By John Pickavance

In the calm of twilight he was strolling along the pavement. There would be one other he’d pass on his way: a young woman. Glazing her expression would be the phone to her ear, her mind occupied by whatever distant sweethearts occupy each other’s minds with. It hadn’t happened yet, but if and when it did, he was sure he’d go unnoticed. He had never brought any attention to himself and, just as for all those times that had preceded this one, nothing about him appeared to be out of the ordinary. To anyone else he was just a man going to see a friend, they’d enjoy dinner together and he’d make his way back as seamlessly as he’d arrived. This was one of the thoughts he was occupying his mind with, strolling along the pavement, on his way to commit murder.
It had taken him a while, but he was sure he’d have no regrets; the only regret at present was that it had taken him so long to decide on his course of action. It was this kind of indecision, he was thinking, that had lead him here. After all, it was the ideas he’d once had, and not acted upon, that had become the success story of his old musician friend. But he forgave himself this particular bout of uncertainty, for not until he stood triumphant over his friend’s fresh corpse could he be a new man, no longer in second place.
It was after this thought that he passed the woman who was engaged and didn’t notice him. Such an injustice, he wondered further, that ideas could be so captivating. Only his never were, unless his old friend was listening (or performing). He then had the passing thought that he should do away with her too. But she didn’t know he was a man of action yet, nobody did. She’d read all about him in the papers tomorrow and that was precisely why he wasn’t concerned about the prospect of jail; the world would finally know the boldness of his mind and its master. Perhaps the girl would call him and they’d be married. Actually, on reflection: though admittedly pretty, he’d immediately reject her proposal and marry someone striking and worthier.
He reached under his coat to check it was still the hammer he was going with. The trumpet!? Wondering and wandering, he remembered he’d gone back to his studio just before leaving; he’d had a stroke of genius at the last. The hammer, it struck him, lacked brilliance – he wanted his arrival to be met with a fanfare – it’d be quite the performance. What’s more, if there were wittier a way to best a man so supreme in blowing his own, he couldn’t think of it. And so it was a few minutes detour he thought he could afford at the time.
But looking up at the streetlights, now all lit, he realised his wandering mind had led him too far. He’d have to endure yet another few minute’s postponement of his masterpiece. It’d be a further stroll punctuated by a flourish of blood splattering blasts before the inevitable adulation. Now, he thought, he must concentrate on every step. And that was the last thought he had. Over many years the score had been written, now he must finally play.
The hedgerows bobbed in from the darkening air and out of his periphery behind him. So too, as he turned left to open the gate, did the vacant streetlight that marked his friend’s residence. He let the gate close and strode purposefully up the garden path.
He knocked… and banged again… but still nobody answered, and so he smashed his way in through the window of the kitchen. His actions were now powerful and without hesitance.
He called his friend’s name… and screamed again… but still there was no reply, and so he blew a manic cry down the trumpet. His actions had a rhythm that was up-tempo.
He searched… and went over again… but still there was no sign, and so he went to the place he’d managed to avoid for all these years. His piece unravelled into silence.
He entered the music room, his eyes jumped to the pair of shoes he’d always wanted to buy but could never afford. They were bursting at the seams and bracing the stiff corpse of his ex-friend. The mangled expression on his bloodied face (probably of fright) spoke of the decisive terror that had been inflicted upon him. He’d been beaten to death. Most likely with a hammer.
The man was incensed, mad, no longer thinking. He stormed to the entrance of the house where a few neighbours had gathered to investigate the dissonance. The woman he had passed earlier was there too, only now she was his. They all looked in astonishment at what they supposed was the only man who knew what was happening. But he was improvising. Out of despair, he drew the mouthpiece to his lips and performed an empty jingle. Unimpressed, one of them asked him what on earth was going on. For a beat, he floundered, and then raised the trumpet above his head at full extension. On the silent count that followed he brought the instrument down upon himself and cracked his skull in one. His audience winced, covering their eyes and ears in revulsion, and then his head caved in under his own frenzy.
The newspapers the next day were full of their critics and admirers, nothing had changed: The mad man, his bizarre debut and the late visionary who had beaten him to death.