Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

“No, I can’t. I was telling the truth when I said that we hadn’t seen each other. I got out of the Grove not long after leaving school, and we haven’t even spoken since then.” He breathed heavily, feeling tired all of a sudden, as if by taking a breather here, in the small, cramped flat, he had allowed everything to catch up with him.

“Oh. I see. So now you want to know where he is? Maybe get an address?”

Simon nodded. “His grandmother told us that he doesn’t answer his phone unless he knows who’s calling, so we struck out there. I tried calling him earlier, on the way here, but only got his voicemail.”

Melanie laughed. “Marty is a paranoid man — the most paranoid man I’ve ever known, to be honest. He doesn’t trust anyone. The circles he moves in, the people he knows… well, let’s just say that it pays him to be suspicious of people’s motives.”

Simon sat up straight and rested his hands on his knees. He felt awkward, displaced, as if he had no business being here, with this woman. “Yes, I’ve heard that he’s into some dodgy stuff. Criminal stuff. How deep is he involved?”

Melanie bent her legs at the knee and sat up; it was a graceful movement, like something a dancer might do. “He doesn’t really talk to me that much. He doesn’t talk to anyone, really. All I know is that he’s always out at night, and he often comes home with bruised knuckles and blood on his shirt. He’s a violent man, but only if you cross him.” Her face changed again, then, becoming cold and hard and bitter. “I suppose that’s the attraction with a man like Marty Rivers — that sense of danger, and the fact that you know he’ll protect you. That counts for a lot in a place like this, doing a job like I do.” She tilted her head, indicating the betting shop downstairs, then shrugged, stood and walked across to the window. “He’s stopped calling me. I haven’t seen him for days. I guess he’s dumped me.” Her shoulders tensed as she looked out of the window, across the estate. “He doesn’t like to get too close to people.”

Sunlight flared, creating a soft halo around her head as she turned to face the room. Simon squinted against the glare, feeling as if, for a second, he had been transported elsewhere, to another place that existed alongside the reality he knew.

“I suppose I can give you his address,” she said, moving towards him, out of the light. “I don’t owe him anything, not now. He thinks he can pick people up, use them for a while, and then throw them away. What do I care if you know where he’s staying?” The light faded behind her. Simon felt the absurd urge to get up and run towards it, try to prevent it from going away.

“Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

Melanie picked up a pad and a pencil and started to write down the address. “It’s on the other side of the river — Gateshead. A penthouse flat on one of those nice new riverside developments that keep popping up along the quayside up these days.”

Simon smiled. “I remember when Gateshead was a shithole.”

Melanie looked up from the notebook. “It still is,” she said. “People just pretend that it’s changed. Isn’t that what we all do? We pretend that things aren’t what they really are?”

Simon wasn’t sure what she meant, but it sounded like her words had taken on a meaning that she had not intended, as if they were talking about something else.

She tore the page from the notebook and handed it to him. She looked pensive, as if this was the end of something that she was reluctant to finish. “Don’t tell him you saw me. I’ve had enough of his crap. He had his chance and now it’s gone. I want to get on with my life, and if that means leaving him behind, then I’m cool with that.”

Simon nodded. “I won’t mention you. And thanks again… this really does mean a lot. Could I ask you something else?”

Melanie returned to the sofa, where she sat and began putting on her shoes. “Time’s up, mister, so make it fast.”

Simon folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into the back pocket of his trousers. “Did Marty ever mention anything about what happened to us when we were kids?”

Melanie looked up as she struggled with the strap on her right shoe. “What do you mean? What happened when you were kids? Is that what this is all about? Some kind of closure for a falling-out you all had when you were younger? I thought it might be something more exciting than that.” Some of the hair had fallen out of her ponytail, and slid down over her eyes. She didn’t bother moving it out of the way, just peered through the dangling fringe.

“Yes,” said Simon. “It’s about unfinished business. I just wondered if he’d ever spoken to you about any of it, that’s all.”

She shook her head. “’fraid not. Like I said, Marty’s an insular bastard. He doesn’t give much away.”

“Thanks again, then. I’ll let you get back to work.”

When she did not respond, Simon took it as his cue to leave. He walked back through the flat and opened the door, then stepped out onto the shabby little landing. Once he was outside, in the open air, he felt like he’d been released from confinement. But he looked around, and realised that all he’d done was pass from one cell into another.

He moved along the alleyway between the shops and turned right, walking once again past the betting shop. He did not look in the window. If Melanie had gone back inside through some other door, maybe one that linked the upstairs flat with the rear of the shop, he didn’t want to be seen checking her out. She was an attractive woman, but she had an aura of melancholy that he had found difficult to bear. He couldn’t imagine staying with such a woman, where every movement, each tiny gesture, seemed like it was hiding another meaning.

He walked along the Arcade, lost in his own thoughts, and only when he was level with the butchers at the end of the row did he see the boy. It was Scooby, from earlier that day — the cocky ringleader of the group who’d taken Simon’s wallet. This time the kid was on his own, walking up ahead with oversized earphones clamped to his head.

A surge of rage travelled the length of Simon’s body, originating in his chest and moving through his torso, to end up in his fists. Here, he felt, was a chance for redemption, an opportunity to bolster his self-image and dispel the cowardice he’d experienced before. If he could get back his phone or his wallet, or at least scare the kid, then he could once again feel like a man. He realised how shallow the thought was, and how it diminished him in some way, yet the part of him that was always pushing overcame his doubts.

The boy turned right, into Grove Street West. Simon followed, keeping his distance but increasing his pace so he could see if the boy ducked into a ginnel or an alleyway. The boy continued along the street. On either side of them, many of the properties were boarded up. The burnt-out shell of an old gymnasium — Simon remembered the newspaper report he’d been sent — cast a dark stain on the footpath.

Scooby stopped outside the burnt building, stuck his hand into the pocket of his tracksuit top and produced a key. Moving quickly, he unlocked the heavy-duty security door and began to enter the building.

Simon moved fast, without really giving much thought to what he was doing. He had no plan; he just sprinted across the road, knowing that the boy couldn’t hear him through his headphones, and barrelled straight into Scooby’s back, sending him sprawling inside. He slammed the door without looking back and went for the kid, kicking him in the side.

“Fuck!” Scooby’s cries were too loud; he was compensating for still wearing the headphones.

Simon knelt down and grabbed the headphones, wrenching them off the kid’s ears. The walls around him were scorched and blackened. To his left, half a staircase hung suspended in mid-air, the ends of the treads seared away. The place smelled of old flames.