The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘When did you come back from your summer holiday?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘After cycling around the Ring of Kerry. What was the date of your return?’

  ‘The end of August … the thirty-first.’

  ‘You went by car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When did you get home?’

  ‘Late in the evening.’

  ‘Did Harry eat anything on the way?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Food. Nourishment. Did Harry eat?’

  ‘I can’t recall.’

  ‘Please try.’

  Dominic closed his washed-out eyes, rehearsing the incidentals of that homeward journey. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘He went to school the next morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he want any breakfast?’

  ‘I’m sorry I just don’t remember. And how could it possibly matter? A boy met his death, for heaven’s sake. Who cares what Harry ate beforehand? Harry was shattered afterwards.’

  ‘Did he want to stay at home that morning?’

  ‘Of course he did. What do you expect? He was upset the holiday was over.’

  ‘Did he say as much?’

  ‘No, but it was obvious.’ Dominic’s impatience flared. ‘And he went to school and by the end of the day his life had changed. Have you forgotten that?’

  ‘Far from it, Mr Brandwell.’

  It seemed that Anselm’s intuition had been confirmed, but he decided to leave the subject for the moment; he’d return to it with Emily in due course. Instead he opted to remind Dominic of another lapse of memory.

  ‘You said Harry refused to talk to you, your wife or any professional.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about your brother, Justin?’

  ‘Oh yes, I’m sorry … he tried too. He took Harry rock climbing in North Wales.’

  ‘You were present?’

  ‘Yes, with Emily. We watched them climb to a ledge that Justin calls “Speakers’ Corner”. He often goes there with people from the Bowline.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘He says when people get perspective, they can speak. You always need some distance. And up there, you can look down on the world as if it was made yesterday. For some people it’s a key.’

  Anselm was roused by the symmetry of place and purpose. ‘Did it turn for Harry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about your brother? Did it turn for him?’

  ‘I assume so.’

  ‘Do you know what he said?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Did he give you any advice afterwards?’

  ‘Yes … he said don’t ask Harry any more questions. He said leave him alone.’

  Anselm nodded to himself; then he reached for a handhold that might not be there. ‘Keys turn in two directions, of course. Have you considered that your brother might have turned it the other way? Not to open but to shut?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You weren’t there.’

  ‘Neither were you.’

  Anselm sat down, feeling the chill of that Welsh mountain air. The next person to question Harry Brandwell after that climb in Wales had been Anselm. In the boy’s back garden. By then he’d concluded that Littlemore was somewhere in Spain – a very adult reflection. Out of reach. Sunning himself.

  32

  Martin Brandwell left the public gallery. He went quickly down the stairs, through security, and out of the Old Bailey, heading east along Ludgate Hill towards St Paul’s Cathedral. Nipping down a side street he pushed open the door of a small café. Justin was waiting, sitting at a table in a far corner.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ said Martin, sitting down, already lying.

  A waiter brought coffee and then withdrew. Justin was handling a glass salt cellar, turning it round and round, watching the white crystals fall. There were grains of rice, too.

  ‘They look like maggots,’ he said, giving the cellar another shake.

  ‘I said there’s nothing to worry about.’

  Justin looked up. His eyes were red, his skin white as plaster. Martin’s heart almost stopped: his boy was falling apart once more. If inner filth could bleed, Justin’s blood would be spreading like a dark pool, reaching for the door and the outside world. Martin placed his hands around his son’s, bringing them together around the salt pot. He kept them there as if to keep a wound closed.

  ‘He’s cross-examined Maisie and Dominic,’ said Martin. ‘He knows nothing, I promise you. Littlemore has remained silent … no one is going to know. This will be over soon. Hold yourself together … please, my boy.’

  Justin had been like this before the breakdown. He’d started twitching around the mouth, laughing suddenly, crying quickly, laughing some more and then he’d fallen on his knees, his chest heaving in silence. An hour or so later he’d been all smiles, absolutely carefree … just like a kid about to go on holiday … excited and silly … and that night he’d taken an overdose. Heroin. To this day Maisie thought it had been sleeping tablets. The guilt and shame had finally burst out, like an abscess at the centre of his conscience. Martin had hoped for healing but now he realised how foolish he’d been: how do you heal a sickness for which there’s no cure?

  ‘Your mother will never find out, Justin,’ breathed Martin, as if he’d climbed to Speakers’ Corner. ‘She’s going to live out her years without knowing … if that is what you want.’

  ‘There’s no other way.’

  ‘Are you really so sure?’

  Justin barked, neck bent, face lifted: ‘Yes.’

  Martin raised his hands and cradled his son’s head. But Justin wouldn’t look at him. He tried to pull away, closing his eyes, but Martin wouldn’t release him.

  ‘Are you clean?’ asked Martin, quietly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Truthfully?’

  ‘Yes, honestly.’ Justin was crying; he leaned back, and Martin had to let go. The world seem to slip from his fingers. ‘I’m just so tired, Dad … I can’t get away. I can’t escape … I can’t shake off who I am … what I’ve become. What I’ve done.’ Tears of exhaustion ran down his cheek. ‘I can’t get clean in the way that matters most …’

  ‘Let me talk to your mother. Let’s get everything out into the open.’

  Justin was hopeless. ‘It wouldn’t make any difference. I remain the same. So what’s the point?’

  ‘Because you wouldn’t remain the same. Even you can change.’ Martin was desperate. He’d been using shining phrases for seven years now. A small table had never felt so large. He couldn’t even reach the other side. ‘There’s hope for everyone, no matter what they’ve done. A fresh start is always possible.’

  ‘Who told you that? The Chief?’

  ‘No, you did. You founded the Bowline. You, too, can get help, but you have to speak.’

  ‘Speaking doesn’t always work, Dad. It can’t work for me, you know that …’ Justin’s voice trailed off. He dried his face with a sleeve and nodded at the waiter for another coffee. They were quiet, Justin twirling the salt cellar, Martin handling the pepper.

  ‘You promised to support me,’ said Justin.

  ‘I have done. And I always will. But the harm is ongoing … I didn’t imagine what might happen to Harry. That secrets breed secrets.’

  Justin’s lip and cheek quivered with a sort of electric jolt. ‘Mum isn’t to know … and that’s final, okay?’

  Martin nodded obediently. The cost of the secret was his subordination. It kept Justin clean, even as it dirtied his father. The waiter came and went. Justin reached for the sugar. His face was still now.

  ‘You should have kept away from Littlemore,’ said Martin, quietly.

  ‘I tried. But he wouldn’t leave me be; he knew what he was after. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t know what he wanted.’

  Martin put the pepper pot down.

  ‘Littlemore will be convicted.’

  Justin tasted his coffee. He di
dn’t seem to have heard.

  ‘And then we help Harry face the future,’ said Martin, forced to move on.

  Justin’s eyes were glazed.

  ‘This can be your way of—’

  Martin stopped because Justin had raised a finger of warning. He’d always done that when his dad threatened to go off limits. Over the years, Martin had come to sense where the boundaries lay in Justin’s mind. If he strayed, Justin would give the signal. A sort of tension came between them, like the hum of an electric fence. Hearing it now, Martin retreated.

  ‘I’d better get back to court.’ He hesitated, wanting to heave Justin out of the pit he’d dug for himself. But it was too deep, too dark. He was somewhere out of sight, at the bottom. ‘I’m with you, son,’ he managed.

  ‘No, Dad,’ replied Justin. His cheek quivered and he laughed. ‘I once thought you could share this with me, but you can’t. I’m on my own.’

  As Martin left the café, he stifled a spasm of grief. The weight of guilt for his collusion was nothing compared with the unbearable sight of Justin damaged and damaging, the evil running deep and wide, eating away the relationships that ought to bring him fulfilment and happiness. His own son was like a disease. Martin almost stumbled into the gutter. For the first time in his life, he wished his wife was dead.

  On righting himself, he looked across the road. A man was walking away but there was no doubt. It was Fraser … but the fear roused at seeing him was quickly followed by a deeper, more primitive reaction. Martin was scalded by jealousy and guilt. This was the man who’d won Harry’s confidence; this was the man he trusted more than anyone, including his grandfather. Could any indictment be worse?

  33

  Even as Emily was speaking – upset by Anselm’s interest in the marginal – Anselm realised he’d uncovered potentially significant evidence. Evidence that might yet harden into a defence. First, however, he’d picked at the lining of Grainger’s case.

  After taking the stand, Emily had confirmed her husband’s account of Harry’s behaviour; she’d stressed, under Grainger’s careful direction, that the defendant had suggested after the first meeting that he see Harry alone and that Emily had not been present in the building thereafter, and that Harry had come out of the third encounter so distressed he couldn’t relate what had happened to him; she’d then explained how she called the police and how, during the subsequent video interview, Harry was unable to open his mouth. Cross-examined by Anselm, she admitted that Harry hadn’t in fact accused Littlemore … that she had suggested Littlemore’s name … after Harry had thrown the ship-in-a-bottle against the wall. Harry had simply agreed to his mother’s inferences, nodding, but still not speaking. While this was an important concession, it wasn’t out of the ordinary: victims often need such promptings. Thanks to Fraser’s disclosure, Anselm had also brought to light another potentially telling detail: Martin Brandwell had spoken in private to his grandson immediately before the recording. Questioned about the relationship between her father-in-law and Harry, she’d agreed that Martin Brandwell could be intimidating, that Harry had sometimes been frightened of him.

  ‘You can’t be suggesting that Harry’s grandfather persuaded him not to speak?’ Emily said, astonished.

  Anselm then flipped the argument upside down, scoring a small point in Littlemore’s favour. ‘Perhaps he told him to tell the truth … and that’s why Harry couldn’t open his mouth.’

  These were small victories, something for a floundering defence advocate to hang onto when it came to making a speech. However, it was only after returning to territory already tentatively explored with Dominic that Anselm made a significant discovery.

  Potentially significant.

  When reading Harry’s school reports, Anselm had underlined an interesting entry from the pen of Mr Whitefield. Apart from a history of ‘prevarication’ – a nice word for lying when it suited him – Harry had fought with Neil Harding. Twice. They might have learned to talk together in nursery but they weren’t on speaking terms by the time they got to secondary school. And while the young boy’s death was unquestionably shocking, Emily confirmed that Harry wasn’t a witness; he didn’t see the body; he didn’t see the stains on the tarmac; he didn’t meet hysterical classmates running from the accident site. In a vital sense, he’d been cushioned from all that was traumatising for a bystander. He was told about it by a friend who hadn’t seen anything either. Anselm was edging towards the proposition that Harry’s disturbing behaviour might have another explanation – antecedent to Neil Harding’s death. Which is why he’d asked Dominic about the holiday that ended the night before term began. Anselm now returned to the subject with Emily:

  ‘Does it strike you as odd that Harry didn’t eat on the way home? That he didn’t want any breakfast the next day? That he wanted to stay at home?’

  ‘Not especially. We’d had a wonderful holiday.’

  ‘Did Harry say it was wonderful?’

  ‘He didn’t need to … we’d done wonderful things.’

  ‘Did you ask Harry why he wasn’t eating?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I asked him if he was sad to be going back to school and he said, “Yes”.’

  ‘So it was you that mentioned school as the reason? It didn’t come from him?’

  ‘Father, if you had children you wouldn’t ask questions like that. You know what’s bothering your child.’

  ‘Like you knew it was Father Littlemore who assaulted Harry?’

  Emily sighed and looked to the jury. There had to be parents in the box who’d understand what she was trying to say. You have to help children along, and you do that by showing them you understand what they’re feeling. You don’t wait for them to tell you.

  ‘Who went on this holiday to Ireland?’ asked Anselm. His intuition was stirring.

  ‘My husband, Harry, my in-laws – Martin and Maisie – and myself.’

  ‘A cycling venture around the Ring of Kerry?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Anselm thought for a moment. ‘The trip home to London. By car, that’s twelve or thirteen hours, isn’t it? If you take the ferry from Rosslare to Fishguard in South Wales?’

  ‘Yes, but we took a longer route, crossing from Dun Laoghaire to Holyhead.’

  ‘That’s way to the north.’

  ‘Yes, but we were staying the night in Harlech. Splitting the journey into two days. You see Justin has a cottage just outside the town, overlooking Tremadog Bay. He’d been climbing in Snowdonia and we’d arranged to meet up for the evening.’

  While Emily was upset by this excursion into irrelevance, Anselm teased out the detail, his pulse beginning to run. They booked a hotel in the town. They arrived at about two in the afternoon. At six, Harry went to fetch Justin. On his own. A ten-minute stroll. Along the beach. He was back, with his uncle, by eight.

  ‘Two hours later?’

  ‘Harry adores his uncle, Father. They spent some time together while the grown-ups had a lie-down.’

  ‘Did you discuss what they did to pass the time?’

  ‘Of course not … or if we did I can’t remember.’

  ‘How did your brother-in-law appear that evening?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘What was his manner? Was he stressed or flustered in any way?’

  ‘No. He’d been climbing … got lost … fallen and cut his hands and face … but that’s all normal for Justin.’

  ‘Did Harry eat that evening?’

  ‘No. He went straight to bed. The poor thing was exhausted. So we had some adult time.’

  Anselm slowed with the cold impulse of a hunter. ‘Are you aware that loss of appetite is itself a symptom of some significance?’

  ‘It can be, but there was nothing wrong with Harry. We’d spent two weeks pedalling up and down hills and he’d left us all behind.’

  ‘Could you confirm the following for me, please? Harry didn’t eat that night?’<
br />
  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor the next day on the way home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor that night when you got there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And not the next morning when he got up?’

  ‘That’s right. And I don’t know why you keep going on about eating, it’s—’

  ‘Thirty-six hours without any kind of nourishment … and all because he didn’t want to go back to school?’

  Emily was upset and confused. She felt criticised by Anselm, and the humiliation was intense. She thought he was implying that she hadn’t looked after her son properly; that it was her fault terrible things had happened to him. She wasn’t able to imagine what Anselm was pointing towards. But Mr Justice Keating, after years of being ambushed by the unexpected, was more than capable. He put his pen down with a forbidding glance at Grainger. He’d glimpsed part of that foreign land that may or may not be real. Unable to reply, Emily pulled out a tissue and Anselm sat down. He had to control his emotions and his mind. But it wasn’t easy. There was a chance that Littlemore was innocent, because Anselm didn’t credit a trauma in Harlech followed by another in London, with Justin Brandwell and Edmund Littlemore as assailants standing in line. And that meant Harry had lied to Fraser with one story (blaming his grandfather) and lied to the court with another (blaming Father Eddie). It meant that Martin had wanted to avoid this trial to protect Maisie from learning that their son, the survivor who’d come back from the brink to save others, had destroyed Harry’s childhood, that Harry was the living sacrifice to that end, and that Littlemore was just driftwood for the pyre … though why Harry had thrown that ship-in-a-bottle against the wall remained a deeply troubling question.

  But there was much more on the line. If Littlemore was innocent, then the Silent Ones were real, and his and Carrington’s scheme to reach them became critically important. Anselm had to find them. By the same token, if there were no Silent Ones, Littlemore was guilty. He’d brought Anselm on side to conjure a defence out of nothing: to kick up enough dust to cause a doubt in the jury’s mind. The outstanding questions were vital, urgent and decisive: who were the Silent Ones? Why had they chosen obscurity? And how were they connected to Justin Brandwell?