The second time it was repeated as a whisper, as Deaconess Margaret Mills closed her eyes and sighed, arms forward, palms down, enjoying the climate of silent fear she had created. She opened one eye in disapproval as someone coughed, and quickly stifled the noise. After a theatrically long pause, designed to make her listeners as uncomfortable as possible, she continued.
‘Let’s talk about sound. And silence. There is no music in this church. We stripped the organ of its infernal pipes, cancelled the choir, burned the hymn books. Why? Because God values silence above all things. Only the word of God himself, in the psalms, can be put to music. Anything else is the most profound blasphemy. Any other rhythmic sound is a downward self-transcendence towards Hell. And Hell is noise. The Bible gives us a clear picture of the sounds of Hell. The infinite screams of the damned, the cackling fiends, the roar of the fires… sound familiar? We can’t hear ourselves think, nowadays! We are plagued by sound, and it’s getting worse. Have you noticed the roadworks? Churning up the streets, those infernal pneumatic drills? You have to cover your ears to leave the house. This is no coincidence. This is the work of the devil, designed to disorientate, to distract us.’
‘And then there’s the famous Mersey Ghost! Calling out to sea! That’s causing great amusement, isn’t it? But what if we’re all laughing ourselves towards desolation? Because it isn’t just here. Did you hear about what has been happening in Hawaii? People have been hearing trumpets. Strange trumpet sounds coming from on high. Now they say these sounds might be caused by tidal waves, or methane explosions, or underground earthquakes, or shifting sand dunes. But what if they aren’t?’
‘And what about the Hum? Have you heard about that? Across the world, people can hear a low, rumbling noise! Only one in every fifty can detect it, apparently. A low droning sound, that drives you mad, causes headaches, nausea, dizziness, even suicide. Some people say it could be industrial equipment, gas lines, power lines, Wi-Fi, radiation, seismic activity. But what if it isn’t? And who are these two per cent who can hear it? The select few? Are they lucky, or unlucky? The Reprobate, or the Elect?’
‘Some people are saying all this is the sound of the apocalypse. And the Bible does tell us that the end times will be filled with terrible sounds. As I have said before, and will say again, this is the Tribulation, happening right now. Oh yes! And therefore the elect do not need to fear because, as Matthew said, the time will be short: “For then there will be great tribulation, such as has not been since the beginning of the world until this time, no, nor ever shall be. And unless those days were shortened, no flesh would be saved; but for the elect's sake those days will be shortened.”’
At this point, the Deaconess began to read from the Bible, for added gravitas, even though she knew every word by heart.
‘“And then will be the Second Coming of Jesus, and all shall be quiet again. For the LORD is going to destroy Babylon, And He will make her loud noise vanish from her. And their waves will roar like many waters; The tumult of their voices sounds forth.”’
Before her final manipulation, Deaconess Margaret paused for a long time, looking out at each member of the congregation. Then she lowered her voice almost to a whisper, so they had to lean forward and strain to hear her.
‘Nowadays we are afraid of silence. We need the constant buzz of television, music, chatter. But I say to you today, do not be afraid of silence, for it is only when we are silent that we can be close to God. Is it any wonder that deaf children were once thought of as angels? For their ears are unsullied by the corrupt sounds of this Earth.’
Six
Darren pulled a few strings. It helped that the acoustics technician he knew at Merseyside Police headquarters was as excited as he was about the prospect of a hidden backmasked message. So by the next morning, he and Colette had secured a slot at the Audio Department to decipher the USB. They huddled around to listen as the technician pressed play on the reversed mp3 file. It was so easy, Darren realized he could have done it himself on his own computer.
The audio recording began with the same white noise they had heard before, only slightly clearer. There were a number of instruments and percussive sounds playing simultaneously, and it was hard to decipher between them. But after a few seconds a male voice, emotionless and clipped, rang through the static, saying one word. Napier. A few second of static and then again. Napier. Napier. Napier.
Darren, Colette and the technician all made the same expression as they strained to hear the word. Heads cocked slightly to one side, faces wincing. They all deciphered it at the same time… ‘Napier.’
The repetition gave an urgency to it and induced an inexplicable anxiety in all three of them.
‘What is that? A place? Someone’s name?’ Darren asked.
‘I do know of a Napier Estate, in Netherton off the ring-road, near me mum’s place,’ Colette said. ‘It’s been in the local news because loads of residents have been getting sick, and no-one knows why.’
‘What kind of sick?’
‘All sorts. Migraines, stomach complaints, depression – there was a suicide last week. People are demanding to be rehoused. It’s never going to happen, though, there’s over five hundred people living on that estate.’
‘Do you think Neilson was investigating it?’ asked Darren. ‘His research was on groundborne vibrations that affect health. Maybe he had found something, some sort of corporate fault that he was planning to expose, and someone was threatening him, or silencing him?’
‘That’s a lot of speculation, boss,’ said Colette. ‘The land is council-owned, and I can’t see the council threatening a university professor. Pressure maybe, but not to the point where he was afraid. And anyway, even if he was investigating something, there’s no case for us. We’re murder detectives. And there is no murder case. He died of a heart attack – pathology confirmed it last night.’
‘Yeah. I suppose he was paranoid. And there are no suspicious circumstances surrounding the death. Will you write all this up, then?’
Now Darren felt as troubled as the PhD student they’d spoken to earlier, but he couldn’t put his finger on why.
It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Darren was on his way home. He was irritated by the short hours he had been assigned by the grief counsellor. Bored by the documentation task he had been set, and unsettled by dredging up the Shepherd case, he wanted to be on active duty. Above all he didn’t want to be alone in the silence of his house. But today he was taking advantage of those short hours, because he was on an active case, even if it wasn’t an official one. He drove through Seaforth and Bootle towards Netherton, navigating the disorienting chaos of roadworks and traffic lights. It seemed that the streets were being churned up all over Liverpool, every day a new construction project, a new set of obstacles to circumnavigate. The Housing Minister and council officials were proudly trumpeting ‘build, build, build,’ but then failing to ensure proper regulation. At the huge junction of Switch Island, at which main arteries converged upon several motorways, the traffic lights were broken. No doubt one of those pneumatic drills had severed an electricity cable, Darren thought. Not only that, but it was the early stages of rush hour, and so cars were piling up in all directions. As he beeped his horn, slammed his hands on steering wheel, repeatedly stopped and started, pumped the brake, Darren marvelled at people’s patience. How much chaos could they tolerate? He wondered who would be profiting from this particular round of seemingly pointless roadworks. Then, with a certain inevitability, he saw Forrest Group emblazoned on a barrier hoarding. ‘Who else?’ he said out loud.
He eventually wove his way through the mess and broke off onto a slip road towards the Napier estate. This large cluster of houses was oddly detached from the nearby urban sprawl; it felt like the last stop before leaving Liverpool. In many ways a prime piece of land, reclaimed from an old dump, it was two minutes from the motorway, five minutes from a huge retail park and only a few minutes more from the famous Aintree race course. But
it was separated from the next community along by a three-lane A-road, uncrossable until several hundred metres further down. And on the other side of the village were desolate fields and scrubland used only for dog-walking.
The estate had been built in the late 1980s as part of a large-scale urban regeneration project that reclaimed formerly unusable land around the outskirts of the city. The architectural style was dated now; a combination of semi-detached houses and low-rise apartment blocks, all in the same auburn-coloured bricks. Roads had been laid out in an arrangement of cul-de-sacs designed to imply naturalness, organic growth. The result was that every house seemed to face in a different direction. Each street had been assigned a faux-bucolic name; Mill Lane, The Blossoms, Riverside. There was a strip of shops; a newsagent, pizza take-away and launderette; and a church with a community centre attached. All in the same auburn bricks. This was an estate that was profoundly modern, stripped of history, weightless – and yet dated at the same time.
The streets appeared deserted today as Darren pulled up to the small car park outside the community centre, in the late afternoon sun. It was so quiet that he felt oddly conspicuous. Hands in his pockets, looking around him, he walked nonchalantly up to the noticeboard. This gave the impression of a busy, friendly community, with posters and flyers advertising baby groups, dance classes, lunch clubs for the elderly. Despite the place’s isolation, it seemed the residents had succeeded in creating a close-knit community, a snatching of the soul from the soulless. But what caught Darren’s eye was a poster which had clearly been placed very recently, in pride of place so that it partially obscured others. Napier Residents’ Association, Emergency Meeting, 6pm, Wednesday 1st October. Members of Liverpool City Council and Environmental Health have promised to attend. Please come out to show your concern!
Wednesday 1st October; that was tomorrow. Not sure what to do next, Darren wandered down the street and went into the newsagent. The bell rang as he entered. An elderly lady with a walking frame was chatting to the proprietor across a counter that was laid with confectionery.
‘Mind how you go, now,’ said the man kindly, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, no doubt.’
‘Yes love, the place will be packed out, I’m sure.’
‘I’ll save you a seat, don’t worry.’
Darren held open the door as the lady shuffled out, with a hacking cough. He picked up a newspaper and a chocolate bar and put them on the counter, clearing his throat.
‘If you don’t mind me asking, were you talking about the community centre meeting tomorrow night?’
‘That’s right, yeah.’ The man’s friendly demeanour wavered ever-so-slightly. ‘You a journalist, are you?’
‘No, no. I’m a police officer actually. Is it true that people have been getting sick around here? Is that what it’s about?’
The man suddenly went on the defensive.
‘Look, if it’s to do with that incident with the council last week, we were well within our rights to ask what he was doing. That bloke we caught taking measurements. He was on private property. In broad daylight! It was so blatant, it was like he was asking to be spotted. And lo and behold, as soon as we caught the council up to no good, they caved in and agreed to an information meeting. Apparently they’re going to offer us something.’
‘You mean compensation?’
‘Compensation for what? We don’t know why we’re sick. We’re all trapped here. Every single council tenant has requested a transfer and been refused. And some of us bought our houses from the council – me included. We were encouraged to, on these ten-year warranties that have now, conveniently, run out. So my house is unsellable. This land is literally worthless. The stress of that alone is making people sick.’
‘Are you sick as well?’
The man shrugged. ‘I can’t sleep. Blood pressure’s up. Headaches. Nausea. Nothing you can put your finger on. I’ve got another appointment with the GP in three weeks – that’s how long the waiting time is now. But he’ll only say the same as he did before, the same as we’re all saying. You can’t put your finger on it.’
‘Sorry to hear. I might pop down tomorrow, then.’
‘Do that, son. Do that. There’s something going on, I’m telling you. It’s a conspiracy.’
Seven
The skyscape of Liverpool is iconic, as far as UK cities go. The Liver birds; two copper statues with outstretched wings perched atop the Royal Liver Building clock towers, one guarding the city, the other guiding ships in from the sea. And then the Post Office tower, the two cathedrals, the docks, football stadia, and now the modern skyscrapers, including, of course, the Lumina. But everywhere there are hints of a hidden world under the surface, a mysterious underground kingdom more labyrinthine than the average city. And of course, there’s nothing average about Liverpool. The city is built on a bed of sandstone, a porous rock that lends itself to manipulation. Wells, pumping stations, ventilation shafts, viaducts, cuttings, arches, even catacombs, all surface-level entries to a subterranean maze.
The soundscape of Liverpool is iconic too. Merseyside’s ambient choir is more distinctive than most, with the sing-song rasping of scouse accents, each voice more pronounced than the last. The comforting tones of Gerry and the Pacemakers’ Ferry ’Cross The Mersey, a sonic wink to the river passengers; the background mingle of Beatles tracks from a multitude of speakers in the Cavern Walks; the roar of You’ll Never Walk Alone at Anfield; the thump of dance music emanating from every taxi on a Friday night. And now a strange new voice has joined the choir.
Tunnels make strange noises. Sound waves take unexpected pathways and make other-worldly echoes. But how strange is too strange? The Kingsway Tunnel ventilation tower stands at the edge of the Mersey, on the Liverpool side, looking out at its sister tower on the Wirral. Unlike the more conventionally attractive Queensway tunnel vents, with their art deco elegance and Egyptian carvings, the Kingsway vent was designed in the brutalist, utilitarian style. A thick and unfinished concrete block, its white twin air ducts are like a giant set of stereo speakers; its stubby legs give it the appearance of an extra-terrestrial spaceship marooned. Recently it has been calling back to its home planet.
Every so often, the vent moans. Plaintive or threatening, it’s hard to say, but it makes people sad somehow. And that’s not all. Every so often, the moans come up from grates in pavements across the city centre. One lunchtime the Nelson Memorial statue roared at a group of office workers sitting on it, causing them to spill their takeaways.
It’s definitely the wind. Or it’s definitely the new Mersey Rail line. Or its definitely an excess of traffic in the Mersey Tunnel. Definitely too many roadworks, pneumatic drills shaking up the fragile sandstone foundations of the city. The local newspaper is conducting a tongue-in-cheek investigation into the ghostly noises, whipping up gleeful social media threads, speculating as to whether the whole thing is a pre-Halloween hoax, or a marketing campaign by the local tourist board.
For almost thirty years, a tramp has staked out his tiny territory on a corner of Bold Street, a roughly-painted sign attached to his shopping trolley which is filled with old plastic bags. The sign announces, ‘The End Is Nigh’. The tramp waits patiently with his message, day in, day out, in all weathers, asking nothing. Every evening he packs up and trundles his trolley to the warm air vents behind the department store. Or, if he has been lucky with donations that day, to the night shelter. For almost thirty years he has been a fixture simultaneously beloved and ignored by the city. But recently, the tramp has been ignored less than before. People look at his sign now, then look again, and it sends a momentary shiver down their spines. Especially if they have heard the ghost that day. He has even attracted a few followers who stand with him, patiently proclaiming, ‘The End Is Nigh.’
Eight
The following evening, back at the Napier Estate, Darren couldn’t find a place to park. By the time he entered the community centre it was almost full. He squeezed into a seat in the middle of a row
towards the back. He sat on a plastic chair next to a young woman who pinched the bridge of her nose constantly, eyes closed, sighing, as if battling with a terrible headache or hangover. Her pallor was white, almost green. Her mouth quivered downwards occasionally and she looked around anxiously, as if considering running out to vomit. On Darren’s other side was an old man, trying to maintain dignity in a smart brown suit, but coughing and spluttering constantly into a handkerchief. At the front of the hall was a table with two empty chairs waiting, although there had been no announcement as to who the speakers would be.
A hush descended over the room as two figures entered and walked down the centre aisle towards the front. A young man and a middle-aged woman, both looking smart and bureaucratic, carrying piles of documents. There were some jeers. The woman next to Darren leaned to the person in front of her and said, ‘That’s him, he was the fella in the high-vis we collared the other day, the one taking the measurements. Blatant as anything.’
The man and woman sat in their chairs behind the desk, waiting for quiet that refused to come. Eventually, the newsagent whom Darren had spoken to the previous day came to their aid, standing up and calling for calm: ‘All right everyone, let’s hear what they’ve got to say.’
The council woman stood up gratefully, and began. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here tonight. My name is Vanessa Scott from the Environmental Health Office, and this is Jonathan Dunn, an occupational health assessor. I understand that some of you met him last week when he was conducting his investigation.’
‘Secret investigation,’ someone heckled.
‘I’ll get right to it and inform you off the bat that, following complaints about residents’ health, Mr. Dunn’s company was called in to investigate. He was testing for groundborne, waterborne and airborne pollutants, and I can now confirm that methane gas has been discovered at levels that are, indeed, a cause for concern. There is no risk to health at all from methane, but it is a highly explosive gas and so the risk is….’ But she was being drowned out by catcalls and jeers.
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