Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

Simon took a deep breath and held it for a couple of seconds. Then he moved to the back of the shop, towards the counter. There were three separate windows where people could place a bet, protected by bullet-proof glass screens. Behind the one on the left was a thin, pale-faced young man who kept biting his fingernails. The middle screen housed an obese old woman with frizzy brown hair, her spectacles too small for her swollen face. The final booth, on the right, was the one he needed. The woman behind the glass was young, slim, and rather beautiful. She looked out of place in these surroundings, like a pedigree dog stuck in a kennel for strays. Her black hair was held back in a loose ponytail, she wore too much make-up, and the skin of her face sported a familiar orangey fake tan… yet still, despite all of this, she was gorgeous. Scrape off that muck, allow the shop-bought tan to fade, and Simon had no doubt that she could pass for a model.

He walked to the window, taking the opportunity to approach her while everyone else inside the shop watched the numbers and horse names scroll down the screens.

She smiled.

“Hi.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“I… listen; I don’t want to put on a bet. I just want to talk to you.”

She smiled again. “I’m flattered, mate. Really I am. But do you know how many blokes ask me out every day, how many phone numbers get written on the back of spent betting slips, how many sad losers just come straight out and ask to see my tits?” Her face hardened; the smile slipped away. “I’m not interested.”

“No… no, you’ve got it wrong. I’m not trying to pick you up. I’m a friend of Marty Rivers.”

Her entire attitude changed. Her posture straightened; the muscles in her face and neck tensed, making her look older, less attractive, and she leaned forward, towards the glass. “Marty? Did he send you?”

“Not exactly.”

She began to move away, her lips curling into a silent snarl. This wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d hoped for.

“But I have a message from him.” It was the first thing that came into his head. Simon knew that he was asking for trouble by lying to this woman, but what else could he do? “You are Melanie, aren’t you? Melanie Sallis?” He tried his final gambit: “Marty’s grandmother told me to come and see you. She said you were his girlfriend.”

She laughed softly. “That’s my name, yes. As for the other part… well, I’m not so sure. Maybe you should ask him.” Her eyes shone, with anger rather than sorrow.

“My name’s Simon Ridley. Could I speak with you, Melanie? Not here — somewhere else, where we can sit and have a proper talk. It’s important, I promise you. I won’t waste your time.”

She glanced over his shoulder, at the interior of the betting shop, and then her eyes took him in again. “Marty didn’t send you at all, did he?”

“No. No, he didn’t. But I really do need to talk to you, and it is about Marty. I promise.”

Her eyes flicked left, then right. She pursued her lips, and then opened them slightly. Her teeth were remarkably clean and white, unlike anyone’s he’d ever seen outside modelling or television. He wondered how much she’d paid for all that dental work.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I’m due a break, anyway.” She looked right, at the obese woman. “I’m off for a fag break, Denise. I’ll be back shortly.”

Denise shrugged and turned away.

“Come on,” said Melanie. “I have the flat upstairs. We can talk in peace up there.” She grabbed a leather jacket from the back of her chair and opened the side door of the cubicle. There was a combination lock, and she spun the numbers without looking.

She walked past him, towards the betting shop door. Her waist was narrow, her hips thin; she had long legs, and the short skirt she was wearing showed them off. Simon followed her outside, and then along a narrow alley at the side of the betting shop. She stepped up onto a metal stairway, took a key out of her pocket, and opened the door there.

Simon waited to be invited up.

“Come on, then,” she said, shaking her head. “I haven’t got all day.”

He followed her inside.

They went up a stairwell, Melanie’s high heels echoing like gunshots in the enclosed concrete space. At the top of the stairs was another door, clearly the main door to a flat. She used another key and unlocked the door, and then pushed it open.

He climbed the last couple of concrete stairs and followed her into the flat, closing the door behind him. He was standing in a narrow hallway. There were two doors in the wall on each side. Up ahead, he could see Melanie moving around in a small living room, putting her coat down on the arm of a sofa, brushing something off the front of her skirt.

Simon walked along the hall. There were framed prints of Paris, Barcelona and New York on the walls. “You travel a lot?”

She turned as he entered the room. “No, but I wish I did. That’s what those pictures are — wishful thinking. One day, I might even get to see those places.” Her smile was small and sad. “Drink?”

“No thanks. I’m already full up with tea and if I have anything alcoholic I might collapse from exhaustion.”

“Suit yourself,” she said, sitting down heavily on the patterned sofa. She slid off her shoes and flexed her stockinged feet. “You now have ten minutes to explain yourself,” she said. “And if this isn’t as important as you claimed downstairs, I’ll fucking Mace you.” She smiled, but it was devoid of humour. She pointed at the small, cluttered coffee table under which she’d rested her feet. There was indeed a can of Mace on the tabletop.

“Really, I am a friend of Marty’s.” Simon kept his distance. “An old friend. We haven’t seen each other for a long time, but I need to see him, to speak to him about something important.”

“You aren’t impressing me yet,” said Melanie, curling up her legs on the sofa. “Sit down. I was joking about the Mace. It isn’t even real — it’s a novelty cigarette lighter.” This time the smile was mellower, tinged with humour. “If I thought you were a threat, do you think I’d have invited you up here?”

Again, Simon felt obscurely insulted. Did he present a threat to nobody around here? Was he really so harmless?

“I’ve seen your photo,” she said. “I saw it at Marty’s place.”

Simon shook his head. “When we were kids, you mean? A school photo?”

“Nope. In his wallet — a clipping from a London newspaper. He showed me, bragged about how one of his old mates was a millionaire.” Her legs squirmed on the sofa.

“He keeps a photo of me in his wallet?”

“Weird, eh? But Marty Rivers is one strange dude.” She stretched out those long, slender legs, making herself comfortable. Simon wasn’t sure if this was the preamble to some sort of seduction. She certainly looked as if she were limbering up for something.

“I don’t understand.” He sat down on the chair opposite, sinking into the soft cushion.

“That makes two of us. He seems really proud of the fact that you got away from here, though. I mean, he doesn’t talk much about you — but that one time, when he showed me the photo, he was, like, beaming with pride.” She blinked slowly.

Simon could barely believe what he was being told. All this time, he’d thought that his old friends had forgotten about him, perhaps even hated him for managing to get away while they’d stayed behind. The truth was, at least one of them had wished him well, silently supporting his escape. A welter of emotions surged though him — pity, regret, hatred, despair, and even what he thought might be affection.

“So what do you want to talk to me about? Surely you can just call Marty on the phone?” She feigned disinterest, examining her nails. They were long, and painted deep red.