Silent Voices

TWENTY YEARS AGO, WHEN THE DAYS WERE MUCH BRIGHTER…

THE TREE HOUSE is coming along nicely. It will be the den of the Three Amigos, when it is finished, and each of the boys is prepared to do whatever it takes to get the job done.

The light is fading slowly from the day. Daytime animals are being replaced by their nocturnal counterparts in the dense shrubbery. The sky has taken on all the shades of evening; the clouds scatter and dark patches show like great bruises against the heavens, and the sun is poised coyly at the tip of the horizon.

Marty is sitting on a makeshift wooden joist, high up in the branches of the chosen tree, hammering in six-inch nails. His face is a study in concentration; his body moves fluidly, as if he was born to the task. Simon watches his friend work, feeling a shiver of pride, but also a slight tug of jealousy. Marty is physically strong, good-looking and a great fighter; he is popular among the girls, and most of the boys at school are terrified of him. Simon can only dream about commanding that kind of respect.

Brendan is dragging more wood from the pile they’d made earlier, his thin body struggling with the load. Simon walks over silently and begins to help. Brendan smiles, but at that exact moment the sky darkens a little more and the smile looks pained, almost fearful.

Brendan swore that he saw a figure earlier: a tall man wearing a beaked mask, and with things that must have been false legs hanging down past the hem of his Halloween coat. Having now recovered from the initial shock, the boy still seems fragile. He wears his fear like the badge of a pop band he is ashamed to like.

The two boys drag an old plywood wardrobe door over to the tree where Marty is still hammering. They position it below the partially-built platform, and stand looking up at their friend. After a short time, Marty stops hammering, runs the back of his hand across his forehead — it is a studied move, one he’s probably seen in a film — and looks down at the others from his perch.

“You ready for this bit?” Simon peers upwards as his friend’s shape becomes a dark outline against the darkening sky.

“Yeah.” Marty nods. “I don’t know how we’ll get it up here, though.”

“I do.” Brendan takes a step closer to the base of the tree. “We can set up a pulley system. I saw it in a book. All we need is that load of old rope over there and some well-tied knots.” He crosses the ground and bends over, sorting through the bits and pieces of rope they found in the tumbled remains of another den — this one abandoned, with its fabric door hanging in tatters and the old lino, used as a floor covering, all torn and coated with mud. “Yep,” says Brendan, turning to glance at his friends. “This’ll do fine. We can have the platform raised before we have to go home for dinner.”

The lowering sun shivers behind him, causing a strange rippling effect in the sky. For a moment it seems to Simon that Brendan’s form becomes unstable, that it might break in half at any moment and the two separate pieces — like conjoined twins suddenly given their freedom — will drift off into the landscape, becoming parts of the patchy sliver of nature in which the boys are standing.

The illusion lasts only a fraction of a second, but it resonates deep within Simon’s consciousness. He feels that he has been given a glimpse of something, has looked through a window into another place that exists alongside this one. Perhaps even another world.

Marty drops from the branches above and lands gracefully at Simon’s side. He is an athletic kid; he plays football for the school team and has never lost a fight in his life. Marty is a born battler. Everybody says so, even the boy himself. Fighting is all he knows. He has been battling his father, and his father’s rages, since he was old enough to understand the true nature of violence. He learned young. They were lessons he learned in the cot.

Standing there, with his friends, Simon has another flash: a brief image of the three of them as grown men, standing hand-in-hand on the grass. They are bright, energetic boys, and in his mind this translates to success in the grown-up versions of the Three Amigos. He smiles; the vision makes him happy, despite the questionable truth of what he sees. Then he notices that the adult Marty is clutching at his side, and the adult Brendan is wearing clothes that are covered in dark stains. His own grown-up counterpart stands at the centre of this fading frieze, his face lean and angry.

“Let’s get cracking,” says Marty, keen to keep active, as if labour enables him to forget about the rest of his life. His hands are bunched into fists and the muscles in his neck stand out like thick wires. His cheeks are flushed from the physical labour and his forehead gleams with sweat.

“Right,” says Brendan, seeming older than his ten years. “I’ve seen this before. All we need to do is tie these ropes together and attach it to the wood, and then we loop one end over that fat branch there and tug on the other end so the wood gets lifted up. One of us can stay in the tree, and guide it onto the frame. The other two will need to pull on the rope as hard as they can.”

“Sounds easy enough,” says Marty.

“Yeah, if you’re a gorilla.” Simon smiles.

“No, really. It’s easy-peasy. I saw it on a film. It worked in the film, so it’ll work now.”

The other two boys nod, convinced by the cinematic precedent. Whatever doubts Simon might have had are pushed aside by the thought of the three boys acting out their own little movie, right here on Beacon Green.

“Can anyone, like, tie a proper knot? A pirate knot or something?” Marty steps forward and picks up a short length of rope. “Some of these are a bit small. We’ll have to tie them all together to make one long piece.”

“Just tie them really, really tight. It’ll be okay.” Simon takes the length of rope from Marty’s hands as he speaks. He pulls on the rope, testing it. “It’s pretty strong. If we double and triple tie the knots, it should hold when we pull the wood up into the tree. Trust me. Brendan’s idea’s going to work.”

And that is all they need to go ahead with the plan: Simon’s word, his blessing. Despite the fact that there is no official leader of the Three Amigos, and each boy brings his own strength to the table, it is always Simon who has the last word. The other two members of the small gang look up to him in a way that can never be spoken of; they defer to his superior intellect, his quiet presence. It has always been this way, even when the boys were infants. Simon was always the silent leader; he is in command, whether or not he wants the job. He is the one who pushes the others forward, giving the group momentum.

They work in silence for a while as the day slips away and the long shadows crawl like living things around Beacon Green, clustering at the bases of the trees and in the dense foliage of the small overgrown area the boys have played in since they were first allowed out of the house alone. It is their place, where they feel most at ease. There is nothing to fear on the small patch of waste ground, and their parents would not even pause for thought at the prospect of giving the boys free rein, to come and go as they please on this part of the estate.

Before long the separate pieces of rope have begun to form a single long rope. The knots are firm; overdone, if anything, but at least they will hold when the real work starts.

“So what do we do after?” Simon looks up at his friends. “I mean, when we’ve done this? If we leave it here, unguarded, some other kids will come along and wreck it.”

There is a brief pause when the boys stop working, glance at each other, and wait for someone to say what they are all thinking.

Simon continues: “We need to guard the den,” he says, once again assuming his role as the leader, the member of the group whose responsibility it is to say such things aloud, to give voice to the collective consciousness of the Three Amigos. “Like army blokes. Like soldiers, yeah? We need to stand guard and protect what we’ve built.”

Marty nods. Brendan squints, blinks, and then finally nods his own assent.

“Me and Bren will go back to mine and tell my mum and dad that I’m sleeping at his. Then we’ll go to his and say to his mum that we’re sleeping at mine. They won’t check. They never do. They don’t care.” Silence again, but this one tense and filled with things that can never be discussed: the unfeeling attitude of both sets of parents; the fact that even at ten years old, the boys know that their mothers and fathers should take more care with their offspring. They all know that Simon’s mother and father will be caught up in their own private war, and that Brendan’s mother will be so far into the bottle of gin she keeps in the magazine rack at the side of her chair that she won’t even remember the conversation.

“I’ll climb out of the window after I’m supposed to be in bed.” Marty’s eyes are hard, cold. Behind them, just about visible through the tears that he always manages to keep at bay, are the images of violence that dwell in his own home. The father that hates everyone, including himself, and takes out those feelings of rage and helplessness on his own son. The bruises hidden beneath Marty’s shirt. The cigarette burns on his upper arms.

“We’ll meet back here, then.” Simon raises his left hand, palm facing outward, splays his fingers, and then slowly makes a fist, one finger at a time folding in towards the palm, little one first and the thumb last: the secret salute of the Three Amigos. The other two boys follow suit, making their own slow-motion fists. Brendan does it with his eyes closed. Marty stares at Simon’s face, his jaw clenched tight and his cheekbones as sharp as blades.

Without another word on the subject, the boys continue their work, knotting the ropes, making their primitive pulley.

Soon the job is done. The boys stand and admire what they have made. Brendan holds the rope in his hands and tests the joints, pulling at them, trying to tug them apart. “This is good,” he says. “This’ll definitely work.”

Brendan kneels beside the sheet of plywood. There are already holes drilled along one edge, perhaps construction joints for the piece of furniture the wooden panel was built to be part of. He threads one end of the rope through two of the holes, and then loops the rope over itself, securing it tightly. He tests this knot, too, second-guessing his own work. The knot holds.

“Who’s going up there?” Simon looks up, at the rickety structure they’ve created across two sturdy branches.

Brendan drops the plywood onto the ground. “I think the strongest one should climb up there. Marty, you’re easily stronger than us two, so you can go up. You’ll need to grab the edge of the wood and try to push it into place on the frame. It’ll be really hard, but me or Simon wouldn’t have a chance of doing it.” He holds out his skinny arms, as if to underline his point.

“Okay.” Marty runs to the base of the tree and leaps up, catching hold of a low branch. He seems happy to be physical again.

“We’ve gotta be careful,” says Simon. “We don’t want to get hurt. This thing’s got sharp edges.”

Brendan glances at the wood, nods. “Yeah. Do it slowly.”

“Okay, I’m ready. Throw one end of the rope up here!” Marty’s arm is dangling, his fingers grasping. “Hurry up.”

Brendan grabs the loose end of the rope, gathers in a good length, and then stands directly beneath the platform. He swings the rope, squints as he takes aim, and then throws the end upwards. It barely lifts above his head before falling back down to earth.

“Bugger,” says Brendan, his body going loose and his bottom lip pushed out in a sulky half-pout.

“Don’t be daft,” says Simon, bending down to pick up a large stone. “We need to make the end heavy. Here… tie the rope around this.”

Brendan takes the stone and forms the end of the rope into a tight knot around the heavy object. “It’s a monkey’s fist,” he says, grinning. “Old sailors used them as weapons when they had fights. I read it in a book.” He swings the rope, the heavy end whistling through the air. “God, I bet it would hurt if you got someone on the head with it.”

“Throw it up!” Marty’s arm is still dangling. It looks like the tail of some weird animal.

Still swinging the rope, Brendan takes a single step back and hurls the stone into the branches. Marty’s hand clutches, misses, and then clutches again; the rope wraps around his forearm, and his fingers close quickly over the rough hemp. “Got it!” he shouts. “I’ll sling it over this branch.”

“Yay!” Brendan jumps up and down on the spot.

“Yes!” Even Simon is caught up in the moment, thrilled by this small success.

There’s a pause while Marty removes the stone, and then it drops at Simon’s feet. Then the end of the rope comes down out of the tree, twisting like a snake. Simon grabs the rope and guides it down. Then he and Brendan start to take up the slack.

“Okay,” says Simon, loudly. “We’re going to start pulling.”

“Tally-ho!” Marty screams from his spot on the branch, his voice funny and high-pitched.

Laughing, the other two boys begin to pull on the rope. The plywood panel shifts, turns, spins, and then slowly begins to rise. The weight isn’t as much as they’d guessed, but it’s an awkward method of lifting a rectangular sheet, and the exertion starts to tell on them.

“It’s coming! I can see it.” Marty is excited. He is in his element.

Simon grits his teeth and concentrates on making his pulling action steady and rhythmical. He doesn’t want the timber to jolt or judder. It needs to rise as smoothly as they can make it; and if they try to rush what whey are doing, somebody might get hurt.

The panel swings as it rises, and the two boys on the ground keep their heads down, staying low so that it won’t take off the top of their skulls. As soon as it is hanging at a level far enough above them for safety, they straighten up, planting their feet and keeping a tight grip on the rope. Simon is at the rear, and he makes sure that he gathers the loose end as more of the rope is fed through his hands, forming a coil near his left foot.

“I’ve got it!” Marty sounds as if he is shouting through clenched teeth.

“Brace yourself.” Simon sets his body, leaning backwards.

“This is working…” Brendan peers up into the branches, trying to get a good view.

“Careful,” says Simon, as he feels the rope tighten in his hands. The panel drops a few inches, then, as he takes the weight, it is suspended for a moment above them. “Bren… I can’t hold it… it’s gonna drop!” But Brendan is staring at the plywood panel, as if he is seeing something magical.

Inevitably, the panel drops. The rope skids through Simon’s fingers, burning his skin, and the panel plummets to the ground. He falls back, stumbling but not quite going down, and Brendan doesn’t move. He just watches as the panel drops towards him, whistling as it moves through the space.

“Bren!”

Brendan begins to turn, and it is this which saves him from taking a blow to the head. Instead, the panel slices across his right forearm, taking off a swathe of skin and drawing blood, as it flashes past him. Brendan falls down, grabbing his wounded arm, and opens his mouth to scream.

Simon moves quickly, running to his friend. He goes down onto his knees and inspects the arm. Blood is running freely, and the skin has peeled away from wrist to elbow. The cut is not deep, but it is messy; Simon thinks he’ll probably need stitches.

Brendan is wailing, but he’s trying not to cry. His eyes are wide. His face is pale.

“Bloody hell,” Marty is at Simon’s side. “Bloody, bloody… bloody hell.”

“Are you okay? Can you move?” Simon is afraid to touch his friend’s arm, in case he makes things worse.

“Y-yeah… I can move.” Brendan sits up. His arm is coated in blood. The blood looks bright, like movie blood. That’s all Simon is able to think.

“You need to go home. Or to a hospital.” Marty starts to move, bending down to help the injured boy to his feet.

“No!” Brendan shouts the word. It is enough to stop the other two boys in their tracks. For a moment, they can’t move, can’t breathe. They just stand there and stare down at the third Amigo.

“You’re hurt, mate. This is finished.” Simon feels a twinge of regret as he speaks. He doesn’t want this to be over, not any of it: the day, the den-building, the summer. He wants to stay ten years old forever, staving off an uncertain future by playing in the trees on Beacon Green.

“No,” says Brendan, but softer this time. “I’ll be fine. It’s just scraped off some skin. Once the bleeding stops, we can start again.”

Simon feels a sense of admiration towards his friend. A choice has been made. Blood has been spilled. Like a sacrifice. Brendan’s inner strength is revealed.

“We can’t stop now. We have to finish what we started.” Brendan’s face is still pale, but his eyes are on fire. “We’ve gotta finish this.”

For a second, perhaps even less, nobody knows what Brendan means. Then, like water flowing through a crack in a dam, reality pours in and they realise that he means the den, the work they have been doing all day.

Now that the moment is broken, the boys feel able to move again. Marty takes off his T-shirt. “Here,” he says. “Use this as a bandage.”

Simon turns around and stares at Marty’s body. The boy already has muscles: his arms are hard; there is the vague suggestion of a future six-pack airbrushed across his stomach. There are fresh cigarette burns alongside the old, white scars on his upper arms and in the soft skin of his elbow joints.

He takes the shirt and slings it over one shoulder. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket — the one his grandmother bought him the Christmas before she died; he always carries it with him, but is never quite able to say why — and starts to scrub the blood off Brendan’s arm. The bleeding has slowed, almost stopped.

Once the arm is relatively clean, Simon uses Marty’s T-shirt to cover the wound, which under close inspection isn’t as bad as it looks. He ties it tightly, remembering from a film or a book that pressure will stop a wound from bleeding. It was probably in a war film. He loves war films. So he pretends that this is a combat situation, and he is treating a fallen comrade. In order to continue with the fight, the soldier has to get back on his feet, and it is his responsibility to make sure that happens.

“Are you sure you’re okay, soldier?” He stares into his friend’s eyes, looking for the cracks in his wall of courage.

Brendan nods. That’s all he does. He does not speak. Then, slowly, he gets back to his feet and walks over to the plywood panel, begins to inspect it for damage. “It’s fine,” he says without turning around. “Everything’s fine.”

But for some reason Simon doesn’t believe that. Deep down inside, like a big bass drum sounding some terrible beat, he feels certain that nothing will ever be fine again.