Chapter Two:

Erik Zabelle: The Phantom of the Opera

There have been several occasions in my life where have I genuinely believed that trepanning may have been a viable treatment for a headache. Medically speaking, if one's headache is caused by intercranal pressure then opening the skull would provide some relief - that is if the patent survives the operation and does not succumb to an infection. But my headache was not caused by swelling on the brain, nor by evil spirits or demons infesting my mind (although that would be a fitting explanation to excuse some of my previous behaviours and character flaws), it was caused by Marguerite Price's awful attempts at playing the violin.

I am under no illusions, I know I am an arrogant man and I have impeccably high standards when it comes to music. I know I find fault in performers others celebrate, such as the world renowned prima donna Carlotta Giudicelli, but words cannot express how awful Antionette Giry's daughter is at playing the violin. When she dances her timing is flawless, yet, unfothomably she is unable to transfer this skill into playing the violin.

Her husband, Edward Price, is a member of the symphonic and he occasionally tours the country and her dominions to show case the talent and grandure of the British Empire. Although I find the vanity of such a notion laughable, as much of the 'grandure' is funded by force, I cannot deny that the man's musical talents should be shared with the world. For the last two months Edward had been touring the north of England and Scotland and Meg had decided she wished to greet him a grand romantic gesture when he returned. As he was a violinist she had decided that she would play one of his compositions to celebrate both his return and their upcoming wedding anniversary. Needless-to-say, this was a very bad idea.

I had agreed to tutor Meg in a moment of foolishness. She had lured me into a false sense of security one Sunday afternoon while I attended our bi-weekly luncheon. She knew my weakness, and I should have realised she was scheming when she had dismissed the parlour maid and presented me with the dessert tray herself. Even more suspicious was the announcement that she had made the array of cakes herself, but I had become distracted by the mixture of Russian sandwiches, almond slices and my all-time favourite Prince of Wales cake. It was while I gorged myself on sweet treats that she had made her request, and I foolishly agreed.

--xxx--

Meg and I had been unlikely friends for approximately sixteen years, and I can say with certainty that I owe many aspects of my meager redemption to her. She certainly wasn't the first person to show me kindness and compassion - that had been her mother and then my Angel - but she had consistently treated me in a way I knew I did not deserve.

Our friendship had started the night of my betrayal and heartbreak. After I had allowed my Angel to leave with her boy I had knelt looking at my Persian music box and resigned myself to my fate: death at the hands of the mob. But when my Angel had returned and had handed me my onyx ring, her eyes filled with tears, I knew I needed to suffer for the emotional and physical trauma I had put her through. So I had swam through the sewer and made my way to Antionette's home. I can still recall the feeling of my body becoming submerged in the ice cold water, the pain and shock shooting-up my legs and into my torso. My lungs felt like they were burning with every breath I took, my body struggling against the encroaching cold and the water, but I fought on. I fought on because I knew I had to live.

When I arrived at Antionette's home I had not been granted a warm welcome. In fact the ballet mistress had looked at me with such disdain I almost fled, but she once again showed me the compassion she had many years before and stepped aside allowing me to enter her home.

"Stay there", she instructed as she went out of sight, returning with a newspaper and peridocials that she began to place upon the floor, "you are not to lay a foot upon my carpet until you have bathed"

I carefully made my way through her flat to the bathroom and was relieved to find a fresh towel and plain cotton nightshirt folded neatly and placed upon the sink. She had already started running the water and had placed some carbolic soap and a flannel within arms reach of the bath.

"Obviously the nightshirt will be too short as it had belonged to Claude, but it should be enough to protect your decency", I nodded in response unsure of how to thank her, "call me when you are in the bathtub and I will take your clothes. They need to be burnt". I must've looked a pathetic sight - soaking wet, standing in a dimly lit bathroom covered in mud and fecal matter - I didn't even have the energy to respond. Normally I would've made a sarcastic or whitty remark about my decency, but I was physically and emotionall drained.

Exhausted and aching I allowed myself to become submerged in the bath, the water washing away evidence of my less than pleasant trip. I closed my eyes and recounted all of the interactions between myself and my Angel, from the first moment I heard her sing, when she bore her soul to me as our voices united in song, to her debut in Hannibal and then the following morning when she removed my mask.

My mask. I had left it back at my home. I began to panic when I realised I had subjected Antionette to my appearance. What I couldn't understand was how she hadn't reacted seeing my ruined face. Once I was washed and dressed I stood dumbly wondering what to do - if I left the room she would see me, but I could hardly remain hidden. I had sought her out while I was at my most vulnerable: I trusted her.

Once I left the sanctuary of the bathroom I was relieved to find she had turned off all of her gas lights and illuminated the room with a few well placed candles. Even now I struggle to understand why she showed me compassion and ensured the room was dimly lit to try and salvage what was left of my dignity.

"I am sorry I subjected you to my appearance", I stated in the most sincere tone I could muster, ensuring to remain close to the wall to allow the darkness to shroud my face

"You have subjected me to nothing but that God awful smell", she said firmly, before sticking the fire and gesturing I sit. I mad ethereal conscious decision to try and remain in the shadows, but Antionette's huffing was enough to draw me from the darkness. She handed me a patchwork quilt at had been folded over the arm of the chair. "Now rest, and I shall make us some broth".

While in Persia I had learnt the art of hypnosis; not the type that is 'practised' by charlatans in the music halls, but the ability to entice someone into a traveling state and then invade their thoughts and feelings with the power of suggestion. This may sound akin to those two-penny acts, but it is not. Those 'performers', which is a term I use very loosely when describing them, have accomplices in the audience who pretend to be hypnotised, whereas my skills will genuinely put people into a trance. I was reminded of these skills as I watched the flames dance in front of me - fire watching was one of the methods used in the East to create a hypnotic state - and I broke down into uncontrollable tears. I was once again being reminded of the atrocities I had committed against my Angel Christine, and how easily I had used my talents to manipulate hetlr into trusting me fully. I shuddered as I remembered her reaching to kiss me as I stranded her the night of her premiere, and how a weaker man would have succumb to his darkest desires.

Trapped in my own dispear and self-loathing I had forgotton about Antionette's daughter. It wasn't until I heard rustling and the thud of her back against the door I realised she was even present. Not wanting to startle her and cause a scream I didn't turn to face her, instead using the mirror above the mantle to observe her reaction. I saw that she had backed away, her face looked pale and I am certain there was trembling in her extremities. Antionette was by her side, obviously offering reassurances, but I doubt there was anything the ballet mistress could say to placate the anger I assumed the dancer had for me.

Meg Giry was my Angel's closest friend - beside her boy - and therefore she had every reason to hate me. I had tormented Christine, watched her through her mirror made her believe that I was an angel rather than the monster I am, and abducted her from the stage. I overheard a remark about my general behaviour that inferred that I was dangerous, which was completely justified, but rather than fleeing Meg Giry had remained in the room. It had been when her mother left us to continue making dinner that I had bore witness to Meg's compassion and kindness for the first time, because it was then that she had handed me my mask.

Three days passed before Meg spoke to me again. Antionette had left us alone while she ran errands, including fetching me some clothes and a visit to the post office. While she had been out Meg had made the pair of us lunch.

"I'm not hungry", I stated in a terse tone, hoping that she would leave me to my grief and self-destruction. I was reluctant to eat as I didn't believe I deserved nourishment; I was only living because I needed to suffer for what I had done to Christine, and had only eaten when Antionette had supervised me like I was a petulant child. I had no intention of succumbing to the whim of a ballet rat.

Meg loudly placed the plate down beside me, firmly enough for it to make a noise, but not hard enough to cause it to shatter and I could feel her gaze bore into my back. "You must eat", she said flatly before I heard her walk away. She was approximately in the doorway whe she stopped and addressed the elephant in the room, "you're not the only person to ever experience heartbreak and rejection, you know. I have experienced it, mother has experienced it. To be honest monsieur I suspect almost every person in the world has experienced it".

Her words struck a cord with me. I had spent so many years avoiding the human race that I had become indifferent to their emotions: I needed to otherwise I would never have been able to carry out my duties as the Shah's principal assassin.

Thus, I hadn't considered Meg's feelings when I had told her mother about the rendezvous she had been having with the English violinist.

I had watched their little romance blossom over the course of a couple of years, with them sneaking to the roof to hold hands and kiss. I hadn't witnessed anything that implied that Antionette's daughter was anything other than chaste, and the boy anything other than a gentleman, but it irked me to see their blatant disregard for, and disrespect of, her mother by keeping their courtship a secret. The final straw had been the night I had heard him propose to her and ask that she return to England with him. I wasn't going to allow Meg to elope with an English man, regardless of how talented a musician he was or how much of a gentleman he appeared to be, as it was devastate her mother. I had heard her decline the proposal, but I still feared she would run-off with him to fulfil some childish romantic fantasy - as my Angel had done.

With hindsight I know I was wrong. Seeing Meg and the English violinist engaged in a tyst in the same location as my Angel and her Vicomte was too much to bear. The roof had once been my second place of solitude, somewhere I went when I felt the need for fresh air or to allow the rain to wash away my sins. But it had become a place of romantic entanglement, which for one as ugly as I, was hard to stomach. It was jealousy and resentment that drew me to call on Antionette and make her aware of Meg's behaviour, not genuine concern for my most regular acquaintance and her daughter.

Meg had no intention of running-off with the man and abandoning her mother and her ballet career - she is much too level headed for such whimsical flights of fancy. And the Englishman had given no indication that he would pressure Marguerite to leave her home, regardless of how infatuated he was with her.

To this day I haven't told her I was the one who informed her mother of her relationship, although I am certain she has her suspicions. Afterall, who else could have witnessed his proposal on the roof of the opera house? And she knows that by chance I witnessed the Vicomte's proposal to my Angel on that very rooftop.

As it transpired the letter Antionette had posted the day she had left Meg and I alone was the acceptance of a job offer from the Royal Ballet in London. Meg seemed eager to travel across La Manche, I assumed at hope of seeing the violinist, and Antionette was excited by the prospect of choreographing for some of the most famous dancers in the world. Not once had I considered that their move to England would include me. I was surprised - and touched - when Meg brought it up one evening.

"How is Erik getting papers?", the blonde dancer asked as she looked up from her sewing. She appeared to be mending the lacing on a petticoat, something which must have been difficult by candlelight.

"I assume he is making them himself". Antionette replied, looking at me questioningly rather than her daughter,

"But forgery is illegal". Antionette looked as surprised as I by Meg's response, with us both snapping our heads in her direction. I was stunned that she seemed concerned about the legality of forgery when she was aiding and abetting a criminal: the most wanted man in the whole of Paris no less. It was when I saw her slightly upturned lips and exagerrated wide-eyed expression I realised I had gained my first insight into her humour.

"Which papers do you wish me to forge?", I asked Antionette, ensuring I acted overly dismissively towards Meg's expression and statement.

"Your travel documents. You can't leave France without them".

My body became ridged with shock and I felt my hands being to shake. Sweat beaded upon my brow and my heart began to race. I couldn't fathom why I would be accompanying them. I was being treated like a friend - a family member even - and I couldn't comprehend why.

"You are coming aren't you Erik? You can't stay in Paris, and England has so many theatres I am certain you'd find work", Meg chipped in, I suspect sensing my change in demeanour and obvious reluctance.

I didn't want to work. I didn't want to compose. My muse had left me and along with it my music. My mind had become fuzzy with the thought of attempting to compose again.

"Of course Erik is coming my dear", came Antionette's voice, "he will be travelling as my younger brother and your uncle".

So it was decided: I was relocating to England.

--xxx--

Through my years of extortion and my 'activities' in Persia I had become a wealthy man. I am certain the mob and the imbeciles who ran the Garnier expected me to have stored my funds within my home, but I am no cretin. I had invested my money and deposited it in several banks around Europe using a variety of pseudonyms and falsified documents to ensure that no connections could be made to one man. Luckily, one of these banks, the National Provincial, was located in Waterloo, London.

Although it would take several weeks for the entirety of my funds to be transferred to the Provincial (through the further falsification of documents claiming I had inherited the money following my grandfather's/uncle's/business partner's passing) I had enough money stored in England to purchase both myself and Antionette homes in the fashionable London borough of Highbury. Of course Antionette had initially refused, but fully conceeded when I explained that I did not take charity and the purchase was in payment for her years of service, friendship and the risk both she and Meg had taken in harbouring me.

The three of us soon settled into a routine where I would visit them for Sunday dinner and spend the occasional evening in their company playing cards or reading in their livingroom. I continued to wallow in my self pity, and although both Meg and Antionette pressured me to play or compose, I removed myself from music in its entirety. Instead I began to compile a tome of my cultural observations from across the globe.

It hadn't taken Meg long to secure a position at the Royal Ballet and although I still believe that she deserved to be a sujet , or a coryphée at the very least, she seemed content in her role as a member of the chorus - much more than she was at the Garnier.

While at Paris I had generally paid little attention to Meg until she had started secretly courting the violinist and become my Angel's friend. She had been helpful in festering the legend of the Phantom through her over exagerrated and embellished stories of my adventures , and her eagerness to blame every unfortunate event or inconvenience upon me made my 'job' of haunting the Opera House much smoother.

That being said, I paid her enough mind to know she regularly stayed late to practise and her talent was the result of hard work and dedication rather than natural skill. I also knew the other dancers avioded her company due to her mother's position. I shan't lie and pretend the assistance I granted to Meg was out of pity or kindness, nor was it due to the debt I owed her mother; I instructed my Angel to assist the girl who had fallen asleep in the practice room because (of all the ballet dancers) Meg was less likely to lead her astray. And so from my Angel that the other women disliked Meg due to her mother's position, but this didn't appear to be the case at the Royal Ballet. Meg was popular, she had friends who would share cab rides withnand whom she would take strolls in one of London's numerous parks.

Over time I had become quite fond of Meg. I acted as the diligent, yet eccentric, wealthy uncle who would occasionally escort her home after performances. When alone we would discuss that night's performance, and Meg would listen to my heavy-handed critique of both the dancers and the orchestra.

The night of Antionette's death had been no different; Meg and I were discussing how the sujet appeared to tremor as she performed a croisé arabesque en pointe. As per custom I escorted Meg to her door and bid her goodnight lightly kissing the back of her hand, but unusually she invited me in for tea. I don't know why Meg decided to break with custom that particular night, but I am thankful she did.

The first indication that something was wrong was that the hallway remained dark and the unsettling feeling that washed over me. Due to my past activities I have an instinct for nothing subtle differences and sensing when something is amiss, my heckles raise and I become hyper-vigulant. Although I rarely accompanied Meg into the house after a performance I knew that Antionette would ensure the gas lamps in the hall were alight to welcome Meg home, but that night the household was still. My companion mumbled something unintelligible as she removed a candle and matches from the drawer in the mahogany console and directed me to the parlour while she fetched some tea.

As I approached the familiar oak panelled door I felt a sense of dread building in the pit of my stomach, and as soon as I entered the room I knew why.

I have seen many dead bodies in my lifetime, I know the look upon their eyes their ridged form and the unusual atmosphere that am surrounds them. I knew as soon as I entered the room that Antionette was dead; she was sitting in her favourite chair, crochet resting upon her lap and her hand dropped by her side. I quickly strode towards her, taking her wrist in my hand to feel for a heart beat and then placing my unmasked cheek next to her mouth to feel for the warmth of breath. My actions were an act of instinct and panic, followed by sadness and desperation, but evem as I engaged in the acts I knew they were fruitless. I knew she was dead.'

--xxx--

Following Antionette's passing I became Meg's guardian, not that she really needed one at twenty-one. As per custom Antionette's house was sold and the money put into a trust for Meg, and I was responsible for bestowing her allowance as her closest male relative. I was expected to provide her with an allowance for clothing, trinkets, travel and respectable entertainment and leisure pursuits, closely monitoring her behaviour and spending, but in practise I did no such thing. I gave Meg her money and she was free to spend it however she saw fit.

The only real hindrance being Meg Giry's guardian was that she was required to move into my home. I could immediately tell Meg shared my reluctance and aversion to the idea, but it was not appropriate for Meg to live on her own - doing so would ruin her reputation and cause her to become isolated. It was also essential that we continued our charade of kinship otherwise I could face the hangman's noose or Madame Guillotine herself, so I convinced her to take up residence in my home through guilt: I knew she wouldn't risk my life due to her own pride and desire to be independent.

I truly hated the first six months Meg stayed in my home; she took it upon herself to organise my compositions, ensured that I ate regularly and most annoyingly she hid much of my liquor. I had confronted her one evening, ensuring I used my most threatening and ominious voice, but rather then quaking in terror and surrendering its hiding place she merely shrugged and told me that she knew I would never harm her.

I had stormed into the dining room and played angrily on the piano into the very early hours of the morning expecting her to conceed in exchange for peace, but she never came. Eventually I took to hiding alcohol in the wardrobe, and we never spoke of it again.

Meg had been living in my home for six months when she removed her mourning clothes, and although I am a fan of black, I was pleased to see lightness in her clothing.

I remember that morning precisely. Meg came down for breakfast wearing a bright green dress with cream lacing around the neckline and her hair braided and pinned loosely atop her crown. The dress complimented her deep green eyes, and as her hair was drawn away from her face it was much easier to notice her lips and charming smile. It was at that moment I realised how beautiful she was, and how many men would soon be clamouring at her feet now society deemed she had spent a sufficient amount if time grieving for her mother.

I noticed a change in Meg's demeanour not long after her public mourning period ended. I still heard her cry herself to sleep at night, but during the day she was eager to spend as little time at home as possible.

"You were gone a long time today", I commented one evening in the most nonchalant tone I could muster. We didn't often engage in idle chit-chat or small talk, or normal conversations centred around the arts and politics. Whenever our conversations would take a more mundane turn it was normally because the instigator wanted something.

"You've never been interested in my comings and goings before", she noted, tilting her head to the side as though was was searching for the real purpose behind my question. Except this time I wasn't trying to trick her; this time I was genuinely interested in how she spent her time.

"I am your guardian. It is my duty -"

"But it isn't your duty, is it?", she interrupted , "Not really. We aren't actually related Erik.But if you must know: I have been spending time with Edward".

My blank stare was enough to cause a frustrated sigh and a brief wave of her hands angrily in my direction. "Sometimes the only person I believe you care about it yourself. Edward is the violinist I was courting at the Garnier. He was third chair. He returned to England to assist his ailing mother. He plays in the symphonic".

Of course I knew who Edward was, but my blank expression had been caused by her previous statement and was nothing to do with Edward Price. 'We aren't actually related Erik', those words echoed through my mind. 'We aren't actually related"; I knew that, but I had become accustomed to acting as though we were, but it was foolish of me to think that I would would experience some semblance of family life. Or so I thought.

A year had passed since Antionette left us and Meg had been promoted to a coryphée. Following the Royal Ballet's premiere of Sleeping Beauty I waited for Meg in a carriage near the stage door. I watched the dancers and musicians exit, some arm in arm, and some accompanied by well-dressed and clearly financially stable young men. I began to become irritated at Meg's tardiness, and then concerned. She was normally very punctual, and judging by the volume of the other cast members I began to consider the likelihood that she had consumed too much alcohol and may find herself in a dangerous situation. I was preparing to vacate my carriage and check on her wellbeing when I saw her exit on the arm of a young gentleman, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'm sorry I am late", Meg said as she climbed into the carriage, and in my annoyance I tapped on the roof to indicate to the driver it was time to depart. Meg had not taken her seat, so when it jerked forward she fell into me.

That was the closest Meg Giry and I had ever been. We had walked arm in arm, but the sudden momentum of the carriage had caused her to fall forward onto lap. I had never been that close to a woman, and if she noticed my discomfort she didn't show it.

"That was uncalled for Erik!", she said steadying herself and taking her own seat, "It was rude and unkind"

"And being late is rude and unkind".

She didn't respond, instead she turned her head and looked at the window. I noticed she seemed agitated; although she wore heavy skirts I could see that she was bouncing her feet and biting her lip.

We sat in silence. I feared she had noticed my reaction to her proximity, something I ca hardly be held responsible for.

"Edward is going to ask you for my hand", she announced turning her head sharply to look at me.

"And you are telling me this because?", I responded. I tried to feign indifference to hide both my fear and worry. If Meg married then I would once again be alone and although I belonged in solitude I had become accustomed to her presence in my life.

"because you are my guardian and Edward wishes to seek your permission".

This was another landmark for me; I was Meg's guardian, but only in name. She had practically told me that months prior. The charade had been created to protect my real identity, but I had never actually fulfilled any of my duties. She had

"But I am not your uncle"

"I know that", she responded as she moved closer to me and took my hand in hers, "but you are the only family I have. And both Edward and I would like your approval".

I couldn't help but smile. And when he asked, of course I granted it.

--xxx--

Twelve years had passed since that night, and Meg and Edward appeared to be happily married. It is their happy marriage and upcoming anniversary that had been the cause of my headache: Meg Price should never be allowed to touch a violin again. It had been those words which had caused a blazing row, resulting in me storming out of her house, cloak billowing reflective of my previous life, and drinking half a bottle of Scotch whisky once I had returned home.

My drink induced sleep was rudely interrupted by a perissitent banging on the front door. Like Meg and Edward, none of my domestics resided in my household, consequently I had to get the door myself. Checking the time I assumed that my past, and my current less-then-legal activities had finally caught up with me.

I hurried to the display cabinet above the fireplace and removed an ivory walking stick I had collected in South Africa and made my way to the door. If the police were going to arrest me I was going out with a fight.

But instead do the Police on the doorstep, it was Meg Price.

"Have you come to assault my ears and mind further?" I said dryly to imply she wasn't welcome,

"Whatever do you mean?" she replied. I held out my hand to take her hat and gloves as she stepped over the threshold. But she declined and remained stationeryin my hallway. "I have come to ask for your assistance, my friend needs papers. She wishes to travel to the USA".

"How very incontinent for her, she won't be able to board a ship without them", I stated. I knew what she wanted, but I was going to make her ask.

"Will you help?"

"Whatever do you mean?", I continued with my pretense of ignorance.

"Her husband has passed and she and her children are fleeing from his family",

"She has my condolences, but I don't see how I can help". I could tell she was getting frustrated, her arms were crossed and her lips pursed. I also wondered what atrocities her friend's in-laws must have subjected the woman to if she was willing to risk the safety of herself and her children to get forged documents.

"I know you can, and do, forge documents. Please don't play coy with me."

When I didn't respond she became more visibly annoyed, "do you treat all your customers this way?"

"I assumed she wouldn't be paying, therefore not a customer. More a favour for you"

Meg turned her back on me and walked towards the door. She paused and turned her head towards me, hand hovering over the door knob. "I see I have wasted my time" she said with a heavy sigh.

"I never said no".

--xxx--

When we arrived at Meg's home she seemed nervous, her hands were trembling as she fumbled with the key. As soon as we overstepped the threshold she turned on her heels and placed her palms flat against my chest.

"Wait here", she said softly before taking a few steps back, "give me a few minutes and then I will explain. Just promise you won't be mad"

I nodded in response. There were a few things that Meg could do that would cause her to encounter my genuine wrath - primarily informing the police of my identity.

Meg disappeared into the livingroom, but no sooner had she stepped through the doorway she had left it and hurried up the stairs, falling forward as her boot caught her petticoats. I took two steps at a time to reach her, and as I helped her up I first saw the girl. She was standing at the top of the stairs holding a candle and looking terrified.

She was a splitting image of the Vicomte de Chagny.