His friend had never really believed he could do it.
This was despite the fact that he’d often talked about it. He’d never actually demonstrated it. They were good friends, attending the same school; different classes, but same bus there and back. His friend showed amazing patience and acceptance when told about the boy’s apparent ability to see, smell and feel things when he heard music. His friendship stopped him evaluating. That was the case until that afternoon. He had invited him over. It was weekend and his parents were out for the day. This meant that they could chill out in his room. He himself had a passion for music and had a large collection. This was just a passion, with none of the powers his friend talked about. Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony was playing through the speaker on his bedside table when his friend arrived.
Quite out of the blue his friend said, “He was sitting by a stream when he wrote that bit; in his mind I mean.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know his name,” he smiled, “I bet you do.”
“Yes, Beethoven.” Cautiously, he asked, “How can you know that?”
“I heard the ripple of running water and the twittering of birds. I’m not really sure if he was sitting.”
“Wow! So you really can do it!”
“Yes.” He shrugged.
The other said, “Let me try something.”
“Sure.”
He went to his bookcase stacked with discs. He fed one into his player. “This guy is one of my favourites. See what you get from this.” The slow, crooning began, with a guitar accompaniment.
“He’s not happy.”
“No. It’s a sad number, I guess.”
“No, I mean, when he wrote this. He was away from his home and I think he was drunk. There’s a strong smell of alcohol. He was also in pain. In his chest, I think.”
The other sat gaping. Finally, he said, “He died of lung cancer a few months after making this record.”
“Sad.” Said the other.
The boy got up and went to his collection. With hands trembling, he selected a piece by a local pop singer. One that lived in the same town. He was becoming famous and the local radio station was playing a lot of his stuff. He hadn’t recorded anything for a while. He started the track and his friend listened.
It was several minutes before the boy said anything. “I don’t like this one,” he said at last.
“The music, you mean?”
“No. What I can see and feel. It’s not nice. It’s different. It’s very strong. I think it’s happening now!” His cheeks were turning red. “They must be investigating.” He shook his head, but the vision stayed. “The smell’s bad in there. He’s sitting, no squatting, in the corner of a cell with new lyrics beginning to form in his head. It’s about a girl. I think she goes to our school. He has blood on his hands and his clothes.”
He was beginning to sweat when he stared across at the other. “I don’t like this. I shouldn’t be involved in this. I think I should go home. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” came the understanding reply.
Minutes later he watched his friend leave.
Over the next few days he would look out for something in the local newspaper.
Naturally, out of respect for his friend, he’d say nothing.