Categories > Celebrities > Savage Garden > The Fortress of Silence
The Fortress of Silence
Disclaimer: I don't own Darren Hayes or Daniel Jones. Fiction only.
My native language isn't English and I don't live in English-speaking countries; please forgive me if there're any grammer or spelling mistakes. Thank you.
Chapter One
‘
Get a name to rise early and you may lie all day,’ mumbled Mr. Jones, sitting up in his bed, only half awake from a long and deep sleep.
‘I’m sure you may; but you’d better get dressed and go downstairs at once. The clock is going to strike eleven.’ Replied Mrs. Jones, who was cleaning the upstairs bedrooms with the vacuum cleaner. And then she nagged on. ‘Your breakfast is gonna be stone cold, Jack! Won’t you heat them up on the stove? I said stove, not microwave oven!’
‘I got it, ma’am!’ Mr. Jones walked down the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him. He picked up the newspaper before settling himself at the table. ‘What’s the weather like today? And where’s Danny?’
‘It’s a typical Daniel day and he fancied a walk down in the garden.’ Came Mrs. Jones’ voice from upstairs. ‘And of course with his precious guitar. What do you want him for?’
‘Nothing really. But frankly speaking, I still can’t work out why Danny likes those cold and sunny mornings in June. I mean, Sydney never used to have this kind of weather.’
This time, before Mrs. Jones could answer, a young woman walked out of the kitchen with a cookbook still in her hand. ‘Then what did you anticipate here in Brisbane, Dad? Snowstorms?’
Mr. Jones chuckled merrily. ‘Maybe not, Demelza, but one would expect it to be, er… more humid. Why don’t you go out and call your brother back? I think it’s lunchtime.’
‘Dad, you are still having your breakfast! Also I’m quite sure Dan would be unhappy if someone disturbs him when he is hanging out with his guitar. Oh! That damn phone is ringing again. Sebastian, can you answer it?’
*
And he wandered, sauntered along the intertwining paths alone in the morning, watching a grey sparrow dancing amid the bare branches of a tree, sat down on a bench, long at a time, still, and had his thoughts. A few pieces of music sheets lay on his laps, a pencil held in his left hand, and he played with the strings of his guitar casually with his right hand.
When he stopped playing, he would take a long breath and look skywards. High clouds scud about in the ocean breeze, the air was so clean and cold, the sunshine in winter so lazy and undemanding — that was what he always liked in Brisbane. No, there was something else besides the fair weather. Small pubs, cherry wine, vanilla cigarettes, family and friends, guitars, piano, drums, a job he likes, a peaceful life he enjoys. Eventually no pressure anymore. Finally got rid of tiring tours and flashing cameras and media press. He had always asked himself if this was the kind of life he wish to live, and every time he told himself the answer was positive.
Well, his name was Daniel Jones. He used to be in an extremely famous band called Savage Garden and played instruments for it; actually he himself established it in the first place. But all had ended. It had become a history. A part of his life that he could not and would not turn back. After Savage Garden had had its disbandment, he lived in Sydney and remained in the background, working at his own music studio. It was called Studio 7 and was the biggest independent studio within the whole country. But recently he had moved to Brisbane with his family — he didn’t know how exactly this idea struck him, perhaps he just intended to get away completely from his past. Thoroughly this time.
It had been silent for too long. And Daniel came round to find out that the sparrow had gone without his notice. Maybe it’s time to get back to his house. He stood up and straightened his coat, picked up the sheets and his guitar.
‘Morning, Dad,’ he said airily as he pushed the door open.
‘Morning, Danny, your mother was talking about going to the mall with you this afternoon ‘cos Demelza will be out with Seb. What do you say?’ Mr. Jones put down the newspaper and turned to his son.
Daniel gave a smile. ‘Why not? I’m free today.’
‘Hey Dan! There had been a phone call for you earlier this morning,’ his sister Demelza came out of the kitchen just in time, and this time a frying pan in her hand.
‘Who was it?’ Daniel asked while putting his coat onto the coat hooks.
‘Seb answered it; he said it was someone called… Walter. Walter Afanasieff, that’s it.’
Daniel came to a halt. Slowly he turned around. ‘Walt? What was it he wanted? It’s been…ages, since he last called.’
Demelza shrugged. ‘Anyway he wants you to call back. He sounds quite urgent.’
‘Thanx Demelz, I’ll call him back.’ And with this he headed for his bedroom, carrying his guitar. He put it down on his bed and looked at the mobile phone sitting quietly on his night table.
A slight sigh escaped him. He dialed the number slowly and waited.
‘Walter? It’s Daniel.’
‘Woah! How nice to hear from you again, Dan!’
His voice hadn’t changed. Still so warm and familiar. ‘Yair, I never thought I could speak to you again.’ Daniel replied flatly. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘Oh yes, will you be interested in producing a very talented young man?’
‘At my own record label?’
‘No, no, no, here at Sony Entertainment Limited. He is really an intelligent guy and I thought I ought to get him a decent producer. I always regard you as the best producer and programmer and composer, Dan, so I came to ask you.’
‘You flatter me, Walt,’ Daniel’s voice was still as serene as ever.
‘You can come to the audition this afternoon if you’re interested.’
‘I only wonder one thing, Walt. You absolutely know I have my own studio now and it’s for indie musicians. Sony wouldn’t want producers like me. You can produce him yourself, I’m sure you can do a great job. Wouldn’t that be better?’
‘Er,’ Walter hesitated for a moment. ‘Actually, you know, his manager — wished you could produce him.’
‘I don’t suppose I’m famous enough for him,’ Daniel let out a small laugh.
‘Well, in fact… um, you apparently are.’
‘Really? Who is his manager?’ Daniel asked suspiciously.
‘Darren, you know.’
Daniel froze instantly. His hand was squeezing the phone until the pain had had him sobered.
‘Which Darren, Walt?’ He tried to sound off-handed.
‘Don’t fake, Daniel, you know it’s Darren Hayes I’m talking about. Yes, he wants you… to produce the singer.’
More silence.
‘No, Walt, it’s impossible. Tell him to find someone else — ’
‘Stop that, Daniel Jones!’ Walter cut in abruptly. ‘I thought you’d refuse, you’d try to run away. But no way, Daniel, you are to come to the audition. You got me?’
‘No Walt, I can’t… I can’t do that. I’m — ’
‘I don’t care what you are, Daniel, and be sure to meet me at the airport three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be pleased to see you again.’
‘Walt — ’
‘Say hi to your family. Good day, Dan, don’t be late.’
There was a ‘click’, and Walter hung up the phone.
*
An hour later.
Daniel walked downstairs to find his mother chatting happily with Sebastian. Demelza was now cleaning the kitchen.
‘Where have you been, Dan? You haven’t had your lunch.’ Mrs. Jones waved at him.
‘Mom, I’m sorry, I won’t be going to the mall with you.’
‘It doesn’t matter, dear. I was just joking. But why? You look pale. What happened?’
‘I’ve got to go to Sydney. Right now.’
Disclaimer: I don't own Darren Hayes or Daniel Jones. Fiction only.
My native language isn't English and I don't live in English-speaking countries; please forgive me if there're any grammer or spelling mistakes. Thank you.
Chapter One
‘
Get a name to rise early and you may lie all day,’ mumbled Mr. Jones, sitting up in his bed, only half awake from a long and deep sleep.
‘I’m sure you may; but you’d better get dressed and go downstairs at once. The clock is going to strike eleven.’ Replied Mrs. Jones, who was cleaning the upstairs bedrooms with the vacuum cleaner. And then she nagged on. ‘Your breakfast is gonna be stone cold, Jack! Won’t you heat them up on the stove? I said stove, not microwave oven!’
‘I got it, ma’am!’ Mr. Jones walked down the stairs as fast as his old legs could carry him. He picked up the newspaper before settling himself at the table. ‘What’s the weather like today? And where’s Danny?’
‘It’s a typical Daniel day and he fancied a walk down in the garden.’ Came Mrs. Jones’ voice from upstairs. ‘And of course with his precious guitar. What do you want him for?’
‘Nothing really. But frankly speaking, I still can’t work out why Danny likes those cold and sunny mornings in June. I mean, Sydney never used to have this kind of weather.’
This time, before Mrs. Jones could answer, a young woman walked out of the kitchen with a cookbook still in her hand. ‘Then what did you anticipate here in Brisbane, Dad? Snowstorms?’
Mr. Jones chuckled merrily. ‘Maybe not, Demelza, but one would expect it to be, er… more humid. Why don’t you go out and call your brother back? I think it’s lunchtime.’
‘Dad, you are still having your breakfast! Also I’m quite sure Dan would be unhappy if someone disturbs him when he is hanging out with his guitar. Oh! That damn phone is ringing again. Sebastian, can you answer it?’
*
And he wandered, sauntered along the intertwining paths alone in the morning, watching a grey sparrow dancing amid the bare branches of a tree, sat down on a bench, long at a time, still, and had his thoughts. A few pieces of music sheets lay on his laps, a pencil held in his left hand, and he played with the strings of his guitar casually with his right hand.
When he stopped playing, he would take a long breath and look skywards. High clouds scud about in the ocean breeze, the air was so clean and cold, the sunshine in winter so lazy and undemanding — that was what he always liked in Brisbane. No, there was something else besides the fair weather. Small pubs, cherry wine, vanilla cigarettes, family and friends, guitars, piano, drums, a job he likes, a peaceful life he enjoys. Eventually no pressure anymore. Finally got rid of tiring tours and flashing cameras and media press. He had always asked himself if this was the kind of life he wish to live, and every time he told himself the answer was positive.
Well, his name was Daniel Jones. He used to be in an extremely famous band called Savage Garden and played instruments for it; actually he himself established it in the first place. But all had ended. It had become a history. A part of his life that he could not and would not turn back. After Savage Garden had had its disbandment, he lived in Sydney and remained in the background, working at his own music studio. It was called Studio 7 and was the biggest independent studio within the whole country. But recently he had moved to Brisbane with his family — he didn’t know how exactly this idea struck him, perhaps he just intended to get away completely from his past. Thoroughly this time.
It had been silent for too long. And Daniel came round to find out that the sparrow had gone without his notice. Maybe it’s time to get back to his house. He stood up and straightened his coat, picked up the sheets and his guitar.
‘Morning, Dad,’ he said airily as he pushed the door open.
‘Morning, Danny, your mother was talking about going to the mall with you this afternoon ‘cos Demelza will be out with Seb. What do you say?’ Mr. Jones put down the newspaper and turned to his son.
Daniel gave a smile. ‘Why not? I’m free today.’
‘Hey Dan! There had been a phone call for you earlier this morning,’ his sister Demelza came out of the kitchen just in time, and this time a frying pan in her hand.
‘Who was it?’ Daniel asked while putting his coat onto the coat hooks.
‘Seb answered it; he said it was someone called… Walter. Walter Afanasieff, that’s it.’
Daniel came to a halt. Slowly he turned around. ‘Walt? What was it he wanted? It’s been…ages, since he last called.’
Demelza shrugged. ‘Anyway he wants you to call back. He sounds quite urgent.’
‘Thanx Demelz, I’ll call him back.’ And with this he headed for his bedroom, carrying his guitar. He put it down on his bed and looked at the mobile phone sitting quietly on his night table.
A slight sigh escaped him. He dialed the number slowly and waited.
‘Walter? It’s Daniel.’
‘Woah! How nice to hear from you again, Dan!’
His voice hadn’t changed. Still so warm and familiar. ‘Yair, I never thought I could speak to you again.’ Daniel replied flatly. ‘Anyway, what can I do for you?’
‘Oh yes, will you be interested in producing a very talented young man?’
‘At my own record label?’
‘No, no, no, here at Sony Entertainment Limited. He is really an intelligent guy and I thought I ought to get him a decent producer. I always regard you as the best producer and programmer and composer, Dan, so I came to ask you.’
‘You flatter me, Walt,’ Daniel’s voice was still as serene as ever.
‘You can come to the audition this afternoon if you’re interested.’
‘I only wonder one thing, Walt. You absolutely know I have my own studio now and it’s for indie musicians. Sony wouldn’t want producers like me. You can produce him yourself, I’m sure you can do a great job. Wouldn’t that be better?’
‘Er,’ Walter hesitated for a moment. ‘Actually, you know, his manager — wished you could produce him.’
‘I don’t suppose I’m famous enough for him,’ Daniel let out a small laugh.
‘Well, in fact… um, you apparently are.’
‘Really? Who is his manager?’ Daniel asked suspiciously.
‘Darren, you know.’
Daniel froze instantly. His hand was squeezing the phone until the pain had had him sobered.
‘Which Darren, Walt?’ He tried to sound off-handed.
‘Don’t fake, Daniel, you know it’s Darren Hayes I’m talking about. Yes, he wants you… to produce the singer.’
More silence.
‘No, Walt, it’s impossible. Tell him to find someone else — ’
‘Stop that, Daniel Jones!’ Walter cut in abruptly. ‘I thought you’d refuse, you’d try to run away. But no way, Daniel, you are to come to the audition. You got me?’
‘No Walt, I can’t… I can’t do that. I’m — ’
‘I don’t care what you are, Daniel, and be sure to meet me at the airport three o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be pleased to see you again.’
‘Walt — ’
‘Say hi to your family. Good day, Dan, don’t be late.’
There was a ‘click’, and Walter hung up the phone.
*
An hour later.
Daniel walked downstairs to find his mother chatting happily with Sebastian. Demelza was now cleaning the kitchen.
‘Where have you been, Dan? You haven’t had your lunch.’ Mrs. Jones waved at him.
‘Mom, I’m sorry, I won’t be going to the mall with you.’
‘It doesn’t matter, dear. I was just joking. But why? You look pale. What happened?’
‘I’ve got to go to Sydney. Right now.’
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