Silent Voices

by Gary McMahon

  Simon stepped over the threshold and entered the house, and Brendan followed, closing the door behind him. The house smelled of cinnamon, with a hint of fresh lemon. It was a nice smell; homely and welcoming.

  The woman had turned left and they followed her into a room. The first thing Simon saw was a small bird cage on a stand. Inside the cage was a tiny green budgie. When he and Brendan entered the room, the budgie hopped from its perch and grabbed the side of the cage, where it hung by its claws next to a portion of dried cuttlefish and watched them.

  “That’s Percy,” said the old woman. “He’s mute. He can’t sing, can’t talk. He can’t make a sound at all, if I’m honest. But he’s good company.” She sat down on an overstuffed sofa, stretched out her short, thin legs on the carpet. “And I’m Hilda. Marty’s Nan.” Her smile never seemed to waver. It just hung there on her wizened face, displaying those too-white dentures and hiding her thoughts.

  “Thanks for seeing us,” said Simon. He sat on a chair opposite the bird cage, taking another quick look at the silent bird. The budgie was watching him, its beady, unblinking eyes never moving from his face.

  “I’ve made tea... if one of you lads wouldn’t mind getting the pot from the kitchen there.” Hilda tilted her head towards the door.

  “I’ll go,” said Simon. He jumped up and walked out of the room, leaving Brendan to the small talk. The bird was making him nervous. The neatness of the room, the way all the pictures and photographs formed geometrical patterns on the walls, didn’t sit right with him. It was all too ordered. Simon had never trusted people whose homes were too tidy; he needed at least a small amount of mess around him to feel comfortable.

  The kitchen was spotless. He imagined Hilda using all her free time to clean the place, every day, top to bottom. His mother had done the same, keeping a tidy home to hide the darkness at the centre of her marriage. He’d never realised before, but that was why he always created a mess, why he never felt at home unless things were in slight disorder. It counteracted the way his mother had kept things too prim and proper, her mask of domesticity.

  The teapot was on the bench beside the sink, the tea brewing. It was on a little tray, alongside three cups and a plate of garibaldi biscuits. He picked up the tray and went back to the living room, where it seemed as if the budgie had been staring at the empty doorway, awaiting his return.

  “Here we go,” he said, setting down the tray on a small occasional table near the gas fire.

  “Thank you, son,” said Hilda, sitting upright and pushing herself forward on the sofa. “How do you take it?”

  “Just black,” said Simon. “One sugar, please.”

  “White with two,” said Brendan, shuffling on the seat, looking less comfortable as time went by.

  “So,” said Hilda, after they’d all had a mouthful of tea. “You want to know where Marty’s been living. Is that right?”

  Simon waited for Brendan to answer, but the other man remained silent, staring at the wall. His lips were pressed together, as if he were holding something back. He didn’t look comfortable in his own skin.

  “Erm, yes,” said Simon, taking the initiative. “We’re old friends... I don’t know if you remember us, but we all used to hang around together. The three of us, we were best mates, when we were younger.”

  “I’m not daft, you know.” Hilda put down her cup and ran the palms of her hands over her thighs, straightening her dress. “You were the other two, the ones that went missing with Marty. Of course I remember. You were nice lads back then, all of you. Good lads. That was a terrible thing.” She leaned back, pressing her spine against the sofa cushions, and briefly closed her eyes. She was still baring her teeth. “Whatever happened to you boys in there, it changed you all. I know that. I’ve seen it, with Marty, and with you, Brendan.”

  Brendan flinched at the sound of his name. “I’m sorry?”

  “I used to see you a lot around the Grove, but I started seeing you less and less. You always seemed to work nights, and it’s always that lovely wife of yours who takes the kids to school. I haven’t seen you in years, son. Considering we live around the corner from each other, that tells its own story.”

  Brendan grimaced. It was probably meant to be a smile, but it wasn’t quite there. Clearly he felt uncomfortable being the focus of the conversation, but for some reason he did nothing to deflect the old woman’s attention. He just sat there, saying nothing.

  “So, can you tell us about Marty?” Simon took a bite of biscuit. “These are nice.” He smiled, crumbs on his lips.

  “Like I said, I’m not daft. I suppose you know all about the things he’s been doing to make a living. Illegal boxing matches, working on pub doors, and God knows what else. Everybody knows about our Marty, and about the kind of person they think he is. Hired muscle. A bruiser.”

  “We’re not here to judge him, Hilda. We just want to talk to him. It’s something about... about what happened to us back then, when we were ten.” He’d taken a risk telling her this much, but as far as he could tell, there was no other option. This wasn’t some cracked old crone, sitting rocking in her front room waiting to die. She was a sharp lady; there could be no fooling her, even if he could be bothered to try.

  “Well, that’s good to hear. I know he’s done some bad things, but he’s my grandson and I love him.” She paused, picked up her cup and took a sip, and then cradled the cup in one hand, like a small animal. “He was in a bad smash-up, years ago, on his motorcycle. His girlfriend, Sally, was killed, and Marty was unconscious in hospital for twenty-four hours. I sat by his bedside, holding his hand, waiting for him to either die or wake up. Nobody seemed sure which it would be.” She licked her lips. She was wearing lip-gloss; it made them shine. “When he did wake up, the first thing he said was ‘Humpty Dumpty’. It sounds silly, I know, but he said it with such fear in his voice that I never mentioned it to him. I don’t even think he knows he said that, or that I heard it. Not even now.” Her eyes were as shiny as her lips. She was lost in the memory.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She nodded. “Aye, it ruined his dreams of boxing. That’s why he started having those other fights, the ones that happen late at night in warehouses and basements... he thinks I don’t know about them, but I do. I always knew.”

  “I bet you know a lot more than anyone, Hilda.” Simon glanced at Brendan, but his friend failed to notice.

  “Oh, aye. Us oldies, we see a lot. We see it all. There’s nothing much else to do expect watch, you know. Watch and remember what we’ve seen, just in case it turns out to be important.”

  Brendan was scratching vigorously at his back, knotting up his jacket at the nape of his neck. His face was pale. He seemed to be somewhere else, not here in the room. It was as if he were miles away, not even aware of the exchange taking place beside him. Simon willed him to turn around, to regain his focus, but Brendan just kept scratching away at his upper back.

  Jesus, he thought. What’s his fucking problem?

  “So, Hilda... Do you have an address or a telephone number for Marty?” Thankfully, she had not noticed Brendan’s weird contortions on the chair. She was distracted by her memories.

  The budgie hopped around inside its cage, restless.

  “I have his mobile number, but he doesn’t answer unless he knows who’s calling.” She reached across to a sideboard on her right and grabbed a ring-bound notebook and pen. Her stick-like fingers scribbled down the number. She tore off the page and reached across the table, handing it to Simon.

  “Thanks,” he said. “All we can do is to try our best, I suppose.”

  “I’m not sure where he’s been living. He’s always moved around a lot, you see. Never stays in one place long enough to settle in or give me an address. I even have to send his Christmas card to a post office box. The last I heard he was in Newcastle or Gateshead, looking after someone’s flat while they’re working away. He has a lot of acquaintances, does our Marty, but not many friends. None
at all that I’ve met, anyway.”

  Simon smiled. “We’re his friends,” he said, folding up the sheet of paper and slipping it into his trouser pocket. “If he still wants us, that is.”

  “That’s nice,” said Hilda. “The past is important. Memories are the ties that bind us to each other. If he does call me, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. I’ll vouch for you, too. Tell him that you’re still nice lads and he should make the effort to see you.”

  Brendan stood suddenly. He was jittery; unease bled from him like a fine mist. “Sorry,” he said. “Could I use your bathroom?” His eyes were huge. He was standing in such a way that Simon felt he was trying to hold something inside, like a man with chronic diarrhoea who’s been struck by sudden stomach cramps.

  “Top of the stairs. First door on the left.” Hilda raised a hand and pointed vaguely at the door. The budgie, stuck behind narrow bars, skittered on the cage floor. Brendan hurried from the room.

  “Sorry about that. I don’t know what’s wrong with Brendan. He’s been ill, something he ate.” Simon leaned back and crossed one ankle over the other, pretending to be at ease in this too-neat home with its floral-patterned curtains and mute bird in a tiny cage.

  “I suspect there’s more wrong with him than that.” Hilda nodded, as if agreeing with her own statement. “He’s never been right, that one. Even before you lads came out of that tower block, he was a bit strange. Distant, like: always off with his head in the clouds.”

  “He’s fine,” said Simon, feeling the need to protect his old friend. “Just a bit quiet. He always was the shy one.” Lies, all lies; Brendan had always been outgoing, at least in the years before the Needle.

  “Listen, son.” Hilda shuffled forward again. “Marty’s been seeing a girl. Melanie Sallis. She works part-time in the betting shop on the Arcade: three days a week. He never sees anyone for long – never has, not since poor Sally and that motorbike accident – but as far as I know, they’re still an item. She’s a decent girl, Melanie. Tells me stuff about my grandson. Go and see her today; tell her I sent you. She might be able to help you get in touch with Marty. Christ knows, I’ve done all I can – the little sod barely even calls me these days. Sends me text messages. Can you believe that? Text messages to his old Nan! The cheeky bugger.” Her anger was faked; the tone of her voice suggested only compassion.

  “Thank you, Hilda. You’ve been a great help.”

  Her smile was gone now. The lines and wrinkles on her face seemed to have deepened, become filled with shadows. Her dentures looked huge. “Just promise me that you won’t go stirring up bad things from the past – things that are best left alone.”

  Simon leaned forward. He placed a hand on her knee. “I just want us – all three of us – to be able to move on with our lives. That’s all. I want us healed. I want all that stuff, whatever it is, put away in a box for good. I want... I want us to be friends again, just like we were back then, before everything got so damned dark.”

  She placed her hand over his and squeezed. Her bones felt tiny, like a bird’s. He glanced at the budgie; it was immobile, and staring at him through the bars.

  Brendan chose that moment to come back into the room. His hairline was damp, as if he’d washed his face; his eyes and cheeks were red, as if he’d been rubbing them. He looked more tired than Simon had seen him since their reunion. He looked... wasted.

  “We’d better go. Thanks again.”

  “Let yourself out, lads. These old legs of mine are playing up again, and I’d rather not stand, if that’s okay.” She wriggled her feet, as if to demonstrate what she meant.

  “Don’t worry, we can find our way out. Bye, Percy.” Simon stood and approached Brendan, ushered him out of the door.

  “What the hell was wrong with you in there?” They were standing outside, on the footpath next to the gate to Hilda’s place. “I thought you were going to do all the talking? You left me high and dry. It’s a fucking good job she liked me, or we would’ve got nothing.”

  Brendan was leaning against the privet bush next door. He rubbed his cheeks, licked his lips. “Sorry... I just. I didn’t feel well. I have this rash... on my back. It’s been bothering me.”

  “Okay, okay.” Slowly, Simon started walking backwards along the street, in the direction of the Arcade. “I’ll see you tonight, for dinner. Just get yourself home and have some rest. We can talk again then. I’ll bring some wine for the table. We can get pissed and go through all this new information.”

  Brendan looked up. His cheeks were pale now, but there were thin red lines, like scratch marks, running from just under his eyes to a point level with his mouth. “Where are you going?” The marks faded to white as Simon watched.

  Simon turned around and increased his pace. He glanced over his shoulder but did not alter his stride. “Me? I’m off to put a bet on.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  JANE WAS OUT when Brendan got home. She was always out these days, as if the walls of the house were no longer able to hold her. He staggered through the door and into the hall, feeling giddy, light-headed. His back and shoulders ached. He leaned sideways against the wall, out of breath. His vision was swimming; he waited for it to clear.

  He turned and stared at his reflection in the mirror mounted in the hallway. His face was damp with sweat, and his eyes were bloodshot. Behind him, hanging on the wall, he could see a family photograph: him, Jane, the twins. It was like a catalogue shot, deliberately posed to sell him something he didn’t need. As with every family shot in the house, he had the sense that something was missing.

  “What’s happening to me?”

  After a few seconds he turned away, disgusted with himself. He felt weak, absent, as if he was barely making an impact on the world. The safe existence he’d created over the years was being threatened. Everything was changing.

  Carefully, Brendan took off his coat and hung it on the hook at the bottom of the stairs. He grabbed the banister and started to climb, heading up to the first floor. His legs ached; his back was burning. His other hand groped along the wall, feeling the ridges of the cheap wallpaper.

  When he reached the top of the stairs he was breathless. He shoved open the bathroom door and turned on the light. Despite the sunshine, the small room never got much natural light. It was always dim in there. He looked again at his reflection in the mirror and did not recognise it from the one downstairs. His features looked different, as if he’d transformed somehow on the journey up to this level. He shook his head, trying to dispel the idiotic thoughts.

  Pull yourself together. Get a fucking grip.

  Slowly, he peeled off his shirt.

  He’d deliberately worn a shirt that was two sizes too big, just to give the acne some breathing space. He wasn’t sure if it had made any difference, but it was all he could think of. Back at the old lady’s place, when he’d got up to use her bathroom, he’d taken off his jacket and seen specks of blood on the shirt collar. Since his strange experience early that morning, when he’d felt pinned to the bed by some angry force, he’d become convinced that the spots on his back had begun to change. He was almost afraid to inspect them and see what they looked like now.

  Brendan dropped the shirt on the bathroom floor.

  He turned slowly to the side and started picking at the plasters that held the dressing in place. There were small spots of blood on the white cotton gauze. It wasn’t much, but it was there, like a warning. He pulled at the plasters and removed them, wincing as they pulled out tiny hairs, and then lifted the dressing to reveal his lacerated flesh.

  Turning around to present his back to the mirror, he strained to look at the reflection of his rear side. Despite the presence of the blood, the pustules looked dry – drier than they had in a while. No fluids glistened on his body; no vile-coloured ichors had been spilled. The acne was more like a patch of damaged skin than individual wounds. It looked as if someone had laid a sheet, or several sheets, of treated rubber over his upper back – like
a TV special effect in a hospital soap opera. He flexed the muscles there, testing it. The pain flared briefly and then died.

  But then something strange happened.

  When he stopped moving, the wounds continued to stir. The damaged skin shuddered, as if from an electric current being passed through it. The skin clenched, like the backs of hands making fists, and as he watched, parts of it rose, like flaps – or like two eyelids.

  Beneath each of these thin lids, there was a small, dark eye. For some reason Brendan was not shocked. He knew that he should be – he realised that eyes opening up in a person’s back was not a normal or natural occurrence, and he should be screaming in horror – but instead he experienced a strange overwhelming sense of calm.

  The eyelids blinked, fluttering like a cheap whore’s on a neon-soaked boardwalk. The eyes weren’t human, he could see that clearly. They were yellow, rather than white, around the outside, and the pupils were strange... black and horizontal, like rectangular slots at the centre of the iris. They reminded him of something and he struggled to grab hold of an image. Then, suddenly, it came to him. Those weird eyes... they were the eyes of a goat.

  The eyelids blinked again. Brendan had the feeling that they were waiting for something – perhaps for him, to acknowledge them.

  “I’m not afraid,” he said. “I know I should be, but I’m not. I was afraid of you twenty years ago, when you locked us up in the dark, but that was a lifetime ago. You don’t scare me, you fucker. You make me angry, not afraid.” He curled his hands into fists.

  The eyelids widened; the black, slotted pupils contracted. From somewhere in the small bathroom – the ends of the taps, the bath plug, the toilet bowl – came a familiar clicking sound. It started slowly, gaining speed as he listened, but remained at a constant volume.

  “It’s just a trick,” said Brendan. “You can’t hurt me. If you could, you’d have done it by now. You’ve had twenty fucking years to kill me, but I’m still alive. I’m still here. So do your worst. I dare you.”