoned he was onto a loser. “Me? I’m freelance. Sun mostly though.”

The ward door burst open and I was face to face with Steven Gale. Even standing I had to crane my neck; sitting, it was as if I was on my knees. Once more I felt the effect of his intense, dark gaze; it was as though my heart stopped beating for a moment and I became dizzy from lack of oxygen to the brain.

“Come with me.” He said “At once” His voice was quiet and, whilst calm, was overlain with hidden menace. I tried, unsuccessfully to place the accent. Not an English one, of that I was sure.

The reporter watched enviously as I followed Gale through the doors into the ward and then into a side ward. Sarah lay pale-faced her eyes wide open and unblinking with tubes and monitors connected in profusion, propped in a semi sitting position. Her pale hair, stringy with sweat, was scattered in profusion over the pillow. A broad white bandage, stained red, crossed her brow.

Gale stared at me. His thick dark brows knitted in a frown. I found it impossible to look away much as I dearly wanted to.

“Her brain is permanently damaged, She’ll never sing again.”

I tried, unsuccessfully to avoid his gaze. “Well, you never know. It’s amazing what they can do nowadays.”

“I said ‘Her brain is permanently damaged’. When I said that, it was a statement of fact not a feeble unqualified opinion. Her brain is damaged and you damaged it.”

His voice didn’t change for that last sentence but I felt a deep unease as he said it. I felt he could read my mind. More, I felt he could control my mind. I had never felt so helpless in my life. Never the less, I tried.

“How can you possibly say that? I was nowhere near her when she fell. How can it be my fault?”

“We both felt your malevolence. It was coming in waves from your confused and evil psyche. I know these things. I have lived for many years. More than you could possibly imagine. Sarah was my creation. Her voice was mine to command and you have taken it away. Her voice would have charmed millions – billions, even. She is irreplaceable … except.” And here he paused, never taking his eyes from mine but allowing them to become distant for a moment. He continued “ Except if I can recreate her image. She was more than anyone before. Greater even than my beloved Trilby because Sarah could sing a little before I taught her how to use her voice properly. Poor Trilby was tone deaf and was ridiculed when I became temporarily unable to help her.”

He smiled without showing his teeth. It was tight smile. “Do you know who I am?” he said. “Have you heard the story of Trilby and her … Svengali? My dark looks and my name became an embarrassment to me. Despite my powers, I can’t control everyone and so I became Sven, Steven, Gale. You see?”

“But … but that’s just a story with no basis in truth. What you claim is nonsense. In any case it all happened so long ago - a hundred and more years ago – you can’t possibly be the same person.” I protested but in my heart I knew he was real. I could feel his power even as I denied its effect. I could feel his power but I had no idea of its extent.

Gale continued. I swear he never blinked; his eyes remained open all the time and a strange dark light flowed from them and into my very soul.

“Today is a very special day. It is fortunate you chose to attack Sarah today …”

I protested. “I didn’t attack her. I love her and I know she loves me. We are soul mates …”

“Silence, fool!” for the first time Gale raised his voice. “Your stupid fantasies have done enough damage. However, it is true that you are soul mates. They shall be as one on this special day. This day of the dead. This ‘All Souls Day’ when souls have only an ethereal connection with their fleshly bodies and anything is possible for those who are able to command the necessary powers. Those like … Svengali.”

I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry. I tried to move, to run, but I was frozen in place. It was all could do to breathe and that only in short quick, shallow heaves of my chest. The light in the room dimmed and the sounds of the busy hospital faded to nothing. All I could see was Gale’s, Svengali’s, eyes and the light from them illuminated only the bed and its frail, beautiful occupant.

“Get onto the bed. Lie next to your ‘love’.” His eyes followed me as I complied. I had no option. What had been my greatest dream became a nightmare. Sarah never stirred as I place my head next to hers. The light from his eyes grew in intensity and it was as if the rest of the world stood still. There was nothing except his eyes and I slept.

**************

“Wake up, dear, you’ve got a visitor. Isn’t that nice?”

I felt a gentle shaking on my arm and I opened my eyes to see the kindly face of a nurse smiling at me.

“You may be our star patient, but you can’t sleep all day.” She had a comforting mature face – almost motherly but a no nonsense from you my girl sort of motherly.

I looked round the flower bedecked room. A low Autumn sun streamed through the window putting the blooms on the far side in glorious colour. It was obviously a hospital ward but there was no sign of life support equipment, no drips nor any monitors. It was a room for convalescing not for treatment. Where was I? I remembered Gale or Svengali or whatever he called himself. I remembered seeing Sarah unconscious on the bed. I remembered the eyes – Oh how I remembered the eyes but after that … nothing.

The nurse fussed round plumping pillows and adjusting the bed to help me sit up. “Now lets make you look nice for your visitor. We can’t have him seeing his favourite girl looking untidy can we?” She picked up a brush and began to draw it through my hair. Each stroke took much longer than it should. I’d always kept my hair short and neat. I visited the barber regularly every other Thursday evening at six sharp. I had an appointment. My hair was never long. It was never blonde either and I could see it as the brush ended each stroke … long blonde hair.

I needed to know. “What time is it?” My voice! Not gruff and deep but sweet and musical. Needed to know more. “What day is it?”

The nurse put down the hairbrush and stood, hands on hips, smiling a resigned sort of smile. “You ask me that every day. You must know I always wake you at half past eight. Every morning, half past eight on the dot. And, as it was Wednesday yesterday it’s Thursday the eleventh of December today. Just two weeks it’ll be Christmas. What ever shall we do with you? We can’t have you forgetting what day it is, can we? Not after making such a wonderful recovery.”

Then I remembered Sarah falling. Falling through the mist, in the light of the big red sun onto the hard floor. But it was Sarah who fell not me. I loved Sarah and I’m sure she would grow to love me too.

“I think her recovery will be very quick now, nurse. I’m sure you’ll be pleased with her progress tomorrow. We want you to be home for Christmas, don’t we my sweet?”

A tall figure stood by the door. A tall, dark figure, burly with delicate hands. His hawk-like face handsome with piercing eyes beneath bushy black brows and a thin aristocratic nose, prominent above a tidy black moustache and long beard. His white teeth stood out sharply against the contrasting blackness.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” The nurse gave the bed a final tidying stroke and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

“What have you done to me?” Even though he still terrified me, I had to know.

“You and Sarah are soul mates now, just as you always wanted. She sleeps within you only to wake when I call her. She lost control of her body when she hit her head on that hard floor but her essence lingers on. For her, music was all she craved. All she lived for. She only came alive when she sang. Physically, sexually, she was dead but you my dear were passionate. Your only thought was to possess Sarah, to possess her body and now you do … for ever.

“I too desired Sarah’s body, just as you did. Now with a passionate soul within it I can. My power was useless against her indifference but I think it will prevail with you, my dear.”

I felt helpless as he took my now delicate hand and kissed me full on the lips. I should have been revolted but I was not. Gale’s magnetic personality overcame my distaste and I felt a stirring in my body. I was reacting to Gale, to Steven but Sarah, deep within me stirred too and I heard her sing. I heard her sing Schumann again. But this time it wasn’t Widmung, (Dedication), it was a song cycle - ‘Frauenliebe und Leben’ (A Woman’s Life and Love) and I knew I was trapped for ever in a cycle of music with my beloved Sarah and a cycle of life with my tormentor.

The End