Gary McMahon - Silent Voices

“No… they just came out, on their own. Maybe I knocked it against something, I can’t remember.”

“You fucking guys… you’re all the same. With your cheap gold rings and your tribal tattoos, thinking you’re real tough guys. You can’t hurry nature, son. Healing — every kind of healing — takes time and care. You can’t hurry it along like a slut on a first date.” His hands were soft and gentle, unlike when he’d worked at ringside. Here, on his own turf, the man became the skilled doctor he must once have been, before life broke him.

“Doc, this might sound a bit funny, but I need you to inspect inside the wound. I think I got something in there.”

Doc stopped working. He straightened his back and stared at Marty’s face. “Are you high, son?”

Marty shook his head. “No. I just have this… this feeling . It feels like there’s something moving around in there, under my skin.” He looked away, unable to meet the old man’s gaze.

“Jesus Christ on a bike. You people… drugged up, fucked up, and walking around like you’re masters of the universe. Don’t you realise what kind of mess you’re making of your life?” He shook his head, talking to himself now. “I don’t know; some folk just never know when to quit the game.”

Doc grabbed some stainless steel pincers and a scalpel off a tray and paused. “I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t hurt much, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Okay. Just have a look… check around in there, would you?”

“Aye. Don’t worry. If there’s anything in there, I’ll have it out in a minute.” He bent back to his work, his eyes widening, his lips pressing together.

Doc was as good as his word. The examination did not hurt too much. Marty gritted his teeth a couple of times, but the mild pain was tolerable, much less than he’d expected.

“I’ll put in a few more loose stitches,” said Doc, when he’d finished. “There’s fuck-all in there, son, so please leave it alone this time. If you have any discomfort, just give me another call. Don’t start imagining symptoms — that’s my job.” He winked.

“Thanks,” said Marty, closing his eyes.

When Doc had finished, Marty handed him an envelope of used bills. Doc didn’t bother counting the money; he simply nodded, smiled, and walked Marty to the door.

“Remember,” he said. “Just leave it alone… let it heal.”

“I will,” said Marty, but the door was already closing in his face.

He went back to his car and sat behind the wheel with the engine running. Aretha Franklin was singing on the radio. He listened until the song ended, and then switched it off. He drove away from the kerb, watching the street, wondering what was happening to him. None of this seemed real. It was like a dream he’d once had, when he was a much younger man. The acorn he’d imagined burrowing under his skin was a metaphor, but he did not have enough information to understand what it meant.

Back at the flat, he poured himself a whisky and took out his phone, ignoring the voicemail and text prompts. He dialled Erik Best’s mobile number. The call went through to voicemail, as he’d expected. Erik screened all of his calls.

“Erik, it’s me. Marty Rivers. I have something important I need to tell you. Call me back.” He ended the call and drained his glass, then got up and poured a double. Then he sat back down and waited.

He grabbed the remote control and turned on the stereo. Muddy Waters sang about a Mannish Boy. Marty closed his eyes and enjoyed the music, letting it infect him with its melancholy. His mobile must have buzzed for thirty seconds before he realised he had a call.

“Hello. Erik?” He’d answered without looking at the display. He only hoped that it wasn’t Melanie.

“What is it, Marty?”

No preamble: just get straight to the point. “I quit. No more fights for me. That last one… it wasn’t right. The game’s changed.”

There was a pause during which Marty thought he might have said the wrong thing, or at least picked the wrong time to say it. Then Best began to speak. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Marty. Actually, I’ve been expecting this for a while. Just do me one favour, yeah?”

Marty swallowed a mouthful of whisky. “What’s that?”

“Go away and have a proper think. Sleep on it; run everything though your mind. Then, in a few days, a week, if you still feel the same, we’ll have this chat again. There’ll be no hard feelings from me. If you really want to chuck in the towel, I’ll respect your decision. I will call on you for other favours, though, just like before. Just a bit of heavy work here and there, or maybe the occasional stint on the doors. A man still needs to make a few dollars, mate, and I’ll always need a battler like you on my team.”

Marty relaxed. “That seems fair enough to me, Erik. I’ll speak to you in a few days. But I doubt anything will change. I’ve made my decision.”

“Okay, marra. Speak to you soon.” The phone went dead.

Marty was about to hit the ‘off’ button on the handset when he remembered that he had a text message and a couple of voicemails. He’d ignored them before, assuming that it was Melanie, but this time he checked, just in case. Both messages were from the same person: Simon Ridley.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, listening to them again. “Fuck me, Simon Ridley.” The messages were short and to the point:

“ Listen Marty, this is Simon Ridley, from years ago. Please give me a call. I need to speak to you about something. ”

Later, “ It’s me again, Simon. Call me. It’s important; very important. Have you been having dreams? Dreams about a grove of trees and that time we spent in the Needle? ”

He opened the text message and it gave the same information in fewer words.

Marty stored the number and put down his phone. Then he picked it up again and switched it off. He did not want to speak to anyone else this evening. He needed to think.

He struggled to control his breathing.

His side ached. Something moved sluggishly beneath his skin. The world turned; the remains of the day moved briskly towards night; his life passed in a succession of moments, each a layer of his self being peeled away by the things that had happened to him.

BRENDAN WAS NERVOUS. He was drinking too much, far too quickly, his clothes felt uncomfortable, and whenever he looked at the clock on the shelf, time seemed to have moved quicker than the laws of physics allowed.

Jane was in the kitchen, cooking the meal. He could tell that she was on edge, too, but she would not tell him why. He suspected it was simply the fact that she hadn’t seen Simon since he’d left the Grove, but his habitual paranoia kept trying to make more out of the situation. Did she still harbour feelings for her ex-lover? Would she look at him in the same way that she used to look at Brendan, all those years ago when they first got together?

He finished his can, crushed it in his fist (an old habit, one he’d picked up from watching Jaws in his teens: Robert Shaw, Quint, the old sea dog). He bent down and grabbed the fresh can resting on the floor between his feet, popped it open, and took a mouthful of cold ale.

“What time is it?” Jane’s voice carried through from the kitchen. The twins were banging on the floor upstairs, running around from room to room, playing catch, or indoor football, or simply running because they could.

“Seven-forty!” He took another swig of his beer and stood, moving across to the window. Typical Simon: late as always.

“Have you checked your phone? I’d hate to think that he might have called to cancel and we didn’t get the message.” Jane moved up to him from behind, slipping her arms around his waist. She kissed him on the side of the neck. Her breath was warm; her lips were wet from the wine she’d been drinking.