Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

Some kind of fracas was occurring off to his left. Marty could not hear clearly, just a dull roar, as if his ears had popped under pressure. He opened his eyes to see, and was just in time to catch the fat Polish man in the Kappa tracksuit forcing his way through the crowd. Marty blinked. His ears felt as if they were stuffed with cotton wool. He wasn’t sure what was happening, but he realised that things were not right. Then, just before someone grabbed him by the back of the neck and dragged him away, the Polish man hit Marty hard in the side. The impact was dull, yet it burned briefly. Marty moved in slow motion, glancing down at his left side. There was a shock of red there: a stain. The stain was moving, blooming like a flower. Spreading across his left side…

That was when he realised that he had not been punched. He’d been stabbed.

Sound rushed back into his ears and he pressed his bandaged hand to the wound. The tips of his first two fingers slipped easily between the edges of the cut, and they went in deep. The blood was warm. He felt no pain.

“Jesus,” he said. He looked back up, towards the hanging light fixture near the ceiling, but saw only the incandescence of the bulb. Then he looked back at his hand. His fingers were red and slick. There was a white halo around them, from staring too long at the light.

“Get him over here,” said someone he’d never seen before. “Now!”

Erik Best was charging around the Barn like a bull, clearing out the rest of the crowd and directing his men to grab hold of the Polish contingent. The fat man was lying unconscious on the ground at the foot of a broad timber post. Someone had wrestled one of the other corner men onto his back and was slipping in a couple of punches to his kidney area. Two other men in suits had pinned the last Polish man to the wall, where they were taking turns to hit him in the gut.

Marty was being walked quickly by three men towards the opposite corner of the Barn. Doc, an old guy in a shabby grey suit, was laying out medical equipment on a plastic bench beside a low wooden table. He was smoking a cigarette and his hands were shaking. Carefully, he placed a scalpel, syringes, scissors and various dressings onto the flat top of the bench.

Marty was forced to lie down on the table, strong hands pushing down on his chest. He still could feel no pain — the rush of adrenalin was probably masking it, but he knew the numbness wouldn’t last for long. Soon his left side would be in flames.

He opened his mouth. His lips were dry. “Is it deep?”

The doctor looked up from where he was inspecting the wound. “Yes, but it isn’t fatal.”

Erik Best appeared at the side of the table. “Can you fix him up, Doc?” His face was shiny with sweat.

Marty was drifting in and out of a dream. None of this was really happening; it was like a play or a movie. He’d fallen asleep in front of the television.

“Not a problem,” said Doc, peeling off a pair of rubber gloves stained with blood and putting on a clean pair fresh from the sterile packet. “The wound’s located far enough forward that it’s missed his kidneys. Luckily, because it’s on the left side where it might have happened, it doesn’t seem to have hit the liver. Higher up, though, and it would have got his spleen.” Doc grinned around his cigarette. “I should really make a larger incision to explore the wound, but I’m happy enough with my diagnosis that it won’t be necessary. This is basically your textbook loin wound. I’ll use lignocaine to anesthetise locally, clean it out, and then I’ll chuck in some ethilon sutures to stitch him back up.” He smiled again, a man happy with his work.

“Quit the shop talk,” said Best, glancing around to look over his shoulder. “Just fucking patch him up, marra.”

The Barn had grown quiet now, as most of the onlookers had been moved outside. They would be inside the house by now, quaffing Best’s champagne and talking about how close they’d been to real violence, true bloodshed. There would be a lot of fucking going on afterwards, and Marty hoped they felt satisfied with his performance.

Marty watched in silence as Doc jabbed him with a needle, then, after what seemed like hours, the man began to apply the sutures. He was still smoking his cigarette — or had he lit up another? — and the entire process had taken on a surreal air.

So this is what it feels like? he thought. He’d often wondered, and had even known a couple of people who had been wounded by blades in the past. It’s not so bad. I’ve gone through worse.

“You did good,” said Erik Best, leaning down close to speak. “You gave them what they wanted. You entertained those fuckers.” Marty felt a soft, hot gust of breath against his cheek. He smelled Erik Best’s halitosis. “And that’s what it’s all about — entertainment.”

Best was grinning.

Marty nodded. He felt high, as if he were on heroin.

“And don’t worry about those Polish fucks. We’ve taken them away, and they won’t be coming back.”

Marty nodded again. “Humpty Dumpty,” he whispered.

“What?” Best’s face loomed large in his vision, like yet another monstrous image from his butchered past. But, thank God, it was not oversized and egg-shaped; thank fuck it did not belong to a monster.

MARTY SITS IN his room, listening to music. The volume is set low so that his father won’t hear what he calls ‘that stupid crap’ and come in with his fists swinging. The tape is a recording of a Simple Minds album. Marty can’t remember who gave him the cassette, but he likes the tunes… there’s something about them that suggests the kind of freedom he yearns for but will probably never achieve.

Marty gets off the bed and walks to the window. He looks out over the estate, watching the slow movement of clouds above the Needle and the way the stars seem so far away, yet at the same time close enough that if he reaches out he could grab one. It’s a feeling that echoes the way he feels inside: that weird distance that isn’t really a distance, not a physical one. He struggles with the notion, and then puts it out of his mind.

He checks himself out in the mirror on the wardrobe door. He is wearing a pair of stretch Geordie Jeans and a thin woollen sweater. It was his birthday outfit, and already he is outgrowing the garments. He pulls a bodybuilder pose, bending his arms and tensing his biceps. Even at ten years old, he is aware of the changes taking place in his body. His father has not been as quick with his fists lately; he watches Marty with a new kind of awareness, especially when he is wearing just a T-shirt or wandering around in his skivvies.

Before long, Marty thinks he’ll be strong enough to take on his old man. He has already begun to condition his body, like the fighters in the martial arts magazines he buys with his pocket money and smuggles into the house. But he has gone further than those guys; he causes himself real pain, genuine damage. He has a sharp penknife he uses to cut the flesh of his forearms, and he holds his fingers against the flame of a lit match.

It’s not so much that his father hits him, but more about the way the bastard treats Marty’s mother. He knows that his father beats her at least once every two weeks — sometimes more often, if he’s been drinking a lot. He rarely leaves marks, but there was that time last summer when they had to tell everyone that his mother had fallen down the stairs. She had two black eyes and her top lip was split and swollen. The skin around her jaw was red and tender to the touch.

If his father does that again, he thinks that he might kill him. He could use the penknife. It would be hard work, because the blade is so small, but it’s sharp, and Marty has taught himself how to use it.