The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Andrew. He’d come round from his side of the table like a referee knowing the contest was unequal; that someone might get seriously injured if the fight wasn’t stopped. He put his arm around her, drawing her away. She gave up, turning into him, overwhelmed. ‘I’m sorry … I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Stop, we’ve been over this.’

  ‘No, I should never have allowed you to remain away.’

  Robert pressed himself against the dresser, trying to keep back from the emotional conflagration. He’d been blinded by the image of his mother being thrown across the room, unable to connect the revelation with the man who’d apparently done it; the man who’d made the ship; the man who’d gone to his allotment because he could no longer remain at home. The man who’d drawn a moral from the eating habits of the koala bear.

  ‘Have I got a brother?’ he asked, his tone trembling with apology and confusion.

  Robert’s mother seemed to leave the ring. She patted Andrew’s lapels and moved in front of a wall mirror, taking out a handkerchief to wipe the smudges off her cheeks. Standing closer, she tidied up the corners of her mouth, removing the smears of lipstick. Stepping back, she checked her appearance and then came to Robert and took him by the hand.

  ‘Come with me.’

  46

  Anselm left Justin on the bridge waiting for the police like a lost child, while Anselm took Harry, a child found, back home. A passerby, pulling up on seeing Harry’s distress, offered to get them away from the accident site immediately. Even before the car had finally stopped, Harry ran to the opening front door and into the arms of his mother: she’d got her boy back. Dominic appeared, drawing them into the safety of the house; Maisie was fussing; Martin stood at the end of the corridor, watching like a man condemned, horrified – it seemed – by the consequences of his silence. Anselm hesitated, wondering whether to leave, but Harry freed himself, turning round to say, ‘I want to tell you what happened.’

  Everyone realised that it was too late to gather evidence. There could be no future trial. But there was an overwhelming and shared recognition that Harry’s decision to speak was vitally import-ant and that whatever he might say ought to be preserved. So Sanjay Kumar brought video equipment. The curtains were drawn. Doors were closed. The camera light flashed green. Harry began.

  That Fraser was dead – that he’d fallen to a horrific and mutilating end – was almost an incidental detail. The shock worked more like a key, turning this time to open rather than close. Harry was like a hostage, freed at last from his captor. There was no pity, just relief. And he needed to talk. He needed to explain what had been done to him. He needed the world to know. But – and this cut Anselm to the quick – he wasn’t addressing his parents, his grandparents, the police or anyone else, just yet. His first confidant, the person who would first receive his story was Anselm, the man who’d seen things that no one else had been able to see, who’d heard things that no one else had been able to hear.

  ‘I went along the beach in Harlech and, when I reached the cottage, I saw the front door was open, just a couple of inches, and I assumed Uncle Justin was inside, that he’d left it like that for me, but I was wrong because, when I pushed it open, I saw Fraser inside wearing a dressing gown.’

  ‘Fraser?’ Maisie had positioned herself near her grandson on a hard chair to better hear whatever he might say, but Harry wasn’t really aware of her. His eyes were on Anselm.

  ‘He’d gone on holiday with Justin and three others, and the others had gone back that morning by train but Fraser had lost his ticket, so Uncle Justin was going to bring him by car. He’d had a bath or something.’

  Anselm raised a hand. Harry didn’t need to say any more. He’d spoken twice already: on video and in the courtroom. The pause allowed the boy to step past the initial rising of memory, a skill he’d learned during his long, imposed silence. After a moment, he began to speak of things he’d never said in court, the preliminaries; those accidental touchings, first apologised for, and then repeated. The pattern was agonisingly predictable. The violation of intimacy had moved hand in hand with the creation of a seemingly innocent – and hidden – interdependence. Fraser had told him things he’d never told anyone else. He’d relied on him. He’d been kind. And Anselm, listening sadly, thought: how much wrongdoing and compromise begins with pity – and a secret.

  ‘He was really kind to my mum and dad too and said he’d do anything for them. He brought them cuttings from a friend at Kew Gardens and he kept his eye out for bargains at the market, things my mum didn’t want but it showed he was thinking of her.’

  Without allowing his attention to shift, Anselm was acutely aware of everyone else in the room: Sanjay near the wall beside the camera; Dominic and Emily sitting on either side of their son on the sofa, close, but not restricting; Maisie to one side on the hard chair; Martin far away, standing alone by the window in the dining room, listening but in exile, never having imagined where secrecy and silence might lead; and looking down on them, the strangely unnerving mask: the carved face with three large mouths.

  ‘I said nothing because I felt sorry for Fraser and I didn’t want him to get into trouble. He’d lost his three children and Uncle Justin had saved him and I didn’t want to be the one to upset everything. The BBC were making that film and then afterwards Kenny drowned in the canal and Jock stole that woman’s handbag and that left Fraser. He was the only one left who’d been interviewed and I didn’t want to be the one to mess things up.’

  Anselm, in effect, resumed his cross-examination. He isolated the detail and then quickly moved on. These touchings had gone on for three years, beginning when Harry was nine. He’d said nothing to anybody. He’d been too frightened to ask Fraser to stop. He’d thought Fraser would deny it and get angry and tell his mum and dad. He’d hoped Fraser would go away one day.

  ‘Did you know Fraser and the others were going on holiday with Uncle Justin?’

  ‘No. If I had of done, I’d have stayed with my mum and dad.’

  ‘Of course you would. Was Justin in the cottage?’

  ‘No. He’d gone climbing on his own.’

  ‘Did you get the impression Fraser knew you’d be coming?’

  ‘Yes, he did.’

  ‘That he knew when Justin would be back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he did come back, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  And Harry hadn’t needed to say anything to his uncle. It was obvious that something had happened because Harry was crying, and Fraser was trying to calm him down, telling him to shush. Harry couldn’t remember exactly what Uncle Justin shouted, but he dragged Fraser outside and beat him up. He came back inside about ten minutes later. His face was cut and scratched.

  ‘He asked me to say nothing and he promised me it would never happen again. He said that Fraser was very sorry—’

  ‘To say nothing?’ Maisie was unbelieving and this time Harry spoke to her directly:

  ‘That’s right, Gran. He told me to keep quiet because it was the only way to hold the family together.’

  ‘The family together?’

  ‘Yes, and that it was better for me. That talking about it would only make things worse.’

  ‘But why would Justin say such things?’ Maisie was looking round the room for support, but she was isolated in her doubt. No one else questioned Harry’s account. Harry turned back to Anselm.

  ‘He said the same thing on “Speakers’ Corner”. He asked me to say nothing. To help keep the family together. And he said a priest had once told him you don’t always have to talk about everything … that the trick was to know when to be quiet.’

  Anselm pondered the phrase. It sounded like the endpoint of more pity and another secret. ‘Did he say which one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A priest?’ Maisie turned instinctively to find Martin, only she then cringed, remembering his madness with the knife and the bizarre confession; and Anselm couldn�
��t help her, not just yet. He kept his attention on Harry who was changing before his eyes, becoming a kid again: ‘Returning to Harlech, when your uncle first asked for your help, where was Fraser?’

  ‘Still outside.’

  ‘They’d had a fight … but not for ten minutes. Ten minutes is a very long time. I learned that lesson at a village fair when I did a three-minute round in a boxing ring. It felt like a lifetime. What else did they do, if they didn’t fight?’

  They talked; and for much longer than they’d fought. But Harry hadn’t heard anything. Fraser was the one speaking, his distinctive voice for once harsh and threatening. Threatening what? mused Anselm. Yet again pity and secrets were involved – Anselm knew it – and out of their insidious relationship an agreement had been made, forced by Fraser. Anselm saw again his leering face, the stretched lips …

  ‘I tried to tell the counsellor at school but she thought I was on about Neil Harding. Only Father Eddie understood what I needed, that’s why he shut the door and promised not to tell. I told him there’s no way I’d say anything unless we were alone, but he was thinking of Neil Harding, too. He didn’t expect me to talk about Fraser.’

  ‘Did you tell him about Uncle Justin?’

  ‘Yes. And he said he’d have to speak to him and that’s when I ran from the room because the BBC were all excited and they were talking to Fraser and the others and then my mum started asking questions and I just didn’t know what to say; I didn’t want to pull the family apart, so I nodded at my mum and said nothing to Sanjay, and I just hoped Uncle Justin would change his mind and come and help me. The worse it got, with the police coming round and me making videos and all that, I thought he’d speak up and I don’t know why he didn’t. I don’t understand why he let me face all the questions when he had all the answers.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry,’ said Anselm, leaning back. His cross-examination was over.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did to Father Eddie. I’m sorry he got into so much trouble.’

  Anselm was reassuring. ‘You might find this hard to believe, but Father Eddie is very glad you did what you did. Because it gave him an opportunity that would otherwise never have come his way. He wanted to bring your family back together. And through you, many others.’

  No one understood Anselm … except, perhaps, Martin who’d turned from the window to gaze at his divided family; Martin, who’d been silenced too – though Anselm was yet to find out why and how. And by whom. He was staring with immense sadness, because they would all have to start another impossible journey: to understand Justin and whatever had compelled him to protect Fraser. It was inevitable. The time of secrets was almost over and there was relief in Martin’s face. But not Maisie’s. She was appraising him with absolute incredulity. He knew something she didn’t. She rose from her chair, unsteady on her feet, the flat of one hand pointing at the camera, not wanting her confusion to be captured on film.

  ‘Martin, tell me, what’s all this about?’ But Martin was shaking a soft, silvery head at his strong and implacable wife. ‘No, darling,’ she ordered. ‘You have to tell me. What is going on? What’s all this about our family needing to be brought back together? We did a good job, didn’t we? We’re all close, aren’t we? Until this dreadful business happened with Father Littlemore, everything was fine, wasn’t it?’

  ‘No, my love, it wasn’t,’ said Martin, quietly, not budging from the far end of the dining room.

  ‘Am I a fool, then?’ Her voice had risen, threatening to become shrill.

  Anselm was so focused on this tragic broken couple that he didn’t hear the doorbell ring. He only surmised its having rung because Justin appeared in the doorway, with Sanjay standing behind him. Maisie, hearing the movement of feet, swivelled slowly away from her husband, placing one hand on the back of a chair for support.

  ‘Justin, is this true? Is it true, this nonsense about Fraser?’

  Justin nodded. He looked even more like a boy than when Anselm had left him on the bridge. He was standing as if he’d been summoned to see Mr Whitefield. Anselm had never seen such a devastated expression upon a man’s face in his life. He’d seen killers and rapists and thieves break down, but none had looked like this.

  ‘But it can’t be,’ sighed Maisie.

  ‘Mum …’ It was Dominic, rising from the sofa. ‘Let’s make some tea.’

  ‘But Harry spoke to you,’ whispered Maisie. ‘He turned to you. He trusted you. He thought that you of all people would help him … and you didn’t … Why?’ She waited and swallowed. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about Fraser?’ She raised her voice. ‘Why?’

  Justin didn’t answer. His head had sunk lower and lower until his back had begun to bend. Maisie looked upon him, eyes flickering uncontrollably; and then she reached down and picked up her bag – a canvas thing for fruit and vegetables, with a big sunflower printed on the side. She walked past her son, pausing to say, very quietly, ‘You must never come into my house again, do you understand?’ And she waited, not moving, until Justin gave another nod. ‘Thank you.’ She set off, her voice coming softly from the corridor: ‘You should have turned to me, not your father. I’d never have let this happen. Never.’

  ‘Mum, come back. I said nothing to Dad about Fraser … absolutely nothing, honestly.’

  But she was gone, her final word spoken. As the front door shut behind her, Anselm beckoned Sanjay outside, into the garden.

  One of the problems about hating mobile phones is that you don’t appreciate their vital importance until circumstances arise where nothing else will do. And Anselm wanted to make a private call. Standing by the small table where Harry had once grappled with truth-telling, Anselm rang Kester Newman. Insofar as making an urgent appeal went, he needn’t have bothered. Kester had already opened the secret archive. He didn’t have much to say and most of it came as no surprise to Anselm. Among the pile of brown envelopes were the names of the five individuals whose parents had given statements to the police during the Littlemore investigation. But there was one other name that Anselm recognised, one victim that he hadn’t expected to find, and the presence of that one name among the others changed the appearance of everything. Kester’s surprise lay elsewhere, with the identity of the perpetrator: the only name repeated on every envelope. His final remark was thrown out like a cry for help:

  ‘I was eleven when he came to Newcastle.’

  47

  As a boy Anselm had tried to understand the night sky. He’d had a real job finding the asterisms, despite his father pointing them out repeatedly, his patience fraying. Sagittarius, the archer, had been the hardest, but he’d seen it eventually, once he stopped trying too hard. Anselm thought of that wondrous moment of seeing now as he went back towards the house. But he opened the door without the wonder; he felt no wonder.

  Sanjay took his phone and said goodbye. Harry was in his bedroom talking to his mother. That left Martin in one armchair, Dominic in another and Justin on the sofa. This was the Brandwell family as they’d been when the boys were children, Maisie somewhere else making tea. Anselm appraised their surroundings: the framed maps of a world misunderstood by mariners too close to see the truth; the shelves of novels: old, embedded culture. Dickens, Thackeray, Austin. French classics, too: Hugo, Flaubert, Daudet. Les extrêmes se touchent. Once more. Evil could find a footing anywhere. In pride of place above the mantelpiece was the carved, wooden mask. At Larkwood it would have been an icon.

  ‘Those three mouths make me shiver,’ said Anselm, addressing Dominic, his eyes on Justin. ‘Where’s it from?’

  ‘Sierra Leone.’

  ‘A gift from the Chief?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dominic looked past his brother at the carved face with its oval eyes and gaping lips. ‘The Chief used it to scare us when we were kids. Chase us round the garden. We used to ask him to do it. Play the monster.’

  ‘A gift to your parents?’ confirmed Anselm.

  ‘Yes. He thought my mother would like it. Local art.’


  Justin was sitting on the edge of the sofa as if he was on a ledge without a rope. He was leaning forward, looking down between his legs, as if to measure the drop. An almost cruel compassion drove Anselm forward because now was the time to break Justin – and he had to be broken, because he’d lost the ability to break out. Paradoxically, it wouldn’t take much. All Anselm had to do was show that he was already inside Justin’s mind. That he’d already seen the dirt he was hiding.

  ‘“You don’t always have to talk about everything”,’ quoted Anselm. ‘Is that how it goes, Justin? Was that another frightening gift from the Chief? Just for you and no one else? Did he teach you the trick of when to be quiet?’

  Perhaps that was one of the deeper reasons for Justin’s later cooperation, for why he’d allowed his name to be written on that brown envelope – the name that had surprised Anselm. He’d already learned to disregard his own suffering.