Silent Voices Read online

  Jane was in the kitchen, cooking the meal. He could tell that she was on edge, too, but she would not tell him why. He suspected it was simply the fact that she hadn’t seen Simon since he’d left the Grove, but his habitual paranoia kept trying to make more out of the situation. Did she still harbour feelings for her ex-lover? Would she look at him in the same way that she used to look at Brendan, all those years ago when they first got together?

  He finished his can, crushed it in his fist (an old habit, one he’d picked up from watching Jaws in his teens: Robert Shaw, Quint, the old sea dog). He bent down and grabbed the fresh can resting on the floor between his feet, popped it open, and took a mouthful of cold ale.

  “What time is it?” Jane’s voice carried through from the kitchen. The twins were banging on the floor upstairs, running around from room to room, playing catch, or indoor football, or simply running because they could.

  “Seven-forty!” He took another swig of his beer and stood, moving across to the window. Typical Simon: late as always.

  “Have you checked your phone? I’d hate to think that he might have called to cancel and we didn’t get the message.” Jane moved up to him from behind, slipping her arms around his waist. She kissed him on the side of the neck. Her breath was warm; her lips were wet from the wine she’d been drinking.

  “He’ll be here. He just likes to make an entrance.” He stared out of the window, at the empty street. The sky was darkening, the clouds were low, and lights had already come on in some of his neighbours’ front rooms. He’d never noticed before just how early they came on, and for some reason the thought unnerved him.

  Jane rubbed his stomach with her hand. She pressed her lips against the back of his head. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “He’s probably more nervous than we are.” Then she was away, back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the preparations. She’d kept the menu simple: a prawn cocktail starter, chicken and tomato with penne pasta for main, and a cheesecake bought from the bakers on the Arcade for dessert. Simon would probably think it was cheap, working class; no doubt he was used to eating out every night in classy London restaurants where they served small bowls of sorbet between courses.

  Suddenly Brendan felt like a fool. Standing there in his cheap trousers and badly ironed shirt, he knew he was a fraud, a pretender. Why had he bothered to try and be something he was not? He should have sat around waiting in his work jeans and a T-shirt. Simon-fucking-Ridley wasn’t worth all this trouble. All they were doing was feeding his ego, making him think that he was something special.

  He gulped from his can, trying to stem the sudden flow of hatred. He had no idea where it was coming from, and didn’t see any reason why he should be thinking these things, or why Simon’s imminent arrival should be affecting him in this way.

  He turned away from the window and sat back down on the sofa, facing the television. The kids were still clattering about upstairs, causing a lot of sound and fury, and he expected Mrs. Broadly from next door to start banging on the wall. She hated children, and never missed an opportunity to complain.

  There was a knock on the front door, followed by the chime of the doorbell. Simon was here. He had sneaked along the street, down the path, and onto the front step while Brendan had been occupied, lost in his own banal thoughts. He stood, straightened his shirt (hating himself for doing so), and went to answer the door.

  “Brendan!” Jane’s voice, loud and slightly panicked.

  “Aye... I’ve got it. It’s him.”

  He could see Simon’s outline through the textured glass panel in the door, a slim, elegant shape. He waited motionlessly, as if he were a statue and not a real person.

  Brendan paused for a moment, waited for a lull in the commotion on the first floor, and then opened the door.

  The man on the doorstep was Simon, as expected, but he looked different... somehow less than he had done before. The bruising on his face had already faded, but his skin looked discoloured, slightly jaundiced. He seemed thinner than earlier that day, his garments less fitted, and when he smiled it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” He stepped back and opened the door fully, making room for Simon to enter.

  “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. Just feeling a bit tired, that’s all.” Simon held out a bottle of red and a bottle of white, one in each hand. “I didn’t know what we were having, so I brought both.” He smiled again, and this time it was better, healthier... but still there was something missing. “Anyway, I’m here. Thanks for the invite.” He stepped slowly across the threshold.

  “Thanks for coming. You know the way through, yeah? I’ll just grab you a beer from the kitchen.” Brendan shut the door behind his guest and watched him walk along the hallway and enter the living room. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, taking out two cold beers.

  “This won’t be long,” said Jane. Her cheeks were flushed. The kitchen was warm. “I’ll go and get the twins down and we can all say our hellos.” She reached out as he straightened from the fridge, her hand lightly brushing the collar of his shirt. “Nice shirt. Didn’t I buy you that?” She winked. He smiled. It was a rare moment of solidarity, one that felt like it lay outside of their roles as parents, even as husband and wife. In that moment they were friends, and they were allies.

  Brendan took the beers back into the living room. Simon was sitting on the sofa, perched on the edge of the seat and watching the television. His eyes were small and hard; his face was tense.

  “There you go.” Brendan handed him a can. “Get that down you, bruiser.”

  Simon opened the can, smiled weakly, and took a long swallow. “Why is it that beer always makes things better? They should give it out on the NHS.”

  “Let’s turn this shit over. I’ll put some music on.” Brendan picked up the remote control and switched the channel. One of the music channels was playing big-hair rock anthems from the 1980s. “That’s better... might cheer us up.”

  Sounds of movement came from upstairs. Jane was herding the kids, trying to get them under control. He could hear her raised voice, the twins giggling, and then Jane joining in the laughter. He loved his family. They were all he had. Everything he needed.

  Footsteps across the ceiling, then down the stairs.

  “Here they come,” he said, turning towards the door.

  Jane walked in first. She looked gorgeous. Her hair was in disarray, but slight dishevelment had always looked good on her. Brendan turned to face Simon, and saw him staring at Jane, too, his eyes wide, his face twitching into a smile.

  Brendan turned back to his wife, clenching the beer can in his fist. He didn’t understand why he felt so anxious.

  “Hello, Simon Ridley.” Jane seemed to float into the room. With both men’s eyes upon her, she became more graceful than ever. “Long time no see.” The twins entered behind her, silent for once.

  Simon stood and walked to the middle of the room, where he halted, as if he didn’t know what to do. He stuck out a hand. Jane laughed, took the hand, and shook it, then she bent towards him and kissed him on both of his cheeks, left, then right: celebrity style.

  “This,” she said, turning to address the twins, “is Simon. Say hello, kids. Simon, this is Harry and Isobel. Our children.” She was beaming; that was the only word Brendan could think of to describe the way she looked. At first he suspected that she might be trying to flirt with her old flame, but then it hit him. She was proud. She was glowing with pride, showing off her husband and her children. Her family. She was telling Simon, without words, how good things were for her now, and that she hadn’t missed him one bit, not one tiny bit since he went away.

  The kids started to laugh, now at ease. They went to Simon and started babbling information: telling him about school, about their bikes, their friends and teachers. Simon started to relax. Brendan wasn’t sure why his old friend had been so tense when he first walked through the door, but all that was gone now. He became the perfect guest: interesting, interested, char
ming, and funny.

  Brendan felt himself relax, too. He’d been worrying for nothing. Simon wasn’t a threat; he never had been. If anything, it had always been him, Brendan, who was the real threat. Hadn’t he taken Simon’s girlfriend off him all those years ago, and given her everything she needed?

  For the first time in his life, he felt equal to Simon-fucking-Ridley. And in doing so, he opened a door inside himself that allowed all the old, suppressed feelings of friendship to emerge, returning to the light. This wasn’t so bad; he could even get used to it. Maybe he and Simon could be buddies again, after all, and once they managed to speak to Marty it might even be possible for the Three Amigos to mount up and make a triumphant return. Perhaps Simon was right after all, and they could band together to slay the monsters of their youth.

  Simon played cards at the dining table with the twins while Brendan helped Jane in the kitchen. He was spooning the prawns and Marie Rose sauce into wine glasses crammed with lettuce leaves while she took their best china dinner set from the display cupboard and wiped it down with a tea towel.

  “See,” she said. “It’s going okay, isn’t it?”

  Brendan smiled. “Yeah, I suppose it is. The kids seem to like him.”

  “I’ll just put them to bed, so we can eat in peace.”

  Brendan nodded. “Yeah, okay. I’ll get me and Simon some more beers. Wine?”

  “Hell, yes,” she said as she walked out through the door and into the hall.

  Brendan heard Jane say something to the kids – probably telling them to say good night to the visitor – and then the three of them trooped upstairs, making as much racket as humanly possible. He pulled two fresh beers out of the fridge, tore off the ring-pulls and then took them through into the living room.

  Simon looked much more relaxed. He was crouching on the floor, picking up pieces of Lego and smiling. “They’re great kids, mate,” he said, raising a hand and pointing in the direction of the door. “Really great kids...”

  “Thanks.” Brendan dropped into a crouch and helped him tidy up the toys. Then, when they were all neatly put back in their box, the two men started on the fresh beers. “I suppose you’d say they’re the centre of my life, those two. I can’t imagine not having them.”

  “Cheers to that,” said Simon, lifting his can and taking a long hit of the beer.

  The two men moved over to the dining table. It was already set with cutlery, and a candle – as yet unlit – placed as a centrepiece. “Do you have a lighter?” Simon took hold of the candle and teased the wick between his finger and thumb so that it stood upright.

  “Here,” said Brendan, handing over a box of kitchen matches.

  Simon struck a match and lit the candle. Neither of the men spoke, and the act seemed to take on a kind of symbolic significance. Simon held the candle aloft; the light from the flame caressed the contours of his face. He smiled – at nothing, at everything – and then he placed the candle back on the table.

  “Should we, like, say a little prayer?” Brendan put down his can and belched.

  They laughed.

  “Okay,” said Jane, from the doorway. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” said Simon, shaking his head.

  “Nowt much,” agreed Brendan.

  “Hmm. Well, is someone going to give me a hand setting out the food?”

  “Aren’t I supposed to be the guest?” Simon winked, took a long swallow of his beer, and let out a loud “Aah...”

  “Twat,” said Brendan, standing and following Jane into the kitchen.

  They ate the starter in a comfortable silence. Brendan opened the white wine Simon had brought, and it was finished before the main course. “I’ll get another from the fridge,” said Brendan, standing.

  While Brendan was in the kitchen he heard Simon and Jane talking in low voices, but this time he didn’t feel threatened by them. The beer and the wine, the food, the fact that they had all relaxed in each other’s company, had quietened his paranoia. Even his back felt soothed, as if the calm had extended to envelope his body.

  After the main course, Jane cleared the table and then popped her head back into the room. “I’ll just be a minute. There’s something I want Simon to see.”

  Simon glanced at Brendan and raised his eyebrows. Brendan shrugged. “You’ve got me, mate. She didn’t mention anything earlier.”

  Jane returned in less than a minute, carrying a large cardboard box from Argos. Brendan recognised it as the packaging from a DVD player they’d bought the kids a few Christmases ago.

  Jane set down the box at the centre of the table, pushing away the coasters and the placemats and moving her glass so that she didn’t spill her wine.

  “Okay,” she said, glancing at the two men, one by one: first Brendan, then Simon. “This is going to seem weird, but bear with me. Okay, Brendan?” Her eyes flicked to her husband. Brendan felt the skin of his shoulders tighten, the rash flaring as if in warning. But he said nothing; he just nodded and took a mouthful of wine.

  Jane closed her eyes for a few seconds, and then opened them again. She lifted the flaps on the box and took out two black box files. “This,” she said, “is sort of a collection.” She opened the top box file and took out an old newspaper, folded over to a report about strange birds seen gathered about the tip of the Needle. It was a recent edition; the incident had occurred only a few weeks ago. “It’s an unofficial history of the Concrete Grove. For years now, I’ve been keeping anything that you might describe as odd or offbeat – news clippings, photographs, even a few hand-written stories people have told me about events they found hard to explain.”

  “What is this, Jane?” Brendan went to stand, but she put out her hand to stop him. “Jane?”

  “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve told you about this, but once I’d started keeping it a secret, it was easier to keep on going. I’m not even sure why I started collecting this stuff in the first place – initially, I think it was a way of keeping Simon in the loop, or maybe making sure he never forgot us.” She glanced at Simon.

  Brendan looked at him too, across the table.

  “So it was you? It was you all along?”

  Jane nodded.

  Brendan felt the anger surging through him. He didn’t understand what was happening, but it seemed that his wife and her old boyfriend had secrets between them after all. He’d been right to be paranoid. It was true, all of it. They’d been running around behind his back... Somehow, they’d managed to keep some kind of long distance affair going without him noticing.

  “Brendan... Look at me, Brendan.”

  He turned to face his wife. She was shaking her head.

  “What is this?” His voice sounded whiny; thin and reedy and childlike.

  “Ever since Simon left, I’ve been sending him reminders of what he left behind. Reminders of you, and the hell he left you to carry on your own. That’s how it started, I suppose: as a form of revenge. I might as well admit that now. Then, as time passed, it turned into a habit. I just kept sending them. Whenever he moved, I did a little research and located a new address. I wasn’t even sure if they were correct, those addresses – not until now, anyway.”

  “Oh, yes.” Simon exhaled a long breath. “Yes, I’ve been getting this stuff for years. Emails, too.”

  “Emails?” Brendan leaned back in his chair, pushing it away from the table. He felt a little better about the situation, yet still he knew that somehow he had been betrayed. He just could not figure out how, or why.

  “The emails were a lot easier,” said Jane. “Google is your friend.” She smiled, nervously. “I’m just glad you never replied.”

  “Shit, mate, remember I told you about this? I thought it was Marty, sending me all that stuff. But it was Jane.” He turned to face her. “It was you!”

  “Should I be angry about this?” Brendan grabbed his wine glass and gripped the stem. “I mean, you’ve been keeping secrets from me. Both of you.”

  “No,” said Jane, wal
king around the table and sitting on his knee. She stroked his face with the palm of her hand. She tilted her head close to his. “Just me: me and nobody else. And I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I think at the start it was because I didn’t want to upset you. Remember, it took you a long time before you could actually talk about your feelings, how you felt deserted by your old friends.” She kissed the side of his face. “I would never do anything to hurt you.” Her smile was warm; her words were like fire.

  “I know,” he said. “I know you wouldn’t, but this feels strange. As if I should feel hurt.” He kissed the tip of her nose.

  “Okay,” said Simon, pouring more wine. “So you’re not going to punch me?”

  “I should. But I won’t.” Brendan picked up Jane’s glass and handed it to her.

  “Let’s call this a clean slate,” said Jane, standing. “No more secrets. You two need to work together to get Marty involved in all this, and then the three of you need to sit down and talk – really talk, about everything. All of it.”

  “Yes,” said Simon, raising his glass.

  “Aye,” said Brendan, mimicking the gesture.

  “And I’ll stop interfering. I shouldn’t have done that.” Jane lifted her own glass high into the air.

  “It worked, though,” said Simon. “I could never forget. The Grove was always in my mind. No matter how hard I tried, I could never get this place, or all of you, out of my mind.” He paused, nodded. “Hell, yes, it worked.”

  “Daddy...”

  They all looked over towards the door. Isobel was standing in the open doorway, in her white nightdress. Her face was damp with tears. “Daddy... something’s wrong, Daddy.”

  Brendan got to his feet and ran across the room, scooping her up in his arms. She was cold. Her body was shaking. “What is it, baby? What’s wrong? Are you poorly?”

  The little girl shook her head. Her blonde hair was moist. “It’s Harry. There’s something wrong with Harry. He’s being sick.”