Silent Children

by Ramsey Campbell

  His novels had been attempts to deal with his past, though he hadn't known they were while writing them. The book he planned to write could have been a bolder step in the process or a way of persuading himself that his father had nothing to do with him. Telling Leslie was the key to admitting the truth to himself, and so inevitable it calmed him.

  "I'm through with the bathroom," he called as he made for his room, and wondered how Ian would react to his confession. He heard the front door shut as Leslie returned to the house. He dressed himself quickly and lightly, and was halfway down the stairs before his eagerness allowed him to hear another woman's voice. As he hesitated, less than prepared to chat to a stranger, Leslie looked out of the front room. "Jack, can you come in here?"

  "Sure."

  His response sounded more willing than he was, particularly since her face was as good as blank. He hadn't begun to interpret it when she turned her back. If her visitor was unwelcome, perhaps Leslie wanted help. He ran down and was nearly in the room when he faltered, one foot in the hall.

  A thin woman in a large brown dress, her reddish curls interwoven with grey and close to baring glimpses of her scalp, was sitting in the farther armchair. He almost knew her, and then he did, when her small face seemed to expand with happiness as she jumped up and held out her arms. "John, it is you," she cried. "I should have known the first time you were in the paper."

  He couldn't step forward, he couldn't retreat. His hands rose as though they were being hauled toward her, then found nothing to do while she rushed to him. He had to put his arms around her and accept her protracted wizened kiss as he saw how much care had settled on her face and grasped how much weight she'd lost. She hugged him as if she might never let go, and eventually stood back so as to appraise him. "Hi," he said.

  "Is that all you can say to your mother?" She looked ready to deal him at least a playful slap. "He sounds just like an American, doesn't he," she declared instead, and held him at arm's length as a preamble to an augmented hug and kiss. When those were over she said "All done. They're all the same, boys, aren't they, however old they are. Sit down before you fall down if your mother's such a shock."

  He hadn't sat when Leslie said in a voice as expressionless as her face "Would you like me to leave you alone?"

  "No," Jack blurted. "No need."

  "I don't know if Mrs. Ames wanted me to see you. I hope she doesn't think I'm the least bit like you know who."

  "I shouldn't wonder," Leslie said. "That's what you're suggesting."

  "Of course you should, you wouldn't be human if you didn't, but I hope you'll see I'm not. Do you know what I'll never forgive Woollie for? What he did to those kiddies, obviously that, but on top of that the way he used my residents, pretending he was helping them when he was banking nobody'd believe them if they saw anything. And when some of them did, it set them right back after all the care I'd taken of them."

  "So to sum up, you're glad he's gone."

  "That's as true for me as I'm positive it is for this big chap."

  "In that case you really must sit down, both of you."

  Jack had to sit in the middle of the couch, feeling isolated and scrutinised. He was trying to find words for at least some of the explanation Leslie deserved when his mother clapped her hands, either calling for attention or applauding in advance. "Well, John, you've certainly done all right for yourself."

  Even if she didn't mean Leslie, Leslie might assume she did. He attempted a deprecating laugh as his mother said "I always knew he would. He's been good with words ever since he was at school."

  "I've noticed," Leslie said.

  "Have you read him?"

  "I've been doing that, oh yes."

  When his apologetic look brought no response from Leslie, he said to his mother "How about you? What are you up to these days?"

  "The same as I'll be till I have to be put in a home myself. Looking after people who need it because they haven't got a hospital to go to. You'd know that if you'd been to see me."

  "I would have soon."

  "You didn't come to find me at home, then."

  The question disguised as a statement sounded unsettlingly like a trap his father might have set for him. "No," Jack admitted.

  "You wouldn't have found me, because I've only got a flat now. More than enough for a widow living by herself."

  Presumably her pause was intended as another gentle rebuke, but it reminded Jack that only he knew his father was alive. The truth was searching for a way out of his mouth when his mother said "I'm still running the same place, though. They let me after all my residents vouched for me."

  "You'd expect them to," Leslie said.

  "Nobody knows me better except Woollie and maybe John, or he will if he wants to. You haven't said how long you've been home, John."

  "Not too long. Here, only a few weeks."

  "I got that from the paper. Where were you before Mrs. Ames took you in?"

  He'd done all the taking in, Jack thought, but said "Staying with friends."

  "For quite a while, was that?"

  "Couple of months."

  "They must be good friends to have you that long. Should I know them?"

  "No," Jack said, wishing he hadn't persisted with the story. "Some guys I met stateside."

  He sensed that Leslie realised how careful he was being with his words. He felt as if both women were interrogating him, and he couldn't help yearning for just about anything that would give him a break. "You could have stayed with me, you know," his mother said. "There's room even for a big lump like you."

  "Right," Jack said, though not at once. He'd heard Ian emerge from the bathroom. When his chest began to ache, he became aware of holding his breath while Ian let his weight drop from one stair to the next all the way down. The boy wandered into the room and halted with a quick shy grin. "No need to be frightened, son," he was told. "I'm just his mother."

  Ian stepped forward and held out his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lamb."

  "Mrs. Woollie."

  "Mrs.—" Ian's mouth opened wide and seemed unable to find itself a shape as he turned to stare at Jack. "You're—"

  "That's who I am. I'm sorry. Yes, that's me."

  "Oh, John, don't say I've—I have, haven't I?"

  "No reason for you to apologise," Leslie said.

  Ian was regarding Jack with something like awe. "You're his son."

  "And mine," Jack's mother said. "Mrs. Ames, you can understand why he mightn't have wanted to say who he was."

  "I do indeed."

  "He's always been a good boy, even if he didn't come and see his mother. Even if he went off without telling his family where and changed his name," she said, having directed her voice at Jack. "He mustn't have wanted Woollie to know where he was, Mrs. Ames. He must have sensed there was something not right about Woollie before the rest of us knew. He was always a sensitive soul, our John." As if some of what she'd just said needed contradicting she added "They never had anything but good to say about him at school."

  "Mrs. Woollie, I'm a mother too."

  "I see you are. So you'll know us mothers know all about our children."

  "We like to think we do."

  "He's a credit to you," Jack's mother said, and for a moment that let him grasp how confused he was, Jack thought she was referring to him. "We could do with a few more as polite as your boy."

  "As long as they're honest as well."

  This time there was no question that Leslie meant Jack. "I think I've trespassed long enough," his mother said, though she stood up so gradually she might have been hoping to have it contested. "You'll be wanting my address, will you, John?"

  "Sure."

  "You must have something I can put it on, you being a writer."

  Even if he had, Jack would have taken the opportunity to escape from the room. He fetched the pad and pencil from beside the phone for his mother to write down a Northolt address. She tore off the page and clasped his hands as she returned everythin
g to him. "Just you remember how welcome you'll be. I hope I haven't made trouble for you with your landlady, but if I have ..."

  Jack felt his face stiffen. His mother's gaze veered to Leslie and back to him. "Oh, I see," she murmured. "Oh dear. Oh double dear."

  "Let me walk you to your car."

  "I'd like that," his mother said, then stooped toward Leslie. "If I can say one more thing—"

  "Please don't," Leslie said, and raised herself from the chair until the other woman had to move out of her way. "If you'll excuse me, I'd like to get back to where I was before."

  Jack let his mother out of the house and opened the gate for her. "I know I should have been to visit you."

  "I shouldn't have come here, you mean. You'd have been better off without me."

  "I didn't say that, and you shouldn't think I meant it either."

  She bent her head toward him as though to peer behind his words and said "I'll tell you this even if you don't thank me. If she doesn't understand she can't be much good for you, John. You've had to try and understand more than that, you poor boy."

  "I have to ask you a question."

  "Let's be hearing it, then."

  "Did you ever—" Jack had lowered his voice, which made it seem to be shrinking back into his mouth. "Did you have any idea, any at all, what my father was doing?"

  She walked rapidly to the Volkswagen, her loose sandals scolding the pavement, and shoved the key into the door with a loud rasp before she turned her saddened gaze on him. "How can you ask such a thing of your own mother?"

  "Because I need to be sure. You said I had to try to understand."

  "Don't you think if I'd had the least suspicion he was up to something I'd have kept on at him till I thought I'd got the truth out of him?"

  "I'd have figured you would."

  "Don't you know if I had I'd have told even though he was the man I married? There's too many people keeping quiet in the world."

  "Okay."

  "You don't have to keep sounding American. I know who you are." She gave him a hug and kiss not quite so assured as their predecessors, then ducked into the car. He watched her take time to settle herself in the seat and draw the belt across herself, and perhaps he appeared to be waiting for reassurance, because she wound the window down. "Do you think I'd have let him anywhere near my residents if I'd had even a glimmer how he was using them?"

  "I guess—I don't suppose so."

  "I should hope not." She reached for him, but her hand stopped short of emerging and his stayed outside. "Can I look forward to seeing you again soon?" she said.

  "I imagine," Jack told her, the best he could manage when she'd left him feeling more alone than ever with aspects of his childhood he kept trying to convince himself he'd faced. He waved as the car chugged away, and saw his mother vanish round the corner with a smile that could, given more time, have looked both encouraging and brave. Its implications followed him back to the house.

  Leslie was in the kitchen, and kept her back to him as he ventured along the hall. "Do you think I'd better speak to Ian?" he said.

  "No."

  Since she hadn't moved, Jack didn't feel he could go closer. His heartbeat had begun to grow uncomfortable when he heard Ian running downstairs. Leslie turned and called past Jack as if he wasn't there "Make sure you get all the ingredients on my list or I won't be able to make your favourite."

  "See you, J."

  "I hope," Jack said.

  As the front door slammed, she let her determinedly neutral gaze find him. "Do me one favour, and if you need to think about it, think after you've done it."

  "If that's what you need," Jack said, and heard his pulse.

  "Leave us alone. He's my son, he's all that's left. Don't be here when he gets home."

  Jack couldn't argue—he didn't feel entitled—but when she held out a hand he thought she'd taken some pity on him. He was imagining the softness and warmth of her clasp as she said "You won't be wanting my keys any more," and he could only fish them out of his trousers pocket and drop them on her outstretched palm. Until she said "Thanks" he had never realised how final the word could sound.

  TWENTY-NINE

  There was another way to tell the story, Ian thought. Part of it could be about how Carla's mother felt. She would have left Carla alone in the house for an hour while she drove to the next farm to borrow some milk because the contents of their own cows had run out, milk for Carla who was ill in bed. On the way back the mother would hear on the car radio, except she would be driving a truck, that the maniac wearing a mask had been sighted in their area, their state. She would send the truck screeching into their yard and stamp on the brakes and run through the cloud of dust into the farmhouse. "Momma's home," she would call, and maybe even think she heard a feeble answer from upstairs, if farmhouses in California had one, but when she hurried into Carla's room the bed would be empty except for the patchwork quilt they'd made together. She would run through the house in a panic, crying for her daughter, and Carla would hear her from beneath the cellar floor—she would hear her mother's frantic footsteps on the boards that were nailed down over her, would feel the vibrations and the dust sifting down onto her face. And then—maybe then her father would come home from the, from the slaughterhouse where he worked, and Carla's mother would run to him for help, and he would search for Carla everywhere—under the hay in the barn, in the pigsty, in the wardrobes—and end up standing right on top of where she was. Then—"Yes!" Ian gasped—as he climbed the rickety steps his pocket would catch on a nail, and out would fall the mask.

  The new version of the story had made itself up like a dream, and now its aspiration to be written wakened him. Should he try to scribble it all down while it filled his head? He kicked the quilt aside and sat up, and as sunlight hit him in the face, his sense of the story began to retreat from him. Creating it had let him feel like Jack, but had also caused him to forget Jack was no longer there to tell him whether it was any good.

  Surely he ought to be able to contact Jack, otherwise the slab might fall on his mind. He'd had weeks of being rid of it nearly all the time, and he didn't want it back. It had threatened to return while the headmaster was judging him, but being excluded from school had shown him he worked better without the distractions of Stu and Baz and Shaun. He'd vowed to show everyone what he was capable of, only now he realised he'd wanted mostly to show Jack.

  He would. He had to. He grabbed his English exercise book and turned to the middle, past the pages he'd written on since Duke had torn his story out. Carla's momma drives for milk, he wrote, and Maniac on radio, before he dropped the book on the introverted tangle of the quilt. The notes seemed as good as meaningless; they wouldn't come alive for him until he was sure of contacting Jack. He hurried to the bathroom, then he buttoned his shorts and padded downstairs to find his mother.

  She was in the front room with a piece of music for company, either quiet in itself or turned down so as not to waken him. The four bearded men on the compact disc box were demonstrating a variety of ways to hold stringed instruments and trying to outdo the music, which Ian saw with no interest was by either Shostakovich or Tchaikovsky, in lugubriousness. Perhaps that was his mother's mood too, because he thought she continued rubbing the window with a dissonant wash-leather to give herself time to raise her lips at least to horizontal before she faced him. "Hungry?" she said.

  "Some."

  "I thought you might be when you hardly touched your dinner last night." She draped the leather over the rim of a plastic bucket standing on a copy of the Advertiser and let the corners of her mouth stray up. "I know you miss him. I know it's hard for you. Try and make do with me again for a while if you can."

  "How much of a while?"

  "I meant until someone—Look, I just meant we're the whole of the team. You shouldn't think I was talking about whatever he wants to call himself."

  "Jack."

  "That's the name he made up, right enough."

  "Lots of writ
ers do that, don't they? He couldn't help who had him. His mother seemed okay."

  "Oh, Ian..."

  "Why did you send him away?"

  "Because I couldn't trust him."

  "He never did anything to hurt us. The Dukes and Mr. Brand and the wheelie woman did, but Jack wouldn't have."

  "I'm not saying he did you any harm. Maybe he was even good for you, and I hope you can hang on to the good."

  For the moment he was more aware what she was leaving unsaid about herself and Jack, which suggested that adult lives might be as messy and as difficult to make sense of as his own. "Did you get his address?" he blurted.

  "Why would I have done that, Ian?"

  "For me."

  "I'm afraid not. It didn't occur to me, and I have to say it seems not to have to him either."

  "I bet he'd have given it to me if you hadn't sent me to the store."

  "We'll never know. And please, Ian, you aren't an American. There's no need to keep trying to sound like one."

  She was determined to erase every trace of Jack, he thought, but she wouldn't take Jack out of him. The lugubrious quartet, having finished being slow, struck up a dance so inappropriate to the situation that he saw her think about switching it off. Instead she retrieved the leather, only to say "Better get dressed. We're about to be visited."

  His father's Peugeot was drawing up at the gate. A trickle of water on the front room pane made Charlotte appear to shiver and squirm in the passenger seat. Anger and frustration sent Ian up to his room, from which he heard his mother keep his father waiting once the doorbell rang, and eventually her voice. "Here's a surprise."

  "Not too bad a one, I hope."

  "Short of unbearable."

  "Sorry, then. I should have rung. Call me impulsive."

  "We'll see. What's the occasion?"

  "Before we talk, can I ask who else is here?"

  "Ian."

  "Just Ian?"

  "That's who I said."

  "Is he available?"

  "He's meant to be getting dressed."

  "You don't mind, do you?" Apparently Ian's father was asking for permission to enter the house, because his voice advanced to the foot of the stairs. "Ian?"