The Voices (31 page)

Eventually, Laura spoke. ‘I didn’t kill Faye.’

‘I know, love,’ Sue responded.

‘And I didn’t kill Christopher.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ The phrase was spoken with
out a trace of condescension. ‘You couldn’t have. I know that.’

‘They don’t believe me. I told them what really happened, but they don’t believe me.’

‘I believe you.’

‘That house . . .’ Laura bit her lower lip and it became colourless.

Sue nodded. ‘I could feel it too, as soon as I stepped through the front door. I was worried about you . . . and Faye. That’s why I offered to do the rockery. I wanted to keep an eye on you. I should have said something. I’m sorry.’

‘You did – and I wasn’t very receptive. I remember.’

They talked softly while sustaining their surreptitious physical contact and Laura felt as if a healing energy was flowing from Sue’s body directly into her own. Her fingertips had started to tingle.

When their time was up, Sue said: ‘They can’t keep you locked up in here forever. They’ll have to let you out one day.’

For the first time since Faye’s disappearance, Laura imagined a life –
her
life – extending into the future.

September 1979

Three years later

The preceding winter had been catastrophic: blizzards, deep snow, unspeakable cold; retail markets had collapsed and public sector strikes had produced widespread despondency. The streets of London had been littered with stinking refuse and hospitals had closed their doors. Yet none of this had affected Terry Vance. His business was booming; the new Tory government would surely reduce taxes; and he and his wife, Eileen, had just moved from nondescript Enfield to glamorous Hampstead. He sensed change. A better world coming, one in which a man like him – ambitious, practical, and hardworking – could expect to be rewarded.

The residents of the Vale of Health viewed their new neighbours with suspicion and muted disapproval. Vance owned two sports cars – one red, one blue – with personalized number plates, and every Sunday morning he would emerge from his Victorian villa carrying a bucket of soapy
water and proceed to hand-wash both vehicles. He evidently enjoyed the task and when he was finished, he would stand on the kerb admiring the glossy body-work and scintillant chrome. His wife (a short platinum blonde who was rarely seen without high heels, full make-up and encrustations of jewellery) usually brought him a mug of tea at the end of his labours. The sound of her immoderate laughter could be heard throughout the Vale.

In 1971, Vance had started an employment agency for computer-room personnel. It had become successful very quickly and he now rented offices overlooking Cambridge Circus. His achievement was substantial, given that he had started his working life as a humble punch-card operator.

One Sunday morning, shortly after moving to Hampstead, Vance was – as usual – washing his cars when he noticed a woman in dungarees standing on the opposite side of the road. She had arrived in a van spray-painted with stylized flowers and an advertisement: ‘Gaia: Landscape and Design’. Vance assumed the woman was looking for work and called out, ‘Sorry. I’ve already got someone to do the garden. They’ll be starting in a few months.’

She crossed the road and stood by his side. ‘How long have you been living here?’

‘Not long,’ Vance replied. He looked her up and down. She was quite attractive but definitely not his type. Her hair was untidy and he found her large, masculine boots almost offensive. Unfortunately, each stage of his negative appraisal was accompanied by a transparent change of expression.

‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ said the woman, ‘but when you bought this house, did they—’

‘Like I said,’ Vance snapped, ‘I’ve already got someone coming.’ He glanced at her van and then added with friendly malice, ‘A
proper
company – professionals.’

The woman’s expression hardened. ‘Do you have any children?’

‘What?’

‘Do you have any children?’

‘No. What’s it to do with you?’

She seemed about to answer his question but she stopped, on the brink of speech, and then sighed. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

‘What doesn’t matter?’

‘I was going to offer you some advice. But . . .’ She hesitated again. ‘I’ve decided against it.’ She turned abruptly and clumped away. Vance chuckled to himself
and set about removing some bird droppings from the soft-top of his TR6. ‘Mad,’ he muttered. When the woman drove off he didn’t even bother to look up.

Vance had wanted a swimming pool, but the garden designer (a rangy man with a weathered, sage-like face) argued against it. A swimming pool would be costly and not in keeping with the character of the house. Subsequently, Vance had lost interest in the project and Eileen was left to make all the decisions. There would be a wide lawn, several water features (including a Gothic fountain) and a pergola leading to a timber-framed summer house.

By the end of August, the clearance of the back garden was almost complete. The gazebo had been demolished and the apple trees felled. Many of the bushes and shrubs had been uprooted and burned. Two close-standing stone cherubs were uncovered and the designer had been keen to incorporate both of them into his plan. Eileen had agreed because she thought they looked ‘cute’, especially the one reading the book.

A small digger was hired to make trenches that would eventually become ornamental pools, and the exposure of fat, writhing worms attracted flocks of hungry birds. The
air smelt of moist clay and the unpleasant, faecal undertow of decomposition.

Vance had had an uneventful day in the office, which was just as well, because he needed to get away early. He had arranged to play tennis with a friend at five. The traffic, for once, wasn’t too bad, and he managed to get home with plenty of time to spare. When he got out of the TR6, he could hear the digger at work. He found Eileen in the drawing room painting her nails. She was wearing a woollen dress that hugged her shapely figure, a belt made from large interlocking metal rings, and gold pendant earrings. The room was fragrant with her perfume.

I’ve got all your things ready,’ she said. ‘Your sports bag’s under the stairs.’ Her accent betrayed origins from somewhere along the Thames Estuary.

‘Thanks.’

‘What time do you think you’ll be back?’

‘I don’t know. We’re going for a drink after . . . nine maybe.’

Eileen put the little brush she had been using back in its bottle, splayed her fingers and blew on her nails. ‘Do you want me to put something in the oven for you?’

‘Yeah, OK.’

‘Stroganoff?’

‘Yeah, all right.’

Eileen stood up and moved to the fireplace, where she lit a cigarette. The hem of her dress had ridden up her legs, revealing the black brocade trim of her stockings. Vance put his arm around her waist and kissed her on the mouth. She tasted of ash and mouthwash. When they separated, she smiled and raised her plucked eyebrows.

The sound of a knuckle tapping on glass made them both turn. One of the gardeners, a middle-aged man with a beard, was looking in at them, a hand held horizontally against his forehead. Eileen wriggled her hips and pulled the hem of her dress down. ‘Come in, Jack.’

The man opened one of the French windows. He made an apologetic gesture, indicating that he couldn’t enter on account of his dirty clothes. ‘Mr Vance,’ he said uneasily. ‘Would you come with me, please? We’ve found something.’

‘What?’ Vance was irritated by the gardener’s untimely intrusion and his response was brusque. Eileen rested a restraining hand on his sleeve.

Jack glanced from husband to wife and back again. ‘I think you’d better come and see for yourself.’

‘Hang on,’ said Eileen. ‘Wait for me. I’ll put some mules on.’

‘No, Mrs Vance,’ said the gardener. ‘Perhaps your
husband should . . . first . . . if you don’t mind . . .’ He winced, ashamed by his own inarticulacy.

The couple looked at each other and Eileen shrugged. Vance crossed the room and sashayed out onto the flagstone terrace. Another gardener, a teenager, was standing near the digger, some distance from the house, and he appeared to be looking into a hole.

‘What’s the problem?’ Vance asked.

The gardener shook his head. ‘I don’t know what to say.’ He seemed stunned, unable to speak properly. They proceeded along a temporary woodchip path. ‘Be careful,’ the gardener added. ‘It’s a little slippery just there.’

As Vance approached the digger he saw an opening in the ground surrounded by several mounds of freshly excavated earth. ‘Blimey!’ said Vance. They had uncovered an old stone staircase, the uppermost step of which was flanked by the two cherubs. It led down to a half-open metal door.

‘What’s in there then?’ Vance addressed the younger gardener. The boy looked at the older man, unsure as to whether he should speak or not. Jack consented with a subtle inclination of his head. ‘It’s horrible,’ said the boy. I’ve never seen anything like it.’ He swallowed and the greenish pallor of his complexion suggested that he was about to be sick.

Vance descended the muddy stairs and when he reached the bottom he pushed the door open. The hinges creaked and some loose soil trickled down from above the lintel. Vance swore and brushed the dirt out of his hair. He peered into the gloom, before warily stepping over the threshold. The air was cold and damp.

For a few seconds, Vance was unable to interpret his surroundings. The experience was like looking at an abstract painting in which everyday objects are merely suggested and emerge only slowly from obscurity with sustained study. Vance was aware of vertical lines and shapes, but they stubbornly resisted resolution into forms that could be readily identified. Gradually, with attendant feelings of mounting horror, the world became comprehensible.

A number of chains hung from the ceiling, but his attention was drawn to the shrivelled thing that dangled in the air at eye level. The skull was small and covered with remnants of desiccated skin and flesh. Blonde curls still adhered to the crown and the eye sockets were empty. The remains of the dead infant – for that is what it appeared to be – were held together by its clothing: white cotton pyjamas decorated with pink flowers.

‘Fuck.’ Vance looked back over his shoulder. The two gardeners had followed him. They were standing close
together, slightly hunched, as if they were about to be whipped or beaten.

‘What’s going on down there?’ It was Eileen.

‘No!’ Vance shouted. ‘Stay where you are, love.’ Her heels sounded on the stairs. She pushed past the gardeners and before Vance could dissuade her from advancing any further she came to a sudden halt. He watched her mouth become a black oval rimmed with bright red lipstick. She pressed her palms against her cheeks and the scream that she produced threatened to continue without end.

Sources and Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Wayne Brookes, Catherine Richards, Clare Alexander, Steve Matthews and Nicola Fox for their comments on the first and subsequent drafts of
The Voices.
I would also like to thank Dr Heidi Hales for an enlightening discussion on the subjects of forensic psychiatry and prison procedure, and Jennie Muskett for explaining how film music composers go about their work.

I read many books while researching
The Voices;
however, the following deserve special mention.
Breakthrough: An Amazing Experiment in Electronic Communication With the Dead
by Konstantin Raudive;
Special Sound: The Creation and Legacy of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop
by Louis Niebur;
Seasons in the Sun: The Battle For Britain 1974–1979
by Dominic Sandbrook;
Hiding the Elephant: How Magicians Invented the Impossible
by Jim Steinmeyer; and
Circle Without End: The Magic Circle 1905–2005,
compiled and edited by Edwin A. Dawes and Michael Bailey. I found the penny-toy man verse on the childhood pages of Lee Jackson’s superb Victorian London website (www.victorianlondon.org). I made one
small change: ‘dots’ becoming ‘tots’. The earliest version of the children’s prayer ‘Now I lay me down to sleep’ was written by Joseph Addison and first appeared in an edition of the
Spectator
on 8 March 1711. I have used the version which appeared in
The New England Primer,
although there are many others. Sue’s copy of Susan Brownmiller’s
Against Our
Will (1975) had yet to be published in 1976; however, I describe this later Penguin edition because the cover design served my purposes.

The soundscapes I describe are imagined; however, listening to a double CD issued on the Chrome Dreams label called
Forbidden Planets: Music From the Pioneers of Electronic Sound
made the process less effortful.

I was seventeen in the summer of 1976. I wish I’d paid more attention to what was going on . . .

F. R. TALLIS

London, May 2013

THE VOICES

F R. T
ALLIS
is a writer and clinical psychologist. He has written self-help manuals, non-fiction for the general reader, academic textbooks, over thirty academic papers in international journals and several novels. Between 1999 and 2012 he received or was shortlisted for numerous awards, including the New London Writers’ Award, the Ellis Peters Historical Dagger, the Grand Prix des Lectrices de Elle and two Edgars. His critically acclaimed Liebermann series (written as Frank Tallis) has been translated into fourteen languages and optioned for TV adaptation. His most recent books are
The Forbidden,
a horror story set in nineteenth-century Paris,
The Sleep Room,
about a pioneering, controversial sleep therapy, and this,
The Voices,
which is his latest.

For more on Frank Tallis, visit his website

www.franktallis.com

or follow him on Twitter @FrankTallis

BY F. R. TALLIS

The Forbidden

The Sleep Room

The Voices

Writing as Frank Tallis

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Sensing Others

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