The Silent Ones

by William Brodrick

  ‘I’ve never come across a like circumstance. Have you, Mr Grainger?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  The two men spoke like inquisitors troubled by an emerging heresy.

  ‘I’m going to need your guidance, Mr Duffy – or do I call you “Father”?’

  That question, too, smacked of a new and suspect doctrine. Grainger was quick to intervene:

  ‘I suspect your lordship might well think that the use of any title which affords the defence special dignity in the eyes of the jury would be quite improper. Conventional language should prevail.’

  ‘That has to be right.’

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  ‘Mr Duffy? Do you agree?’

  ‘I do. My learned friend is far-sighted.’

  ‘Good. I’m not. Could you now help me with this peculiar silence? Or is it holy indifference?’

  ‘No, my lord. It’s merely a fact that falls to be examined.’ Anselm reached for Archbold. ‘The matter is dealt with at paragraph four-two-two-two-eight. R v. Schleter. I quote: “Where the defendant stands mute, the court cannot of itself determine whether he is mute of malice or by visitation of God but must direct a jury to be forthwith empanelled and sworn to try the issue.” Notwithstanding such a—’

  Mr Justice Keating raised a halting hand. ‘This is a grave case, Mr Duffy. I want to be fair to you and your client … but is this some kind of joke?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Then explain the meaning of “mute by visitation of God”?’

  ‘When a person is deaf and dumb or so deaf he cannot hear the indictment when read.’

  ‘I see. Might I ask if God has made a visit to Father Littlemore?’

  ‘Put like that, my lord, no, he hasn’t. Which is to say the defendant is perfectly capable of hearing the charges laid against him and responding to them.’

  ‘And what is “malice” in this context? Ill will?’

  ‘No, my lord, simply an intention to remain silent.’

  ‘So where do we go from here? You want a hearing to determine what we already know to be the case?’

  ‘No, my lord. Notwithstanding Schleter, there’s no need to empanel a jury. I formally admit that my client is mute by malice and the jury can be informed accordingly. Not Guilty pleas can be entered on his behalf upon your lordship’s direction.’

  ‘Mr Grainger?’

  ‘As your lordship observed, this is a most serious case. I wouldn’t seek to trivialise matters any further by insisting on a pointless hearing.’

  Mr Justice Keating nodded and turned his attention to Anselm. ‘Mr Duffy … I don’t know what your client hopes to achieve by this refusal to participate in his own trial, or what you hope to achieve by representing him without instructions, but let me make something absolutely clear: I will not allow either of you to diminish the authority and reach of this court. Do you understand?’

  Anselm reddened. He’d never been warned in such terms before. ‘Yes, my lord.’

  The jury was called and sworn in. The clerk stood and began to read out the three counts on the indictment, charging Edmund Steven Littlemore with … something in Anselm closed down. He didn’t want to hear the details, not again. They appalled him. If Harry Brandwell had told the truth, there could be no hope of complete recovery. Upon conviction, Littlemore would face a substantial period of imprisonment.

  But he claimed to be innocent.

  Find out why Harry is prepared to blame an innocent man. That’s the thread. Follow it. You’ll reach the Silent Ones. This is your way – our way – of making a difference.

  Anselm turned to the public gallery. The charges had been put. Not guilty pleas had been entered on the court record. Grainger was on his feet, ready to open the case to the jury. And Martin Brandwell had his eyes tight shut, like a man seeking help from the God of surprises.

  28

  Martin Brandwell opened his eyes and gazed down into the courtroom. Was this to be the moment of unravelling? Was this the end of things: a stripping down in public, after so much had been done in private?

  Dear God, how did I ever come to this? I’ve spent my life trying to cure disease and I’m the one who’s sick.

  Martin was as weary as he was frightened. But would exposure be so bad? Wouldn’t it be better for everyone? Better for him at least? He was too old to carry the weight much longer. For a mad, majestic moment, Martin nearly stood up, ready to shout to the world what he’d done, seeking neither judgement nor mercy, just relief. But Mr Grainger got there first, and the jury were absolutely concentrated.

  ‘All abuse involves exploitation,’ he began, quietly, as if he was telling a secret. ‘It involves the strong exploiting the weak. The weak find themselves charmed, flattered and eventually won over until, to their alarm, they find they’re also snared. Usually by fear but often, also, by respect. Respect for someone’s reputation. The weak become victims who dare not speak out. These elements are invariably found when an older person preys upon someone much younger than themselves. However, to better understand the Crown’s case against the defendant, you will have to appreciate that this man took the principle of exploitation to new and extraordinary lengths. For – we say – he not only exploited his victim, he exploited his family; he exploited the relationships within that family; and in particular, he exploited the good name of someone valued by that family: Father Dominic Tabley. You will shortly see how this defendant used this elderly man’s reputation as a means of gaining access to his dearest friends, and their children and grandchildren, one of whom was an eleven-year-old boy … Harry Brandwell, who’ll tell you how he was charmed, flattered and won over until he finds himself here today, betrayed and abused, a witness to his own ordeal, a brave victim who has refused to remain silent on account of anyone’s reputation.’

  Martin looked into the long glass-walled dock. Littlemore was sitting alone like the last pawn on the board – nothing to fight for and nothing to fight with. Would he keep his promise? Or had he spoken to the monk when he was hiding at that priory? Had he compromised everything? Martin’s worried eyes drifted back across the empty benches to Littlemore’s counsel … and he caught his breath: the monk was looking directly at him. And with pity. Or was it the last-minute hesitation of an executioner?

  Christ, I want all this to end. Let me die, here and now.

  ‘In effect, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Grainger, leaning back, his voice stronger now, ‘this defendant devised a most unusual modus operandi. By insinuating himself into a family close to Father Tabley he sought to minimise the chances of exposure should his later offending come to light. You cannot for one moment underestimate the cynicism involved in this man’s forward planning … his long-sighted preparation … his intention to exploit every element in someone’s character and their surrounding relationships. Even those rooted in faith. For you see, ladies and gentlemen, this defendant belongs to the same Order as Father Tabley. When he targeted Harry Brandwell he did so knowing that if Harry was to make any complaint, it would be to his parents; and his parents, in turn, would be compelled to speak to Harry’s grandparents … and the family, as a whole, would then be confronted with a dilemma: the only way they could expose the defendant would be to bring disgrace upon Father Tabley by associating his name with the abuse that had taken place – abuse that had only happened because his name was used like a key to effect a first and fateful meeting. In effect, the defendant was exploiting a tenet central to the faith they were meant to share … the readiness to forgive not seven times, but seventy times seven.’

  Grainger turned to look at Littlemore. He paused, eyes narrowed as if to focus on a distant, ruined landscape – a place that had once been sunny. Sure now of what he could see, he continued:

  ‘The Crown says this defendant gambled on the willingness of a family to forgive him rather than shame their Church and blight the remaining years of a renowned and failing friend. You may think that such a scheme would never work, ladies and gentle
men. But people of good faith will always be tempted to protect the message by forgiving the messenger. As for renown … well, it’s the most prized flower in the garden. We all admire it. No one wants to see it harmed. And, as you shall see, Father Tabley is no ordinary man. There was a perverse logic to the defendant’s thinking. But, being perverse, he failed to gauge the integrity of the Brandwells … and the strength of Harry’s character. If there’s light to be found in this dark and disturbing case, it is the refusal of a family to be blackmailed into silence … their belief that there can be no forgiveness without justice.’

  Martin instinctively looked at Father Anselm. The monk had obtained copies of Harry’s school reports by court order … reports in which Harry’s strength of character had been discussed in less than flattering terms. He’d been in trouble with Mr Whitefield, the headteacher, for lying. At the time, Martin had exploded, shocking Maisie, Dominic and Emily and terrifying Harry.

  ‘You must always tell the truth,’ he’d shouted. ‘And I mean always.’

  Martin’s secret hypocrisy had been stomach-turning … Grainger paused. He became wistful:

  ‘Anyone who spends time with children knows they’re full of mischief. But they’re innocent. It’s there, plain to be seen, like a ship-in-a-bottle. How it got there we just don’t know; but seeing it, we’re amazed … and sometimes moved. We handle it with great care. This defendant threw it against a wall. This trial is the nearest Harry will get to picking up the pieces.’

  The ground in the court seemed to open up and Martin lost his bearings, the atoms of his very self falling into the ditch that led to the hell of his own making. He almost wept. But there were no tears for these particular circumstances. Neither God nor nature had ever thought they might be necessary.

  29

  For a moment Robert was transfixed. Mr Grainger was holding both hands in the air as if he was showing that ship-in-a-bottle to the jury. Everyone was staring into the space between his outstretched fingers. He was holding tragedy up to the light and it was awful. Without searching his memory, Robert found himself a child again, aged ten.

  He was crying. Paul Wilson had been mocking him again. Saying his dad’s face had more wrinkles than a sultana. And Sharon Hogan had sniggered. Robert was in love with Sharon Hogan. Arriving home from school, he heard this slow grating sound coming from the shed. He tiptoed to the end of the garden and peeped around the door. Sunshine poured through the windows onto the tools and wood. There was a smell of fresh sawdust. His dad was bent over his worktable, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a saw in his hand. A train thundered by sending a burst of wind into the trees. When the branches were still and the clatter of the wheels was fading, Robert’s dad spoke. He didn’t look up.

  ‘Has my boy been crying again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because of that Wilson lad?’

  ‘Yes. He said you looked old so I hit him in the face and then Sharon Hogan whacked me with a ruler.’

  ‘Don’t, Robert. Find another way. You don’t want to be hitting anyone.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it only makes things worse.’ He paused, keeping the saw in position. ‘Remember the koala? Nothing disturbs him. Sleeps for twenty hours and only moves for four minutes, and that’s while he chews a leaf. The world could end and he’d still reach out for another mouthful. That’s the way to deal with Paul Wilson, matey. Turn away and make yourself a bacon sandwich. There’s nothing like a bacon sandwich.’

  Robert would have done anything to have had his dad’s childhood. At night he told Robert stories – true stories about life in Queensland. How he’d raced cane toads in the school swimming pool. ‘Borrowed’ pineapples from a neighbour’s plantation. Tried to count the stars in the night sky – ‘more stars than you could ever imagine, mate’ – after bunking down in the outback. How he’d been frightened of dingoes when he got lost in the mulga. Robert would listen, forgetting everything, even a toothache. He longed to go to bed, just to be transported to this magical, faraway kingdom.

  ‘What are you doing, Dad?’ asked Robert. He touched one of the strips of wood soaking in a tub of water. ‘What have you done that for?’

  ‘To make the wood soft so it’ll bend. I’m making a ship. An ocean-going liner.’

  ‘For me?’

  ‘Who else? Paul Wilson?’ And those soft, green eyes turned their tide upon him. ‘Help me, will you? Give me a hand.’

  Robert took the saw. Guided by a stronger arm, he followed the line drawn upon the wood. Back and forth they went, hand in hand, quietly working.

  ‘What shall we call her?’ asked Robert.

  His dad didn’t reply for a while. Then he said, ‘How about the King Andrew? It’s a good, strong name for a ship that’s going to battle with the high seas. Are we agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The King Andrew she is, then. May a fair wind guide her way. And you, her captain.’

  ‘I love you, Dad.’

  ‘And I love you, skipper.’ All at once, Robert’s dad stopped work and he turned to check the wood in the tub. ‘I don’t know about you, mate, but I could do with a sandwich.’

  The shed quivered and the windows rattled as another train swept by. The sun caught the dust shaken from the rafters. Silence returned like a cat through a half-open door.

  Robert blinked. His eyes were wet. A journalist from the Daily Telegraph was looking at him wryly – after all, it’s not every day a fellow hack is moved to tears. The misreading brought Robert sharply back into the present. There were greater misunderstandings unfolding before his eyes, for both the prosecution and the defence.

  First, Mr Grainger had no idea that Littlemore had been expelled from Sierra Leone. And why should he? No offence had been committed that ought to be brought to his attention. But Robert wasn’t convinced. He’d been chasing down the contacts disclosed by Mr Bangura. Significantly, those who’d met Littlemore had been reluctant to speak, but finally – and off the record – Robert had been given the name of someone who might: George Timbo, a former civil servant and president of SLAOBA, the St Lambert’s Academy Old Boys’ Association. To date, he’d returned none of Robert’s calls. The point was this: it seemed pretty certain that Harry Brandwell wasn’t Littlemore’s only victim. There had to be more … at home and abroad. It had been this realisation that gave Robert the answer to Crofty’s tantalising question: why had Carrington written anonymously to him rather than the police?

  ‘He’s after more than a conviction,’ Robert had said in the Fish Tank, sipping Scotch after his leaving party. Taylor had tried to tag along but Robert had swung round and told him to go home. ‘He wants maximum publicity.’

  ‘To what end?’ Crofty had opened a packet of digestive biscuits.

  ‘He’s making a public appeal for other victims to come forward.’

  ‘You’re stretching things there.’

  ‘I’m not. It’s exactly what happened in the States even though it wasn’t planned. The Boston Globe covered the trials of five priests back in 2002. That’s what brought everything out into the open. The spotlight drew everyone’s attention to what had been done to these kids and what hadn’t been done with the perpetrators. Others came forward telling the same story. That’s what began the landslide

  … throughout the US, everywhere. And I think Carrington wrote to me because he knew I cared; he knew I’d chased Littlemore … and he gave me the story that brought me to the Guardian, because he wants national coverage … for a national problem in his Order. Maybe something way beyond Littlemore.’

  Crofty, unsettled by beer, wine and spirits, had become lightly patronising. ‘You’re running away with yourself. Don’t get me wrong, you did good, Robert, you did good. But you’re not Bob Woodward yet.’

  Robert had snatched the biscuits, his voice raised with the embarrassing aggression of a drunk in a public park. ‘You’ll see … Harry Brandwell is just the first to speak. There’ll be more. Many more.’
r />   Something the sober Mr Grainger couldn’t possibly appreciate.

  The second misunderstanding caused Robert considerable disquiet because he felt, in part, responsible. He’d expected Littlemore – pushed by Father Anselm – to plead guilty … only that hadn’t happened. The trial had begun … and Father Anselm couldn’t know he’d been used by Carrington. He knew nothing of the cuttings, the fax and the letter. And the only way he could have been enticed back into court was if Littlemore – nudged by Carrington – convinced him it was morally necessary. Whatever they’d come up with, he’d been gravely misled.

  This was the great irony of the trial and the one flaw in Carrington’s ruthless plan: Father Anselm had been deceived as much as Littlemore. They would both go down. Father Anselm would simply be a casualty of the operation; collateral damage … a price worth paying to see Littlemore brought to justice. The question for Robert was this: do I tell him? Do I show him what I found on that balcony? But it was impossible. The journalist who’d exposed Littlemore could hardly befriend his counsel.

  Or could he?

  Robert let the question hang in the air. A woman had entered court and taken the stand. She turned to the public gallery as if to get her bearings and then she faced Grainger.

  30

  Anselm turned a page in his notebook. So this was the woman Martin Brandwell had kept out of his reach. Unlike her husband, she was frail. Her arms were thin and her head leaned forward as if she was walking into the wind. Perhaps she was nervous on, this day of all days, but Anselm got the impression she was an anxious woman; someone who plodded on plagued by small worries. An image came to his mind, clashing violently with the delicate woman in the dock: a horse wearing blinkers.

  ‘How old were you when you first met Father Dominic Tabley?’ asked Grainger.