Silent Voices Read online

  Simon nodded. “I won’t mention you. And thanks again... this really does mean a lot. Could I ask you something else?”

  Melanie returned to the sofa, where she sat and began putting on her shoes. “Time’s up, mister, so make it fast.”

  Simon folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers. “Did Marty ever mention anything about what happened to us when we were kids?”

  Melanie looked up as she struggled with the strap on her right shoe. “What do you mean? What happened when you were kids? Is that what this is all about? Some kind of closure for a falling-out you all had when you were younger? I thought it might be something more exciting than that.” Some of the hair had fallen out of her ponytail, and slid down over her eyes. She didn’t bother moving it out of the way, just peered through the dangling fringe.

  “Yes,” said Simon. “It’s about unfinished business. I just wondered if he’d ever spoken to you about any of it, that’s all.”

  She shook her head. “’fraid not. Like I said, Marty’s an insular bastard. He doesn’t give much away.”

  “Thanks again, then. I’ll let you get back to work.”

  When she did not respond, Simon took it as his cue to leave. He walked back through the flat and opened the door, then stepped out onto the shabby little landing. Once he was outside, in the open air, he felt like he’d been released from confinement. But he looked around, and realised that all he’d done was pass from one cell into another.

  He moved along the alleyway between the shops and turned right, walking once again past the betting shop. He did not look in the window. If Melanie had gone back inside through some other door, maybe one that linked the upstairs flat with the rear of the shop, he didn’t want to be seen checking her out. She was an attractive woman, but she had an aura of melancholy that he had found difficult to bear. He couldn’t imagine staying with such a woman, where every movement, each tiny gesture, seemed like it was hiding another meaning.

  He walked along the Arcade, lost in his own thoughts, and only when he was level with the butchers at the end of the row did he see the boy. It was Scooby, from earlier that day – the cocky ringleader of the group who’d taken Simon’s wallet. This time the kid was on his own, walking up ahead with oversized earphones clamped to his head.

  A surge of rage travelled the length of Simon’s body, originating in his chest and moving through his torso, to end up in his fists. Here, he felt, was a chance for redemption, an opportunity to bolster his self-image and dispel the cowardice he’d experienced before. If he could get back his phone or his wallet, or at least scare the kid, then he could once again feel like a man. He realised how shallow the thought was, and how it diminished him in some way, yet the part of him that was always pushing overcame his doubts.

  The boy turned right, into Grove Street West. Simon followed, keeping his distance but increasing his pace so he could see if the boy ducked into a ginnel or an alleyway. The boy continued along the street. On either side of them, many of the properties were boarded up. The burnt-out shell of an old gymnasium – Simon remembered the newspaper report he’d been sent – cast a dark stain on the footpath.

  Scooby stopped outside the burnt building, stuck his hand into the pocket of his tracksuit top and produced a key. Moving quickly, he unlocked the heavy-duty security door and began to enter the building.

  Simon moved fast, without really giving much thought to what he was doing. He had no plan; he just sprinted across the road, knowing that the boy couldn’t hear him through his headphones, and barrelled straight into Scooby’s back, sending him sprawling inside. He slammed the door without looking back and went for the kid, kicking him in the side.

  “Fuck!” Scooby’s cries were too loud; he was compensating for still wearing the headphones.

  Simon knelt down and grabbed the headphones, wrenching them off the kid’s ears. The walls around him were scorched and blackened. To his left, half a staircase hung suspended in mid-air, the ends of the treads seared away. The place smelled of old flames.

  “What the fuck?”

  “You don’t recognise me, do you?” Simon grabbed the kid’s face with both hands, letting his fingers sink into his stubbly cheeks. “Where’s my fucking wallet, you chav vermin?”

  Realisation dawned; the kid’s eyes took on a panicked look. His mouth started to work but he said nothing.

  “My wallet. Now!”

  Scooby shook his head. “That’s gone, mate. We cleaned it out and stuck it in the post box in Near Grove, by the community centre. You should get it back in a few weeks.” There was a cocky little half-smile on his face.

  Despite the situation, Simon did not feel as if the boy was afraid enough of him. Still, he wasn’t threatening, the people he met did not respect his aggression.

  “You little bastard.” He pulled back his right fist and punched the kid in the face, just below his right eye.

  Scooby cried out. He tried to fight back, but Simon held him down, shifting his body weight so that he was kneeling on Scooby’s shoulders, pinning him down.

  “Fear me,” he said. “Be fucking afraid of me.” He started punching again, and he did not stop until Scooby lay still, his eyelids flickering and his lips slack and bloodied.

  Simon stood up and backed away, pressing his back against the wall. What the hell was he doing, beating the kid senseless? What had come over him to make him act this way? He rubbed his face with his hands, and then wiped them on his trousers. He glanced over at Scooby, sprawled on the dirty floor, his face damp with blood.

  He looked at the palms of his hands, and then at his fists. His knuckles were red and angry. He rubbed them on his trousers.

  Simon went to the door, opened it, and peeked outside. The street was empty. Nobody came along here unless they were up to no good – he suspected that Scooby had come inside the burnt-out gym to smoke some weed or perhaps even to make a drugs drop.

  Shit, he thought. That means someone else might be on their way here to pick up the merchandise.

  He returned to Scooby’s body. The kid was stirring. He made moaning sounds as his legs twitched. Simon hadn’t killed him; that was good news, at least.

  He checked Scooby’s pockets and found a large plastic baggy filled with white powder in the left hand pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. A drugs drop, then. He put the bag back in Scooby’s pocket and returned to the door. He slipped outside, closing the door behind him, and then jogged to the end of the street, where he turned back towards the Arcade. Nobody paid any attention to him, despite the fact that his jacket was dusty from where he’d leaned against the wall. He hoped that there was no blood on his face, from when he’d touched it with his hands.

  As he walked, heading towards the relative safety and security of the Grove Court flats, Simon felt better about himself than he had in quite some time. That exultant moment of opportunist violence, the way he’d handled the scruffy little upstart back at the ruined and abandoned gym, had served its purpose: right now, at least until the shame and the guilt kicked in, he felt like a man again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  IT WAS ALREADY growing dark when Marty arrived at Doc’s house. He couldn’t believe it was summer; it was only seven o’clock. The darkness was creeping in early, as if trying to get a head start on the season and usher in the short days of autumn.

  He looked up, at the churning sky, and realised that the light was being blocked by a dense layer of dark clouds. The day was still there; he just couldn’t see it.

  Marty had a few enemies in this part of Jesmond, mostly from the days when he’d worked regularly as a pub doorman, so he didn’t come around here often. He’d learned long ago to walk away from possible friction; life was too short to risk making it shorter in a kerbside brawl. A younger Marty – maybe even the Marty from five or six years ago – would have laughed at that and called his older self a coward. But these days, he knew the score. He realised that his life had been lived far too l
ong in the line of fire and sometimes it’s better to dodge a bullet than to try and catch it in your teeth.

  Doc’s place was a three-storey Victorian terrace with a large garden and an outbuilding. There was a greenhouse tucked along by the fence. This had surprised Marty in the past; he hadn’t figured Doc for a gardener. He’d been to the house on a couple of previous occasions, having various knocks and bumps treated, but had never before turned up on such short notice.

  Nobody knew the old medic’s real name. Or if they did, they hadn’t bothered to remember it. He was simply Doc, and the old man never complained about it. According to local legend, he’d been a popular ringside doctor at pro bouts back in the day, but the drink and an ex-wife with expensive tastes had wrecked him, leaving him to scrape a living by less conventional means. Marty had once been told that Doc was struck off by the Medical Council, but nobody seemed to know why.

  He knocked on the door and waited. A few seconds later a light went on in the hallway, shining through the decorative glass panels in the door. A small shape shuffled towards the other side of the door and opened it.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” said Marty.

  “It’s no bother,” said Doc, turning to the side. “Please, come in. You know the way through, don’t you?”

  “Yes. I’ve been here before, remember?”

  Doc nodded, but clearly had no idea. “Come on in, then, and let’s take a look at that stab wound.”

  The house was filled with old things. Expensive things. The ex-wife must not have been fully successful in her endeavours to ruin the man, if he’d managed to hold on to this house and all the possessions crammed between its walls. There was clutter everywhere; the walls were covered with paintings (real paintings, not prints), and every piece of furniture – even those in the wide hallway – looked antique.

  “Nice place,” said Marty, walking through into the huge reception room.

  “Thanks. I’ve lived here for a long time. It probably needs renovating, but I haven’t the heart. I enjoy age; even in myself. I was never happy as a young man.” He smiled.

  There was a leather medical table with wooden drawers in the sides set up at one end of the room. Marty remembered it from his previous visits, and guessed that it was always set up for business, ready and waiting for paying customers. He knew that Doc had a little sideline tending the stab and bullet wounds of gang members and drug dealers, and was paid handsomely for his services. The wounds sustained in the kind of fights Marty took part in were probably light relief compared with that.

  “Take off your shirt, Marty. Lie down over there, on the table.” Doc was scrubbing his hands at the sink against the opposite wall. He did not look up, just stared closely at his hands as he slathered them in blue fluid beneath the hot tap.

  Marty did as he was told. The pain had returned, and the dressing he’d applied to the wound was coming loose. He folded his shirt and set it down on a chair, and then climbed up onto the table. He lay flat on his back, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was a death pose, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He moved his arms to rest by his sides and stared at the ceiling, the sculpted plaster rose at its centre, and the bright light that hung from it.

  “So what’s the trouble?” Doc stood over him, his pale arms pink and hairless in the harsh light. “Is it infected? That’s what you suggested over the phone.” He leant over Marty’s torso. His breath smelled of whisky and ginger.

  “God, man, how much gauze did you use?” He peeled back the dressing and cleaned out the wound. “What happened to the stitches? Have you been picking at these?”

  “No... they just came out, on their own. Maybe I knocked it against something, I can’t remember.”

  “You fucking guys... you’re all the same. With your cheap gold rings and your tribal tattoos, thinking you’re real tough guys. You can’t hurry nature, son. Healing – every kind of healing – takes time and care. You can’t hurry it along like a slut on a first date.” His hands were soft and gentle, unlike when he’d worked at ringside. Here, on his own turf, the man became the skilled doctor he must once have been, before life broke him.

  “Doc, this might sound a bit funny, but I need you to inspect inside the wound. I think I got something in there.”

  Doc stopped working. He straightened his back and stared at Marty’s face. “Are you high, son?”

  Marty shook his head. “No. I just have this... this feeling. It feels like there’s something moving around in there, under my skin.” He looked away, unable to meet the old man’s gaze.

  “Jesus Christ on a bike. You people... drugged up, fucked up, and walking around like you’re masters of the universe. Don’t you realise what kind of mess you’re making of your life?” He shook his head, talking to himself now. “I don’t know; some folk just never know when to quit the game.”

  Doc grabbed some stainless steel pincers and a scalpel off a tray and paused. “I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t hurt much, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “Okay. Just have a look... check around in there, would you?”

  “Aye. Don’t worry. If there’s anything in there, I’ll have it out in a minute.” He bent back to his work, his eyes widening, his lips pressing together.

  Doc was as good as his word. The examination did not hurt too much. Marty gritted his teeth a couple of times, but the mild pain was tolerable, much less than he’d expected.

  “I’ll put in a few more loose stitches,” said Doc, when he’d finished. “There’s fuck-all in there, son, so please leave it alone this time. If you have any discomfort, just give me another call. Don’t start imagining symptoms – that’s my job.” He winked.

  “Thanks,” said Marty, closing his eyes.

  When Doc had finished, Marty handed him an envelope of used bills. Doc didn’t bother counting the money; he simply nodded, smiled, and walked Marty to the door.

  “Remember,” he said. “Just leave it alone... let it heal.”

  “I will,” said Marty, but the door was already closing in his face.

  He went back to his car and sat behind the wheel with the engine running. Aretha Franklin was singing on the radio. He listened until the song ended, and then switched it off. He drove away from the kerb, watching the street, wondering what was happening to him. None of this seemed real. It was like a dream he’d once had, when he was a much younger man. The acorn he’d imagined burrowing under his skin was a metaphor, but he did not have enough information to understand what it meant.

  Back at the flat, he poured himself a whisky and took out his phone, ignoring the voicemail and text prompts. He dialled Erik Best’s mobile number. The call went through to voicemail, as he’d expected. Erik screened all of his calls.

  “Erik, it’s me. Marty Rivers. I have something important I need to tell you. Call me back.” He ended the call and drained his glass, then got up and poured a double. Then he sat back down and waited.

  He grabbed the remote control and turned on the stereo. Muddy Waters sang about a Mannish Boy. Marty closed his eyes and enjoyed the music, letting it infect him with its melancholy. His mobile must have buzzed for thirty seconds before he realised he had a call.

  “Hello. Erik?” He’d answered without looking at the display. He only hoped that it wasn’t Melanie.

  “What is it, Marty?”

  No preamble: just get straight to the point. “I quit. No more fights for me. That last one... it wasn’t right. The game’s changed.”

  There was a pause during which Marty thought he might have said the wrong thing, or at least picked the wrong time to say it. Then Best began to speak. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Marty. Actually, I’ve been expecting this for a while. Just do me one favour, yeah?”

  Marty swallowed a mouthful of whisky. “What’s that?”

  “Go away and have a proper think. Sleep on it; run everything though your mind. Then, in a few days, a week, if you still feel the same, we’ll have this chat again. There’
ll be no hard feelings from me. If you really want to chuck in the towel, I’ll respect your decision. I will call on you for other favours, though, just like before. Just a bit of heavy work here and there, or maybe the occasional stint on the doors. A man still needs to make a few dollars, mate, and I’ll always need a battler like you on my team.”

  Marty relaxed. “That seems fair enough to me, Erik. I’ll speak to you in a few days. But I doubt anything will change. I’ve made my decision.”

  “Okay, marra. Speak to you soon.” The phone went dead.

  Marty was about to hit the ‘off’ button on the handset when he remembered that he had a text message and a couple of voicemails. He’d ignored them before, assuming that it was Melanie, but this time he checked, just in case. Both messages were from the same person: Simon Ridley.

  “Fuck me,” he whispered, listening to them again. “Fuck me, Simon Ridley.” The messages were short and to the point:

  “Listen Marty, this is Simon Ridley, from years ago. Please give me a call. I need to speak to you about something.”

  Later, “It’s me again, Simon. Call me. It’s important; very important. Have you been having dreams? Dreams about a grove of trees and that time we spent in the Needle?”

  He opened the text message and it gave the same information in fewer words.

  Marty stored the number and put down his phone. Then he picked it up again and switched it off. He did not want to speak to anyone else this evening. He needed to think.

  He struggled to control his breathing.

  His side ached. Something moved sluggishly beneath his skin. The world turned; the remains of the day moved briskly towards night; his life passed in a succession of moments, each a layer of his self being peeled away by the things that had happened to him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  BRENDAN WAS NERVOUS. He was drinking too much, far too quickly, his clothes felt uncomfortable, and whenever he looked at the clock on the shelf, time seemed to have moved quicker than the laws of physics allowed.