Page 156 of Key of Kink

I shrugged. “That’s still thinking.”

She filled it in reluctantly. “Well,” she muttered, “it does fit.”

I smiled. “See you tomorrow.” Then I continued down the corridor.

The lights in the common room were dimmed for the evening, the overhead fluorescents replaced with softer lamps. A few residents sat dozing in armchairs, blankets tucked around their knees. The television played an old episode of Antiques Roadshow that no one seemed to be watching.

Mr. Hargreaves sat by the window.

He’d been a music teacher once in a secondary school, according to the file I’d read on my first week here. Even now, when the dementia blurred most of the present, music still seemed to anchor him.

Tonight he seemed restless, his fingers tapping the arm of the chair in an uneven rhythm.

I crouched beside him. “Evening, Mr. Hargreaves.”

He blinked slowly, his cloudy blue eyes focusing on my face. “You’re the music one.”

“That’s me.”

His gaze drifted to the darkened garden outside the window. “It’s noisy tonight.”

The world beyond the window was silent, and my chest tightened. “Sometimes it can feel like that,” I told him.

He nodded as though I’d confirmed something important. “Margaret used to sing in the evenings,” he added after a moment.

“Your wife?”

“Yes.” He shook his head, smiling. “She was terrible at it.”

I couldn’t help returning his smile. “What did she sing?”

“Oh…” He waved a vague hand. “Everything. Hymns mostly. Things from the wireless.” He turned his head slowly toward me. “You play piano, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

His fingers resumed their restless tapping. “Would you play something?”

I glanced toward the corridor. My shift had technically ended ten minutes ago.

“That depends. Do you have a request?”

Mr. Hargreaves frowned in concentration. “Something… gentle.”

“That I can do.”

The upright piano in the small activities room had seen better decades. One key stuck occasionally, and the tuning drifted whenever the weather changed, but it still worked.

“Come on then.” I wheeled Mr. Hargreaves out of the common room towards the activities room. No one was in there. I positioned his chair near the piano, then opened the lid.

He watched me with the serious attention of someone trying to hold onto a thought. “What’s your name again?” he asked as I sat on the piano bench.

“Max.”

He nodded. “Well then, Max. Don’t play anything sad.”

“I’ll do my best.” My fingers settled on the keys and I began the opening progression of Bach’s Prelude in C. The piano responded in its slightly crooked way, the sound filling the small room with a gentle resonance, and the notes flowed, one pattern unfolding into the next, steady and reassuring. It was the kind of melody that didn’t demand attention but rewarded it if you listened closely. It was also a piece I’d played there so often my hands knew it better than my mind did. In the background was the quiet of the room, the soft hum of the fluorescent lights in the corridor, the distant murmur of the television down the hall.

Mr. Hargreaves closed his eyes, and the tapping of his fingers slowed. After a minute he spoke again.