Питер Мэй - A Silent Death

Again he pauses.

— I’d have given all the Porsche 911s in the world for just a little of his time. But, oh no, my father never had time. At least not for me. Packed me off to Oxford with a generous allowance and the keys to my own apartment. God, how lucky was I?

Although she could neither see nor hear him, she could feel the bitterness in his words.

— It became clear to me, Ana, that if no one else was going to have time for me, then I would just have to make the time for myself. Amazing how quickly the calluses grow and the hurt goes away. Extraordinary how you can segue from being the receiver of pain, to being the giver of it. And what pleasure there is in that.

She can visualize the cursor blinking on his screen as he composes his thoughts for what is to come next.

— Those bullies... the ones who made my life so bloody miserable... I came across a few of them in later years. Well, actually, I sought them out. And they found out pretty fucking fast that dealing with the adult Jack was a whole other experience from beating up on some pathetic kid. That’s what you call taking back power, Ana. And there are very few feelings in this world quite that good.

She does not know now if he has finished, if he has spent his ire. Or whether there is more to come. So she prompts him.

‘I read that you were one of the top traders in the biggest commercial bank in London.’

— Best trader on the floor.

‘You couldn’t have been short of money, then.’

— If there’s one thing I learned from my folks, Ana, it’s that money isn’t everything. But there I was, Mr Dealmaker, buying and selling just seconds before stocks soared or plummeted. Making fortunes — for someone else. So it was back to the old axiom. Look after Number One. Along came a different kind of deal. One in which I controlled everything, including the profits.

‘Drugs.’

— A street commodity, he corrects her. Following the basic precepts of Capitalism. Supply and demand. There was a demand, I supplied it. But it’s a very different environment from the trading floor. Get it wrong and people want to kill you. So you get tough. You learn that there’s no place for sentiment. If someone wants to kill you, you kill them first. Law of the jungle. And I was good at that. Mad Jock, they called me. Still do, for all I know. We Scots have a certain reputation to maintain.

She doubts very much if it is a reputation that John Mackenzie would approve of. And almost as though he has heard the thought echoing in her darkness, she detects vitriol in his next words.

— They’ve sent another Jock to catch me. But he’s no match for me, Ana. I smelled his breath, and his hair gel and his aftershave. I heard his Glasgow brogue. Some knucklehead cop looking to make a reputation at my expense. I’m going to kill him, too.

For the first time, Ana feels despair wash over her. The skin of Cleland’s self-image fits him so tightly there is no room for reason. The calluses so thick he has no sense of other people’s pain, never mind his own. She says, ‘I grew up in a religious family, and though I’ve never had any time for God I would never knowingly hurt another human being, or take from him or her what is not mine. I’ve heard that abused children often become abusers themselves. I have never understood that. Surely no one better knows the pain of abuse? I find it hard to have sympathy for you.’

— I’m not asking for any!

‘I’ve had none of your advantages in life, señor, but would never have projected my own misfortune on to others as you have done.’

Again the long pause. Is he analysing her words or simply controlling his anger? When it comes, his reply surprises.

— You are right. Fate has dealt you a hand much worse than mine. I can’t imagine how it would be to have my sight and hearing taken away. That is unimaginable, Ana.

She feels no compulsion to reply.

— Tell me about you and Sergio.

She feels a constriction of the muscles all around her heart, but says nothing.

— Tell me.

‘No.’

— Tell me, Ana.

Although they are only raised dots on her screen, she can feel his frustration in them and realizes that she cannot afford to excite his anger. ‘Why?’

— I’d like to know.

She draws a deep breath. And tells him. Everything. Meeting Sergio at the centre. Her parents’ disapproval. The diagnosis of Usher Syndrome and Sergio’s offer to share the learning of touch-signing with her. Their blossoming romance, the meals at Santa Ana, and then her father’s physical attack on the young man.

‘I learned only yesterday that my father had gone to Sergio’s parents, and that they had threatened to withdraw support and patronage if he didn’t stop seeing me.’

— And he agreed?

‘I never saw or heard anything of him again until yesterday. I thought...’ She chokes on the thought and feels tears welling.

— You thought what?’

‘I thought that finally I might have someone to spend my life with. Someone to share the darkness, and the silence.’

Cleland’s silence lasted so long she really did believe that this time he had gone.

‘Hello...?’

Nothing.

‘Señor?’

Finally a vibration at her breast.

— What was worse? Losing your sight or your hearing?

No reaction to her story. Nothing. Just a change of subject as if, in spite of his asking, her story was not the one he wanted to hear. She realized she would have to respond.

‘I was always prepared for the fact that one day I would lose my hearing completely. But nothing prepares you for blindness.’ She pauses and runs the rule of recollection back over the years. ‘Though perhaps, strange as it seems, the thing I miss most is music. I loved my music as a kid. Everyone else has a soundtrack to their lives. Mine is silence.’ And she can almost hear the silence in the room that follows. Finally, her buzzer vibrates once more against her chest.

— One day, Ana, if we both survive this, I’ll see that you never want for anything again. That’s a promise.

She has not the least idea how to respond.

— I have to go out for a while.

And she finds herself suffused with relief. Space to think. Time to try and find a way out of this.

— Just don’t even think of trying to alert anyone. People can die too easily. Especially little children.

Cleland sat looking at the sightless woman perched on the chair opposite. Two screens between them. Conduits of communication. Her way of reaching the world beyond silence and darkness. His way of reaching into hers.

He recalled slapping her yesterday. Twice. And felt immediate regret. Like striking a helpless animal. No way for her to hit back. Which made him no better than those bullies who had so relentlessly tormented him through all his miserable childhood. He wanted to reach out and take her hand and tell her he was sorry. Such an alien impulse that he was completely unable to act upon it, and sat just staring at her face. And thought about Sergio.

He had not meant to hit Sergio so hard. If he had known then just how much he meant to Ana... It was just one more thing taken from her. God had robbed her of her sight and her hearing. Cleland had stolen her freedom. And her love.

And Angela. He had taken her life. He screwed his eyes tight shut and felt hot tears squeezing out between the lids to track their way down a tanned face starting to show the ravages of stress. If it hadn’t been for that stupid bloody policewoman...

He reached over to grab the untouched plate of churros in front of Ana, and the mug of cooling coffee, and hurled both at the wall with a force only matched by the strength of the roar of pure frustration that rose from his throat and resonated in the still morning air.