Thirteen Candles: Hear no Evil
“Do you remember Harry Henson, the musician? He was something of a hit in the Cavern in the post-Beatles years.” Ricky knew nothing about music that didn’t involve some sort of pseudo-satanic nonsense, or so Meadows thought.
“Yeah, he was a blind guy with no ears. Me Mam used to say he was a miracle on the guitar, since he couldn’t play by ear or by sight.” Impressed that his apprentice had some knowledge of his home towns past, Meadows continued.
“But do you know how he lost his ears?”
It was Friday night, Saturday morning really, and Harry Henson was still in the Cavern. He’d played to a full house, not that he had seen them, but in a club as small as the Cavern, you could feel the body heat of a packed room and smell the sweat dripping off the ceiling. After his set, he’d been approached by an agent who’d offered him a gig the next night. Cash in hand and all on the quiet, apparently there were some industry bigwigs in the audience who didn’t want their names being dropped. Things were looking up- figuratively. He’d given the guy his address and said he’d meet him on the step. Obviously, Harry needed help finding the place, but if he had someone to walk with, it was no problem. He just couldn’t figure out what the guy wore as aftershave: it was peaty, like split timber or a patch of grass after rain.
“Do you know what time is it?” There was someone tidying up the bar, but he couldn’t tell who it was. The voice that answered was a young woman’s, gentle but with a thick Scouse accent.
“It’s about ‘alf twelve, Father Evans should be ‘ere any minute, Harry.”
Harry had been blind since birth and had known Father Derek Evans since he had gone to the blind school. He had been a young priest who had taught them music and taken the boys for football. Harry had never been able to follow the sound of the ball or the rattle inside, but Father Evans had said he’d been good enough for Everton nonetheless. It was Father Evans who had taught him to play the guitar and who had taken him in when his mum had died. Harry was pretty much an orphan, his Dad had died in the war and there were no aunts or uncles to take him in. He’d got a few gigs and was able to bring a bit of money in for the Reverend, so it wasn’t like he was a charity case.
Father Evans turned up not long after and they were both back by one. Saturday’s were quiet for the both of them; they did what house work was needed and Father Evans refereed one of the amateur league football matches. This was when Harry would practice his guitar; safe in the knowledge he was alone. Father Evans always went to be early on a Saturday- “The biggest day of the week tomorrow, Harry!” In a way he was right, more people came to Mass on a Sunday than through the week put together. But when Father Derek had gone to bed, Harry picked up his guitar and crept out of his room and went down to wait at the doorstep. He was as silent as an owl, as he stole out the door.
The minute he was outside, he could smell the agent’s aftershave. “Are you ready to go, Harry?” At first, Harry had thought it was the acoustics in the Cavern that had made his voice sound so strange, now in the quiet night off Canning Street, it still sounded stilted and forced. He did seem to lead him in a direct route, they kept twisting and turning, but it was mostly downhill. When they did reach their destination, Harry was sure they were still outside, it was cold and sound echoed strangely.
“Harry Henson,” said a voice from the dark, “play for us.” And he did, he played as if his life depended on it, this could be his big break. He played a folk type song he had written about feuding barons, it had the works: bloody violence, gentle romance, a moral and a lesson on how fleeting material attachments can be. He only played the one song, before he was surrounded by applause; there must have been more people there than he had thought. The voice, a man’s baritone, rich and cultured, waited until the ovation died away. “You have pleased us, Mr Henson. Please take your payment and return to us next week.” Someone pushed several large, heavy coins into his hand and the agent, or Harry presumed from his aftershave, lead him back. It was all so strange, but the money was real enough.
The next week passed quietly, Harry practiced his act and tried to learn a few songs from the radio. He helped out when he could and most of all; he hid the money under his dresser so he could surprise Father Evans. Soon it came round to the weekend; he’d played on Friday at Heebie Jeebies and managed his own way home, up Duke Street, counting the curbs until he turned off and then counting the steps until he was home. At Heebie Jeebies, he felt like he was part of the wallpaper, people danced and drank and the music was incidental. But on the Saturday, he was the star attraction, the main event. He picked up his guitar and waited for the man who led him there last week. Harry was sure that Father Evans asleep, but he was quiet as a mouse anyway. Closing the door behind him as quietly as possible, he noticed the air was cold and fresh, unusually so for a July evening, it contained no trace of aftershave.
After standing around for a while, Harry decided not to wait any longer. He decided to follow his feet, sure that they were leading him back to where he had gone the week before. All the time, he had the feeling that he was being followed, that not far away, eyes were watching him. He didn’t see to have taken so many twists or turns and arrived at his destination far quicker than he had anticipated. Again the voice, deep and masterful, boomed out the command.
“Play for us, Harry Henson, one song is all we ask.”
His nerves had got the better of him; he began to improvise, letting his fingers move as if of their own accord, following the same instinct that had led him here. All the while he felt as if someone was watching him, and for that he felt guilty without knowing why. He was a musician and he was playing for an audience. And yet, when a hand reached out and put another handful of coins in his hand, the shame was almost unbearable.
The next day, he walked into the kitchen and was surprised to find Father Evans waiting for him. Usually he was already down at the church, preparing for Mass, but he was sat at the table, as though he had been there all night. Harry had already opened his mouth to speak when the priest spoke.
“Who were you playing for last night?” Harry realised he didn’t have much off an answer. No one had used any names at any point. He didn’t even know where he had been going.
“I had a booking, some private do, they only wanted one song and they paid in cash.”
“How much did they pay you?” Again, the burning shame, he hadn’t counted the money, he hadn’t even figured out what he had been paid with. His embarrassment was becoming anger and he stormed up stairs. Furiously, he tilted his bedside dresser back and scooped the coins out from underneath. Stamping on each step, going as fast as he dared down the stairs, he carried the handful of coins back to Father Derek. When he reached the kitchen, he threw them on the table.
“They paid me this much! It was supposed to be a surprise!” Silence hung in the air. From the sharp intake of his mentor, Harry wondered if he had gone too far, pushed the one person who cared about him too far.
“Where did you get these coins? Who gave them to you, Harry? For he love of God tell me!” Harry spluttered, he told Father Derek everything he knew, which was next to nothing, and waited dumbstruck. “Harry, these aren’t coins from any kingdom on earth. This is the Devil’s own gold, hammered at his die in hell.
“I followed you last night. I noticed you where gone last week and that you went out again last night. I followed you to St James’ cemetery; you were stood playing on your own. If you hadn’t brought these down, I would have just thought you’d have cracked. But there is something wrong here, Harry, something terribly wrong.”
Harry Henson’s heart sunk. That smell, the aftershave, it hadn’t been cologne at all, it was the smell of freshly turned earth. The voices, the acoustics, the smells and strange noises, it all made sense. And the money, if it was what Father Evans said it was- and he had no reason to lie- it was worthless, worse than worthless. “Don’t worry, Harry, I’ll deal with this. It’ll be okay.” As frightened as he was, Harry heard a warm and gentle tone in Father Derek’s voice that put his mind and soul at ease.
Harry never asked where the money went, he never even asked how much there was, he was just glad to see the back of it. But Father Derek was more worried about the effect on Harry and had spent the week looking for a way to protect him from the enthrallment that had been cast over him. He was to go out to the street, wait until one of the damned came for him and deny them, speak not a word and seeing that they had no power over him they would depart. Of course, Father Evans had no intention of leaving Harry exposed to their blight and planned to bless him and his clothes so that they would be unable to touch him.
Come Saturday night, they made all their preparations, Father Derek blessed each garment that Harry wore and made the sign of the cross in holy oils on his forehead. When the time came, Harry left his guitar in its case upstairs and sat on the front step with a rosary in his hand. He sat for what seemed like hours and was about to go in when the wind stepped up, carrying with it the smell of dug up loam and damp grime. Someone, or something, was there and it was watching him with a hostile eye. Eventually it spoke…
“Why have you not attended to us, Harry Henson?” It was the same ruined voice that had recruited him, the same voice that he had followed down to the cemetery. “Answer me, Harry Henson! Answer your patron!” Father Derek had told him not to speak to it, and for fear of his soul would he not. Eventually, he could feel it reaching for him, probing and pushing the blessings on his clothes. It reached for his hands, to break the fingers that would not play for it, but the rosary confounded its grip. It threw a blow at his face, but the sanctification on his brow stole all force from it.
And then it found his ears. No charm or talisman protected them. With a grip like iron, it tore first one and then the other from his head. Harry screamed, but still didn’t acknowledge the ghoul that had come for him. He sat on the step, blood pouring from his ears, until the wind died down and the smell of grave soil had gone, only then was he able to relax his guard and pass out.
Over the next few weeks, Father Derek nursed Harry back to health and Harry used the time to write new music. At the end of his convalescence, he went down to London to sell some of his songs to the record companies and was able to make a living from his song writing. He never took to the stage again. And, as much as he and Father Evans searched, they never found his ears again. But, then, to the Devil goes his due…
