Water music

9 April 2021

OK, bear with me here. You’re going to find a lot of this story unbelievable, so hopefully I’ve laid it out in a way that makes it more credible. Let’s start with the transcript of the recording I took on that crazy night:

[START OF TRANSCRIPT]

It’s going to rain. I might hear that weird music from the drain again, which is why I’m going to start this recording now. Not any of the drains in this house, but the one covered by the old iron grate at the end of the street. I think the music’s from a violin, or maybe a fiddle. Whoever plays it makes the most beautiful, haunting music I’ve ever heard.

The second time I heard the music it had immediately been following by what sounded like someone shushing another. When I went outside and peered into the grate to investigate I heard nothing but the rush of the River Fleet as it busied itself towards the Thames. The river has long since been buried under the streets of London, and so it’s only ever seen, not heard.

My house is the last one on the street, and thus the one closest to the drain. I had noticed the music before, but I’d never discovered its source.

[END OF FIRST RECORDING]

[START OF SECOND RECORDING]

As forecast, the rain arrived shortly after nightfall. I opened the window a crack. As expected, the water has been flooding into the Fleet, which is now gushing loudly beneath the drains.

It’s now past 11pm, and I’ve decided that I’m not going to hear the music tonight, so I’m going to close the window and start another journal of events when it...

…OK, an old man has just shuffled past wielding a tattered umbrella. He’s not paid me any heed, he’s just continued on to the grate.

[END OF SECOND RECORDING]

[START OF THIRD RECORDING]

The old man walked past half an hour ago — he’s still there by the old iron grate, just staring into it.

It’s now just before midnight and I can hear a tune echoing out from the drain. The hairs on my neck are standing on end. This is weird, creepy even, but I’m beguiled by that enchanting melody. What the…what’s he doing? The old man is crouching down and he’s…yes, he’s lifting the grate and climbing down inside. What the hell?!

OK, I’m now walking outside and I’ve reached the grate. The old man’s pulling it closed. I’m…just too amazed to say anything. I’m standing here in the rain wondering what on Earth I’ve just seen.

Sound of feet sloshing through the considerable force of the Fleet

That’s not me, that sound. That’s the old man who must be wading upriver down there.

[END OF THIRD RECORDING]

[START OF FOURTH RECORDING]

It’s now a couple of minutes later and the music’s just stopped. Wait…OK, it’s started again, but a different tune. I’m going to get a torch.

[END OF FOURTH RECORDING]

[START OF FIFTH RECORDING]

So, I’m feeling bold, I’ve got a torch and I’m now lifting the grate. Urgh, it’s heavy. There’s an old iron ladder here, leading down to the tile-lined tunnel. The rungs are slippery so I’m going to put my phone away and start recording again when I’m down there.

[END OF FIFTH RECORDING]

[START OF SIXTH RECORDING]

Sound of rushing water

Yep, my feet are now soaking wet. It’s surprisingly spacious down here. The tunnel must run many hundreds of meters because my torch can’t penetrate the far depths of it.

I’m standing at the side of the tunnel on a semi-submerged walkway and I’m going to follow the direction that I think the old man walked. The music’s growing louder and…now it’s suddenly stopped. I’ve reached a corner, the Fleet is swirling rapidly ar...

‘What you doing here?’
‘I…I came to check you were OK. Is that a fiddle you’re holding?’
‘I’m fine. Now go away.’
‘What are you doing down here?’
‘None of your business. Go AWAY!’
‘OK, OK, I’m going’

Sound of feet rapidly wading through water, then climbing the iron ladder

Right, I’m just coming out onto the street. Shit, that was terrifying. I’m going to stop recording but…where did he get that fiddle from?

[END OF SIXTH RECORDING]

[START OF SEVENTH RECORDING]

I’ve just taken a hot shower and I’m still marvelling at the feat of Victorian engineering I’ve just seen. Glorious though it was, I’ve no bloody idea why the old man would want to keep his fiddle in a drain and practice his music down there.

I’m just about to go to bed but I can see the old man climbing out through the grate. Shit, he’s seen me. He’s pointing at me.

‘You! You scared him away!’

That’s him, yelling at me. What’s he going on about? I want to go to bed but this crazy old man keeps shouting. I don’t want to be the cause of disturbance to my neighbours, so I’m now opening my front door and beckoning the old man over. I’ll try to record this conversation discretely.

‘Can you please be quiet! What do you mean I scared him?’
‘The nøkker. He saw your torch and scurried away.’
‘The…?’
‘Nøkker!’
‘I’ve no idea what that is. Look, you’re shivering cold and soaking wet. This goes against my better judgement, but why don’t you come in and warm up.’
‘Fine. Fine.’
‘Alright, come on in, but please take your shoes off. There, take a seat, I’ll put the kettle on.’
‘Nice house.’
‘Thank you’
‘I’m sorry I shouted.’
‘Don’t worry about it. Here you go.’
‘Mmm, thank you. I’m freezing.’
‘I bet you are. My name’s Phil by the way.’
‘George.’
‘Pleased to meet you George. Maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me who this Nøkker is?’

(NOTE: it was at this point that George paused and silently sipped his tea for a minute)

‘I first heard ‘im when I worked in the tunnels. Horrible job, but well-paid. They get terrible clogged up, ye see? It was my job to clear ‘em out, any time of day or night. One Thursday night I was called out to the section under your street.
‘Some twigs an’ branches had caused a dam an’ the Fleet was overflowing the drain upstream. I was on me own down there, pulling out the obstruction — carefully, otherwise the flood would wash me down the tunnel an’ I’d never get out.
‘Once I’d cleared it I decided to have a little break. Problem was, the sandwich I’d brought with me was now soggy, so I threw it in the water. When I turned around he was sitting there, holding me sandwich. Now, I’m straight as an arrow, but this fella, well, he was the most strikingly handsome man I’d ever laid me eyes on.
‘I’ve no idea how he got down there, or what he was doing in that tunnel on a wet Thursday night. He weren’t wearing much neither, so I though he must’ve been swimming an’ got washed down. Then he shows me this fiddle he was carrying. When he starts playing I forgot I was in some horrible tunnel. Wonderful music. Well, you’ve heard it ain’t ya?
‘Yes. Yes, it’s quite magical.’
‘Magical. That’s a good word for it. Anyway, he then asks if I want to learn to play like that, an’ that he’d teach me for free. When I ask where he lives he points behind him at some nook in the tunnel wall. Well, that gave me the heebie-jeebies, so I thanked him an’ hurried out of there.’
‘But you went back?’
‘After a few weeks, yeah. I couldn’t get that music out of me head. But he weren’t there. Many times I went back until I eventually gave up. Then, years later, I was called out to the same stretch of tunnel. Branches get stuck there, ye see? Where the tunnel bends round. An’ there he was, playin’ his tune.’
‘So it was raining?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’ve only heard the music on rainy nights.’
‘Yep, only on Thursday nights too. He told me, this Nøkker, that he likes the sound the water makes when it’s rushing through the tunnel. He said that when I threw me sandwich in the water all those years ago he took it as a gift. That’s why he offered to teach me the fiddle in return.’
‘That was you playing?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’s clearly an amazing teacher.’
‘I should think so, he’s been doing it for a few thousand years.’

[END OF SEVENTH RECORDING]

I’m not going to bother writing down the rest of the conversation. As I suspected, George was clearly quite mad. Poor man. I politely let him finish his tea before finally showing him out. The reason I’m writing this now is that it’s Thursday night, it’s raining, and I can hear that strange music.

But tonight George hasn’t appeared. It’s been a while since I last saw him, and so I assume that age finally got the better of him. And now I’m curious. Someone is clearly down there, playing that music.

19 June, 2026. London, UK. Tonight’s concert marks Phillip Burton’s 500th, and final, performance. Perhaps the most remarkable violinist that the world has ever been blessed with, Harriet Jones was lucky enough to secure this rare — and extraordinary — interview with the reclusive genius at his home in Zermatt, Switzerland.

HJ At the beginning of your career, when you played for the Southbank Sinfonia, did you ever imagine that, just 5 years later, you would perform as lead violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic in the world’s finest venue?

PB I never dared to dream that I would be able to go so far, but then I never thought that I would learn to play the violin.

HJ You’ve never disclosed how you became a musician. It sounds as if you had other plans for your life?

PB I had very different plans, yes. But then one night, thanks to a man named George, a met a Nøkker. For the next two years he taught me how to play, and he remains the most incredible musician I’ve ever met.

HJ A Nøkker?

PB That’s right. He came to London with the Vikings in 851 AD. Hundreds of ships in that invasion, apparently. He’s originally from somewhere in Sweden, but decided to seek new shores, and that’s how he ended up in London.

HJ Your violin teacher is over a thousand years old?

PB Oh at least. I imagine he lived in Sweden for centuries before coming to London.

It was at this point that our journalist Harriet decided to bring the interview to an end. Burton was clearly not taking it seriously, and this publication is not in the business of printing the fantasies of eccentric musicians, no matter how famous they are.

15 September 2027

This seems like a good place to end this tale. Hopefully you’ve read through the journal, transcript and magazine clipping above. I can’t blame that journalist for not taking me seriously. I didn’t believe George all those years ago either. When he stopped coming to my street I decided to return to the tunnel when I next heard the music, on that Thursday night in April 2021 when I wrote down the transcript.

The Nøkker was perched in a large recess that had been built into the tunnel (I assume to store tools and materials during its construction). As George had said, he was astonishingly handsome and barely dressed. But he can’t have been human. What human could, after all, live down here?

When I gave him some food he offered to teach me to play the fiddle. His accent was strange, almost Scandinavian. He confirmed that he had arrived with the Vikings during one of their raids on London in the 9th century. Creatures like him are drawn to waterfalls. After living near various water courses in London, he settled in the Fleet River tunnel soon after it was completed. The sound it makes when it rains brings him inspiration.

Thanks to the incredible skill of my ancient teacher, I became an incredibly accomplished violinist within two years. Soon after I sold my first album, I bought the place in Zermatt. But I’ve kept that house in London too. In fact, I bought several of the houses in that street, all of the ones nearest to the drain under which the Fleet flows. Like George, I didn’t want anyone else discovering my secret.