Into the Silence t-10

by Sarah Pinborough

  Dyllis nodded, staring out across the road around her. Maybe she should have stayed in the car. Wandering around in that gloom didn't seem too appealing. She swallowed hard, and then realised Barry was looking at her, mildly amused.

  'Don't you tell me you're scared of the dark after all these years, Dyllis Llewelyn. You and me have crossed pitch-black fields to get to stuck sheep and cows in early labour. What's the matter with you, woman?'

  He was teasing, not scolding her, and she laughed a little and shrugged. 'Must just be city nights that scare me.'

  'Tell you what…' He heaved the wheel into position. 'Why don't we have a song?'

  'Oh, don't be so daft.'

  'You never used to think it was daft to sing with me.' He screwed in the first wheel nut. 'Come on, it's only you and me. If you forget the words, just hum it.'

  Dyllis looked at a piece of torn rubber lying damaged in the middle of the road. She should really go and get it. 'Well, what shall we sing?' She took three furtive steps away from the car.

  'La Traviata. Un Di Felice.' Barry's voice floated out to her. 'It's our best one.'

  She smiled. They'd come second with that the year before last. The judges said they'd never heard it sung so beautifully by untrained singers.

  They didn't pause to count in. Barry and Dyllis Llewelyn just started singing into the night. Her lungs opening, and letting the words flow without any conscious thought, Dyllis started to relax. She picked up the first piece of heavy torn rubber and tossed it towards the side of the road. Something rustled in the undergrowth, the noise climbing high into the tree.

  Dyllis stared, the music in her throat faltering. Behind her, even though he was in a crouched position, Barry's voice soared: a lyrical bird in flight, set free to reach the skies. It was beautiful. Even in her best days, she hadn't come close to that quality of sound. Dyllis could sing a tune, but when Barry sang it was as if he poured all those things they didn't talk about into the melody.

  The rustling moved to another tree, as if some watching creature had jumped from one to another. Taking two steps back, Dyllis looked up, the song frozen in her now. Barry didn't seem to notice her quietness, his half of the duet still filling the silent night as he fixed the spare tyre in place.

  There was something in the tree. Something bad. Cold crept up through Dyllis's toes and fingers, and she started to tremble. Her eyes wide, she peered into the gloom of the overhanging canopy. In the middle of the twisted, shadowy shapes was an area of complete darkness. A blackness that was beyond empty. Her mouth falling open, she tried to breathe but, looking into that awful nothingness, it seemed that everything she knew was being drained from inside. Behind her, Barry's singing faded, the sound sucked away, pulled back from her ears.

  Barry. Her brain kept that word, focusing on it. Barry, not bananas, not six first-glass bananas, but Barry. She stumbled back to the car.

  As if from outside herself, she saw her husband's smile fall as he slammed the boot, wiping his hands on his trousers. His lips were moving but she couldn't hear his words. Her heart wanted to explode from silent emptiness. Feeling her lips moving and knowing she was screaming something, but only hoping from within the deathly quiet in her mind that she was finding the right words, she pushed her husband to the front of the car, before scrabbling round to get in herself.

  It was only when she had the door shut and had desperately pushed down the locks that she could finally hear herself rasping 'Drive… Drive… Drive…' over and over. Peering back between the seats, she was sure she saw the dark space move into the road and start to re-form itself into some kind of shape just as Barry pulled away, tugging the car back onto the right side of the road, and speeding towards the city.

  For five long minutes neither of them spoke, Barry staring intently at the road, and Dyllis gripping the back of the seat as she stared out of the rear-view mirror. Then, as they approached the bright lights of Cardiff, she heard her heart beating normally inside her chest, and that awful sense of emptiness slid away from her. She leaned back in her seat and sighed. Every sound seemed fresh and clear and beautiful.

  Barry looked over at her. 'Jesus, Dyllis. What the hell was that about?'

  She stared through the windscreen. He wasn't going to believe her. She could hear it in the harshness of his voice. 'There was something…' What had there been? How could she explain it? 'There was something in the trees. Something bad.'

  She didn't look at her husband. She knew what she'd see. A man biting his lip when he really wanted to yell, and a man who was scared that maybe there was something going wrong in his wife's head other than the effects of the stroke. Either way, by the time they finally pulled up at the small bed and breakfast, not too far from the Bay, the happy moment they'd shared was truly gone. They slept in silence.

  FOUR

  Even though the day outside was grey and overcast, the bright lights of the hospital dispersed any hint of the rain with no-nonsense professionalism. Peering through the small glass window of the door separating the corridor from the recreation room, Gwen studied the four witnesses. Where the rest of the chairs were in semi-circular rows aimed at the focal point of the television, or on either side of two small tables by the collection of board games, the singers had pulled theirs into a short line as close together as possible, so that the scratched and worn arm of each was touching the next.

  Gwen frowned, two neat lines pulling in between her eyebrows and resting for a moment in the space where one day in the future they'd settle for good. Something about the way these people were sat reminded her of being a child and wanting to be as near to your best friend as you could be so you could giggle about boys and pass notes. But none of these four were children; in fact they were far from it.

  A woman sat at the end of the row, her head hanging forward, her long blonde hair obscuring her features above the dressing gown that was pulled tightly around her slim figure. She was probably the youngest of the four, perhaps in her late twenties. Gwen thought through the descriptions she'd got from the scene of crime team and ticked the blonde off as Magaly East. Next to Magaly were two men, Paul Davies and John Geoghan, neither particularly striking in any way and both in their forties. Another woman bookended them, steely-haired although probably younger than she looked. She had to be Rhiannon Cave.

  Gwen frowned. The TV was on, but none of the four seemed to be watching the daytime chat show on the screen. Two were just staring in silence at an area of wall just beyond it and, whilst their mouths were moving, it didn't look as if they were having a conversation together. Gwen breathed out, fogging the glass. They were strange, but at least they were awake.

  Her foot tapped, impatient for Jack to come back with the nurse and the tray of teas. The nurse had described the mental state of all the singers as 'fragile' and said that they had disturbed the other patients on the ward with their rantings when they emerged from their catatonic states in the early hours of the morning. They knew they had been put in the recreation room to be interviewed by the police, and Gwen knew that the longer she waited the more agitated they would become, if they were as delicate as they seemed.

  Glancing at her watch, Gwen sighed. Jack had been gone for much longer than it took to work a vending machine, even in an NHS hospital. The corridor yawned endlessly to her right, occupied only by a slim nurse, whose skirt rustled softly as she carefully filled pill boxes from a trolley of jars. She didn't look up.

  Gwen bit her lip. There was no point in just hanging around like some constable waiting for the boss. She might as well get started on her own. The nurse had been quite pretty and it was obvious she'd fancied Jack and, as much as it wasn't like him to seriously flirt on the job, he may well have got distracted. She grinned slightly. Bloody Jack and his sex appeal. If only they could find some alien technology that could extract that, they could all retire early.

  Leaving the pale green of the corridor behind, she pushed the door open and immediately the lines between her eyes re-forme
d. Phillip Schofield's pat laugh filled her head, and she glared at the machine in the corner. God, that television was turned up loud, not that the four witnesses seemed bothered by it.

  Pulling a chair towards them, she smiled gently. 'Hi.' She spoke softly. 'I'm Gwen Cooper. I'd like to ask you some questions about last night if that's OK.'

  The blonde woman on the end rocked steadily backwards and forwards, but lifted her head slightly so that her bloodshot tired eyes were fixed intently on Gwen.

  This time both Schofield and his guest laughed together behind her, cutting a path between Gwen and the people opposite. 'Would it be all right if I turned that television off? It's very loud.'

  As one, all four witnesses vigorously shook their heads. The older woman on the end, Rhiannon Cave, leaned forward. 'We want to hear it. We want the sound.' She spat the words out in an urgent hiss, and Gwen recoiled slightly. There was a dark defensiveness in the woman's eyes that hinted at the edge of madness. Her mouth twitched as she sat back in her chair, her jaw moving as she ground her teeth and stared defiantly at Gwen.

  For a moment Gwen said nothing, reassessing the situation. They were obviously more disturbed by what they'd seen than she'd expected. Maybe she should have waited for Jack. She could see why the nurse had called them fragile. As far as Gwen could tell, they were beyond fragile. They were nearer broken.

  Four sets of eyes stared at her and each of the witnesses held the hand of the person next to them so tightly that the whites of their knuckles seemed to be in danger of ripping through the skin. It was as if they were terrified someone was suddenly going to try to pull them apart. Watching them, Gwen had a moment of clarity. The aggression she'd seen in Rhiannon Cave's eyes was actually hiding an awful, deep-seated fear. Why else would they be clinging to each other like that?

  Despite a vague sense of revulsion she couldn't understand, Gwen leaned forward a little. 'I know that this is very upsetting for you, but we need to try and understand what happened to Richard Greenwood.' Magaly East rocked a little harder, and Gwen wondered if her nails had pierced the soft palm of the man next to her. If they had, he didn't seem to notice.

  'I just need you to tell me what you can remember about what happened in the church last night while you were rehearsing.'

  None of the four spoke, but Gwen could feel their tension and anguish intensifying. It came off them in waves. She pushed on, lowering her own voice in an attempt to subconsciously calm them.

  'If you could just give me some idea of what the man that did this to your friend looked liked, then it will help us catch him.'

  Magaly East twitched and with her free hand tugged her thin white dressing gown around her a little tighter. Her eyes drifted to somewhere beyond Gwen.

  'It came through the window.' Her voice sounded like smashed glass, as if it had encapsulated the memory. 'It was… it was…' Her mouth twitched and then she sobbed, curling over herself so that her head was almost resting on her knees as she cried.

  Gwen looked at the other three, their faces distraught, expressions pulling their skin this way and that as they fought images in their minds. Despite wanting to leave them in peace, Gwen pressed on. She needed to know. Torchwood needed to know.

  'It was what?'

  The man next to the sobbing Magaly shook his head and frowned. 'I can't remember. I can't remember. I can't remember.'

  Rhiannon Cave moaned, her mouth drifting open. 'There was this shape… this black shape.' She hesitated. 'More than black. It was awful. And then I felt… I felt…'

  'I can't remember. I can't remember. I can't remember.' The man barked the sentences out, and Gwen flinched trying to hear past him to what Rhiannon Cave was trying to say. Magaly East's sobbing grew louder and the anguish in it carved into Gwen's heart. What had happened to these people? What was it they'd seen that could have this effect on them?'

  'You felt what, Ms Cave?'

  The man who hadn't spoken shook his head slightly. 'Desolate.'

  Magaly Betts leaned over so that her head rested on the knee of the man beside her, all four huddling in tighter.

  'It was silent.' The man frowned.

  'As if there was no one else there. Ever.' Rhiannon Cave's free hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened. 'I want it out of my head.' She grabbed at Gwen. 'I want to forget. Please make it go away.'

  Pushing her chair away, Gwen stood up, trying to gently but firmly extricate herself from the clutching hands. 'I'm sorry, I-' Her foot almost tripped backwards over a coffee table as she stumbled away. The noise in the room was rising, the crying and shouting merging into one.

  'I don't remember, I don't remember, I don't remember, I don't remember…'

  'Make it go away! Please!'

  'So alone. Such silence…'

  Needing to get out, to find some sanity, Gwen abandoned any hope of trying to calm them herself. They needed sedatives. They needed bloody Retcon. What the hell were they dealing with here?

  Pushing out through the door, she collided with Jack and the nurse coming in.

  The nurse's face fell. 'What have you done, you stupid woman?' She didn't wait for an answer before scurrying into the recreation room, pressing the bell for assistance as she did so.

  'I'm really sorry, Jack. I just asked them some questions and…'

  Jack grabbed her arm, tugging her down the corridor. 'You can tell me on the way.'

  'On the way to where?'

  'Cutler rang. He says another body's been found.'

  Happy to leave that terrible anguish behind, Gwen broke into a slight jog to keep up with Jack. She'd be back though, she promised herself. As soon as she could. And she'd bring some Retcon with her.

  FIVE

  On the other side of town, Adrienne Scott pulled her BMW into the small car park at the back of the Havannah Court Autism Centre and sat for a second after turning the engine off. She stared at the familiar bricks of the wall in front of her. It seemed she knew every uneven edge of them, but then she'd used this space a lot over the past four years. This was her space. On a Monday, Wednesday and Friday at any rate. Maybe using the same slot on each visit was her homage to autism, her own little need for regularity.

  Her dark bob sank back into the headrest. She just needed a minute or two of peace before going inside. Ryan was her son and she loved him. She was sure she must love him on some level, but it was all just so damned hard when there was nothing but anxiety given in return. She was his mother; she'd grown him inside her and kept him safe, and he couldn't stand her touch. How could that be, she wondered for the millionth time since Ryan's diagnosis, even though she knew the question was pointless.

  Not just her touch, she reminded herself. Any touch. But she was his mother. It should be different with her. The clock in the dashboard clicked on to ten o'clock, and she reluctantly got out of the car and headed inside, feeling so much older than her thirty-five years.

  Signing in, she flashed a tight smile at Sylvia the receptionist, hoping to avoid conversation. No matter what the woman said it always made Adrienne feel guilty. She could hear the innocuous words coming out — 'How's work? Any exciting cases? Isn't it a lovely day? Have you got any plans for the summer? What a smart suit…' — but it was as if underneath each sentence was the whisper of 'Bad mother. You should have your child at home. Bad mother.'

  Sylvia was still speaking when Adrienne turned her back on her. Adrienne didn't care. Most of the staff at the centre didn't like her, she was pretty sure of that. They thought she was cold; you didn't have to be a mind reader to see that. And maybe she was. Maybe the past six years had made her that way. Some people just weren't cut out to deal with children that were different. They had no right to judge her. After all, it was bad mothers like her that kept them in their jobs.

  A dull ache of tension already creeping into her shoulders, she made her way along the familiar route to Ryan's room, trying not to look through any of the open doors as she went, but invariably unable to stop herself. This was her
penance: one hour, three times a week. She may as well punish herself properly.

  She passed 11-year-old Eleanor, whose long hair was always matted no matter how often it was brushed and who would for ever be known as the dribbling girl inside Adrienne's head. Turning the corner, she glanced into Michael's room, and sure enough he was still intent on trying to fit a square plastic shape into a round hole simply because the shape and the hole were the same bright red colour. Ryan's nurse, Ceri, had told her that Michael could sit for hours with that block in his hand, trying to squeeze it into the hole. Adrienne wondered if the child would ever see the irony. All these children were square pegs in round holes. How the nurses that worked here didn't end up shaking them out of sheer frustration she would never understand. But then, she was a bad mother. She hadn't been able to cope with Ryan for more than eighteen months.

  Three doors down from her son's room, a little girl she didn't recognise stared at the wall and screamed as a nurse tried to wipe the snot that streamed down her face. Adrienne turned away in disgust, and the first edge of a headache throbbed loudly at the back of her skull. At least Ryan wasn't a screamer. Staring at the door she had to go through, she ran her manicured fingers through her sleek hair and wished she could raise more enthusiasm for seeing her beautiful son. No, Ryan didn't scream. Ryan was too busy singing. Constantly. All day. From waking to sleeping, barely pausing for breath between songs. Maybe if he'd just been quiet she could have coped. Maybe.

  Through the doorway drifted a perfect imitation of Aled Jones's 'Walking In The Air'. Disc 1, track 4. Even she knew their order by heart now. Damn that ex-husband and his Classical Tracks CD that he'd played over and over in the car when Ryan was a baby. She hadn't even liked the music then. The too-familiar song slid past her eardrums and wormed its way towards the hammer of pain beating at the back of her skull, adding melody to its rhythm. And damn her baby's autistic memory storing every note and word in its banks until his body was developed enough to endlessly reproduce them.