The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  The water in the kettle began to complain. A cupboard door opened and closed. Crockery tinkled. The tug at the fridge produced a sigh.

  ‘What do you mean? A hidden tragedy?’ asked Dominic. He’d blanched.

  Anselm glanced at Maisie. She wasn’t entirely present. She didn’t seem to be listening. Her eyelids twitched.

  ‘I’ve been feeling my way forward,’ said Anselm, ‘trying to understand why Harry would have to lie. Why someone would make him lie. And I’ve come to believe that Harry is not, in fact, alone. There are others. And somehow, in a way that I’m yet to understand, Harry’s trial has brought them within reach. But I need to find the connection between the evidence that unfolded before our eyes and their

  … invisibility.’

  ‘I just don’t understand.’ Emily moved fallen strands of black hair behind an ear. She, too, had paled. ‘There might be others?’

  Anselm was now sure that Justin knew about the Silent Ones, because Martin’s murderous outburst had cleared his mind of any doubts, even as it raised further questions. He advanced tentatively. ‘There’s some connection between the memoir compiled by Edmund Littlemore and a group of people who’ve chosen silence … rather than follow Harry’s example, rather than speak out about what happened to them … only, of course, Harry only made it halfway: there’s still some distance to go. The rest haven’t even begun the journey.’

  ‘Memoir?’ said Maisie, her blinkers seeming to appear whenever her gaze hardened. ‘It doesn’t exist.’

  ‘I’m afraid it does. And the key question is how those stories are linked to the people I’m trying to find. I believe Justin knows the answer.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she scoffed. ‘What makes you think he’d know anything?’

  ‘Because he didn’t provide a statement for the trial.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘It meant I couldn’t ask him any questions. It meant he didn’t have to say anything.’

  ‘Neither did my husband. I made a statement instead.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t know anything, Maisie,’ said Anselm, gently.

  On hearing the remark, Maisie flinched as if blinded, and then the kettle began to whistle, rising to a shrill scream. Just as suddenly, the sound began to fade and Dominic’s confusion became uncontainable: ‘Who silenced my dad?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anselm. ‘But everyone has to speak for themselves. It’s not just Harry who has to find the courage.’

  ‘Why do you think Justin could make any sense of this memoir?’ Dominic was looking over Anselm’s shoulder towards the sitting room window. His shoulders had squared.

  ‘Because he’s the one that Edmund Littlemore went to see first. And afterwards Justin tried to stop you from meeting him. I’d like to know why.’

  ‘Well, you can ask him right now.’

  Dominic left the room as the front doorbell rang. He returned, standing behind his brother like a prison guard. Halting suddenly, Justin scanned the expectant faces, his tormented stare finally alighting upon the splintered table. While he tried to interpret the atmosphere and the damage, Martin sidled past him carrying a tray. He’d repositioned his maroon tie. He was smart and silvered again, only the hardness had gone. He even seemed younger. But he didn’t acknowledge his son. Not because he didn’t love him. On the contrary, he did – he must do, thought Anselm. Rather it was the outcome of a decision made while he looked for the Earl Grey in the kitchen: the refusal to resuscitate a once sacred lie. An arrangement between father and son had been slain.

  ‘Sorry, Father, I can’t find a lemon. Have you ever tried lime?’

  44

  Anselm had hoped to find Justin and speak to him privately about Harlech and about the memoir: he’d hoped to find the link between the two because, while Anselm had exposed Justin as Harry’s attacker, he couldn’t picture how Justin was implicated in a wider scandal involving the Lambertine Order or how that scandal might involve the Bowline, if, indeed, there were any connections at all. These were the remaining, critical questions and only Justin knew the answers. Carrington, Littlemore and Martin Brandwell had all been silenced. Getting Justin to speak was therefore vital. If needs be, he would have to be broken down … gently and kindly so he didn’t clam up and refuse to cooperate. And now was the moment to do it, in the aftermath of the trial, when he was weak and frightened. But Anselm had lost control of the encounter. He’d lost control of the entire meeting. Dominic was in charge.

  ‘My son stole a knife, Justin. The eight-inch kitchen variety. It seems he planned to stick it in your back. Any idea why?’

  ‘I’m going to see Harry,’ said Emily, unable to take the strain. ‘He’ll have heard all the noise and I want to tell him everything’s fine.’ Her eyes were almost closed as she made for the door.

  ‘Would you like some tea, Justin?’ said Maisie but Dominic silenced her with a punch to the door.

  ‘Tea isn’t always the answer, Mum. It might have been when we were kids, but it isn’t any more.’ He turned on Justin. ‘Dad said he’s been silenced. What the hell does that mean? For once look me in the eye for longer than a second and tell me if—’

  Anselm intervened. ‘This isn’t the way to proceed, Dominic. Trust me. Let’s just—’

  ‘You’re out of your depth, Father. You don’t know what it is to have a child. You don’t know what it is to have a son. You don’t know what it is to go upstairs and smell his burning skin. If you did, you wouldn’t be sitting there with your arms folded. You’d feel something here’ – he stabbed his gut – ‘you wouldn’t sleep at night. You wouldn’t eat. You wouldn’t give a second thought to—’

  ‘Harry? Harry?’ Emily was opening doors, walking along a corridor. ‘Harry? Where are you?’ She came halfway down the stairs. ‘He’s not in his room.’ But Dominic wasn’t going to be sidetracked. He’d moved from the doorway towards his brother. The quiet guy with the books and maps was capable of the outdoor stuff too.

  ‘Don’t worry. Harry probably went out for a walk while his granddad was wrecking the table. He’ll be talking to Fraser because he can’t talk to me. So, let’s find out why. Tell me, Justin, what did you say on “Speakers’ Corner”? Did you tell him to—’

  ‘He’s not with Fraser,’ said Justin, one fist locked into his hair. There was a twist to his mouth and his green eyes were squinting. ‘You won’t be seeing Fraser again. He’s gone back to Scotland. I put him on the train this morning.’

  ‘Who gives a stuff about Fraser? I want to know about you. I want to know how—’

  Anselm stood up. His mind couldn’t move quickly enough. ‘Fraser was not on that train. I saw him half an hour ago on the common.’

  ‘You can’t have done,’ whispered Justin.

  ‘But I did.’

  Justin looked wildly at the ground. Emily’s voice came loud and shrill. She’d gone back upstairs. ‘He’s taken his sports bag.’

  ‘Fraser’s going to kill him,’ said Justin.

  Dominic gaped at his brother. Martin collapsed on his knees, shocked like Anselm. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Fraser. Fraser’s going to.’ Justin ran to the door, then he stopped and turned. ‘Stay here. Leave this to me. I’ll bring Harry home, I promise.’

  Anselm chased after Justin, climbing into the dinted Volvo even as it pulled away from the pavement. They didn’t speak as Justin, leaning forward, drove round the common, Anselm staring anxiously at anyone walking with a boy, trying to spot that loping walk of the trusted gardener. Not finding them, Justin accelerated along Battersea Rise, swinging into a side street that lead to a housing estate. ‘Fraser lives here,’ he muttered, pulling up; but Anselm, on the turn, had seen the outline of a man and boy on a bridge. Leaving the car door wide open, he ran towards them, followed by Justin. Coming closer, they slowed. Fraser was on his knees in front of some flowers in pots, clustered on the pavement in the middle of the bridge. He was talking, while Harry stood behind him, one hand searching t
hrough his sports bag.

  ‘Fraser,’ called Justin, ‘what are you doing? You promised. You said you’d leave town.’

  Harry turned. Recognising his uncle, he dropped his bag, but he didn’t move.

  ‘Come here, Harry,’ said Justin, edging forward, arms open. ‘Just get over here, now.’

  After hesitating, Harry began walking … but not towards Justin. He came towards Anselm, his face folding inwards, his mouth plunging horribly at the corners as he began to cry. And then, as if set free, he ran. Instinctively Anselm raised his hands as if to catch a life thrown away and then Harry was sobbing against him. After a moment, Anselm lowered a hand onto the boy’s head. ‘Don’t worry, Harry,’ he said. ‘Everything’s going to be fine. You’re safe now.’

  Fraser, still on his knees, was watching with a narrowed eye, his fingers still smoothing the plants. His attention flicked onto Justin. ‘You’ve told him, haven’t ye?’

  ‘I swear I’ve said nothing.’

  ‘But he knows’ – Fraser made a tilt towards Anselm – ‘I can tell. He’s lookin’ at me like he once looked at your father and like he probably looked at you. It’s not very nice, frankly. You broke your word, Justin. You went and ruined things. We were sorted, you and me.’

  A train rattled beneath the bridge heading towards Clapham Junction. Fraser stood up, watching the carriages pass, shaking his head. He was muttering to himself. When the rumble and clatter had stopped, Justin made a plea:

  ‘Keep your side of the agreement, please. I promise, I’ve kept mine. We can still walk away from this.’

  Fraser turned from the empty tracks, one eye closing. ‘You came a runnin’ here, didn’ ya? The two o’ ye? You’re both a-lookin’ worried … you didna think I was goin’ to harm the wee laddie, did ye?’ He was astonished and reproving. ‘You didna think I’d go and hurt the boy … that I’d injure him?’ He laughed indignantly, unable to comprehend his accusers. ‘Me? I wouldna touch a hair on his head. I only wanted to say goodbye. I was goin’ to leave, like I said I would …’ He turned again to look down the line. A train was approaching the bridge at St John’s Hill, heading towards them, gathering speed, the rattle getting louder. Fraser watched it coming, shaking his head. Suddenly, he began to smile, his lips stretching over large, yellow teeth.

  ‘You’re a fool, ye know that?’ There was delight in his eyes: the first twitch of a coming ecstasy. ‘A numpty. Did you really believe anyone coulda touched me?’

  ‘You’re still a victim,’ said Justin, edging forward once more. ‘No matter what you did afterwards, you remain a victim. And—’

  ‘Victim?’ Fraser’s breath caught in his throat. ‘I made it up, laddie. Cos I know what goes on, don’t I? Just like you. We’ve both of us had a lot of experience, haven’t we?’

  Justin froze.

  ‘Yes … that’s right …’ And Fraser suffered a squirt of joy. ‘I made it up … and you … you believed me.’ After a low sigh he looked down the tracks, wistfully. His pleasures had always been short-lived. ‘You know, I really thought we were sorted, you and me. I wonder where I went wrong?’

  Anselm’s hand locked onto Harry’s head so he couldn’t move, because Fraser had swung a leg onto the bridge wall. Within seconds he was on the far side, with Justin running forward, yelling, ‘No, no, no,’ but Fraser only grimaced, dropping backwards, arms extended, the horn from the train sounding, the brakes screaming … so much noise, come too late to make a difference.

  45

  Robert lost courage as soon as he reached Raynes Park. He’d moved purposefully along the path by the railway line, intending to come through the garden gate, but when he got there he backed off, feeling his chest tighten. He retraced his steps to take refuge in the George Rayne, a free house not that far from Hanabi’s. After a few pints of Abbot Ale his heart slowed. He chewed nuts, his mouth hanging open as he made imaginary speeches in his mind. When he’d boiled off the froth – when his indignation had subsided and cooled to something hard – he went back down the narrow path. He rattled open the lock, pausing by his dad’s shed as a train swept by, and then, moved by a gust of memories, he quietly turned the handle of the back door.

  A soft yellow light escaped from the dining room. There was music … Dean Martin. Old records belonging to his mother. She had Sinatra, too; and Brenda Lee. Never played and never replaced by CDs. Robert hung his coat on a kitchen chair and then walked in as if he’d been invited.

  ‘Sorry I’m late’ – he paused to listen to Dean – ‘I prefer “That’s Amore”, but this one’s great too’ – and he joined in – ‘“Everybody loves somebody sometime – dum-be-dum – everybody falls in love somehow – dum-bah-dee-dah – something in your kiss just told me – yum – my sometime is now” … What a voice. Good evening, Andrew, it’s been a while. How are you?’

  Robert’s mother stared at Andrew, and Andrew stared at Robert’s mother. The curtains had been drawn. There were two candles between them. The white tablecloth was starched. The green napkins lay open. Judging from the near empty plates, the main course had just been finished.

  ‘You’ve surprised me,’ he said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. ‘I’d have thought you’d keep away from things Italian. If I’m not mistaken, that’s saltimbocca alla Romana. Dad used to make it with turkey breasts beaten flat, do you remember? I bet you had veal. No half-measures. No cheap substitutes.’

  Robert’s mother was dressed casually, but he could spot the effort: the eyeliner, the pearl earrings, the heavy bracelet of mixed precious stones. His grandmother’s jewellery. Not the stuff his dad had bought when they were younger. Hell, no. She never wore that lot. What, never? Hardly ever!

  ‘As you know I’m discovering things Japanese. But I don’t mean restaurants. I mean family honour. Shrines. Respect for your ancestors. Thing is, I can’t imagine the right kind of shrine for my dad – something we could all go to, do you know what I mean? I think we discussed this way back, Andrew. Remember? We wondered what to do with those memories that don’t quite fit on the shelf. And now we’ve gone and got some more.’

  Andrew hadn’t looked at Robert since they’d shaken hands. He’d gone for a pink shirt and navy blue jacket with flat silver buttons. Boat club style. Only Andrew wasn’t the boating type, if you left out the ferries. The yacht people had money. They didn’t clean windows or break into old cars with a coat hanger.

  ‘How’s Crofty these days?’ asked Robert. ‘Still sending you to Bromley whenever I might go to my mother’s?’

  Andrew angled his head to one side to deflect the ridicule.

  ‘I suppose Muriel introduced you? Or was it Crofty?’ Robert waited, eyeing the guilty parties. ‘Is this where it all began, with Andrew cleaning my dad’s windows? Come on. You’ll have to tell me sometime. Now’s as good a time as any.’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ said his mother.

  ‘No. I’m upset. To be precise, I’m grieving … but I get the impression I’m on my own.’

  ‘You’ve been following us, haven’t you? Alan warned me.’

  Alan was his mother’s name for Crofty. She’d never bought into the boyish banter between his dad and his best friend. She hadn’t bought into very much at all.

  ‘No, I saw you by accident. Once. And that was enough. Do you mind if I turn off this music? It’s beginning to annoy me.’

  Robert rose and stubbed the button with his finger, cutting ‘Gentle On My Mind’ mid-stream. The silence came like a hole waiting to be filled.

  ‘I’m going,’ said Andrew. ‘I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘No, stay.’ Robert’s mother leaned over the table, placing a hand on Andrew’s sleeve. ‘Robert is right. Now is as good a time as any. There’ll never be a good time. There never was a good time. For any of us.’

  ‘At last, you’ve said something that’s true.’ Robert was doing a slow hand-clap. ‘Bravissimo, as Dad used to say. And speaking of Dad – because someone has to speak for him – couldn’t you have wai
ted a little longer before carrying on as you did before? A short break would have been decent. Just long enough to acknowledge that a good man’s life was over.’ Robert looked at his mother coldly. One of his Abbot Ale speeches sprang to mind: ‘He never failed you. He never turned his back on you. He never hurt you. And he accepted what you were doing … for me. Didn’t that slow you down? Aren’t either of you ashamed by the scale of his … sacrifice?’

  Robert’s mother turned white; and for a long while she barely moved. ‘Sacrifice?’ she repeated at last, rising like a fighter hearing the bell. ‘You speak of sacrifice?’

  ‘No, don’t,’ pleaded Andrew as if the roof might cave in. ‘It’s just not worth it; I’ll go.’

  ‘You’ll stay,’ she seethed, ‘and you’ll never leave again; never, ever again’ – and as she spoke, Robert’s mother’s charm and poise and dignity disappeared; she turned with shocking speed into the fragmenting woman Robert had seen in the kitchen clinging onto Muriel. She rounded on Robert, the black eyeliner beginning to loosen. ‘You dare to talk to me about decency, about respect, about grieving. You don’t know the meaning of the word. You don’t know what you’ve lost. But I do. I know what I lost so that you could have a life that belonged to someone else.’

  Robert had never seen his mother like this before. She’d gone beyond the breakdown witnessed from the garden. She was on her feet, standing in the middle of the room like one of those wrestlers waiting to grapple with some fat, tattooed beast in a pair of swimming trunks; the ridiculousness of her posture made her menace all the more frightening. Robert was her opponent and the fight was going to be ugly and brutal and vulgar.

  ‘He used to hit me, you know? Grabbed my hair and threw me across the room. You didn’t know that, did you? Well, you’ve been protected. But I was scared of him. So scared I daren’t run away. And when I wanted to, when it was all planned, when I’d found another life far from this house, from this room, my son ran away. Did you hear what I said? My son ran away. Because he was scared, too. Frightened of being hit again. And he’d gone. And do you know why? Because I’d done nothing to stop his father. I left it too late. I’d listened too often to his apologies and his promises and explanations … and because of me, as much as because of him, my son ran away.’ Robert’s mother was blinking wildly, black streaks running like blood from her eyes, the shock of white hair disarranged. She moved to one side, still half-crouching, fingers curled. ‘I couldn’t find him anywhere, not in London, Manchester, Liverpool, Edinburgh, I went everywhere looking for him but he’d vanished, and it was only then that the big man finally realised what he’d done, finally realised what happens when you fill a room with your temper. He had a breakdown. Can you imagine that? He had a breakdown. Not me, no. I had to keep going. I had to get up in the morning and smile. I had to fill your bottle, change your nappy, sing nursery rhymes, pretend nothing had happened. He was on his knees, head in his hands, wanting to turn the clock back. But that wasn’t possible, was it? His boy had gone and we had another child to look after.’