A circle of light. A microphone. An invitation. She doesn’t need to be asked. She finds herself stepping forward. In the long dress, the scarlet nails. Again, from nowhere, that shudder. What is there to be nervous of? In any case, she’s practised this. She plays it cool. ‘I’ll sing some scales first, if you don’t mind. Can you give me a middle C?’ The man has a tuning fork, a good one. The note sounds out, totally pure. It steadies her. She warms her voice. Tripping up and down those scales. A few bars of simple songs. Stretching her voice. Loosening her vocal cords. And then, all of a sudden it seems, she’s ready. She launches into the song. No, that’s not right. She becomes the song. Sinks into it, and the song becomes her. One music, one light, one circle, one song. She sings until the last note is completely finished. The sounds roll away down into the last recesses of this strange old building. She notices for the first time that there are holes in the roof. Pigeons roosting above her.
