Silent Voices (11 page)

Something scurried across the floor, and when Simon glanced in the direction of the movement he saw a mouse or a rat burrowing into a pile of old clothes.

“They’re the only monsters you’ll find here, mate. Plenty of vermin nesting in these old walls... they’ve made it their home.”

Brendan’s phrasing made Simon momentarily nervous, but he shrugged off the feeling. It was nothing; just words.

Then, gradually, he became aware of another sound – this one far off, coming from somewhere deep inside the building. It was like slow dragging footsteps, perhaps somebody moving lazily through the rooms, wandering aimlessly. He listened for a moment, trying to pick out the direction of the source of the noise, but he couldn’t be certain of where it originated. The sound seemed to be coming from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“Is there somebody else here?”

Brendan took a step forward, in front of Simon. “Not that I’m aware of.”

More lies. He’d always been able to tell when Brendan was lying; his voice lowered, he was unable to look whoever he was speaking to directly in the eye.

“This place is empty.” Brendan stayed where he was, with his back to Simon.

“Don’t lie to me,” said Simon, moving forward and placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “There’s no need.”

Brendan shrugged off the contact, but did not turn around. He kept staring ahead, into the dusty shadows and along a narrow hallway leading off from the main reception area. “There’s nobody here. Or if there is, it’s just some kid mucking about.”

“Okay,” said Simon, unwilling to force the issue. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to get at you.” The shuffling sound had stopped. In its place, Simon could just about make out a low, soft humming, like air forced quickly through narrow pipes.

Brendan sighed heavily. “Just like old times. You always were a bit of a bully, talking us into things, convincing us to get into trouble.” His voice seemed to hold an element of humour, but it was only a sliver.

“That was then and this is now.” Simon backed away. He didn’t want to get into this, not now: not here. He’d lived with the guilt for twenty years, and it was too soon to bring it out into the open. He’d been the one who’d cajoled the other two into coming here, and following... whatever it was Brendan said he had seen. The clicking figure: the beaked man with the stick. Captain Clickety. Simon had been the one to come up with the idea, and despite the other Amigos’ reluctance, he’d forced the issue, calling them babies...

Back then, as now, he’d always kept pushing until he got his way.

Pushing... it was his major skill, the thing he was best at. That was how he’d made his first million; it was the one trait that had kept him going while others had fallen away, giving up when things got too difficult. But not him: no, not Simon Ridley. He just kept pushing and pushing until something gave, and then he pushed some more, just for the hell of it.

The curious humming sound waxed and waned; it was still audible, but only just. Was it an old boiler? Faulty air vents?

Simon had already decided that he would not push now. He’d pull back and rein that tendency in, because sometimes pushing was just a quick way to fall off the edge. That was the real key to his success – the knowledge that although brute force and focus could often get you places, there were times that called for a soft touch, situations in which a gentle nudge was more effective than a hard shove if you wanted to open a door.

The humming sound moved away, becoming fainter and quieter as it shifted deeper into the body of the building

Sometimes, Simon knew, a whisper could be louder than a scream.

TWENTY YEARS AGO, WHEN THE DAYS WERE MUCH BRIGHTER...

T
HE TREE HOUSE
is coming along nicely. It will be the den of the Three Amigos, when it is finished, and each of the boys is prepared to do whatever it takes to get the job done.

The light is fading slowly from the day. Daytime animals are being replaced by their nocturnal counterparts in the dense shrubbery. The sky has taken on all the shades of evening; the clouds scatter and dark patches show like great bruises against the heavens, and the sun is poised coyly at the tip of the horizon.

Marty is sitting on a makeshift wooden joist, high up in the branches of the chosen tree, hammering in six-inch nails. His face is a study in concentration; his body moves fluidly, as if he was born to the task. Simon watches his friend work, feeling a shiver of pride, but also a slight tug of jealousy. Marty is physically strong, good-looking and a great fighter; he is popular among the girls, and most of the boys at school are terrified of him. Simon can only dream about commanding that kind of respect.

Brendan is dragging more wood from the pile they’d made earlier, his thin body struggling with the load. Simon walks over silently and begins to help. Brendan smiles, but at that exact moment the sky darkens a little more and the smile looks pained, almost fearful.

Brendan swore that he saw a figure earlier: a tall man wearing a beaked mask, and with things that must have been false legs hanging down past the hem of his Halloween coat. Having now recovered from the initial shock, the boy still seems fragile. He wears his fear like the badge of a pop band he is ashamed to like.

The two boys drag an old plywood wardrobe door over to the tree where Marty is still hammering. They position it below the partially-built platform, and stand looking up at their friend. After a short time, Marty stops hammering, runs the back of his hand across his forehead – it is a studied move, one he’s probably seen in a film – and looks down at the others from his perch.

“You ready for this bit?” Simon peers upwards as his friend’s shape becomes a dark outline against the darkening sky.

“Yeah.” Marty nods. “I don’t know how we’ll get it up here, though.”

“I do.” Brendan takes a step closer to the base of the tree. “We can set up a pulley system. I saw it in a book. All we need is that load of old rope over there and some well-tied knots.” He crosses the ground and bends over, sorting through the bits and pieces of rope they found in the tumbled remains of another den – this one abandoned, with its fabric door hanging in tatters and the old lino, used as a floor covering, all torn and coated with mud. “Yep,” says Brendan, turning to glance at his friends. “This’ll do fine. We can have the platform raised before we have to go home for dinner.”

The lowering sun shivers behind him, causing a strange rippling effect in the sky. For a moment it seems to Simon that Brendan’s form becomes unstable, that it might break in half at any moment and the two separate pieces – like conjoined twins suddenly given their freedom – will drift off into the landscape, becoming parts of the patchy sliver of nature in which the boys are standing.

The illusion lasts only a fraction of a second, but it resonates deep within Simon’s consciousness. He feels that he has been given a glimpse of something, has looked through a window into another place that exists alongside this one. Perhaps even another world.

Marty drops from the branches above and lands gracefully at Simon’s side. He is an athletic kid; he plays football for the school team and has never lost a fight in his life. Marty is a born battler. Everybody says so, even the boy himself. Fighting is all he knows. He has been battling his father, and his father’s rages, since he was old enough to understand the true nature of violence. He learned young. They were lessons he learned in the cot.

Standing there, with his friends, Simon has another flash: a brief image of the three of them as grown men, standing hand-in-hand on the grass. They are bright, energetic boys, and in his mind this translates to success in the grown-up versions of the Three Amigos. He smiles; the vision makes him happy, despite the questionable truth of what he sees. Then he notices that the adult Marty is clutching at his side, and the adult Brendan is wearing clothes that are covered in dark stains. His own grown-up counterpart stands at the centre of this fading frieze, his face lean and angry.

“Let’s get cracking,” says Marty, keen to keep active, as if labour enables him to forget about the rest of his life. His hands are bunched into fists and the muscles in his neck stand out like thick wires. His cheeks are flushed from the physical labour and his forehead gleams with sweat.

“Right,” says Brendan, seeming older than his ten years. “I’ve seen this before. All we need to do is tie these ropes together and attach it to the wood, and then we loop one end over that fat branch there and tug on the other end so the wood gets lifted up. One of us can stay in the tree, and guide it onto the frame. The other two will need to pull on the rope as hard as they can.”

“Sounds easy enough,” says Marty.

“Yeah, if you’re a gorilla.” Simon smiles.

“No, really. It’s easy-peasy. I saw it on a film. It worked in the film, so it’ll work now.”

The other two boys nod, convinced by the cinematic precedent. Whatever doubts Simon might have had are pushed aside by the thought of the three boys acting out their own little movie, right here on Beacon Green.

“Can anyone, like, tie a proper knot? A pirate knot or something?” Marty steps forward and picks up a short length of rope. “Some of these are a bit small. We’ll have to tie them all together to make one long piece.”

“Just tie them really, really tight. It’ll be okay.” Simon takes the length of rope from Marty’s hands as he speaks. He pulls on the rope, testing it. “It’s pretty strong. If we double and triple tie the knots, it should hold when we pull the wood up into the tree. Trust me. Brendan’s idea’s going to work.”

And that is all they need to go ahead with the plan: Simon’s word, his blessing. Despite the fact that there is no official leader of the Three Amigos, and each boy brings his own strength to the table, it is always Simon who has the last word. The other two members of the small gang look up to him in a way that can never be spoken of; they defer to his superior intellect, his quiet presence. It has always been this way, even when the boys were infants. Simon was always the silent leader; he is in command, whether or not he wants the job. He is the one who pushes the others forward, giving the group momentum.

They work in silence for a while as the day slips away and the long shadows crawl like living things around Beacon Green, clustering at the bases of the trees and in the dense foliage of the small overgrown area the boys have played in since they were first allowed out of the house alone. It is their place, where they feel most at ease. There is nothing to fear on the small patch of waste ground, and their parents would not even pause for thought at the prospect of giving the boys free rein, to come and go as they please on this part of the estate.

Before long the separate pieces of rope have begun to form a single long rope. The knots are firm; overdone, if anything, but at least they will hold when the real work starts.

“So what do we do after?” Simon looks up at his friends. “I mean, when we’ve done this? If we leave it here, unguarded, some other kids will come along and wreck it.”

There is a brief pause when the boys stop working, glance at each other, and wait for someone to say what they are all thinking.

Simon continues: “We need to guard the den,” he says, once again assuming his role as the leader, the member of the group whose responsibility it is to say such things aloud, to give voice to the collective consciousness of the Three Amigos. “Like army blokes. Like soldiers, yeah? We need to stand guard and protect what we’ve built.”

Marty nods. Brendan squints, blinks, and then finally nods his own assent.

“Me and Bren will go back to mine and tell my mum and dad that I’m sleeping at his. Then we’ll go to his and say to his mum that we’re sleeping at mine. They won’t check. They never do. They don’t care.” Silence again, but this one tense and filled with things that can never be discussed: the unfeeling attitude of both sets of parents; the fact that even at ten years old, the boys know that their mothers and fathers should take more care with their offspring. They all know that Simon’s mother and father will be caught up in their own private war, and that Brendan’s mother will be so far into the bottle of gin she keeps in the magazine rack at the side of her chair that she won’t even remember the conversation.

“I’ll climb out of the window after I’m supposed to be in bed.” Marty’s eyes are hard, cold. Behind them, just about visible through the tears that he always manages to keep at bay, are the images of violence that dwell in his own home. The father that hates everyone, including himself, and takes out those feelings of rage and helplessness on his own son. The bruises hidden beneath Marty’s shirt. The cigarette burns on his upper arms.

“We’ll meet back here, then.” Simon raises his left hand, palm facing outward, splays his fingers, and then slowly makes a fist, one finger at a time folding in towards the palm, little one first and the thumb last: the secret salute of the Three Amigos. The other two boys follow suit, making their own slow-motion fists. Brendan does it with his eyes closed. Marty stares at Simon’s face, his jaw clenched tight and his cheekbones as sharp as blades.

Without another word on the subject, the boys continue their work, knotting the ropes, making their primitive pulley.

Soon the job is done. The boys stand and admire what they have made. Brendan holds the rope in his hands and tests the joints, pulling at them, trying to tug them apart. “This is good,” he says. “This’ll definitely work.”