The Silent Ones Read online

  ‘We need to talk,’ said Harry’s mother, her boot heels squeaking against each other. ‘Remember what Mr Whitefield said about lying? That it only leads to more lies? Well, we have to know what happened … if anything happened.’

  ‘The time to speak is now,’ added his father.

  His grandmother joined in: ‘We’ll believe anything you say as long as it’s true.’

  Only Harry’s grandfather had the sense to keep quiet. He’d told Harry he must always tell the truth while secretly hoping he’d lie. They’d looked at each other, both of them grieving, both of them knowing something terrible had just happened; that they’d never be the same; that their relationship was secretly over.

  ‘Gran’s right,’ said Harry’s mother. ‘We’ll believe anything, but it has to be true.’

  Harry felt the knot tighten in his stomach. He didn’t belong here. Not in this room, not with these people. A flush of sweat made his scalp tingle. He felt suddenly cold. They didn’t even realise it, but they were against him: they didn’t want to believe a truth that didn’t bear thinking about.

  ‘You don’t want to know,’ said Harry.

  ‘Sorry, darling?’ asked his mother.

  ‘None of you want to know, not really.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Harry,’ complained his mother, lovingly.

  Harry looked up from the spread of shoes to appraise each harrowed face: his grandfather turned away as if accused; his grandmother blinked slowly, waiting for Harry to say something she was prepared to believe; his mother bit her lip; his father stared back, ready to defend his absent brother; the brother he hardly knew. They all looked absolutely shattered. But most of all they were embarrassed. Mortified. Wondering what the neighbours and Mr Whitefield were going to say. Harry couldn’t stomach the sight of them any longer.

  ‘I want to be alone for a while,’ he said. ‘Is that all right?’

  His father spoke for everyone. ‘Of course. But think about what Gran said, okay? This can’t go on.’

  Harry went to his bedroom, leaving them to argue. He’d made a decision that morning, before going to court, and it was almost time to make a move. The only person who understood what Harry was going through and what he’d been through was Fraser. And Fraser was leaving. He’d told him yesterday while they were in the garden.

  * * *

  ‘I’m goin’ home, laddie,’ said Fraser on his knees, pulling out small weeds with weak roots. ‘I’m goin’ back to Scotland. That’s where I belong.’

  Harry felt a surge of confusion; it would mean they’d never be together again.

  ‘I havna told your parents because they wouldna understand. They’d only try and make me stay and make a fuss, so I think it’s best if I just up and go.’

  Harry watched Fraser stroke the heads of the flowers. He seemed to be making sure they looked clean and smart before he went away. He spoke quietly of the Western Isles. That’s where he was heading. A croft on the Isle of Barra. Near Castlebay. His grandfather’s birthplace. A cottage in a dip of land facing the Atlantic. A wild place. A wonderful place. He should have gone there years ago rather than come down to London. Though if he’d done that, he’d never have met Harry.

  ‘I want to thank ye for what ye’ve done, okay? For not treating me like dirt on the pavement.’ Fraser leaned back on his heels and took a long, slow breath. ‘You’re the only one who knows why I left Glasgow, al’right? I never told anyone else, okay? Not even your Uncle Justin. No one. Just yourself.’

  Harry thought of Ryan, Katie and little Ellie. Fraser had brought them up on his own after their mother took the bus back to her mother in Kilmarnock. He’d worked for the council cleaning the streets, coming home to cook and wash and iron and clean. And he ‘hadna minded because I’d been left with three angels’. But one night he agreed to meet some friends at the Duke of Argyll. Just for an hour. Three minutes away. Round the corner. ‘Only the babysitter hadna turned up, Harry. I called ma pals and they says, haway man, come down anyway, just for a wee swally.’ So he took a chance. He left the children alone, locking them in to keep them safe. While he was out, Ryan got up and jammed some bread in the toaster. The toaster was near a curtain. Within ten minutes the whole flat was in flames. ‘The poor laddie tried to put out the fire all by himself.’ Meanwhile Fraser heard a siren – he even mentioned it to his pals – and then he carried on watching Celtic v. Rangers.

  ‘I told you, Harry, because, to be honest, you remind me o’ ma wee boy. And I’ve never been able to beg his forgiveness. Say I’m sorry. Never been able to thank him for tryin’ to save his sisters, ma girls. For tryin’ to do what I shoulda been there to do.’

  Harry had found faces for the names. Fraser had given brief, hurried descriptions, but Harry had added all sorts of detail. He could see Ryan’s freckles, Katie’s golden bunches, and little Ellie’s pixie nose. He could see Ryan running frantically around the flat in his pyjamas throwing cups of water at the flames. He could see Katie and little Ellie fast asleep in the same, small room. Fraser reached for one last weed.

  ‘I was hoping you’d do me a favour after I’m gone, Harry.’

  Harry nodded and so Fraser explained. He said he’d made a memorial. He’d put three plants on the bridge spanning the tracks where Justin had saved his life. ‘He told me to think o’ someone I loved and to live for them.’ Now there were three pots standing close together on the pavement. No one had ever taken them away or damaged them. But they needed looking after every now and again.

  ‘I can tell you where they are or I can show you,’ said Fraser. ‘I dinna mind. All I want you to do is to keep your eye on them, okay? Keep ’em tidy. Keep ’em bonnie. Would you do that for me?’

  Harry thought for a long while, watching Fraser’s gentle hands touch the heads of the flowers. And he thought of the Western Isles, far from London. It was almost like Spain. A new life without much sun. But a new life all the same. ‘I’d like you to show them to me,’ he said, at last.

  They’d agreed to meet at the bandstand on the common the next day, so, after checking the time, Harry put on his coat and picked up his sports bag. He tiptoed across the room and slowly opened the window. When he was sure there’d been no pause in the quarrel downstairs, he climbed out onto the flat roof over the kitchen, dropping into the driveway of Mr McGregor, the next-door neighbour. Within minutes he’d scaled a wall and was walking quickly along a cycle path that ran behind a line of houses.

  Harry had learned a long time ago how to control his feelings. He’d trained himself to function like a tap, so he could let out the pressure as and when circumstances would allow. Between times, he’d felt nothing, save when he took the time to burn his skin. But now, leaving behind those who would love him, he could almost feel the pain in his hands as he tightened the hot and cold, knowing in some deep part of himself that he’d never be able to open them again.

  42

  Robert drifted aimlessly along Cheapside. He didn’t want to go back to the office and he didn’t want to go home. There was no escaping it: leaving aside the tragedy of Harry Brandwell, he’d failed. The big story about the abusing priest hidden by a monastery and a celebrity monk had collapsed. The idea that Robert had been used to attract the attention of the press to help expose a larger scandal was pure imagination. Father Anselm had been approached simply because no one else would have cooperated with Littlemore’s silence, which had been no stratagem, just a means of keeping his promise to Harry Brandwell. The two of them had been waiting for Justin Brandwell to declare himself. Robert’s only role had been to maximise the pressure. There’d been no conspiracy. Crofty was right. Robert had made a fool of himself. Not that anyone on the Guardian would blame him. But secretly, his judgement and instinct would be questioned. The story that had brought him onto the paper had been no story at all.

  In fact – and the irony was bitter – it had been Andrew Taylor who misunderstood the connection between the fax and the letter; it had been Andrew Taylor who f
irst misread the data, finding a scheme to ensure Littlemore’s conviction. Robert had been knocked off course by a trainee who’d cuckolded his father.

  Was this the sort of thing you just had to accept? You had to sit back while a gigolo tried to worm his way into your life?

  No, it wasn’t. But Robert had. He’d kept quiet, contenting himself with infantile protestations, snide remarks here, a knowing glance there: the whole sorry package of a coward’s hesitation; not having the guts to push open a door and say what you really think. Robert thought of Harry, compelled to follow a parallel road: he’d finally been taken from home to the Old Bailey, and there, before the eyes of a judge and jury – people charged to find the truth – Harry had shown Robert what happens when you settle for half-measures and hesitation. You get walled up while everyone else walks free.

  In a blush of resentment Robert thought of his mother. The remaining links between them had almost lost their meaning. He hadn’t even seen her for months, not since he burned her fingers and made her sing, ‘My object all sublime’. Not since he gave his boat away and wept for his dad. They’d only spoken on the phone, never referring to the conversation in the corridor, when she’d asked to grieve in her own way. The most recent call had been a week ago to say the sale of the house had fallen through …

  Coming to Threadneedle Street, Robert slowed, frowning.

  She’d also asked about his workload and what it was like on the Guardian and then, as if it hardly mattered, she wondered if he’d be covering the Littlemore trial, whether he’d be in court to watch the monk go back to the Bar? Whether he’d be forced to work at night? It was a conversation that stumbled between their injured feelings. Polite and anguished … but planned.

  Robert began striding, turning into Lombard Street.

  Had she been covering her back all these months? Almost every conversation had run along similar lines: enquiries about his whereabouts and intended movements … when he’d be here and when he’d be there.

  He started running along King William Street, dodging between the suited bankers and tight-skirted secretaries, disbelief growing as he moved faster and faster. His mother had certainly been grieving over the breach between them, and she might well have been interested in what he was doing on the day to day, but above all she’d been securing her life from outside interference … making sure he couldn’t suddenly turn up at the door, even to be reconciled.

  She’d been blocking out her diary.

  Reaching Monument, Robert took the Tube to Embankment and the overground to Raynes Park. This time he wouldn’t hide behind a van. He wouldn’t even knock on the door.

  43

  Anselm took a taxi to Clapham urging speed whenever possible. On passing the common he could have sworn he saw Fraser walking towards the bandstand but then the driver slammed on the brakes, jerked to the left and squeezed past a dump truck. When he looked towards the grass again Anselm’s line of vision was obscured. Reaching Dominic and Emily’s house, he threw some notes at the driver and ran to the front door, ringing the bell and knocking in quick succession.

  The door was opened by a man Anselm hardly recognised but knew: Martin Brandwell. He looked broken-hearted.

  ‘What do you want?’ he whispered.

  ‘I must see Justin.’

  ‘You can’t.’

  ‘It’s urgent.’

  Martin’s face twisted with pain. He’d thought Littlemore was guilty. But he’d been innocent. He daren’t think of the implications. ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Then I have to find him.’ Anselm reached into his bag and took out a kitchen knife. ‘Harry intended to do something very silly. His best friend saved him from himself. Now it’s our turn to save him from everyone else.’

  Maisie appeared behind her husband. ‘Oh dear God, what’s going on?’

  Frustration and anger made Anselm raise his voice, appealing to those out of view: ‘Let me in. We have to speak about the trial. It’s not over. And it will never be over until a jury brings home a verdict.’

  * * *

  Anselm had placed the knife in the middle of the dining table. They’d all wanted Harry brought downstairs to explain himself, only Anselm stopped them, insisting that they talk first. He pointed at the chairs, wanting formality to help contain any eruption of feeling. They sat down, made submissive by the sight of the blade.

  ‘This is what things have come to,’ said Anselm. ‘Now help me bring them to an end.’

  He glanced around the table. In one of those rare and deeply unnerving moments of insight Anselm felt certain this family was enmeshed in something profoundly harmful and beyond their control. They were confused, dejected and frightened. And – to quote Athanasius, cited prophetically by Sylvester – there was enmity towards ascetics. He could feel it like heat from a fire.

  ‘Gutsy Mitchell found the knife by accident, looking for a tennis ball in Harry’s sports bag,’ he said. ‘He took it without Harry knowing. You heard what Harry said in court. He’s been waiting for the person who assaulted him to make an admission. That didn’t happen. It seems he’s prepared his next move.’

  ‘Save your fairy tales for the Old Bailey,’ murmured Dominic. His voice grew louder: ‘He stole it, for God’s sake … like he stole the matches and the cigarettes and whatever else that took his fancy. He’s wound us all round his little finger … he’s had us all running after him like fools, bowing and scraping, not daring to contradict him.’

  ‘Never, never, never,’ said Emily, quietly, looking at the ceiling. ‘He’d never do anything so …’ But she couldn’t finish the sentence, because Harry had already done the unimaginable: he’d accused an innocent man of something that might not have happened. She covered her face and began to cry: ‘Where has my boy gone? What’s happened to him? What did we do wrong?’

  ‘We can’t trust him, Emily,’ said Dominic, being strong, saying what he didn’t want to believe. ‘Our son is a thief and a compulsive liar. And to think’ – he laughed bitterly – ‘we told Mr Whitefield he was overreacting. We told him Harry meant no harm, that he’d only fibbed to protect a friend.’ Dominic turned on Anselm. ‘And my brother is a good man, a noble man. He’s given his life to help people worse off than himself and you dragged his name into the gutter with your disgusting insinuations. You found a few loose ends in the evidence and you tied them together to make him look like a beast. That wasn’t necessary. You could’ve defended Littlemore without smearing Justin. But you had to find a culprit, didn’t you? You had to find someone to blame, anyone at all, but you chose Justin. Why not me? Why not my father? God almighty, why not Emily? I’ll tell you why: because you know dirt sticks to a good name. Now get out of my house. I don’t know why I let you through the door. You come in here and tell me to sit down at my own table? Just leave, now, before—’

  ‘No, Dominic, not just yet,’ said Maisie, raising herself in her seat. ‘I’ve got something to say. When Justin was a boy he told me he wanted to help the poor. And there were tears in his eyes. He was only thirteen. He’d seen this man without any shoes and—’

  ‘Stop, no more,’ said Martin. ‘Not another damned, stupid word.’

  Martin had been seated with his chin on his chest but on speaking he looked up, rising from his chair.

  ‘I’ve heard enough.’

  Grasping the knife, he raised it high in the air and stabbed the middle of the table … not once, but over and over again, grunting and spitting through bared teeth. Anselm threw himself backwards, stumbling for balance as his chair tipped over. Dominic lurched to one side, pulling Emily towards him. Maisie shrieked but Martin carried on, ignoring the cry of terror, bringing the blade up and down. The tip had broken so he was chopping into the wood, getting slower and slower until he lost strength, until the knife grew heavy. When he’d finished, he threw the weapon aside, staggering backwards. All eyes were on the table as if it was covered in blood.

  ‘Now sit down, all of you,’ he said, picking up the fallen
chairs. ‘Sit down and listen, for once. Harry’s told you all he can. I know how he feels, because I’ve been silenced too.’ He glared at them one by one. ‘I said sit down.’ Nobody dared move, Anselm included. They were all paralysed with fear. Martin walked over to Maisie and put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Come on, darling, take a seat. Listen to Father Anselm … I’ll make some tea. You’ve got some Earl Grey, haven’t you, Dominic?’

  ‘Dad, what are you talking about?’

  ‘I said I’ll make tea. Milk and sugar, Father?’

  Anselm looked from the knife to the table to Martin, and then said he’d take it with lemon. He sat down fairly sure no group of people had ever listened to what he might say with such bristling concentration. This was heat from a very different fire. Their world was in flames and they could only watch and listen while Grandpa fiddled about in the kitchen trying to find a lemon. The only exception was Maisie. Her eyes were glazed as she mouthed her husband’s confession: I’ve been silenced too.

  ‘None of this confusion and fear and anger is your fault.’ Anselm spoke just above a whisper. ‘You’ve all been trapped in a wider, hidden tragedy. But Harry has been abused, abandoned and betrayed. He’s been failed. He’s been isolated in such a way that no one can reach him. So he’s floundered on his own in the dark, holding onto what is right – the need to tell the truth – but forced to tell a lie. He was breathtaking in court today. He looked embarrassment and shame in the face for having blamed an innocent man and he didn’t flinch, he didn’t turn away; he accepted the consequences. You should be proud of him. He’s halfway there. He’s on his way home. But he’s trying to survive by himself. He’s trying to remain … a good boy.’ Anselm addressed Dominic and Emily. ‘He’s still a child. He needs you more than ever.’