Short story: The old man of N3

He was such a nice boy. Everyone in his family agreed. An only son, of course. There’s no-one more devoted than an only child… although it helps that there are no brothers or sisters to fight with. Not that Henry would ever have fought with anyone. Every evening he helped wash the dishes without being asked. He walked the dog without complaining. Other parents might sit worrying about drugs and cigarettes and nightclubs full of predatory girls. But Henry Browne seemed untouched by the modern world. He was impervious to it.

He lived in Finchley, north London… a large, Victorian house on Elmsworth Avenue, N3, which had once been rather grand but which, like many of the houses around it, had been converted into flats. The Browne family had the bottom floor with a bright and airy basement and a garden. Henry’s father was the local manager of a building society. His mother taught at a primary school. Charles and Irene Browne had arrived at parenthood fairly late in life. The three of them were often seen shopping together, at church or strolling on Hampstead Heath with their dog, Scampi — a mongrel that had once been rescued by the RSPCA.

Henry was unusual in that he was both academically gifted and athletically an all-round sportsman. He was a handsome boy with long, fair hair and blue eyes. By the time he was 15, he had begun to fill out. He was already taller than his mother, and with his broad shoulders, thick neck and air of confidence he could easily have been mistaken for an American football player. He loved sport. He played for his school football team, did rugby training most weekends, and had even considered professional ice-skating.

There were, it has to be said, a few people who thought that Henry was just too good to be true. Many of the other children mistrusted him and some threw hurtful insults his way. Even some of the teachers had their doubts. To be passionate about the poetry of William Blake was fine… but at the age of 12? And then there was that tricky moment when he tried to convert his maths teacher to Christianity. He was not the most popular boy in the school.

And it would have been no surprise that it was Henry who volunteered to drop in on the neighbour who had just moved into Elmsworth Avenue. The last house in the street was also the smallest and the shabbiest. The front garden had become overgrown. The dustbins were overfilled with bottles, old newspapers and plastic supermarket bags filled with garbage. No recycling here! The windows were dusty and the roof was in disrepair. But fortunately the last occupant had left, and now the house had been rented out again.

Word soon began to spread about the new arrival. He was an elderly man, single and a foreigner — from Hungary. He had been a hero of the second world war, which must make him at least 90. Some said he was actually a retired nobleman; a grand prince or a duke. His name? The postman quickly revealed that it was Jákob Demszky. He was a widower. He had come to England for his health. It was possible that he had come home to die.

The removal van had come and gone very quickly. It was obvious that Mr Demszky did not have much in the way of furniture or personal possessions. Since his arrival, he had been spotted a couple of times, once making his way home with a shopping basket in one hand and a walking stick in the other, once pottering about outside the house, trying to clear a drain.

He was a tiny man in a dark, old-fashioned suit with a coat hanging off his shoulders so that he really was like a batman… not the comic hero but a sad, dusty creature that might be found in an abandoned castle or church. He walked slowly and with difficulty. His shoes were well polished and he wore two gold rings on his left fingers. His walking stick was topped by a silver ram’s head, the horns curling into the palm of his hand.

“You know, I think I ought to go and see him,” Henry announced one Saturday, at breakfast.

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Henry,” his father said over a spoonful of organic muesli.

“He must be finding it very strange,” Henry said. “And there’s tons of work to do at that house.”

“Why don’t you take him round a slice of my home-made treacle tart?” Henry’s mother suggested. “I could wrap it in silver foil…”

Very soon after this conversation, Henry found himself clutching a large wedge of tart and ringing the bell of 66 Elmsworth Avenue. It took Mr Demszky a long time to appear and Henry could imagine him lifting himself painfully out of his chair and shuffling along the corridor — but eventually the door swung open and there he was, staring out with eyes that were both politely enquiring and a little nervous.

“Yes?”

“Hello. My name is Henry Browne. I live at number 50. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you.” Henry lifted his package. “And my mother thought you might like a slice of her home-made treacle tart.”

Mr Demszky considered all this as if trying to make sense of it. Then, a soft, happy smile spread across his face. “How very kind! Please, come in.”

Henry followed the old man through a darkened hallway and into the kitchen which seemed bare and empty. Mr Demszky really was very small indeed, as if he had shrunk into himself over the years. His skin was completely grey with dark liver spots on his neck and the side of his head. His hair was white, curling limply down over the collar of his jacket. His fingers were long with yellowy nails that were somehow more animal than human. But most unnerving of all were his eyes. They were colourless and bulged slightly out of his face, like two plastic sachets filled with water. He grunted as he sat down.

“Would you like some tea?” Mr Demszky asked.

“Let me make it for you,” Henry said. That was his way. He’d come here to help and he certainly wouldn’t let the old man make any effort for him.

“No, no. I already had…” the old man’s voice came out in a wheeze. “What is your name?”

“I told you. It’s Henry Browne.”

“How old are you, Henry Browne?”

“I’m 15.”

“That is a good age. That is a very lovely age.”

Despite himself, Henry was feeling a little uncomfortable. The old man was staring at him in a most peculiar way, as if he had never seen a boy before and he was trembling as if the journey to the door had almost been too much for him.

“Is there anything I can do here to help you?” he asked.

“You are so very kind!” Mr Demszky nodded so vigorously that Henry heard the bones in his neck creak. “I expected you to come. Yes. But so soon? So soon?” He paused for breath. “You could perhaps do a little gardening?” He spread his hands. “There are dead leaves. Dead plants. So much that is dead. Have you the time to help me in the garden? I will pay you…”

“I don’t need paying,” Henry said. “Just show me what you want me to do.”

Henry worked for three hours that day. He also returned the following Wednesday and did three hours more. This time, his mother came with him and after meeting Mr Demszky, she took the opportunity to spring-clean much of the house and even invited the old man to join them for dinner the following week. Although Henry wouldn’t have admitted it, he was a little uneasy inside No 66. The house was dark and musty and smelt of something he couldn’t quite place. He couldn’t help noticing that many of the doors were locked. He had been unable to enter the study, for example, and the curtains in that room were also drawn so he couldn’t look in from outside. All in all, he preferred working in the garden.

Jákob Demszky did come to dinner — and he brought gifts for the entire family. Hungarian wine for Charles and flowers for Irene. But for Henry, he had something rather special. He took out a black cardboard box tied with a black ribbon and slid it across the table. Lying there, it reminded Henry of a miniature coffin and for a moment he was unsure whether to open it.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Unwrap it,” Mr Demszky said.

“Go on, Henry.” His father laughed. “It won’t bite you.”

Henry picked up the box, slid off the ribbon and opened it. He was surprised to find himself holding an MP3 player… although it wasn’t like any MP3 player he had ever seen before. It wasn’t an iPod or anything modern. In fact, it wasn’t branded at all. It was just a rectangular block of plastic, flat and chunky, with a glass window and a few controls.

“It is for you,” Mr Demszky said. To thank you for your help.”

The MP3 player was obviously a Hungarian model, for when Henry switched it on a series of strange words floated across the screen: TEPÕFARKAS… GONOSZUL… AKTIV.

“What does that mean?” Henry asked.

“It’s warming up,” Mr Demszky explained.

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Irene said.

Henry picked up the machine. The headphones looked too big for his ears with wires as thick as spaghetti and he wondered if it would even work — but when he plugged it in, he was surprised to discover that Mr Demszky had already downloaded several tracks by his favourite bands: Coldplay and the Killers. And the quality of the MP3 player was amazing. The music poured into his head in a torrent, sweeping away the dining room, the tick of the grandfather clock, the entire world. Every lyric, every note was crystal clear. It was as if he’d been transported to the front row of the O2 arena. He was actually sorry when his mother served the first course and he had to switch it off again.

The evening was a huge success. Mrs Browne had cooked lasagne, her signature dish, and although Mr Demszky hardly ate anything, he talked at length about his life in Hungary… it turned out that he had once owned a castle near Budapest and for 50 years has been one of the country’s most celebrated scholars. He had lectured in astrology, psychiatry and medieval history. He had actually been the head of a society that had been formed in the Middle Ages and which still met on certain days of the year to discuss philosophical issues. There had to be a full moon, Mr Demszky explained. Otherwise, the members — the BOSZORKANYS, as he called them — would not come out.

“And what are you doing in England?” Mrs Browne asked.

Mr Demszky paused for a moment. He looked from his plate to Mrs Browne, then from her to her son. “I came to meet people like you,” he said.

In the weeks that followed, Henry never walked up the road without his new MP3 player plugged into his ears. It was incredible. Not only had he found his two favourite bands, but all the other music that he loved had found its way into the machine, as if arriving there overnight. Three days before Take That released their new single, it magically appeared on his play list. It seemed he only had to think of a tune and he would find it… without even having to pay. And there was something else rather strange. The MP3 player didn’t seem to have a battery compartment. In fact, there were no plastic panels or visible screws at all. It was moulded together with just the single socket for the jack plug at the end of the headphones and the switches to start the whole thing up. He vaguely wondered if it might not be solar powered, but that was ridiculous. Solar-powered MP3 players didn’t exist.

But it never slowed down or stopped. For the first time in his life, Henry got into trouble at school. MP3 players weren’t allowed, but Henry couldn’t resist plugging himself in between lessons, out in the yard, and he found himself dreaming about the music during lessons. He wore it to and from school and kept it on in his room when he was doing his homework. He still went round to Mr Demszky from time to time — the garden was beginning to look delightful — and he worked all the harder with the music enveloping him, transporting him into its own world. At night, in bed, he still read books but he did so to the rhythms of Leona Lewis or Beyoncé and his parents became familiar with the TISH-TATA-TISH-TATA-TISH sounds that came from their son every morning at the breakfast table.

They became a little concerned. Like many other teenagers, Henry had begun to communicate less and less… but until now he never had been like other teenagers. He had been special. What had happened? All he did was listen to that wretched music. Irene Browne was the first to mention it. They didn’t talk to each other as a family any more, she said. She even began to think that meeting their neighbour might not have been such a good thing after all. He seemed to have snatched something of her son away and she suggested to her husband that maybe it would be a good idea to remove the MP3 player, to give Henry a rest. But before either of the Brownes could act, something else happened which completely took their minds off modern music and headphones. Henry became ill.

It appeared, first, as some sort of virus. Henry was tired all the time. He was finding it hard to get up and, in the evening, he went back to bed as soon as he could. He still had an appetite but he didn’t enjoy his food, eating it mechanically, without any sense of his taste. His eyes seemed to have lost some of their colour. He moved more slowly and gave up his rugby training, saying that he didn’t feel like it. A strange rash appeared on the side of his neck. He began to wheeze.

At first, the Brownes weren’t too worried. All teenagers, after all, like to stay in bed. But as his movements became increasingly listless, as he became quieter and more withdrawn, they decided to take him to see Dr Sheila McAllister at the local clinic for a quick checkup. Henry didn’t argue. He had to wait at the clinic for an hour and a half before he was seen, but the time passed quickly enough, listening to music through his MP3 player, nodding his head in time to the track.

Finally, he was examined. Dr McAllister asked him if he was sleeping. Yes, certainly. Henry had no trouble getting to sleep. It was waking up that was the problem. Was he eating properly? His mother assured the doctor that Henry ate three proper meals, starting with breakfast, and that he always had plenty of fruit and vegetables, five portions a day just as the government had recommended. The doctor took a blood sample. It did seem possible that Henry was anaemic. Or maybe there was something wrong with his thyroid gland. It was all very strange but she was sure there was nothing serious to worry about. Generally speaking, Henry was in very good shape. This could all be down to a bout of flu. She told the Brownes to come back in two weeks if there was no change.

Henry thanked her and slipped his headphones back on. Robbie Williams took him out of the surgery and back into the street.

His situation did get worse… much worse. Over the next few days, Henry became more and more listless. He took several days off school. Physically, he seemed to be shrivelling up. His cheeks, once so healthy and full of colour, were now sunken and pale. His eyes had lost their focus. Both his parents had stopped work to be with him but he barely talked to them. Sometimes, it was as if he was far away. He lay in his room for hours at a time, plugged into the MP3 player, staring at the ceiling while he got thinner and thinner. He was still eating but the food had no effect. His lips had begun to shrivel. His hair was turning grey.

More doctors and specialists began to appear. Blood and urine samples were taken. It was thought he might have a serious viral infection. The Brownes were asked if he had been offered drugs. Henry was taken into hospital where he was scanned from head to foot. Various illnesses — diabetes, thyrotoxicosis, tuberculosis and brucellosis — were all suggested. Henry was tested for all of them. He was found to have none of them. For the first time, the dreadful word “progeria” was uttered. Progeria, a genetic disorder, was also known as the ageing disease. It was very rare. There was no known cure. But Henry didn’t hear any of it. He had gone rather deaf and he didn’t care anyway. Long after his parents had gone, he lay in his bed in the children’s ward, only partly aware of his surroundings, listening to his MP3 player which lay on the pillow beside him, the thick white cables snaking into his ears. Tish-tata-tish-tata-tish-tata-tish… the soft beat of the percussion whispered across the ward as the duty nurse walked quietly by.

Briefly, he was sent home again. There was nothing the hospital could do for him, so it had been decided to send him to a specialist neurological clinic on the south coast. Scampi had already been taken away to live with relatives in Yorkshire. On his last night in Elmsworth Avenue, Mr Demszky came to visit, bringing with him a box of Hungarian chocolates with pictures of folk dancers on the lid. It was only October and not yet cold, but he was wearing a black, cashmere overcoat that reached all the way to the ground. His face was partially hidden by an old-fashioned floppy hat.

“How is Henry?” he asked, still standing on the doorstep. For once, Mrs Browne had not invited him in.

“He’s not well,” she said. The worry of the last weeks had changed her. She was short tempered. She didn’t want to see her neighbour and she didn’t care if he knew it.

“There is no improvement?”

“No, Mr Demszky — and if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to him. We’re leaving for Brighton tomorrow.”

“I brought these…” He lifted the box.

“Henry isn’t eating chocolates, thank you very much. We’ll let you know if there’s any news.”

She closed the door in his face.

Mothers can be irrational sometimes. It was only then that Mrs Browne remembered that Henry had fallen ill shortly after he had met Mr Demszky. And at the same moment, she found herself thinking about the MP3 player. Henry had always liked music but since he had been given that machine, he had become obsessed by it, listening to it 20 hours a day — at school, doing his homework, in the bath. She’d actually had to scold him to stop him listening to it during meals. She thought of the ugly slab of glass and plastic which was probably playing even now. It was almost as if… It was almost as if it was sucking the life out of him.

A private ambulance came for Henry the next morning. He was able to walk out to it — but only just. His parents had to support him, one on each side. He was mumbling to himself, his eyes barely focused. He had lost a lot of his hair and his skin was grey and wrinkled. Some of his teeth had come loose. If any of the other residents of Elmsworth Avenue had been watching, they would have been shocked. He looked like a very old man. He did not have the MP3 player with him. At the last moment, acting on a whim, Mrs Browne had prised it out of his hand and she had left it in his room, on the table beside his bed. Henry had tried to complain but the words barely came. He allowed himself to be led downstairs. Minutes later they were on their way to the North Circular Road, which would take them around London on their way to the south.

Half an hour later, Jákob Demszky entered the house. By now he knew that the Brownes kept a spare key in the pot beside the front door, but even if it hadn’t been there he would have found it simple to break in. He opened the door and went straight over to the stairs. He had only been in the house a few times but he had no trouble finding his way to Henry’s room as if he was being guided there by something inside. And indeed there it was, sitting where Mrs Browne had left it. Mr Demszky chuckled to himself, a strangely unpleasant sound. He reached out with a trembling hand and for a moment his fingers hovered over the MP3 player like a large bird about to land. Then he snatched it up and left.

He walked back to No 66 and went straight to his study, one of the rooms that Henry had never visited. Had the boy gone in there, he might have been surprised by some of the ornaments on display: the human skull on its pedestal, the black candles, squat and half-melted, the golden cross that stood, upside-down on the mantelpiece. It might then have occurred to him to go onto the internet and look up the English for BOSZORKANYS — or indeed for TEPÕFARKAS or GONOSZUL. But alas, it was far too late. Henry’s eyesight had gone. It had failed him long ago.

Mr Demszky set down the MP3 player and put on a pair of spectacles that were actually inch-thick magnifying glasses. They would have turned even a full stop at the end of a sentence into the size of a button. Squinting through them with his round, watery eyes, he produced a tiny screwdriver and ran it over the MP3 player until he found four equally tiny screws in the base. Taking enormous care he unscrewed them, and the secret panel that Henry had never noticed fell off in his hands. The inside of the MP3 player was exposed. There were no batteries… just a mass of circuits and a single switch turned to the left. Using the screwdriver, Mr Demszky slid the switch over to the right, into reverse, then screwed the panel back into place.

With a contented smile, he picked up the headphones and pressed them into his ears. It gave him extra pleasure knowing that, until very recently, they had been in Henry’s ears. Somehow it helped to connect the two of them. Mr Demszky did not like modern music. He turned on the MP3 player, rested his white hair against the back of his chair and began to listen to a symphonic poem by the Austrian composer, Antonin Dvorák. The music was dark and majestic. It flowed into him like a moonlit river and gratefully he absorbed it.

Maybe it was a trick of the light. Perhaps not. A few minutes later, his skin had regained some of its colour and his hair was a little less white