Silent Voices (29 page)

“Take off your shirt, Marty. Lie down over there, on the table.” Doc was scrubbing his hands at the sink against the opposite wall. He did not look up, just stared closely at his hands as he slathered them in blue fluid beneath the hot tap.

Marty did as he was told. The pain had returned, and the dressing he’d applied to the wound was coming loose. He folded his shirt and set it down on a chair, and then climbed up onto the table. He lay flat on his back, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was a death pose, and it made him feel uncomfortable. He moved his arms to rest by his sides and stared at the ceiling, the sculpted plaster rose at its centre, and the bright light that hung from it.

“So what’s the trouble?” Doc stood over him, his pale arms pink and hairless in the harsh light. “Is it infected? That’s what you suggested over the phone.” He leant over Marty’s torso. His breath smelled of whisky and ginger.

“God, man, how much gauze did you use?” He peeled back the dressing and cleaned out the wound. “What happened to the stitches? Have you been picking at these?”

“No... they just came out, on their own. Maybe I knocked it against something, I can’t remember.”

“You fucking guys... you’re all the same. With your cheap gold rings and your tribal tattoos, thinking you’re real tough guys. You can’t hurry nature, son. Healing – every kind of healing – takes time and care. You can’t hurry it along like a slut on a first date.” His hands were soft and gentle, unlike when he’d worked at ringside. Here, on his own turf, the man became the skilled doctor he must once have been, before life broke him.

“Doc, this might sound a bit funny, but I need you to inspect inside the wound. I think I got something in there.”

Doc stopped working. He straightened his back and stared at Marty’s face. “Are you high, son?”

Marty shook his head. “No. I just have this... this
feeling
. It feels like there’s something moving around in there, under my skin.” He looked away, unable to meet the old man’s gaze.

“Jesus Christ on a bike. You people... drugged up, fucked up, and walking around like you’re masters of the universe. Don’t you realise what kind of mess you’re making of your life?” He shook his head, talking to himself now. “I don’t know; some folk just never know when to quit the game.”

Doc grabbed some stainless steel pincers and a scalpel off a tray and paused. “I’ll try to make sure this doesn’t hurt much, but I’m not making any promises.”

“Okay. Just have a look... check around in there, would you?”

“Aye. Don’t worry. If there’s anything in there, I’ll have it out in a minute.” He bent back to his work, his eyes widening, his lips pressing together.

Doc was as good as his word. The examination did not hurt too much. Marty gritted his teeth a couple of times, but the mild pain was tolerable, much less than he’d expected.

“I’ll put in a few more loose stitches,” said Doc, when he’d finished. “There’s fuck-all in there, son, so please leave it alone this time. If you have any discomfort, just give me another call. Don’t start imagining symptoms – that’s my job.” He winked.

“Thanks,” said Marty, closing his eyes.

When Doc had finished, Marty handed him an envelope of used bills. Doc didn’t bother counting the money; he simply nodded, smiled, and walked Marty to the door.

“Remember,” he said. “Just leave it alone... let it heal.”

“I will,” said Marty, but the door was already closing in his face.

He went back to his car and sat behind the wheel with the engine running. Aretha Franklin was singing on the radio. He listened until the song ended, and then switched it off. He drove away from the kerb, watching the street, wondering what was happening to him. None of this seemed real. It was like a dream he’d once had, when he was a much younger man. The acorn he’d imagined burrowing under his skin was a metaphor, but he did not have enough information to understand what it meant.

Back at the flat, he poured himself a whisky and took out his phone, ignoring the voicemail and text prompts. He dialled Erik Best’s mobile number. The call went through to voicemail, as he’d expected. Erik screened all of his calls.

“Erik, it’s me. Marty Rivers. I have something important I need to tell you. Call me back.” He ended the call and drained his glass, then got up and poured a double. Then he sat back down and waited.

He grabbed the remote control and turned on the stereo. Muddy Waters sang about a Mannish Boy. Marty closed his eyes and enjoyed the music, letting it infect him with its melancholy. His mobile must have buzzed for thirty seconds before he realised he had a call.

“Hello. Erik?” He’d answered without looking at the display. He only hoped that it wasn’t Melanie.

“What is it, Marty?”

No preamble: just get straight to the point. “I quit. No more fights for me. That last one... it wasn’t right. The game’s changed.”

There was a pause during which Marty thought he might have said the wrong thing, or at least picked the wrong time to say it. Then Best began to speak. “I won’t try to talk you out of it, Marty. Actually, I’ve been expecting this for a while. Just do me one favour, yeah?”

Marty swallowed a mouthful of whisky. “What’s that?”

“Go away and have a proper think. Sleep on it; run everything though your mind. Then, in a few days, a week, if you still feel the same, we’ll have this chat again. There’ll be no hard feelings from me. If you really want to chuck in the towel, I’ll respect your decision. I will call on you for other favours, though, just like before. Just a bit of heavy work here and there, or maybe the occasional stint on the doors. A man still needs to make a few dollars, mate, and I’ll always need a battler like you on my team.”

Marty relaxed. “That seems fair enough to me, Erik. I’ll speak to you in a few days. But I doubt anything will change. I’ve made my decision.”

“Okay, marra. Speak to you soon.” The phone went dead.

Marty was about to hit the ‘off’ button on the handset when he remembered that he had a text message and a couple of voicemails. He’d ignored them before, assuming that it was Melanie, but this time he checked, just in case. Both messages were from the same person: Simon Ridley.

“Fuck me,” he whispered, listening to them again. “Fuck me, Simon Ridley.” The messages were short and to the point:

“
Listen Marty, this is Simon Ridley, from years ago. Please give me a call. I need to speak to you about something.
”

Later, “
It’s me again, Simon. Call me. It’s important; very important. Have you been having dreams? Dreams about a grove of trees and that time we spent in the Needle?
”

He opened the text message and it gave the same information in fewer words.

Marty stored the number and put down his phone. Then he picked it up again and switched it off. He did not want to speak to anyone else this evening. He needed to think.

He struggled to control his breathing.

His side ached. Something moved sluggishly beneath his skin. The world turned; the remains of the day moved briskly towards night; his life passed in a succession of moments, each a layer of his self being peeled away by the things that had happened to him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

B
RENDAN WAS NERVOUS
. He was drinking too much, far too quickly, his clothes felt uncomfortable, and whenever he looked at the clock on the shelf, time seemed to have moved quicker than the laws of physics allowed.

Jane was in the kitchen, cooking the meal. He could tell that she was on edge, too, but she would not tell him why. He suspected it was simply the fact that she hadn’t seen Simon since he’d left the Grove, but his habitual paranoia kept trying to make more out of the situation. Did she still harbour feelings for her ex-lover? Would she look at him in the same way that she used to look at Brendan, all those years ago when they first got together?

He finished his can, crushed it in his fist (an old habit, one he’d picked up from watching
Jaws
in his teens: Robert Shaw, Quint, the old sea dog). He bent down and grabbed the fresh can resting on the floor between his feet, popped it open, and took a mouthful of cold ale.

“What time is it?” Jane’s voice carried through from the kitchen. The twins were banging on the floor upstairs, running around from room to room, playing catch, or indoor football, or simply running because they could.

“Seven-forty!” He took another swig of his beer and stood, moving across to the window. Typical Simon: late as always.

“Have you checked your phone? I’d hate to think that he might have called to cancel and we didn’t get the message.” Jane moved up to him from behind, slipping her arms around his waist. She kissed him on the side of the neck. Her breath was warm; her lips were wet from the wine she’d been drinking.

“He’ll be here. He just likes to make an entrance.” He stared out of the window, at the empty street. The sky was darkening, the clouds were low, and lights had already come on in some of his neighbours’ front rooms. He’d never noticed before just how early they came on, and for some reason the thought unnerved him.

Jane rubbed his stomach with her hand. She pressed her lips against the back of his head. “Don’t worry,” she murmured. “He’s probably more nervous than we are.” Then she was away, back to the kitchen to keep an eye on the preparations. She’d kept the menu simple: a prawn cocktail starter, chicken and tomato with penne pasta for main, and a cheesecake bought from the bakers on the Arcade for dessert. Simon would probably think it was cheap, working class; no doubt he was used to eating out every night in classy London restaurants where they served small bowls of sorbet between courses.

Suddenly Brendan felt like a fool. Standing there in his cheap trousers and badly ironed shirt, he knew he was a fraud, a pretender. Why had he bothered to try and be something he was not? He should have sat around waiting in his work jeans and a T-shirt. Simon-fucking-Ridley wasn’t worth all this trouble. All they were doing was feeding his ego, making him think that he was something special.

He gulped from his can, trying to stem the sudden flow of hatred. He had no idea where it was coming from, and didn’t see any reason why he should be thinking these things, or why Simon’s imminent arrival should be affecting him in this way.

He turned away from the window and sat back down on the sofa, facing the television. The kids were still clattering about upstairs, causing a lot of sound and fury, and he expected Mrs. Broadly from next door to start banging on the wall. She hated children, and never missed an opportunity to complain.

There was a knock on the front door, followed by the chime of the doorbell. Simon was here. He had sneaked along the street, down the path, and onto the front step while Brendan had been occupied, lost in his own banal thoughts. He stood, straightened his shirt (hating himself for doing so), and went to answer the door.

“Brendan!” Jane’s voice, loud and slightly panicked.

“Aye... I’ve got it. It’s him.”

He could see Simon’s outline through the textured glass panel in the door, a slim, elegant shape. He waited motionlessly, as if he were a statue and not a real person.

Brendan paused for a moment, waited for a lull in the commotion on the first floor, and then opened the door.

The man on the doorstep was Simon, as expected, but he looked different... somehow
less
than he had done before. The bruising on his face had already faded, but his skin looked discoloured, slightly jaundiced. He seemed thinner than earlier that day, his garments less fitted, and when he smiled it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are you okay?” He stepped back and opened the door fully, making room for Simon to enter.

“Yeah. Yes, I’m fine. Just feeling a bit tired, that’s all.” Simon held out a bottle of red and a bottle of white, one in each hand. “I didn’t know what we were having, so I brought both.” He smiled again, and this time it was better, healthier... but still there was something missing. “Anyway, I’m here. Thanks for the invite.” He stepped slowly across the threshold.

“Thanks for coming. You know the way through, yeah? I’ll just grab you a beer from the kitchen.” Brendan shut the door behind his guest and watched him walk along the hallway and enter the living room. He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, taking out two cold beers.

“This won’t be long,” said Jane. Her cheeks were flushed. The kitchen was warm. “I’ll go and get the twins down and we can all say our hellos.” She reached out as he straightened from the fridge, her hand lightly brushing the collar of his shirt. “Nice shirt. Didn’t I buy you that?” She winked. He smiled. It was a rare moment of solidarity, one that felt like it lay outside of their roles as parents, even as husband and wife. In that moment they were friends, and they were allies.

Brendan took the beers back into the living room. Simon was sitting on the sofa, perched on the edge of the seat and watching the television. His eyes were small and hard; his face was tense.

“There you go.” Brendan handed him a can. “Get that down you, bruiser.”

Simon opened the can, smiled weakly, and took a long swallow. “Why is it that beer always makes things better? They should give it out on the NHS.”