An Act of Silence

by Colette McBeth

‘Rebecca?’

  ‘Of course, Mrs O’Dowd.’

  ‘That leaves you, Charlie. Or would you rather be doing jobs here on a Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs O’Dowd.’

  ‘Yes what?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to continue.’

  That summer lasted years. Me and Bex, taken out every weekend, pulled into a different existence. New rules were drawn, secret ones that we weren’t to speak of, they’re just different, it doesn’t make them wrong, but not everyone would understand.

  I was wanted in a way that was complex and confusing. But being wanted was more than I’d had for a long time. We saw the sights, ate crisps and sweets and cakes, champagne, pills that fuzzed my edges and melted my body. Different men, who laughed and chatted and asked me questions but didn’t wait for answers and did what they wanted anyway. Sometimes it hurt, but it was an adult hurt, not a bad hurt. A love hurt, I told myself. So long as we made them happy we could stay happy.

  This was happiness, wasn’t it?

  Except. We began to shrink. Couldn’t tell at first, but slowly Bex’s body curled into itself, her eyes deadened again. We became smaller and smaller to make ourselves fit their shape.

  This is the adult world. Our escape.

  So why is it closing in?

  I showered, religiously, obsessively, scrubbed manically, but the handprints didn’t wash away. Indelible marks all over my body. I could have traced around them. Everything hurt, every bone, every wish we made, even our dreams hurt.

  But shhh.

  Keep quiet. Don’t tell a soul.

  You’re going to be a star.

  The show ran for two weekends at the Watford Palace Theatre with none of the West End glamour we’d hoped for. We were crammed into a dressing room with twenty other dancers, all fighting for a slice of the mirror. When the time came for us to perform we were shoved at the back, beneath layers of proper dancers. We didn’t have enough room to move our arms or kick our legs out so we quit trying. We were paralysed by our own stupidity.

  After the final performance there were drinks and a few sausage rolls and crisps backstage. Cheap, warm wine in plastic cups. Greg stood up and thanked the cast and I knew Bex wanted his eyes to fall on hers, but they didn’t, so she found him instead.

  She waited next to him while he spoke to the leading man. Waited and waited. I wanted to pull her away. He could see her and still strung out the conversation. When he finished, she touched his arm.

  ‘Bex,’ he said in a new voice that was loud and cold. ‘Thanks for the hard work. You were a bit out of step tonight, but not bad for a beginner. I’ll see you get home.’

  I could read her thoughts because the same ones were clicking through my mind. He’s acting like nothing happened. Like she’s nothing to him.

  ‘Gre-eg,’ she said. Desperation thickened her voice.

  ‘I have a lot of people to see, Rebecca.’ She hated Rebecca. She reached out to touch his shoulder but he moved away too quickly and she upended a tray of drinks that a passing waitress was carrying.

  Still, she wouldn’t give up, pushed through the crowd. I followed, desperate to rein her back.

  ‘Greg.’

  ‘Don’t, please don’t . . .’

  She didn’t listen. She tracked him all the way down the corridor to a dressing room. He was inside, pushing the door closed to get rid of her, so she stuck her foot in it.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ His scream shrunk her.

  Curtis was there, drinking a glass of wine. He wasn’t alone. I would have said she was younger than me but who knows, it was hard to tell. Fresher, at least. That was it. A fresh body to touch. Not grubby like me, stained by his hands.

  ‘Get them out of here,’ he said to Greg.

  His tone winded me. My stomach curdled with shame. And jealousy. I wanted to be that girl. I would have scratched her eyes out to swap places. I would let him do whatever he wanted if it meant he didn’t throw me away.

  Greg pushed us out of the door.

  ‘Get your things, there’s a taxi waiting outside.’

  Inside the taxi it was cold. The night air goosebumped our bare arms. We watched the lights of the town stream by. Not a single word passed between us.

  Thursday 1.05 p.m.

  Linda

  The effects of Henry’s visit sit in my bloodstream like poison long after he has gone. Anger scorches me, enflames my cheeks, disturbs my vision.

  One. Last. Chance.

  I know Henry. He’ll push me into a corner until I can’t see, can’t breathe, until there is only one choice left to make. That is what he does. I should know, having been there before.

  If there is a means of escape, I can’t see it. The yawning isolation of this place compounds my despair. No one would think to look for me here, not even Jonathan. He’s been out of contact for weeks with no warning or explanation. The man can be infuriatingly vague and elusive at times. That’s not to say he won’t have his suspicions. Instinct will tell him my demise is too convenient for Curtis and Henry, but proving their involvement is another matter. And time is not my friend. Tomorrow, Henry said. I may have less than twenty-four hours left.

  Fear circles me like a predator. In an attempt to escape it, I tell myself it is probably for the best that Jonathan doesn’t know where I am. I wouldn’t put it past the fool to come up here alone, follow me into their trap. And since it was me who dragged him into this mess years ago, I wouldn’t want to be responsible for his death as well as mine.

  And yet the thought of not seeing him again punctures me. I love Jonathan. There, I’ve said it. No point in hiding away from the truth now. If I’m going to die, I might as well be honest with myself. It is hardly a revelation after all. I think I loved him from the very first time we met and sank a bottle of sambuca and argued about the welfare system until our words turned to syrup and we were the only ones left at the party. We walked out into the throbbing London night and fell into each other at a bus stop. And we kissed. I thought it was the start of something, but when we met again he seemed awkward and disinterested. Not that I let it put me off, this was the late seventies after all, women didn’t have to wait to be seduced. So I steamed in one night with a kiss, but the look on his face as he reeled back, the humiliation it produced in me, warned me off for good. I settled for friendship instead. Jonathan was a man I could rely on, whom I trusted with everything, so when Henry tried to push me into a corner, he seemed like the obvious person to turn to.

  October 1996

  Linda

  Henry’s visit was unannounced, all the better to wrong-foot people. He opened with a few inquiries about Hugh and Gabriel – Such a charming boy, how is he? – before moving on to the real purpose of his house call.

  Curtis Loewe. Film director, philanthropist, generous party donor: ‘All thanks to you, Linda. Squeezed him for millions! I knew you were going too far when you worked your magic on him. You remember that night, don’t you?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Anyway, we have a spot of bother. Girls. Curtis gave them a stab at stardom. You know he helps hundreds of children every year through those theatre schools of his. Most of them have been in some kind of trouble, and they haven’t got a thread of acting talent between them, but he gives them a shot. Doesn’t promise any more than that. These particular girls didn’t make the grade. And bingo, they’re crying wolf, trying to exact their revenge.’

  ‘Crying wolf?’

  ‘They’re alleging something untoward happened. What a shame their acting doesn’t match their imagination.’

  My blood was on simmer, hand gripping the edge of my chair.

  Maintain your composure. Henry doesn’t get to look at what is underneath.

  ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific.’
I watched him squirm. A small victory. Not much in the grand scheme.

  ‘Rape. For goodness’ sake, Linda, I didn’t think I’d have to spell it out. Curtis and another man – the drama teacher, of all people – they’re accusing them of rape.’

  The word crawled over my skin. I waited, needing time to take it in, process the allegation before I asked, ‘What exactly is it that you want me to do?’

  ‘Don’t be naïve, Linda.’ He wasn’t expecting resistance. Henry could make or break people. Those who argued with him came off worse. ‘This is a case of people trying to make trouble, nothing more.’

  ‘He’s told you that, has he?’

  ‘Of course he has. He has denied everything.’

  ‘Well, if he hasn’t done anything wrong, he has nothing to fear.’

  Henry paused, raised his nose in the air, caught the scent of blood. His laughter drilled through me.

  ‘Linda, my dear, I’d have thought you of all people would know how charming he is . . . and how liberal with his affection he can be. But that is a very long way from what he is being accused of.’

  I forced my face into a smile. Played the good girl. Obedient. Hands on chin, like I was giving his request some consideration. He took the bait – surprising how easy he was to fool. Desperation does that, I thought.

  ‘One word from you, Linda, and the investigation is dropped. Nothing more. It will save time and money in the long run – after all, they’re hardly going to get a conviction.’

  ‘Henry, do you know something . . .’ I said, smile still intact. Not for long. I couldn’t wait any longer, the words pushed up, burned my throat. ‘You really do disgust me.’

  He darkened, turned puce, like I had set off a flare underneath his skin. ‘Careful, Linda, we all have our secrets. How is Gabriel, by the way?’

  ‘Get the fuck out of my house!’

  Henry was not one to give up easily. Ever. The following week he hand-delivered a letter, insisted on me opening it in his presence. It was addressed to Chief Superintendent Bill Joplin of the Metropolitan Police, urging him to drop the investigation.

  My eyes fixed on a few choice phrases: ‘witch-hunt’, ‘national security’, ‘spurious claims with no foundation in fact’. It was from the Home Secretary, Linda Moscow.

  Me.

  ‘All it needs is your signature,’ he said.

  ‘Please leave,’ I told him.

  I waited until evening, when I was at home, and called Jonathan.

  ‘I have something for you. Can you come round?’

  ‘Curtis Lowe, what do you know about him?’

  ‘Film director of some repute, moneyed. Important donor to your lot.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was in your best interests to dig. He’s not a donor you’d want to lose.’

  My silence encouraged him. ‘There was something, a few years back. It went away almost as soon as it was discussed. No evidence . . .’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A girl, at one of his infamous parties in the Cotswolds. She was underage, she came forward to make a complaint. I got a tip-off but then she disappeared.’

  ‘Vanished?’

  ‘She withdrew the complaint, apparently. That’s as much as I know. Don’t tell me, he’s at it again?’

  ‘They want me to bury it.’

  ‘Government’s a dirty business.’

  ‘There are two women, identical complaints. They were at Kelmore School for Girls, plucked for stardom and taken to one of his charity’s theatre groups, but the only dancing they saw was at his parties. Sound familiar?’

  ‘Almost word for word. You know they’ll end your career for this if they find out you’ve told me.’

  ‘That man deserves all he has coming. Besides, Jonathan, I trust you.’

  I leaked the document outlining the case to Jonathan. It was a breach of confidentiality, without question, but I repeated Henry’s old line to myself: Sometimes you have to make decisions for the greater good. Jonathan was my security. Even if Henry succeeded in having the investigation binned, Jonathan was a dog with a bone. Nothing would persuade him to drop it.

  Sure enough, he called me a few weeks later. He’d found the girls and they were willing to talk to him. I didn’t ask how, I didn’t want to know, but I slept well that night, knowing I’d done the right thing.

  Eleven Months Before

  Henry Sinclair

  Linda. Linda. Linda. It can’t be. The woman is as good as dead. A recluse trapped inside her own home. The photographs he has seen over the past few years show a degree of decrepitude that startles him. He almost feels a tug of sympathy, it’s like life has staged a practical joke on his old colleague, bestowing her with success and recognition only to whip it away. He knows she’s fond of a drink too – wasn’t she always – and he likes to think she spends her time indoors pickling herself, shrivelling like a grape to a raisin.

  This is why he is not ready to believe Curtis when he calls to tell him Linda is causing problems again.

  ‘I’ll be damned if it’s not her. I’ve found the website. I was tipped off . . . Yes, there is a website . . . swarms of them moaning about injustice. What next? Look it up yourself. Have you a pen? It’s www.whathappenedatkelmore.com – not the most original name, eh? If you read the threads you’ll see a former politician has asked to talk to the women so she can expose the scandal, as she calls it. It’s got to be her. Who else can it be?’

  Henry gives the question some thought. ‘Any number of people.’

  ‘Then we’re in even more shit. I want Linda ruled out first off. And fast.’

  He hangs up. Curtis is not one for unnecessary pleasantries.

  You don’t get to have a career as long as Henry’s without mastering some of the darker arts. He knows people. People who can find numbers and tap phones. They’re not figures with whom Henry would ever admit to being associated. They’re discreet. Do what they have to do. Leave no trace.

  One such man slipped into Linda’s house and stole her relic of a laptop. Today he has presented Henry not with the computer itself – it wouldn’t do to have the physical thing in his possession – but with the email activity from her account. And what do you know, Linda and her old accomplice Jonathan Clancy are plotting once again.

  Sent: Friday, 13 September 2013, 13.07 p.m.

  To: LindaJmoscow@btinternet.com

  From: jonathanclancy@thetimes.co.uk

  Dear Linda,

  You opened it!

  That’s a start. I’m not going to ask you how you are because I know you will be much poorer having not had the pleasure of my company for these last few years. This can be remedied, of course, but that is not why I write.

  I write because I came across a website this week, www.whathappenedatkelmore.com. I will assume you haven’t read it, although I know the name of the establishment will ring a bell. Having gone through it and ingested the information I wonder if this gives us another chance to expose them. I know you are still licking your wounds, yet surrender is what they want. On that basis alone we should never give up.

  I will do what I can to bring this to light although, given my previous association, I can’t imagine the women would agree to talk to me. You, on the other hand, might have more luck.

  Get in touch. You still owe me lunch.

  It’s never too late.

  Yours, in hope,

  Jonathan

  Sent: Saturday, 14 September 2013, 4.57 p.m.

  To: jonathanclancy@thetimes.co.uk

  From: LindaJmoscow@btinternet.com

  Dear Jonathan,

  I’ve read the website, the blogs. I’ve read it all. I don’t think I could despise myself more.

  What to do?

  Yours
,

  Linda

  Sent: Saturday, 14 September 2013, 5.07 p.m.

  To: LindaJmoscow@btinternet.com

  From: jonathanclancy@thetimes.co.uk

  My Dearest Linda,

  With the greatest respect, you don’t have the monopoly on self-loathing. Jan divorced me two years ago. Apparently, I had never made her feel loved. She took the dog, and has shacked up with our old neighbour Vanessa. I bet you didn’t see that coming! I’m ageing and lonely and on a bad day, I dare say I stink – at least that’s the inference I draw from the looks they shoot me at work.

  But let us put our self-pity aside. The past is the past. It can’t be redrawn. You did something bad for the best of reasons. So did I.

  Stop navel-gazing and say you’ll do something to help.

  Yours, in admiration,

  Jonathan

  PS You didn’t mention lunch.

  PPS I miss you.

  Sent: Saturday, 14 September 2013, 5.48 p.m.

  To: jonathanclancy@thetimes.co.uk

  From: LindaJmoscow@btinternet.com

  Dear Jonathan,

  I will help. There, I said it. I take it you want me to contact the woman who runs the website and start gathering stories? I can’t imagine it will be easy to persuade her. Understandably she distrusts authority – or former authority, in my case. I only have myself to blame.

  We must be careful to keep this quiet until we have everything we need.

  As for lunch, I’d invite you here but then you’d see how slovenly I have become. There’s a café-cum-deli nearby. Shall we meet there next Tuesday for lunch? They do sweet potato brownies, but don’t let that put you off.

  Yours, in hope,

  Linda

  PS I’m sorry to hear about Jan. But you shouldn’t blame yourself, I always suspected she had a thing for Vanessa.

  PPS I miss you too. No one brings me good wine any more.

  The emails sit in Henry’s gut like last night’s Stilton. He pours himself a malt, gulps it down. He takes this resurgence as a personal affront. Never would he have predicted Linda would become such a monumental pain in the derrière. When he first clapped eyes on her at a hustings in Croydon in 1978 she was a plain Jane with unfortunate glasses and hair in need of attention. In fact, he questioned whether she had got the wrong party, surely she was one of James Callaghan’s lot? But no, it was his party she had chosen; well, not his exactly, but theirs. Later, when she became an MP and began climbing the ladder, he put the dress and the glasses and the haircut down to a deliberate plan to make people focus on her politics and intellect rather than her looks. It hadn’t done Hillary Clinton any harm, had it?