id="ub347f0ca-5151-56dd-b538-1489f9ce9c9a">
ANDREW TAYLOR
Broken Voices
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016 Copyright © Andrew Taylor 2016 Cover design by Dominic Forbes © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016 Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical fact, are the work of the author’s imagination. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books Source ISBN: 9780008171230 Ebook Edition © JULY 2017 ISBN: 9780008179755 Version: 2017-06-19 Table of Contents
Was there a ghost? Was there, in a manner of speaking, a murder? Ask me these questions and I cannot answer a simple yes or no. I did not know at the time and now, more than forty years later, I am even less able to answer them. Perhaps an easier question is this: what exactly do I remember about Faraday and me in the few days we were together? Those years before the war seem so remote now. The First World War, that is, the one that was meant to end them all. He and I didn’t know each other long, not properly – four or five days, perhaps. And nights, of course. I suppose there must be records – a report in the local newspaper, surely, and a police file. Perhaps letters from Faraday’s guardian. There must also have been correspondence between the school and my parents, but I found no trace of it after my mother died. We never spoke of it when she was alive, not directly, and my father wasn’t able to speak about anything after they brought him back from France in 1915. So – all I can really rely on is my memory. But memory may, paradoxically, make matters worse. It is not a passive record of what happens, though it may misleadingly give that impression. It plays an active role too, selecting and shaping the past. Memory speculates about itself; it ruminates and dreams, edits and deletes: over time, the fruits of these processes become the memories themselves and the entire process begins again. So what does that make Faraday’s fugitive notes? Or the man I saw in the arcade? Or even Mordred? To take a minor example. I must have seen the view from the train as we went back to school over and over again. But in memory it is always winter, though I must often have seen it at other times of the year. All the different journeys have elided into one which, strictly speaking, never really happened at all. The train comes north across the Fens. It’s afternoon but the light is already fading rapidly from the endless bowl of the sky. The land is nearly as featureless – a plain of black mud stretching as far as the eyes can see. I stare out of the window, trying to find something to look at – a windmill, a hedge, a tree, a farm. Sometimes there is even a Fenlander. We used to call them Boggos. I do not want to be on this train. Nor do I want to arrive at school. But there is no help in it: that’s what I remember most of all, that the desolation outside the window mirrored the desolation within me. That was nonsense, of course. They call it the Pathetic Fallacy, the belief that one can attach
