Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

“Nightjar Security Services? Why them? Why us?”

“Because it’s the company you work for.”

A silence threatened to overwhelm the two men. They drank from their cans simultaneously, arms rising and falling in syncopation. Brendan crushed his can in his fist. The sound — a loud creaking — made Simon think of something that he couldn’t quite grasp. It sat there, the image, crouched in the shadows at the back of his eyes, waiting to be seen.

“Why are you here?” Brendan’s voice was low, almost a whisper. He put his empty can on the floor by his feet. “After all these years. Why have you come back?” He reached up and scratched the back of his neck, wincing as he moved his hand back and forth across the same spot. “What’s left for you here?”

Simon finished his own drink. “Any chance of another?”

Brendan nodded. He stood up, picked up his own can and grabbed the one from Simon’s outstretched hand, and went through into the kitchen.

Simon rubbed his cheeks. His hands felt dry, dusty. Was he doing the right thing by coming here? Did he even know what the hell he was doing?

“Here.” Brendan was standing next to him. Simon had not even heard him come back into the room.

“Cheers.” he took the can, opened it, and drank. His head felt light, as if he were on the way to getting pissed. One can of weak bitter and he was already dizzy. It was pathetic.

“So?” Brendan looked at the television screen, frowning at the Mario Brothers, as if he’d only just noticed them. He grabbed a remote control from the floor and turned off the set.

“I got all your little gifts.” Simon sat forward and took off his jacket, setting it down next to him. He was suddenly hot. The air was heavy.

“What are you on about?” Brendan sat back on the sofa, stretching out his legs. “I haven’t sent you a thing. I don’t even know your address — just that you live in some swanky gaff in London. Why the hell would I send you anything, man? You walked out of here and never looked back. You didn’t even say goodbye. Not to me, or to Marty, or to–” He stopped himself from saying his wife’s name, gritted his teeth, exhaled. “Not to anyone.”

“I know, and I’m sorry. I should have at least spoken to you before I left, but it all happened so quickly. My mum died, my dad moved to Whitby to be with his psycho older brother, and the only other option I had was to run away. I couldn’t stay here…” He didn’t want to complete the thought.

“We did. None of us had a choice.”

“You all had a choice — we all did. Nobody forced you to stay here.”

Brendan didn’t respond. He looked at his can, staring at the rim, into the small dark hole.

“Listen, I didn’t come here to stir up bad feelings. I’ve come to apologise for leaving things the way I did, and for not keeping in touch.”

Brendan sighed. The sound was too loud; it seemed faked. “What did you mean about gifts? What am I supposed to have been sending you? Letter bombs?”

Simon put one hand on his jacket. He squeezed the leather. “The newspaper clippings, the emails. The little reminders of what’s been happening here for all these years, while I’ve been away.”

“Sorry, mate.” Brendan pursed his lips. “No, that wasn’t me. I’d tell you if it was. I’ve had other things on my mind, like trying to raise a family, keep a roof over our heads, and hold down a shitty job. You know — crap like that.” He crushed his second can. “Another?” He lifted the can to eye level and jiggled it, a small challenge.

“No, thanks. I haven’t eaten properly since last night. I’ll be pissed if I have another.”

Brendan shrugged. “Please yerself. All the more for me, then.”

“So it wasn’t you? You didn’t send me any of those things?” Simon stared at the other man, into his eyes, looking for deceit.

“Why the fuck would I bother? Who the fuck are you, anyway, you self-centred prick? Do you think that all the time you’ve been away all I’ve done is think about you, collect things, and then post them to you? Get real, man. This might come as a bit of a shock, but you’re not the centre of the universe. You never were.”

Simon pushed his hand into his jacket pocket, fumbled around for what he was looking for, and then withdrew his hand, the fingers clasped around an object. “So,” he said, reaching out towards Brendan. “You didn’t send me this, either?”

Brendan looked at the acorn sitting on Simon’s palm. His face went slack, like the blood had suddenly run from his head and into his feet. He was pale; his eyes began to water.

“Did you?” Simon didn’t break eye contact.

“No,” said Brendan, standing. “No, I didn’t.” He went back through to the kitchen and returned with yet another can of beer. This one he drank quicker, as if he were trying his best to get drunk.

“What’s wrong?” Simon closed his hand over the acorn. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” It sounded like something he’d said before, a hundred years ago.

Brendan lowered his can and stared at Simon. “A ghost or a monster…”

Simon’s chest tightened. He squeezed his fist around the acorn. A sense of déjà vu came upon him, and he felt ten years old again, standing in the shade of the trees on Beacon Green. His cheeks were warm and wet; he was crying and he didn’t know why. He quickly wiped the tears away with the back of his hand.

Brendan was standing at the centre of the room, the backs of his knees pressed against the coffee table. It looked as if that was the only thing stopping him from swaying.

“Maybe I will have another drink,” said Simon. The world tipped back onto its axis and the muscles in Simon’s chest slackened, allowing him to breathe again.

“No,” said Brendan, shaking his head. He took a step forward, away from the coffee table, and his legs almost buckled. He staggered slightly, a man in need of support, and then moved across the room and grabbed the wall. “No, I think you need to leave.”

“We have to talk, mate.” Simon stood and made a move towards his old friend, but then thought better of it. He stood there, watching and waiting, wishing that he knew what to do. “Please. I have something I need to run by you — it’s important. It might help us all. Me, you… Marty: the three of us, the Amigos. Remember that? The Three Amigos? It’s what we called ourselves back then, when this fucking place was the whole wide world. Our club. Our gang. The Three Amigos.”

Brendan closed his eyes. He was scratching at the top of his back with his free hand. His lips formed a tight line; his entire body was tensed, rigid.

Simon persisted: “Seriously. This might be the thing we’ve all needed for twenty years. Maybe even a way out, a way back, a way beyond whatever it is that none of us can remember.”

“I can’t, not now.” Brendan opened his eyes. His shoulders were hunched, as if he were in pain. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Give me your number. I’ll call you later — we can meet for a pint before I have to go to work. We’ll talk then. I’ll listen to what you have to say. No promises. But I’ll listen…”

Simon grabbed his jacket, took a pen from the coffee table, and wrote down his mobile number on a till receipt from the petrol station last night. “You promise you’ll listen?”

Brendan nodded. He was still in pain. “For old times’ sake,” he said, and opened the living room door: it was as clear a signal to leave as a person could possibly give.

Simon set down the till receipt with the scrawled number on the arm of the chair and left the room. He didn’t look back, just in case he spoiled things. He didn’t want Brendan to change his mind. He needed the chance to speak — even if it was just for ‘old times’ sake’.