The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘I did. We went to see Tabley’s superior. Owen Murphy. A sort of desk clerk who’d found himself running the bank.’

  Murphy was completely stunned: he had known Tabley since their student days. At first he refused to believe it, couldn’t believe it, but then Tabley admitted everything in writing, apologising without reservation. Another meeting was called, but the desk clerk was speechless. There were no protocols to fall back on, no guidance save past reported practice elsewhere – and that had been to move a man on, but Tabley – as a man – had moved on. So what was the point? Apologising on behalf of the Order, Murphy had put his head in his hands wondering how he was going to break the news to the multitude who’d been inspired by Tabley’s charitable work. He apologised again to Justin, because the subsequent publicity would inevitably engulf him, along with his family and friends. In the meantime, he said, something had to be done. Compensation would of course be offered, but Justin cut him short. He wasn’t interested in money and he certainly didn’t want an outcry. And so Murphy proposed a novel solution: Tabley was to retire from public life and become a hermit – an outcome that would acknowledge the wrongdoing while protecting people like Maisie who’d invested part of their life’s meaning in the man’s presumed character and example.

  ‘I couldn’t tell her, Dominic,’ said Justin. ‘If I told her what had happened, well, she’d have fallen to pieces. I didn’t want that. Not then and not now.’

  Dominic couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘What are you on about? You’d already told her. At the time. And she turned away.’

  Justin nodded. An eyelid flickered as if there was dirt on a lash.

  ‘She didn’t protect you. She didn’t believe her own son … Where the hell is your anger?’

  Justin didn’t react, save to pull at the lash.

  ‘Aren’t you angry?’ Dominic was like a paramedic trying to find a pulse: it had to be there; and Justin nodded again, with irritation, but the older, more vital emotion was way out of reach, buried deep in the past … beneath strata of shame and denial and confusion, a boy’s desperate attempt to keep home life normal, with a mum and dad and a little brother, sharing happy times … watching Only Fools and Horses … eating chestnuts round the Christmas fire – the stuff of other people’s memories.

  ‘It was my choice, Dominic,’ said Justin, his eyelid no longer moving. ‘It’s what I wanted.’

  And so Justin, Martin and Murphy had all sworn to keep the matter secret. For the common good. There’d even been a strange kind of ceremony, using the Bible. They’d brought God into the arrangement, as witness and protector. Anselm, roused by dismay, had to interject: ‘At whose suggestion?’

  ‘Murphy’s.’

  Anselm sank back into himself; and Justin explained how the matter seemed to have been concluded. He got on with the Bowline. Tabley moved to a kind of prison cell in London. He was – to quote Maisie – out of circulation. But then Littlemore came along.

  ‘He started asking questions and I realised straight away that he knew everything. But I couldn’t work out who’d told him because Murphy was dead and Littlemore hadn’t known him … He only knew the new guy, Carrington, and he’d had nothing to do with the arrangement.’

  And Littlemore wouldn’t give up. He kept returning. But in a way that was compassionate. He’d been like Justin chasing after one of the hardened drinkers milling around Charing Cross. He’d refused to back off. He’d been extending a helping hand. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  ‘So we had another meeting. With Carrington and Littlemore. They wanted to call in the police. Get me counselling. Meet all costs, pay compensation and I told them to forget it. I told them this was my decision. I wanted privacy. I said—’

  ‘You turned down treatment?’ asked Dominic, but Justin pushed on, ignoring the question as if it was a passing siren.

  ‘I said they didn’t have the right to change the ground rules that made living possible for me. I said they owed me. And this time it was me who reached for the Bible. I told them to swear on it.’

  Dominic was wooden. ‘And?’

  ‘They refused. But they gave me their word. I accepted it.’

  So Justin had thought he was safe, that there would be no more digging in the burial ground, but then – and this had been like a ghastly miracle – Harry falsely accused Littlemore. The police called him in and Justin’s heart almost stopped beating. He feared that Littlemore would reveal what he knew about Tabley, a fear that only grew more insistent after Littlemore sought refuge at Larkwood Priory. By then, of course, Justin had been brought to his knees by Fraser’s threat to enlighten the world about Maisie. That was the whole, sorry story.

  ‘No, it isn’t, Justin,’ said Dominic, his voice hoarse from the moonshine. ‘You silenced Harry. You did to him what you’d done to yourself.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s unpardonable.’

  ‘Don’t say that, please.’

  ‘But it is. It’s as unpardonable as what was done to you. And you can’t cover this kind of stuff up … not for anyone. Not for the Church, not for yourself and not for Mum. You should never have spared her, Justin. You should never have let pity get in the way. Pity just brings bad fruit out of bad fruit. It’s all rotten. Don’t you realise, it was pity that brought Fraser into this damned house?’ Dominic’s anger became white hot. ‘And that’s not all. You went along with his blackmail … and not just because you wanted to protect Mum … You did as you were told because it suited you. You liked being the saviour of the Embankment. And just like Tabley you wanted to keep things nice and clean. You had the Bowline and he had Newcastle. New lives. But neither of you were interested in reality … the full, grubby picture. That’s why you silenced Harry, Justin. It was good for you.’

  Anselm flinched. If there was any truth to Dominic’s words – that there was a top layer of self-interest to cap the strata of shame and confusion – then Justin couldn’t absorb it … any more than he could break through the rock to his anger, or recognise the need for treatment. All he knew was that he’d done something profoundly wrong. He was swinging back and forth saying he was sorry; and Anselm watched the pleading as he’d watched Tabley in his cell: closely and with a mixture of anger and that very delicate commodity, pity. Poor, abused Justin. His childhood had been ruined; and now he stood condemned as a man because he’d failed to handle the consequences.

  ‘Harry’s situation is over,’ said Dominic, cutting short the flow of apologies. He came to his feet, reached for the bottle and filled everyone’s glass. He wasn’t offering, he was imposing. Another binding ritual was underway; a pledge with the treasured spirit of life. ‘Yours isn’t.’ He was standing over Justin. ‘And we’re going to sort it out now. I’m going to call Mum and get her back here. Then we all go to the police. I’ll do the talking.’

  ‘No, Dominic, no. Impossible.’

  ‘You’ve no choice.’

  ‘I do. It’s the one thing left to me. I do have a choice.’ And before Dominic could answer back, Justin looked up, beseeching and crushed. ‘You don’t know what I live with. You can’t imagine it, and I don’t want you to. But I can’t talk about it … and you can’t speak for me. No one can. I could never go into a courtroom, even with anonymity. I can only hold things together if I keep some … dignity.’ Justin all but smiled as he used the word. As if dignity didn’t really belong to him, but he could at least pretend, as he’d pretended all sorts of impossible things as a child. ‘Tabley can keep his reputation. Mum can keep his photograph. And I can keep some dignity. Some self-respect. Allow me that, please? Tabley will be dead soon. I was the only one … Can’t we just let it go?’

  Dominic slumped into his chair. Nobody spoke. Nobody could speak. Justin seemed to have a single coin in his outstretched hand: the authority of a victim to choose his future. Anselm appeared to weigh its worth and then coughed, lightly.

  ‘You weren’t,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry?’ Justin
had dropped his hand.

  ‘You weren’t the only one. Edmund Littlemore called them “the Silent Ones”. He couldn’t reach them because they’d all made promises, like you; they’d all preferred silence, like you; they’ve all lived thinking they were the only one. But you were all deceived.’

  * * *

  The effect of this quiet declaration was roughly equivalent to Martin’s command after he’d thrown the knife aside, when he’d told everyone to sit down and listen. Only this time Martin himself was rigid with attention. The poor man had kept faith in the first awful secret and it wasn’t what it had seemed.

  ‘I imagine none of them want to go into a courtroom,’ said Anselm, swishing his glass, looking at the almost pure spirit. It had burned his mouth and set his heart racing. ‘None of them want their wider families to know what was done to them. They all want to keep their dignity, and I imagine they all think that one day Tabley will be dead and it will all be over, only, of course, it won’t. You know that, don’t you, Justin? You must say something very similar to the old boys on the street who are just living out their days after learning that bad things don’t just go away. You tell them they can get past their demons. But they have to talk, don’t they? Strange, isn’t it, the importance of speaking?’

  ‘I’m not the only one?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How did Littlemore find out about these others?’

  ‘I really don’t know. He kept his promise to you like he kept it to Harry. But he did something else, something completely extraordinary. He used Harry’s trial to showcase the evidence against Tabley without saying what it meant. He let the prosecution show the world that he’d been involved in a private investigation into Tabley. In effect, by vanishing, he’d sent the police to all the victims, asking them about Littlemore while he was hoping they’d all speak about Tabley, but they didn’t. He hoped I’d get the message. I was a little slow.’

  ‘How can you be so sure?’ Martin placed his glass on the table. He was a clever man, and he knew a final and foundational disillusionment was approaching.

  ‘Because, without violating the terms of secrecy entered into between individuals and the Lambertine Order, I’ve managed to discover the contents of the secret archive. There are nine sealed brown envelopes all carrying the name of Dominic Tabley and someone else. You are number four, Justin. I shouldn’t have told you about the others; and I’d ask you to continue the secrecy – not for the sake of Tabley or his Order, but because – for now – it remains the choice of the victim concerned. We can’t ignore that, can we, Justin?’

  Martin stood up as if to get some height, some perspective on his own involvement, only he’d shrivelled up: his shoulders had fallen. His arms were hanging down. ‘You mean that when I spoke to Murphy all those years ago, he knew about three other victims?’

  ‘Yes. He may well have known of more … people whose cases were in the process of being resolved.’ Anselm’s anger and pity had cooled; he was pondering, now: like Dunstan on Blunt. ‘Murphy received most of the complaints after Tabley had been in Newcastle for years. In all probability they came forward in later life when, like you, Justin, they finally cracked. For all sorts of reasons – though I suspect they are very close to yours – they all chose silence. They all think they’re on their own. They all want to keep their dignity.’

  ‘And this Murphy put his hand on a Bible and sealed an envelope and banged it away in a safe?’ Dominic asked. ‘And then he called the next one and did it again? Playing out the surprise? Playing out the shock?’

  ‘Something like that. Perhaps exactly like that.’

  ‘These sorts of damned archive exist?’ Dominic wasn’t really asking; he just couldn’t believe that Carrington’s hypothetical evidence had any footing in the real world. It had sounded like one of Justin’s stories, the invention of a child’s adventurous mind.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ Anselm felt compelled to enlighten those present. ‘When it comes to handling sensitive information, the Church is not that different from a government and an Order not that different from a department. They’ve all got secrets they don’t want. They’ve all got ways of hiding them so that confidence isn’t shaken in the scheme of things. They’ve all got ways of holding back what can’t be revealed without causing more harm; perhaps irreparable harm. And there’s always someone somewhere behind a desk, an elected official who didn’t know what they were letting themselves in for, who hopes against hope that time will redeem them from the responsibility of having to disclose the truth.’

  ‘But you are meant to be different,’ said Dominic.

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  Anselm finished his potcheen. ‘Mountain dew’ it was called in Ireland. What a wonderful world that would be, he thought: the spirit of life shining on every blade of grass, there to be touched and tasted. He sighed and addressed Justin. ‘You can be different.’

  Justin didn’t understand. He looked to his father as if he might help.

  ‘You can lead the way,’ said Anselm. ‘There are eight people out there who need a leader. There may be more. They need someone to show them that courage is possible. They need you to show them the meaning of Edmund Littlemore’s evidence.’

  ‘But Tabley is dying. There’s no point.’

  Anselm put his glass on a table and walked across the room. Throughout Justin’s stripping down, he’d waited, wondering if anyone would actually remember that the thing was there on the wall. The mask – and its fatalism – had so insinuated itself into the Brandwell family that they didn’t notice it was still watching over them. Only Justin had been aware of it, avoiding sight of its triple grimace; and even he had said nothing because accepting it was part of the scheme of things. It still had power over him. It could still command his obedience.

  ‘He isn’t dying,’ said Anselm, taking the mask off the wall. He turned around keeping the monstrosity behind his back. ‘He wants to die, and that is a very different condition.’

  50

  By the time Dominic dropped Anselm at the property in Ealing, it was dark. The sky was clear and the stars were splendid, though Anselm, looking up, didn’t try to find the Plough or Pegasus or any other existing pattern. He invented his own, joining nine twinkling lights to make the Silent Ones. Perhaps there were more. Perhaps they filled the night sky. And perhaps Anselm’s imagination was veering out of control but he was nonetheless convinced that, joined together and elevated by a name, these lonely stars received a kind of glory. Kester was standing outside, smoking. The ash flared red as Anselm came near.

  ‘He’s waiting.’

  What am I to say? thought Anselm, leaving his carpet bag in the vestibule. Do I speak for his victims? Speak for the Church? Speak for myself? Do I try to understand him? Condemn him? There was too much to be said, and the right to articulate anything belonged to those who’d been betrayed and abandoned. Anselm’s task was merely to bring about that encounter. But not behind closed doors, sealed by an oath and hidden in a safe.

  ‘I’m not here to judge you,’ said Anselm, walking into the sitting room. ‘I’m here to make a request.’

  Through the corner of his eye he could see that Father Tabley was seated in an armchair with his oxygen bottle at his side, the mask in position over his mouth and nose. A soft whisper of air flowed through the tube. Upon impulse, Anselm looked over to the icon on the wall: it showed Lazarus, wrapped in bandages, emerging from his tomb. He’d been brought back from the dead to live once more. His family were weeping with wonder and joy.

  ‘I know you’ve apologised,’ said Anselm, unable to face Father Tabley. ‘But something is missing from the … resolution of things.’

  Father Tabley had gone to Newcastle wanting to get away from who he’d been and what he’d done. He’d been overwhelmed, no doubt, by the death of Dorothy Newman, but the real engine for all that selfless work was regret. He spent twenty years atoning for his past without seeming to realise that a crime is a very public concern. You
can’t hide it away. You can’t escape the consequences – any more than the shipping companies on the Tyne could escape liability for harming their employees. Did Father Tabley arrange meetings between dying men and lawyers never once thinking that something similar ought to have been done in relation to his own criminality? Did he contact doctors and specialists never thinking that someone ought to have done the same thing for Justin and his eight companions? Did he really think you could move on and leave so much behind? If he’d truly come to visualise the depth of injury he caused, could he seriously believe that secret settlements were justified by the need to protect people like Maisie or Kester, all those admirers who had a vested interest in his reputation? Perhaps there was something Anselm might say after all. He spoke while looking at Lazarus and listening to the whisper of air.

  ‘Justin hasn’t moved on. He’s trapped by secrecy. He doesn’t know how to handle his own story. He doesn’t know how to ask for help. There’s something I don’t understand, but it’s true: compensation payments are important; so are abject apologies; but without a public acknowledgement of responsibility, without a trial and a judgement and a sentence, victims can remain chained to their past. It’s another crime.’

  Anselm didn’t know what to do with the mask. He was holding it behind his back. He’d removed it from the Brandwells’ intending to return it to Father Tabley, but now that he was with the old man, the gesture seemed inappropriate; perhaps even wrong.

  ‘Do you remember what you did after Dorothy died? You went to the press. You went from house to house finding those people who were quietly dying. You became their voice. You set up an advice centre. Well, something similar has to happen again, only this time it is out of your hands. The people you harmed need to know they aren’t alone. There is only one thing you can do, and that is why I’m here. I’ve come to ask you to stay alive. You cannot die. Not yet. You have to give living its full measure. You know the passage. There’s a time for weeping, a time for dancing, a time for living and a time for dying. Once the Silent Ones have been brought together, once they’ve been vindicated, then you can go.’