The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  Harry didn’t respond. He was looking at the boats winking on the lake. But he could feel Uncle Justin’s panic as if it was the wind, light now, but threatening to become strong. He let him suffer. At last Uncle Justin whispered as if he was on his knees.

  ‘Don’t say anything, will you? Help me keep the family together.’

  And like a fallen wizard who’d just uttered his first redundant spell, Uncle Justin edged away and came to his feet. Having tied Harry to a cleat and given him the rope to pay out, Uncle Justin began climbing towards the summit of this low mountain, beloved by many tutors initiating first-timers into the world of mutual trust; the give and take of survival.

  ‘I’m in your hands, Harry,’ he said, looking down, those green eyes begging for a new and secret understanding. ‘Don’t do anything silly.’

  When Gutsy woke up the next morning, he began talking where he’d left off. Sarah Lawton really had no idea about the facts of life. Your belly-button? What did she think her parents had done to make her? Just imagine it, the angles involved. You’d need a protractor. And even then, the problem with a belly-button is the depth. You can’t—

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Harry, still on that ledge, slowly paying out the rope.

  ‘What? That she’s thick?’

  Harry had been thinking that with one yank, Uncle Justin would have fallen; only the rope would have come tight before he landed on top of his brother and sister-in-law. Uncle Justin was good at knots. Nothing he tied would ever come undone. That’s what Kenny had said in the documentary.

  ‘No. I’m going to spit it out,’ replied Harry, his mouth bone dry. Gutsy took a minute to free his imagination from Sarah Lawton’s misunderstandings. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You’re going to the police?’

  ‘Yes. I’m going to talk to Sanjay. Maybe it’ll make me feel better.’

  16

  As usual, the editorial conference took place in the Fish Tank – Crofty’s glass-walled office; as usual, he wanted reports on developing stories while he shuffled a pack of cards, interrupting a speaker on impulse to pick the queen of spades; as usual he always got it wrong; unusually Robert couldn’t concentrate or contribute. His attention lay with the man at his side, Andrew Taylor. Throughout the previous night Robert had tried to make sense of what he’d witnessed; tried to understand what it might mean. There was little room for doubt: his mother was in a relationship with another man. He wasn’t simply an acquaintance. They’d known each other for years. Their intimacy had been natural, fluid … significant. And this was the man who’d made a sudden appearance as Crofty’s trainee, to be mentored by Robert. That could hardly have been a coincidence … which meant there’d been some sort of plan, conceived – presumably – by that cabal who’d toasted the future at Hanabi’s.

  ‘Okay, people, back to work,’ said Crofty, throwing the cards down, ‘bring me the bacon.’

  Everyone sidled out. Robert, last in line, had just reached the door when he turned round to appraise his dad’s best friend. His mother’s accomplice. With the sun breaking through the blinds, Crofty was all orange and striped. His mouth had fallen open and he looked like a goldfish short of oxygen. Robert waited until he saw a burst of perspiration on that freckled brow, then he said:

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You look a bit green around the gills.’

  ‘Green?’

  ‘Yes, as if you had one too many last night.’

  ‘Moi? Jamais. Only at weekends.’

  Robert became jocular: ‘You’ve not done anything to be ashamed of, have you?’

  ‘What? At my age?’

  Robert mulled over the answer. ‘Given time and a bit of practice anything’s possible.’

  Leaving the Fish Tank, Robert could feel Crofty’s troubled eyes upon his back. They almost had fingers, but they dared not touch him. On reaching his workstation, Robert sat down and appraised Andrew. He’d brought coffee and the morning’s mail. He was smiling that hopeful let-me-do-the-dishes smile.

  ‘Crofty’s waving you back,’ he said, pointing.

  Robert retraced his steps and placed his head around the door. ‘You called?’

  ‘Yes.’ Crofty chewed his lip, glanced at Andrew and lost his nerve: ‘Don’t forget that fax number. Trace it. Whoever sent it did the research. They’re the ones who pushed Littlemore to that monastery. They’re the ones with all the answers.’

  ‘Sure. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. The Sierra Leone angle. Find out why someone would send an accusation on a postcard.’

  ‘Okay, but we had this conversation last night. Any fresh thoughts since then? Ideas that came in the night?’

  ‘Yes.’ Crofty dabbed his brow. ‘You’ve suffered a huge loss. Your dad was a big man and he’s left behind a big hole. Don’t fill it up with bad news. Remember what I said, let yourself grieve.’

  Robert turned curious. ‘With a drink? Maybe one too many?’

  ‘There are worse ways.’

  Robert liked that one. Crofty had hit the nail on the head. ‘You’re right. There’s a lot worse, if you put your mind to it.’

  Pulling back his chair, Robert sat down, wondering how he was going to relate to Andrew Taylor normally. He felt a flush of confused antagonism. The man was now a part of his life. He was camped on the outskirts of his grief. To avoid his willing glances, Robert opened the letter that had revealed Edmund Littlemore’s whereabouts. He read it slowly:

  Why have you given up?

  Victims always need help to speak out.

  Otherwise they get silenced by private agreements.

  Don’t let that happen.

  The American is hiding at Larkwood Priory.

  Do not delay. If he leaves, you’ll never find him again.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Taylor. He was no longer Andrew in Robert’s mind.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What I said. I know your dad died recently and I more than understand if you’re distracted. Death’s a hard one. Not nice. Difficult to find a place on the shelf.’

  ‘What shelf?’

  ‘You know … the place for memories. Things you don’t want but can’t throw away.’

  Robert’s mind turned misty but he glimpsed the outline of what must be happening: Taylor was making a bid for some kind of affiliation. He was using compassion as a kind of glue. Robert reached for his mug of coffee.

  ‘Thanks, Andrew. That’s really thoughtful. You see, he was no ordinary man, my dad. Devoted to my mother. Wonderful with me. More of a friend, as I got older.’ Despite himself, Robert became serious; he’d evoked the man. ‘As a kid he was always there when I came home, always there when I came running’ – Robert pulled out of the downward spiral – ‘I don’t think I’ll ever get over his passing.’

  ‘Maybe you won’t. Maybe you’ll just come to—’

  ‘I don’t want your advice.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t want your sympathy, either.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘No, you don’t. And stop looking at me like you want to carry the shopping. I don’t want your help.’

  Robert’s mother had held onto this man; she’d kissed him hungrily. She’d sat in her empty house waiting for him to call as soon as he got home. The future was theirs. Robert felt his stomach turn: this sticky attempt to establish a bond must be all part of the plan, the next stage after Taylor had started work on the paper. He’d been assigned to Robert on the day of the funeral … which meant the plan itself was conceived beforehand … even while his father was waiting to be buried. Robert gazed at Taylor, suddenly sure that he’d been the quick thinker, that the scheme had been his invention. Robert swallowed and said:

  ‘Have you given any thought to the Littlemore story?’

  Taylor had. And Robert listened, preparing to mock.

  ‘This is the chronology,’ he said, tur
ning over the pages of his reporter’s notebook until he came to a neatly written list. ‘One: Littlemore attacks an eleven-year-old boy. Two: Littlemore is questioned the same week by the police and he runs from the station. Three: a couple of days later, someone sends research about Father Anselm to Littlemore by fax. Four: three days after that, Littlemore goes to Larkwood Priory. Five: six months later, you receive a letter written on an old-fashioned typewriter telling you to expose Littlemore and where to find him. Six: when you actually get there, Father Anselm is away.’

  Robert made a deriding smile. Taylor was frowning importantly, tapping his pad with a pencil.

  ‘My first thought is that whoever sent the fax to Littlemore knows someone at Larkwood Priory.’

  Robert had already come to the same conclusion. ‘Any second thoughts?’

  ‘Yes. I wonder if three belongs with number five.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t make an inventory.’

  ‘Is there a link between the fax and the typewriter … between fading and obsolete technology? I mean is the person who sent the fax to Littlemore the same person who wrote the letter to you?’

  Robert couldn’t respond. His mother’s special friend was onto something. Taylor spelled out the implications: ‘If so, that would mean the person who sent Littlemore to Larkwood is the same person who sent you there to find him.’

  Robert had to accept it: Taylor had raised a critical question, because if the fax and letter did belong together, it meant that either Littlemore had been set up, along with Father Anselm and the community – or Littlemore had cooperated in his own capture, deliberately implicating the monk and his brothers … and that was inconceivable. Taylor continued his train of thought, not looking up, not daring to provoke another rebuke:

  ‘So it looks like this Father Anselm and his community and Littlemore have all been brought together so that, when you finally expose him, Littlemore will be compromised. He’ll be seen to have run away from what he did, seeking shelter among people who ought to have called the police. He’ll be convicted when he’s brought to trial.’

  Robert didn’t entirely agree, but he was moving further down the track: why would anyone do that? There was only one answer, and Taylor – maddeningly – was already there:

  ‘Which means that whoever wrote the fax and the letter knows for sure that Littlemore is guilty. And they also know that the boy daren’t open his mouth … so they’ve decided to trap Littlemore themselves.’

  Robert’s disdain couldn’t expunge his amazement. Where had this drifter learned to think so cleanly? To see into the mind of someone driven to bring justice to a child who couldn’t speak for himself? Where had he learned to second-guess a secret vigilante? In Lusaka? On the London Underground? Behind the bar on a Brittany ferry?

  ‘Whoever they are, they’ve made a mistake,’ said Robert.

  ‘Why?’ Taylor closed his pad.

  ‘Because showing Littlemore went into hiding isn’t enough to prove he’s guilty. The boy will still have to say what happened. Otherwise there’ll be no trial … and whoever tried to trap him will have wasted their time.’

  Swivelling round on his chair to escape Taylor’s hangdog expression, Robert rang Stuart Greene, an old school friend at British Telecom who (for a tenner) did odd jobs to promote responsible journalism.

  Tracing a fax account would be no problem (he said). Robert gave him the number. On finishing the call there was a ring before Robert had even let go of the receiver.

  It was Sanjay Kumar.

  Robert all but ran to the Fish Tank. Crofty’s freckles turned warm and he called the Guardian offering them an exclusive – ‘You’ve finally done it, son; you’ve got a story that’s too big for your own paper’ – and within the hour Robert was on the phone to the US embassy and the archdiocese of Boston, checking background details while he tapped at his computer, struggling to get the words right, doing his best to be fair. Shortly after he’d sent the article, his inbox went ‘ping’. The news editor at the Guardian was pleased. In fact, having seen Robert’s work before, he suggested a meeting. Perhaps there was ‘a conversation we might have’. It was awful, really. Robert was flowering out of dirt. Instinctively, he glanced over to Crofty, the man who’d nurtured and guided his career, even to the point of sacrificing the best scoop his unimportant paper had ever landed.

  But his dad’s best friend was preoccupied. He was staring at the ground, pretty certain that his star journalist was onto another scandal. Somehow – Crofty was thinking – Robert knows; he’s found out about Andrew. He was onto another story of betrayal and shattered trust. A family affair.

  17

  There’d been nothing to worry about. Nonetheless, and overruling Anselm’s protestations, the consultant in A&E had insisted on admitting him to a ward for twenty-four hours’ observation. ‘Consider yourself lucky,’ he’d said, not sure Anselm bought into the concept of chance. On arriving back at Larkwood late the next day, the Prior judged Anselm to be fine – a bit too swiftly for Anselm’s liking – being more concerned with the well-being of Edmund Littlemore. On hearing of the crime alleged against him the Prior’s eyes closed.

  ‘Have you called the police?’ he asked, under his breath.

  ‘I was waiting to see you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought we ought to have a conversation first.’

  The Prior showed his annoyance. ‘Prudence takes precedence over propriety.’

  They walked into the cloister. The Prior wanted the facts, and quickly.

  ‘Kester Newman is my main source. He’s dispassionate. He’s observant. He’s reliable.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  Anselm felt the first stirrings of a headache. ‘Edmund Littlemore comes from the States, joins the Lambertines but is then sent to Sierra Leone. It’s rumoured that Carrington was shifting a problem character off the map, only it didn’t work. Littlemore comes back and is reprimanded. He’s then moved to south London, meets the Brandwell family and ends up being accused of a sexual attack. Shortly afterwards he comes to Larkwood.’

  ‘Using a false name.’

  Anselm wanted water, but there was none to hand. He sat down between two pillars, listening to the splash of the fountain at the centre of the Garth: ‘Upon Littlemore’s disappearance, Martin Brandwell visits Carrington. Kester thinks Brandwell has found out that complaints had been made against Littlemore in Boston and Freetown. He’s angry because nothing was done and now his grandson has been harmed. They argue because Brandwell is blaming Carrington for failing to act. But it’s an odd argument because afterwards neither of them cooperates with the police. Neither of them wants a trial.’

  ‘They made some kind of agreement?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  ‘To conceal Littlemore’s past?’

  ‘That’s what it looks like.’

  ‘Along with the attack on Harry?’

  ‘That’s what Kester thinks.’

  The Prior’s pacing hadn’t strayed beyond the evening shadows thrown by the two pillars. On the turn, and worried, he said, ‘And you think differently?’

  ‘I do,’ replied Anselm. ‘Because afterwards Carrington comes to Larkwood incognito. He takes great pains to say that Littlemore has done nothing wrong. But he wants me to find out why he ran away. And that was a very significant request.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he must have known that the first person I’d ask would be the Lambertine Provincial.’

  ‘Carrington himself?’

  ‘Exactly. He wanted me to turn up at Ealing. And when I did, he was waiting for me. But he wouldn’t tell me anything. Instead he rebuffs me in the presence of Kester, who’d been kept on hand, waxing a floor for days on end; someone guaranteed to follow me and reveal what I needed to know.’

  ‘But why would Carrington go to such lengths?’

  ‘To get behind the agreement with Martin Brandwell. Regardless of the evidence stacked against him, Carrington is say
ing Littlemore is innocent; and he’s asked me to help him, not just find him.’

  ‘But why enter into an agreement that frustrates your own objectives?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Carrington is obviously trapped. And that’s why he came to me in the first place.’

  ‘I can’t share your confidence.’

  Anselm had to stumble on. The Prior was like a man running away, though he hadn’t left the narrow band of fading light between the shadows.

  ‘I have another source. The best kind. Someone with nothing to gain and everything to lose from saying what they know.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘A witness at the heart of the family.’

  Anselm explained about Fraser and his intimate connection to the Brandwells, his loyalty to Justin and his devotion to Harry. He leaned forward, animated and sure:

  ‘Harry Brandwell can’t speak to his own family, so he’s turned to this complete outsider. He’s told the person you’d least expect what he can’t tell anyone else: that he was assaulted by his own grandfather.’

  ‘Fraser told you this explicitly?’

  ‘Not in so many words, but he left no room for doubt. Harry confides in him. Even his parents said so. And if you want corroboration, it was his grandfather who silenced him before he was interviewed by the police.’

  The Prior didn’t seem to have heard. He looked trapped. Anselm made a stronger appeal:

  ‘Fraser’s there all the time, barely noticed by anyone. They think he’s an old fool who can’t even spell his name. But he’s watching the boy and watching his family. He understands why Harry can’t speak and he’s frustrated that he can’t speak himself. And so he’s turned to me. He wants me to find out what he knows to be true but can’t reveal.’

  ‘But why would Martin Brandwell want Littlemore to remain in hiding?’