‘Haven’t you got a job to go to?’ I said.
‘The advantage of doing so little is that no one notices when you’re not there. Now go and have a shower and a shave, you’re too young to smell like that,’ he told me.
When I emerged from the shower, dressed in clean clothes, he had taken command of my mobile phone. ‘All press inquiries are to go through me,’ he announced. ‘They’re slippery little fuckers, the lot of them. I should know.’
‘Why are you friends with her?’ I asked him one night while battling through a slab of beef Wellington he’d brutally incinerated.
‘Your mother is a fine woman, always was. You can’t see it at the moment, but you will.’
‘She’s not perfect.’
‘Neither are you.’
‘So why don’t you leave me alone?’
‘Because I’m a stubborn git and I won’t give up until you realise you’re a better man than you think you are. Besides,’ he said, watching as I cleared my plate, ‘you’re the only person who is willing to fake admiration for my cooking.’
I order a second bottle of wine and there’s still no sign of Jonathan. ‘I’ll call him,’ I say, for all the use it will do. He’s never understood the concept of the mobile phone. As predicted, he doesn’t answer. I catch the waiter’s attention to ask for more bread.
I wish he’d hurry up because I’m fucking starving.
Jonathan doesn’t come. Mum and I have a short discussion about whether to eat then go to find him, but we agree this is bad form, seeing as it’s his birthday we’re supposed to be celebrating. Instead, we pay for the wine and the olives and bread, extract the cake I (hand) made from the kitchen and hail a cab.
Jonathan lives in a surprisingly spacious 1970s house in Battersea. I ring the bell even though I have a key. I finally moved out eight months ago, but I still spend at least a quarter of my time here. It’s peaceful and calm and he’s always well stocked with good biscuits and wine.
When he doesn’t answer, I decide to let myself in. The place has the cold, settled air of an empty house. ‘Jonathan,’ my mum sings like he’s four years old and not in his eighth decade.
We turn into the living room from the hallway and see him sitting in his armchair. He’s all dressed up, shirt and tie with its customary stain. His shoes are by his feet but not on them. He’s staring ahead towards the TV, which would be fine, if the TV was actually switched on.
‘I’ve made you a cake,’ I say. ‘It’ll probably kill you.’ But even before the words are out I can see they are in bad taste.
My cake isn’t going to kill Jonathan.
He is already dead.
Jonathan had cancer. We learnt he was diagnosed early in 2014. ‘I blamed his absences on holidays,’ my mum said, her face heavy with guilt. He went into remission but it had returned this year. He wrote us each a note. I don’t know what my mother’s said, but this was mine:
You are probably annoyed that I didn’t tell you, but the truth is I couldn’t be bothered with the conversations around death. Much better this way, to go without any fanfare.
A few final words. Your mother loves you, always has. You’re a fool if you can’t see it. But I die knowing I have failed in my mission to reconcile you.
My wine collection is yours in return for clearing my house. I hope you will continue to think of me fondly, regardless of whatever you may find.
Yours with love and hope,
Jonathan
It is the day before his funeral and I’m supposed to be writing a eulogy. It’s not going well. Not a single word I’ve written in the past twenty-four hours has survived a read-through. How can you condense a life into sentences and paragraphs? I’m lost. Lost without him.
When I reach his house, it is late. For a while I wander around, sinking deep breaths of air. The smell of his home, its unique olfactory key, is one I associate with comfort and safety. This was my sanctuary when my mind was breaking up, where I found slivers of sun to score the black. And his nagging, cajoling, cynical presence cut through all the bullshit that had surrounded me for so long.
I sit down in his armchair and remember the day Palab came to the door.
‘Palab Joshi, Gabriel’s manager.’ I imagined Palab had thrust his hand out in his usual business-like manner.
‘I’m pleased you called,’ Jonathan said, ‘because there’s something I’ve been desperate to tell you.’
‘Oh yes, what’s that?’ Palab asked.
‘Fuck off!’ And Jonathan had slammed the door in his face.
There are boxes in his bedroom, black bin-bags of rubbish. He’s been preparing for death in the same way most people do a house move. I rifle through a few on the floor, reminding myself that this is the task he has set me and it is therefore OK to read whatever notes and paperwork and personal correspondence I find. They contain reporter notebooks written in a gibberish I assume to be shorthand. I turn my attention to the crate on the bed to see if there’s anything more interesting. That’s when I find a shoebox with my name written on it. I open it to discover a Dictaphone and a small tape labelled Linda Moscow 1996.
There’s also a handwritten note from Jonathan.
Dear Gabriel,
I promised your mother I wouldn’t tell you as long as I lived.
I hope you understand.
Jonathan x
It is a version of my mum’s voice, the younger, more strained one from her politics days. She’s having an argument with Jonathan about a story he wants to run.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘You have to drop it.’
‘Sorry? I can’t do that. I’ve already spoken to these girls. They trust me. They opened up to me. I made them a promise. I’m about to file the story next week. I can’t let them down. Have you any idea what they’ve been through?’
The crackle of silence.
‘Well . . . ?’
‘I was older,’ she says. ‘Should have known better. It was only supposed to be a drink after a fundraiser. He’d raised the prospect of a large donation but was playing hard to get, dangling his wallet out of reach. We were walking along the Embankment, Henry, another woman, Curtis and me, trying to hail a cab. Curtis suggested drinks at his place. Henry agreed at first, but once we were in the taxi he said he needed to go home. “You go on, Linda, I wouldn’t want Curtis to think we are all spurning his hospitality.” I knew he wanted me to schmooze him, so I went ahead. I thought I could handle him.
‘He made us gin and tonics – lethal bloody things. My head started to spin and I excused myself to visit the loo, throw some water on my face. He followed and I felt his arms behind me, pushing me towards another door. “You can use mine,” he said. He was there waiting for me when I came out, started kissing me. The stupid bloody thing is that I was embarrassed. I’d been flirting with him, teasing him. And now I was wondering how the hell I was going to get out of it without hurting his ego. I made a joke of it, told him I was flattered but I was a married woman. He pushed me towards the wall and opened my legs with his knee.
‘I told him I had to go and he laughed. “We both know you’re not going anywhere.” Then he forced me on to the bed.
‘It didn’t occur to me to scream. Isn’t that odd? I always thought I would have screamed the place down. But no, not a sound. I hate myself for that.
‘Of course my period didn’t come. I willed it to come, just as I’d willed it not to come every month for years.
‘I’ve only ever told one person what happened – my friend Bernadette, although I didn’t mention who did it. She said I should get rid of the baby, that I’d never be able to look at him without seeing that man. “How will you be able to love him?” I even booked an appointment at the clinic, but I knew I couldn’t go through with it. It wasn’t the baby’s fault. He was innocent. I promised
myself that no one else would ever know. That I would always protect him. I knew he was going to be perfect.
‘And now he is dying and Curtis is the only one who can save him. But there are conditions . . .’
Love, that’s what she told me. She said our foundation was based on love, not lies.
But I chose not to believe her. I held on to my pain instead, rocked it and nursed it, allowed it to bloom and grow.
I traced the roots of her decisions back through the years, and blamed her for what they produced, the lives they strangled and suffocated.
Now I see the whole picture and the force of her love belittles me.
This is not about forgiveness. That is an arrogant concept. I have nothing to forgive.
But I hope she forgives me.
The shame is all mine.
I didn’t trust her or believe her.
I chose to think the worst before the best.
No one is perfect.
Not me. Not my mother.
Love is flawed.
But I know I am better with it than without.
Linda
It is Jonathan’s funeral today and I’m pulling out all the stops. I’ve dragged a comb through my hair, to little effect, it has to be said. It’s gone feral over the years and now resists any attempt to tame it. An old suit at the back of the wardrobe has been resuscitated for the occasion, although I’m regretting my decision not to send it to the dry cleaner’s. It’s giving off a whiff of dampness and I’m concerned I smell like a fusty old woman. I was hoping the wash of colour on my lips would be the final flourish, as it used to be back when I was young. But sadly, it has done little to brighten my pallor. Never mind, I tell myself, this is all about effort. If Jonathan can die in a shirt and tie, I will damn well go to his funeral looking the part.
The church is packed full. Standing-room only. I can’t say why I’m surprised, he was a popular man. I suppose I liked to think he was my friend and mine alone. I take a seat in the second row. In front of me I notice his ex-wife Jan holding hands with Vanessa, her old neighbour.
When Gabriel stands to read the eulogy, I don’t know who I’m crying for any more. Gabriel, who talks so eloquently about my old friend and his godfather, or Jonathan who should be here, should never be gone. Gabriel’s voice clogs with tears but he marches through, without recourse to profanity, which is something of a relief, let me tell you.
Towards the end, he says Jonathan taught him that the truth can repair and heal, and while I don’t necessarily agree, I have to admit it has a nice ring to it.
His last words are: ‘Jonathan, if you’re listening, you didn’t fail.’
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but when he makes his way back to his seat, I give him a smile as if to say, Well done.
The day is a sullen affair. Grey clouds glower and threaten, though mercifully hold back the rain. At the cemetery, there is only a smattering of close friends and family evenly dispersed around the grave.
I’m standing alone, giving Jan and Vanessa a wide berth lest they try to tempt me back to theirs for a prawn sandwich and warm wine, when a hand takes mine.
I know the touch of that hand. I’ve held it since he was born.
My boy.
He pulls me into his chest and I yield to his embrace. I can’t hear a word the vicar is saying above the throb of my heart, my sobs.
‘I love you, Mum. I thought you should know.’
I hope Jonathan wouldn’t mind me saying this on the day of his funeral, but I can’t remember being happier.
Later, Gabriel and I find ourselves alone. The sun has poked out from behind the clouds and brushes the sky pink and orange.
‘I’m not like him, you know,’ Gabriel says.
This is it. The fear that has stalked me and coloured our relationship, the one we’ve been too terrified to voice in case it becomes real.
But it is out there now and we let it sit for a while between us, so we can see it is not real. It is nothing.
‘I know,’ I say, because this is the truth.
He never was.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to the following;
Kate Stephenson, my editor at Wildfire, for pushing, pressing and helping me untangle and streamline. The book is all the better for your input.
To Alex Clarke and Ella Gordon.
To Imogen Taylor for her enthusiasm and support.
To Millie Seaward and Georgina Moore.
To my agent, Nicola Barr, for knowing how to make it better.
To Dr Raj Bathula for helping me with medical questions. Any mistakes are my own.
To Tom Andrew for advice on sailing in the Kyles of Bute. It is a stunning place and I will return one day soon.
To the group of fellow crime authors who make me laugh out loud when I should be writing. Thanks for the fun, support and showing me how to take procrastination to new levels.
To readers and book bloggers who take the time to tweet, email and leave reviews, I am eternally grateful.
To my friends for keeping me sane and feeding me wine when necessary.
To my family, Liz and Danny McBeth, Jacqueline McBeth, John and Margaret Curran for their enthusiasm and child care.
To Finlay, Milo and Sylvie; the book would have been finished in half the time without your input but life would be so much emptier. I think that means we’re quits.
To Paul, my love and thanks as always. I suppose you should read it now.
An Act of Silence deals with difficult issues and I thought long and hard before I decided to delve in to them. Every survivor’s story is different and I don’t claim to represent all or any, only the experience of the characters in the book. What I hope I have shown however, is that the silencing, the choosing not to act or listen, is a form of violence in itself. Also, that the damage doesn’t repair when the abuse stops, but its ripples and currents run down through the years.
I read many testimonies of abuse in the course of my research, but two works I found particularly helpful were Chosen, a documentary by Brian Woods and Chris Eley about boys who were groomed and abused at Caldicott Prep School, and Victim Zero, Kat Ward’s account of her abuse at the hands of Jimmy Savile.
About the Author
Colette McBeth is the critically acclaimed author of psychological thrillers Precious Thing and The Life I Left Behind.
Colette was a BBC TV News television correspondent for ten years, during which time she covered many major crime stories and worked out of Westminster as a political reporter.
She lives on the south coast with her husband and three children.
@colettemcbeth
/colettemcbethauthor
colettemcbeth.co.uk
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