Silent Voices

by Gary McMahon

  The group continued to stare. There were two boys and three girls, and they all wore similar cheap sports clothes – no-name running shoes, tracksuit bottoms, hooded sweatshirts, and baseball caps. One of the boys – the biggest one, who was wearing a cap with a motif of a cartoon dog smoking a joint – spat on the ground near Simon’s feet. He smiled. Simon kept up his pace, not speeding up or slowing down to avoid the spittle on the pavement, and gritted his teeth.

  Once he’d turned the corner, he heard mocking laughter. They’d done nothing, said nothing, in his presence, but now that he was out of sight they were full of bravado. Nothing much had changed in the years since Simon had walked these streets. Nobody had any balls; they all waited until your back was turned, or your attention was elsewhere, before sticking in the knife.

  A hundred yards along Grove Crescent was the Arcade. The row of shops had always been here, ever since Simon could remember. The retail outlets renting the premises had changed, of course, but these were minor adaptations to the demands of the economy rather than any kind of improvement in consumer choice. The people round here did not want quality goods; they wanted cheap and cheerful products that would do for the time being. These days, the shops were tenanted by a DVD rental outlet, a pizza and kebab takeaway service, Grove Grub (which was the only constant factor in the Arcade, having been there since Simon was a boy), a flower shop, a betting shop, a butchers-and-grocers, a small hardware store, a hairdressers with a solarium place in the flat above, and a grimy newsagent with faded advertisements for chocolate bars and comics in the chicken-wire-covered windows.

  More local kids in sports apparel hung around on the steps outside, mums stood smoking and chatting over prams, shady-looking men ducked in and out of the betting shop doorway, clutching or dropping onto the pavement creased slips of paper.

  Simon entered the café, looking for an empty table. There were still a couple of hours to kill until lunchtime, so the place was not what he would describe as busy. Just a few old geezers drinking tea, a couple of grey-haired women eating a late fried breakfast, and a solemn-looking young man reading a red-top newspaper in the corner.

  Simon sat at a table by the window. The plastic seat moved across the tiled floor with difficulty. The table was covered with a paper tablecloth depicting birds in flight. The salt and pepper shakers were glass, but they were old and chipped and the salt had hardened to a crust in the bottom of its receptacle. An enamel sugar bowl sat at the centre of the table, next to a plastic rose in a narrow vase. There was something black in the sugar. Simon thought it might be a dead fly, but he hoped it was just a piece of fluff or even cigarette ash.

  “Getcha?”

  He glanced up. Standing at his side was a young girl with her hair tied back into a ponytail that was so tight it made her face shine. She held a stubby betting shop pen in one hand and a tiny notebook in the other. She too was wearing tracksuit bottoms, but she had on a stained white apron over the top of her grey sweatshirt to identify her as a member of staff.

  “Hi. Could I have a black coffee, no sugar? And, erm, how about a couple of poached eggs? On brown toast? No butter.”

  She frowned, nodded, and snapped her chewing gum between her teeth. “Yeah, we can do that for you.” She scribbled on her pad. “That all?”

  Simon smiled, but it fell short of reaching her. “Thanks.”

  She nodded again, as if agreeing with something, and then headed back to the counter at the back of the café, where she proceeded to repeat his order at great volume through an opening to the back of the premises, where the kitchen staff was hiding.

  Simon sat and watched the people walking by on the other side of the plate glass window: single mothers, absent fathers, pensioners holding hands, young couples shambling behind prams, the occasional overweight man or woman piloting a motorised shopping cart. It was a typical weekday in an urban shopping precinct, filled with those too old, too infirm, too lazy, too uneducated, or simply too defeated by their circumstances to hold down a day job.

  Dirty sunlight glanced off the grey concrete paving stones, the sky looked wide and bright, yet curiously lacking in dimension, like a matte painting in an old film. Simon felt anxiety tightening across his chest, like a straightjacket binding him into the past. He thought again of his old friends, and the short journey they’d made from Beacon Green to the Needle. Still, after all this time, he struggled to remember why they had really gone to the tower block that night. They were following someone, he was certain of that; but he had no idea who that person might have been, or even if it had been a person at all. Maybe it was an animal: a stray dog, or a badger leaving its sett on the Green. But no, he had a definite image of them trailing a figure – following from a distance, like spies.

  He also knew that it had been his idea. He had convinced the other two to take part in the plan, to leave the den they’d made and pursue whoever it was had been abroad that night. The memories were so close, yet still they remained out of reach. He was like a shipwrecked man swimming towards a shore that never seemed to get any closer, no matter how far and how hard he swam.

  “Here’s your coffee.”

  Simon turned around and smiled at the waitress. She didn’t smile back. Her hand was still on the handle of the coffee cup, and she snatched it away as if she were afraid he might touch her.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She took a step back, away from the table, but did not move away. Curling up one side of her mouth, she folded her arms across her small breasts. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Simon picked up his cup, took a mouthful of coffee and put it back down again. The coffee was bitter, but at least it was hot. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry... what do you mean?”

  She glanced down at her feet and then back up again, looking at his face but not quite at his eyes. He realised that she had not made direct eye contact with him since he’d sat down. “You’re one of them three lads – the ones who went missing all those years ago.”

  “How do you know about that, then? You must be – what, all of eighteen? You weren’t even born when it happened.”

  She sighed, shrugged her narrow shoulders. “My mam used to know Marty Rivers. She went to school with you, a couple of years above. She talks about it when she’s drunk. She even kept the newspaper: the report about how the three of you went into the Needle and didn’t come out again for a whole weekend. She says that something bad happened to you in there. She used to tell us – me and my brother – to keep us away from that place.” She tilted her head in the direction of the tower block, just in case he was under any illusion as to where she meant.

  “Yes, my name’s Simon. I was one of the boys. I’m surprised anyone even remembers us... what’s your mum’s name?”

  “Sheila Dyson.”

  The name rang a bell. He had an image of a mousey older girl with hair that looked as if it was never washed, a pale complexion, and heavy shoes. “Yes, I think I remember her. Didn’t she go out with Marty for a while, before you were born?”

  “Dunno,” said the girl, losing interest now that his big secret was out. “Maybe. She screwed around back then.”

  Simon laughed softly. “That’s very candid of you.”

  The girl shrugged again. “She’s a slut, my mam. And a drunk. Always was.”

  “Fair enough.” He took another mouthful of coffee.

  “There’s something I’ve always wanted to know... I never dared ask either of the other two whenever I saw them around. They’re too scary.”

  “And I’m not? Scary, I mean?”

  She grinned. “Leave it out. You’re about as threatening as a plastic doll, mate.”

  “Okay. I’ll try not to be offended by that. What is it you always wanted to ask?”

  She licked her lips and flicked hair away from her face with her hand. She was pretty, in a weary kind of way, like a lot of the girl
s around here. Her features were arranged nicely, but she lacked the spark that transformed mere pleasantness into beauty. She’d missed being conventionally attractive by a hair’s breadth that seemed more like a mile.

  “Well? Now’s your chance. Ask me. I might even answer.” He smiled.

  The girl chewed on her bottom lip, and then finally said the words. “What happened to the three of you, in there?”

  Simon leaned back in his chair and rubbed his cheek with the fingers of one hand. “That’s exactly what I’ve always wanted to know, too.”

  “Suit yourself, mate,” she said, walking away.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, as an afterthought. “Have you seen Marty Rivers lately? I’ve been looking for him.”

  The girl shook her head. “Nah. Not for ages.”

  Simon watched her as she went to the counter. His food was waiting when she arrived, but she walked past it and into the room behind the counter. Shortly, a large man wearing a white chef’s apron, the sleeves rolled up to show his badly tattooed forearms, emerged from the doorway and picked up the plate. He carried it over and put it down in front of Simon without saying a word.

  Simon smiled. Then he ate his breakfast.

  After he’d paid the bill he left the café, feeling obscurely and belatedly offended by the girl’s behaviour. On the one hand, he was amazed that she even knew who he was, but on the other he felt as if she’d dealt him some kind of blow. He was unable to pinpoint his exact feelings on the matter, but he did know that he felt disturbed.

  Perhaps that’s what led him to alter his course and head for the Needle, or perhaps he had always intended to go there again that day, ever since waking up in a strange bed. Whatever the reason, he picked up his pace and walked towards the daunting shape of the tower, trying to stare it down.

  When he reached the security compound, he took out his keys and opened the gate, walked in, and locked up again. He didn’t want anyone coming in after him, and his strange confrontation with the waitress had made it clear that some people still remembered and drew dark associations with the place.

  There was no watchman on patrol during daylight hours, so he walked past the security cabin and right up to the main entrance. He let himself in with his set of keys without even pausing at the threshold, thinking that momentum might give him strength. He didn’t want to think about why he might need to be strong, or what kind of courage he was looking for within himself. An echo of the waitress’s words mocked him: You’re about as threatening as a plastic doll, mate.

  Did he really come across as so weak? In business terms, he knew that he was a man to be reckoned with, but here, on the tough streets of his youth, he was just another skinny twat in a nice suit. The girl had suggested that Brendan scared her as much as a real hard man like Marty, and the fact that Simon barely even registered on her threat-radar bothered him for reasons that he could not explain. He kicked a cardboard box, sending it skidding across the reception area and into a pile of old blankets.

  “Wow,” he muttered. “That’s really tough.” He smiled, his anger dissipating as he relaxed. What the hell was wrong with him lately? Had this entire trip been nothing more than a big mistake, a journey into a past darkness the nature of which he would never understand? He wondered if he should have brought Natasha with him after all, if only to keep him sane. Then he remembered all over again that she was the one who unbalanced him, and that her constant demands on his affections were probably sending him slowly mad.

  The faint odours of stale urine and old smoke drifted into his nostrils. He walked a few paces across the reception, dodging piles of rubbish, and stopped at the foot of the stairs. The doors had been removed; shattered glass covered a small area below the bottom step, rough diamonds on the concrete floor.

  “What’s hiding in here?” His voice sounded small and weak, as if he’d regressed by coming in here again. Sometimes, when the nightmares dogged his sleep, he would imagine that his younger self was still trapped here, running between the rooms and wailing in the hallways and corridors, begging to be let out. Then, when the black dog of depression really bit deep and sleep eluded him completely, he would wonder if it was actually his future self that had been lost here, in this place. Was an older version of Simon Ridley, crippled and beaten by the flow of time, even now roaming the spaces above him, trying to reconnect with all the versions of his self that he had never been allowed to experience?

  “What are you?” His voice was his own again, the adult he pretended to be. “Show yourself, you bastard.” Such tough words; empty bravado. There was nothing here, not really. Just dust and shadows and whatever remained of the memories that he could never quite grab hold of.

  He placed his foot on the first step and peered up the staircase, watching the dust motes as they danced in the air, trying to make sense of the dimness that hung there like a light mist. The walls of the stairwell seemed to change colour as he watched, running from white to grey and then to brown. They changed shape, too, rippling softly, as if something moved beneath the plaster. Simon knew that he should turn away, leave the building, but curiosity held him there. Curiosity and something else: perhaps the promise of revelation. Because wasn’t that why he was here, to have something revealed to him? Was not that the whole point of his idiotic journey north? He had come here to discover what was missing from his life, to find out what had been removed to create the hole at his core.

  The plaster began to crack, pieces of it falling away to drop silently onto the stairs. He knew there should be sounds accompanying the destruction, but was not surprised when there were none. The whole scene was being played out in silence, like an old film, and all he could do was stand and stare.

  Simon watched, fascinated, as the small branches squirmed out from beneath the plaster, popping through the degraded joints in the brickwork. They moved as if they were alive, like snakes, lazy creatures waking from sleep to stick their heads out of the nest. The thin branches – like a sapling’s – writhed and stretched and wavered in the stairwell, daring him to pass. He grabbed hold of the handrail and prepared to take another step, to start climbing the stairs, but something held him back. He had a strong feeling of dread; the certainty that if he went up there, he would not come back down. Perhaps he would even meet that mythical version of himself, and they would embrace like brothers before dying. Was that it? Had he always been meant to die here, but had somehow escaped? Was it his own demise that waited for him here, within these cold concrete walls?

  The branches danced before his eyes, reaching for him, grasping in the air. They slipped gently around his wrists, binding him in a way that he remembered from before. Pulling away, he managed to break their grip, snapping them. And then, as he moved backwards, shifting just out of their reach, the thin branches began to wither. They turned grey, black, as if singed by unseen flames, and exploded into little clouds of ash. The plaster repaired itself, like a film reel running backwards, and before long the walls were exactly as they had been. There was no evidence of the strange growths, the struggling saplings. There was nothing there.

  He felt rejected. Whatever power resided here had turned its back on him, folding its arms and tapping its foot until he left the premises.

  “Soon,” he said, moving back through the reception area. “I’ll come back soon... and I’ll have them with me. My friends. The Three Amigos.”

  Upstairs, from several floors above him, he heard the sound of laughter. It sounded like a girl, and it was familiar. He strained to remember where and when he had heard the childish sound before, but nothing came to mind.

  The laughter had died, replaced by a sharp clicking sound, like cards being slowly shuffled. This, too, sounded familiar, and it filled Simon with such a sense of dread that he felt like crying. He was a child again; he was terrified. The bad man was coming, Captain Clickety was on the loose... and he was coming for Simon.

  A familiar emptiness yawned within him, threatening to consume him, so he left t
he Needle and headed back towards the sounds of the present.

  “Soon,” he said again, but this time it was a promise he made only to himself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  BANJO CROUCHED AT the top of the stairs, trying to peer all the way down to the bottom floor. He saw a pale shape flicker through the murk, and then he heard the main doors slam shut. He stood up straight, turned around, and looked at the girl who called herself Hailey.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “He’s gone. He wasn’t here to hurt you... none of them are. They’re here for something else. It has nothing to do with you. You’re safe now, as long as you stay close to me. The Underthing can’t touch you. He’s afraid of me, you see.” She smiled and to Banjo it was like the sun coming up in that other place, the one he had only ever glimpsed. Behind her, he could see the outlines of trees; they shimmered like a mirage, but he knew that they were real. They had always been real. Soon he would be able to touch them. Before long, he would enter that old grove of oak trees and sit at the heart of the magic that nested here, within this tower. He would find himself in a place that was both ancient and ageless, a land where the dreams of men became living things, and where myth was reality.

  “It won’t be long, now.” Hailey smiled; her face shone golden, like the wavering shapes of the trees over her shoulder. “He’s coming out. We’re luring him, like a fish with a baited line. Not long now until the Underthing shows himself and we can be rid of his pollution. He’s already making mistakes, showing his cards.”

  Banjo stood and approached her, drawn by the sight of her unfolding wings. He reached out, but he did not touch them, not yet. He wasn’t allowed. All he could do was watch, and yearn, and wait.

  Hailey rose a few inches off the floor and hovered there, her beautiful, multi-hued hummingbird wings glowing in the dusty air.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN