🎸 The Instrument

by Mark Granger

Jake Rutowski shouldered his guitar case, said goodbye to his bandmates, got out his phone, and ordered an Uber.

Practice had gone well today; it always did when they played here.

The Stovepipe Rooms were legendary. Yes, the rooms stunk with the sealed in sweat of a thousand bands, and yes, the carpets were a health hazard—turned up and frayed despite the rolls of gaffa tape that acted as a one-for-all fix over the years. If pushed, most bands would admit that turning on sockets with your bare hands came with a fifty-fifty chance of death. But many of the bands that occupied these rooms had gone on to great things. People were willing to take the risk if there was a chance the same might happen to them.

Jake’s phone buzzed; the taxi was here.

He walked out of the building and into the alley that led onto Jeffords Street where the taxi was waiting—that was when Jake saw the instrument. It was just leaning against the bins, but it was calling out to him.

He shouldn’t have taken it, he knew that. It was an unwritten rule: you saw somebody’s gear, you handed it in. But the instrument was so unusual he had to try it, and once he’d tried it…

It wasn’t a guitar or any of its brethren, but it had strings. It also had keys, but it wasn’t a keyboard. Its body had a dozen switches and looked wired, but it had no jack to plug it into an amp. Yet, when he played it, the instrument roared. It hollered. It sounded both deep in his brain and reverberated down the alley. Jake believed it could fill any space it chose.

It was huge—much bigger than his guitar at any rate—but it wasn’t cumbersome. With all its adornments and odd shapes, it shouldn’t have been comfortable, but when Jake strapped it on, there in the alleyway behind the Stovepipe Rooms, it felt like it moulded itself to him. As if he was always meant to find it. He looked around to see if anybody was rushing back to claim it, then, when he was sure it was safe, he hurried to the taxi.

Jake couldn’t get the keys in the door of his one-bedroom flat fast enough. The entire ride home, he just wanted to play the instrument right there in the back of the taxi. It was only the stern face of the Uber driver that stopped him. Once inside, he slammed the door behind him—not even slowing to check it had closed properly—and sat down on his sofa. Some part of him realised he had simply thrown his guitar onto the floor with no thought for its well being, but he didn’t care, all he cared about was this new instrument.

He rested it across his lap and started playing. He strummed the strings, played the keys, and randomly flicked switches. Everything was instinctual, like he had been playing it for years. He found that, no matter what he did, no matter how haphazardly he played, glorious music came ringing out. Not only that, but Jake found if he concentrated, he could change the type of sound that emanated from the instrument using only his mind. A clean jazz tone, a distorted punky snarl, heavily harmonised orchestral bombast.

He was going to have some fun with this.

It was five a.m. before he managed to get to bed. He had sat in the same spot on the sofa, playing non-stop for hours. It was like the instrument fueled the creative part of his brain, and the more he played, the more ideas he had. It was exhausting, but exhilarating. Jake never played anything that gave so much with so little work. It was only when he noticed that his fingers had started to bleed that he put it down.

But even now, in his bedroom, with the door shut and his pillow over his head, he could hear it singing to him. Calling to him.

As if it missed him.

As if it needed him.

He tried to ignore it, but after about an hour of its constant wailing, he got out of bed and went into his living room. It was where he had left it—leaning against the sofa—but as he walked in, it was as if it reached towards him as a baby would when a parent appeared above its cot. Jake grabbed it by its soft, contoured neck, fully intending to smash it to pieces so he could finally get some sleep, but as soon as he touched it, he felt the temptation to play just one more song.

Maybe two.

It took great effort to grab as many sheets, coats, and jumpers as he could find, wrap it up, and then place it in the cupboard next to his sweeping brush and hoover. (How dare he!) It took even more to seal the door with gaffa tape. 

Alone

On the way back to bed, he grabbed a pair of earplugs out of his guitar case for good measure.

But he could still hear the instrument singing.

Singing an otherworldly symphony in his head.

Singing for him to come back.

He slept no more that night.

“So where did it come from?”

“I found it,” said Jake, struggling to suppress a yawn. After a sleepless night, he decided to bring it down to Soundbase, the local music shop.

Barry, the owner, sucked in air through his teeth. “That’s a problem then, mate. If it’s stolen, I can’t really buy it off you.”

“C’mon, Baz. Give me a break. It was by a bin for God’s sake.”

Another teeth suck. “Well...” Barry looked the instrument over one more time, turning it in his hands. “Like you say, it was by a bin. Somebody wanted rid.” He put the instrument down on the counter—a little too hard for Jake’s liking—and a glorious chord rang out. Jake almost told Barry off for being so careless (You’ll hurt it!) then he remembered why he had come here.

“Tell you what,” said Barry “I’ll look at it tonight, make some calls, check for heat, if it’s worth anything, etcetera. Then, if I’m interested, I’ll give you a call in the morning. I think I’ve got your number somewhere.”

Jake smiled; he knew he hadn’t.

“Deal?” Barry held out his hand.

Jake shook it. “Deal.”

As the shop door closed behind him, Jake felt instant relief. It was the consensus amongst the local music community that nobody should leave things overnight with Barry. The instrument would have disappeared by morning, and Barry would mysteriously have no record of it. Jake hoped so; he never wanted to see the damn thing again.

Somebody was banging on the door.

Jake lay there for a bit, letting the fog of sleep clear. He reached for his phone, blinking a few times to focus on the numbers.

One a.m.

Who wanted him at one a.m.?

He also had over twenty miss calls. All from the same person.

Barry.

He considered ignoring him.

“Jake!”

Okay. Now Barry was shouting. Still, he could ignore shouting just as easily as phone calls. The neighbours would complain, but screw ’em. They’d never liked him anyway.

It was then that he heard something else. Something he couldn’t ignore.

The music.

The instrument was near, and it was singing to him again.

It was a sound he hadn’t realised he’d missed until now. But he missed a lot of things, like being able to get a good night’s sleep. He could do without it. He could—

“Jake! Wake the hell up!”

He wasn’t going away. Jake rolled out of bed, fumbled around in the dark for something to wear so he could look dignified when he told Barry to fuck off.

He had barely opened the door when Barry shoved the instrument in his face. Jake immediately felt a wave of delight. Despite himself, he missed it.

“Keep it. I don’t know what it is, but it ain’t right. It’s singing, Jake. I can hear it in my bloody flat, and my flat’s soundproof. I’ve had people trying out hundred-watt Marshall stacks in the shop and not heard a thing. But this,” he waved at the instrument like it was a bad smell, “this is in my head. You want my advice? Put it back where you found it and forget about it. Make it somebody else’s problem.”

Barry looked longingly at the instrument for a few excruciating seconds, as if he was already regretting what he said. For a moment Jake thought he might change his mind.

Might take it back.

Instead, Barry shook his head, almost as if he were trying to shake something loose and left.

The alley behind the Stovepipe Rooms was a lot darker at three in the morning, and a lot scarier. But Jake couldn’t go another night with the instrument in his flat. He knew Barry was right; the best thing to do was to put it back. Somebody else could deal with it. There was probably someone out there desperate to get their hands around its neck. Make it sing for them. He’d had it less than forty-eight hours, and it had already consumed his life. For all he knew, the person who owned it was distraught, searching the city for their lost love.

As much as it pained him, he had to say goodbye. So, he took it and carefully placed it against the bin where he’d found it.

Jake almost made it out of the alley. He almost managed to put the instrument in his past. But as he walked away, it moaned. It pined for him in song. He stood at the entrance to the alley, his back to the instrument, willing himself to take a few more steps.

A few more steps and he’d be free.

The instrument began to wail.

It was too much. Jake turned around and instantly the wail changed into a plea.

He found himself walking back towards it and, as he did so, the song it sang transformed again, from a plea into a triumphant symphony. One that played louder and louder as he went to touch it, reaching a crescendo as he wrapped his hand around the neck. Jake lifted it and held it tight to his body. How could he have ever thought of letting it go?

He started to play, his fingers tapping out a counterpoint to the instrument’s own song. The alley brightened with every note, the world disappearing until everything was pure white. For the next few minutes Jake was in heaven. He was no longer tired, no longer concerned with the worries of everyday life, all that mattered now was him and the instrument.

Then the symphony went dark. The world around him cracked, a dissonance reverberated up his arm, deep into his soul and the instrument began to snarl.

He had been wrong. Yes, it did need him, but it hadn’t been crying because it missed him or because it needed to be played. The instrument was in pain, and they were hunger pains.

In a flurry of sharp notes, it devoured him. Then it lay there against the bin.

Purring.

Sated.

Waiting for its next meal.