Silent Scream

Twelve

Tom Curtis turned over and faced away from the window. The daylight didn’t normally stop him from sleeping after an eight hour shift at the care home.

The work was exhausting; picking up fat, old people, putting them to bed, dabbing their spittle and wiping their arses.

He’d already avoided two internal investigations but he suspected that this third one might be more problematic. Martha Brown’s daughter only visited once a week and when she did she was sure to notice the bruise.

The rest of the staff had turned a blind eye. It was impossible not to lose patience now and again. Being the only male on the team meant he would often turn up for the night shift and find that the heavier jobs had not been done. He was powerless to complain. If he’d been honest on his medical form he would not have a job at all.

But it wasn’t even his conscience that kept him awake. He felt nothing for the old folks under his care and if their relatives were affronted they could bloody well take them home and wipe the shitty arses themselves.

No, it was the ringing of his mobile phone that was keeping him awake. Even though he’d switched it off he could still hear it in his head.

He turned and lay on his back, glad that his wife and daughter had already left the house. Today was going to be another dark day.

The dark days had punctuated the last two years, seven months and nineteen days. It was on these days that the urge to drink was overpowering. It was on these days that sobriety was not worth his life.

When he’d left culinary school he had never envisaged that his future would consist of changing the nappies of old people. When he’d graduated he had not foreseen old, wobbly flesh around his neck as he lifted geriatrics in and out of bed. He had not dreamt that he would be hand feeding a group of people who were filled with rigor mortis before they’d taken their last breath.

At twenty-three he’d suffered his first heart attack which had rendered him unemployable on the restaurant scene. Long hours and stressful working conditions were not conducive to the long life of a person with congestive heart disease.

One day he’d been serving haute cuisine in a French restaurant at Water’s Edge in Birmingham and the next he’d been preparing turkey burgers and frozen chips for a bunch of worthless kids.

For years he hid his addiction from his wife. He became a master of lies and deceit. On the day he collapsed with a second heart attack his lies had been uncovered when the doctor had advised that the next bender would most probably be his last.

He had not taken a drink since that day.

He reached across and switched on his phone. Immediately it began to ring. He hit the end button to cut off the call, taking the tally of missed calls to fifty-seven in three days. He didn't recognise the number and no name displayed on the screen, but Tom knew who was calling.

And the caller would have spent his time better had he tried to reach Teresa. It was obvious that she'd opened her mouth to someone and it had got her killed.

He suspected that the authorisation for the dig had made them all jittery but he didn't need the check calls. He would keep their damn secrets, just as they had kept his. They had made a pact. He knew that the others viewed him as the fragile connection in the chain of deceit but he hadn't weakened yet.

There had been times, especially on the dark days when he'd been tempted to speak out, to rid himself of the poison. Those thoughts had been more easily silenced by drink.

His mind travelled back, as it did every day. Damn it, he should have said no. He should have stood up to the rest of them and said no. His own wrongdoing seemed so trivial compared to the consequences of his acquiescence.

One time he'd found himself on the wall outside Old Hill police station. For three and a half hours he remained there, chasing the tail of his conscience. He stood, he sat down, he paced, he sat down. He cried, he stood up. And then he walked away.

If he'd been strong enough to tell the truth he might have lost his wife. As a woman and as a mother, if she ever learned of his part in the events she would be sickened by his actions. And the worst part was Tom couldn't blame her.

He threw back the covers. There was no point trying to sleep. He was fully awake. He headed downstairs. He needed coffee, the stronger the better.

He headed to the kitchen and stopped dead at the dining table.

Staring at him was a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue and a note.

The very sight of the golden brown liquid took the saliva from his mouth. The forty per cent proof bottle cost more than one hundred pounds. It was one of the finest old-aged malt and grain whiskies; the Cristal of the blended whisky world. His body responded. It was like staring into Christmas morning. He tore his eyes away and reached for the note.

WE CAN DO THIS YOUR WAY OR MY WAY BUT IT WILL GET DONE. ENJOY.

He slumped into the chair, his eyes fixed on his best friend and his worst enemy.

It was clear what the sender wanted. They wished for him to die. Alongside his fear sat relief. He had always known that the day of reckoning would come, whether it be in this life or the next.

Tom unscrewed the top of the bottle and the smell reached his nose immediately. He knew that to take a drink would kill him. Not the first sip – he was an alcoholic, there was no such thing as a sip. If he took a drink he would finish the whole bottle and that would bring him death.

If he chose this method to die then no one else need suffer. His wife would think he'd simply weakened and she would be safe. With luck she might never learn of what he'd done. His daughter need never know.

He lifted the bottle slowly and took the first gulp. He paused only a second before raising the bottle to his lips again. This time he didn’t stop until the scorch in his chest was unbearable.

The effects hit him immediately. After more than two years his body had lost tolerance and the alcohol burned around his veins all the way to his brain.

He took another swig and smiled. There were worse ways to die.

He swigged again and chuckled. No more bathing old folks. No more dirty nappies. No more wiping dribble.

He raised the bottle to his mouth, taking the liquid halfway down. His body was on fire and he felt euphoric. It was like watching your favourite football team slaughter the opposition.

There would be no more hiding what he’d done. No more fear. He was doing the right thing.

The tears dropped onto his cheeks. Inside Tom felt happy, at peace, but his body was betraying him.

The bottle paused at his mouth as his eyes rested on a photo of his daughter feeding the goats at Dudley Zoo on her sixth birthday.

He squinted at the photo. He didn't remember that frown on her face or the questions in her eyes.

‘Sweetheart, I'm sorry,’ he said to the picture. ‘It was only once, I swear.’

Her expression didn't change. Are you sure?

He closed his eyes against the accusation but her face still swam before his eyes.

‘Okay, maybe it was more than once but it wasn't my fault, sweetheart. She made me do it. She tempted me. She teased me. I couldn't help myself. It wasn't my fault.’

‘But you were an adult?’

Tom closed his eyes against the onslaught of his child's disgust. A tear forced its way out and slid down his cheek.

‘Please understand, she was much older than fifteen. She was clever and manipulative and I just gave in. It wasn't my fault. She seduced me and I couldn't fight back.’

‘She was a child.’

Tom pulled at his own hair to ease the pain. ‘I know, I know, but she wasn't a child. She was a conniving girl who knew how to get what she wanted.’

‘But what you did next was unforgivable. Daddy, I hate you.’

Now his whole body cried. He would never see his beautiful little girl again. He would not watch Amy grow into a young lady or be around to protect her from boys. He would never kiss those soft cheeks again or feel her tiny little hand in his.

His head dropped forward and tears fell onto his legs. Through the blurred vision his gaze travelled to his feet and rested on the slippers Amy had bought him for Father’s Day. They were monogrammed with the face of Homer Simpson, his favourite character.

No, his mind screamed. There had to be another way. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to lose his family. He had to make them understand.

Maybe he could go to the police. Admit to what he’d done. It wasn’t as though he’d been alone. He hadn’t even been a decision maker. He’d just gone along with it because he was young and scared. He’d been weak and stupid but damn it he was not a murderer.

Of course he would be punished, but it would be worth it to be able to watch his daughter grow.

Tom wiped away the tears and focused his vision on the bottle. It was over half gone. Oh God, he prayed that it was not too late.

As he placed the bottle back on the table he felt his head being yanked back by the hair.

The bottle fell to the floor as Tom tried to understand what was going on. He felt the cold tip of metal beneath his left ear, a forearm against his neck. He tried to turn but the tip of the blade ripped at his skin.

He watched as a gloved hand moved from left to right beneath his chin.

And that was the last thing he saw.