The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘To the reverend George Carrington and his honourable machinations.’

  A train rattled by, drowning the clink of cheap crystal. When the quiet returned, Robert looked over to the kitchen. His mother and Muriel were talking earnestly. They’d been looking at a flat together. There’d been talk of curtains and a new bathroom. Where had the grief gone? Had there been any? Or just impatience? Crofty licked his thumb and forefinger and said, with a raised voice, ‘Why involve Sister Wendy?’

  This time Robert did have an answer. It had come that morning in the form of the letter from Father Anselm Duffy in relation to the pending trial of Edmund Littlemore. Robert’s article in the Guardian had been fair in spirit – the monk wrote – but wrong in substance as regards himself, but since it had been fair, he was entrusting him with the enclosed press release.

  ‘He’s going to represent him at trial,’ said Robert.

  Crofty seemed to chew something bitter knowing that he was compelled by good manners to swallow it afterwards. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘This is the Church protecting their own.’ Crofty took a swig as if to wash his mouth out. ‘He’s not even bothered what things look like. Doesn’t he realise that impressions count?’

  Robert nearly sputtered his drink all over Crofty’s face. Talk about ‘out of the mouths of little children’. His hypocrisy was awe-inspiring. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he said, mischievously. ‘This is all part of Carrington’s plan. He’ll have told Littlemore to get the monk to represent him, told him that his reputation for being the hombre on the side of the widow and the orphan will get him off.’

  ‘Will it?’

  ‘Of course not. Carrington knows that Littlemore will have to explain himself. He’ll have to make another kind of confession, because this Anselm was a lawyer. He won’t take silence for an answer. You watch. There’s going to be no trial. Littlemore will plead guilty and the boy will be spared giving evidence.’

  Crofty stared into his glass. ‘What the hell did Littlemore say to the monk that would make him stick his head on the block?’ He reached for the bottle, the aftertaste still in his mouth. ‘What if Littlemore won’t plead?’

  ‘He’s stuffed either way. He’s got no defence.’

  Another train swept by. The windows rattled in the shed and, for a brief moment, Robert caught the smell of his dad … a manly aroma of skin and aftershave … spice and surf. He saw his dad’s smooth, red cheeks, the whitening hair, those eyes like cups of blue water with flakes of broken glass at the bottom. He felt the brush of soft, worn tweed.

  ‘This Carrington’s got some imagination,’ said Crofty, checking the label. ‘And he’s ruthless. To get Littlemore he’s risked the good standing of the monk.’

  Lenny Sambourne had gone down the line. It was as though Robert had been left behind. He felt stranded in the middle of nowhere. There was no going back to the world as it had once been. And even if he could go back, he wouldn’t, because Andrew Taylor was there now. His gaze drifted across the darkness towards the kitchen window. Muriel was laughing, two burned fingers zipping shut her lips. They had a girly secret. Robert blinked and swallowed:

  ‘Maybe the monk will find out he was cheated by those he trusted most.’

  ‘And then what? What can he do except go down with the ship?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose.’ Robert smashed his glass against the wall, making Crofty jump for cover. ‘Let’s go in. I fancy a sing-song.’

  * * *

  Robert fished out his dad’s recording of The Mikado, Gilbert and Sullivan’s comic take on a fad for things Japanese. When everyone’s glasses had been filled, he went straight to the best track, urging all present to sing along. Robert was the only one smiling. Shortly, Donald Adams was making his celebrated, blood-curdling screech before swinging into the jaunty refrain:

  My object all sublime

  I shall achieve in time –

  To let the punishment fit the crime –

  The punishment fit the crime;

  And make each prisoner pent

  Unwillingly represent

  A source of innocent merriment!

  Of innocent merriment!

  Robert sang a fraction too loud and he let his eyes rest a little too long on each of his captives. But everyone joined in, tipsy and mock-cheery … until Robert’s mother began to cry. Only a short while ago the sight of her tears would have distressed him – coming, as they often did, by surprise from behind a shopping list – but not now. With knowledge came confusion. He’d discovered a new and toxic emotion, a mix of guilt and pleasure upon inflicting pain, a pain he felt, too; a binding pain that brought everyone together in a chorus of brute sincerity. Muriel turned off the music, nearly falling off her red high heels. Her eyes were alight with rage, something old, suppressed for God knows how long, but it was coming out now. She pulled Robert into the corridor by an earlobe, whispering.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘What your mother’s been through. Now give her a break. You’ve had your fun, though God knows why you’re making her suffer. Your father would turn in his grave if he could see you now. You owe her everything and yet you treat her like some kind of criminal. He’s dead, Robert. It’s no one’s fault.’

  Robert felt like a boy who’d killed a sparrow. He could feel the warmth of departed life in his hands. Muriel stomped away, her ankles weak on their narrow stands:

  ‘Let her turn the page, will you?’

  Crofty waddled past, carrying a tray of tinkling glasses. His mother followed, going upstairs. When she came down again, she was carrying the one item of personal property that Robert had left behind when he’d come to collect his stuff: a large wooden ship, painted white.

  ‘I can’t look at it, Robert,’ she said, her eyeliner smudged into black wounds. ‘It makes me think of your father. And even if you have to remember to move on … I have to try and forget. Is that so bad? Can’t I grieve in my own way?’

  Robert went home, his arms around the boat. On the Northern Line a little boy stared in wonder at the rows of tiny windows, the yellow funnel in the middle with a black domed top, and the coloured bunting hung from bow to stern. He turned to his dad asking for one just like that, pointing excitedly, but his dad said you couldn’t buy such things. They weren’t for sale. Even at Harrods. On reaching Tooting Bec, Robert rose from his seat and knelt down, placing the ship in the boy’s hands. The high seas were in his wide, unbelieving eyes.

  ‘She’s yours, Cap’n.’

  And then – as if an alarm had sounded – Robert ran onto the platform, sliding through the corridor and leaping up the escalator. He fled just in case he changed his mind; just in case the father came after him wondering if the thing had been stolen from a museum. On reaching street level, Robert stumbled onto the pavement. His lungs were pumping air and sweat burned his eyes. That thumb was on his throat again, pressing hard. Tearing at his collar, Robert suddenly made a loud, guttural sob. And then he finally broke down, crying like he’d never cried before, crying like he’d never thought was possible, one hand reaching out to his dad who was gone and would never come back.

  Part Four

  Harry and his granddad went for a stroll on Clapham Common. They walked in silence until they reached the bandstand. The orchestra hadn’t turned up yet. All the chairs had been laid out for the audience. Harry felt there were thousands of eyes upon them. People secretly watching. Ever since his life had changed … or had it ended? … Harry felt people were looking at him: in the street, from cars. And now from behind trees. Everybody knew and everybody was whispering about what had happened. They watched Harry and his granddad sit down as if the performance was about to begin. Harry’s granddad was nervous. There was a shake in his voice.

  ‘You know what you have to do, don’t you?’

  Harry nodded. His hands were in his duffel-coat pockets and, being seated, he felt like he was in
a straitjacket.

  ‘You’ve got to stand by what you’ve said. You’ve got to be a strong boy. It won’t be easy.’

  Harry had been sick when Sanjay came round to say he’d arrested Father Eddie. He’d thought Father Eddie was in Spain … sunning himself; starting over. That’s what Uncle Justin had said. Harry had thrown up right there in the sitting room.

  ‘There’s nothing to be frightened about,’ said Harry’s granddad, quietly. ‘You’ve said it all on video. You won’t need to say it again. Remember? Sanjay explained. All you have to do is answer the questions put by Littlemore’s barrister. And what does he know? He wasn’t there.’

  Harry nodded again and sniffed. Father Eddie’s barrister was the monk. According to Sanjay – who’d come round again to explain – it was unheard of, scandalous, awful. He couldn’t imagine why the monk had agreed to go back into court. But Harry could and it terrified him. Because this was the monk who’d come to the house to find out what Harry knew – and Harry had told him nothing; but then the monk had spoken to Fraser. Harry had watched them through his binoculars.

  ‘And if he wasn’t there,’ continued Harry’s granddad, knitting his fingers to hide the tremble, ‘what’s there to be frightened about? He can’t contradict you.’

  But what had Fraser said to the monk? thought Harry. Could he have told him everything? That night – the day he’d seen them talking on this very spot – Harry had taken a cigarette and burned himself. He rolled the hot ash against the top of one hand. The skin had melted and he felt the pain like an awakening: for those few seconds he was intensely alive. When his mother saw the oval blisters the next morning she gaped, speechless and guilt-stricken, as if she’d provided the matches. Harry wanted to reach out to her; he wanted to curl up on her lap and feel her hand stroking his hair

  … like she’d done when he was a child, only he wasn’t a child any more. Not after what had happened. He was trapped … hating Father Eddie for what he’d done, angry with Uncle Justin for what he hadn’t done and frightened of his granddad for what he might yet do. How could he reach over that lot to clutch his parents? Wasn’t there someone out there who could reach him? Someone who could find a way to the place where he’d been abandoned?

  ‘I’m only trying to help,’ said Harry’s granddad. ‘I just want to give you some confidence. All right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Musicians had started to arrive, straggling towards the bandstand. They were dressed in rumpled black, carrying scuffed black cases of different sizes. The conductor was at the podium joking with a man heaving a tuba on wheels, a maestro trying to hide last-minute nerves. The people Harry had imagined to be watching him had started to emerge from behind the trees. Families were bagging chairs with hands and coats, wanting to be together. The tuning up began, strangely harmonious, a gust of sound soon to become a tune.

  ‘Do you want to stay?’ asked Harry’s granddad, hopefully; wanting to be normal again. But Harry didn’t. The performance was over. This lot had missed the show.

  * * *

  When they got back home Harry went to his bedroom. For the past few months, every time he shut the door he’d thought of the trial that would start next week: he’d found himself at the Old Bailey, waiting for the end of the world. Once, desolate and desperate, he’d reached up to God, wanting to claw him down into his horrible life, a life that was already over, begging him to change things back to what they’d been. But all he’d heard was Father Eddie’s voice, coaxing and insistent: ‘Ohlman de pan in yon wa-ala … It means everyone has his own troubles.’

  Father Eddie included.

  That had been the key, turned to win a boy’s trust. Father Eddie had come down to Harry’s level. They’d both got problems that no one else would understand … they’d stopped playing chess.

  A faint knock came at the door. A timid tapping on the frame.

  ‘Yes?’

  Harry’s mother came in, seeming to hug the wall. Her eyes were round and frightened, checking Harry’s skin for fresh burns or contusions. She was alone on stage without a script.

  ‘I was just wondering if you’d seen the kitchen knife.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The big one … with the black handle. It lives in the block with the others by the toaster, but it’s gone missing.’

  Harry frowned and scratched his nose. The trial was listed for three days. There’d be lots of talking and to and fro but what would that achieve? Something, but not enough. Nothing to compare with what he’d suffered. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘What would I want with a knife?’

  26

  R v. Littlemore opened in Court Twelve at the Old Bailey on a Thursday in the first week of August. It was a warm day with clouds drifting carelessly across a cobalt sky. A crowd had gathered in the street behind a row of grey metal barriers. Police officers in fluorescent jackets stood on the pavement, keeping the entrance clear. Seeing the gathering as he approached on foot from Ludgate, Anselm lowered his gaze. For months he’d lived in dread of this moment. Now that it was upon him he wanted to turn round and go back to Larkwood; to deal with his bees and the other simple obligations of a quiet life. The clouds were drifting there, too. Bede’s parting words rang hoarsely in his ears:

  ‘Find out what really happened …’

  Littlemore had been right about one thing. Anselm’s decision to represent him had placed the trial at the centre of a media storm. The coverage had been universally negative except for a cautious analysis in the Guardian by Robert Sambourne, the journalist who’d first broken the wider story. Reluctant to join the chorus of disapproval, he’d opted to await the jury’s verdict. The existence of an ally of sorts had given Anselm some comfort, because the upshot of public debate had been a steady flow of mail, some hateful and abusive but the greater part carefully worded testaments of profound disillusionment. They’d wondered how Anselm could be so insensitive to appearances. How, given the scandal of child abuse in the Church, he’d even contemplated giving an impression of solidarity with a perpetrator against his victim. The irony was sharp. It was precisely this impression that Anselm wished to change – and in the most public way possible.

  ‘Prove me wrong,’ Dunstan had said, demonstrably insincere. He’d been moved to the infirmary, his illness public now. On a side table stood his old typewriter. It was the only object he’d brought with him. ‘I tried to warn you but you wouldn’t listen.’ Dunstan had grimaced trying to find a comfortable position but the pain had got him cornered. He’d given up. ‘You’re making a huge mistake.’

  Contrary to Dunstan’s intentions, these unpleasant declarations had given Anselm a sudden jolt of adrenalin. Leaving the infirmary, he’d abruptly perceived the obvious: he was one step ahead of everyone … the police, the courts and even Littlemore himself. Thanks to Fraser, Anselm already knew why Harry might blame an innocent man; and he had a name for the true culprit. All at once, Anselm’s objectives had fallen into place: if the evidence emerged, he’d incriminate Martin Brandwell; in the process, he’d look between the lines for the faint shadow of the Silent Ones, those exiles who’d chosen obscurity over their right to justice. It would be without question the most serious case he’d ever conducted.

  And the most hopeless.

  Having booked a room at Gray’s Inn, Anselm had knelt in the nave listening to the traditional Gilbertine prayer for those beginning a voyage: a request that Providence guide his going and coming, and protect him from harm in-between. Then he’d taken the train for London. He’d thrown his tatty wig and torn gown into an old carpet bag, along with the trial papers and a copy of Archbold, the bible of criminal procedure, borrowed from Roddy Kemble QC, his old Head of Chambers. He’d also brought Larkwood’s copy of the Code of Canon Law … he’d marked a number of paragraphs that had stirred his imagination.

  ‘No other decision was possible,’ Bede had huffed, out of breath. He’d driven Anselm to the station enclosed in a reproving silence; he’d dropped him off a
nd pulled away without a parting word; but then he came back, running onto the platform, hot and bothered. ‘The moment you went into that garden and spoke to the boy, there was no turning back. Now you have to finish the job … find out what really happened. For his sake, and ours.’

  27

  Anselm’s heart was racing. He felt sick. On reaching the court entrance, he’d raised his eyes to see a couple holding a banner with a message for him: ‘What you hear in the dark, you must speak in the light.’ There had been a shout of indignation from a man gripping the barrier: ‘Shame on you.’ Now, sitting in court, Anselm was sweating with primal anxiety. He’d never known such a feeling, because he’d never been in such a position before: advocate and client were in the dock. He appraised his surroundings.

  Littlemore sat with eyes closed, flanked by guards, the three of them dwarfed behind a high glass wall. Along the bar, prosecuting counsel – Laurence Grainger – was pouring himself a glass of water. Beyond him, across the aisle, sat the press, bunched and expectant. Above them, in the public gallery, Martin Brandwell was staring at Anselm. There was hate in his eyes, and knowledge … or was it fear? Behind him sat Fraser, hunched and alone. He gave the slightest nod to Anselm, urging him on.

  Find out what really happened.

  At exactly 10 a.m. Mr Justice Keating came onto the bench. Anselm had warned the court that a preliminary matter required his lordship’s attention.

  ‘He will not speak?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ confirmed Anselm.

  ‘Because he can’t or because he won’t?’

  ‘The latter, my lord.’

  ‘Will he at least answer arraignment?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  Mr Justice Keating smiled without humour. The controversial character of R v. Littlemore knew no bounds and he didn’t seem altogether pleased. The court’s dignity was not something to be toyed with – either by a priest returning to the Bar, or another priest scorning due procedure, and certainly not by two of them acting in concert. His little finger smoothed a white eyebrow.