The music was uncompromising. The rhythm was stolen from Hip Hop,born of Funk. The beats were fast, too fast to dance to unless youwere wired. It was the bassline you followed with your feet, thebassline that gave Jungle its soul.

And above the bassline was the high end of Jungle: the treble.Stolen chords and shouts that rode the waves of bass like surfers.They were fleeting and teasing, snatches of sound winking intoexistence and sliding over the beat, tracing it, then winkingaway.

Natasha nodded her satisfaction.

She could feel the bass. She knew it intimately. She searchedinstead for the sounds at the top, she wanted something perfect, aleitmotif to weave in and out of the drums.

She knew the people who ran the clubs, and they would always playher music. People liked her tracks a lot, gave her respect andbookings. But she felt a vague dissatisfaction with everything shewrote, even when the sensation was shot through with pride. When shefinished a track she did not feel any purgation of relief, only aslight unease. Natasha would cast around, ransacking her friends’record collections in an attempt to find the sounds she wanted tosteal, or would make her own on her keyboard, but they never touchedher like the bass. The bass never evaded her; she needed only toreach out for it, and it would drop out of her speakers complete andperfect.

The track was nearing a crescendo now: Gwan, exhorted a sampledvoice, Gwan gyal. Natasha broke the beat, teasing the rhythm out,paring it down. She stripped flesh from the tune’s bones and thesamples echoed in the cavernous ribcage, in the belly of the beat.Come now… we rollin’ this way, mdebwoy… She pulled her soundsour one by one, until only the bass was left. It had ushered the songin; it ushered it out again.

The room was silent.

Natasha waited a while until the city silence of children and carscrept into her ears again. She looked around at her room. Her flatcontained a tiny kitchen, a tiny bathroom and the beautiful bigbedroom she was in now. She had put her meagre collection of printsand posters in the other rooms and the hall; the walls here werequite bare. The room itself was empty except for a mattress on thefloor, the hulking black stand which housed her stereo, and herkeyboard. The wooden floor was criss-crossed with black leads.

She reached down and put the receiver back on the phone. She wasabout to wander into the kitchen, when the doorbell sounded. Natashacrossed the room to the open window and leaned out.

A man was standing in front of her door, looking straight up ather eyes. She had a brief impression of a thin face, bright eyes andlong blond hair, before she ducked back into the room and headed downthe stairs. He had not looked like a Jehovah’s witness or atroublemaker.

She walked through the dingy communal hall. Through the rippledglass of the front door she could see that the man was very tall. Shepulled the door open, admitting voices from the next house and thedaylight that was flooding the street.

Natasha looked up into his narrow face. The man was about six feetfour, dwarfing her by nearly a foot, but he was so slim he looked asif he might snap in half at the waist any moment. He was probably inhis early thirties, but he was so pale it was difficult to tell. Hishair was a sickly yellow. The pallor of his face was exaggerated byhis black leather jacket. He would have looked quite ill were it notfor his bright blue eyes and his air of fidgety animation. He startedto grin even before the door was fully open.

Natasha and her visitor stared at each other, he smiling, she witha guarded, quizzical expression.

‘Brilliant,’ he said suddenly.

Natasha stared at him.

‘Your music,’ he said. ‘Brilliant.’

The man’s voice was deeper and richer than she would have thoughtpossible from such a slender frame. It was slightly breathless, as ifhe were rushing to get his words out. She stared up at him and hereyes narrowed. This was much too weird a way of starting aconversation. She was not having it.

‘What do you mean?’ she said levelly.

He smiled apologetically. His words slowed down a little.

‘I’ve been listening to your music,’ he said. ‘I came past herelast week and I heard you playing up there. I tell you, I was juststanding there with my mouth open.’

Natasha was embarrassed and amazed. She opened her mouth tointerrupt but he continued.

‘I came back and I heard it again. It made me want to standdancing in the street!’ He laughed. ‘The next time I heard you stophalfway through, and I realized someone was actually playing while Ilistened. I’d thought it was a record. It was such an excitingthought that you were actually up there making it.’

Natasha finally spoke.

‘This is really… flattering. But did you knock on my door justto tell me that?’ This man unnerved her with his excited grin andbreathy voice. It was only curiosity that stopped her shutting thedoor. ‘I’ve not got a fan club yet.’

He stared at her and the nature of his smile changed. Until thatmoment it had been sincere, almost childish in its excitement. Slowlyhis lips closed a fraction and hid his teeth. He straightened hislong back and his eyelids slid halfway down over his eyes. He leanedhis head slightly to one side, without taking his eyes off her.

Natasha felt a wave of adrenaline. She looked back at him inshock. The change which had come over him was extraordinary. Hestared at her now with a look so sexual, so casually knowing, thatshe felt vertiginous.

She was furious with him. She shook her head a little and preparedto slam the door. He held it open. Before she could say anything, hisarrogance had gone and the old look was back.

‘Please,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not explaining myself.I’m flustered because I’ve… been plucking up courage to talk toyou.’

‘You see,’ he continued, ‘what you’re playing is beautiful, butsometimes it feels a little bit — don’t get angry — a bit unfinished.I sort of feel like the treble isn’t quite… working. And I wouldn’tsay that to you except I play a little bit myself and I thought maybewe could help each other out.’

Natasha stepped backwards. She felt intrigued and threatened. Shealways stonewalled about her music, refusing to discuss her feelingsabout it with any except her very closest friends. The intense butinchoate frustrations she felt were rarely verbalized, as if to do sowould give them form. She chose to keep them at bay with obfuscation,from herself as much as from others, and now this man seemed to beunwrapping them with an unnerving casualness.

‘Do you have a suggestion?’ she said as acidly as she could. Hereached behind him and picked up a black case. He shook it in frontof her.

‘This might sound a bit cocky,’ he said, ‘and I don’t want you tothink I reckon I can do better than you. But, when I heard yourplaying, I just knew I could complement it.’ He undid the clasp ofthe case and opened it in front of her. She saw a disassembledflute.

‘I know you might think I’m crazy,’ he preempted hurriedly. ‘Youthink what you play is totally different to what I play. But… I’vebeen looking for bass like yours for longer than you couldbelieve.’

He spoke earnestly now, his eyebrows furrowed as he held her gaze.She stubbornly stared back, refusing to be overawed by thisapparition on her doorstep.

‘I want to play with you,’ he said.

This was stupid, Natasha told herself: even if this man was notarrogant beyond belief, you could not play the flute to Jungle. Itwas so long since she had stared at a traditional instrument she felta gust of déjà vu: images of her nine-year-old self banging thexylophone in the school orchestra. Flutes meant enthusiasticcacophonies at the hands of children or the alien landscape ofclassical music, an intimidating world of great beauty but vicioussocial exclusivity, to which she had never known the passwords.