The Silence

by Daisy Pearce

  My teeth were grinding in my head. The ceiling fan paddled lazily overhead. Incense was burning on the desk, a language of smoke and perfume.

  ‘The last time I saw you, Stella, your hands were shaking so much you could barely sign the consent forms. I thought I was going to have to sedate you.’

  ‘My father died. I’m in shock.’

  Doctor Wilson crossed his legs so that his right foot rested on his thigh. He was rangy, long-limbed. It made him look like a diligent spider in a web.

  ‘Your father died nearly two months ago. I appreciate that grief is subjective but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Do you think you’re managing?’

  ‘I feel like this is all irrelevant. These are leading questions.’

  ‘Think of it like a trail left through the woods. You’ve heard of Hansel and Gretel, yes? A little trail of breadcrumbs to help them find their way home?’

  I stared at him without speaking. I was thinking about Hansel and Gretel, nearly eaten by a witch who had pretended to be good and kind and sweet but, of course, she had not been. We knew that, the reader. We knew she was a cannibal.

  Later that day I discover pools of water beneath the table, strange and sour-smelling, like an animal has crept inside. I receive a silent phone call a little after noon, and another just before two. In them I can hear the wind whistling on the line, and a panting, hurried breathing. Like panic. I fall asleep on the sofa with my book tented on my chest, one hand curled beneath my head.

  And I do not know if I am dreaming. In the past when I have been sleepwalking I have woken in strange and unfamiliar places, shivering with cold. Now though, now, my eyes are open, and I can see my hand at the end of my arm. I can feel the chill in the air, the way the cold tiles feel beneath my feet. I am in the bathroom, and the light is grainy as though it is late afternoon. I am holding the bottle of pills. There they are, I think, thank God. I watch as my hand unscrews the cap from the brown glass bottle; I can even see the silver bracelet I am wearing, the one Carmel bought me for my birthday. I watch as my hand tips the bottle, and even as I realise what is about to happen I can’t stop myself. It is as if I am standing separated from my body by a wall of thick, soundproof glass. No, I cry out, no, no, no. But there is no sound and my hand is still moving as the pills begin to tumble out of the bottle and into the toilet. I can see every detail; the cracks in the old porcelain, the shallow bowl of water rippling as the first pills break the surface and here I am tipping them all away, the sleeping, somnambulant me while the other me is shrieking, ‘Don’t, don’t’, and there are tears, real tears, salty and hot, I can feel them. ‘I need those, I need those to get better,’ I say, but they have all gone, the bottle upended in my hand. I stare down into the toilet at the pills already turning to a grey sludge. Then I begin to shuffle off, I can see my feet moving over the cold tiles, my chipped nail varnish, the hem of my T-shirt just loose of my jeans’ waistband. When I look up it is into the mirror of the bathroom cabinet. I am smiling and it is horrible, skin stretching like sentient wax. And behind me, behind me in the bathroom, is the other me again, face bruised and swollen. I can see a thin trickle of blood coming from her smashed nose, black eyes like raisins pushed into dough, thick and swollen. She is smiling too, and she is wearing that dress, my dress, my dress and I wake up and I remember.

  ‘Holy shit,’ I say out loud to the empty room. ‘What was that?’

  In my dream the dress had been the blue-green of the sea, with iridescent scales on the skirt, which was full and frothy with petticoats. It was a dress for a mermaid, and the reason I know that is because I had worn it once as Katie Marigold in a show entitled ‘Katie Marigold All At Sea’.

  I take the stairs two at a time and dash to the bathroom even though I know what I will find. That chalky residue in the toilet, the empty bottle on the floor. I have spirited away my only hope of sanity, and I don’t know what will happen to me now.

  Chapter 17

  When my phone rings I almost don’t answer. I do not recognise the number and so I don’t speak when I pick it up. I am expecting silence, more of that rattling breath. So I get a shock when a voice says my name.

  ‘Stella? Stella Wiseman?’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘You don’t know?’

  It’s a strange accent and I can’t place it; masculine with a soft edge, almost camp.

  ‘No. No idea.’

  ‘We knew each other a long time ago.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Shall I give you a clue?’

  ‘Can’t you ju—’

  The voice changes. High-pitched, manic-sounding. It is eerie. ‘“I want chocolate milkshake! One for me and one for my dog!”’

  My heart, my heart is beating so fast. I know who this is. I grab hold of the sink and wait for the stars in my vision to clear.

  ‘Heh. You still there?’

  ‘Yes. It’s you, isn’t it? Joey Fraser.’

  ‘Correct. Ten bonus points if you can tell me which episode that line came from.’

  I don’t even need to think about it. Funny how the brain works. ‘Episode six, series four. “Give Me Your Answer Do, Katie Marigold!”. You’re sitting at the counter of the milkshake bar with Frisky.’

  ‘That’s right. What a show it was. Whoever heard of a milkshake bar in a rural village in 1980s England? Whoever heard of a family with five kids who didn’t bitch at each other all the livelong day? Plenty of that behind the scenes though, am I right?’

  ‘Joey, how did you get my number?’

  ‘Same way I got your address. By asking the right questions.’

  I stiffen, turn slowly. I imagine him standing in the kitchen behind me, smiling, the phone pressed to his long face. But there is only the table and chairs and the bookcase and the back door. Even from here I can see it. The door is open, just a bit, moving slightly in the wind. The old-fashioned iron thumb latch is clinking against the jamb. While I was sleeping someone has opened the door to go out. Or come in.

  The skin of my scalp tightens. A litter of leaves has blown into the kitchen, reds and browns and rich, vivid orange. The door rocks back and forth gently, the latch chattering. Wet footprints run from the door to the stairs.

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  ‘We should really meet up. You know I was offered nearly twenty grand to get some of the old cast back together? Turns out we’re still pretty big in Japan. That’s a good sum of money.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘But after you and me, who’s left? I made some calls, and you know what I found out?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t you keep track? Lizzie Noble died last week. Drove her car right into a tree.’

  ‘God.’ Lizzie Noble had played one of the little twins in the Marigold! series. I could picture her clearly, straight dark hair down to her waist. Like a little Gothic doll.

  ‘Yup,’ Joey was saying. ‘Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Still . . .’

  ‘Still what?’

  ‘You know. It puts us back in the papers for a bit. It was trending on Twitter on Monday afternoon. “Hashtag Marigold!”’

  ‘You haven’t changed.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘Where are you, Joey? Where are you right now?’

  Silence. I almost think he has gone and then, ‘I heard you’re losing your mind. About time, I’d say. Surprised it didn’t happen sooner. How’s your mother?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, that’s a real shame.’

  ‘What is it you want?’

  ‘You and me, one interview, some photos. A film crew maybe. They want to make a documentary but they can’t do it without you, of course. The star of the show. We can do that, can’t we? We can sit in the same room for an hour without—’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten what you did. I could still put you in prison. There’s no statute of limitations in this country, you know.’


  ‘Oh man, not this again. Not again. We were kids, Stella. Confused, crazy kids.’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten that time in the trailer, I—’

  But I was talking to an empty line. Joey Fraser had hung up.

  The back door is still ajar, moving slightly in the wind. As I walk around the sofa I see a line of straggling footprints, gleaming little pools of water. Something has come inside. I am so afraid. I am afraid of the way my heart is hammering in my chest, and I am afraid of the way my throat has dried, my nipples stiffening against my T-shirt. I can smell that scent again, like a dark high tide. It is a dank and rotting odour. It is the depths of the sea where the water fades from green to midnight blue, where the fish swim out of darkness in fast-moving shadows with stricken, bulbous eyes.

  I look over at the back door again. It opens, just a little, and I see someone is standing there. Standing outside in the garden, dark eye pressed against the crack. I scream, drop my phone. It skitters along the tiles and under the table. My heart vaults into my throat, my ears.

  The figure moves, running away from the house and into the mist which is creeping up the garden. I am propelled without thinking, opening the back door and striding outside. The ground is cold and wet beneath my bare feet and I can hear my own hoarse breath.

  ‘Who are you?’ I’m shouting, walking across the tall grass. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’

  There is no reply, but I can hear the rustle of the dress she is wearing. The mermaid dress. I’ve been dreaming about it. As I reach the end of the garden I stumble over the snarls of fallen wire fencing and barely notice the slice it takes from my ankle. My fingers become immediately bloody as I untangle myself breathlessly. I rise, brushing myself off, cursing under my breath. Although it is not visible through the fog I know that beyond the wire is the clifftop, the gorse and the heather and the bracken which drops away sharply to the Atlantic below. There is only a slight wind but the glittering mist is dampening my clothes and I shiver. I am about to turn around when I see, just ahead of me, movement through the fog. A shadow dimming and looming, arms preternaturally long against the grey. Someone is out there, moving away from me.

  ‘Hey!’ I call out. ‘Hey!’

  I start to run, and I am on the clifftop proper now. Adrenalin is making my nerves vibrate as the figure turns and just for a moment I think I see a face, dark eyes wide with alarm. Then there is only the sea mist again, thick as velvet, and I can’t be sure if I saw anything at all. I push ahead with my arms outstretched.

  ‘Hey!’ I say again, and even though I know that soon the land will drop away beneath me I continue to run, fingers outstretched like the fronds of a sea anemone, blindly searching. The sea is louder now and I can taste salt. Beneath the damp furze and long grass, a pothole opens up in the rocky ground, spilling me to the floor. The light has taken on the ochre tinge of an old sun-bleached photograph. Blood rushes in my ears. I am disorientated as I lurch forward, scrambling against the alarming tilt of the ground, and I don’t know which way is home. I turn and turn again, feeling the soft press of heather beneath my bare feet which are sore and bleeding. I call out, but this time I don’t say ‘Hey!’ I say ‘Help! Help me!’ over and over, and now I’m struggling to find the narrow twisting path or find my way back to level ground, and the curve of the land is frighteningly steep and I am afraid. If I fall into the sea will it hurt? Will I know that I am falling or will the shock be taken away from me like the scream from my lips? How long until someone knows I am missing? I think of the coldness of the water, the silvery churning depths, and I shout ‘Help me!’ and a white hand sneaks out from the mist and touches me on the forearm. The feel of it is cold and chill as the grave, and I scream, sure the ground is dropping away beneath my feet but then I am being pulled upwards and up, staggering slightly, and I hear a voice saying, ‘Okay, it’s okay’, and I am falling roughly onto the damp ground. A throbbing stitch opens up behind my ribs, and I clutch at it, gasping. Frankie is bent over, his hands planted on his thighs, his face bleached pale. He is panting.

  ‘My God, Stella.’

  ‘Did you see them, Frankie? What happened?’

  ‘I didn’t see anyone.’ Frankie is massaging his chest. ‘Wow. I’m having a heart attack, I swear. What were you trying to do? Run off the edge of the cliff?’

  ‘There was someone else. Someone was in my house.’ I sit up. ‘What if they fell over the edge? What if they’re drowning? Frankie, what do we do?’

  The coastguard is silver-haired and sleepy-eyed. His face is deeply seamed with age, as wind-blasted as tough leather. He kneels in front of me, talking in a low voice. I have been wrapped in a silver thermal blanket, like a marathon runner or an astronaut. The coastguard is telling me off, gently. He tells me it is a bad day for walking out on the cliffs, that the fog conceals the lethal drops, that sometimes the poor visibility can make you believe you are seeing things which aren’t there. He says this last bit pointedly and looks at Frankie as he does so. Frankie is standing behind me, his hand on my shoulder. I look at my knees. They are muddy, my jeans ripped. I remember the figure in the silvery gloom, how it had been shimmering as though under murky water. I think of the footprints, the pills in the toilet, that smell of dank and dripping caves. I am so tired, and I am becoming so afraid of my mind.

  Frankie tells the coastguard that he had heard me calling out to someone in the garden and gone around the side of the house where he’d seen me slipping away into the mist. That’s the phrase he uses – ‘slipping away’ – and it makes me shudder, makes me think of things becoming untethered and adrift, makes me think of dying in the still of the night. He had followed the sound of my voice and when he had finally caught up with me, it had been just three feet from where the cliff dropped away to the jagged spines of the rocks and cold grey water below. No, he tells the coastguard, he hadn’t seen anyone else, certainly no one of the description I had given. But that’s not to say – he adds with discreet loyalty – that no such person exists.

  ‘We haven’t recovered a body,’ the coastguard tells us, rising to his feet, ‘which isn’t to say we’ll stop looking. We can have another boat out there before it gets dark and if the weather is clearer tomorrow we’ll set out with the helicopter too. If your friend did fall—’

  ‘Not my friend,’ I say. ‘I don’t know who it was. They were in my house. Watching me. Wearing my clothes. Old clothes, from the show.’

  The coastguard gives Frankie another look, frowning.

  ‘Well, that’s a matter for the police, Stella. I advise you to be honest with them.’

  I feel wrung out, invisible hands drawing me tightly together, closing me. Frankie squeezes my shoulder.

  ‘Come on inside,’ he says quietly.

  Frankie asks me if I want to speak to the police and when I reply no, he shrugs. ‘You don’t think you should tell them? About the footprints and the notes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to call Marco?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your friends? Someone to come and sit with you?’

  I give a hard laugh. ‘Who exactly did you have in mind?’

  He frowns, but his only response is to ask me if I want tea. This time I say yes.

  As the kettle boils, he opens up the back door and goes outside. There is a lean-to which has been built onto the side of Chy an Mor, with a corrugated-iron roof and a door held together by flaking green paint. It is padlocked, but Frankie tells me he has the key. When he comes in, he is carrying split logs in his arms and begins loading them into the grate.

  ‘I cut this wood a few weeks ago when Kennecker told me you were coming down. I can’t believe it’s stayed dry in there through all that rain, but there you are. I’ll leave you the key so you can get in and out.’

  ‘It’s already so cold.’

  ‘It’s October.’ He looks at me levelly, and I am careful to measure my expression of surprise. How did that happen? Wasn’t it only sum
mer last week? Me and Carmel sunning ourselves on our crappy little balcony? Where has the time gone? You know where, a sober voice intones somewhere in my skull. You’re losing your whole life, girl.

  ‘What were you doing up here, Frankie?’

  ‘I told you, I saw you from the side of the house.’

  ‘But why were you at the house?’

  He sits back on his heels, looking flustered. ‘To give you the key to the woodshed. Weather forecast for the rest of the week is dire, so I thought you’d want to get a fire going on cold nights. I forgot all about it till I found it on my keyring.’

  I take the key from him and stare as he strikes a match, holding it close to the kindling.

  ‘I don’t suppose you found the key to the padlock, did you?’

  ‘What padlock?’

  ‘The one upstairs. For the hatch.’

  The kettle is boiling and Frankie stands up, shaking his head. ‘I’ve only got what Jim Kennecker gave me. His instructions were “Keep her warm, keep her safe”.’

  ‘“Safe”?’

  ‘Uh-huh. He’s old-fashioned. I’ll get the tea.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Thank you, Frankie.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For catching me.’

  ‘I thought you were going to die,’ he says plainly, hands in his pockets. ‘I don’t mind admitting that I was absolutely terrified.’

  I sit on the sofa with my knees tucked up beneath my chin. I wrap my arms around my shins and watch the fire. It is building, building in the grate, and the wood is beginning to char and blacken at the edges. Frankie goes into the kitchen, ducking his head beneath the low doorway. I miss the pills. They were keeping some of my thoughts at bay: the worst ones, the ones which hurt and scrape like blunt instruments.

  ‘Did you really see someone?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘She was wearing your clothes?’

  ‘Yes – sort of. A costume I used to wear, a long time ago.’