Dying Fall by Judith Cutler

couldn’t cater for the additional forces of the choir. So, rather than queue dismally, several braver souls set off through the unknown corridors.
    Despite the soundproofing and the buzz of conversation, we all heard the scream.
    It felt like half a minute before anyone moved. Then everyone did.
    I had not been teaching ten years for nothing: everyone miraculously gave way to what sounded like the voice of authority.
    I found Mo crouching on the landing by the Grand Circle – roughly halfway up the building. She was gibbering with hysteria, pointing wildly.
    â€˜The doors to the loo?’ I prompted.
    She nodded, then shook her head frantically. I approached with caution.
    Mo must be the sort of person who peers round doors before going through them. It’s fortunate for her she is: behind the door marked LADIES CLOAKROOM there was nothing but a forty-foot drop to the floor of the auditorium.
    It was almost an anticlimax to have to return to our seats. But by now Aberlene would have soothed Mayou back into working order, and there was nothing anyone could do except register loud complaints. My niggling worry about George developed into a painful ache. I tried to tell myself that there was no reason for him to have gone wandering round in search of nonexistent loos. But I thought of Mo, now being taxied home at the MSO’s expense, and felt sick with fear.
    It was Tony Rossiter, not Mayou, who came on to the expectant stage. His smile tried to convey both distress at what had happened and confidence that all was now well.
    â€˜I do assure you that Ms Morgan is now absolutely fine, and that on Monday I’ll complain,’ he was saying, ‘to the Building Inspectorate, the Health and Safety Executive and, of course, to the contractors in charge of the site. I did warn you – yes, I did specifically ask you all not to stray off limits,’ he added. ‘We must all use our common sense. Please. Oh, and I’ve found –’
    George. Please let him have found George.
    â€˜â€“ a bassoon player. He was heading for Manchester for a gig. He’ll be here as soon as he’s escaped from the road-works on the M6. Shame about the Halle.’
    â€˜Surely he can’t just do that? Just cut a contract like that? This is only a rehearsal, after all. Jools could have taken over, just for now?’
    Tony hesitated. We were standing side by side in the covered piazza outside the auditorium, watching the up escalator chugging smoothly downwards. So, as it happens, was the down one.
    â€˜Don’t worry: he’ll be up in Manchester in time for the concert.’
    â€˜With no rehearsal,’ I expostulated.
    â€˜It used to be like that all the time. And Mayou’s important. It was quite a coup getting him for so much of the season at such short notice. Don’t want to lose him.’
    Tony’s coup, of course. A rising managerial star, our Tony. A far cry now from the Black Country council estate where we’d both been reared. We’d been friends on and off for thirty years, from our first weepy days at infants’ school together. We’d always competed for prizes – I guess we used to score about even, but in recent years he’d far outstripped me. Sometimes I minded more than others, especially when he paraded his trappings – the cell phone, the yearly new car, the new flat, the superb holidays. Mostly when he used the sort of tone he’d used to dismiss the claims of the Halle.
    â€˜Tony, is there any news of George?’ Management Tony might even have heard bad news but suppressed it to prevent another Mayou exit.
    â€˜You’re not worried about him, are you? He’s always rambling off when we go on tour. Talking to people. Phoning you. Damn it, when we were in Sheffield, we found him at the Crucible, watching the bloody snooker. He’d forgotten we’d changed the concerto and needed him.’
    â€˜But I bet you found