The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I suppose in the evenings it was all DVDs and chocolate because – let’s face facts – you deserved some reward for putting up with all those castles and churches?’

  ‘No, it was pizzas.’

  ‘Eating in front of the screen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nothing better. Unfortunately my Prior won’t hear of it.’ The transition from irrelevance to pertinence was so smooth that Father Anselm hardly seemed to shift direction: ‘When you gave that first video interview where was Father Eddie?’

  ‘At home, I suppose.’

  ‘And where would that be?’

  ‘Here in London.’

  ‘Not far away from where you lived in Clapham?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Just down the road in Mitcham? A few stops on the Tube?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you say nothing because you were worried Father Eddie might say you were lying?’

  Harry didn’t reply, so Father Anselm came from another angle: ‘Your grandfather spoke to you before you were interviewed, didn’t he?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘You have great respect for your granddad, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because he can be strict. He’s got high standards. And I’m one of those people who think boys like someone who draws a line and makes it clear you can’t cross it. Am I right?’

  Harry nodded again and Father Anselm added, even as the boy was agreeing with him, ‘Did your granddad urge you to tell the truth? When you saw him on your own, did he say, “Harry, you must always tell the truth”?’

  Harry didn’t react. For a moment he looked like the boy in the first video interview, but then, very quietly, he said, ‘Yes. That’s exactly what he said.’

  Robert edged forward, his pen noting not just Harry’s admission, but the reaction of the jury. Father Anselm was nodding at Harry, as if they’d come to a deep understanding; one they could build upon. He proceeded in a voice suggesting that he, too, was going to make an admission:

  ‘Now, I met you for the first time the night before you gave the second video interview. Do you remember?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We were in the garden. And you wondered where Father Eddie might be. I couldn’t tell you he was at Larkwood because I’d got all tangled up. I couldn’t speak honestly, so I didn’t say anything at all. But you did. Do you remember where you thought he might be?’

  ‘I thought he might have gone to Spain.’

  ‘That’s right. You said, “He’s out of reach”.’

  Harry nodded. Father Anselm continued:

  ‘And then you asked me, “Is it always wrong not to tell the truth?”, and I didn’t know what to say, did I? I’m still not so sure, but I reckon you already knew the answer because your granddad had told you once before. You just didn’t like what he’d said. Because it was too simple. It was kids’ stuff. Am I right?’

  Harry nodded with a kind of relief. At last someone was putting words into his mouth that were true.

  ‘My guess, Harry, is that when I left that garden you decided to answer the question yourself, feeling sure that you’d never see Father Eddie again, because Father Eddie was far off on a beach in Spain getting a suntan.’

  Harry’s relief had subsided; he was frowning now, head slightly angled as if ready to push back.

  ‘Is that why you gave an interview the next day?’ asked Father Anselm.

  Harry’s expression said he wasn’t going to reply. But Father Anselm had drawn a line, too, and he wasn’t going to let it be ignored. He wanted the truth:

  ‘When you told your mum you wanted to talk to Sanjay, is it because you thought no one would ever find Father Eddie?’

  Harry was staring at his questioner.

  ‘Did you think you could say anything you liked, because Father Eddie couldn’t answer back?’

  Still no response. Father Anselm seemed to relent:

  ‘Did you think it didn’t matter what you said because Father Eddie wouldn’t get into trouble? Because he was on the Costa del Sol where even famous criminals can live the good life without worrying about the police in Britain?’

  There was a long pause as Harry looked towards what Robert assumed was the door out of the link room and the court clerk sitting on a chair. There was no escape. Harry’s eyes came back to the screen.

  ‘Father Eddie was never in Spain,’ said Father Anselm, after waiting for Harry’s attention to return. ‘I knew. You didn’t. But what neither you nor I could ever have known was that Father Eddie, if and when he was found, would refuse to speak: that he would keep his promise to you. So, what you say is very important. No one is going to contradict—’

  ‘What happened to me happened.’ Harry was angry with a tearless, voice-cracking rage. ‘Everything I said is true … everything … it all happened, only it wasn’t Father Eddie, it was someone else. I just wish—’

  ‘Pause there, Harry,’ said Father Anselm, raising his hand in a gesture of calm. ‘You can’t run away from this trial by telling me what I want to hear. You’ve tried that with your mum and Sanjay, maybe, and it doesn’t work, does it? The need to tell the truth keeps chasing after you, and I’m sorry, but it is very important. Your granddad, in this instance, is absolutely right.’

  ‘Father Eddie was really kind,’ said Harry. ‘He made me laugh and he taught me the King’s Indian Defence. He only tried to help me. I said I’d speak if we were alone, if my mum wasn’t in the building, it had to be just me and him and no one else, and he could never repeat what I said, and after I’d told him, he said he’d have to talk to my mum and dad, he said he’d have to speak to the police and that’s when I ran away and that’s when my mum started asking questions and—’

  Again Father Anselm had raised a friendly hand. ‘Let’s take this a little more slowly. Is that why you threw the ship-in-a-bottle against the wall? Because you felt betrayed?’

  ‘Yes, he said it would all be between us, and then he said he’d have to tell someone else. He’d promised to say nothing. I’d said I’d only speak if he made the promise and he made the promise. I’d tried to tell the counsellor at school. She was kind, too, but she said a door had to be left open and she wouldn’t make the promise and Father Eddie was the only one who understood and then he went and let me down.’

  Father Anselm was smiling very sadly. ‘I wonder if he was asking himself a similar question to the one that bothered you. Is it always wrong to break a promise? Maybe Father Eddie was as troubled as you were about whether it’s always wrong not to tell the truth?’

  Harry agreed with his eyes. He looked exhausted. And alone … criminally alone. There was something grotesque happening in the court: an abandoned child was on screen and no one could reach him, no one could help him. Not his family, not the police and not the courts.

  ‘Harry, this is the judge speaking.’ Mr Justice Keating, formidable and stern, had become the Old Bailey’s nodding grandfather. ‘I want you to relax now, all right? I want you to take a glass of water and calm down. You’ve been a very brave young man. But I’ve got a few questions for you.’

  Harry drank some water offered by the clerk in the link room.

  ‘Why have you not told someone in your family about this before?’ Harry held onto the glass, blinking at the screen. ‘I was hoping someone else would explain what had happened. I was hoping they wouldn’t let Father Eddie get into trouble for something he didn’t do.’

  ‘Someone else?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I can’t say.’

  ‘Is this what you’ve been waiting for, since Father Eddie was arrested?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And all through this trial?’

  ‘Yes. Every day I’ve hoped they’d go to the police, but they haven’t done. They left me here to explain.’

  Mr Justice Keating nodded, sad like Father Anselm. Sad like Robert and everyone w
atching. This young boy had been forced to grow into a world of deceit where the truth is flushed out by pressure. He’d tried and failed.

  ‘Harry, were you assaulted at Harlech?’

  Harry simply looked at the judge; yet something in the boy’s manner suggested he’d turned aside.

  ‘Who was responsible? Have no fear. This court is here to protect you.’

  But Harry was frightened and the court couldn’t protect him. And Robert knew the boy was right: no court can protect someone from the consequences of speaking the truth about their family. The roof comes down. Relationships are destroyed for ever. Against themselves, those who love you blame you, too, never wanting to reveal their disappointment, their preference for a world of familiar, warming illusions. Robert felt the bitterness in his mouth. If he hadn’t been in court, he’d have spat on the floor.

  ‘There are people here who can help you, Harry,’ said Mr Justice Keating.

  ‘I’d like to go now,’ he replied. Before the court’s eyes – or Robert’s, at least – a barricade was under construction that would cut Harry off from the outside world. Built from his own fear and the incapacity of anyone to reach him, the thing was rising by the second. Like the Berlin Wall, it would be finished by morning. There was a hint of early cheek, too, from behind the wire, because Harry hadn’t waited for permission. He’d already gone towards the door.

  ‘Well, Mr Grainger, it’s difficult to imagine a more complete retraction of the case against this defendant.’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘In those circumstances …’

  * * *

  Robert didn’t wait for the formalities to be completed. He, too, wanted to escape. Only he felt a total amateur at self-protection. Maybe it was because he’d grown up, but he couldn’t build that defensive wall. Maybe the skill evaporated as you got older – a strange mercy that meant as an adult you had to face facts. But what of Harry Brandwell, who was still a child? The hack from the Telegraph had turned to Robert and said, ‘What a lying little bastard.’ A tabloid trainee had gone considerably further. No wonder Harry hadn’t dared to speak at the beginning: to be believed, there could be no half-measures; there was no room for hesitation; you had to go the distance; and in his young mind, Harry had known this. He’d known that if he faltered only once, his universe would split right open, dividing those who were still prepared to listen from those who’d never listen again, leaving him to flounder between the two. And so he’d made his choice. And it had been horrifying. He’d turned his back on the lot of them. From now on he was lost to everyone. He’d chosen silence. He’d grow up safely enclosed, never learning those other vital skills that bring fulfilment and happiness, only acquired when you reach out and trust someone.

  When Robert got outside, he paused to watch the camera crews and photographers. They’d got wind of something interesting and were jostling at the barriers. They’d have something decent to broadcast; something worthwhile to write about. Robert moved off, wearied of his chosen profession. But most of all he was confused: what had Littlemore been up to? He’d fled from the States and been kicked out of Sierra Leone. And more urgently, what was Father Anselm going to do about Justin Brandwell? Letting his imagination wander, he thought of the Wall. It wasn’t finished, yet. If there was a chance to save Harry from himself and his family, it was in the monk’s hands and no one else’s.

  You’ve got till morning, he thought. After that, you can forget it.

  41

  Cornered in the robing room, Anselm could only nod while Grainger lamented the outcome, lamented the investigation and lamented modern youth. Softening, he lamented sex cases in general. They were so damned delicate. So bloody unpredictable. Then, with a sigh, he apologised for any unfounded imputations: ‘All part of the job, I’m afraid … but if I was that boy’s father I’d string him to the ceiling.’ Thus reconciled, Grainger let Anselm pass. Taking his bag, he went straight to Court Twelve to find Littlemore, only he was Edmund now, because he was innocent. The distance between them had vanished. Many questions remained to be answered, but some were more urgent than others. They left the Old Bailey, nudging their way through the photographers and news crews, away from the couple with their accusing banner, and made for the Viaduct Tavern on Newgate Street, the pub that had once been a prison. A boy on the far side of the road followed them for a while, giving up when he realised they weren’t that famous. Anselm ordered a couple of whiskies and went straight to a small round table in a far corner. Sitting down, he said:

  ‘What’s going on, Edmund?’

  ‘I can’t tell you. I’ve made promises.’

  ‘You don’t always have to keep them.’

  ‘These aren’t that kind.’

  Anselm took a large mouthful, leaned back, groaned and closed his eyes. ‘Have you been silenced by your Order? Has Carrington?’

  ‘I’ve made promises.’

  ‘Did Carrington inherit a nightmare from Murphy?’

  ‘I’ve made promises.’

  ‘How the hell do you know Dunstan?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Carrington?’

  ‘Dunstan was his tutor at Cambridge. Pushed him towards a career in the Foreign Office but he joined the Lambertines instead. Dunstan remained a guide. Irascible, I’m told … frequently unpleasant, often insulting, unpredictable, but above all a friend to anyone whose life has fallen apart.’

  So, in this confusing drama, Carrington was the first to have been compromised. He’d turned to the one man likely to understand, an embittered, disappointed outsider with a fertile imagination. Anselm could still hardly believe it: Edmund’s coming to Larkwood had been dreamed up by Dunstan. But it hadn’t been to trap Edmund. He’d known Edmund was innocent all along. So who’d been his target? Who was the man he wanted to trap … for himself and for Carrington?

  ‘You’re almost there,’ murmured Edmund, leaning over the small table. ‘You’ve found out everything you need to know … at one point, I thought you’d cracked it there and then, in court … the answers are all within your grasp. Just reach out.’

  ‘Why did you track down Justin Brandwell? Why did you try to become his friend?’

  Edmund shook his head. This was the territory of promises again. He, like Carrington, had been compromised. They’d both been silenced.

  ‘Why did you collect all those reminiscences on Father Tabley?’

  Another shake.

  ‘Does the memoir exist?’

  Edmund leaned forward, elbows on the table: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  ‘It’ll tell you nothing you don’t know already. It’s a book of stories.’

  ‘What were you doing in Sierra Leone?’

  ‘The same thing I was doing in England.’

  Anselm couldn’t join the dots. He couldn’t make the connection between Justin Brandwell and … these others, like Harry. People who’d chosen silence, or had silence imposed upon them, somehow … because they’d made promises. What was the point of contact between Justin and the Lambertines? There had to be one, otherwise Carrington wouldn’t have turned to Dunstan and Dunstan wouldn’t have devised his crazy scheme. Anselm felt like giving up. ‘Where do all the roads meet? What’s the one answer to all the questions?’

  Anselm all but saw Dunstan rise from his deathbed, hollowed eyes wide, a hand clutching at Anselm’s sleeve before those final grains landed at the bottom of the hourglass. ‘Les extrêmes se touchent,’ he gasped. And then the vision was gone. Anselm was blinking at Edmund who, seeing the fright in Anselm’s face, had been unnerved, too.

  ‘Go to Larkwood and wait for me there,’ said Anselm. ‘Bring George Carrington with you.’

  ‘Do you now see what’s happened?’

  ‘Not fully, no. Ask me again after I’ve spoken to Justin Brandwell.’

  Edmund nodded with exhausted satisfaction. It was as though the end was almost near. His work almost done. For a brief second, Anselm thought Edmund might b
reak down: the strain had finally got too much; but he didn’t. And Anselm knew why: because his concern was for the others … who were now, at last, within reach.

  On leaving the Viaduct Tavern Anselm stopped in his tracks. On the far side of Newgate Street stood the boy who’d followed Anselm and Edmund from court. He was watching the pub entrance and now, seeing Anselm emerge, he beckoned with his hand like a pupil trying to attract the attention of a teacher. He had something important to say. He had the troubled look of someone about to break a promise.

  Part Five

  Harry kept his head down. His eyes roved, recognising everyone’s footwear: his father’s suede shoes, his mother’s blue ankle boots, his grandmother’s heeled sandals and his grandfather’s black brogues. Everyone’s but Uncle Justin’s, because Uncle Justin wasn’t there. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t dared show his face since the collapse of the trial. They’d come home to Clapham, filing into the sitting room, no one capable of speaking, no one able to frame the right question for the boy who’d lied from the word go. Rather than break the ice, they went in and out of the room, whispering in the kitchen or corridor, returning to sit down or walk to the window. Harry just watched their shoes moving across the wooden floorboards.

  He knew what they were thinking.

  They were all thinking about that report from Mr Whitefield. The one about Harry telling lies to Mrs Quirke about the broken window and to Mr Elliot about the chocolate bar. They were all asking themselves if he’d lied at school and lied to his parents and lied to Sanjay … then maybe he’d lied in court. They were all feeling sick: maybe nothing had happened to Harry at all. The boy had caused a storm out of nothing, to steal some attention roused by Neil Harding’s death.

  But that’s not all they were thinking. There was something else.

  They were rehearsing the monk’s insinuations about Uncle Justin. Those pointed questions about the key and Harlech. They were wondering if anything had occurred during those two hours that Harry had been away. They were asking themselves the inconceivable: was it possible that Justin could have … but that’s how they found the assurance they needed, making sighs of relief whenever they left the room: it was just inconceivable. Ludicrous. Justin was his grandparents’ son, his father’s brother and Harry’s uncle. He’d founded the Bowline. So if Justin had done nothing wrong, what did that leave?