Silent Voices Read online

  “What’s that?” Marty shifts, making the platform creak.

  “I dunno. It’s just a name... something from an old nursery rhyme or summat. I remember it from infant school. I think it’s something we used to sing in class. That’s who I saw earlier: Captain Clickety.”

  The movement down below ceases but the sound continues, as if once begun it might never stop.

  Then, softly and in a childish sing-song voice, Brendan begins to chant:

  “Captain Clickety

  He’s coming your way

  Captain Clickety

  He’ll make you pay

  Once in the morning

  Twice in the night

  Three times Clickety

  Will give you a fright”

  Simon glances over at his friends. “Shut up,” he says. “Just shut up. That’s creepy.” He feels his eyes blinking rapidly, and doesn’t seem able to stop them.

  Brendan smiles, but there is no humour in the expression. As young as he is, Simon realises that the smile is one of desperation. What he doesn’t know is what to do about it, how to put things right and make the world feel safe again. Perhaps when he is older he can be that kind of hero, but now all he can do is endure the confusion.

  “There’s somebody down there.” Simon hears his voice before he even knows what he is going to say. “Right under us. Hiding in the trees. I don’t think he knows we’re up here.”

  The platform creaks again.

  “Don’t move,” says Simon. “He’s there.” He doesn’t understand how he knows the presence is male, but that’s how it feels: like there’s a man down there, peering up at them from the shadows.

  There is nobody there, beneath the platform on which they are huddled, but for some reason he feels the need to push his friends, to coerce them into action in the only way he knows how. On the surface, he believes that he is trying to allay their fears by confirming them – by giving the boys something they can turn their attention towards, they might stop being so afraid of the things that don’t matter. But under this, where the part of himself he can never understand holds sway, he realises that he is simply pushing for pushing’s sake. He has always done this, ever since he was an infant: at nursery, at school, at home. It was the only way for him to get noticed, to command attention. Otherwise, he would have blended into the background, becoming unimportant.

  So he pushes, just like he has always pushed.

  The lies trip from his tongue.

  “He’s moving away now... he’s in the trees and he’s moving. It’s some guy in a funny costume. I think it’s the same guy Brendan saw earlier: the one in the bird mask with the walking stick, the weirdo. That one. The creepy one. Captain Clickety.”

  He watches the unmoving bushes, the unambiguous trunks and boughs of the trees, the dancing shadows as they skim across the ground – and that’s all they are, trees and bushes and shadows. It feels good to push, but he knows that it shouldn’t. He knows it should feel bad.

  He knows that he should be terrified. But he isn’t; he’s excited.

  “Let’s follow him,” he says, clamping down on the smile before turning again to face his friends. “Let’s spy on him. He might be a robber. We could find his treasure. Like Tom Sawyer, in the caves. Remember?”

  Marty says nothing, he just stares out into the darkness, his face thin and pale and unreadable. Brendan shakes his head, but Simon knows that he can change his mind. All it will take is the right kind of pushing, the application of pressure from a certain angle. That’s all it ever takes, with anyone, and Simon has the gift of finding those angles, picking them out and exploiting them for his own purposes.

  “Come on,” says Simon, goading the others. Then, smiling, he says the magical words that are guaranteed to get a response, asks the question that can be answered in only one way by a couple of ten-year-old boys:

  “What, are you too scared to come with me?”

  It doesn’t take long for them to climb down out of the tree, leaving the half-built den behind, the loose tarpaulin fluttering gently in a slight night-time breeze.

  Each boy’s actions confirm the actions of the other two: they are a team, a unit, acting as one entity, each permitting the others to behave in a certain way. They walk slowly through the trees and head towards the lonely lane of Beacon Grove Rise. Right will take them to the derelict railway platform, where older kids go to take drugs, drink beer, and muck about. They turn left towards the centre of the Grove, and eventually the Needle.

  A tall figure moves up ahead, heading towards the cut-through formed by Grove Nook. Simon glimpses it for but a moment, and it might just be shadow play, but he convinces the others that it is the one they need to follow – the creature that will now forever be known as Captain Clickety, just like the character in that creepy old rhyme. A shape without an identity, a fear with no real purpose... a nameless, faceless entity that will haunt them all until the day they die.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” Brendan’s question hangs in the air; neither of the other boys even needs to provide an answer.

  “Come on,” says Marty, assuming the dominant role in the group. Simon has sown the seeds; the others are simply falling into their natural grooves, taking up their allotted positions in the simple structure of the small gang.

  They walk along the street in single file, turning left as they reach Grove Terrace. There are no cars on the road at this hour. The house lights closest to the boys are all turned off, the windows dark. Even the usual urban sounds seem to have been suspended for a little while – no barking dogs, no distant alarms or revving engines. A pocket of stillness exists in the night, and they have entered, crossing its borders to stand at the edge of a new place.

  The boys cross the road, walk along Grove Street and step onto the Roundpath, the narrow walk-around circling the Needle. The large building hovers above them, as if cast adrift from its concrete foundations. It seems to totter and sway, and as they approach the place they feel a sense of dislocation, as if they have ruptured something, broken through an invisible wall. The upright tower of the Needle straightens like a snake discovering it has a backbone after all, and the few unbroken windows on the upper floors seem to collect all the available light in the area, transforming into small, bright screens.

  Simon looks up, at those grim windows, and upon them he sees played out, like a movie, scenes from his own life: his mother and father shouting, his much younger self hiding in the bedroom wardrobe and weeping, an endless queue of wine bottles lined up along the skirting board in his parents’ room... all the hurt and the frustration, the pointlessness of his existence is summed up in those scant few images, and he knows that he is not going to turn away. He is going to enter the building and find out what has gone inside there before him, and perhaps even discover something miraculous within its walls.

  For a long time, Simon felt like he was nothing, just a speck. His parents did not love him; his teachers thought he was a waste of space. Then he found that he could manipulate those people into noticing him, and he focused his energy on making that happen.

  But this is something different. The situation in which he finds himself, poised at the edge of revelation, makes him feel that the world is ready to notice – not just his family and friends, not even all the other people who live on the estate. The world. The planet. The very earth itself might look at him as he strides across its surface, making footprints in the muck and the filth and the squalor.

  This might just be his chance to be somebody.

  “I’m going in there,” he says, moving forward, his body moving with a sense of great ease, even of inevitability. “I’m going to see what’s happening.” He feels no fear, only a sense of what he will years later recognise as longing. For his entire young life, Simon has only ever been shown the banal, the prosaic, but here is something that could elevate his experience. Here is evidence of the sublime.

  “Me, too,” whispers Marty, gripped by the same spell, the same dark
magic.

  “Wait for me,” says Brendan, as he catches up with the other two boys. “I’m coming, too.” But the he does not sound as convinced as his friends.

  The tower does not move an inch.

  The earth beneath their feet is stiff and unyielding.

  The night closes like a fist around them.

  PART FOUR

  The Three Amigos Ride Again

  “It’s not what I expected.”

  – Simon Ridley

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  SIMON AND BRENDAN stood outside the low-rise apartment complex in Gateshead, in view of the Baltic Flour Mill and not too far from the banks of the River Tyne. They could hear traffic in the distance, and somewhere nearby loud music was playing – in a public park or a local beer garden – and it drifted on the still air, bringing with it a sense of subdued frivolity.

  “Jesus,” said Simon. “It hasn’t half changed round here.”

  Brendan nodded, but he did not speak. He looked exhausted. Simon reached out and touched his arm, rubbing the sleeve of his jacket like a concerned mother. “We don’t have to do this now, mate. You can go home, be with your family.”

  Brendan turned to face him. “No,” he said, smiling lightly. “It’s fine. Let’s do this. There’s nothing to be gained from my going back. I told you, the kids are fine. Harry’s home and Jane’s coping. I’d only make things more stressful if I was hanging around at the house.”

  Simon squeezed Brendan’s arm. His friend had been through a lot the previous night – Harry throwing up, and what could only have been a small bird erupting from his throat. Then the boy going into some kind of convulsive fit. The ambulance. The hospital. That was a lot to deal with, for anyone... especially a neurotic night owl with serious attachment issues.

  Simon’s new mobile phone was yet to turn up from the distributor, although his new credit and debit cards had arrived by courier that morning, at the break of dawn. So when he’d got out of bed Simon had called the Coles from the payphone on the corner (which was miraculously still working) to find out how the kid was doing, and Jane had told him that Harry had finally been sent home to rest about an hour ago, feeling restless but more or less comfortable. They’d taken samples of his blood, done some tests, and little Harry had sat up in the hospital bed smiling and chatting and asking for food. He didn’t seem to realise what was going on, and had no memory of what had happened back at home the night before.

  The doctors had taken plenty of time to convince themselves that Harry was in good health, apart from a sore throat and a minor headache, and then told the family that he could be taken home. He was prescribed infant aspirin for his aches and pains, a week off school to recuperate, and plenty of pampering from his parents.

  “Come on, then,” he said, turning to face the apartment block. “Let’s get up there and see if he’s at home.”

  The two men walked along the path at the side of the residents’ car park, looking at the expensive vehicles lined up in their private spaces: Jeeps and Land Rovers, sports models and coupés. There was a lot of money in those white-painted parking spaces.

  “Looks like Marty’s landed on his feet.” Brendan seemed calmer now, more focused, if exhausted. “I always knew he would, eventually.”

  “He’s only flat-sitting. It isn’t his. None of this belongs to him.” Simon felt a pang of envy, or perhaps it was more like bitterness, swelling in his stomach. He didn’t want anybody thinking that one of his old gang members had been more successful than him. He’d spent a long time, and given up a lot of personal involvement, to get where he was today, and he needed everyone to know that he’d earned it and that he was the top man. He didn’t like feeling this way, but he did feel it. Simon guarded his success closely, like a private stash of wealth; he hated feeling inferior to anyone, especially the people he’d left behind.

  They approached the main entrance and Simon examined the neatly hand-written name cards above the buzzers. He wasn’t sure why he was doing this, because he already knew that Marty was staying in flat seven, the penthouse. But he was nosey; he liked to know things, even if they weren’t important. Just the knowing itself represented some kind of control, and it made him feel good to gather details towards himself like a child collecting shells on a lonely beach. It was not so much that knowledge was power, but that it gave him an edge over other people when it came time to push.

  He glanced at Brendan, who was looking around furtively, like a criminal keeping an eye out for trouble. He smiled. Then, turning away, he pressed the buzzer for flat number seven.

  There was no audible sound from where they were standing when he buzzed, so the two men just stood on the step for a while, waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, Simon reached out and pressed the small metal button again, and then leant forward and peered through the thickened glass panel, trying to make out any kind of movement in the entryway. He saw closed doors on the ground floor level, and a concrete staircase leading up to the floors above. There was nobody there; the place seemed deserted. Potted plants stood at intervals around the ground floor, like sentinels guarding the doors of each flat. He guessed that everyone who lived there was probably out at work – all the office workers, the bankers and solicitors, who could afford these high-spec dwellings no doubt put in long hours to meet the mortgage payments. There was no evidence of any children – no bikes or buggies or mislaid toys. These places were designed for young, upwardly-mobile people: professional couples and post-graduate flat-sharers. They were empty, even when everyone was at home. He could see how easily Marty Rivers might fit in with a set-up like this, making no mark, casting no shadow; moving through the rooms and corridors like a ghost.

  “Nobody home,” he said, redundantly.

  “Well, that’s a bit fucking anticlimactic.” Brendan sounded angry. He turned around and walked a few steps away from the entrance, kicking at the concrete flagstones. “I left my sick child at home for this?”

  “Hey, it’s fine. It’ll be okay. Let’s go for a drink somewhere and come back later. In fact, I’ll tell you what... let’s leave a note.” He took out a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and started to look for a pen.

  “Here,” said Brendan, handing him a blue biro with a chewed end and no lid.

  Simon flattened the paper against the glass of the door and scribbled out a quick note: We came to see you. We’ll be back. Then he folded the paper in half and in half again, before writing Marty’s name on the sheet and sliding the note under the door.

  “Think it’ll do any good?” Brendan’s eyes were wide. He looked afraid. He must be more tired than Simon could even imagine.

  Simon shrugged. “Fuck knows, but we have to try. What else can we do?”

  They turned back to the apartment complex and stared up at the top floor. The windows were tinted; no interior light could be seen behind the dark glass. The sun, high above them, was more a promise of warmth that failed to deliver. Simon wondered if they were being watched. It certainly felt that way; as if Marty were up there, hiding, and examining their every move. Without even thinking about what he was doing, Simon raised his right hand, turned it so that the palm was directed towards the window, and opened the fingers. He made a slow fist, one finger at a time: the secret salute of the Three Amigos.

  Come and see, he mouthed silently, his lips forming words that he held deep inside. Come and help us.

  MARTY WATCHED THEM leave from the living room, standing before the large window in his old jeans and a torn T-shirt. He had not bathed this morning, and his mouth tasted stale. He idly rubbed the side of his stomach with the palm of his hand, feeling the lump there. It was like a growth, a tumour, and occasionally it moved – a slight twitching motion, like a dog makes while it is sleeping.

  It was strange seeing his old friends again, especially together like that. They’d both changed quite a bit, but he would have recognised them anywhere. There was something about the way they moved, some trace of the childr
en they’d been. Simon’s swagger, Brendan’s reticence... the boys had become men, and yet something vital had been left behind.

  And there was the way that Simon had saluted him, just the way they used to when they were kids.

  He knew why they were here. He’d picked up Simon’s messages on his voicemail. At the sound of his old friend’s voice, whatever was hiding within him – and he knew what it was; he just had trouble naming it now, because he suspected it could hear his thoughts – had turned right around inside him, hurting him. Doc had claimed that the wound was clean, that there was nothing inside, but Marty didn’t believe that. He could feel it, curling around his abdomen: a small, squat invader, using his body as a home. Part of him knew that none of this could possibly be real, but another part of him – the part that had been stunted as a child, not allowed to develop properly – knew that it was real, and he was being possessed, or haunted, or both, by something from a childhood nursery rhyme. The infant Marty Rivers’ deepest fears were manifesting inside the adult version; he was a cocoon, and soon that fear would hatch out, the egg within the egg, the horror coiled up within a nest of horrors. Soon it would return to the outside world, and Marty had no idea what might happen afterwards.

  He turned away from the window and grabbed his drink. Whisky for breakfast again: this was becoming a habit. He took a sip and went through into the bedroom, where he stripped off his T-shirt and stood before the mirror. His body was smooth, the muscles visible beneath his skin. At first glance, it looked like he had a bit of a belly, like the unfit farts who hung around on the old estate. Then, upon further investigation, it was clear that the bulge in his abdomen was irregular; it wasn’t formed by layers of fat. There was something... unnatural, weird and disturbing about it.