An Act of Silence

by Colette McBeth

  Through the darkness I can just about make out two shadows inching towards us. As they get closer I can see they’re holding hands, stopping to kiss . . . Correction: the boy keeps stopping her so he can chew her face off. Tommy looks at me and pulls a face and sticks his tongue out like he’s going to barf. I know it’s funny but I can’t find any laughs inside me.

  ‘Shall we?’ he whispers. Those two words flutter down my ear canal, bounce into my eardrum and feed their vibrations through my whole body.

  My head is way too heavy to shake and the word no has got lost somewhere. I can’t reach it. The couple stop a few metres from where we’re standing. Tommy digs me in the ribs, mouths, ‘One, two, three,’ and pulls me along.

  ‘AHHHHHHHH!’

  ‘What the fuck . . .’ The girl shouts but stands her ground. The boy pegs it, his shoes dancing dots of neon that fade into black.

  ‘You little shits!’

  Tommy tries to duck but I’m too slow. The girl grabs us.

  ‘It’s OK, Marlon,’ she shouts after her boyfriend, ‘you can get your backside down here now. They ain’t no ghosts, if that’s what you’re scared of.’

  She starts to laugh; not at us. Her laugh is pointed at Marlon, who is trying to swagger back down the path, legs apart, like he has a massive penis and wasn’t really scared of two eleven-year-old zombies.

  Close up, Marlon’s face is full of mean.

  ‘I’m not scared of no one.’

  ‘Well why did you go running off then? Leavin’ me here alone.’

  Marlon turns to us, sucks his teeth. ‘You think that’s funny, hmmm?’

  I don’t like the look that fills the girl’s face; it knows Marlon too well, seems to predict what’s coming next. Fears it. ‘Leave them now, come on.’ She pulls at his jacket. ‘They’re just kids.’

  I want to go home.

  ‘See if you think it’s funny now.’

  I’m not sure whose face Marlon’s fist aims for. It doesn’t matter. We’re so close that one skull bounces off the other like Newton’s cradles and dislodges something inside me that makes my head jelly and my body wobble and the ground around me melts until it’s just liquid and I dissolve into it without making a single splash.

  I’m trapped inside a dream. My mum and dad are here but I can’t unravel their words. They criss-cross each other really fast, so I don’t know who is saying what. It’s better when I’m alone with one of them. Mum’s hand is cold and soft and strokes me gently. I wish I could tell her how nice it is, just me and her and the stroking. I’d like to ask her to hold on to my hand forever and never let go. When she goes, I feel I’m slipping away. She talks to me about when I was a baby, how she had wanted a girl, didn’t know how she would cope with a boy. This is news to me. She says sorry a lot, although I don’t know what she’s got to be sorry about because I was the one who went to the park and now look what’s happened. What has happened? I can’t tell. Sometimes my hand gets wet with her tears. I’d like to give her a hug but I can’t move so I try my best to squeeze her fingers just so she knows that I can hear, that I love her.

  My dad’s hands are different, rough and clammy. They grip me, a bit too hard if I’m brutally honest, but I sense he’s trying his best. His voice is filled with puddles. He reads stories I recognise from years ago about Narnia and the Twits, and James and the Giant Peach, and Faraway Tree. Maybe that’s where I am. In the Land of Clouds, waiting to come back down the slippery slip.

  Thursday morning, 8.32 a.m.

  Linda

  Today. Finally, it has arrived. I swing out of bed as fast as a child at Christmas and pull back the curtains. The sky is the shade of honey and the sunlight dances on my face. Relief, that is what today brings. We made it here, in spite of the odds. I see it as the beginning of another chapter; a step closer to bringing those men to justice. And of course, by tomorrow I will be in London, close to Gabriel once more.

  Grabbing a jumper to stave off the cold, I walk into the hallway. Silence fills the house. I presume Anna must still be sleeping and decide to make coffee to take to her. Ten minutes later, carrying buttered toast and black coffee, one sugar, I knock on her door. She’s been good to me, Anna. And with so many things to occupy my mind, it’s been easy to take her kindness for granted. I resolve to be more considerate once we get back to London.

  My knock goes unanswered.

  ‘Anna, time to get up,’ I say. I am reluctant to enter her room without permission, but when she doesn’t reply I push her door ajar and peer inside.

  She has gone.

  I dump the tray on her dressing table, spilling coffee. What does it matter? All her belongings, her toiletries, everything has been cleared from the room.

  The wardrobe has been stripped bare too. A swell of panic rises in my throat. I can barely shout her name. ‘ANNA.’ She can’t have gone without me. Can she?

  Our arrangements were clear, nothing left to chance. Anna was to drive me to meet Naomi Parkes and afterwards we’d come back here, collect our things before heading for the late afternoon ferry to Largs. No need to book, hardly a rush on at the tail end of November. Nobody coming. Nobody leaving. Winter has everyone cornered.

  Running to the window, I see she has taken the car. What am I to do if she doesn’t come back? I don’t even have my phone – not that I could put it to any use. I’d have to walk to the store and ask the woman there to call me a taxi, if she can track one down. I can’t risk this whole trip amounting to nothing.

  I shower quickly, pull on the black trousers and wool jumper I laid out last night, and throw my remaining items of clothing into the suitcase. These days my ablutions are limited to soap and water, a streak of deodorant. Anna packed a hairbrush for me and, taking the hint, I pull it through my hair to little effect. It has rebelled against years of being set into the right shape. Then I wheel my suitcase down the hallway and head to the kitchen in search of a coffee, something, anything, to drive away the simmering anxiety.

  The morning is bright, a roll of blue sky unfolds as far as I can see and makes a mockery of last night’s storm. The only evidence left is the splintered branch of a tree, the green bin displaced in the middle of the lawn, three empty bottles tossed out like the aftermath of a party without the party itself.

  I pour my coffee, drink it too hot so it scorches my taste buds. Half an hour, forty-five minutes at the most, that’s all I can give her.

  Focus.

  Make use of the time, I tell myself. I pull out my file, it is heavy with notes and printouts. I made contact with Naomi Parkes through a website where survivors (not victims) have shared their stories. I approached the website founder, explained what I was doing and asked if anyone would speak to me anonymously. It’s not been an easy task; the first woman I met went cold, refused to speak to me again, even threatened to call the police if I approached her. The website founder, who was all for going public, has not responded to my emails for months. Naomi Parkes’ is the only testimony I have at the moment. On its own it’s not enough, but it is a start. With one in the bag, I’m convinced others will follow.

  I run through the questions I need to ask her.

  At the top of the list is: when did it happen? But what I really want to ask is, after or before? The answer matters, to me, at least.

  Time slips by. I glare at the clock. It’s painted with an old family crest, hung on the wall next to a deer head that blinks in the sun. What are you waiting for, he seems to say.

  On the map I search for the address of the farmhouse Naomi has given me. It looks remote but so does everything here. The distance should take us no more than half an hour to drive. Then again, factor in the roads, getting stuck behind a tractor, and it is anyone’s guess.

  I pull on my coat, fasten up against the cold; the bright sky won’t trick me twice. My fingers tremble with anger. Ho
w could she do this? And why? I have to block these questions out for now. Nothing else for it but to walk to the general store where I hope Emily can twist some arms and get me a taxi fast.

  I’m gathering my notes, feeding them into the file, when I hear wheels churn up the mud outside.

  I turn around, see the red flash of the hire car in the drive.

  Anna has come back.

  ‘You look terrible,’ I tell her. This is true, not meant to be unkind. Her eyes are bruised, lips chapped and red. Overnight, a cold sore has sprouted in the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘I had to make a phone call.’

  I want to know what could be so urgent to jeopardise the meeting, but I bite down the criticism. ‘We should get going.’

  She nods, eyes brimming up.

  ‘Oh, Anna, are you OK?’ My frustration melts into worry. She looks hollowed out, exhausted.

  ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. So much for the country air.’

  I’m struck by guilt. Too focused on myself, on Gabriel, on securing this interview. Anna has been on the periphery of my thoughts. I have taken her for granted, not paid enough attention to her wellbeing.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘This is all my fault.’

  Anna is behind the wheel, my eye too swollen to be deemed safe. I don’t want to criticise, her mood is fragile as it is, but her driving is something to behold. She corners bends at speed, crunches gears, teeters scandalously close to the edge of sheer drops. At this rate, we’ll be lucky to make it to Naomi Parkes alive.

  ‘Do you think you could slow down a little? I’m feeling rather nauseous.’

  In response, she drops a gear but not her speed.

  We should have twenty miles to cover but the road plays with the distance. Tries to make it last as long as thirty, forty miles. It entices us to slow down and appreciate the views. Acknowledge them at the very least. And when we don’t, its patience grows thin, drags us up high, squeezes us down narrow tracks, shunts us into bushes. Don’t rush to your destination. The drive is the destination. Look at me! On the left a viewing point, perched five hundred feet above the sea. A bench for you to sit. Take in the day. Look at the pink lemonade light settling over the hills. The horizon that melts into the water. Don’t you want to know how the islands hover above the sea and the tiny specks of fishing boats are stuck to the sky? It’s magic. That’s what it is. Pure magic.

  We drive on. We see the magic beyond the window but don’t let it touch us. The road loses patience. We are outsiders who won’t play its game. It calls the clouds to shut out the light and within five minutes a coat of darkness dresses the sky. On the ground the shadows race us. We’ll beat you. Wherever you’re going, we’ll get there faster, they say.

  ‘Your book isn’t about female politicians, is it?’ Anna says out of the blue.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ I buy myself a second to formulate my excuse.

  ‘Politicians – that’s not what this is about.’

  I exhale, the sound of a lie extinguished. ‘No. It isn’t. I take it that’s what you were doing in my room last night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How much did you read?’

  ‘Enough.’

  ‘Then I hope you understand why I didn’t want you involved in any way. Those men would do anything to keep this covered up.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Let’s just say this isn’t the first time I’ve tried.’

  The colour leaches from Anna’s face. I’ve said too much and now she’s scared. Has a right to be too.

  ‘You can turn back if you want to. It was wrong of me to ask you here on false pretences. I’m sorry.’

  She doesn’t reply, keeps her eyes glued to the road, focused on the path ahead.

  Jonathan, 9.32 a.m.

  Linda. Olympic drinker, debater, straight-talker, the woman with the filthiest laugh he knows. He always marvelled that people couldn’t see what a hoot she was underneath the slick suits, the ferocious intellect. The first time they met, at a dull Westminster party, she force-fed him shots of flaming sambuca. ‘For God’s sake, we’re facing certain death from boredom here, help me out.’

  What he’s never told her, carried around all these years of their friendship, is that he was in love with her once. Perhaps he still is. She was the woman he wanted to marry, and maybe he would have done if he hadn’t been so bloody gauche. Wasn’t he all set to divulge his feelings when he turned up at the pub late, thanks to a breaking story, to find his friend Hugh entwined in conversation with her? Hugh was slicker, faster, had the knack of making Linda know she was adored. Whereas he was a bumbling public schoolboy. No prizes for guessing who won her affection. Still, they remained good friends. He understands her better than anyone, knows what the woman has been through, the ghosts that follow her around.

  How he wishes he could get hold of her, hit her with all the questions that are crashing about in his head. Damn the woman for leaving him like this. He tries her mobile. Pointless. Futile. He’s tried it every day since Tuesday. But he can’t help himself. All he wants is to hear her voice.

  He’s been out of touch for a while – hospital appointments, a battery of tests, not anything he’d want to share with Linda. She would only worry. He tries to recall their last conversation. Did she mention anything about Gabriel? Surely he would remember if she had. Her fractious relationship with him has long been a source of sadness. And while Jonathan adored his godson as a child, as an adult he could happily throttle him for treating Linda so callously. Gabriel has no concept of the sacrifices his mother has made for him. But then, why would he?

  Yes, he was self-centred, inflated with the kind of ego fame too often bestows.

  But a murderer?

  Jonathan doesn’t buy it. Not for a moment.

  The police, on the other hand, seem to think they have their man.

  Upon hearing news of Gabriel’s arrest, the first people Jonathan wanted to talk to were Henry Sinclair and Curtis Loewe. He couldn’t give a stuff about their quotes. It was instinct that drove him to them. And suspicion. He needed to hear the timbre of their voices, catch any irregular inflections, twitches half-hidden beneath their skin.

  And he can’t explain why he knows, but he does.

  Just like everything else he has known for years but has never been able to prove.

  Out of frustration he smacks his hand on the table, makes Sally the features editor jump. ‘Lamppost day?’

  Some days you’re the dog and others you’re the lamppost is Sally’s favourite line.

  He refuses to be the lamppost today. He owes it to Linda to become the dog.

  Think around the problem. If you can’t take the direct route there are always other options, Jonathan tells himself. And he does have another line of inquiry. He sent his first email twenty-four hours ago and another six since and yet she hasn’t answered a single one.

  ‘I understand why you wouldn’t want to talk to me, but I would ask you to put your misgivings aside,’ he wrote to the woman who set up the Kelmore survivors’ website. He sounded like a pompous prick. No wonder she hadn’t answered. Or maybe he’s been sending his requests to an old email account. But then Linda mentioned she’d had trouble contacting her too. She posted her last blog on the website months ago. It could be she wanted to step back for a while. Or . . . something else. He searches for her name on an electoral database. Bingo! He gets up abruptly, and knocks a cup of tea over his desk.

  ‘Going well then,’ Sally says.

  But Jonathan is already heading out, waving her comments away. He has found the woman’s address. He’ll pay her a visit, try the personal appeal since his virtual entreaties haven’t worked.

  ‘You’ll be lucky.’ A wo
man down the corridor has poked her head out of the door. ‘Haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘Has she moved?’

  ‘And you are . . . ?’

  He walks over and holds out his hand. ‘Jonathan Clancy.’ He fishes out a card from his pocket, discreetly tries to remove the Tic Tac that is stuck to it.

  ‘Saving that one, were you?’

  ‘I work for The Times.’

  ‘The Radio Times or the TV Times?’

  ‘Just The Times.’

  ‘I see,’ she says, although it’s clear she doesn’t.

  ‘Has she moved?’

  ‘Not officially. Holiday, she said. Lucky her. Months and months she’s been gone. Her things are still inside. Well, most of them. Someone came to collect a few boxes when she first left. A man. Scottish he was. Not particularly friendly, if I remember correctly.’

  ‘How do you know what’s inside?’ Jonathan is looking at the slats of Venetian blinds. ‘I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘I didn’t say I looked through the window, did I? I have a key so I can keep an eye on things. She forgot to take it back. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Jonathan. Jonathan Clancy.’

  ‘And what is it you’re after, Mr Clancy?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out where she is.’

  ‘Is she in trouble?’

  ‘I hope not.’

  ‘Well, you seem like a genuine sort. I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.’

  They emerge from the flat ten minutes later. Although the place isn’t particularly homely – a few pieces of Ikea furniture, a sofa and a bed – it doesn’t look like she was planning to leave long term. Her face creams and perfumes still sit on top of the chest of drawers. A few items of clothing in the wardrobe too.

  ‘Her car’s still in the car park,’ says the woman, who has by now introduced herself as Marjorie, chair of the residents’ association. ‘I’ll show you, come down here.’ She points to the stairs. ‘Everyone has to have a permit, you see, and it’s my job to make sure they’ve all paid up. Charlie’s hasn’t moved for months. Mind you, if she’s gone abroad she wouldn’t want to be parking it at the airport. Can you imagine? She’d have to take out a mortgage to pay for it.’