The Final Silence (15 page)

‘Hello?’

A short silence. The non-sound of an empty room, then, ‘Is that Jack Lennon?’

A man’s voice, soft and light.

‘Who’s calling?’ Lennon asked, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

‘I want to speak to Jack Lennon.’

‘I said, who’s calling?’

Quiet again.

‘Who is this?’ Lennon asked.

‘That must be you,’ the voice said. ‘Hello, Jack.’

Lennon’s tongue felt thick inside his mouth, a fog over his mind. ‘Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up.’

‘We have a mutual friend,’ the voice said with a barely suppressed tremor. ‘Or had, I suppose I should say.’

‘Okay, I’m hanging up.’

‘Rea Carlisle,’ the voice said.

Lennon kept the phone to his ear. Listened. A watery inhalation.

‘Your number was on her phone when I took it. She’d called you the night before.’

Lennon swallowed. The alcohol and painkillers slowed the movement of his thoughts. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘Did you take anything from her?’

‘Like what?’

‘Like a photograph,’ the voice said.

‘Maybe,’ Lennon said. ‘Maybe not.’

‘I think you did take it. Have you shown it to anyone?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not.’

‘Why so sneaky?’ the voice asked.

‘Because I don’t know who you are.’

‘Yes you do.’

‘You killed Rea,’ Lennon said.

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ the voice said. ‘See, I can be sneaky too. Maybe I’ll come and take the photograph from you.’

‘You should do that,’ Lennon said. ‘Come and meet me. I’d like to talk to you.’

Another breath, a forced giggle, then, ‘Are you a policeman?’

‘Maybe,’ Lennon said. ‘Maybe not.’

‘You talk like a policeman. Goodbye, Jack. You won’t hear from me again.’

‘Wait, I—’

Three beeps, then silence.

Lennon wanted a cigarette more than ever.

The photograph, the one Rea had taken from the book. The same book that the caller almost certainly had in his possession. Lennon pictured him, a silhouette, a shadow of a man, hunched over the pages. Reading about spilled blood, lives long lost.

I DREAM OF
wires.

Every time I close my eyes to sleep, I feel them creeping up on me, into me, through my veins, all the way to my heart and to my brain. I have electricity for blood. I dream I walk the world, lightning shooting from my fingertips, my eyes, my mouth. I spit arcs as hot as the sun. My feet make sparks as they touch the ground, earthing the current that powers me.

One Christmas when I was a child, I went all alone to the pictures and saw a film about a man who wished he had never been born, and an angel made his wish come true, and showed him how the world would be without him in it. Early in the film, as a young man, he promised a girl he would give her the moon, and she would eat it and the moonbeams would shoot out from her fingers and toes and the ends of her hair.

When I saw that, I thought I could do the same. But I knew even then that I could not capture the moon. The nearest thing I knew of was the standard lamp in the living room. A tall wooden stem, a glowing bulb at the top, shrouded beneath a fabric shade. Maybe if I could eat the light, I would have beams shooting out of me like the girl in the film.

There was no one else there when I got home, so I went to the living room and switched on the lamp. I studied it for a while, then climbed on top of a chair, reached inside the lampshade, and put my hand on the bulb. It burned. I pulled my hand away, my skin tingling. I took the handkerchief from my pocket, used it as a glove, and tried again. Of course, when I took the bulb out, it died, its power lost.

After I’d put the bulb back, I thought about this for some time. I realised that the light was not the power itself, but only a manifestation of it. The power was in the wires. I found the cable that ran from the base of the lamp to the socket on the wall and knew that this thin snake held all the lightning I could ever eat. All I needed was to cut it open, put it in my mouth, and swallow.

I took the big scissors from the kitchen, with their long blades and cold metal handle. The lamp’s cable was covered in braided cloth. The scissors sliced through it easily. The plastic beneath was more difficult. I had to squeeze very hard. My palms sweating. I remember the sensation of the blade touching the hardness of the bare wire.

And then someone punching me in the chest, the force of it throwing me across the room. The house went dark and so did I.

I don’t know how long it was before I woke up. When I did, I felt sure I’d been blinded. But I had not. The fuse for the downstairs mains ring had blown when I cut the cable. The palm of my right hand, where I’d held the scissors, had blistered with the burn. My arm throbbed. My heart stuttered and skipped, making me dizzy.

But I was alive. In the darkness, I closed my eyes. I concentrated very hard, picturing in my mind the lightning shooting from my fingers. Crackling, searing everything it touched.

No lightning, but I felt the power of it all the same, stored in me like a battery. I still carry it with me now. The thing that gives me the strength to live with myself.

BY THE TIME
the urge to move came upon Ida, the room had grown cold and dark. It got the sun throughout the afternoon, if there was any to be had, glowing yellow shapes creeping across the good wallpaper. No sun now.

Ida stood, went to the glass-panelled door, and brought her fingers to the handle. She froze there, a memory flaring in her mind: going to the hall, standing at the bottom of the stairs, shouting up at Rea to turn her music down. When her daughter was still a teenager, a lifetime ahead of her. Days, weeks, months, years, decades. And yet Rea was to have so few.

As her legs weakened, Ida leaned against the door, felt the cool glass against her damp cheek. She remained still for a time, her eyes closed, letting the dizziness leak away.

Finally, she opened the door and stepped through. She looked towards the kitchen. The door closed, Ida saw the shape of him beyond the rippled glass. Hunched like an old man. Well, he
was
an old man, wasn’t he? He should’ve been a grandfather by now.

Ida opened the kitchen door. A long and wide space, room for an Aga at one end, a table and chairs at the other, real wood cabinet doors, imported Italian tiling on the walls and floor. It had been remodelled twice since they’d moved in. She had been prouder of her kitchen than any other part of the house, before, when she cared about such things. Not any more.

Graham sat at the table, a glass in front of him, the bottle of whiskey beside it. Two-thirds of it gone. She smelled its taint on the air between them. He did not raise his head to look at her. His phone lay idle on the table in front of him, silent for once.

Ida said, ‘We killed her.’

Graham lifted the glass, took a mouthful, swallowed and coughed. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.

Ida took a step closer. ‘I said, we killed her.’

‘I heard you,’ he said.

‘We should’ve gone to the police with her,’ Ida said. ‘If we’d told the truth, she’d be alive now.’

‘You don’t know that.’ He drained the glass, opened the bottle, poured another.

‘Yes I do. And you know it too. We could’ve told the police about the book, about Raymond.’

‘Raymond had nothing to do with it.’

‘What?’

Graham turned to look up at Ida. His eyes red and brimming. ‘It was a burglar. Some thief she walked in on. The book had nothing to do with it.’

Ida shook her head. ‘How can you say that?’

He sneered, his face suddenly ugly and contorted. ‘What, you think Raymond came back from the grave and beat her round the head? Is that what you think?’

Ida swallowed. She wanted to scream, to tear at his face, to pound him with her fists. Instead, she said, ‘We have to tell the truth now. They’ll be by for a statement tonight or tomorrow. When the police come, we have to stop the lies. We’re going to tell them about Raymond. We’re going to tell them about the book. We—’

He was on her so fast she barely registered the sound of the chair tumbling over onto the tiles. She felt his fingers digging into her arms, the heat of his breath on her face, the smell of the whiskey.

‘We tell them nothing,’ he said, the words forced through his teeth. ‘Nothing.’

He pushed her against the door frame. She felt the hardness of the wood between her shoulders.

‘What kind of man are you?’ she asked.

He gripped her jaw in one hand, forced her head against the frame. Nausea rose in her. His hand moved to her throat.

‘I’m your husband. And you do as I tell you.’

Ida’s bladder ached. Black dots appeared in her vision.

‘Please,’ she hissed.

‘You tell them nothing,’ he said.

‘Let me go.’ The words came out as a pained croak.

His hand left her throat and she filled her lungs, coughed, and dropped to her knees.

‘I’ll do the talking,’ Graham said, pacing the floor. ‘When the police come, you keep your mouth shut. Any contact we have with them will be through me, you understand?’

She placed her hands on the floor to keep from collapsing onto the tiles. He put a hand on her shoulder.

‘Do you understand?’

She closed her eyes. Breathed deep.

‘Ida, do you understand?’

She nodded.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, why don’t—’

The chime of the doorbell froze the words on his tongue. His polished shoes disappeared from her vision as he stepped towards the hall. He gripped her upper arm and pulled.

‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Get yourself tidied.’

Ida reached for the table’s edge and hauled herself upright. She wiped at her face before lifting the whiskey bottle and the glass. Graham watched as she put them out of sight.

She went to the sink and rested her hands on the metal. Her husband’s footsteps reverberated in the hall. She heard the door open, and Graham say, ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Carlisle?’ a voice asked. ‘I’m Detective Chief Inspector Serena Flanagan.’

‘
NOT WITHOUT MY
solicitor,’ Graham Carlisle said.

Flanagan caught the scent of whiskey carried on warm air from the house. His eyes red, his cheeks flushed. He barely glanced at her identification. Nor did he acknowledge DS Calvin’s presence on his doorstep.

She had guessed Carlisle would insist on having a solicitor present. He had a reputation for being litigious, had successfully sued several Irish Sunday papers for libel. A lawyer himself, he never took a significant decision without consulting another member of the Roll.

‘Just a few questions,’ Flanagan said. ‘We’ll be as quick as possible. I know this is a difficult time for you, but you must understand, the sooner we can get a full picture of what happened, the sooner we can find who killed your daughter.’

Carlisle stood still for a few moments, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can come in, but I won’t answer any questions until my solicitor gets here. I’ll call him now.’

He showed them to a living room furnished with a silk-upholstered suite, antique coffee table, a well-stocked bookcase. Flanagan couldn’t imagine the Carlisles using this space for anything other than receiving visitors.

A woman waited there, perched on the edge of an armchair, her hands clasped together in her lap. A coat fastened over a nightdress. Rea Carlisle’s mother, still dressed as she was when she found her daughter’s corpse. She did not lift her gaze from the carpet.

‘Ida,’ Carlisle said.

The woman did not respond.

Then louder. ‘Ida.’

The woman looked up at him. Flanagan saw the fear on her, felt it in her own stomach.

‘I’ve told these police officers we won’t discuss what’s happened without my solicitor here. Do you understand?’

Ida nodded and looked back to the floor.

Carlisle turned to Flanagan and Calvin. ‘Have a seat. I won’t be long.’

He pulled the door closed behind him.

Flanagan sat on the couch facing Ida while Calvin stood with his back to the far wall.

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ Flanagan said.

Ida might have said thank you, but her voice was so low Flanagan couldn’t be sure. She made eye contact with Calvin, tilted her head towards the door. Calvin nodded.

‘DS Calvin,’ Flanagan said, ‘I’ve forgotten my notebook. Would you go to the car and get it, please?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Calvin slipped out of the room.

After a short silence, Flanagan asked, ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

Ida kept her eyes down as she shook her head.

‘Off the record,’ Flanagan said. ‘Just between us.’

Ida looked up. ‘Who are you?’

‘DCI Flanagan. Serena Flanagan. Do you want to see my ID?’

Ida shook her head again.

‘Tell me about her,’ Flanagan said.

‘Graham doesn’t want me to talk to you.’

‘Like I said, I forgot my notebook. I can’t write anything down. I just want to get an idea of her. Of Rea. Your daughter.’

A flash of anger on Ida’s face. ‘I know who she is. Don’t you think I know who she is?’

‘Of course you do. But I don’t. Maybe you can tell me.’

Ida’s shoulders slumped, her features slack. ‘She was a good girl. She was kind in her heart. She didn’t deserve this.’

‘No one does,’ Flanagan said.

Ida looked to the door, her husband visible through the rippled glass, looking back, his mobile phone pressed to his ear.

‘Some people do,’ she said. She turned her attention back to Flanagan. ‘You look tired.’

‘It’s been a long day,’ Flanagan said.

‘Do you have children?’

‘Two. One of each.’

Ida smiled. ‘They used to call that a gentleman’s family. How old?’

‘Eight and five.’

‘Why aren’t you at home?’

‘I’ve too much work to do. I want to find who killed your daughter.’

‘You’ll regret it one day,’ Ida said. ‘I can promise you. You think now there’s no time, but one day there really won’t be any more time. You’ll have wasted it, and you’ll hate yourself for it.’