Silent Voices (23 page)

“Give us your wallet.” Scooby had stopped smiling. He held his hands at waist level and flexed his fingers. He must have been, what, fifteen years old? “Now.” He bared his teeth. His cheeks were pockmarked, and his front teeth yellow, probably tobacco stained.

“Listen, lads–”

“No, you listen.” The boys each took a single step forward, like one entity composed of three parts. “Do what I said, and empty your pockets. If you do, we might not hurt you.”

Jesus Christ, was this really happening, in broad daylight?

Suddenly Simon was no longer afraid, he was angry. This was good; he could use it. He let the rage flood through him, filling him up from the inside, like a tap being turned on somewhere in his gut. “Fuck off, son.”

He’d barely finished his sentence when the boys struck.

Scooby moved forward and threw a punch, which landed sweetly on the side of Simon’s face. He reeled backwards, his own hands coming up, and he was pushed further back by the advancing boys. He lashed out, feeling his fist connect with bone, and started screaming abuse as he tried to pummel his attackers.

His energetic defence did not last. He went down after a few seconds, taking more blows to the face, and a hard one to the stomach. His breath came in thick, jagged bursts; his kidneys ached; he felt his head go down. Then, before he even had a chance to attempt any more punches, he felt the solid connection of a foot to his temple.

He stayed down, unable to fight gravity. The ground grabbed him, held him, and refused to let him go, while darkness inched in from the corners of his vision.

He was aware of the boys – Scooby, Blue Hoody, Green Hoody – going through his pockets, and then they dragged off his suit jacket. There was laughter, yelling, and the sounds diminished as they ran away, leaving him there on the ground.

The only reason he did not black out was because he vomited, bringing up his bland breakfast in the dirt.

After several minutes he stopped heaving. There was nothing left in his stomach to come up, and his throat felt raw. He struggled to his knees and inspected himself for damage. A few bruises on his face, a sore side, no blood. As far as beatings went, this one was mild. They were amateurs. He’d suffered worse when he was mugged by one man in London, four years ago as he stumbled drunk through the streets behind King’s Cross.

But the bastards had taken his jacket, and his wallet and mobile phone had been in the pocket. “Shit,” he said, looking upwards. He had no memory for numbers, not these days when everything was stored on a SIM card, so he would not be able to call Natasha, or Mike at The Halo. “Shit, shit, shit...” Nobody would be able to contact him, either.

He struggled to his feet, taking it slowly as the blood rushed to his head and made him dizzy, and then headed back towards the flat. He had a few loose notes in his trouser pocket, but his debit and credit cards had been in the wallet. He needed to get to a phone and make a few calls, stop the cards and order some new ones. He checked the ground for his keys; they were still there, near his foot. Okay, this could have been much worse. Yet still he felt angry. This was his birthplace, where he was from – how dare those little fuckers do this to him!

Beneath the anger, buried away in a place where he rarely looked, there was also shame. He was a grown man, a successful property developer, and he had been unable to handle a bunch of kids. They’d kicked his arse and hung him out to dry, and he was embarrassed at the pathetic effort he’d made at defending himself.

Next time, he thought, I won’t go down so easily. But, in that same quiet spot in his gut, he knew that he would. He always would, because despite the lies he told himself, he was not a real fighter. He was a survivor, but not a warrior. Experience had already taught him that.

Simon let himself into the flat and inspected himself in the mirror. His face was already bruising – the right side was slightly swollen, a lump developing along the side of his jaw and across his cheek. He was hardly turning into the Elephant Man, but the swelling would be noticeable.

He took a shower, dressed in some clean clothes, and then rang directory enquiries on the landline to get the number of his bank. He cancelled all of his cards, and because he was a priority customer, with large sums in his accounts, he was told that a new set of cards would be couriered to him within twenty-four hours. Again, he felt ashamed. Money got you what you wanted, the things you needed, and it got them to you faster than it did to anyone else. He took some notes and loose change from the drawer by the bed. He always split his money in this way; it was an old habit he’d not lost.

As an afterthought, he rang the emergency services number and was put through to the local police station. He told the officer on the other end of the line what had happened. They asked if he was hurt. When he told them it was nothing serious, and he did not need medical care, they gave him a crime number to quote in the instance of any insurance claim and asked him to call into the station when he could to give a statement. He hung up the phone, wondering if there had been any point in calling them.

Simon went downstairs and into the pub on the corner of Grove Court and Grove Road. The Dropped Penny had become, by default, his temporary local. He needed a pint, and perhaps a whisky chaser. The day had started badly, and unless Brendan delivered the goods with Marty Rivers’ grandmother, it was bound to get a lot worse.

He drank his first pint of bitter down in one, savouring the brief bloated feeling in his gut, and then ordered another. He took the second pint and the double malt to a table in the corner, where he sat and glared at the television above the bar, waiting for the alcohol to do its job. He drank the second pint slowly, alternating each mouthful with a sip of the whisky. Some of the other patrons glanced at him, but they did not stare. In pubs like this, on estates like these, a man with minor facial injuries was nothing out of the ordinary, and was often the last person you’d want to make eye contact with.

Simon enjoyed the aura of danger around him. He wondered if those little bastards would come in here to spend some of his money... the thought shattered his fragile machismo. He didn’t want to see them again, certainly not this soon after the attack, and not without someone to back him up.

He remembered what the girl in the café had said about Brendan, and how she’d seemed wary of him. That was the kind of company he needed. He hoped his old friend would find him soon, so that he could ignore the quiet, taunting voices in his head, the ones that were mocking him for being so easily defeated.

The Dropped Penny was quiet. Men drank in pairs; an old woman sat at the bar, her legs crossed to stop herself from falling off the stool. The young barman watched a football programme on the television, trying to lip-read as muted managers and players were interviewed outside stadium dressing rooms.

There was an air of desperation about this place, but Simon felt comfortable around these people. They might be alcoholics, wife beaters, petty criminals, or they might be high court judges slumming on a daytime session. Nobody cared; they were only here to drink, not to cause trouble or to ask any awkward questions. They each existed in their own little world, shut off from everyone else.

Brendan walked in just after noon. He stood in the doorway, not quite coming fully inside, and peered into the gloomy interior. The fruit-machine made a few noises, somebody laughed more loudly than a joke deserved, and finally Brendan’s gaze came to rest on Simon. He nodded, walked in, and crossed the room to the bar.

Simon watched his friend as he ordered two pints. He was staring straight ahead, as if concentrating on something. Then, when the glasses were placed before him, he paid his money and turned away, strolling over to Simon’s table.

“What happened to you?” His face did not change as he said the words. He looked unmoved, unconcerned: he’d only asked the question because it would have been peculiar not to. He didn’t really care about the answer.

“I was mugged. Three kids. They took my phone and my wallet.”

Brendan smiled; the expression was smug rather than amused. “You’re not the man you used to be, mate. Back in the day, you would’ve outrun them easily.”

“Thanks for all the sympathy. You really are spoiling me.”

The two men sat in silence for a while, drinking their beer. The atmosphere in the pub remained subdued. The Dropped Penny was not an establishment where people gathered for lunch, discussing business proposals over a nice Caesar salad. The clientele of this pub was more likely to grab a quick bag of pork scratchings between pints, if anything at all, and their debates and discussions revolved around football, horse racing, and possibly the state of the nation.

“Fancy another before we head off?” Simon’s face had stopped hurting, the pain dulled by the alcohol.

“Yeah, why not. I don’t have work tonight, thanks to you, so I can do whatever the hell I like.”

Simon stood and walked across to the bar, ordered two more pints, paid for them, and returned to the table. It felt right. This mechanical process – drink, forage, drink – was something that he could understand and rely on when everything else in his life seemed so unreliable.

“Sorry,” said Brendan, relaxing now that he’d had a drink. “I didn’t mean to make light of what happened to you. At least it doesn’t look too bad.”

“No worries. I probably had it coming. Walking around in designer togs, flashing my money... they must have been watching me since breakfast. I’ve forgotten how to act around here.”

Simon glanced around the room, not looking for anything in particular, just watching. “It’s not like it was when we were kids, you know. We had a fight, it was fists and feet and a lot of huffing and puffing. These little bastards will pull a knife on you, maybe even a gun if it’s after dark and you pose a threat to their drug deals.” Bitterness made his voice seem heavy, as if the words weighed more than his mouth could carry. There was sorrow, too, and regret: a sort of grief for the way things had been long ago, when life on the estate had seemed so much simpler.

He put down his pint glass but did not let go. He stared at his hand, at the fingers wrapped around the glass. “Tell me, Brendan. What do you remember from that night? The night we... went missing.” He did not look up. He didn’t want to look into his friend’s eyes.

Missing
... and they still were, all of them, when it came right down it.

Brendan sighed. Then he spoke. “I remember us making the den in the trees, and then I saw something. Somebody. A man in a mask... like a bird’s face, or something.”

“Captain Clickety?” said Simon, finally raising his eyes.

Brendan nodded. “Yes.” He exhaled loudly. “Remember, it was something Marty told us. Back in the seventies, a couple of kids – twins – who lived in the Needle were tormented by a poltergeist. They called him Captain Clickety, because they kept hearing a clicking sound, like castanets. I’ve read about it since... most of the rumours are false. Nobody seems to want to talk about it these days, but one of the twins died of a heart attack. At least that’s what the records say. Natural causes, anyway. Probably shock-related.”

Brendan leaned forward in his chair, his chest almost touching the top of the table. His face was sombre, his eyes narrow. “Captain Clickety,” he whispered in a singsong voice.

“Captain Clickety

He’s coming your way

Captain Clickety

He’ll make you pay

Once in the morning

Twice in the night

Three times Clickety

Will give you a fright”

Simon felt cold. The old rhyme had chilled him, bringing back snippets of memory, torn and tattered visions, like a shredded sheet: the inside of the Needle, all dark and damp and empty; a figure moving through the darkness, rustling in the low-hanging branches of trees; a girl, her skin shedding light as she came towards them, smiling... movement, like huge wings, curling around her back and shoulders.

Brendan spoke again, as if he had not broken off from his account: “I remember the platform falling, cutting my arm – I still have the scar." He glanced down, at his arm. “And we went back that night, sneaked out of our houses, and met up there, to guard the den. What a bunch of babies – acting like cowboys.” He smiled, despite the solemnity of his tone. “We saw someone again – possibly the same figure – and we decided to follow him, to spy on him. It was just a game, a bit of fun... that was all. A fucking kids’ game.” His eyes were shining with tears. “Then... then... we were in there, inside the Needle, and we were so fucking scared. We were terrified.”

Simon reached out and grabbed Brendan’s hand, clutching it. He didn’t care who saw them; he didn’t give a damn what it looked like. “But how did we get in there? That’s what I can’t remember. I didn’t even see the figure, although it was my idea to follow him. I don’t remember how the hell we got inside that place.”

Brendan looked deep into his eyes. “Me neither.”

Simon pulled his hand away, suddenly embarrassed by the contact. He glanced around the room, but nobody was taking any notice of their exchange. In The Dropped Penny, nobody eavesdropped on your conversation; nobody gave a damn about your business, whatever it was.