His Silence - Chapter One

May 2024

I pick up my I-Pad, opened on the news section, and shut it down, exhaling a sigh of relief. There’s been nothing reported about me or my family today, thank God. The smoky smell of bacon frying wafts into my nostrils and I smile. The sizzle of bacon always encouraged me out of bed at the weekend when I was a teenager. I lean back in my chair at my dressing table and close my eyes. Emma and Michael will be downstairs, running about, making sure everything’s perfect. So far, neither of them have knocked on my bedroom door, they must think I’m still asleep.

I get up, cross my bedroom and pull open my wardrobe door. The dress I chose to wear for today is hanging from the inside. The blue sparkly fabric is soft between my fingers. Emma picked it out for me a couple of weeks ago, saying how gorgeous I’d look in it. I’m sure I won’t, but I’ll end up feeling guilty if I don’t wear it. Sighing, I push the wardrobe door shut, flicking my hair over my shoulders. I better head downstairs otherwise they’ll be getting fractious.

I pick my phone off my dressing table and stare at the unopened text I received from my best-friend, Callum, first thing this morning, the corner of my mouth twitching.

            Happy Birthday x       

I hold my hand to my cool forehead. I can’t bring myself to answer it. Not yet. I place my phone back on the table, and slip out into the hallway, brushing against the cream wall, the cold floorboards creaking under my bare feet. The tick of the grandfather clock, standing against the wall by the bathroom, gets louder in my head. It’s been here forever. I would stare at its gold chimes behind the glass for hours when I was a kid. Emma told me an elf lived inside, working the chimes. Even now I think about that elf. Tick tock, tick tock, tick tock. My heart thrums. I just need to get the next few hours out of the way. I head for the stairs, running my hand down the dark bannister. Emma and Michael’s voices reach me from the kitchen.

‘I think I heard her on the stairs,’ Emma’s saying to Michael. ‘Quick, make sure that one’s on the top.’

I step onto the chilled stone hallway tiles and turn the corner, passing the family photographs on the wall, with the purple wallpaper to my left. I’m in the middle, an unsmiling seven-year-old; pigtails drooping on my shoulders. I flinch. It always makes me think of my school photos, where everyone else in the yearbook looked ‘adorable,’ and ‘cute,’ with their dimples in their cheeks, and sparkling eyes. I hated my pictures. I wanted everyone to say those things about me. No one ever did, apart from Emma and Michael, but even I knew they were lying.

Here we go.

‘Happy birthday, Danielle,’ Emma and Michael say in unison.

They’re in their White Company dressing gowns I got them for Christmas last year, mugs of tea in hand, big smiles on their faces. Emma places her tea on the worktop, nips across to the stove and turns off the gas.

‘Thank you,’ I say, biting my lip. There’s a stack of presents on the kitchen table wrapped in silver and blue paper, each corner neatly tucked in, gold ribbons tied in a knot on the top. I edge over to the table. Emma’s far better at wrapping presents than I am, I always resort to a gift bag. I swallow. Emma would’ve started picking up stuff in the shops weeks ago. It’s not like it’s a special birthday, but Emma loves an excuse to throw a party. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t suppose there’s any chance of cancelling the party later?’

‘Cancel,’ Emma says, looking over her shoulder, her face scrunching up.

‘I did tell you weeks ago I didn’t want a party,’ I say, placing my hands on the back of the chair under the kitchen table. ‘I . . . I just don’t know if I feel up to it, I think I might have a cold coming on.’ Saying I feel ill is going to be the best way to convince them. I want to lie on my bed, forget about my birthday all together. I want a quiet day with Emma and Michael. Why can’t they see that’s what I want? I wipe my eyes.

‘Sweetie, we can’t cancel now,’ Emma says, stepping closer, her voice coming out in a squeak. ‘Look, it’s just the family coming round today, remember, and Callum will be here, it’ll be a shame not to mark the –’

‘You just don’t understand me.’ I release my grip from the chair, tears spiking. I don’t want to mark the occasion. I should’ve been more insistent with them in the first place, I should’ve . . . Emma’s face crumples. I shake my head. ‘Oh, no, sorry, I didn’t mean to, it’s just . . .’

‘It’s fine, Danielle, don’t worry,’ Michael says pushing the stack of presents towards me, his hazel eyes flickering to me then to Emma. ‘Open the one on the top first,’ he says, running his hand through his greying hair.

‘Oh let her have her sandwich first before she gets paper everywhere,’ Emma says, sniffling. She finishes off making the sandwich by the stove, then spins around, plate in hand. ‘I’m sure she’s starving, here you are, darling.’ She places the plate in front of me.

I bite into my bacon sandwich, my heart still palpitating from when I raised my voice.

‘What’s this?’ I ask, removing a white envelope poking out from in between two presents.

Emma wipes a wine glass with a tea towel, and frowns. ‘Oh, it arrived for you yesterday. Must be a birthday card I imagine.’ The excitement’s dropped a little in her voice.

I pull it out, it’s thick. My name and address is written in scrawled handwriting. It could be a response from one of the job’s I’ve applied for. I’d seen an application for an editorial assistant recently, at a publishing house, and leapt at it. I slip my finger under the seal, hands shaking. Michael and Emma are staring, expecting me to open it. I put it to the side. If it’s going to tell me I’ve not been successful again, I don’t want them knowing. Emma will say, ‘never mind, sweetie, the right one will come along.’ I finish the bacon sandwich, wipe ketchup from my mouth, and grab the present Michael told me to open. I sit back in my chair. Emma’s voice reaches out to me from the past, the day I came home with them after they adopted me and given me my first present, ‘Oh sweetie, we’ll have so much fun, you’ll see,’ Emma said, tears in her eyes. They’d given me a white teddy bear with a pink ribbon in the car, the first present they got me. Even back then they never insisted I call them Mum or Dad. To me they’ve only ever been Emma and Michael. I tear off the wrapping paper, my cheeks tingling.

‘Oh, wow, it’s.’ I turn the cardboard box over. ‘A levitating moon lamp.’ I laugh, reading the bold white lettering.

‘I spotted it on this quirky store online,’ Emma says, sitting at the table. ‘It’ll go so well in your room.’

‘Thank you,’ I say, placing it down on the table and grabbing the next present.

Michael gets up. ‘Won’t be one sec,’ he says, hurrying off into the living room through the open double doors, connecting the front room and the kitchen.

I stare after him. Minutes later he returns carrying something wrapped up, looking like a massive eight. No it can’t be. Butterflies dance in my belly. ‘What’s this?’ I ask. I know what it’s going to be, the shape gives it away.

‘I wanted to get you this for your twenty-fifth last year, but, I only just found it a couple of months back so I thought. Well, open it.’

He places the parcel in front of me. I pull off the wrapping paper, and push the paper to the side.

‘It’s signed. You actually got Taylor Swift to sign it?’ I say, glancing up at him and then back to the sleek, chestnut guitar. I run my hand across the soft, waxy surface, goosebumps erupting on my arms.

Michael laughs, tipping his head to the ceiling. ‘Well, I didn’t personally, but I thought . . . remember all those times when I would teach you her songs on guitar.’ He wipes his eyes.

I stand and hug him. There’s no way I expected Emma and Michael to get me something like this. The guitar must’ve cost hundreds, if not thousands. God, I can’t believe I thought about them in the way I did just now.

‘Perhaps you can both give us a tune later,’ Emma suggests.

I release my grip from Michael. ‘Maybe,’ I say, looking back to the guitar and then back to Michael. ‘Actually, I’d really like that, d’you think we could?’

He shrugs. ‘I don’t see why not.’

I fling my arms around him and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. Today might not be so bad after all.

Half an hour later I hurry to my room, clutching the envelope. It better be an application telling me I’m successful. If I have to apply for any more jobs I’m going to scream. I tear it open, pulling out the enclosed letter and step back into my bedroom, pushing the door shut.

The letter flutters in my hand. The handwriting’s untidy.

Danielle, I know this will come as a bit out of the blue, but I would really like to speak to you. I know you’ve tried to make contact with me before, but I need to see you now. Please can you arrange a visit as soon as possible?

Your loving brother,

Harvey

Your loving brother, what the fuck? I slump to the floor, my back scraping the side of the bed, holding my hand to my forehead. I try to focus on my breathing. I stare at the address where the letter’s come from: Chelmsford Prison.

This can’t be real. Why’s Harvey writing to me now? I gave him the chance to reply to my letter years ago and he never did. What gives him the right to ask me? He ignored me. I scrunch the letter.

Picking myself up, I fix my eyes on the collage of photographs on my bedroom door. A photograph of me, and Callum, catches my eye. My heart flutters. Our mouths are wide open, we’re riding the log chute ride at Thorpe Park, my head’s nestled into his scraggy blond hair. He’s wearing the World of Warcraft T-shirt he wore near enough every day that summer. I smile. The photo must’ve been taken more than ten years ago now. God knows where I would be without him. He doesn’t get upset or frustrated with me whenever I’m feeling low. He would’ve understood why I didn’t want a party. Picturing us back on the log chute calms my beating heart.

I yank my bedroom door open, dart into the hallway and down the stairs, nausea flittering in my stomach. I picture Harvey writing this letter in his cell. How was he feeling when he wrote it? Was he scared, nervous about how I might feel? Or is this some sort of joke he’s playing with me? I curl my fist. I reach the bottom of the stairs and the clatter of cutlery reaches my ears. Emma’s still in the kitchen, her eyes are a little red. She carries a bunch of knives over to the table. ‘Oh, sweetie, I thought you were getting changed,’ she says, sniffing, her eyes flicking up and down. A strand of her brown curly hair falls over her face. She places the knives on the table and looks up at the cupboard above the stove.

‘I . . . I was reading the letter,’ I say, my voice comes out shaky. Michael’s no longer in the kitchen.

Emma frowns. ‘Oh really, who was it from? I assumed it was a birthday card.’

Emma reaches up and gets two of her finest crystal champagne glasses from the cupboard above the stove. I need to tell her. She’ll know what to do. I run my tongue around the inside of my dry mouth, glance at the letter again and back to Emma. I need to get it over with. ‘It’s . . . it’s from Harvey,’ I finally say, my eyes flicking down to his words on the page. I bite my lip.

The champagne glasses slip from Emma’s hands and crash on the stove, glass shatters everywhere. I wince. I’m pretty sure the glasses were a wedding present.

‘No, it can’t be,’ she says, her hand flying to her mouth. She rushes over, eyes wide her feet crunching on the shards of glass. I hand her the letter. Her eyes scan the words on the page. She shakes her head and wraps her arms around me, pulling me in for a hug. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘I . . . I don’t know what he means,’ I say, blinking back tears. ‘It’s like he’s . . . it’s like he’s saying to me that –’

‘Don’t you read anything into what he’s saying,’ Emma says softly, holding me tight, like she used to do whenever I got upset about Harvey. ‘He’s trying to mess with you. God, I had a feeling something bad was going to happen today.’  

‘I . . .’ I don’t know what to say. She must know how much I need to speak to him. ‘But . . . he’s never written to me before, why . . . ’

She looks me straight in the eyes, her breath tickling my nose. ‘Listen to me, Danielle. He’s playing games with you. You’re not seriously thinking about seeing him, are you?’

I shake my head. I’ve spent years trying to see him and now he’s offering me the chance. How can I turn it down? ‘No, of course not,’ I reply. I don’t want to worry Emma.

Emma nods the tension in her face relaxing. Does she believe me? She pulls away. ‘Good, good. Now, I want you to forget about this.’

‘Can I have the letter back?’ I ask.

Emma hesitates, then hands it back to me. ‘Don’t think about it, Danielle,’ she says. I fold the letter in my hands. ‘Put it away, better yet, tear it up, and throw it in the bin.’

I half-smile at her. ‘I won’t think about it, I promise.’

Her eyes flicker to the glass on the floor. She mutters something under her breath and goes off to fetch the dustpan and brush, wiping her eyes. I hurry to my room, slamming my door behind me. She doesn’t want me to see Harvey. Can I go behind her back? I read the letter again, hands trembling, and sit on the bed. Harvey would’ve known today was my birthday.

In my head I’m six-years-old, I’m sitting on his lap, he’s reading to me from The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe. He used to do the voices of the characters so well, particularly The White Witch and Aslan. I wipe my eyes. Can I speak to him? Can I turn my back on Emma?

I stuff the letter under my bed and get up. I pad over to my wardrobe, yank it open, and unhook the dress. Harvey wants to talk to me. I’ve spent years trying to find an answer, researching what happened that night over and over, reading every article, or book written about the case I could find. No one, not even the police could ever come to a satisfactory answer. Harvey confessed and refused to say why he did what he did. I place the dress on my bed and stare at it, my mouth dry. Part of me wants to tear it to shreds. I take in a deep breath.

Now there’s a chance for Harvey to tell me the truth. I want to talk to him. I want to know why he killed our parents.