Dearest Rebecca,

It’s a long time since I wrote, sorry. Not been at my best, one thing and another, but something has happened that I must tell you about, because it brought you back into my mind like a flood, instead of just the usual constant stream. Last week I spotted an announcement in the paper about a concert - odd for me to do that, as you know I’m not an arty person. It was a symphony that caught my eye, because it was called a symphony of healing, and it was by... Alan Scott! There might have been another musical Alan Scott but I thought it unlikely. So I bought a ticket to the Festival Hall (on the south bank of the Thames, you wouldn’t know it, after your time, alas).

I’ve just got back, and must tell you what happened before the details fade. It was a very strange experience, I must say. The music had a curious effect on a lot of people, even me. When it ended, there was an odd stunned silence for a bit, and one or two people got up and said how the music had affected them, which was of particular interest to me. One woman proclaimed to the world she’d had the first orgasm since her boyfriend left her! The conductor gestured to the composer, and Alan, looking as if he was having to be encouraged by the woman sitting next to him, stood up to acknowledge the applause, shyly, as though uncertain it was really for him. I recognised him straight away, even after twenty-five years. A bit chubbier, a bit balder, but still Alan.

The man sitting next to me said, ‘He looks as if he’s expecting to be lynched,’ which was true. He seemed reluctant to claim responsibility for that very strange music that had affected the audience mysteriously deeply.

On the way out of the auditorium (which has funny boxes as if they have to be pulled out like drawers) I looked round and saw Alan accepting congratulations from several people with a vagueness that seemed aloof but was probably euphoric. Always a bit donnish, even then, old Alan. I approached him in the foyer, then thought better of it and turned away.

Alan, up in the clouds, did not even notice me, but he did do something rather odd at that point: he put his fingers in his ears and stood still for a moment, with his head on one side, as if listening. Then he briefly looked round rather anxiously, like a sparrow on the qui vive for a cat. I watched him take the arm of the slim dark-haired woman walking beside him, and heard him say to her, ‘They seemed to like it.’

She seemed remotely familiar, and then, in a flash, as she smiled at her companion, I placed her. Bella Cassell! You never met her, but Alan must have mentioned her. I made up my mind.

‘Excuse me... Alan Scott?’

Alan paused on the stairs and faced me. All he saw, no doubt, was a stockily built, greying, bearded man, shabbily dressed, but not from poverty (though I’m pretty near the bread line), more from indifference to outward appearances. A musician, Alan probably surmised, or a programme autograph-hunter. Rather a creep, maybe, I don’t know, I try to read people’s minds but usually get it wrong.

He said, ‘Yes, that’s right. How do you do?’

I said, ‘I’m well, thank you.’

He paused again and went on staring at me. I started to feel uncomfortable. I felt my mouth twitching slightly, that smile you used to call enigmatic, or sneering, or harbouring a secret. Maybe he thought I was a blackmailer? Good luck to him if he had something to hide.

I said, ‘Your Mum will be proud of you.’

Alan frowned, looking unsure if he had heard me properly, and said, ‘I beg your pardon? My mother? She’s dead.’

I was sorry, and said so, and thought I’d better introduce myself before he turned away. ‘You don’t recognise me, of course, with the beard. Excuse me. Keith Maxted.’

For a moment Alan stood open-mouthed while the cogs in his head ground away. They finally meshed.

‘Of course! Keith! Forgive me - Good heavens! - it must be...’

‘Twenty... twenty-five years, give or take.’

I extended a hand, which Alan took reluctantly. As we examined each other’s face for vestiges of youth, a quarter of a century melted away, and we were momentarily young men about to face a hostile world in our very different ways.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bella was watching us carefully, as if guessing what was going on in our minds as we scanned the years. Alan turned to her.

‘Bella, this is Keith Maxted. We were at school together. Keith, my wife, Bella.’

I felt more relaxed now, with my unshared knowledge.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘we have met, actually.’ I didn’t mean to say it, it just came out, and immediately I regretted it when I saw Bella’s startled look.

‘Oh?’ she said. ‘Have we?’

Had she really forgotten? Anyway, I hastened to repair. ‘But only once, I think, briefly. Alan preferred to keep you to himself, and I don’t blame him. We all thought he’d gone bonkers till we realised he was going through the agonies of first love.’

To Alan’s obvious consternation her expression turned warmly welcoming, as if she had made a sudden decision to be friendly. She took my hand in both of hers.

‘How do you do, Mr. Maxwell,’ she said (clever, that). ‘I remember now. You’re right - a beard is a great disguise! What have you been...?’

Up to? Doing? Her question hung on the air as Alan broke in. ‘Darling, we really should go and meet the others.’

She went to take my arm as if she was just about to invite me to join them, but Alan forestalled her.

‘I’m sure you understand, Keith,’ he said, waving his arms about, ‘lots of musical colleagues, friends and foes, terribly boring for outsiders.’

As he moved away to chat to other people, music fanatics, Bella said to me rather conspiratorially, ‘Sorry about that, Keith, it’s been a tense time.’

I tried not to look offended. No, not offended. Hurt. ‘That’s all right, Bella. I’m used to it!’

‘What have you been doing all these years?’

‘Oh, nothing much. When I was finally released I got into medical school. Then International Red Cross, WHO, Médecins sans frontières stuff. Anywhere where innocent people are getting torn to bits by warmongers.’

Bella peered over my shoulder; I turned and saw Alan making frantic gestures at her.

‘Look, Keith, must go, give me - give us a ring, please, tomorrow. I’m sure Alan would really like to catch up. Our phone number’s ex-directory, so...’

I took the card Bella held out to me, looked at it, and carefully pocketed it.

‘Yes, Bella, I will. You are being very kind. I’d like to talk to Alan about his curious music.’

I’m not sure, Rebecca dearest, if I shall follow it up. Alan was evidently not too pleased to see me again. He always was a bit of a prig, but I’d like to put things right with him, just as I’ve tried over the years to put things right with you, my poor love.

I’ll sleep on it. Let it lie for a few days. But somehow I feel it is important to link up again with Alan. Something to do with the music. To think that rather colourless boy you and I both knew long ago has turned out to create such disturbing and powerful stuff! Disturbing and possibly dangerous. I wonder where it came from? I suspect the brilliant Bella has had a lot to do with it. No need for you to be jealous about her, by the way. She was before your time. So why am I lying to you? Of course I recognised her right away.

A kind of mission is forming in my mind, but I must move carefully.

You are always with me. You will never die.

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