Unspoken

by Sam Hayes

  ‘French!’ Sheila Hanley – boss and all-round demon – is in my office snapping orders. ‘Do these. Today.’ A pile of files lands on my desk, the thud of them sending shockwaves through my body. I wince. ‘And get yourself some coffee. You look like shit.’ A fiendish smile slices up her face and she ruffles my hair. ‘You know how much I love you.’

  ‘Good morning to you too, Sheila. You look . . . as beautiful as ever.’

  She shakes her head, and I realise flattery will get me nowhere. Her lacquered hair doesn’t budge. The neck of her crisp cotton blouse is open a little too low for a woman of forty-five, and her waist is unfeasibly trim. Her heels are high and her lips are red – always bright red. Somehow Sheila Hanley, senior partner of Redman, Hanley and Bright, carries off the look.

  ‘There’s a road traffic accident, a matrimonial case and a debt recovery for you.’ She pats the files as if they are her children. ‘Nothing too hard for you today, eh, darling?’

  It’s what I was expecting. The bottom of the pile. Then, just when I think it couldn’t get any worse, the last face in the world I want to see pokes into the cupboard that is my office. Suddenly, I am a sideshow. ‘Hey, Frenchie, it’s been a while. They let you out of rehab, I see.’

  I breathe in and quickly count to ten. ‘Dick,’ I reply, dragging out the syllable although that’s not strictly his name. I don’t bother looking up. I open one of the files and pretend to read while concentrating on sipping my coffee without my hand shaking. I flip through the papers.

  ‘Where did you park the boat, then? In the multistorey?’ Dick squeezes into my office and stands beside Sheila. They loom over my desk. This is one cruel hangover.

  The shakes come and I put the cup down just in time. I take off my reading glasses but it doesn’t help. My vision is still blurred ‘Richard.’ I nod my head. ‘Very clever. As usual.’ Sheila is waiting for me to crack.

  ‘Then how did you get to work? Didn’t I hear that you lost your licence?’ Dick presses on.

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ Not quite. ‘As it happens, I came on the bus. My car is in the garage being fixed. How did you get to work? In a spaceship?’

  ‘In my new Porsche, actually. I could give you a ride home later, if you like. As long as you don’t throw up in it.’ He smiles broadly.

  ‘I can’t guarantee that, Dick. The bus will be fine.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ And Dick Porsche strides off to the partner’s office that would have been mine – the one with the extra-large desk and the view over the city – if I hadn’t decided to become an alcoholic instead.

  ‘So,’ Sheila says, closing my door. ‘What’s going on in Murray-land?’ I know when Sheila is serious, and this is one of those times. Her eyelids semi-close – an almost feral expression – and her arms fold around her body. She perches on the edge of my desk. In the five years that I’ve been working for Redman, Hanley and Bright, I’ve never quite managed to figure her out. Mostly she’s indomitable lawyer, courtroom queen, but occasionally she’s quiet and reserved – usually before an explosive outburst – and sometimes I’ve witnessed her almost maternal with the young female staff. Sheila’s most reliable quality is that she’s unpredictable. If I didn’t respect her so much, I’d hate her.

  ‘Really, you don’t want to know.’ Coffee spills on my desk, and without even thinking about it, Sheila has a tissue soaking it up.

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘And I guess you’re about to make it worse, right?’

  It’s no secret there was a partners’ meeting last night. The three-monthly get-togethers are largely an excuse to run up a big bill at the Square, a favourite venue for the Cambridge legal set. But apart from ordering expensive wine and eating enough langoustines to fill an entire ocean, they do talk shop. They discuss figures and cases and staff and assets. And liabilities. Like me.

  ‘I should be,’ she says, lobbing the wet tissue in the bin. ‘But,’ she stands and props her hands on her hips, ‘I got you a reprieve.’ She raises her hands to stop me interrupting. ‘Just don’t bloody ask me why I grovelled and begged on your behalf, Murray French. Don’t ever bloody ask me why.’

  I won’t, I think, and keep my face solemn. Sheila doesn’t like emotional outbursts and would hate it if I hugged her, which is what I feel like doing.

  ‘But if you ever, ever . . .’ She pauses and takes a breath seemingly too large for her chest. ‘If you ever let me down and make me look a fool again, then—’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Sheila, I won’t let you down, right?’

  ‘Why don’t I believe you?’

  ‘Let me think,’ I say. ‘Is it because I’ve missed five court appearances in the same number of months, or lost more cases than I’ve even taken on?’ Each of us is suppressing a grin. I can’t help it. I get up and give her a hug. ‘Thanks,’ I whisper in her ear. ‘I’m the dick, not Dick Porsche.’

  ‘Oh no, take it from me. He’s one as well.’ Sheila exits my office, leaving nothing behind but the scent of expensive perfume.

  I turn to the files on my desk. I open the first one. I read the brief. Just as the sigh of gratitude settles inside me, just as I reach out to touch the glimmer of hope that maybe I can claw my way back into all this, I read in the file that the driver I will be representing mowed down a girl Flora’s age. He was three times over the legal limit.

  When I was thirteen, when alcohol started to really mean something to me, I would have done anything to be one of the gang, to hang with the cool kids. That’s when I started the Secret Drinking Club.

  The thing is, I was too stupid to realise that there was nothing much wrong with my life in the first place. True, I was surfing on hormones, dodging schoolwork, desperately waiting for Julia to grow up so that she could be mine. The Secret Drinking Club helped pass the time but only served to make things worse. After that, I really was a freak, an oddity, the boy who the normal kids avoided.

  We met several times a week in various places – sometimes a bus shelter, sometimes a hedgerow by the river, sometimes a farmer’s barn – it depended on the season. Each member would be obliged to bring at least a cupful of any alcohol they could lay their hands on. Two failures to turn up with the goods and they were out. Of course, as club leader I received a share of the offerings, and in return, well, I didn’t give anything in return except the privilege of belonging to such an elite club and a rip-roaring good evening with the chance to forget our schoolkid worries.

  The club lasted exactly four months, two weeks and three days. I know this precisely because having to hit my parents’ drinks cabinet on a regular basis after the club folded took its toll. I’d run out of willing kids in the village to supply me with booze. Some decided it was a bad idea all by themselves, or their parents hauled them home by their scruffs. I was either a very skilled liar or my parents were blind. By this time, I was completely dependent, and having to reduce my intake to what my parents wouldn’t notice resulted in anxiety, the shakes, depression, not to mention headaches and insomnia. I was bad-tempered, foul-mouthed and a total pain in the butt.

  Now, I wish for those easy symptoms. Now, I wish I’d never gone to that party in the first place.

  It was only because I’d wanted to impress a girl. Not Julia – she was still only a kid, and there was a long while to wait before our ages didn’t seem like a million light years apart. It was another girl – she was in my class and I can’t even remember her name. But it was her fault, anyway, that I took that first drink laced with the promise of being more confident, more attractive, more of a man, with my skinny arms and legs and constellations of spots. The alcohol worked. We snogged. We danced. We went out briefly. She ditched me but I didn’t ditch the booze. Either way, girl or no girl, it was always there for me. And so started the club.

  As I hear Dick Porsche talking on the phone loudly in his office, I resolve never to drink again. Again. What have I lost because of alcohol? My wife, my children, my home, my dignity, my money, and, oh yes, if I
don’t get a grip, my job too.

  When I rummage around in my old desk drawer for a biro, my hand rests upon the slim body of a half-bottle of Scotch. I pull it out from beneath the papers and other junk – my vague attempt at concealing the evidence – and realise that this is what I will have to do for the drunk driver who killed the little girl. Conceal the evidence. By midday, having stared at the empty bottle for several hours, I’m not sure I can do it.

  JULIA

  There is no other option. I have to take time off work. Call it annual leave, I told them on the phone, whatever you like. I just can’t come into school for a few days. I explained it was because of Mum, and of course that’s true, but with the weight of everything else, the thought of teaching a classroom of rowdy teenagers fills me with dread.

  ‘They’ll have to get a supply teacher to cover my classes,’ I say to Mum as I brush her hair. ‘And as for Brenna and Gradin . . .’ I’m hoping she’ll respond. Beg me not to give up her latest challenge. ‘I guess they’ll have to be re-homed now.’ I pause, the brush halfway down Mum’s hair. In the mirror, her face is blank, completely untouched by the prospect of giving up on two needy kids. ‘And that’s sad. A real shame,’ I finish.

  But calling social services and turning them over to the authorities is not something I truly want to do. I’m still hoping that Mum will wake up one morning and throw some breakfast on the stove, round up the goats, snap out the sheets on the washing line, chattering away as if nothing has happened. I would forgive her. I would never ask what happened. We could just pick up where we left off.

  I know there’s no point telling her any of this.

  ‘So, I’ll make the call then, shall I? About Brenna and Gradin?’ One last attempt elicits nothing. It will be hard to see them go because there’s something reassuring about Gradin’s slippery grasp of reality and his sister’s determination to keep them locked together. Given the choice, they would beg me not to turn them in. Despite all the upheaval at Northmire, they seem quite at home here, although living on the street would have been preferable to what they endured at home. Before they arrived, Mum had told me all about their history.

  I stop brushing again and realise that I’m forgetting what my own mother’s voice sounds like.

  ‘They’ll end up back with their father in a hostel or be bundled off to another foster carer.’ I’m talking to myself rather than Mum. Change piled upon change piled upon the stress of somewhere new would not be good for Brenna and Gradin. I decide to keep them at Northmire while I am here to care for them. The authorities don’t even know that Mum’s sick, and I reckon I can persuade David not to let on.

  That’s when the smile comes, flashing across my lips as wispy as Mum’s greying hair. ‘I saw your doctor last week.’ I hadn’t bothered her with my news on the day of her first hospital consultation, but now that he wants to see me again, at his place for supper, I’m happy to tell the goats if they’ll listen.

  Unexpectedly, Mum breathes in and parts her lips.

  ‘Yes, go on,’ I urge.

  She coughs, and then her eyes are as vague as ever, staring beyond my shoulder. Her body slumps again, as if it took every ounce of fight left in her to even cough. I bow my head. What, then, will it take for her to speak?

  ‘Mrs Mary Marshall?’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply for her.

  ‘Date of birth?’

  ‘Twelfth of February nineteen forty-nine.’

  ‘Address?’

  ‘Northmire Farm, Back Lane, Witherly.’

  ‘Can you confirm her GP?’

  ‘Dr Carlyle,’ I say slowly, allowing his name time on my tongue. ‘David.’

  Then Mum is taken from me by a nurse. She is led down the corridor to a changing cubicle and I wonder how she will ever get into one of those hospital gowns all by herself. She glances back at me just before the curtain is snapped closed. I should be in there, helping her.

  ‘Julia, I’m so glad I caught you.’ David is suddenly behind me, making me turn, making my lungs fill with air, making my cheeks flush. I smile even though I’m worrying about Mum. I haven’t got any mascara on.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ It sounds confrontational. I stand on tiptoe and plant a kiss on his cheek. I didn’t mean to do that, not under the circumstances, but for a second it makes me feel good. He seems to like it.

  ‘I’m a doctor, Julia. And this is a hospital.’ He is grinning, winning me over, making me shed my concerns for Mum. ‘I have a private clinic here on Mondays.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say, still surprised, still pink, still glancing back down the corridor to where she is.

  ‘I run a teen pregnancy clinic. It’s a particular area of interest for me.’

  ‘Oh?’ I’m not giving him my full attention, because my mother is going inside a noisy tube and she hates small spaces and I don’t know which way to turn. To David, or to run after Mum.

  ‘It’s a confidential service. We offer the girls advice, choices, a safe place.’

  ‘Mum’s gone in for her scan.’ I’m hardly listening to him.

  ‘Julia. There is nothing you can do now except wait.’ His hand is on my back, patiently reassuring me. ‘She’ll be fine. Let’s get a hot drink, sit, and talk. I won’t leave your side until she’s out and safe. How does that sound?’ The scent of him overpowers me and buckles me into agreeing. He leads me away from the MRI reception and down a series of corridors to the staff canteen. He buys me coffee.

  ‘Tell me the worst, then,’ I say. ‘The most awful, wretched scan results you can think of. Then when we get the real results, maybe they won’t seem so bad.’

  David remains calm and not even a little fazed by my gloom. ‘Your mother is a puzzle, I admit.’ He looks away. ‘What I do know is that I want to help her. I desperately want her to talk again. There’s so much—’

  ‘David,’ I say. ‘Tell me the worst.’

  He just stares, then sighs. ‘Brain tumour. Damage to the primary auditory cortex, perhaps due to a head injury. A stroke, again resulting in lesions and tissue injury to the speech centres in the brain. Brain aneurysm, which may not kill her now but if it bleeds—’

  ‘Please, stop.’ I raise my hands. I don’t believe him. I don’t want to have Mum boxed and buried before she’s even out of the scan. ‘OK, so what’s the best scan result we could hope for?’

  ‘That her brain looks perfectly normal, of course. It’s what we all hope for, Julia.’ David reaches across the sticky table and takes my hand. ‘I’m looking forward to spending more time with you.’

  It will be a relief, I admit, not to think about Mum for an evening. ‘So, can you cook?’ I ask, grinning. ‘I’m expecting a feast when I come round, you know, and stimulating company as—’

  ‘As much as an old man can manage, huh?’ David’s face is solemn, seeking confirmation of what I have already told him. Then the smile spreads. I wonder why he says old man when he is clearly not.

  ‘Older man,’ I correct. If I am honest, I would say that it excites me. ‘It’s attractive,’ I admit, blushing because it’s only been one date and a butterfly of a kiss. Barely there, really.

  ‘Come on,’ he says tenderly. ‘Let’s see if they’ve finished with Mary yet. She’ll probably be a bit disorientated.’ We walk back down the corridors.

  Then I have a thought. ‘Perhaps I should visit Grace Covatta while I’m here?’ I suggest, hoping he might come with me. ‘You have heard about the case, I take it?’

  ‘I’d have to be deaf and blind not to have heard about it,’ he says, and then, ‘Sorry. That was insensitive. The Covatta case is terrible.’ He bows his head respectfully.

  ‘How do they solve a case like that?’ I ask. Ed has sometimes spoken about his work, about forensic science. It amazes me how so much can be gleaned from specks and samples invisible to the eye. ‘Grace still can’t talk and they’ve got nothing much else to go on. The police have scoured the area where I found her and come up with very little so far.’ I make
a mental note to call Ed, who is technically still my brother-in-law.

  ‘Look, see? She’s fine,’ David says, pointing away from me.

  Mum is standing halfway down a long white corridor, looking first one way and then the other. She doesn’t know which way to turn. ‘David,’ I say, halting him with a hand on his arm. ‘How did Mum act when she came to your surgery? Was there anything to suggest that something was bothering her, something more than an infected finger?’ It’s a question I’ve been meaning to ask him.

  He pauses and thinks. ‘Not at all. Of course, if I’d noticed anything unusual I would have probed. She was very quiet, a little nervous perhaps, but many people don’t like seeing doctors. The visit only lasted a couple of minutes. In fact, it was as if she couldn’t wait to leave.’

  ‘That’s Mum all right,’ I say, remembering how hard it had been to get her to see a doctor when she had a chest infection. I fetch her from the corridor and tow her back towards David. She glides like she’s floating a couple of inches above the floor. ‘Dr Carlyle came to see how you got on. That was kind of him, wasn’t it?’

  Suddenly Mum’s arm – its bony thinness contained in my grip – tenses into a strap of muscle. Her eyes widen. She is reacting, responding. The way she stiffens her neck, her shoulders, and the way her pace gains purpose, I almost think she might speak.

  Hello, Doctor. Thank you for being here. Thank you for taking care of me.

  Then Mum, even though she is dressed in the open-backed hospital gown, strides as purposefully as any healthy person down the corridor and into the bowels of the hospital. It takes me half an hour to find her.

  And there she is, standing, staring through the window that separates Grace Covatta from the rest of the world. Mum’s fingers trace a smeary line on the glass before she allows her arms to fall by her sides.