The Busker

The violin case stood open on the pavement, a few coins scattered like promises across the deep mulberry silk lining.  Passers-by did not pause, skirting the boy, who leaned against the brick wall of a derelict pub and placed the violin beneath his chin.  He drew the bow gently across the strings and notes cascaded across the street.  Around him, people straightened, their steps insensibly altering to match the rhythm of his tune.  Melody tugged at their hearts, reminding them of whispers and promises made before life had soured them.  A couple joined hands and a few strangers tossed a coin into his violin case.
            ‘I want him’, said Nick, from across the street.
His companion shook his head.
            ‘No!’
            ‘C’mon, Gabe.  Let me have one here.  I want him.’
            ‘For what?  What can you possibly offer him?’
Gabe’s voice was gentle, a breath on the air.
            ‘Life.  Fame.  Happiness.  That’s what he wants, Gabe.  Trust me.’
The figure beside him smiled briefly.
            ‘Trust, Nick?  You speak of trust?’
            ‘Well, OK, I’ll give you that one.’
The boy’s fingers caressed the strings of the violin, subtly altering the notes.  The plaintive sound changed, became demanding.  Commuters felt the music enter their bodies and travel to their feet.  It was hard to resist the lure of the jig.
            ‘He’s mine!’ said Nick.  ‘I need him.’
            ‘No!’
Gabe’s voice did not change but the word echoed in the street, twining around the music like a lover’s embrace.  The boy lifted his head as if he had heard.  The jig ended with a flourish and he stood, looking through the scurrying people, as if he glimpsed the couple opposite.
            ‘You always want to win,’ said Nick.
            ‘I always want what’s right.’
Nick snorted, shifting his feet on the stone pavement.  They struck hard against the stone, sending sparks into the air with a sour, sullen sound.  The boy winced.
            ‘He does not want you,’ said Gabe.
            ‘You’re not giving him a chance to find out,’ Nick challenged.
            ‘You can’t offer him anything he wants.’
Nick rounded on his companion, breath rising like steam into the air.
            ‘Are you kidding me?  I can offer him everything!’
Gabe looked across to the boy who placed the violin back beneath his chin.
            ‘It’s not what he wants.’
His voice echoed, twining around the first few notes as the boy began to play “Silent Night”.  For a moment, the air was full of strange harmonies.
            ‘And what you’re offering?  That’s what he wants?  Please!’
Nick kicked the pavement edge.  The sound splintered the air, discords breaking into the tune.  The boy’s fingers faltered.
            ‘He just wants to make music,’ said Gabe.
            ‘Whatever.  You think you can take him from me?’
Nick’s scowl seared the bricks, sent rats in the gutter scurrying for cover.
            ‘No.  The boy must choose.’
The two figures stood across the street from the boy.  He gazed at them, eyes flinching from the blinding light which surrounded Gabe.
            ‘He can’t look at you,’ said Nick, with spite.
            ‘He does not want to look at you,’ said Gabe, gently.
Gabe raised his wings.  For a moment the boy had a clear vision of paradise.  Disbelief became acceptance.  He bowed his head and played the last few notes of the carol.  The bow fell from his hands, the violin fell after, to lie broken on the pavement.  People sped by, oblivious at first, until one woman realised the boy had collapsed.  Uncertain, she glanced around for help.  A man stepped forward.
            ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
            ‘I don’t know.  I think he’s ill.’
            ‘I’m a doctor.  Let me see.’
The man’s practised hands felt for a pulse.  He shook his head.
‘He’s so young,’ the woman said
She looked pityingly at the boy as he lay at their feet.  The doctor checked the boy’s eyes which stared blankly at the evening sky.
            ‘Pupils not reactive.  He’s gone.’
Nick growled and turned away, a column of flame unseen by the passers-by.  Gabriel opened his wings wide and gathered up the busker’s soul.  For a sliver of time, music echoed around the dull brick walls and the boy’s face was suffused with light.
            ‘Aneurism, probably,’ said the doctor.  ‘He wouldn’t know what was happening.’
Gabriel breathed words, like a whisper at the back of the mind.
            ‘He knew.  He made his choice.’