Phantom Audition

By Simon Dillon

From the author of Spectre of Springwell Forest and The Irresistible Summons... A new, gripping supernatural mystery.

He buried himself in a part, but never returned. Now she wants to know why.

Small-time actress Mia Yardley, recently widowed wife of renowned actor Steven Yardley, discovers her late husband’s secret acting diary. The diary details appointments made with a psychic medium, who advised Steven on which roles to take. It also raises questions about his mysterious and inexplicable suicide.

Seeking answers, Mia speaks to the medium, but in doing so is drawn into an ever- deepening mystery about what happened to her husband during the final days of his life. Eventually, she is forced to ask the terrible question: was Steven Yardley murdered by a vengeful evil from beyond the grave?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Dillon
• Release date: Apr 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005871406

Simon Dillon

I was born the year Steven Spielberg made moviegoers everywhere terrified of sharks. I lived the first twenty or so years of my life in Oxford, and am pleased to have spent so much time in the place where some of my favourite writers wrote their greatest works (including JRR Tolkien, CS Lewis, and Philip Pullman). I like to think I can write a diverting tale, and as a result I have penned a few novels and short stories. I currently live in Plymouth in the UK, and am married with two children. I am presently brainwashing them with the same books that I loved growing up.

Book preview

Phantom Audition

By Simon Dillon

Copyright 2019 Simon Dillon

Cover Design by Yasmine Nuoraho

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Epilogue

Bonus Content: The Birds Began to Sing Chapter 1

Bonus Content: The Birds Began to Sing Chapter 2

Bonus Content: The Birds Began to Sing Chapter 3

Bonus Content: The Birds Began to Sing Chapter 4

Chapter 1

Present Day.

What Mia noticed most was the silence.

She kept expecting to hear Steven’s voice, or the insistent thud of his feet, as he rehearsed his lines, pacing up and down. She expected to hear him on the phone to his agent, publicist, or to a director.

In the mornings, she no longer heard his absurd singing in the shower. His seat at the breakfast table stood empty. Mia would avert her eyes, unable to bear staring at the space he should occupy. He should be sipping his tea, scrolling through his phone, crunching his cereal… Silence chewed the room instead, like wind and rain gnawing an eroding landscape.

At nights, Mia would awaken and roll over, hoping to warm herself on his body. But Steven wasn’t there, and he wasn’t coming back. He had been replaced with the same terrible silence that screamed, clawed, and tore at her mind whenever she entered the rooms that still had his smell. The memory of her husband had stained the entire house.

Mia had always thought the mansion ludicrously big for the pair of them, but now more than ever she felt the size of the place. A curious unease lingered, as though the carpets, furniture, paintings, and ornaments had turned against her. She felt like a stranger in her own home, imagining everything around her glared in frowning disapproval. Perhaps her presence was a desecration.

One Monday morning a month after the funeral, the unpleasant sensation of feeling watched by the house became too much, and Mia yelled out into the silence.

‘It’s my bloody home too!’

The house responded without mercy, making every tiny tick of the clock an intolerable cacophony. Mia put her hands over her ears. She knew her behaviour was absurd, but the curious mixture of anger and fear that stirred within her had taken her by surprise. Sadness at Steven’s passing was to be expected, but she had not expected to feel so defensive or fearful. Perhaps bewilderment at the events leading up to his suicide by drug overdose still had her on edge.

Even though she still wore her dressing gown, Mia continued to sit in the morning room, on an ornate Elizabethan chair that matched other antique furniture in the room from the same period. Occupying this chair felt like a strangely defiant act, as though she were challenging the house itself. Steven’s ancestors glared down at her from portraits on the wall. His home was now hers, and sooner or later, the ancestors would just have to accept it.

‘It’s my bloody home,’ Mia muttered. ‘Deal with it.’

‘A-hem!’

Mia leapt out of the chair and spun towards the doorway. A middle-aged woman in a maid’s uniform stood there, her face unsmiling and severe.

‘Liza… Good God, you made me jump!’

‘Ma’am,’ said Liza. ‘I apologise for startling you. I know I’m a little early.’

‘Yes, yes, of course… Is it Monday already?’

Liza didn’t reply. Her eyes bored into Mia.

‘Of course it’s Monday.’

Mia looked down, avoiding Liza’s glare. Eventually the maid spoke again.

‘I can come back to this room later if you like, ma’am.’

‘No, no, that’s fine. I’ll get out of your way. I need to have a shower really.’

Mia scurried out of the morning room and headed back up the main staircase to the west wing. She locked herself in her bathroom, feeling very foolish. Her heart beat a little faster as she tried to get a grip on herself, staring into the mirror.

‘It’s my bloody home. Mine.’

But it didn’t feel like her home. Liza Richards, a hired cleaner who came in on most days, had been employed by the Yardley family for years, and her demeanour was more like that of a proud, old-school housekeeper. That Mia had leapt out of the Elizabethan chair when challenged by Liza, as though she were some disobedient child, underscored to Mia yet again that she felt threatened by Elm House, the ancestral home of her late husband, the renowned actor Steven Yardley.

Renowned actor.

Renowned.

Perhaps that was the problem. Steven had been renowned in many ways. Rich family. Successful acting career. What was she in comparison? Mia recalled the whispers when they had married three years previously, that she was little more than a gold-digging, hack bit-part actress. Such rumours never bothered her whilst Steven had been alive, for they were utterly false. She and Steven had loved one another with an enviable passion. Their marriage had been one made for the right reasons. What did it matter what anyone else thought?

However, since Steven’s death, after inheriting everything, it had been impossible not to feel this resentment amid icy stares at the funeral, and at the reading of the will.

‘My bloody home…’

Tears streamed down Mia’s face as she stared into the mirror. She felt utterly pathetic. A part of her wanted to return downstairs to the morning room. She wanted to place herself in that Elizabethan chair with her arms folded, reading the paper, and glaring at Liza as she went about her cleaning duties. But she felt so utterly defeated. Her stomach twisted, and she felt sick. She slumped to the floor, bent double, sobbing.

‘Steven… Steven…’

She allowed herself a moment to cry. But after a couple of minutes of anguish, Mia took a deep breath, wiped her face, and stood up again. She couldn’t allow Liza to see her like this. She had to be strong.

Mia took a shower then headed to her bedroom to get dressed. For a moment, she toyed with the idea of lurking upstairs until Liza had finished, but part of her despised such a cowardly notion. Why should she want to avoid Liza? She was an employee. Besides, the gardener was due to arrive soon, and she had to give him instructions.

Mia returned downstairs to the kitchen. She made herself a cup of tea and sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes. Still the silence taunted, but Mia ignored it.

Outside, the mid-February drizzle threatened to become a downpour. Staring out of the window towards the driveway, her eyes came to rest on a large horse chestnut tree amid the extensive gardens. The branches were stark and bare right now, but Mia recalled Steven’s fondness for that particular tree, and the significance it had held for him throughout his entire life.

Mia briefly closed her eyes, remembering a summer’s day when they had sat beneath the horse chestnut tree in the warm afternoon sun, with the lingering scent of freshly cut grass and white roses. She could still taste the honey on her lips and his. She recalled the wasp sting that had rudely interrupted their passionate kiss. Placing her hand to her arm, she rubbed the place where the wasp had struck. Was it her imagination or was there still a scar?

A knocking from the back door alerted Mia to the presence of Terry, the gardener. She left the kitchen, heading along the corridor that led past utility rooms and storage areas at the back of the house, before opening the back door.

‘Morning, Mrs. Yardley,’ said Terry. ‘You wanted to speak to me?’

‘Yes, yes,’ said Mia.

She opened the door fully so Terry could enter. For a second, their eyes met, but Mia quickly looked away. Terry was a squat, bearded man with a broad face, but whenever she saw his eyes, she had the uncomfortable notion that they perceived a lot more than she would like them to.

Terry sat in the kitchen and Mia squared her shoulders, fixing him with a determinedly business-like expression.

‘Now, Terry, I was wondering about the greenhouses.’

‘Greenhouses?’

‘The ones that grow the baby tomatoes and so on. I want those old, dead plants cleared.’

‘Of course, ma’am. In fact, that was on my list for today.’

‘Good. It’s just… I wasn’t sure when you were going to get around to it, and… Well, now I want them gone.’

‘Of course, ma’am. Will you want them replanted in the spring?’

‘No. Grow something else. I don’t want anything growing there that reminds…’

She stopped, but it was too late. Terry understood her meaning.

‘Is there anything else you want removed for the same reason?’

‘The beehives.’

Terry frowned. ‘Ma’am?’

‘There are to be no more beehives on this property.’

‘Ma’am, we’ve had hives and honey made here for generations. We sell in the village, as you know. It’s a local delicacy, and the villagers will be very disappointed.’

‘No. The hives have to go.’

‘Ma’am, if I may say, keeping bees is also very good for the environment, and that’s another reason why we should think before we…’

‘Terry, right now I couldn’t care less about the environment, much less the disappointment of the villagers. I am sure they can get good honey elsewhere. I don’t want any honey made here ever again.’

‘If you insist, ma’am.’

‘I do insist.’

Terry stared at Mia with a scrutiny that bordered on judgemental.

‘Is there anything else, ma’am?’

‘No, that’ll be it for now. I just wanted to make sure the greenhouses were cleared, and the hives were removed. No more bees.’

Mia spent the rest of the morning in correspondence on the computer in her study. The windows looked south across the lawns, and in the distance, she could see the vegetable gardens. Now and then she looked up from her keyboard and saw Terry trudging back and forth with a wheelbarrow, ferrying piles of dead tomato plants. She watched him, distracted for a moment. Her eyes met his and he shot her a dark glance. Mia looked away.

‘It’s my bloody home,’ she whispered.

At lunchtime, Mia headed out of the study to the kitchen to make a sandwich. As she approached, she heard voices from the corridor outside the kitchen, near the back door. Terry and Liza spoke together in hushed tones.

‘…been making honey here for generations,’ Terry was saying. ‘Makes no bloody sense.’

‘There’s a lot she does I don’t think the family would approve of,’ Liza whispered back. ‘But she doesn’t have Steven’s class. What do you expect? We shouldn’t be too hard on her.’

‘Yeah, well, getting rid of beehives and tomatoes because they remind her of him could just be the start. What if she starts cutting down the trees next?’

‘She won’t cut down the trees.’

‘How can you be sure? I’m telling you, she’s unstable. I won’t cut down no trees in this place. I’ll resign first.’

The conversation continued, but in a lower tone Mia couldn’t hear. She froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. If she headed on to the kitchen, they would hear her and perhaps know she had overheard their conversation. That could prove extremely awkward for everyone. On the other hand, she could slink away quietly, and head back to her bedroom. That way no one would be embarrassed.

Mia crept away, retracing her steps to the study, before slamming the study door and pacing up the main staircase. With any luck, Liza and Terry would hear her from a distance and think they had not been overheard.

Only when she reached her bedroom did Mia realise the absurdity of what she had done. She was in charge. This was her house. Liza and Terry were in her employ. She should have confronted them rather than tolerate their hurtful gossip under her roof. Once again, she had made a cowardly retreat. The silence around her seemed to gloat.

For a few minutes, Mia sat on her bed. She glanced across to a photograph of Steven. Tall, impossibly handsome, beaming at her from a trip they had taken to the Maldives. A tiny portal to a distant past that felt like another lifetime. Mia wished it really were a gateway to the past. She wished she could vanish from Elm House and remain in that holiday forever.

Her eye was drawn to a slight crease at the right-hand corner of the photograph. Frowning, Mia took the photo out to flatten the crease, but as she did, she noticed a peculiar symbol or rune had been drawn in pencil on the back of the photograph; a six-pointed asterisk, with two parallel triangles beneath on the right, and peculiar, inverted F at an angle on the right. In addition, a small brass key had been placed into the frame.

Mia pondered the mystery for a moment. The only people with access to this room had been her, Steven, and Liza. She hadn’t drawn the rune or left the key in the photo frame, so it had to be one of them. But why?

Mia decided to ask Liza about it, so she stood and strode downstairs via the old servant’s staircase. She hadn’t forgotten the conversation she had overheard between Liza and Terry, but no longer cared if her interruptions were awkward or embarrassing. Upon reaching the ground floor, she found Terry had returned to the garden, but could hear Liza moving around in the kitchen. She entered to find the maid cleaning surfaces.

‘Liza, I need to ask you something.’

Her tone was firm and assertive. Liza looked a little surprised.

‘What is it, ma’am?’

‘There is a framed photograph upstairs in our… in my bedroom. It shows Steven on our holiday in the Maldives. Do you know the one I mean?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Have you removed the photograph from that frame, for any reason whatsoever?’

‘No, ma’am.’

Mia handed Liza the photograph. ‘Do you know what that symbol means?’

Liza frowned and shook her head. ‘No idea, ma’am.’

‘How do you think it got there?’

‘I can only suppose either you or Steven drew it.’

‘Well, obviously if I drew it, I wouldn’t be questioning you, would I?’

‘No, ma’am. I only mention it as perhaps you might have done it and forgotten, what with recent events.’

Mia bristled at the suggestion. ‘I can assure you the death of my husband has not impaired my memory. Nor has it enabled me to indulge in fantasies or implanted within me an urge to scrawl peculiar runes on the back of treasured memories.’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’

Mia held up the key. ‘Do you know what this unlocks?’

Liza peered for a moment and shook her head. ‘No, ma’am. I’ve never seen that key before.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure.’

‘Very well. Thank you, Liza.’

Mia abruptly left the kitchen and strode back upstairs to her bedroom, once again taking the servant’s staircase in a pointed invasion of Liza’s territory. For some time, she stared at the rune and the key, baffled as to why Steven would have drawn the strange symbol. Perhaps she could look online to try and find out what it meant.

Then there was the matter of the key. It was small, like a safety deposit box key. What did it unlock? Was it something in the house or elsewhere?

Presently she heard Liza coming upstairs. Outside on the landing, she heard the maid plugging in a vacuum cleaner and switching it on. Not wanting to be around the noise, Mia returned downstairs to the study and looked online, attempting to discover the meaning of the rune.

It took about an hour, but eventually she located a website on Nordic occult runes. Here Mia found a symbol identical to the one on the back of the photograph. The rune concerned life, death, and rebirth, regarding the ritual of burning bodies and sending Viking warriors to their afterlife in Valhalla.

Arise in Fire, Fall in Rain, Rest on Wood, Reborn on Pyre.

Mia continued to stare at the rune. There was something familiar about it, but she couldn’t quite place it. Had she seen it somewhere in the house? She glanced down at the key, rubbing it between her thumb and forefinger.

After a brief lunch, Mia decided to make a two-fold search of the house; first to try and find the rune, and second to try and locate the lock that fit the key. She began with the cellars, searching the dusty wine racks and other storage areas, but there were no hidden locks amid the cobwebs. The ground floor proved equally fruitless, with pantries, cupboards, corridors, kitchen, airing rooms, downstairs toilet, dining rooms, morning room, drawing room, library, study, conservatory, and hallway all devoid of runes or mysterious locks. She even checked under the stairs, but found nothing save old boots and cobwebs.

The first floor provided no clues either. Both bathrooms and all six bedrooms on that floor were defiantly unobliging, as was Steven’s study. Mia felt the silence pressing in around her once more, as though the house were resisting. But she was determined to scour the entire premises if need be. If nothing else, she would know the key didn’t fit anything in her home.

When Mia moved up to the second floor, she began to think her search would prove futile. Other than the old playroom, two further bedrooms, and a storage room, this part of the house lay empty and unused. However, she moved from room to room, continuing her search, eventually ending up in a mostly empty room with a fireplace and wooden panelling in the eastern wing of the house.

The first thing that surprised Mia about the room was it had been recently cleaned. Liza only vacuumed in this part of the house every month, which meant Mia expected the dust to have built up. But the room was spotless. Nor did it have a musty aroma. The room smelt as though it had been regularly aired.

Just beneath a window overlooking the back gardens lay a writing desk and chair. The desk was devoid of pens or paper, but Mia noticed one of the desk drawers had a lock. Could it be the right size…?

Her heart beat faster as she approached the desk. She examined the lock then took the key from her pocket, gingerly placing it inside the locking mechanism.

A perfect fit.

Slowly, Mia turned the key, unlocking the desk drawer. The silence around her seemed absolute, like a suffocating vacuum. She pulled open the drawer and found inside a worn leather journal that had belonged to her late husband. It was embossed with the same rune as on the photograph. No wonder that rune looked familiar.

Steven’s acting journal.

Mia reached out for the journal then paused for a moment. Past conversations with Steven echoed in her mind.

You can never, ever read this. Ever.

Why not?

I love you, but if you read this, it will destroy my life.

Don’t be ridiculous. How could it destroy your life? What’s in the journal? Does it list your mistresses?

You mustn’t joke. If anyone else reads this book, my career will be over. Do you understand?

Your acting career?

Just promise you’ll never read it whilst I am alive.

Alright. I promise I’ll never read it whilst you’re alive.

It had been a ludicrous conversation, but Mia had reasoned her husband had a right to privacy and that whatever the acting journal contained was of considerable importance to him. She doubted very much that Steven would be foolish enough to list mistresses in there, even if he had any, which she continued to deny. Nonetheless, something of Steven remained trapped in the pages of that book. Did she have a right to read it, now he was gone?

Mia took the journal in her hand. A shiver passed through her frame, and for a brief second, she turned. Goose pimples stood to attention on the back of her neck.

No one.

She was alone.

Feeling foolish, Mia turned back to the journal. It was ludicrous to think she shouldn’t read it. Steven had asked her not to read it whilst he was alive because he feared it would have an adverse effect on his career. He had been superstitious about the journal, for reasons he had never explained. But he was dead. Reading it couldn’t affect his career now.

Or could it? What if the journal contained terrible confessions? What if he had felt compelled to list bad things he had done? People from whom he had stolen? Illicit sexual encounters? Illegal activities? Drug dealing? Murder?

Mia laughed, but her laugh seemed to rebound against an invisible barrier, not echoing in the room as it should. Instead, it fell dead, as though the release it should have given her from that last absurd thought was deflected by the silence back towards her.

Murder.

Mia dropped the journal. It fell to the floor with a dull thud, making the silence around her more pronounced than ever.

Mia stared down at the journal. It both attracted and repelled her. She had never asked Steven if she could read it in the event of his death and up to this point, she hadn’t given the book a second thought. She had been so consumed in grief that it hadn’t occurred to her reading the journal was something she might want to consider.

Mia stared at the embossed rune, recalling the description she had read online.

Arise in Fire, Fall in Rain, Rest on Wood, Reborn on Pyre.

Death and rebirth.

Mia picked up the journal once more. She wanted to read it, but resolved not to do so in this room. The sudden coldness made her uneasy and she longed for the warm surroundings of the morning room. She could go downstairs, light a fire, drink a cup of tea, and then… perhaps read the book.

Two voices conflicted in her head. One urged her to read the journal and another told her not to, insisting she respect Steven’s wishes, even in death. The latter voice grew heated, urging she burn the journal before she could be tempted to read it, and discover things she could never undiscover.

Curiosity won.

Mia placed the book in her pocket and headed downstairs.

Chapter 2

Mia sat on the sofa in the morning room in front of an open fire, sipping a cup of tea with the journal next to her. Every so often, Mia’s eyes darted to the book. Even now she wondered whether reading it was wise. Perhaps it would be better to simply throw it on the fire.

For a brief moment, this urge became irresistible. Mia picked up the journal and raised her hand, poised to throw the book into the flames. The fiery logs crackled as Mia pictured the pages burning whilst she stood there. She imagined the relief as Steven’s secrets were consumed, unknown and forever lost to the world. She pictured herself sitting down again, still wondering about what lay in the pages, but thinking it was best her curiosity hadn’t got the better of her.

Except that wasn’t going to happen.

Mia slowly lowered her hand, opened the journal, and began to read.

The early pages contained little more than lists of appointments with Etta Amble, the psychic medium with whom her husband had regularly consulted. The precise nature of these appointments had always been a mystery, but Steven had never taken an acting role without first consulting Etta. How and why she came into his life, Mia didn’t know, but she had come to suspect that Steven consulted with Etta Amble over more than just acting roles.

Mia had met Etta just once, at a party shortly after she and Steven were engaged. A short, wizened figure with beady, deep-set brightest blue eyes, Etta’s wispy greying hair, thin flowing black dress, and long bead necklace had stuck out in Mia’s mind. She’d had the impression Etta was assessing her. Perhaps this was why shortly afterward, Steven proposed.

Intrigued by the medium, Mia had hoped to meet her again, but had so far not had the chance. Mediums, pagans, and witches had fascinated Mia since childhood, when she had lived next door to a white witch. Although her parents and her unusual neighbour had been on friendly terms, to Mia’s disappointment, the witch had never revealed any of her secrets.

The appointments with Etta Amble dated back ten years. Mostly the journal simply had dates written at the top of a page, Etta’s name, the time, and occasionally a few cryptic notes. Words such as audition and exposure were frequent in the early entries. Later entries included phrases, such as insist on paid expenses and revise showreel.

To begin with, the journal appeared to reveal nothing more sinister than advice from Etta on his early acting career. As Mia flipped over pages, she saw entries that referred to well-known roles Steven had taken, some of which had come to define him as an actor. Stage, television, and film roles appeared, including notes about how to play the characters, presumably taken in consultation with Etta.

Minimise all movement except eyes one entry read regarding a famous role Steven had taken playing a serial killer. Don’t overdo the tears said another, referring to a romantic tragedy. Gradually the entries brought Mia up to date, with more detailed paragraphs appearing about how these roles should be performed. It seemed that Etta gave increasingly specific and detailed advice, especially on Western Front, the World War I drama for which Steven had been Oscar nominated and won a BAFTA.

Some of the roles in the latter pages of the journal were those Steven had performed when she had first met him. Seeing him write about these performances brought back bittersweet memories. Mia expected there would be notes regarding Steven’s role in Plummeting in Love, a film in which she also had a small role. After all, the set of Plummeting was where they had first met. However, there were no notes regarding this, only a reference he had made an appointment to consult with Etta. Mia idly wondered if Steven had defied Etta’s advice regarding Plummeting in Love. After all, it had been a critical and box office disaster.

Inevitably, the journal came to the last role Steven had taken, the fact-based story of celebrated abstract painter Edward Bingley. The film, simply titled Bingley, had received multiple award nominations, and some were predicting a posthumous Oscar win for the famous Steven Yardley. Despite the pangs of grief she experienced upon discovering these recent entries, Mia resolved to read through them, no matter how painful. Apart from anything else, they might just shed light on Steven’s peculiar and alarming behaviour during those final months of his life.

The date of the first appointment to discuss the role with Etta Amble had been entered as the 11th of January at 10:30am, one year previously. Here Steven had simply written Bingley, and there were no further details about that particular meeting. Subsequently there had been several further meetings in short succession - between the 12th and 29th of January that same year. At first, these entries contained little more than the same kind of acting advice Steven had often noted for other roles.

Mia’s eyes darted through Steven’s scribbled words for his appointment on the 12th of January.

Attempt to mine character for contradiction and irony, emphasising those aspects of Jeremy’s rather good screenplay. Jeremy depicts Bingley as extreme extrovert, but Bingley wishes he could be at peace when alone. Pathological need to be around lots of people, but he also hates this need. A committed artist, but wracked with self-doubt. A tormented hedonist who loves pleasure, but it leaves him empty. Eloquent in public, but a very bad communicator in private, especially with his three wives. Loved many people (not just his three wives) but trusted very few, except for Horace Bailey, for whom he had something approaching complete trust.

The name leaped off the page at Mia.

Horace Bailey.

The real Horace Bailey was still a friend of the Yardley family. He had been a consultant on the Bingley film, working closely with Steven, as well as the screenwriter, Jeremy Towne, and the director, Graeme Jackson. Horace Bailey had been extremely kind to her and had been immensely upset at Steven’s demise, particularly the nature of his death. Perhaps his distress had been understandable, given his own best friend had died in similar circumstances, of a drug overdose.

Mia read on.

Horace Bailey is the tragic figure at the heart of the story. Although Bailey was an artist in his own right, his work has been nowhere near as celebrated as that of