The Tooth Tattoo

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Eleven-thirty at night, sweaty in his evening suit and shattered after a heavy night playing Rachmaninov, Mel Farran plodded out of the artists’ exit on the south side of the Royal Festival Hall. Good thing his legs didn’t need telling the way to Waterloo station and the tube. He’d done it a thousand times. Rachmaninov was said to be the ultimate romantic — miserable old git. The six foot scowl, as Stravinsky called him, had been a pianist through and through. He worked the string section like galley slaves to show off the joanna man, and Mel Farran was a viola-player, so thank you, Sergei.

The moon was up, spreading the shadow of Hungerford Bridge across the paved square called Beacon Market Place.

He was forced to stop. A young woman was blocking his path, one of those situations where each takes a sideways step the same way. It happened twice and they were still face to face.

She said, ‘Do you mind?’

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