An Act of Silence

by Colette McBeth

  Wednesday

  Linda

  My boy is front-page news.

  FUNNY MAN ARRESTED ON SUSPICION OF MURDER, the headline screams, and written next to his photograph, a short description of where he was found. Yesterday morning in Kent. Hiding out in a holiday cottage.

  As if he’s got something to hide.

  He tried to run when they came for him apparently, always was quick on his feet. Not quick enough this time.

  I study his picture, taken out in the wild with no lighting or studio make-up to enhance him. The shot must have been snatched as the police were dragging him away, and I’m struck by the emptiness behind his eyes, the shadows that have formed under them. The man in the picture doesn’t look like Gabriel. His exuberant curls lie flat on his head, weighed down by grease and dirt. By events. His nose is skew-whiff, broken in a scuffle perhaps? No sign of that bubbling, irrepressible spirit. All that is left is an empty husk.

  And look at his cheeks, the ones I was so fond of kissing (if he allowed me close enough), sucked into his bones now. But his mouth, this I recognise, stretched around the same word he threw at me two days ago.

  Bitch.

  The weight of pain doubles me over and I retch as the bile collects in my throat, but nothing comes up.

  Mariela isn’t named. The victim is only referred to as a woman, and while it doesn’t seem right – the least they could do is give her an identity – I am selfishly relieved not to see her face next to Gabriel’s. I turn the page to find a photograph of another woman. Gabriel is not the only one who is unrecognisable. The old Linda Moscow was a woman who knew high office, whose fingertips leaked power and authority, who wore a stiff blow-dry and trouser suit. Her armour. In the newspaper, they refer to me as the former Home Secretary, former MP, a life in the past tense. Gabriel is the disgraced politician’s son, and to frame his downfall, there’s a précis of the scandal that ended my career. We’re a bad lot says the subtext.

  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

  Upon seeing my own image stare back, my sadness and despair quicken into something more potent. It has a beating heart all of its own. It is rage and humiliation and a scorching sense of injustice. It is anger. White hot. And it is also fear that the choices I made in the past have both saved and damned him.

  How will he ever get a fair hearing? Yes, he is tarnished not only by his reputation, but by mine too.

  I’m in Scotland when I learn of his arrest, the Kyles of Bute in Argyll. Or the Secret Coast as it is otherwise known. This is where Naomi Parkes lives and tomorrow, with any luck, I will meet her. In the end, I agreed to make the journey from London however much my heart shouted at me to stay put. Anna was right, my meeting had been too long in the planning and there was too much to lose by throwing away this chance. Naomi Parkes is the victim of a crime and a cover-up. Without her story I can’t expose the men who have never been made to pay. You’d recognise some of them; familiar faces, hidden crimes. And believe me, this is the reason, the only reason, that I fight the temptation to run back to Gabriel. Yes, I’m desperate to shrink the miles between us, speed up time and pull tomorrow closer, but to abandon my plan now would cost me the chance of nailing them once and for all.

  I did however, as a condition of my travel, extract a promise from DS Huxtable to keep me informed of any developments. So far he’s done a poor job, although in his defence, communication is proving challenging on two fronts; Anna forgot to pack my mobile phone. I can hardly blame her, given the circumstances surrounding our departure. Secondly, our temporary residence has made a virtue of being stuck in the twentieth century.

  We hope you enjoy your time at Claremont Cottage and make the most of the opportunity to switch off from the distractions of the outside world.

  Roughly translated this means there is no Wi-Fi, no television, no mobile reception, not even so much as a radio in the cottage.

  ‘I guess that’s what some people must want,’ Anna said when she read it out to me.

  Not us.

  ‘I can’t help thinking it’s all my fault,’ I tell her. We’re at the kitchen table, eating the soup she bought from the local store.

  ‘He’s a grown man, Linda. I’m sure you did your best. You can’t blame yourself for what he does.’

  I grab her words like a lifeline. Maybe it was always going to end this way no matter how hard I tried. I sink into the armchair, defeated, struck by the crushing pointlessness of it all. The late nights, feeding Calpol to dampen fevers, the dressing of wounds, the endless encouragement, you can do it, the setting of boundaries, dispensing discipline, the unquestioning love. Was the outcome preordained? Had I uncovered parenthood’s colossal con? Did any of it matter, the cajoling, the chiding, the bestowing of affection?

  Perhaps it is as simple as this.

  Nurture cannot outwit nature.

  ‘I don’t think he did it, you know, despite how it looks,’ I say.

  ‘Then I suppose he shouldn’t worry. They’ll work it out in the end.’

  ‘You put a lot of faith in our justice system. Look,’ I stab the newspaper with my finger, ‘they might as well say he is guilty: The dark side to the comedian, A sexual predator, His mother forced to resign in the cash for contracts scandal. It’s trial by media.’

  ‘As the former Home Secretary, I thought you of all people would trust the system to uncover the truth.’

  ‘Or maybe that’s precisely why I don’t.’

  I wake from a nap mid-afternoon, and find a note on the table.

  Gone for bread and milk.

  I peer out of the window. The sky is a sheet of brilliant blue that dazzles and winks and asks me, what am I waiting for? Anna has been trying her best, tending to me, urging me to take it easy, rest, recuperate. ‘Best to stay indoors until you’re stronger,’ she’s advised. But I’m hardly an invalid. The swelling around my eye has subsided, assumed a yellow and brown tinge, the same colours as the leaves on the ground. I’m practically camouflaged, which is all to the good as I don’t doubt my appearance has the potential to scare.

  I crave the simple sensory pleasures the outdoors brings: exposure to sunlight, wind on my face, fresh air. The walls of the cottage are beginning to absorb me. I need to take my thoughts for a walk, break the endless loop – What is Gabriel doing now? What are they asking him? What is he telling them?

  With no Anna to caution me otherwise, I wrap up and slip outside. The bright sky deceives. The air is sobering and sharp against my skin. Frost paints the path. I take it slowly, walking down the wooded bank towards the road. When I reach the end, it splits open to reveal the water, a sea channel, tinted gold and silver by the sun, packed full of treasure. Steep hills grow out of the shoreline, rich greens rusting at their peaks. I take a breath just as the beauty in front of me takes it away again.

  Onwards, a slow but steady pace along the bank. I have no particular destination in mind, just to be out, alive, listening to the water rushing over the pebbles, birds overhead, a yacht striking through the water, is all that matters. Nature provides a perspective, soothes my mind but doesn’t shrink my problems. Then again, I wasn’t expecting miracles. I pass no one, not a single soul, and it strikes me as an odd world, so many people crushed up in a city like London, and this glorious place all but deserted.

  Ahead, I spot a shop, perched precariously at the brow of the hill, as if a puff of wind might send it tumbling downwards. Hopes of a hot drink, a cake, power me on towards it but fade fast when I see the signage for a general store.

  To my annoyance, the bell rings as I enter. I have no desire to announce my arrival, draw attention to myself, although these days I never get recognised. The air is laced with herbs and spices and meats. A woman replenishing a shelf with packet soups turns and says hello.

  ‘Hello,’ I say but my eyes are already drifting t
o the television mounted on the wall above the till.

  She logs my interest.

  ‘Same stories aw day. They run on a loop, don’t they? Mind you, it’s some business with that funny man, is it not?’

  Gabriel’s face on the screen elicits a pop of surprise from me. I don’t know why; logic dictates they would be giving it blanket coverage. It’s more that seeing it on the television news is another way of sealing it in reality.

  ‘Have ye no heard?’ the woman’s voice breaks through my thoughts. ‘It’s all over the papers. They reckon he might have killed someone.’ I detect a pride in her tone, as if she has solved the case herself. ‘And te think a paid good money to see his show in Glasgow last year.’

  I head for the fridge where I can escape her scrutiny and commentary but still retain a good view of the TV; Gabriel, a house and garden surrounded by fields where he was arrested. A clip of his stand-up, energy pulsing out of him, all smiles and laughter. A picture of my own house.

  ‘You found what you’re looking for?’

  I reach for a bottle of water. Press it to my face. Cold against hot, and bring it to the till.

  A picture of me. Another me from different age. A time when life was defined by my job and status, my family, the boy I kissed goodnight.

  ‘Poor woman, I cannae say I agreed with her politics but she didnae deserve a son like that.’

  Did she?

  ‘I’m Emily, by the way. You on holiday here?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say.

  The news moves on, a sea of ceramic poppies at the Tower of London commemorating the outbreak of the First World War.

  Gabriel disappears.

  And so do I.

  Outside, clouds press down on the hills to muddy and shrink the light. The sky’s smile has dropped. Darkness threatens, it falls quickly here. Fooled you, it says. I pick up speed, force myself forward, only for the wind to redouble its efforts and press against me. A drop of rain spits on to the path followed by another and another until they are snapping at my face. The waves, asleep and silent only an hour ago, have woken up and kick and jostle in the gathering storm. Their hungry jaws drive my fear into panic.

  The determination that has fuelled this project deserts me. It is too much, an act of stupidity, of utter lunacy to come here. And for what? To right a wrong, to get justice, to expose the men whose power and influence has put them beyond the law. Tried that before. Once. Twice. And look what happened. They ruined my career, destroyed my reputation, turned my name into shorthand for political corruption.

  I shouldn’t be here, I should be hundreds of miles away in London, close to my son when he needs me. And the truth is I’m tired to my bones. Why not surrender to the storm, allow it to devour me?

  Except.

  I stop. Dead in my tracks. A single shaft of sunlight rips open the clouds and bounces on the water’s dark surface to blind me.

  This is about the men who abused their power and the girls who were told their stories didn’t matter. But this is also about my son and me.

  Why have I not seen this before?

  The truth about us.

  An impossible choice.

  Life or death. Right or wrong.

  The choice that has all but destroyed us.

  I have to keep going otherwise we have no hope, Gabriel and me.

  And my only source of comfort is knowing this; they have already taken everything I valued.

  What else have I got to lose?

  I muster all my strength to battle through the weather and get back to the cottage. When I spot the opening for the path, I almost cry with relief. Just a few more steps. I drag myself up the bank, the mud pulling my feet away from under me at every step.

  The light from my bedroom spills on to the path. I must have left it on. Not my usual style, I’m a stickler for saving energy, but there’s a first for everything, a sign perhaps that I’m not fully recovered. I’m still chastising myself when my foot hits something hard, the root of a tree disguised in the undergrowth. I manage to grab on to the window ledge and avert another fall in the nick of time. Pausing, I gather my breath, peer through the glass into my room as my heart slows and returns to its normal rhythm.

  Anna.

  The danger isn’t immediately clear; it takes a few moments for the context to frame it.

  It is my room, not hers. And she’s sitting at my desk, my laptop open. My eyesight isn’t what it was but never mind, I can still see the header at the top of the page.

  What Happened at Kelmore

  She has opened the file containing my book. I can’t think how she found my password, but fear overtakes my curiosity. She will know that it is not about female politicians of the twentieth century.

  She will know I am a liar.

  A connection trips, short-circuits, crackles and then goes dark. My body empties, no substance left, nothing to keep me upright. I fall down into freezing mud, sinking further and further. I should get up, shout for help, do something. I know, I know, but I can’t. My reserves are empty, there’s nothing left.

  In the armchair, heat beating against my face. My toes still cold in defiance of the flames that lick out from the fire. Brandy sitting at my lips to coax me out of my stupor. ‘Linda.’

  I force my eyes open. Anna is crouched down, peering into my face. Her skin mottled and puffed. Distressed.

  ‘You fell. You’re heavier than you look.’ She’s peeled off my coat. I look down. It’s cast in a puddle at my feet.

  My throat is raw. ‘Could I have some water please?’

  ‘Here.’ She holds it for me. Icy gulps shock me back to life. Then I remember.

  ‘You were in my room,’ I say.

  She moves away from me, walking across to the window where I can’t gauge her reaction, and stares out as the wind presses against the panes. ‘You’d been gone a long time. I was worried. I thought you might have tried to meet your woman . . . Naomi. I was looking for a number,’ she says.

  She’s testing me, I’m sure of it. I wish I could see her face.

  ‘The meeting is tomorrow, Thursday,’ I remind her. I consider saying sorry, giving her the full story, why I lied. Didn’t want to. I had to, but my head is still woozy and the truth is too big to contemplate. I can’t scale it right now.

  Instead I say, ‘I went for a walk, that’s all. I fancied some fresh air. Not quite that fresh though. It blew all the stuffing out of me. I should have listened to you, taken it easy.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything.’ She tries to keep her tone light but there’s a weight to her words.

  ‘Anna, are you OK?’

  ‘Me?’ she turns around so I can see her. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You’ve been crying.’

  She forces her lips into a smile. ‘I found you outside, slumped against the house in the middle of a storm. You can excuse me a few tears.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  She bats the apology away with her hand, brings me a blanket, asks if she can get me anything. A hot drink, some soup? Am I warm enough? How am I feeling? Should she call a doctor? She would but there’s no bloody signal in this place. I tell her to sit down, relax, I’m fine, I say. But my reassurances have little effect. A cloud of disruptive energy steams off her. I accept a cup of tea to make her feel better. It works, for five minutes, before she announces that she has to go out.

  ‘In this weather?’

  ‘I need to make a phone call. There’s a spot on the main road where I can get some reception. I should get the number of a doctor in case.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly. Don’t go out on my account.’

  But it is too late, she has already opened the door and the wind that tears through the house casts my words back to me.

  She returns a while later, th
warted and agitated. Streams of rain run off her hair and down her face. She removes her coat and the jumper underneath, hangs them over the chair where water pools on the floor. All that is left is a vest and jeans, a tattoo on her upper arm. An insect or a bird that seems to come alive as she shivers.

  ‘That’s pretty,’ I say. ‘Never thought I’d be complimenting a tattoo.’ I’d warned Gabriel not to get any as a teen. You’ll regret it later. At the last count, he had seven.

  She ignores me. ‘I’m starving,’ she says. ‘You should eat too.’

  The smell of steaks cooking awakens my appetite. Anna serves them rare, blood oozing out on to a few green beans and a dollop of fried onions. She brings out a bottle, two glasses of wine.

  ‘I’d better not,’ I say.

  The fire weights the air with a heavy, peaty scent that discourages interruption. We eat in silence, breaking it only to remark on the quality of the meat.

  Afterwards, she throws another log on the fire and tops up her wine.

  ‘Why did you go into politics?’ she asks. This line of conversation isn’t entirely unusual between Anna and me. She seems fascinated, in the way people often are, about my time in Government; did you meet the Prime Minister? (Yes.) Did you visit Number 10? What was it like? (Underwhelming.) Why did you leave? (It’s a long story.) But tonight I’m alert, sensing the questioning has an undertow.

  ‘The usual reasons,’ I say. ‘I wanted to make a difference.’ The memory provokes a laugh in me. ‘I was idealistic. You have to be, but the deeper you get into Government the harder it becomes. Sometimes you have to make tough decisions. It’s not always a case of choosing what’s right, but the lesser of two evils.’ This is my stock response, one I trot out without thinking or believing. I cast my eyes over to Anna to see if she can smell the bullshit.

  ‘That’s nice,’ she says, while making it clear it’s nothing of the sort. ‘Is that what you did?’ She’s pushing me into a corner.

  ‘At times, yes.’

  ‘Did you ever think about the people who were on the wrong side of your decisions?’ A sting, right there.