Tears of a shadow, p.1
Tears of a Shadow, page 1
First published in Great Britain in 2023 by
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Copyright © 2023 Oliver Silver
The right of Oliver Silver to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This work is entirely fictitious and bears no resemblance to any persons living or dead.
ISBN 978 1916668 713
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
One
9th of June 1987
Standing in the boring silence, my hands clasped together in front of my pasty little body like a priest, my eyelids begin to droop as I gaze towards the rickety wooden stairs in front of us and wonder how much longer it will be before he comes down. It’s dark down here in the cellar, the only light coming from the single bulb hanging above us, giving the room a low, orangey hue. I press my toes against the cold, hard concrete, feeling the little pieces of gravelly dirt scratching at the soles of my feet. My eyes drift down in the semi-darkness and trace a thin, icy-blue vein that meanders diagonally across from the inside of my left foot to the outer edge. When it gets there, it stops dead.
A few inches to the left, over a ravine of grey concrete, I see Michael’s ugly white feet staring back at me. They’re maybe a third or so bigger and my eyes narrow as I focus on his toenail. It’s still very black from last week and looks even worse now, like a decaying blackberry is rotting under there, the manky pus seeping out of it as it tries to prise open the heavy door to freedom. I feel his elbow jab into my ribs, and I return my focus to the concrete between my feet, reciting the words to myself in my head. I know them inside out, but this is where I need to be better. That’s what he says. He says that my mind always wanders and when that happens, I lose concentration. If you lose concentration, you come out of the moment. If you come out of the moment, you lose the audience. It’s the small details, over and over. This is the work.
Today is the last performance of the week. Standing next to me in his white briefs, his body swaying in the tiredness, I wonder if he’s feeling braver. I know he gets very nervous before. Even though it’s summertime, the concrete beneath my feet still feels very cold, but Simon likes us to feel the cold in our bodies. He says it’s just as important to be in your body as it is to be in your mind. To feel things freely through your body allows you to be free of limitation. Just to the right of the old creaky staircase, in front of a dusty red-bricked wall, is the sunken, filthy brown sofa waiting patiently for the audience to take their seats. It’s later than usual. When I felt Michael’s hand rustling me to life in the bottom bunk a few minutes ago, I was lost, deep in a wave, drifting through dark water at the bottom of the ocean. Squinting at him in the darkness, I realised it was time again. Simon’s never late and I hate silence. I never know what to do in it.
‘Should we look for him?’
‘No – just, ssssshhhh,’ Michael whispers, jabbing his bony elbow into my ribs, harder this time. ‘Don’t talk, it’ll only—’
‘Why is it, boys, that I hear talking?’ comes Simon’s low, gravelly voice from the top of the stairs. Slowly, two unsteady brown loafers start to clomp down towards us through the darkness, step by step like wooden boats being winched into the sea. I close my eyes, listening to the wood creaking under his weight as he gets closer, the smell of tobacco drifting down with him. ‘Michael…’ the voice purrs, ‘why are you talking to your brother?’ The footsteps suddenly stop as the air shifts in front of us. Peeking through the tiny slit between my eyelashes, I see him. Head tilted to one side, his sullen eyes low in their sockets, he stays there, glaring at Michael through his round glasses as the light flickers off his bushy silver beard. Bringing the tumbler to his lips, he slurps down some of the orangey liquid, the ice clinking against the inside of the glass.
‘Are you deaf as well as dumb?’ he snarls, taking a step closer in the low light, the whiskey paddling upstream towards me in the stuffy air. ‘When I took you in, did I or did I not say that if I tell you to do something, you bloody well do it?’ he snaps, spraying spit through the air onto my skin. His tongue flicking at his teeth, he shakes his head.
‘Who’s going first?’
I resist the urge to say anything, waiting instead for Michael to speak as Simon turns his back on us and shuffles towards the derelict sofa. Slumping into the dirty cushions, he sucks on his cigarette, exhaling a dark cloud across at us as his thick tongue slides across his bottom lip.
‘Michael, you should be leading by example. You should be showing Jonathan how to do it,’ he orders, dragging again on his cigarette. ‘Open your eyes, boys, don’t be scared.’ After a second, we both slowly open our eyes and look to the only member of the audience. ‘Michael,’ Simon growls, ‘what have you prepared?’
‘Hamlet, Sir.’
‘Very good.’ He nods, shifting in his seat. ‘Begin.’
Silence returns. I can feel my heart starting to pump faster and faster as the little seconds tick away in my mind. I stare into Simon’s dark eyes, both fixed firmly on Michael.
Why doesn’t he start? Why isn’t he saying anything?
‘I…’ Michael croaks. ‘I… um…’
‘Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,’ Simon barks, ‘not again.’ Sinking into the sofa, the tumbler resting precariously on his knee, he stares up at the ceiling, the smoke from his cigarette rising around him. ‘I cannot believe you are doing this again,’ he rages. ‘You can’t even start it, can you? Do you know how pathetic that is?’ The silence echoes around the cellar as my head turns towards Michael. His face is as white as his feet.
‘I’m sorry, I… I don’t know why—’
‘Stop! Just fucking stop, don’t say another bloody word,’ bellows Simon, jabbing a stubby, hairy finger into the air at Michael, the sofa creaking underneath him as he leans forward. ‘Go up,’ he hisses, pointing to the stairs. ‘Go on, go. That’s what happens. You don’t prepare, that’s what happens.’
Michael doesn’t move. I scan across to him and watch as fresh tears start to slide down his cheeks.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Simon goads, his red face consumed by confusion and disgust. Michael obeys, trudging towards the staircase with his head bowed. Creaking away up the wooden steps into the shadows, the light catches off his skin, and I see the deep red and purple slashes all across his back as he disappears out of sight.
‘Now,’ Simon whispers, his gums rising like a rabid dog, ‘what does my little star have for me?’
‘I have Hamlet too, Sir,’ I mumble, ‘but I can try something different.’
‘No,’ he grins at me from the shadows, dropping his burning cigarette on the floor as he settles into the tattered brown cushions, ‘that’s perfect.’
My knees shaking, my heart thudding against the cage, I take a deep breath in through my nose. Pausing in my moment, I look out onto the audience and whistle a silent stream of air through my lips. The words arrive in my brain, trickle down my throat and start to rattle out of my mouth as I stare into Simon’s eyes. He’s gripped by me, noticing every tiny movement, connected to every syllable. As I move through the monologue, my heart warms as I watch the familiar smile creep across his face and the light shining on his yellow teeth. As the words pour out of me with their rhythmic, hypnotic power, his tongue slides side to side across his wet bottom lip as he listens, totally immersed. I have it tonight. I follow the monologue down the river, watching not to crash into the banks either side, letting the strong, rippling current take me all the way to the edge of the waterfall. I make it to the precipice and look out at the last few lines, hovering in front of me above the frothy, fizzing water. I pause for a split second, before delivering my favourite part of the speech: ‘And th us the native hue of resolution is sickled o’er with the pale cast of thought.’ Rumbling through the last few lines, I feel the powerful vibration of the water rushing around my ankles. I utter the last two phrases and stand bobbing in the silence, waiting to jump as Simon stares back at me through the darkness. Slowly, he brings his thick palms against each other over and again, sending a slow, deafening round of applause reverberating through the cellar.
‘Do you know why I am the head of theatre, Jonathan?’ he asks, beaming at me from the shadows as the clapping stops. I shake my head, feeling the little stones of dirt scattered underneath my toes. ‘Because I know talent,’ he says, slowly nodding his head. ‘Come and sit with me,’ he orders, patting the soiled cushion next to him. I potter over, happy that I recalled all the words. They came to me so easily this time. I sit down next to him and look up into his eyes, feeling the loose threads of exposed fabric scratching against my bare thighs.
‘That was really very good,’ he whispers. ‘Some work to be done on the intonation, but it’s very, very promising.’ Lingering in the silence, I stare at his silver bushy beard, studying the sharp prickly hairs on his chin. ‘Do you miss your mummy and daddy?’ he asks, his fingertips caressing the side of the frosted glass of whiskey. Lost in his eyes, I slowly shake my head. ‘You see – that’s why you’re better than your brother,’ he whispers, lightly tapping two swollen fingers against his temple. ‘You have it up here.’ His hand scuttles onto my bony knee like a hairy tarantula as I say my own name to myself in my head. Jonathan Stetson. Uncle Simon says it’s a good name, a strong name. The name of a star.
‘You know what’s next, don’t you?’ he asks, bending forward to set his glass down. I slide off the sofa onto the hard concrete floor, feeling the tiny rocks of dirt scratching against my skin. Stretching his legs out either side of me, he lies back against the cushions. Kneeling on the stony ground, I’m distracted by something across to my left. Lying there, discarded on its own, the cigarette continues to burn. I stare it at, transfixed by the line of grey smoke rising up towards the ceiling, searching desperately for a blue sky. Watching the orange embers turn to ash, I hear the clink of the buckle and suddenly remember that tomorrow is Michael’s birthday. Tomorrow, Michael will be eleven years old. When my eyes open in the morning, that’s the first thing I must do. I must remember.
I must remember to wish him a happy birthday.
Two
10th of June 2018
As my eyes slowly open, it’s the sweat on my forehead and the temperature of my body that my brain thinks of first. I immediately kick my heavy white duvet off me like a petulant toddler, shunting it towards the bottom of the bed. My eyes drift across to the bedside table, where a coating of immovable grey dust has gathered atop the cheap white unit I bought from Ikea when I first moved in. I haven’t cleaned the place for weeks; I need to do that at some point. I also need to clean the sheets. I read something recently about the amount of bacteria that gathers on your sheets if you don’t wash them regularly. Apparently, there’s a type of mould that can grow on damp sheets called Cladosporium which, despite sounding like some sort of lame Laser Quest for bratty kids, can actually cause pneumonia and a fungal infection called onychomycosis, which makes your toenails fall off. I ponder this whilst lying naked in my own minging sweat. It’s been a month since the washing machine stopped working.
Not yet prepared to leave the comfort of my mattress, I look down at my pale, unimpressive body. I have a paunch now, which obviously isn’t ideal, but I know I can lose it if I get running again. It’s the gross, manky carpet of fluffy black hair covering the paunch that is really quite nauseating, especially from this angle. Looking closer at the straggles of unappealing, pubic-looking hair, it looks like the scalp of a fat, fifty-year-old Turkish bloke wearing a toupee. Unable to take this view of my own pitiful physique any longer, I swing my legs over to the left-hand side of the bed and plant my feet on the worn, wooden floorboards, noticing the big toenail on my right foot. It’s yellowing slightly and my eyes linger on it for a few seconds before searching the cluttered floor for something to wear. Sliding on a pair of unflattering mauve shorts, I grab the tattered pack of Marlboro Lights from on top of the dresser and yank at the cord for the plastic micro blinds covering the window. Hoisting it towards the floor like a determined sailor upping the sails, the blinds jerk towards the ceiling and I feel the sunlight slash at my eyes as light pours into the room. Squinting, I slide the window up, duck into the gap and step out onto my small, metre-long balcony.
Beautiful nicotine calmly flows into my system as I perch shirtless on the windowsill, puffing happily into the mid-morning sunshine that cascades down over Sinclair Gardens in West London. I moved here a year ago after the split and despite still having to rent at almost forty years old (a tiny one-bedroom flat for the exorbitant amount of £2,000 per month), I am, in this moment, vaguely happy. The road is so quaint, and so very West London, with its long, symmetrical alley of white Victorian houses lined up under the blue sky. I gaze south, admiring the architecture of the buildings as the road curves away out of sight towards Kensington Olympia station. It’s peaceful here on Sunday mornings. It’s quiet. Marvelling at the view from my first-floor balcony, I suddenly feel a headache coming on from last night. After I’d left work in the early hours, I picked up two cheap bottles of red from the off-licence on the corner using the £13 in coins some Italian tourists had left. Thank God for Italian tourists, who can’t read or speak any English whatsoever and still haven’t cottoned on to the fact that a 12.5% service charge is already added to their bill. I came home and even though I was knackered, I felt inspired, so I put Audiard’s Rust and Bone on again, sat back and marvelled at the honesty of Cotillard and Matthias Schoenaerts’ performances. He is fantastic – it has to be said, the beefy Belgian. He’s able to capture such a raw, wounded vulnerability in everything he does. A master of his art.
Sitting there last night in my underwear, chain-smoking cigarettes and glugging glass after glass of the vinegary red wine, I found myself feeling both passionately inspired and full of dread at the same time. Every time I watch a performance that brilliant, I do feel miles away from it still. Miles away from producing something that mesmeric – that elusive flicker of genius. Ruminating on the windowsill in the still sunshine, I now recall waking up on the sofa in a daze around five, having spilled wine all over it. I wonder how bad the stain is. Anyway, enough about that. Today is a good day and I’m determined to keep it that way.
I’m going to continue to feel good. I’ve got Michael’s birthday lunch at 2pm at The Ivy on the King’s Road, which I’ve been looking forward to all week. I can’t wait to see Jason. He’s getting so big now.
* * *
Pushing through The Ivy’s heavy wooden door under an exquisite archway of red and white flowers, I stumble into the clustered restaurant foyer at eight minutes past two. I’m relieved to see that Michael and his wife Emma haven’t yet been seated and are both at the front of the queue, remonstrating with the stiff hostess. I squirm past a sweaty older couple dressed in their Sunday best and place two firm hands on my brother’s muscular shoulders from behind, bellowing my best Shakespearian whisper into the back of his neck. ‘Happy birthday, my boy…’ I gruffly proclaim, proud of the intonation in my voice, which feels reminiscent of a young Brian Blessed.
Craning his neck over his shoulder, Michael looks into my eyes, his forehead a mess of stress and unwelcome sweat. ‘Hold on,’ he spits out, ‘just a second… we’re trying to get the…’ He tails off, returning to face the smartly dressed hostess behind the desk, leaving me stranded in the mob.
Looking off to the right, I find a small boy, probably around eight years old, staring up at me. I think he belongs to the family of northern elephants packed in alongside us in the queue, who, for some reason, in this baking heat, have decided to dress him in a full suit and tie, leaving him looking like some freak midget magician from a travelling circus. Embarrassed, I mouth a faint “hello” to the boy and return my eyes to the back of Michael’s perfectly combed, dark head of hair. Trying to catch a glimpse of what’s happening, I now see that Emma, still in full flow with the hostess, has positioned little Jason between her and the desk. I’m pretty sure she knows I’ve arrived and that I’m standing directly behind her, yet she hasn’t bothered to turn around.
