The Final Silence

by Stuart Neville

  How can a shadow watch anything?

  ‘Stupid,’ Rea said aloud.

  She looked back to the contacts list, and the phone number she had sought. Would he remember her?

  One way to find out.

  13

  LENNON LISTENED TO shallow breathing for a moment before he said, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Jack?’

  A woman’s voice.

  ‘Who’s this?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that Jack Lennon?’

  ‘Who is this?’ he asked again, his voice firmer.

  ‘Rea,’ she said.

  He searched his memory for the name, came up with one answer, but it couldn’t be right. Not now. Not after all this time, out of nowhere.

  ‘Rea Carlisle,’ she said, confirming what he couldn’t quite believe.

  Lennon stared at the television but saw nothing other than the woman he had left in a bar five years ago. She had tears in her eyes as she fought the anger. He had known she wouldn’t make a scene there, wouldn’t scream or throw a drink at his head. That was why he had chosen that place to end things with her. You’re too young for me, he’d told her, and I’m too old for you. He’d made it all seem logical and fair and not the callous disposal of her that it really was.

  I’m not like that any more, he thought. Then he remembered Susan, and the frayed threads of their relationship, and knew that, yes, he was still like that.

  For want of a better question, he asked, ‘How are you?’

  ‘I . . . I’ve been better.’

  He waited for her to elaborate, but all he heard was a hiss on the line. ‘I’m a little surprised to hear from you,’ he said when the silence had gone on longer than he could bear.

  A hint of a nervous laugh in her voice, she said, ‘Well, Jesus, when I got up this morning, I didn’t expect to wind up calling you. I’m sorry it’s so late.’

  ‘I wasn’t asleep,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  Another quiet pause before Lennon asked, ‘Are you going to tell me why you called?’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, as if she had forgotten the reason herself. ‘There was no one else I could call. Not with this.’

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you over the phone,’ she said. ‘Can you meet me?’

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Sure.’

  ‘Can you get away from work tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m on a break. Sort of. So, yes.’

  ‘The lounge in the Errigle. Around twelve?’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Can you tell me what—’

  She hung up before he could finish the sentence.

  ‘Who was that?’

  For the second time in a few minutes, Lennon almost jumped out of his skin.

  Susan stood at the hallway that led to the bedrooms, her dressing gown wrapped tight around her, arms folded across her chest.

  ‘No one,’ Lennon said.

  ‘Chatty for no one,’ she said.

  He had the lie ready in seconds. ‘It was an old friend from the force. He retired a few years ago. He just wanted to catch up. I said I’d meet him tomorrow for lunch.’

  ‘Oh? Where?’

  ‘In town.’

  She tilted her head to one side. ‘Where in town?’

  ‘Just in town. We’ll go to Nando’s or somewhere.’

  Susan watched him as the seconds dragged by, daring him to tell the truth. He couldn’t hold her gaze for long.

  When he thought he couldn’t take her staring for another moment, she said, ‘Lucy’s sleeping in with me. She said Ellen’s talking in her sleep again. To that man she used to talk about. When you’ve had quite enough beer, you can sleep in Lucy’s bed.’

  The tall thin man. She didn’t need to say it. Lucy had been disturbed from her sleep many times by Ellen’s voice. Ellen had described the man to Lucy, told her how he had died alongside her mother. The tales had frightened Lucy to the point of tears, so Lennon had to tell Ellen to keep her dreams to herself. But he knew exactly who Ellen spoke to in the night. He would never forget.

  ‘All right,’ Lennon said. ‘I’ll sleep in with Ellen.’

  Susan left without another word. He heard her door whisper closed.

  Three empty beer cans stood aligned on the coffee table. Plus an almost empty one in his hand. He wasn’t sure what Susan considered ‘quite enough’, and in truth he didn’t much care, but the painkillers had thrown a blanket of drowsiness across his brow. He downed the last swallow of lager, gathered up the cans, and took them to the recycling bin. When he’d toured the flat, switching off appliances and lights, he made his way to the girls’ bedroom. He crept in and lay down on Lucy’s empty bed, his feet hanging over the end.

  Ellen’s blonde curls spilled out over the top of her duvet. He saw her eyes, reflecting the night-light, looking back at him.

  ‘Hiya,’ she said, her voice muffled by the bedding.

  ‘Hiya,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s Lucy?’

  ‘With her mum. She heard you talking.’

  Ellen said nothing.

  ‘Was it him again?’

  Quiet.

  ‘Was it?’

  ‘Mm-hm.’

  Lennon propped himself up on his elbow. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Just to talk.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Stuff,’ she said, as if that explained everything.

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Don’t you want to tell me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. Go to sleep, love.’

  She burrowed down into the bedclothes, leaving only the crown of her head visible.

  Lennon had tried to press her on these conversations before. He’d tried being friendly, or getting cross, or playing on her guilt. Still she had said nothing except that she had been talking to him. She would never have admitted even that, if not for Lucy telling tales of the tall thin man in the night.

  He had convinced himself it was nothing more than a dream, Ellen’s mind making sense of the trauma that had damaged her and taken her mother. To imagine the alternative would break him.

  Lennon rested his head on Lucy’s pillow, filled with the scent of his daughter and her best friend, clean and free of the stains that blighted his soul. He did not fear dreams of the tall thin man. Far uglier monsters lurked in the darkest places of his sleep.

  14

  REA WAITED AT one of the old-fashioned circular glass-topped tables in the Errigle Inn’s lounge bar, a nearly empty tumbler of sparkling water in front of her. The bar had a comforting gloominess, dark walls and flooring, the kind of intimate dimness that let you think your conversations remained private, no matter how close the next table was. A scattering of lunchtime drinkers occupied the seats around her, young office workers on their break, older men whose day’s drinking started here.

  The door swished open every few minutes, bringing with it a tide of cool air. She looked up each time, expecting to see the man who had parted ways with her five years before.

  She checked her watch again. Twenty minutes late, now. How long would she give him? She should hardly have been surprised. He’d never been on time in all the months they were together.

  The door opened again, and she looked up once more.

  A middle-aged man, scruffy, hard-worn features. He walked with a limp.

  She turned her attention back to her phone, and an old news article about Gwen Headley. She set about reading it for the tenth time. A shadow fell across her.

  ‘Can I get you another water?’ the man with the limp asked.

  She glanced up at him. ‘No, thank you, I’m waiting for . . .’

  She looked again. The sand-coloured hair, now shaggy and laced with threads of grey. The same broad frame, somehow diminished, the lines on his face deeper than they should be.

  ‘Jack?’ she said.

  ‘Do you need another?’ he asked, indicating
her glass.

  She shook her head.

  ‘All right, I’ll just grab a pint,’ he said.

  She watched him limp towards the bar. Except it wasn’t really a limp. One side of his body seemed stiff, leaving his gait off kilter. He did his best to hide it, but it was plain as day.

  It had been five years since she’d seen Lennon, but he looked like he’d aged twenty. What had happened to him in that time?

  They had met while Rea was working on recruitment processes for the Police Service of Northern Ireland. She had interviewed a string of serving officers, from constables to chief inspectors, hitting them with standard multiple-choice questions, figuring out what separated the street cops from those that rose through the ranks.

  Jack Lennon had been her last interview of the day. He had flattered her, charmed her, and even though she knew it was risking her job, she agreed to go for a drink with him that evening.

  Soon, they were a couple. At least, Rea believed so. Lennon seemed less convinced. It was nothing he said or did, but in the six months they were together, Rea never lost the feeling that she was hanging on to the relationship by her fingernails. Three times she invited him to come to her parents’ home for dinner. The first two times, he refused, saying he had work commitments. The third time he agreed, but she wished he hadn’t.

  After an hour of waiting, her mother had gone ahead and served dinner without him. Rea barely touched her food, excused herself, and went back to the flat she shared at the time. She got drunk on white wine, and whatever else she could find in the cupboards, and swore she would never darken his door again.

  The following morning, he disturbed Rea’s hangover with a phone call, telling her he’d been summoned to the scene of a serious assault the previous night. He couldn’t get out of it, he said, apologising once again.

  She should have learned. It took another month for him to finally break things off with her. Oddly, in a place not unlike this bar. Over a quiet drink. No fuss. No scene made. Like grown-ups.

  Lennon noticed her gaze on him as he returned with a pint of lager in his hand. His lips thinned at the effort of disguising his limp.

  Rea felt a sadness in her breast, sharp like a scalpel in her flesh. Not that he deserved her sympathy. He sat down opposite.

  ‘So, how’ve you been?’ he asked.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I lost my job a few months back. But I’m muddling through. What about you?’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said.

  Jack Lennon was a good liar, Rea had learned that to her cost, but he couldn’t sell this one.

  ‘You don’t look it,’ she said.

  He gave a short laugh. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude, but you don’t look well. Have you been ill?’

  He took a sip of beer and said, ‘I had a bit of trouble last Christmas.’

  ‘What sort of trouble?’

  He hesitated, clearly debating with himself how much to say. ‘I managed to get myself shot. But I’m getting better.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘While you were on duty?’

  ‘Sort of,’ he said. ‘It’s complicated. I’m on the mend now, which is all that matters.’

  In other words, leave it alone, she thought.

  ‘Well, thanks for coming. I know it’s a bit strange, calling out of the blue like this.’

  ‘No worries,’ he said. ‘It’s not like I’ve much else to do these days. So, what did you want to talk to me about?’

  How to say it? She chewed on a nail while she searched for the words.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Are you in some sort of trouble?’

  Rea placed her hands flat on the tabletop, closed her eyes, made her decision, and opened them again. ‘It’ll be easier to show you than to tell you.’

  ‘Show me what?’ Lennon asked.

  She stood and said, ‘Come on. It’s not far.’

  Rea knew someone had been in the house as soon as she stepped through the front door and into the hall.

  Lennon had spoken little as they left the Errigle, crossed the Ormeau Road, and made their way through the side streets to Deramore Gardens. She watched him from the corner of her eye, looking for signs that the walk caused him problems. His limp grew more pronounced as they went, but his face showed no indication of pain. She considered asking if he was all right, but sensed that the question would offend him. Instead she kept her silence alongside his.

  He entered the hall behind her, asked, ‘Shall I close this?’

  Rea did not answer. Instead, she examined the row of black bin bags that still lay on the floor. The day before, she and her mother had tied each of them at the top using the yellow drawstrings. And now something wasn’t right.

  She looked at each one in turn, the yellow bow at the top, the black plastic creasing and bulging with the contents. Some of them had been opened and retied. She was certain of it. But how could she be so sure? It wasn’t as if she had taken pictures of the bags so she could compare then and now. Really, it was nothing but a feeling. A notion. That was all, wasn’t it?

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Lennon asked.

  Rea shook her head, felt her certainty dissolve. ‘Nothing,’ she said, and turned towards the staircase. ‘Come on. It’s up here.’

  ‘What is?’ he asked.

  She stopped on the third step. ‘You’ll see. Just come with me. Please.’

  He hesitated, nodded, and followed.

  ‘Whose house is this?’ he asked as they climbed.

  ‘My uncle’s,’ she said. ‘He died last week. Me and my parents have been clearing it out.’

  They reached the landing, and the door to the back bedroom.

  ‘This was locked,’ Rea said. ‘I had to force it.’

  She indicated the crowbar, still lying on the landing floor where it had fallen a few days before. Lennon grunted as he stooped to pick it up, tested its weight in his hand.

  Rea pressed the door with her fingertips, let it swing back, and reached in to flick on the light. Lennon returned the crowbar to where he’d found it.

  The room remained as she had left it the night before. The map on the wall. The desk.

  The empty space where the book had been.

  Cold, cold, cold. All she felt was cold.

  Lennon said something, maybe her name, but she didn’t hear.

  ‘It’s gone,’ she said.

  A hand on her back. She stepped away from it, into the room, towards the desk. The bare top seemed so big, like a sea of scarred wood.

  ‘I left it here,’ she said. ‘But it’s gone.’

  Lennon spoke again, questioning, dull noises in the air between them.

  Rea reached for the drawer, opened it. Empty as the hollow place inside her chest.

  ‘Bastard,’ she whispered. ‘The bastard took it.’

  She went to the window and pulled hard on the cord to open the blind. Daylight broke through the dust that coated the glass. She rubbed a patch clear with her sleeve and peered through, looking for a burnt scar where a fire had been lit, and saw nothing but the poorly tended lawn.

  ‘Fucking bastard,’ she said, anger choking in her throat, sending heat to her eyes. She grabbed for her pocket, dragged her mobile phone from it and fumbled at the touchscreen, looking for his number. The dial tone burred in her ear as Lennon waited across the room, his face blank.

  ‘This is Graham Carlisle’s voicemail. Please leave your name, number, along with a brief message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

  ‘You fucking bastard,’ Rea said, unable to hold the furious tears back any longer. ‘I can’t believe you did that. After you promised me. You piece of shit.’

  She thumbed the end-call button and threw the phone to the floor. It bounced across the room, clattered off the skirting board. Lennon let out a grumph of discomfort as he bent to pick it up.

  ‘Maybe you’d better tell me what’s going on,’ he said.

  Rea covered her ey
es with her shaking hands and said, ‘Give me a minute.’

  She turned away, sniffed hard, wiped at her wet cheeks, breathing as deeply and steadily as she could manage with the rage sparking and crackling inside her. When it finally settled to a dim smoulder, she turned back to Lennon.

  ‘So what is it you want me to see?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe you should sit down,’ Rea said.

  Lennon gave her back her phone then put his hands in his pockets. ‘No, I’m all right.’

  Rea took another quivery breath. Swallowed. ‘When I first opened this room, there was a book in the drawer of that desk. Like a big photo album, or a scrapbook.’

  Lennon went to the desk, reached down and opened the drawer, looked inside, and slid it closed again.

  ‘It had newspaper cuttings, handwritten notes, and . . . other things inside.’

  Lennon stared back at her. He already thinks I’m crazy, Rea thought. Just say it.

  ‘It was a book about all the people my uncle had killed.’

  Lennon’s expression did not change. He lowered himself into the chair and said, ‘Go on.’

  15

  THEY TALKED THROUGH the afternoon.

  Several times, Lennon thought of standing, making his excuses, and leaving Rea to her delusions. But he stayed and listened to it all without comment.

  Lennon had dealt with enough crazy people during his years on the force. He had heard hundreds of implausible stories driven by paranoia, schizophrenia, alcohol, drugs, or any number of sicknesses. He had listened to spouses accusing each other of murder plots, to grandmothers convinced their grandchildren were robbing them, to drunkards who claimed to have witnessed the most spectacular of crimes.

  But the way Rea talked was different. She started at the start and ended at the end. She didn’t go in circles or contradict herself. She spoke with a calm, clear voice, leaning against the wall, her arms folded, not acting out the drama of it all with waves and gesticulations.

  Not that he believed her story. But he didn’t think she’d lost her mind.

  When she’d finished, Lennon watched her for a moment, then said, ‘What was the first victim’s name again?’

  ‘Gwen Headley,’ Rea said, and she spelt the surname.