It’s as though the walls have absorbed the millions of notes that have been played here. I find it hard to believe that, in the silences between the bursts of computer-generated automatic rifle fire, the sharp detonation of caps, and the sound of wailing boy bands, Ben and his sisters don’t sometimes hear the distant sound of Bach or Vivaldi. ‘Don’t you miss it?’ I asked Max on one of my visits back to England, when he had been living and working in a sheltered community in Devon for a few years. We were lying side by side on his ancient bed in one of the huge old shared houses, as the only chair in the room was doubling up as his wardrobe and filing cabinet. ‘Miss what?’ ‘Your hideous violin.’ ‘You obviously don’t.’ ‘I don’t miss the endless practising – the same two bars played a thousand times.’ ‘Do you think you might be exaggerating just a little bit?’ ‘Who, me?’ Max smiled. Rather sadly, I thought.
