The Silence. Joss Stirling

thought I could hear music when I went to bed.’

      ‘We were in the snug. Did we disturb you?’

      She knew full well he’d gone out on the balcony again but unless she actually saw him on it, she didn’t feel it her place to reprimand him. It meant he didn’t fog up the snug with his little roll up cigarettes. She had an acute sense of smell and stale tobacco numbered amongst her least favourite odours.

      ‘I enjoyed it. I might have a problem if she decides to practise in the middle of the night but as an evening serenade it was very pleasant.’

      Jonah rubbed the back of his neck making the tattooed bolts twitch. Did he know that the Frankenstein creature in the book didn’t have those; that it was the clumsy interpretation of film? The original had been stitched, not bolted, together. ‘I spoke to her later too. We had what you’d call an embarrassing encounter. She thought she heard a ghost.’ He gave her a straight look.

      ‘Most people hear odd things here. I’ve always rather hoped there is a ghost but I’ve never seen one. Have you?’

      He dropped his gaze and laughed; a short bark, not a belly laugh, of real humour. Poor Jonah: so sad under everything. All she could do though was offer him her affection to make up. ‘I’m too unimaginative for a ghost to waste its time on me. Anyway, I told her not to worry.’

      ‘Good. I hope she’d not naturally highly strung. I had another of those once.’

      ‘Another what?’

      ‘Highly strung tenant. Gillian her name was. She couldn’t settle here, thought people were interfering with her things, told terrible lies about me. I had to get rid of her in the end.’

      ‘You kicked her out of Gallant House?’

      ‘I’m afraid I did.’

      ‘Well, it’s your house, your rules. I reckon Jenny will be fine, though, once she’s got used to it.’

      ‘I hope so. It’s so good to have music here again. Kris leaves big shoes to fill.’

      Jonah glanced up at the clock. ‘Right, really must go. Don’t work too hard now, Mrs Whittingham.’

      She pointed to her cheek and, after a slight hesitation, he bent down to give her a perfunctory kiss. He didn’t like doing that but she wanted him to see her as family. Everyone who lived under her roof had to understand that. He also never stopped calling her Mrs Whittingham even though she had invited him to address her as Bridget numerous times. Jonah was stubborn that way, a core of steel she didn’t think she would bend. He quit the kitchen in a hurry and the next thing Bridget heard was the front door slam. She hadn’t managed to break him of that habit either.

      I could follow him, she thought. Trail him to the station, then to the set, and watch them film the next episode. Perhaps I could be an extra, sit in the waiting room with a bloodied handkerchief to my temple, or leg in plaster?

      She got up, went to the kitchen door and put her hand on the knob.

      What am I thinking? She snatched her hand back as if the handle burned her. People don’t do that, they don’t go haring after their lodgers to thrust themselves into their work. I’m turning into a crazy old woman with stupid urges. She sat down again at the table, gathered her papers and patted them into order. Maybe she would revise Chapter One again. That was her favourite. Yes, that would be best.

Part 2 – The Fool’s Room

       Chapter 16

       Jonah, Present Day

      ‘I’ve been reading your file, Jonah, and it says that you’ve had anger management issues for years, ever since you were young, in fact. The first serious incident came when you were nine. Is that right?’

      The way the inspector said it made it sound so tidy. Anger management. Turn left in the brain past accounts and record keeping. Jonah shrugged. ‘Can I smoke?’

      ‘Not allowed anymore,’ said the female detective. ‘Public building.’

      ‘Yeah, and we can’t have the boys and girls in blue dying of lung cancer thanks to all these chain-smoking criminals.’ He twiddled his thumbs instead on his lap, so hopefully they wouldn’t see his nervous gesture.

      ‘So you view yourself as a criminal?’ The inspector swooped in on his use of the English language.

      ‘Reformed. But not yet kicked the habit of Mr Benson and Mr Hedges. Sorry, I can’t remember your names.’

      ‘DI Khan and DS Foley,’ said Ms Foley.

      ‘Like in foley artist? The guys who do the backing sound for films?’

      ‘Sorry, not following.’

      ‘Sergeant, we’re getting off the point.’ The inspector looked at his watch. They’d been at this for hours and they were all a little punch drunk with tiredness. Khan looked scruffier than ever. Maybe he did undercover work? No, too senior. He was just a mess. Let’s just end this, thought Jonah.

      ‘Of course, sir,’ said the sergeant.

      Jonah waited until she looked back at him. ‘Next time you go to a film, stay for the credits. You’ll see foley artists somewhere in the sound section. Cool job.’ He sounded calm enough but inside he was crawling with unease. Strung-out. Desperate. Serious tobacco withdrawal.

      ‘Jonah,’ said the inspector sternly, ‘you were telling us about your anger management issues.’

      ‘Were we?’ He gazed up at a cracked ceiling tile. Christ, he wanted to punch something. He could feel it building … building … He had to get out.

      ‘Issues arising, it says here, from an abusive upbringing.’

      ‘No!’ Jonah slammed his forehead on the edge of the table. Blood streamed from a cut. ‘Don’t …’

      ‘Jonah!’

      ‘Talk …’

      ‘Stop – you’ll hurt …’

      ‘About …’

      ‘Call for a medic.’

      ‘That.’ With the last hit he slumped on the table, head buried in his arms. He wanted out.