An Act of Silence

by Colette McBeth

  The book didn’t make it back to me. I thought I must have left it under my pillow and Jay had missed it. Sometimes I’d leave it there in the hope her voice would flood my dreams.

  Email communication with Linda had to stop too. This came as a relief. There were only so many times I could claim an emergency dental appointment or a burst pipe to call off a meeting. My withdrawal from the website was more of an issue.

  ‘Trust me,’ Jay said. ‘You keep it simple on jobs like this. You don’t over-complicate things or give yourself an opportunity to slip up. And it’s not forever.’

  I agreed, reluctantly. Truth is, I would have done almost anything he asked. The last thing I wanted to do was mess up.

  Anna was a useful disguise. Anna was allowed to smile at Linda and make her lunch without spitting in it. She was a chameleon, could turn herself into whatever Linda wanted her to be – organiser, planner, chef, cleaner. She was also a relief. I walked lighter when I stepped into her shoes, cast off Charlie’s baggage for a few hours a day.

  Halfway through the second week, Linda, who had until then been holed up in her study, invited me to join her for lunch. ‘I feel we’ve been skirting around each other. Quite rude of me.’

  I ladled the minestrone soup I had made (from scratch) into a bowl and sat opposite her at the table. ‘Gabriel was going to be an Anna, you know,’ she said. ‘Oh, listen to me! Gabriel is my son. You might recognise him. He tells jokes for a living. He was always a funny little boy.’ She gave a mirthless laugh.

  ‘It’s Gabriel Miller, isn’t it? I saw a photograph of him in the living room. You must be proud.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Is he your only child?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stared into the soup bowl as if she had found something not to her liking. ‘He was a surprise. Hugh and I, we tried for years.’

  ‘Hugh is your husband?’

  ‘Was. He’s dead now. We separated years ago, when Gabriel was a teenager. Divorce is hard for children. The poor boy had a tricky time of it. Are your parents around, Anna?’

  ‘My mum died when I was twelve. I didn’t know my dad.’ I paused, heat flushed through me. Wrong story. Charlie’s not Anna’s.

  ‘Oh, you poor thing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘She would have loved it here, all these books. She was always trying to get me to read more.’

  ‘Sensible woman. Do you have a favourite?’

  The answer was a reflex, came out unchecked. ‘The Wonderland Trilogy. I know they’re kids’ books, but we used to read them together. Well, Part One, anyway. She was going to buy me the others.’ I stopped. Why was I telling her this? Didn’t want her pity. ‘Anyway, I went to live with my aunt when she died. She wasn’t into books.’

  ‘Well, that’s something at least, that you had family to step in. Putting a child in care often doesn’t result well. I should know. I’ve dealt with a lot through work. I’m afraid to say the system lets them down.’

  A thread of pasta lodged itself in my throat. She’d opened the door to me, too tempting not to follow with a question.

  ‘That was your area of work, wasn’t it?’ I blushed. ‘Sorry, after you mentioned you were in politics, I looked you up. That makes me sound like a stalker.’

  ‘Not at all, you want to know who you are dealing with, it’s only natural. It was my area, as you say, but I can’t claim to have made a huge difference. Politics can be brutal.’

  ‘Is that why you quit?’

  ‘I didn’t quit. I was pushed out. Framed, if you like. Not that anyone believed me. But that’s a story for another time.’

  Months passed and my initial eagerness to find out what she was up to, sifting through letters while she worked in her study, taking screenshots of paperwork, trying to find the password to her laptop, settled into something more relaxed. Now and then this stirred up a current of panic, a fear that my anger was ebbing. Linda was perfectly pleasant in the flesh, caring even – ‘Oh, go home early, the washing can wait,’ she’d say. When I arrived with a cold one day, she ordered me to sit down, put my feet up, before foisting a Lemsip on me. For lunch, she made a vindaloo. ‘Trust me,’ she said, ‘it’ll do wonders for your sinuses.’

  Was there a danger she could suck me in?

  As if.

  I’d lost none of my determination, I told myself. It was simply impossible to maintain that level of tension on a daily basis.

  Gabriel’s visit in June set off the first major alarm bell. Linda had abandoned her study, spent the morning in the kitchen, apron on, preparing homemade hamburgers. ‘He still thinks they’re the best.’

  There was a marked change in her appearance. I wouldn’t say her hair was presentable but she’d certainly made an effort at taming it. A comb had been involved. She was dressed in pale blue cotton trousers and a shirt. No jeans. The trainers were banished. I could have sworn there was a trace of lipstick gracing her lips.

  One thirty came round and no sign of Gabriel. I found Linda staring at the kitchen clock. ‘The traffic is terrible these days, isn’t it,’ she said when her eyes caught mine.

  ‘I’d have thought he’d take a taxi. You fly through in those lanes,’ I replied. Her shoulders sagged a little more, the weight of expectation pressing down.

  I’d hit the mark. I should have been elated, a small victory, but I derived no pleasure from it.

  A complicated emotion, hate.

  The bell rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ Linda called, and shot off to answer the door.

  ‘Gabriel . . .’ She sang his name but his greeting didn’t match hers.

  ‘Come in . . . you look tired . . .’

  ‘You always say that.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘No, I’m making it up.’

  ‘Oh . . . cup of tea, coffee?’

  ‘Coffee, thanks.’

  Their footsteps took them into the kitchen and I moved to the hallway where I could eavesdrop.

  ‘Where’s the machine that I bought you?’

  ‘Oh, that thing. I couldn’t get on with it,’ Linda said.

  Cupboards opened and slammed shut as Linda searched for the missing coffee machine.

  ‘Have you given it away to charity?’ Gabriel asked.

  ‘No, I have not. There’s nothing wrong with this coffee anyway.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  I’d heard that comedians were often a disappointment in real life, a pale intimation of their public personae, moody and cantankerous. While I wouldn’t claim ten minutes of an overheard conversation was enough to make a judgement, I can vouch that Gabriel’s presence brought a cool draught to the house.

  ‘It’s really no way to behave, if you ask me,’ Linda said a little later. Her voice had grown shrill.

  ‘I didn’t ask you.’

  ‘I despair, really I do. Bernadette said she’d seen you in the newspaper the other day.’

  ‘You can hardly talk. Anyway, I don’t need Bernadette’s seal of approval, she of the virgin conception.’

  ‘Gabriel!’

  ‘If ever a woman could be doing with a bit more fun in her life, it’s her. Though I can’t say I blame Pat for not going near her.’

  ‘Gabriel Miller! Do not talk about my friend in that way.’

  ‘You don’t even like her.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘Or is it just her fruitcake you despise?’

  Linda let out a laugh, despite herself. ‘That woman’s fruitcake is still lying in my stomach from last week. The worst part is, she thinks I like it.’

  ‘You see, she’s trying to kill you with her baking.’

  Linda’s tone softens. ‘I worry, Gabriel. It’s all too much. Your health will suffer.’

  ‘How many times do I have to tell
you? I’m fine. Jesus, I had kale and spinach juice this morning, what more do you want me to do?’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘I’ve made hamburgers for lunch.’

  ‘I can’t stop. I have a meeting in town.’

  ‘But they’re your favourite.’

  ‘I’m not twelve, Mum.’

  Precisely thirty-two minutes after he arrived, Gabriel left. Spying an opportunity to meet him, I decided it would be the perfect moment to vacuum the hall.

  He didn’t see me, walked straight into it, tripped.

  ‘Fuck!’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘I’ve survived worse,’ he said, cheeks ferocious red. ‘And you are . . . ?’

  ‘This is Anna,’ Linda said. ‘She works for me.’

  ‘Just watch she doesn’t kill you.’ He stabbed me with a withering look. His face had a waxy appearance, tiredness darkened his eyes. Nothing like the TV Gabriel Miller. He needed more than kale juice to sort him out.

  ‘I’ll call you in a few days,’ Linda said, before diving in for a hug.

  And then he was gone.

  Linda didn’t move from the hallway. The arms that embraced her son were suspended mid-air, as if they hadn’t registered his departure. When she finally moved, it was to pivot around, regard a photograph of Gabriel on the wall. At a guess, he must have been thirteen, his boyish face still fresh, smiling. She wore a puzzled look, couldn’t quite equate the man who had breezed in and out with the boy captured in the frame. Finally, she shook her head, vigorously, as if to dislodge a trapped thought, and headed to the kitchen where she took the hamburgers from the oven and threw them straight in the bin.

  I watched all this, fighting the urge to go and give her a hug.

  After a few months Linda let the female politicians of the twentieth century lie slide, and began to refer to her work simply as The Book. For my part, I’d uncovered precious little of use to anyone. Doubt had gained a voice, and it grew louder by the day. What if Jay Huxtable had made a mistake? Who was to say Linda had written that letter? Politics is brutal, that’s what she’d told me. I took endless routes around unlikely scenarios that would explain away her involvement until I was hit by the truth: I didn’t want it to be her. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t reconcile the creature of my nightmares with the woman who, come Friday, would force me to down tools and insist I share a jug of her special summer punch.

  It was always a Friday, because we damn well deserve it, Anna, she’d say. We’d sit in the back garden, under a gazebo if it rained (I refuse to give in to the vagaries of British summertime). In contrast to the front of the house, the back garden was remarkably well kept. It wasn’t big, few London gardens are, but Linda had packed it with flowers, sprays of pink roses, daisies that bent in the wind. There was a water feature too and the afternoon’s drinking was set to the gentle sound of a flowing stream. Sweet peas climbed the trellis, scenting the air. Linda turned her face to the sun. ‘It’s a little paradise, is it not? Ready for another? Of course you are.’

  I was on my third glass before I realised that the punch was special on account of its effects. I was completely bladdered.

  One particular Friday, an afternoon lazy with heat, we were cowering in the shade of the magnolia tree. A bee droned above my head. I was on my second glass when Linda jumped to her feet.

  ‘I nearly forgot, I have something for you.’

  She returned carrying a brown parcel that she laid out on the trestle table.

  ‘They arrived today. Not in print any more, but I managed to find some first editions.’

  Linda set both books out in front of me. Parts two and three of The Wonderland Trilogy. I ran my finger over them, feeling the shape of each embossed letter. Memories flooded my head. My mum’s voice weaving through the air to find me.

  I turned to Linda’s expectant face. She didn’t say anything, just placed a hand on top of mine and held it firm.

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  She heaved the jug up from the ground. ‘Say you’ll have another.’

  I stumbled through to the end of summer, fell into September. The lie had grown too big to carry around, suffocated me. I didn’t know who Linda was but I knew I couldn’t be Anna any more. By October, my speech was rehearsed – a job opportunity in Jamaica – I had practised my responses – I know! I’ve never been either, but it’s too good an opportunity to pass on.

  I made the mistake of mentioning my plans to Jay.

  ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘It’s just about to get exciting.’

  ‘We want you to go to Scotland with Linda,’ Jay said. We were in my flat. I’d made him a coffee, black no sugar. It was easier meeting here than in parks and cafés.

  ‘Scotland?’

  ‘It’s a country in the UK.’

  ‘Thanks for enlightening me. I told you, I’ve had enough. The lying is killing me.’

  Jay shot me a look, half frustration, half panic. Colour smacked his cheeks, gave his face a hot sheen.

  ‘You like her, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m not doing it, Jay.’

  ‘Christ, you’re going soft. She’s good, I have to hand it to her.’

  ‘She is who she is. I just don’t know whether she would have done that. She . . .’

  ‘Doesn’t seem like the type?’ His laugh was like gravel. He raked his next words out of it. ‘Oh Anna, stop being so naïve. She’s a politician. She has many faces. That’s what makes these people so dangerous. We’re close, this close.’ He pressed his thumb and index finger together. His eyes were bright with alarm. ‘Just one more thing and we’re done.’

  ‘You called me Anna.’

  ‘Did I? Well you should be Anna.’ His shoulders sank, the pressure hissing out of him. ‘It suits you better. Have you got any beers? I could murder a drink.’

  Unusually, he stayed longer than half an hour, ordered a curry, his shout.

  ‘It’ll take more than a Balti to persuade me,’ I said.

  ‘She’s meeting Henry Sinclair up there, that’s what we think. You won’t be alone, but we need you on the inside otherwise we could miss her.’

  ‘Why would she go all the way to Scotland when she could meet him here?’

  ‘Privacy. Away from prying eyes. I don’t know. Sinclair has a place up there.’

  ‘She hasn’t mentioned anything about Scotland. Do you ever consider that you might be wrong about her? Who’s to say someone didn’t fake that letter you showed me? It’s not like the police to make a mistake.’

  He took a swig of beer. Slowly placed it back on its coaster before he turned his body towards me. ‘You know, it’s sweet to see how loyalty has bloomed out of hatred.’

  ‘Don’t take the piss.’

  ‘I’m not. You’re one of the good ones.’ He said it like it was a shame, like he wished I wasn’t.

  ‘Turns out I’m not such a hard-nosed bitch after all.’

  ‘Listen, she’ll ask you to go to Scotland with her, you wait and see. She’ll spin you a line about it being a research trip or some other crap. And even if you still doubt me, ask yourself this: what’s the harm in going with her and finding out who is the liar once and for all?’

  Huxtable was right in one respect. At the end of October Linda sat me down and asked of me ‘a rather large favour’.

  Would I consider accompanying her on a trip to Scotland?

  One Month Before

  Henry Sinclair

  ‘I spoke to Linda’s friend Bernadette yesterday. She mentioned that Linda has been talking to a publisher,’ Henry says.

  They’re in the dining room at the Charter Club. It’s an Indian summer, though you wouldn’t find any signs of it inside the mahogany walls of the dining room. The air-c
on is the only concession to the heat. Jackets remain on. Shirts buttoned up. Sweat slides down Henry’s back. The heavy Burgundy was a bad choice. Curtis spits out a chunk of steak into his napkin, loosens his top button and drains his water.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Henry asks.

  The look he passes Henry holds a lot of history, blame too. Curtis had wanted something more definitive for Linda last time round. It’s not enough to disgrace her, he’d said, she knows too much. He’d mooted an accident or a suicide even, but Henry had limits and persuaded him that publicly shaming her would be enough to neuter the threat.

  He was trying to be kind, show his humane side, but now his generosity has come back to haunt him and he hates her all the more.

  ‘The steak is tough. Waitress, this steak is rotten. I know a bad steak when I smell one.’ There’s a murmur on the table next to him and the man turns to remonstrate before he sees who it is that’s speaking.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry. I’ll get the chef to make you another.’

  ‘I don’t want steak. Get me a Caesar salad.’

  Henry looks alarmed. He should be. The choice of food tells Henry everything he needs to know. Curtis is not a salad man.

  Henry eats his coq au vin. Sweat pebbles his forehead. He gulps water, fills his glass then downs another. ‘Such a filthy thirst,’ he says, but he’s playing for time and Curtis knows it. Trying to come up with a solution to the Linda problem to justify the money Curtis funnels into his offshore account every year. ‘Christ,’ Henry says, ‘the air-con is as good as useless in here.’

  The waitress brings the Caesar salad. Curtis takes a mouthful of lettuce before admitting defeat. ‘Who eats this crap?’