Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

He looked at the wound. The stitches had come undone. There was no blood; the wound was perfectly dry. To him, in that moment, its inner edges looked like the labia of some mutant vagina; the pink inside was the interior of a woman’s genitals. He had no idea why he was thinking this way, but the image would not shift. He was stuck with it.

Suddenly, as he watched, the acorn began to move. Inching its way along inside his torso, towards his navel, it rolled like a slow-witted dung beetle. Again, there was no pain. He felt nothing, nothing at all. It was as if he had been cut off from all the nerves in his body below the shoulders and above the pelvis: everything between these points was vague, like something that didn’t quite belong to him. It was like dreaming awake, caught in that idle moment between sleeping and waking, when the two states bleed into each other to become something entirely different. It wasn’t unpleasant… not really. He found himself fascinated by the slow-rolling movement beneath his skin, and the way the skin itself stretched like elastic to accommodate the travelling seed.

The acorn stopped moving.

Marty felt bereft. He realised that he’d enjoyed the sight of it shifting across his abdomen. He reached down and flicked it gently, and just the once, to encourage it to move again.

The acorn responded.

It rolled across his stomach, causing his navel to protrude as it passed beneath the recessed pink knot (he was always so oddly proud of being an ��outy’ rather than an ‘inny’), and round towards his opposite flank. The acorn disappeared then, under his body, but he was aware of its presence under the skin of his back. He still could not feel the acorn, but he knew that it was still in motion, as if some previously hidden sense was tracking it around his body.

Marty knew that he should be worried, perhaps even frightened, by what was happening to him, but he could not summon the energy to react in this way. He watched as the acorn completed its slow circuit, passing under the wound — making those labial folds purse and open like a kiss — and then back to its starting point to the left of his navel.

“Wow,” he said, feeling drunk on the experience. “Fucking hell.”

He reached down again and placed the end of his index finger against the conical top of the acorn. Then, without even considering what kind of damage he might be doing to his insides, Marty pressed down on the seed.

The acorn sank into his belly, vanishing into the yielding flesh. The skin popped back to its natural shape, and there was no evidence of the acorn ever having been there, beneath the surface of Marty Rivers, under his demented skin.

He blinked and looked up at the window. The blind was glowing white, like a screen, from the sunlight behind. What was happening to him? He felt like he’d just woken up from a long sleep. Had he been dreaming? Surely what he thought he’d experienced could not be real. It was impossible. A hallucination.

He looked down at his flat belly, and then at the dry wound. Everything looked fine.

But deep down, despite the fact that he did not want to listen, a small, scared voice — his ten-year-old self — was whispering: It wasn’t a dream. You were awake. This is really happening. Clickety-clickety-click.

THE OLD WOMAN lived on Grove Terrace, in a house that backed onto Beacon Green. Simon could remember Marty going there for lunch every Sunday — a big roast, with Yorkshire puddings and all the trimmings. His parents would never have made such a meal. In Marty’s house, it was always whatever came out of a can served with bread — French toast on a weekend, as a little treat.

Brendan knocked on the door, rapping three times with his knuckles. There did not seem to be a doorbell, or even a knocker. The front garden was small and neat, with well-tended borders and a lawn that was cropped as short as a football pitch. The house number was painted on the wall to the left of the door in white emulsion.

“I hope she’s home.” Simon glanced at Brendan.

“She said she would be,” said Brendan, fidgeting with the buttons at the neck of his shirt. He looked uncomfortable, as if he were in pain, or perhaps his clothes didn’t quite fit him properly. Whatever the cause of his consternation, it was making him fidget in a way that looked exhausting.

“You okay?”

Brendan stopped fidgeting. “Aye, I’m fine. Why?” He didn’t make eye contact.

Simon sensed something, a kind of reluctance on Brendan’s part to reveal what was wrong with him. “It’s just, well, you seem a little off. You know, like you’re hurting or something. You keep wincing, and you’re pulling at your clothes. The shirt, the jacket.”

Brendan shook his head. “No, mate. It’s nothing. I have a rash, that’s all. Jane started using some new kind of washing powder — it was on sale. I think I’m allergic.” Still he did not meet Simon’s gaze.

“Oh. Right. That explains it.” Simon shrugged, took a step back, and glanced along the road, then back at the front door. “Where is she?”

As if on cue, the door opened. A small, well-dressed old woman stood in the hallway, peering over the rims of her spectacles. “Hello,” she said. “You must be… Marty’s old friends?”

“Yes,” said Brendan. “We spoke on the phone earlier. I’m Brendan, and this is Simon. Thanks again for sparing us some of your time.” He smiled but it looked like he was grimacing.

The old woman grinned, showing her gleaming dentures. Her face was weathered, crosshatched with creases and wrinkles, but she had the demeanour of someone a lot younger. “Oh, when you get to my age all you have is time. It might be nice to spend some of it today with a couple of good-looking young men.” Clearly she still had a sharp mind.

Still smiling, she stepped aside, turned, and walked down the hallway.

Simon stepped over the threshold and entered the house, and Brendan followed, closing the door behind him. The house smelled of cinnamon, with a hint of fresh lemon. It was a nice smell; homely and welcoming.

The woman had turned left and they followed her into a room. The first thing Simon saw was a small bird cage on a stand. Inside the cage was a tiny green budgie. When he and Brendan entered the room, the budgie hopped from its perch and grabbed the side of the cage, where it hung by its claws next to a portion of dried cuttlefish and watched them.

“That’s Percy,” said the old woman. “He’s mute. He can’t sing, can’t talk. He can’t make a sound at all, if I’m honest. But he’s good company.” She sat down on an overstuffed sofa, stretched out her short, thin legs on the carpet. “And I’m Hilda. Marty’s Nan.” Her smile never seemed to waver. It just hung there on her wizened face, displaying those too-white dentures and hiding her thoughts.

“Thanks for seeing us,” said Simon. He sat on a chair opposite the bird cage, taking another quick look at the silent bird. The budgie was watching him, its beady, unblinking eyes never moving from his face.

“I’ve made tea… if one of you lads wouldn’t mind getting the pot from the kitchen there.” Hilda tilted her head towards the door.

“I’ll go,” said Simon. He jumped up and walked out of the room, leaving Brendan to the small talk. The bird was making him nervous. The neatness of the room, the way all the pictures and photographs formed geometrical patterns on the walls, didn’t sit right with him. It was all too ordered. Simon had never trusted people whose homes were too tidy; he needed at least a small amount of mess around him to feel comfortable.

The kitchen was spotless. He imagined Hilda using all her free time to clean the place, every day, top to bottom. His mother had done the same, keeping a tidy home to hide the darkness at the centre of her marriage. He’d never realised before, but that was why he always created a mess, why he never felt at home unless things were in slight disorder. It counteracted the way his mother had kept things too prim and proper, her mask of domesticity.