His Silence - Chapter Four

‘So your Dad’s going with you to the prison?’ Callum asks, his arms swinging to and fro as we march up the road. I used to always joke that he walked like he was taking part in some brass marching band. Every time I told him, he’d swing his arms even more wildly and make a noise like a trumpet playing, until we were both in fits of giggles.

It’s Monday evening. We’re heading to the local pub. The sun’s slipping behind the red, crooked roofs of the houses ahead of us. Smoke is trailing out of one of the chimneys, smudging the red sky.  

I run my hand through my hair. ‘He said he would, I was quite surprised, I thought he was going to react in the same way Emma did, but he seemed to think it was a good idea. You don’t have to worry about coming, but I’ll keep you updated. I’m gonna get Michael to sit in the car outside while I go inside to speak to him,’ I reply.

‘It probably would be better if Michael go with you. So do you know what you’re going to say to him?’ Callum asks, raising an eyebrow.

What am I going to say to Harvey? In my head, I’m sitting opposite my therapist. I’m seventeen; it was the first year I’d considered getting in contact with Harvey for the first time. Her knees are crossed over, her notepad balancing on her knee cap. Her turquoise eyes are fixed on mine. In her presence, I felt like I could let go of everything. It was her voice, so calm, so patient.

‘So, Danielle, if you could, I would like you to think about what you would say to your brother if you could have a conversation with him. Can you tell me?’ she’d asked, her voice, soft, gentle, like a primary school teacher’s voice, her gold bracelets glinting in the light.

I’d thought for a long while, body trembling as I imagined the scene before me. In my head, he was still the fourteen-year-old, scrawny looking boy with messy hair I last saw on the day of the murders. I couldn’t picture him as an adult in his twenties. I’d swallowed. ‘Um, I want him to tell me the truth,’ I’d said. I’d reached out for the tissues on the table next to me.

‘Can you imagine what he would say you?’ she’d asked, still keeping her voice in that same delicate tone.

‘I . . .’ I’d shaken my head, wiping my eyes furiously with the tissue. ‘I don’t want him to, I don’t –’

‘It’s OK, Danielle, you’re safe in here,’ she’d said. ‘Nothing can hurt you.’

I’d run out of the room when we’d finished, to Emma waiting for me in reception and hugged her, sobbing into her arms.

‘It’s OK, Danielle. You don’t need to speak to Harvey. You’ve got us. You’ve got a perfect life with us here,’ she’d said, after I told her what we’d discussed. But that wasn’t what I wanted, I wanted the truth, I wanted to understand what sort of person I was.

Callum and I back up against the wall of the house right on the edge of the road to our right, as a grey Volvo roars past; the back of my heel presses into someone’s flower bed. The guy driving it seriously didn’t care about his speed. Emma would shout something after him if she was here. I smile as I think of the last time she did, when the guy slammed on his breaks and she darted behind a tree in terror as he reversed back up the road. Her comment was something short and to the point. We continue walking. ‘I think I want to listen to what he has to say first,’ I reply to Callum, kicking a stone with my foot. It skids across the surface of the road, then bounces down a drain. ‘It sounds like Harvey’s got something he wants to say to me, so . . . I think I’m gonna let him take the lead. And Callum, not a word about this to anyone tonight, I don’t want this to make the evening awkward, OK?’

‘Yeah, sure, I won’t say a thing.’

We reach the top of the road. The Old King’s Head pub is to my right; the wooden sign with its name and a grisly looking portrait of Henry VIII creaks in the breeze. We slip into the pub, the thick oak door squeaking as I push it open, a waft of garlic reaches me from the kitchen. I keep my head bent low to avoid the Tudor beams on the ceiling; there’s been more than one occasion, when Michael’s had one too many in here, and he’s whacked his head on the beams trying to leave. I flinch at the sound of someone’s booming laughter to my right. It’s normally quiet in here during the week. I didn’t think it would be this busy. It’s why I thought Monday night would be best.

‘Danielle.’ My friend, Rob is waving at me and Callum from the bar, his hand’s clasped around a pint of Stella. He beams. I resist the urge to roll my eyes; he’s wearing his usual muscle fit top. Callum says he only wears it to advertise his personal training services, Rob’s logo and contact details are printed in white on the back, but I doubt you’ll find many people thinking about working out in the pub. He’ll have been in the gym before coming out. He’s the sort who even exercises on Christmas Day, there’s no way on earth you’d ever get me doing that. ‘Happy birthday for yesterday, what are you guys having, this rounds on me? The others are in that table over there, y’know, usual spot.’

Everyone else is sitting in the bay window, where Rob’s pointing his finger. It’s sort of cut off from the rest of the pub. Makes it a little more private. That’s why I prefer it.

‘Oh, um, Gordon’s G&T, for me,’ I say. ‘I’ve been aching for one all day.’

‘Sure thing.’

Rob slaps Callum on the back as he joins him at the bar.

‘Danielle, c’mon.’ Bea, my friend with the red curly hair’s waving to me from the table, her eyes wide. She’d insisted we’d call her Bea the very first time I met her, saying only her Nan calls her Beatrice. She gives someone the right cold shoulder if anyone does. ‘There’s a space next to me,’ she says, patting the seat next to her on her left.

‘Yep, sure just coming,’ I say.

I leave Callum and Rob chatting and head over to the table, brushing past a table where a young couple are sitting by the fireplace, looking at their phones. How can you go out with someone for the evening and stare at your phone the whole time? I shake my head.

‘Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,’ Bea chants as I sit down.

‘Oh please, don’t, I don’t want everyone looking at me.’

‘Ah, you deserve to be the centre of attention,’ Bea’s boyfriend Jack says, grinning at me. He takes a sip of his Moretti.

‘How many times have I told you, you know how much I hate that,’ I say. ‘New shirt, Jack?’ I ask, noticing his pink Hugo Boss shirt.

‘Bea bought me this,’ he says, flicking back his wavy dark hair.

She smiles and rubs his arm. ‘Don’t you think it makes him look sexy?’ Jack splutters into his drink making Bea laugh. ‘Anyway, this is from us,’ she says, pushing a cylinder shaped wrapped present into my hands. ‘Open it, go on.’

I tear off the wrapping paper. ‘Oh it’s lovely,’ I say, staring at the autumn spiced Yankee candle.

‘I know that one’s your favourite,’ Bea says, giving me a hug. Her Alien perfume she’s been addicted to wearing since she was twelve, wafts into my nose. It’s the one thing I always know to get her for her birthday.

‘Thank you.’ I hold the candle to my nose and breathe in the scent of cloves. It’ll have to stay in the cupboard for now until September.

Callum and Rob return with the drinks. Callum plonks my gin and tonic in front of me.

‘Cheers, Danielle,’ Rob says, raising his pint to his mouth. ‘I have got you something, but it’s out in the car.’ Typical Rob. He’s the same whenever it’s someone’s birthday.

‘You drove?’ I say, picking up my gin.

‘Don’t worry, don’t worry, I’m only having a couple of pints,’ he says. ‘I got here five minutes ago. So how was the party? Y’know I’m jealous I missed out on one of Emma’s spreads.’

I shift in my seat. ‘Sorry about that, she made a big thing about it just being for family. But you know I wasn’t keen on having a party anyway. I told Emma and Michael I wanted to just go out for a family meal, rather than have everyone crowd round and sing me happy birthday, like I’m twelve.’

Callum shrugs. ‘I think Emma uses your birthday as an excuse just to throw a party, you know how much she loves entertaining.’

More people trickle into the pub over the next hour. It’s starting to feel more like a Friday night than a Monday. I shift in my seat. My head’s beginning to swim, and I’ve only had two gins, at this rate I don’t think I’ll be having another. I slump in my seat, and hold my hand over my mouth as I yawn. I’m only half listening to what Rob’s talking about, he’s going on about some client he’s been dealing with at work this week at the gym.

I scan the sea of heads crammed in at the bar. Someone sitting on their own at the other end of the pub catches my eye. There’s something . . . something about him, I can’t quite put my finger on it. A shiver races through me. The man’s sitting in the corner next to the bar wearing a white t-shirt. I fix my gaze on his sandy brown hair and five o’clock shadow on his chin. I frown, there’s something sort of, I don’t know, familiar about him, like I’ve met him before. Our eyes lock, he smiles at me and raises his pint. I look away, my cheeks burning, and try to pay attention to what Rob’s saying. Had the man just momentarily been looking across at us, or has he been watching me for longer? He wasn’t sitting there when we walked in. I know there are plenty of people who come to the pub on their own, particularly in our village, but he looks out of place. It’s like he’s here for another purpose rather than to just have a drink.

‘Everything alright?’ Callum asks, leaning in so the others don’t hear.

The guy’s just got to be waiting for a friend, that’s all. I clasp my hand around my drink. ‘Yep, um, sorry, was just looking at some bloke over there, I sort of recognised him, I don’t know.’ Callum looks in the direction of the bar, eyebrows furrowing. Someone’s lumbered in front of the man, so he’s moved out of our line of vision. I shake my head. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’m sure I was mistaken.’

Callum gives me a reassuring smile. ‘Just so long as it’s not a journalist,’ he says, keeping his voice low.

I take a sip of my drink. Damn, I hadn’t thought about him being a journalist. Of course, someone would try and get a comment from me on my birthday. I flick my gaze to the corner of the bar again. I can just make out the man’s right hand shoulder. He isn’t looking in our direction; he’s focused on his phone. If he was a journalist he would’ve come up to me now, I’m sure. I take in a breath to try and calm my heart beating against my chest.

‘No, I don’t think he is, don’t worry about it,’ I say.

But I can’t shake the thought away that somehow I’ve met the man before.