Joss Stirling - The Silence

‘Thanks, Jenny.’ But he didn’t look as ecstatic as Jenny expected, his tone a little downbeat. ‘It’s getting something good out of a bad situation, I suppose.’

She circled her fist over her heart, the sign for ‘sorry’.

‘You know Kris. He’s been struggling silently with his pain management but has finally had to acknowledge that he needs more help, and I volunteered. Anyway, before moving in with me, he lived with this eccentric old bird in her house just off the Hare and Billet Road. Did he ever tell you about it?’

She didn’t know Kris as well as Louis so couldn’t honestly remember him mentioning it. She wavered her hand in a ‘not sure’ gesture.

‘He didn’t talk about it much as, you know, grown up guy living with old lady …? Sounds a little weird. Anyway, it’s an amazing place.’ Louis took the tray from Jenny and threaded it on the rack for dirty dishes. ‘She takes in young disadvantaged people involved in the Arts at very low rents – peppercorn ones. Kris got to know her thanks to his GP and has managed to save up quite a bit from his army pension.’

Jenny raised her brows and drew a pound sign with a question mark.

‘Because she doesn’t need the money herself. Wouldn’t that be nice, eh?’ Louis started pushing the trolley of dirty trays towards the kitchen. ‘Kris says she was once a dancer so she understands how hard it’s to survive doing the kind of jobs we do.’

Jenny could only agree. She was lucky if she made twenty-five thousand a year even with two jobs, and that still went nowhere in London once student loan, rent and transport were paid.

‘The story goes that she crashed out with an injury just before she hit the big time.’ Jenny nipped ahead to hold open the swing door. ‘Thanks, Jen. But then her Prince Charming came along and she married money, moved into the husband’s family home, and stayed happily wed for years.’ They left the trolley with the washer-uppers. ‘Then her husband had the bad fortune to up and die on her from some long-term condition he developed. That left a great gap in her life. Kris says she amuses herself by taking in her waifs and strays – him the wounded soldier turned musician qualified in spades.’

Jenny was totally ready to be a waif or a stray if it meant escaping her shared house.

How do I contact her?

‘It’s by word of mouth only. Personal recommendations. She doesn’t advertise. I’ll get Kris to put in a good word for you. Come to think of it, I’m sure you’ll love Mrs Whittingham’s house. It’s stylish, like you.’ He was teasing. There was nothing the least stylish about her.

She nudged him playfully. Address?

‘Didn’t I say? Gallant House.’

Captain Frederick Jack dreamed of me – a house of his own – while he sailed the Caribbean in 1780. He was just a captain then. He’d done nothing of note, merely ferried cotton, pineapples and black ivory for a living. His days of fame as an admiral of the fleet were to come later when the little French upstart shook the thrones of Europe.

So, when I was conceived, my Captain Jack was distinguished only by the fact that he had the good fortune to marry a woman from the merchant class. With her money he could order my measurements from architects, adjust and fashion me completely to his taste. When he returned from his voyage, Jack gave his wife a perfunctory kiss, looked in on the infants bawling in the nursery at Deptford, then hurried along the Thames to climb the hill that led to my cradle. The builders were waiting to cut the first trench, spades poised. Jack bounded across the heath, waved his pocket handkerchief as his Blue Peter, and they set off, digging deep in the soil.

‘So Jonah, we have a call here logged to the emergency services at 23.53. The caller identifies himself as you. Is that correct?’

Jonah sipped his water. ‘Yes. I made the call.’

The senior of the two police officers in the interrogation room flicked through the transcript of the brief conversation. Seen across the table like this, it looked like a script. ‘You said that you feared you’d hurt someone. Is that also correct?’ The inspector wouldn’t have been cast though in this role if this were a drama; he looked too scruffy and had several piercing holes in each ear. A director would’ve put him on the other side of the table with Jonah. ‘You requested the police as well as an ambulance. Please answer for the record.’

‘Yes.’

‘And can you tell us what you meant by that?’

‘I don’t know.’ The events were an ugly mess, like dropping a plate of spaghetti Bolognese and trying to retrieve the pasta strand by strand. Why was he even thinking of food? Jonah hadn’t slept since they arrested him. How many hours ago? God knows. He ran his hand over his face. This place was scarily familiar. He’d sat in numerous sets exactly like this one recently but none had the same smell as the real thing, the smell of sweat and some cheap industrial floor cleaner. TV sets weren’t around long enough to get the odour infused into the walls.

‘Jonah? Can you answer the question please?’

‘Sorry: what did you ask?’

‘I asked in what way you hurt her?’

He had a sudden jolt of realisation. These people would know. He wouldn’t be left speculating as he had been in the police cell. ‘Is she OK?’

The officers exchanged a look, debating between them if this was something that was better kept from him or not.

‘Please. She’s a …’ what was she exactly? ‘… she’s a friend.’

The scruffy man, Detective Inspector something, nodded to his female sergeant. Jonah had already forgotten their names. Nothing was sticking in his brain, wiped clean of everything but her scream.

‘Her respiration was compromised,’ replied the sergeant, a fresh-faced woman with sandy hair tucked back behind her ears, ‘she’s still in a coma, still critical, and we’ve no word yet as to whether she’ll survive.’

He’d heard the ambulance men discussing it. They hadn’t realised at that time that he was the chief suspect and instead they’d been impressed to meet the actor who played them on TV. They’d talked to him like he was one of them for real. They told him as if he already knew: interrupted breathing leads to oxygen deficiency which in turn could result in brain damage. He probably had known that, but he just hadn’t been thinking, only reacting.

‘Will you let me know the minute she wakes up?’ he asked.

‘There’s no certainty she will. We’re still trying to establish exactly what took place. This might turn into a murder enquiry. Are you prepared for that?’

He bit his ragged nail. ‘I still want to know.’

‘Why, Jonah? Are you afraid what she might remember?’ The inspector leant forward, body language intended to dominate.

Wishing his brain would stop note-taking on movement as if he were studying for a future role, Jonah shook his head. What he’d meant was that he wished to apologise for losing it with her, but he didn’t want to make anything that sounded like an admission of guilt. His frantic words on the emergency call were bad enough without adding that. ‘I just want to know that she’s OK.’

‘I wouldn’t wait until she can tell her side of the story, if I were you,’ said the inspector. ‘Tell us the truth now, hiding nothing, and your cooperation will be taken into account when the CPS comes to consider your case.’

He hadn’t really expected to walk out of here without some charges, not with his record, but he was hoping they would let him go on bail. ‘It’s complicated. I’m not exactly sure what happened.’ Jonah scratched at the spiderweb tattoo on his knuckles. He wondered if he should call a lawyer now. The last one that had been appointed for him by the courts had been a disaster so he’d not gone there yet, but from the seriousness of their expressions, he should reconsider the wisdom of talking to them alone.