An Act of Silence Page 2

  Say you believe me.

  She closes her eyes as if she’s trying to summon sleep and the anger swells inside me.

  ‘Mum, please.’

  Her eyes are open again, staring at something on my neck.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I run my finger over the area in question. It’s a scratch, more of a gouge. Mariela and her nails. She wanted it rough. Don’t they all.

  ‘Oh that. I did it on a branch.’

  She stares at it too long and I know what’s happening, her dedication to root out the worst in me is currently fastening itself to this cut on my neck.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ I beg. I sound pathetic. Can’t help it. She’s making my insides shrivel. I need her to hold me, kiss my head, tell me not to worry, It’s a mistake, I know you couldn’t have done it. I search her face for love but instead I read disappointment, disbelief, distrust.

  ‘If you haven’t done anything wrong, you have nothing to worry about.’

  IF.

  The word goes off like a siren.

  ‘You said, if I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘You think I could have done this?’

  My own mother doesn’t believe me. She sees right through to my soul and finds only dark, putrid matter inside. The hope is snuffed out. She was it. It all comes down to her. Always has. Her trust. She won’t give it. Can’t. I look to her for answers but all I find are more words: disdain, disapproval, disgust.

  Linda

  A phoney calm descends. We sit with each other, me trying to go over his story, but his facts are jumbled and he grows weary and angry at my questioning. I offer to cook him an egg, some toast, whatever he fancies. He doesn’t fancy anything apart from a third cup of coffee. I’d caution against it, but a caffeine overdose is the least of my worries. Besides, it is clear I need to choose my battles carefully.

  By the time the winter sun rises and fills the kitchen, the air is thick with panic, mine more than his. He should be showering, preparing to go to the police station, but exhaustion and delirium have taken hold. He is hunched over his mug, head jolting as he bounces in and out of sleep. Gabriel is not going anywhere.

  One shoot of hope; there is a chance none of this is real. Gabriel’s life is one of excess, late nights, partying, drinking too much. No good can come of that. Fame has feasted on him; the women who sell their stories, the so-called friends who party on his tab, and don’t even get me started on that awful manager, Palab. He’d sell his granny if he could resurrect her from the dead. Even I struggle to find my son behind the façade. Perhaps this is the result. Paranoia has taken hold. Drugs can do that, can’t they? Lord knows he’s had more than his fair share of them. Last year he was pictured in the newspapers snorting cocaine off a woman’s breasts. The mind boggles.

  I move to the living room to escape the burn of his attention. Outside, buses stream past, helicopters whir in the sky (searching for him?), the sounds of everyday life divert around us. I locate my laptop and log on, hesitating before I run a search for the story. My disbelief is the only thing keeping me afloat.

  I type MARIELA and ALLOTMENT.

  I open the BBC News website. It is here.

  The headline crushes my hope. Crushes me. Mariela Castell. A dancer. Past tense. A picture of the allotment where she was found.

  I start to shake, uncontrollably. Pain flashes across my temples. She is dead, this poor woman. Who would do such a thing? Not my son. Gabriel could not take a life and destroy it so callously, leave her all alone and open to the elements. Whatever happened to her, he is not responsible.

  ‘You thought I was making it up.’ I jump. I didn’t hear him creep up on me. He is hanging over my shoulder now. The tang of his breath makes me wince.

  He whips round, kneels down in front of me, face an inch from mine. ‘I didn’t do it. I don’t understand what is happening. Someone is out to get me. You don’t think I could have killed a woman do you? Say it.’ He has grabbed hold of my shoulders and is shaking me, gently at first but then harder and harder and it hurts. It hurts. His fingers press deep into the nubs of my shoulders and I grow dizzy as my head is forced to and fro. My vision blurs. I stare at this man in front of me, desperately trying to find my son, but I can’t. He is gone, vanished, replaced by a stranger with eyes that are deep pools of rage.

  Finally, he stops.

  He removes his hands from me and they hang suspended in the air for a moment giving the impression he is not in charge of them.

  My body is light, floating away from me, as if I’ve been unhooked and can’t tie myself down again. ‘Gabriel,’ I say. I need to touch him, to feel his body, to know that he is real. Too late. He kicks the side table on his way out. It topples, taking a cup of coffee, a plant, and the laptop with it.

  I sit, allow tears to track down my face unchecked. My world seems so fragile, so finely balanced that I fear a single movement, the tiniest disturbance in the air, is all that is needed to crash it completely. And yet, when I finally summon the courage to rise from my chair, nothing happens. The world is oblivious to my pain. To any pain. It waits for no one, casts us aside as flotsam. I see the familiar dark clouds collecting on the horizon, pressing in on me. This time I push back against them. I won’t succumb. Too much at stake. I seek out Chopin, his uncanny ability to restore my equilibrium. I let the sound waves flood and bolster me, clear a space in my head to think logically.

  It works, at first. The most likely explanation, I tell myself, is that the poor girl left his house and was attacked on the way home by a maniac. Coincidence has put Gabriel in the frame, nothing more.

  And yet.

  Sex. My mind stumbles over this and it splits. His reputation as a womaniser is well documented, my son is almost as famous for his sexual exploits these days as he is for his comedy. What if it was rough sex gone wrong? What if he panicked? Had she said no? Were her pleas drowned out by his desire? He’s a man who gets what he wants. Has he forgotten he can’t have everything? What if anger got the better of him, just as it did when he was a boy, possessed him until he spun out, exhausted on his bed. The same rage that twisted his face and shook me by the shoulders only a few moments ago?

  What if he hurt her?

  What am I to do?

  He hasn’t made a sound for over an hour, which makes me think he might have gone, slunk out as quietly as he crept in. Inching upstairs, I’m careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards. If he’s still here, I don’t want to rouse him. I check the rooms, one, two, three and finally I find my son lying on his old bed, curled up, fists in a ball, exactly how he slept when he was a child.

  This vision of him overcomes me. Since morning I’ve tried to dampen my love, make space for logic and reason, but it bubbles up now, comes to the boil, overflows and burns my insides.

  I hear the suck of his breath, watch the involuntary twitches of his body. What has happened to us? How did we get here? We are not the people we were supposed to be. I stare back into the past and see the many versions of us, ghosts of who we should have been. And I can’t shake the sense that everything that has gone before has built up to this, that all our decisions, our mistakes, the paths we chose to travel, one instead of another, have brought us to this point.

  I reach out and touch his hair just as I did when he was a boy.

  It is still soft.

  My decision is made.

  I retreat to the hallway, pick up the phone. My hands shake in defiance. I get the answerphone, a man’s voice. ‘I need to speak to you about Gabriel . . .’

  And then.

  It happens quickly, much too quickly to explain or help myself. His presence unsettles the air and the last words, the only words I hear are, You fucking bitch, before my head makes contact with the wood of the bannister. Cracks.

&nbs
p; My body finds the wall, slumps down against it. Above me he towers. I can see three of him, each one blurred at the edges, none of them real.

  He pulls me upright. My eyes find his, find hatred in them. I lift my hands to protect myself from further blows but nothing comes. Instead he presses something to my head. Soft, to soak the blood.

  ‘Gabriel.’

  His footsteps on the stairs grow fainter before they fade to nothing. I look down at the red red blood on the cream carpet. Always a mistake, that colour. Looks worse than it is. Not to worry, I think.

  My son is gone.

  It is only blood.

  Gabriel

  I lie on my old bed, push my face into the cold soft pillow. It smells like childhood. That helps a little, quashes a portion of the anger that’s solidified in my gut, but most of it remains. I hate myself for what I have just done. Since when was I a man who shakes his own mother until fear bleeds out of her? Someone else has taken hold. I don’t recognise myself. I’ve become a monster.

  The clock has ticked beyond midday and I am clearly not where I should be, sitting in front of a copper incriminating myself with every word I speak. They’ll come for me soon, no doubt, but right now I can’t summon an atom of energy to do anything about it. Plan A was my mother, and look how well that’s gone. I don’t have a Plan B. Foresight has never been my strong suit.

  Exhaustion tosses me to sleep, where I’m swamped by unwelcome images: Mariela, her red lips, black hair swirling around her face, the sensation of her nails scratching a path down my back. My mother, beaming out her disgust. And something else; a walk through the darkness, muddy boots, cold slapping my face, a scream that pierces my dreams and jolts me awake.

  My mum is tiptoeing across the hallway, tiny footsteps loath to make a noise. The sound haunts me for what it reveals, that she is scared in her own house, afraid of disturbing me, of facing the consequences. This is what I have done, driven her away, when all I wanted, needed, craved, was to have her close. She creeps to my room, pushes open the door and waits before she moves a few steps closer to the bed. The current hits me like a shock, the heat that beats out of her is so pure and raw and fierce. Love, no question. It drenches me in remorse. Sorry. That’s all I want to say. Sorry for who I am. Sorry for what I did. Sorry. But the energy in the room is so perfect, it’s almost chemical. I don’t want to do a thing to break the spell. I keep my breathing sleep-heavy as her hand brushes the top of my head, light as a feather. My tears, soaked up by the pillow, hidden from her.

  Then she goes.

  I count to ten before I swing myself out of bed. A sweet clarity has descended, cleared the silt from my head. There’s an urgency to my movements, I don’t have much time, a small window of opportunity to put things right. I remember the reason I came here. Not for the car or money or help. Those are sideshows. I came because I want my mum to know that whatever happens, whatever people say about me, I am not that man. I want her to believe me.

  Anything else I can deal with.

  It’s then I see her.

  Standing at the top of the stairs by the bannister, talking into a phone. I’m hit by a wall of confusion, but when I hear her words, muffled thanks to her hand being placed over her mouth, the picture becomes so sharp it cuts me.

  ‘I need to speak to you about Gabriel . . .’ she says.

  The resolve, the remorse, the tenderness that had bloomed inside me a few minutes ago, reforms into cold hard fury.

  My own mother.

  Talking to the police.

  I have to get out. Unravel myself, go back, find the good me, work out how it came to this. Her disbelief compresses my neck, harder and harder. I can’t breathe here, can’t be around her a second more.

  I run for the stairs, she turns around, sees me coming.

  ‘You fucking bitch,’ the words are out. Don’t make me feel any better, but true. The truest words I’ve ever spoken.

  She’s in my way.

  I don’t mean to push her.

  But I do, and I hear a crack before she falls. I look down and her head is oozing blood.

  I grab a towel from the bathroom, pull her to a sitting position, press it to the cut. It’s just a cut. I should stay and help, but I’ll die if I do.

  She’s killing me. All my life she’s been killing me. Making me bad when I wanted to be good.

  I’m her son. Stupid me to think it mattered.

  It’s only blood.

  PART TWO

  After and Before

  Monday

  Linda

  I can’t pick myself up. Can’t. Won’t. Too much has happened. Been lost.

  I used to be someone: a mother, a politician, the Home Secretary, with power and influence.

  Now look at me. This is how far I have fallen.

  Slumped on the floor, blood bubbling out of a cut, head throbbing with failure.

  Alone.

  Who is going to come and help me now?

  Anyone?

  Didn’t think so.

  My name, shouted, one, twice. Again.

  ‘Linda?’

  ‘Linda?’

  It is not Gabriel. He has gone. My son is not coming back. This is a woman’s voice. Anna, my housekeeper.

  My head is sticky with blood and perspiration, although I’m cold, not warm. Ice for fingers, body shivering. I’m relieved to hear another voice, but humiliation swims close to the surface. What will I tell her? Anna is nobody’s fool.

  ‘Up here.’ I can’t shout, my voice is too thin, the words come out strangled. Her footsteps thump on the stairs and then she finds me. I make a pre-emptive strike, attempt to diffuse the shock before it hits her. ‘It looks worse than it is,’ I say. I try to form a smile but abandon it when the pain around my eye spears me.

  ‘Jesus, Linda, are you OK?’

  ‘Just a fall.’ The reflex to protect him is still strong.

  ‘Well, from where I’m standing it looks bloody horrific. Is anything broken?’

  Everything.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Come on then, you can’t sit there all day.’ She heaves me upright and I sway towards the stairs. She grabs me, pulls me back; her strength, the only thing between me and a tumble down the stairs.

  ‘Let’s clean you up and after that you can tell me what the hell happened.’

  I sink into the bed. My eye throbs to a drum beat, puffed up so much it’s practically closed over. Anna works her way around the cut, reporting on the size of the injury, its depth and severity. I could do without the commentary but at least it prevents her from asking questions. ‘You might need a few stitches, you know.’

  ‘Absolutely not. A trip to A&E would finish me off.’

  ‘If you say so. It’s not too deep, could have been worse, although the carpet will never recover. It looks like someone’s died out there.’

  I miss my cue to laugh.

  She disappears to the kitchen, returning with tea, a mug for each of us, Digestive biscuits, an anxious air. She sits on the armchair next to the bed.

  ‘Now,’ she says, ‘are you going to tell me what really happened?’

  A fall, I repeat the lie. This time she doesn’t accept the explanation. She’s seen the upturned table in the living room, along with the coffee cup on the carpet and the soil from the plant pot. I’ve been caught out by my slovenly ways, should have cleared up when I had the chance. I consider claiming responsibility for the mess, blaming it on a dizzy spell, when Anna tells me there are several bloody footprints on the stairs.

  ‘I should call the police.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Who did this?’

  I’m backed into a corner and I have to give her something if I want to find a way out.

  �
�Gabriel,’ I say. ‘It was an accident.’

  More questions. I don’t want to give the answers away, but she’s going to find them anyway. If I don’t tell her my version, the press will deal her another one very soon.

  Besides, I believe in Anna and I can’t say that about many people in my life. Something in her I recognised from the very first day she turned up for an interview; determination, a damaged soul. Takes one to know one. This is why I offer her a basic outline of Gabriel’s story; Mariela’s body found close to his house, his relationship with her, if I can call it that. I omit the dramatics, him shaking me, you fucking bitch. No need to give him more bad PR.

  ‘He thought I was calling the police, you see. He wanted to get out, pushed past me, that’s all.’

  ‘Why aren’t they here then?’

  I rub my eye and a charge of pain shoots through me. ‘He’s my son,’ I say, and wait for my confession to register. ‘I was calling a friend first. I wanted his advice, but the damn fool never switches on his phone. Not that I would cover for Gabriel if he had really done something wrong but I just don’t believe it.’ Anna feeds me disbelief.

  ‘This isn’t him, he’s not a monster,’ I say, pointing at my face. ‘You won’t call them, will you – the police? Not right now, anyway. I’m not asking you to lie, it’s just . . .’

  ‘If that’s what you want. Do you know where Gabriel is now?’

  I shake my head. ‘He wanted to take my car. It was parked outside.’

  Anna pulls back the curtain and scans the street. ‘Well, it’s not there any more.

  ‘You should rest,’ she says. ‘Decide what to do when you wake up, but I guess you won’t be needing this today.’

  Out of my good eye I spot her moving my suitcase into a corner. It’s all packed. We were supposed to be travelling to Scotland this evening. Tears find their way into the cut, sting like acid. Everything has been planned, the journey, the accommodation, the interview I’ve secured for the book I’m writing. Anna thinks it’s about female politicians of the twentieth century, and that the woman I’m meeting is a political historian. I’m afraid to say neither is true. I’m no advocate of lying, but in this case, it is a small deceit to protect a bigger truth.