House of Silence (27 page)

“The baby has come between us”... So even as
a baby, Alfie had driven a wedge between them. Why? And what did
“bring him back” refer to? Freddie had taken Alfie away as a five
year old, not as a baby. I read through several more pieces, then
came across one which, when I read it, made me start. Papers slid
off the quilt and cascaded on to the floor as I read the words
written on the paper triangle I held between trembling fingers.

“He
died
,
Rae.” I read the words again and then again. There was no mistaking
their meaning. Two lines above those words, Freddie had written,
“we lost our boy”. Their son had
died
. Not only was my
boyfriend not the man he pretended to be, he was pretending to be
someone who was dead, someone who had been dead for twenty years
and more.

I clapped my hand to my mouth and wondered
if I should rush to the bathroom before I was sick. I swallowed
down a mouthful of saliva and tried to steady my breathing, staring
fixedly at the scrap of paper in my hand. Then I realised I had
before me two adjacent sections of letter. What looked like a tea
stain had been bisected by the scissors used to cut out the
triangles. I matched the two halves of the stain and read:

“I just can’t pretend any more that he
exists.
” That was surely the missing word?
That
was
what had driven Freddie away. And he’d gone
alone
. He’d left
Rae because he could no longer cope with her fantasy that their son
still lived.

I don’t know how long I cried or who I was
crying for. I don’t know if it was shock, grief or anger. Perhaps
all three. When eventually I was able to stop, I reached for my
phone on the bedside table and searched for Alfie’s number. I
stared at the illuminated screen, my thumb poised over the button,
then with a strangled sob, I hurled the phone across the room.

I got out of bed, grabbed my cords and a
thick jumper and dressed quickly, my body still shuddering with the
aftermath of my tears. There was nowhere I could go but I was
damned if I was going to spend another minute in this madhouse. I
would find a hotel and bang on the door till they let me in. I
dragged my case into the centre of the room and started to throw
things in. I tossed aside my Christmas gifts, including the scented
candles Viv had given me and her jars of home-made jam which I’d so
looked forward to eating when I got back to Brighton. I looked
round the room to see if I’d forgotten anything.

The Postage Stamp quilt.

How could I take it? And how could I leave
it behind?... I sank down on the edge of the bed and started to cry
again, cursing the day I’d met Alfie bloody Donovan and his bogus
bloody family.

And then I started to panic. I felt so
alone. So
completely
alone. I’d not felt so alone since that
Christmas morning when it was too quiet and I’d gone downstairs,
wondering why there was no stocking at the end of my bed, why Mum
was up already and her bed made (which wasn’t like her at all), and
I’d gone into the kitchen and seen a big heap of clothes in the
middle of the floor, only it wasn’t a heap of clothes, it was my
mother.

Panic drove me out of the attic and down the
stairs. Panic drove me past the enormous front door that my
fumbling hands couldn’t open, drove me on through the kitchen to
the back door, which I unlocked, then locked behind me. I stood
outside in the snow, staring at the key, stupefied, not knowing
what to do with it. I shoved it into my coat pocket and started
walking fast, oblivious of the drifted snow that went up over my
shoes and was soon soaking the hem of my trousers. I walked like a
thing possessed, down the drive, out onto the road and turned, like
an automaton, towards the mill, in search of sanity.

Gwen

I stood outside the mill, out of breath, my heart
pounding, and looked up. There was a light on. I had three choices.
I could knock on the door and hope that Marek was awake. I could
walk back to Creake Hall and cry myself to sleep. Or I could stand
outside the mill and wait till I died of hypothermia.

As I considered my options I became aware of
mournful music in the air. Clearly, I had completely lost it and
was now hallucinating. Then I realised the music was coming from
inside the mill. It was Marek’s cello. I listened for a minute or
so, then my frozen feet carried me up the few steps to the front
door and I watched as my hand lifted the doorknocker. The sound
made me jump. I wanted to turn and run, but there was nowhere to
run to, so I stood still and tried to think what I’d say when Marek
opened the door.

When he did, I stood blinking in the light
from the doorway, blinking too at the sight of his fingerless
mittens and the woollen scarf wound round his neck several times.
My planned introductory remarks flew out of my head and I said,
‘You look like something out of Dickens.’

‘And you look like you’ve seen the ghost of
Christmas Past.’

‘I think perhaps I have.’

He gazed at me for a moment, his face
impassive, then stepped back. ‘Come in before you keel over.’ He
closed the door behind me, saying, ‘I won’t offer to take your
coat. You’re not likely to get overheated.’ He led the way upstairs
to the sitting room. It was lit only by candles - at least twenty
by my estimation - and the round, red brick walls made the room
feel womb-like. There were bunches of holly and chrysanthemums in
jugs scattered around the room. On the table stood a large bowl of
apples, an open bottle of red wine and a dish of nuts. Shattered
walnut shells littered a plate and a silver nutcracker winked at me
in the candlelight. I felt momentarily cheered by the sight. The
cello lay abandoned on its side beside a chair and music stand. As
Marek moved around the room the candles flickered and the burnished
wooden body of the instrument seemed to breathe like a living
thing.

He didn’t sit, nor did he invite me to. He
stood watching me, waiting, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his
jeans. After a long silence, I said, ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

He indicated the cello with a wave of his
mittened hand. ‘Neither could I.’

He said nothing more and I knew he was
waiting for me to explain. I was determined not to burst into tears
again, so with a kind of desperate enthusiasm I said, ‘Would you
play to me? I stood outside listening for a while. Was it Bach?’ He
nodded. ‘Would you carry on? Please. I think it would calm me. Help
me think.’

I braced myself for questions, but none
came. Relieved, I sank down on the sofa and stared at my sodden
shoes. My feet were numb with cold, but I couldn’t find the energy
to undo my laces. When I looked up again, Marek was seated, the
cello positioned between his legs. He was watching me.

‘You really think this will help?’

‘Yes, I do. If you wouldn’t mind.’

‘Do you want to know what I’m playing?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘I’m going to play the
Prelude
from
Bach’s Suite no. 2 in D minor.’

‘Thank you.’

He gave me another long look, then lifted
his bow. The piece was slow, stately and infinitely sad. No sooner
had Marek started to play, than he appeared to tune me out. At the
concert I’d had a sense that he was trying to communicate the music
to us, but this time I felt I was watching something private: a
meditation, a dialogue between Marek and the instrument, perhaps
between Marek and Bach. It felt almost like eavesdropping. As I
listened to the music, my heart rate slowed, the need to scream
abated. I became engrossed in the movement of his hands and the
fierce expression of concentration on his face, which softened
occasionally as he lifted his head, closed his eyes and moved his
lips slightly, as if he were singing with the instrument. The
candlelight played on the strong bones of his face and made his
skin glow. When he opened his eyes, they seemed to burn - if
something so dark can be said to burn.

When, after a few minutes, the music
stopped, Marek sat very still, the neck of the cello resting
against his shoulder. I stared at the instrument, envious and
exhausted, wishing I could do likewise. He laid his bow down on the
music stand and said, ‘Why have you come?’

‘I needed to see you.’

‘It couldn’t wait till morning? Should I
feel flattered?’

‘Marek, Alfie’s dead.’

‘
What?
’

‘Rae’s son. Alfie. He’s dead. He died years
ago. There are letters written by his father. I’ve seen them. Alfie
died as a child. As a baby, I think. So my boyfriend - my
ex
-boyfriend - is an impostor.
And they all
know!
I couldn’t bear to spend another minute in that house,
so I came here. I’m sorry, but it’s freaked me out and I didn’t
know where else to go.’

‘I said you were welcome any time. And you
are.’

‘You don’t seem very surprised.’

‘That you came here?’

‘That Alfie -
my
Alfie - is a
fake.’

‘There’s not much you could tell me about
families that would surprise me. So no, I’m not all that surprised.
It explains a lot, in fact.’

‘But why would anyone
do
such a
thing? Why would anyone go to such lengths? I mean, how many years
has this been going on? They filmed a documentary with Alfie -
my
Alfie - eleven years ago! He’s been playing the part for
eleven years at least! How could anyone do that? Give up their own
life and assume somebody else’s? And why would the family
want
him to do it? It’s just... madness! But they can’t
all
be mad, surely?’

‘It’s not necessarily madness. It might just
be a communal fantasy. Something they all share. When did the child
die?’

‘I don’t know. The letter just refers to him
being dead. Freddie - that was Rae’s second husband - was obviously
trying to get her to come to terms with it.’

‘Rae didn’t accept her son’s death?’

‘Apparently not.’

‘Then the fantasy might have been going on
since he died.’

I looked at Marek in disbelief. ‘You mean,
the boy died... and everyone carried on pretending he was
alive
? But that’s insane!’

‘No, not if they all know that’s what
they’re doing. It’s just collusion. On a surprising scale.’

‘It’s horrible! It’s
sick
.’

‘Well, it’s certainly not healthy. But it’s
a way of coping. Sometimes the dead just won’t lie down. They live
on. In people’s minds. So they’re kept alive in the memory.
Sometimes the dead won’t even stay in the past. Children
especially. The bereaved imagine the child growing up... They
fantasise about what sort of person he would have become... They
observe anniversaries - not just of the death, but of the birth, so
the child appears to grow up. To have a
post mortem
“life”.’
I stared at Marek who now appeared to be talking not to me, but to
himself. His eyes had clouded over, as if he wasn’t seeing me any
more, wasn’t seeing anything. ‘It’s a strange sort of comfort, I
suppose. And perhaps a form of punishment. For surviving.’

‘Marek... you’re not talking about Alfie,
are you? The dead child.’

He lifted the cello away from his chest and
laid it down on the floor, then he sat up slowly, placed his hands
on his knees and looked at me, searching my face for something. I
didn’t look away, though it was hard not to. He appeared to come to
some decision and, without taking his eyes from mine, said, ‘I am
talking about a dead child. I’m not talking about Alfie
Donovan.’

‘Marek, what happened to you?’

‘Nothing happened to me. Something happened
to somebody else.’

‘What?’

‘Death.’

‘Would you rather not—’