The Silence

by Daisy Pearce

  My bedroom is at the back of the cottage, with a long window overlooking the sea to the west. The room is bisected by a dark beam, and beneath my feet are honey-coloured oak floorboards worn smooth with passage. I lie on the bed, my arms over my head. My bones are tired, lead-heavy, like my flesh. I cocoon my memories, the ones which are stark and indelible, the ones the pills haven’t eroded away. I keep them safe because they are all I have.

  My last birthday. My thirty-fifth, just last month. Black Friday, I had called it.

  Chapter 11

  It had been eight thirty in the evening when we reached the restaurant, a little bit drunk and a little bit high. Carmel had arrived home earlier than expected, wearing a royal-purple dress and looking at least seven feet tall in her heels. Her eerie grace was astonishing, her skin a gleaming blue-black like polished marble.

  ‘You’re early,’ I told her. ‘And you look amazing. You’re not meant to look better than me. It’s my birthday. Sort it out.’

  ‘Happy birthday!’ Carmel sang, reaching for an ashtray. She tucked the bottle under her arm and headed for the kitchen. ‘Consider my punctuality my gift to you.’

  ‘Can I exchange it for something else?’

  Then Carmel’s voice, floating in from the kitchen. ‘Guess who I’ve just seen?’

  ‘I’ve no id—’

  ‘Oh, come on. You’re no fun! Guess! I’ll give you a clue.’

  Carmel made a complicated mime swinging her arm between her legs.

  I snorted laughter. ‘The Elephant Man!’

  ‘Yesssss! God, I love this hot weather.’

  The Elephant Man had become our pet name for one of the two cyclists who lived above us on account of his generously stuffed Lycra and his much-imagined sexual prowess. The other was known affectionately as The Anaconda. We were children, Carmel and I, snorting giggles into our cupped hands.

  ‘Did he say hello to you?’

  ‘No. God, no. Never spoken to me since that time he caught me looking at him with those binoculars.’

  I laughed, filled with warmth and good feeling. Carmel poured champagne into glasses, handing one to me.

  ‘Where’s Marco?’ She flicked through a magazine. ‘What did he get you?’

  ‘He’s meeting us at the restaurant. I haven’t had my present yet.’

  Silence.

  ‘Did Marco choose this restaurant, Stella?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Our eyes met and she shrugged. ‘Yeah, I thought so.’

  ‘Listen, I know it’s expensive, which is why I asked you all not to buy me anything. This is your gift to me, coming out for this meal. I don’t want anything else. You are coming, aren’t you, Carmel? Please say you are.’

  ‘Sure. Sure. Got an advance on my wages.’

  ‘I said I’d pay for you.’

  ‘And I said I wouldn’t let you. It’s your birthday, you dick.’

  Carmel turned the page of the magazine delicately, wetting her finger to do so. She looked up at me, head slightly tilted.

  ‘This is what you wanted tonight, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A meal out at your boyfriend’s favourite restaurant?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Valkoinen Huone served reindeer and crayfish and salted liquorice liquor at extortionate prices, and without Marco paying for me, I would never have been able to afford to eat there. Out of all the people I had invited, only a handful had been able to accept, and of those, two had already dropped out earlier in the week. I had asked Marco to consider changing the venue to somewhere less expensive. We had been in bed, our legs tangled together, my hand against his firm chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath the soft pads of my fingers. He had shaken his head with what seemed like genuine regret.

  ‘Afraid not, baby. You understand, don’t you, how hard it was to get this booking, how popular this restaurant is?’

  He leaned over to kiss me. ‘Your real friends will find a way to be there,’ he had said.

  I swallowed the champagne quickly and immediately refilled my glass.

  ‘I’ve got you something,’ Carmel said.

  ‘I told you not to!’

  ‘I know you did.’

  A little black bag tied up with ribbon. It was matte and smooth and very plain. Inside, tissue paper, and inside that a bracelet of thick silver.

  ‘Oh, Carmel. Oh, this is so pretty!’

  ‘You sound surprised.’

  I was surprised. Our usual gifts to each other were always tat.

  ‘You remember the present you bought me that Christmas at my parents’?’ Carmel said, her eyes glittering. ‘What was it called again?’

  I laughed.

  ‘The Butt Buster. I did warn you not to open it in front of everyone.’

  ‘That was a good Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, your brother still talks about it. Do you think it scarred him for life?’

  ‘I hope so,’ she said, still grinning.

  I lifted the bracelet and turned it this way and that in the light. ‘Oh, this is beautiful, thank you. I shall wear it always.’

  Inside, an inscription: ‘I love you, you dick x’

  Carmel crossed the room and hugged me, enveloping me in the comforting musky scent of her perfume.

  ‘Happy birthday. You’ll always be a dick, but I do love you to pieces.’

  On the tables of the dimly lit restaurant were wild flowers and rosemary in hand-thrown clay vases. Marco greeted us with a mild frown of puzzlement.

  ‘Been drinking, Stella?’

  ‘It’s her birthday.’ Carmel smiled pleasantly, before taking a seat. ‘Let go of the reins a little, Marco.’

  I looked around, smiling. My friends, I thought. Those who had been able to make it. Those who had been able to afford it, I corrected myself.

  It was good to see Martha and James again; it felt as if it had been a long time. Perhaps it had. I was losing days sometimes. They had recently moved to a bigger house just outside London and as I sat next to them I felt a guilty stab at skipping their housewarming, their invitations to dinner, for drinks. Things have just been busy, I had told Martha over the phone, but we’ll see you soon though, I promise. Her hair was tucked up in blonde curls so light and soft and feathery that I wanted to nest in them.

  ‘Happy birthday, Stella,’ James was saying, leaning across to kiss me. ‘Great restaurant. We’ve had to take out a second mortgage to come here, obviously. We’re just drinking the college funds for our kids.’

  ‘He means thank you for inviting us,’ Martha said. ‘It’s lovely to see you.’

  ‘No, thank you. I’m thrilled you’re here. The waiting list is nearly eighteen months long. Marco only managed to get the table because he plays golf with the owner.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ James said in exactly the same way Carmel had; the same measured, careful tone. He sipped his wine. ‘We figured it had been Marco’s choice. Didn’t he want us to come or something?’

  I saw Martha dig him carefully in the ribs with her elbow and quickly looked away. Marco, sitting opposite me across the table, caught my eye and smiled. I returned it, pouring myself a drink, but I felt sour and cold. A thought then, dark and toxic like a droplet of ink in water. Didn’t he want us to come or something?

  After dinner we had gone on to a late bar and then to a basement in Brixton where we drank and danced until I lost a shoe and my make-up had become a sooty blur. Towards the end of the night Marco put one hand on my hip and the other, the one holding a bottle of beer, around my neck.

  ‘When do I get you to myself?’ he said, into the crease between my collar and my ear, and ten minutes later we were in a cab, two hours from sunrise and twenty minutes from home. I had yawned, leaning my head against the window, watching the lights, the neon blurs, the eyeless city.

  ‘Rise and shine, sleepyhead. You’re home.’

  I’d stuttered awake. I could see the orange streetlights and the building on Griffin Road where Carmel and I lived
. It was dark. The taxi driver was leaning over me in the back seat, shaking me gently by the arm. My head rattled against the window. Marco was gone.

  ‘Come on then. Do you want a hand getting indoors?’

  ‘Where’s Marco?’

  ‘That your boyfriend, is it? Got out at Battersea.’ When the taxi driver smiled his skin crinkled as though clutched by an unseen hand. ‘He paid the fare. Come on, out you get.’

  ‘He left me behind?’

  ‘He did, yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  The taxi driver shrugged, embarrassed. I thanked him and wandered into the building, fumbling my mobile from my bag. Marco answered as I stood in the hallway of our building. He sounded irritable and tired.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You left me! You left me in the taxi by myself!’

  For a long moment there was just the sound of his breathing. Then a noisy exhale. ‘You don’t remember.’

  My head was starting to ache and my mouth had that sour hungover tang. Something moved restlessly in the pit of my stomach, some creeping dread. I slid to the floor with my back to the wall.

  ‘You don’t remember the things you said? The things you did?’

  ‘Wh-what?’

  ‘We’ve been here before, haven’t we? You have a few drinks and you’re fine and then—’

  ‘Then what? Then what, Marco?’

  Down the hall a door opened to one of the flats, and a head poked out. I ignored it. Quieter now, I said, ‘Then what, Marco?’

  ‘It’s like you have a trigger. You turn on me. I don’t know, maybe it’s me, maybe I’m the problem. I’m not sure it’s a good idea for us to be around each other anymore.’

  ‘No, Marco, no, don’t say that.’

  ‘I’ve got bruises on my shoulder. I can see the marks your teeth left on my arm.’

  ‘But – I don’t remem—’

  ‘No, of course not. Of course you don’t. You’d had a lot to drink and you blindsided me. It came out of nowhere: just a fury I’ve never seen. I’m still shaking, Stella.’

  I felt the cold floor beneath my stockinged feet and the quick pulse of my heart. It was as though someone had wrapped a flex around my throat and was tightening, tightening.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ I managed. I stared at the reflection in the gilded mirror opposite. My face was waxy beneath dirty hair. Make-up clotted about my eyes like tar. The contents of my bag had spilled across the floor; a beautiful silk scarf streaked with grime, loose change, a half-empty carton of cigarettes. I pulled these towards me and lit one with fingers not quite steady.

  ‘The taxi driver didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Of course he didn’t. He was probably as embarrassed as I was.’

  ‘I will change, Marco. I will be better, I promise.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he sighed. ‘Yeah, so you keep telling me.’

  ‘Excuse me.’ A voice came from down the hallway. I looked up, red-eyed. There was a woman there – I’d seen her before, her and her little yappy dogs, the types which tremble in your arms. She was wearing a dressing gown pinched at the throat with her fingers.

  ‘Any chance you could move this conversation upstairs? It’s five o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Hold on,’ I said to Marco, and then I stood unsteadily and told her fine, told her I’m going.

  She gave me a hard look. ‘And you can’t smoke in here. It’s against the building regulations.’

  Slowly I gave her the finger. ‘I’m not in the mood,’ I told her. ‘Leave me alone.’

  She smiled nastily, showing me yellowing teeth. ‘Give over, love. You’re not a teenager anymore. Papers always said you had a bad attitude and looks like they were right an’ all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I know who you are. I remember that show. Used to like it too, once upon a time. But reading about all the stuff that happened left a bad taste in my mouth. You were a right little prima donna, weren’t you?’

  I stared at her, suddenly furious. In my ear I could hear Marco saying my name, asking me what was going on, but it was as distant as the moon.

  ‘You don’t know anything about me.’

  ‘I know what I see. I know that you’re a drunk. I’ve seen you staggering in through the front door five nights out of seven. I’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve lost your keys. I know you live with another woman. What more do I need to know?’

  Her dogs had started barking so I needed to raise my voice. I could just see them in the doorway behind her. She had a stairgate there, like you’d use for babies. All the little dogs were clustered about it, throwing themselves at the bars, yipping. I could smell her flat from where I stood, that musty canine stench.

  She snorted. ‘I see you, Katie Marigold. I see what you’ve become. The shine rubbed off you a long time ago.’

  Another door opened down the hall, then someone asked what all the fudging racket is. That’s the word they used, fudging. I started walking upstairs, suddenly leaden and drunk. I could barely get my key in the door and all the while I was thinking I am losing my mind.

  That evening Marco turned up at the flat and held my cold hands between his own. He showed me a livid bruise on his shoulder, scratches on the flesh of his neck. There was a welt on his wrist where I could see the tiny imprints of teeth. I had apologised effusively, afraid. The fear that he was going to leave me made my skin crawl.

  ‘I promise to change. I will do anything, Marco.’

  Chapter 12

  The next morning I wake dry-mouthed, full of a nervous leporine energy. I shower and dress, taking my pill at the bathroom sink, scooping a handful of metallic-tasting water into my mouth. Through the window the cliffs, sheer rock faces like advancing leviathans. Gulls pinwheel against a grey sky, heavy with unshed rain. I pull my jeans over my hips, brush my teeth and wait for the pill to start to work as though descending dark fathoms. The fuzzy edges, the thick, cottony way it fills my ears, I welcome these things. I want them to creep in before the doubts do, before the anxiety and the low hum of despair.

  A walk, then. Fresh air. God, but the day seems long.

  The road which leads from the cottage to town is pitted and narrow with a stripe of long grass growing up the centre. It is bordered on either side by fields, and in the distance, the sea. I raid the cupboard beneath the stairs and discover an oversized oilskin the colour of egg yolk which reaches my knees. Buoyed by a cup of strong coffee, I leave the house, idly wondering what Carmel is doing, where she is now. Then I remember and feel a sour, childish petulance rising. Marco was right about her. She is a leech.

  The town of Tyrlaze curls in the lap of the valley like an affectionate cat. A scattering of cottages in flint and stone, the thin steeple of a church. The little graveyard is neatly kept, the stones leaning at odd angles, cantered towards the sky. The sea glimmers like silvery scales just beyond and the air smells of salt, of wood fires and rain. A handwritten sign is propped outside a cottage – ‘Fresh EGGs LaiDe This MORNing’ and beneath that, in smaller print, ‘Our ChiCkKens Rule The RoOst’. On the ground is a stack of empty cartons next to a tray of eggs lightly speckled with rain. A mud-splattered Land Rover is parked outside the house, surrounded by bickering hens. Bird droppings decorate the garden, the car and the windows like a Pollock painting. I am just leaving when I see an old woman in the doorway, watching me. She has appeared as silently as a fog, marking me with round glassy eyes. Her hands are caked with blood to the wrists. There are spatters of it on her apron, dried to a dusty maroon. I open my mouth to speak but already the pills are making my thoughts thick and treacly. Before I can say anything she has slowly closed the front door, all the while never taking her eyes from me.

  Along the sea wall the bright shops in the inclement weather feel like a forced smile at a funeral. Most of the seafront shops are closing for the season and those that are still open are empty. Windbreakers crammed against dusty windows. A little rack of postcards washed out in the wintry sunshine. In
the shop window are yellowing posters, long faded. A pantomime. A church fair. A town carnival. I look at the date on it. 14th July 2004. I think for a moment. Where was I in July 2004? What was I doing? And then, of course, with a jolt I remember. Thailand. Carmel and I had booked flights one evening after a session on cheap wine. We had been thrilled by our impulsiveness. It had been a freewheeling adventure: blistering heat and soft white sands, the drink, the weed, the mushrooms, the sex. In Bangkok, I had got my hummingbird tattoo. There is a photo of me somewhere – it used to be pinned to the corkboard in the flat – a cigarette clamped between my teeth, beer in one hand, gripping Carmel’s fingers tightly with the other as the muscular, gleaming back of the tattooist bends over me. In the photo I am tanned and grinning and look younger and happier than I can ever remember being. Thinking of it now makes my stomach curdle. That laughing, reckless figure seems so distant. A lump of alien rock, drifting in space. Had it been me? It must have been, once.

  That night the mist comes in from the sea, thick and heavy as a cloak. It gives the rising moon an eerie blue light that picks the bones of the landscape silver. I wake, becoming immediately cold, skin prickling. I sit up, covers pooled about my waist, straining to listen for the sound which has woken me. At first I think it is a hard rain but slowly I realise it is coming from inside the house. The sound is soft and sibilant, like heavy material being dragged across the floor. I creep to the doorway, peering into the darkened hall. Water. I can hear it more clearly now. My hand gropes for the light switch in the dark hallway.

  The bathroom door is ajar. Inside, the taps and the shower are running, filling the room with steam and a thunderous roar. For a moment I simply stand there, skinny arms folded across my chest, cupping my elbows in my palms. I blink rapidly. I do not need to look in the mirror to see that a crease has appeared between my eyebrows; a vertical frown line like a stitch in my skin. It is the look of my father as he hunched over betting slips, lottery tickets, scratch cards. The look he got moments before the loss set in. He passed it on to me the same way he did his thin hair and dimples.