Turner. Jonathan De Montfort

playing so beautifully so many times. He loved the start of Mike Oldfield’s ‘Tubular Bells’ and Ludovico Einaudi’s ‘Nuvole Bianche’, which Dad loved to listen to again and again. Sometimes Dad even teared up, much to the amusement of his sons.

      ‘What a sap,’ James would say. ‘Seriously though, he’s such a girl, isn’t he?’

      Richard chuckled, then snapped back to the present as the teacher walked in.

      ‘So, music. Let’s learn some notes.’ The teacher’s manner was fast-paced and almost theatrical. ‘Well then, there’s A, B, C, D, E, F, and G.’

      The class sat in compliant silence.

      ‘No?’ The teacher raised his eyebrows. ‘The best way to learn music—or indeed anything, in my opinion—is to do it. So whilst we will learn more about the theory and history of music in these classes, it’s important that you actually play, preferably with an instrument.’

      ‘Does a recorder count?’ someone asked.

      A quiet laugh fluttered through the air.

      ‘Yes, Billy. In fact, the recorder can be a very charming instrument. Just ask the Pied Piper.’

      Another nervous chuckle echoed around the room.

      The teacher handed out a list of musical instruments they could learn to play. It seemed too good to be true: the school would provide specialist lessons for whichever instrument each student picked and even loan the instruments, if necessary.

      ‘I don’t even know what some of these things sound like,’ chortled the boy next to Richard, leaning close and flapping his paper. ‘Who’d want to spend time tootling around on a horn when we could be out on the practice fields?’

      But Richard already knew what he wanted to learn. He imagined his fingers flying over the black-and-white keys, a prodigy leading the orchestra—a hero, even, painting a symphony of darkness and light. He bent over the selection sheet with a flush of pleasure and ticked the last box on the list: Piano.

      Chapter 3

      Richard

      That evening, Richard settled in the kitchen as usual to cook the family dinner. Tonight, it was chicken with sage and onion seasoning, a good, satisfying meal to end a good, satisfying day. It used to take him forever to make something from scratch, but after Mum left, Mrs Smith had come over many times to show him how to do it. She loved to talk about her two daughters and how much she enjoyed looking after them—she never tired of that topic— but she never spoke of Mr Smith.

      Very odd.

      Whenever she helped out, she stayed over and had dinner with them all. She was always very enthusiastic talking with Dad, and James watched her with an intensity that Richard rarely saw in him for anything else.

      Hero heard the scratch of a key at the front door. It must be James; he always did that. The door swung open, and heavy footsteps made their way down the hall. Richard heard a gym bag collapsing to the floor en route like a miner after a hard day’s work at the coalface.

      ‘Wow, that smells delish,’ James called.

      ‘Thanks. It’s nice to get some appreciation after slaving over a hot stove all evening.’

      ‘All evening,’ James echoed with a chuckle, sitting down at the table.

      Richard presented him with a plate organised in almost psychotic order, all separated into little portions. The contrast of colours was stunning.

      ‘I think you’ve outdone yourself this time. Good day at school, bruv?’ James shovelled a bite of chicken into his mouth along with an assortment of sweet peppers. His cheeks bulged like a pet gerbil’s.

      ‘Yeah, it was in the end, although the beginning was a real horror show.’

      ‘What happened?’ He was almost unintelligible through the food.

      Richard began designing his own plate. ‘Well, I just got pissed on, that’s all.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘This morning, it was hammering down, and I didn’t even know where my class was. By the time I found my way there, I was absolutely drenched. Naturally everybody laughed their tits off.’

      ‘Knob.’

      ‘I guess you’re right.’ He pointed at James’s plate. ‘Oh, by the way, I farted on that.’

      James stopped chewing, one side of his mouth turned up in amusement, his nostrils flaring in disgust. Richard burst into an open-mouthed smile like an orange segment.

      James moved the ball of food to one side of his mouth. ‘Oh, it is on, bruv.’

      ‘Yeah? Well, you’re the one eating my fart.’

      James started chewing again but couldn’t help giggling. He held his hand in front of his lips, his face burning as he tried not to spray a kaleidoscope of food across the table.

      ‘Don’t laugh,’ Richard said. ‘You definitely shouldn’t laugh. Otherwise, food will go up your nose, and you wouldn’t want that, now, would you?’

      James’s body shook as his laughter forced its way out through his eyes and ran down his bright red face in salty rivulets. Finally, he forcefully swallowed the food. ‘So, bruv, what’s for dessert?’

      ‘I don’t know, just look in the fridge. I’m sure there’s some yoghurts in there or something.’

      ‘Hmm, I’m in the mood for something a little more substantial.’ He pointed towards his target with one eyebrow raised and a malevolent smile of a Bond villain. ‘I think I’m going to get myself some of your chin.’

      ‘We’re not playing Touch My Chin.’ Richard’s voice was more pleading than firm.

      ‘Well, here’s the situation. I’ve just discovered that I’ve been eating your fart, so now I’m going to try to touch your chin. You can either defend yourself, or you can just sit there and take it like a girl.’ James arose majestically, his right arm bent upwards at the elbow as if wielding a sword. ‘En garde.’

      Richard sighed. ‘Fine. But I’m feeling good. You’re getting it this time.’

      ‘I’m shaking in my boots.’

      Richard leapt in front of James and met his arm with his own. Like medieval warriors in a bizarre meat-sword duel, they stood staring into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to twitch.

      James moved first with a lightning strike to Richard’s chin, index finger extended. Richard saw it coming. He sidestepped in what seemed to be slow motion and delivered a strike with his own pointed finger.

      Yeees! Take that.

      James parried when Richard’s finger was just millimetres from his chin.

      Bastard. Thought I had you.

      ‘Well, well. You are feeling good.’ James took on a Bruce Lee pose. ‘Waaadaaah!’ In a flash, he tapped Richard’s chin, then opened his arms to an invisible, adoring crowd.

      Richard held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, you got me. You win.’

      ‘Oh, I don’t think so. This is far from over. Nobody, and I mean nobody, farts on my food and gets away with it.’

      ‘I didn’t really fart on your food, mate.’

      ‘That’s not the point. You made me think you had. Now take your medicine like a man.’ He struck another martial arts pose.

      They had watched those old seventies films over and over, resulting in what Mum had called ‘the total destruction of the house’. In the end, the Council of Peace (aka Mum and Dad) had convened and ordered that these films were never to be watched again.

      Richard responded with a flourish. ‘Hawah!’

      ‘Now