Return of the Quiet - Opening Chapters

CHAPTER ONE – NORTH


Irene Harper shifted the carrier bag of shopping from one hand to the other as she turned into the quiet stillness of Montague Terrace. The cracked paving underfoot, daubed with coins of chewing gum, was as familiar to her now as the uniform terrace houses that huddled on either side of the road. She didn't have to be here but it was really no trouble, no trouble at all. She always went shopping in the town on a Wednesday, and made a point of dropping in on him for at least an hour or two afterwards. It had helped to fill up her days, now that she was alone and her eldest had moved down to London. More to the point she was worried about her youngest, and after all this time and the fact that he was over thirty didn’t matter a jolt. She was still his mother.
The shopping bag cut into her fingers so she shifted it again between her hands. Her feet were aching, those damn new shoes, and she was looking forward to a nice cup of tea. The late summer sun warmed her face as she struggled through the rusted wrought iron gate and deposited the bag on the doorstep of number thirty three.
She rang the bell and found herself inspecting the house as she waited. The windows were filthy. The small front garden was overrun with weeds. Crisp packets lay like decaying flowers in the few rough tufts of grass. Irene cursed his lack of self-respect under her breath as she gave up on the bell and knocked on the door instead.
There was still no answer or any sign of movement from within. She stepped to the window but as usual the dark heavy curtains were drawn keeping the interior a secret. Where was he? He had promised that he would be in. She knocked again, it would be just like Spence to still be in his bed, but no, there was still no answer. Sighing, she rummaged under the dirty doormat where she knew she would find the spare key.
It was deathly quiet as she let herself into the house; only the sound of a dog barking in a nearby street disturbed the silence. Inside the building the air was cool and musty. The hallway that stretched before her reeked of damp and neglect. She closed the front door behind her, shutting out most of the light, and moved to the bottom of the stairs.
"Spence – Spence, are you there?" Her calls were met by an ominous silence. "Damn that lad of mine!"
She was annoyed at yet another of his regular disappearing acts. She had brought some food, had planned to make them both dinner. He had seemed so pale and thin recently, the weight had really fallen off him in the last year. He was not looking after himself properly; the state of the house was testament to that. Perhaps, she hoped, he was just out at the shops and would return soon, muttering surly excuses.
She carried the bag of shopping down the long, narrow hall and through to the back kitchen. Oh yes, the boy certainly had a lot of growing up to do. The kitchen was a mess as usual. The sink was full of tea stained cups. Plates of half eaten food and dirty pans were scattered across all the surfaces.
Irene Harper tutted to herself, put down the shopping and filled the scale encrusted kettle. The cold water tap juddered to a halt. The early afternoon sun broke through the clouds with a sudden vehemence and penetrated the grime streaked windows.
She sat down and waited patiently for the kettle to boil. She was quite used to being on her own now, as it had been five years since her husband had died. Charlie had been a difficult man, rather too keen on a drink, but they had genuinely loved each other. Her tendency was towards compassion not confrontation. Yet now she was alone in what used to be their old family home, and she hadn’t had the heart to move, or ‘downsize’ as her eldest insisted on calling it. The last move the family had made, from their council flat to a terraced house on the estate whilst the boys were still teenagers, had been a terrible upheaval. Surrounded by boxes of her belongings and with a mountain of things to sort out she had cried that first day. Broken down in the kitchen in front of the boys. She remembered they had been arguing over nothing, as usual.
All though her life Irene Harper had never liked change. She still lived in the same town where she had been born, and apart from a few family holidays in Spain she had never really traveled. Of course she still had her sons, but they were both full grown now. And then there was her elder brother, Ted, but he had his own family and his own problems.
The kettle steamed to a halt. Muttering at the foolishness of such self centered thoughts she cleared the kitchen table and searched for a cup.
There was nobody in the street to notice as the sleek black car purred along Montague Terrace. Twenty five, twenty seven, twenty nine; the car slowly cruised the odds before coming to a halt outside the house with the peeling paint and the thick dark curtains. Both front doors of the BMW opened simultaneously and two men in their late thirties uncoiled their bulky frames and stepped onto the pavement.
The taller of the two was called Phil Green. He was white and pale as a corpse and as usual was wearing thick, dark shades. Behind those shades his eyes were a milky translucent blue.
The other man was short and squat, with close cropped brown hair and a nose that had seen a few bad breaks and spread across his pie plate face accordingly. This was Charles Lloyd Ainsley, though everyone called him Chaz. Both men were wearing expensive well-tailored suits. Gym inflated bodies encased in Armani.
Phil glanced down the street, checking both ways. Apart from the occasional parked car the street was empty. He nodded to Chaz who walked calmly around to the rear of the car and unlocked the boot. With an effort, even for a big man, Chaz hauled a large black hold-all out of the car and deposited it on the front step of number thirty three. Phil, still by the car, glanced down the street one more time then joined his companion at the door. Placing his ear against the sun warmed wood he listened carefully, but detected no sounds from within. He moved to one side and stood with his back to the curtained window, and watched the quiet street as Chaz unzipped the bag.
Inside the hold-all was a flamethrower that consisted of two small tanks and a separate nozzle. Chaz worked quickly, connecting the nozzle and opening up the flow to the tanks. Army training still had its uses in his new line of work.
Phil admired his friend’s speed and efficiency. Chaz might look big and clumsy, but there was control and power in those fists of his. When the work was completed Phil moved to the doorstep and produced a lighter. His brushed steel Zippo popped and fizzed as the wheel span against the flint and the juice ignited. A small blue flame licked about the nozzle, buffeted by the lightly swirling breeze. Chaz hoisted the tanks onto his back and inserted the nozzle into the letterbox. The old tin plates rattled noisily.

Irene was still at the table in the kitchen, flicking through her weekly magazine and enjoying the fresh pot of tea. She'd give her son another half an hour, and if he wasn't back by then she'd catch the bus back to the estate and try catching up with him later in the week.
She heard the rattle at the door and looked up from her magazine, smiling. "Spence...is that you Spence?"
Maybe he's forgotten his key, she thought, it would be just like him. She put down the cup of tea and moved towards the hallway.

Outside Phil checked the street one last time. It was still and silent. Where was everybody? He turned back to Chaz and nodded. Phil’s face showed nothing, but behind the shades the eyes were smiling. Chaz grinned at his partner, his lips curling back to reveal short, jagged, nicotine coloured teeth.

The woman entered the hallway. "Spence?" She heard the sound of gas, a whoosh, and then she was blinded. The flamethrower erupted through the letterbox and a long column of blistering heat shot towards her. Instinctively her hands went to her face, only to be incinerated. The wood chip wallpaper caught instantly, along with her clothes and the threadbare carpet. She fell to her knees as the flames licked about her, creeping now across the ceiling, enveloping her in a bright, flickering, choking halo of orange and gold. Her hair sizzled, her flesh charred and her heart gave out before her body hit the floor.

In seconds Phil and Chaz were gone, the flamethrower bagged and stowed in the boot, the car quietly leaving the street as unnoticed as when it had arrived. A carpet of thick, black smoke began to curl under the door of number thirty three, and an acrid stink began permeating the street.




CHAPTER TWO – SOUTH


The studio in south east London was packed with people and equipment. It didn’t matter, after ten years developing his skills as a professional photographer Jason Harper was able to take it in his stride. Clients could be a hindrance, but it was their money and for that they expected to be on site, make a few unnecessary suggestions, and extract their percentage and a pound of flesh. At least he’d worked with this company before, and most of the time they left him alone to do what he was paid for. He had been orchestrating the photo shoot for a couple of hours, and thankfully the team of assistants he had hired knew exactly what they were doing.
He fired off another still of Kay, one of the models chosen to launch the autumn collection of ‘smart but casual’ evening wear for the woman who wanted to both ‘dine and party’. She stood before the graduated monochrome backdrop he had hung and lit at one end of the shooting area. At his suggestion she shifted her stance, and he fired off another roll of film. Furious flashes of light burst against the backdrop, accentuating her eyes and illuminating her angular features, turning the image incandescent, an angel.
Alex, his main assistant for the past two years, was stood nearby clutching a couple of spare two and a quarter camera backs. Jason always insisted on shooting on film as well as using digital. Behind him people bustled between the changing rooms, the production office and the coffee machine. All the usual suspects were here; Saff the stylist, Jess and Moira in makeup, the four models from Select, the clients of course, and a bloke called Norman who was something to do with the studio. Jason was accustomed to the noise and activity, although he would have preferred it if they went next door to the changing rooms or canteen.
On the stereo was a Led Zeppelin compilation. The girls had teased him about his tastes but everyone knew he was in charge. Perhaps his choices were a sign of his age. He may have be approaching forty but he neither looked nor felt it.
He finished the roll of film and Kay was replaced by Bella, a long limbed brunette from Brixton. The lights needed to be re-jigged and he fired off instructions in a relaxed easy-going manner. There was never any point in losing your rag with people, it only brought out the worst in them and slowed everything down.
With everything set he got back to what he enjoyed the most, making pictures. His hands worked furiously with the beautifully engineered camera. Man and machine as one, efficient, but always retaining that elusive burst of spontaneity that could turn a good picture into a great one.
He marveled at the smooth action of the camera. He could afford the best now, after all those years of soul destroying graft and mounting debts. The last three years had been good to him. He had a decent book of regular clients for the commercial work, and last year a gallery in West London had mounted his first exhibition. It was nearly fifteen years since he had moved down from the north, but his recent success was all the more satisfying because he had done things on his own terms.
Jason always felt in his element on the studio floor. This is what he did best, the ‘creating’, the ‘doing’, not the endless discussions and meetings. If he could afford to he’d jack this sort of stuff in for good and concentrate on his own work: the black and white landscapes and portraits he photographed relentlessly with an innate need to express his peculiar and singular vision of the world. Unfortunately they didn’t pay the bills, and if he was honest the commercial work helped to raise his profile. Yet the images in his head were everything to him, and his need to record them fluently were the reason he had chosen photography over painting at Art College.
Thinking about the past and of home always made him feel somewhat guilty. He hadn’t phoned his mother in weeks, and hadn’t actually visited her in an awful lot longer. Not that she ever complained, in fact she was proud of his achievements. Silently he resolved, once again, to call her tomorrow.

Sophie Morrow quietly entered the studio through the side door near the shuttered loading bay. Michael, Jason’s agent, had offered to pick her up from Waterloo Station, when she had called his office earlier to find out where the shoot was taking place. She hadn’t wanted the lift from Michael, but he had made it difficult to refuse and it had given her the chance to finally clear the air with him, once and for all.
Stella, Jason’s regular make-up artist, was using powder to take the shine off one of the girls nearby. Sophie winked at her as she deposited her travel bag on the floor and moved across to the edge of the shooting area to get a better look.
Jason was shooting furiously in the infinity cove at the far end of the studio. Sophie loved the way he became totally absorbed in the task in hand to the exclusion of everybody else in the studio. It was one of the things she had fallen for first - his single mindedness and focus, his vision, as she liked to call it. He crouched down to take another look through the camera. It didn’t hurt that she liked the way his arse looked in those jeans also.
Their relationship had been unusually strained since they had moved in together nearly a year ago, but really it was their work that was driving them apart. That was just one of the things that would have to change. She had visited her doctor, just before leaving for Paris, and although Jason didn’t realize it yet she had found out that she was pregnant. They now had some difficult choices to make as a couple.
Alex was loading a batch of film nearby. He grinned when he spotted her and Sophie gave him a wave. She would wait until Jason had finished before disturbing him. Boy was he going to be surprised! She hadn’t been due back in London until the weekend.
She grabbed a cup of coffee. Michael was busy schmoozing a group of agency suits at the far end of the studio. Unlike Jason, with Michael business was always the priority. Everyone else was busy with the shoot and she was glad of a few minutes peace to collect her thoughts.
Jason wasn't really her type at all, and her upper middle class parents had certainly disapproved, but there was definitely something about him. Oh sure, he was good looking, albeit in a rather unconventional way. She loved the boyish open face that broke easily into a smile, the pale indoor complexion, the full mouth, those wicked piercing chameleon eyes.
Yet it wasn't his looks that made him the person he was. Nor was it the trace of a northern accent and attitude he still carried. Perhaps it was that weird combination of drive and energy, all mixed up with a rather sad other worldly quality he let slip in his more relaxed moments. He could seem full of passion yet somehow vulnerable. She liked a little flaw here and there, hated perfection in men. She’d had enough of that type when she herself had been working as a model before finishing her degree and moving into marketing.
Yet lately, that other worldly quality had seemed to slide into introspection and downright surliness. The drive and ambition that had been so attractive at first now inclined towards selfish self-absorption. For the last few months they had been drifting apart, his job taking precedence over their once perfect union. Missed appointments, late appearances and feeble excuses seemed to be the staple diet of the day. It had driven her crazy and it was why she had cut short her trip, business concluded early, and come back to London to give their relationship one last chance. As well as her baggage she was carrying guilt and the need to confess.

Jason fired off the final still of Bella and relaxed. He wiped his hands, which were sticky from the heat and activity, on his jeans.
"Okay, let’s take a quick break while we reset, thanks everyone."
Bella hitched up her skirt unceremoniously and walked away from the backdrop. Jason offered her a hand to steady herself as she struggled over the mess of cables and boxes around the edge of the shooting area and then passed his camera to Alex for re-loading.
"Jason, Sophie and Michael are here. They arrived about half an hour ago.” Alex jerked a thumb towards the rear of the studio.
Jason turned and saw Sophie standing just outside the spill of light from the set. He was surprised to see her back from her trip so early and hoped there wasn’t going to be another row. Sophie had a sharp tongue and a keen mind when it came to an argument and he didn’t need the hassle while he was working. In some ways, he thought, she was as determined and ambitious as he was. A quality he had found very attractive in her, when they had met a few years ago on an assignment. Sophie was a woman who was often wrong but never uncertain.
He watched her chatting easily with the makeup girls. Her hair was tied up and she was wearing a simple knee length black skirt and jacket, but she still looked devastating. Knockout though Sophie undoubtedly was, Jason had never figured out what made certain women look intelligent with it. Yet for all that, turning up unannounced and distracting him while he was working was not one of her smarter ideas.
"Okay Alex, get the rigger to switch over to the next backdrop and check with Stella that the next girls are ready to go, I don’t want to be kept waiting after the set is sorted. I'll be back to reset the lights in a few minutes."
He crossed the studio and kissed Sophie on the cheek. “This is a surprise,” he said, forcing civility into his voice, “ how did you get here?”
“Caught the Eurostar this morning, Michael picked me up from the station.”
“Oh yeah. Since when did my agent run a chauffeur service?”
“I called to see where you were shooting and Michael offered to pick me up. Why, is there a problem?”
“No problem.” From the corner of his eye he could see that Michael was busy talking to the clients at the back of the studio. “Though the goatee is a fashion accessory he could afford to lose.”
“Why are you always so critical, Michael's been very good for you!”
“He gets paid well enough. Anyway, how did it go in Paris?”
“Good, we wrapped things up on time for once so I thought I’d come home early.” She reached in her bag and handed him a small package. “Here, I got you this.”
He opened it to reveal an expensive looking silver watch, a Tag Huer, he’d been on about getting one for ages.
“Wow! I didn’t expect this, it’s lovely, thanks.”
“Maybe it'll help you to be on time once in a while.”
“I'm sorry about last week, but you know how busy I've been recently.”
“Not everything revolves around work you know.”
“Don’t start Sophie.”
“We need to talk.”
“I know we do, but later okay, I promise.”
“Alright.”
At that moment Alex appeared from the small office near the entrance.
"Jason, there's a call for you in the production office.”
“Take a message.”
“It’s urgent."
"Okay, okay, I’m on it."
Alex flashed Sophie a glance that she couldn't quite read as Jason made his way to the office. She paused for a moment and then picked her way carefully through the gear stacked at the back of the studio. When she reached the open doorway to the office she found Jason listening intently to whoever was on the other end of the line. His forehead was creased in a frown.
“Alright, will do,” he muttered, “see you there then, bye.”
Without another word he replaced the receiver.
"What is it, what's wrong Jason?"
"There's been an accident. It's my mother. She’s dead."
“Oh Jason, no. How did it happen?”
“That was my uncle, Ted. He said she was killed in a fire at my brother’s house.”
“Is your brother alright?”
“Yes, as far as they know. I mean he wasn’t there, she was found on her own.” He started pacing around the small space, gradually becoming more agitated. “Bloody hell Sophie, I don’t believe this. She was on her own for fuck’s sake, in that shitty little hole our Spence lived in. It’s not right, I should have been there, I should have called more, I… Shit!”
He lashed out a boot and sent a directors chair crashing into the office wall. Alex appeared in the doorway.
“You okay?”
“No, you heard about my mother?”
“Yeah, your uncle said. I’m really sorry Jason. I’ll take care of everything here, why don’t you two just take off, huh?”
“Yeah, you’re right. I couldn’t concentrate on this shit anyway.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out with the clients and get the gear back to your place later.”
“Thanks Alex.”
“I’m so sorry Jason,” said Sophie. “Look, give me your keys, I’ll drive us back to the flat.”
Jason grabbed his jacket, fished in his pocket and handed her the keys just as Michael appeared in the doorway.
“Everything okay?” said Michael, grinning.
“Not really.”
Without another word Jason and Sophie slipped through the door and out of the studio.


CHAPTER THREE – RETURNING


Jason had his travel bag open on the bed in their Greenwich flat. He finished packing the few remaining items of clothes and checked he had everything else he needed - money, toiletries, even his old house keys. Out of pure habit he packed a small compact digital camera.
Sophie sat quietly in the main room, on the large leather sofa they had purchased when they moved in together. She could hear Jason in the bedroom as she stared absently at the row of neatly framed black and white photographs on the opposite wall of the living room. They showed empty benches, playgrounds without children, bare silhouettes of trees in winter, husks of warehouses, water, rust, her own face captured in half light moodily staring back at her. These images were Jason’s own work: mournful, haunted and brooding, the complete antithesis to the glossy designer world that he photographed for money.
She rose to her feet as Jason entered the room. He placed his bag on the floor and threw his arms around her. They stood, entwined and as one, if even for just a few precious moments. There had been little time or desire for intimacy between them recently. Finally, he let his hands drop and they moved apart. Jason managed a weak smile as he brushed his hand affectionately against her cheek. She couldn't stand to see him so deflated. He looked like a young boy, adrift and free but without a purpose to that freedom.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, I can easily take the time off work you know?"
"I'm sure."
"Don’t you think we should be together at a time like this?”
“We will be, soon as I’ve found out a bit more about what happened, okay.”
"Alright, but I’m still not happy about you driving all that way on your own."
"Don’t fuss Sophie, please, I just think it'd be better this way for now. It's been ages since I've been home. I'll call you as soon as I get there, I promise."
Jason shouldered the travel bag. Sophie knew it was pointless to persist, when he got an idea into his head there was no changing it. She leaned into him and kissed him gently on the cheek.
"Look after yourself, and drive carefully, okay."
"Will do."
He left the flat without another word and she returned to the loneliness of the sofa.

The car hummed quietly as it passed through South East London and over the river. It was a new model Audi, bought with his recent upturn in earnings. He’d never owned a brand new car before, always bought cheap classics second hand. He’d always loved cars and machines. A legacy of his late father he supposed.
It was two hundred and forty miles door to door. Cassandra Wilson, deep and moody, played on the stereo. Music was one of his few passions outside of work. Swiss Cottage receded behind him as he headed towards the M1. The evening had turned cold and dark, the traffic was mercifully light.
He had plenty of time to wallow in meandering thoughts as he settled down to the monotony of the motorway. The CD finished and he inserted another, The Cocteau Twins “Treasure”, an album that always reminded him of those heady days at Art College. Yet tonight the music and those memories failed to even raise a smile.
Late night traffic, sparse and sleepy. The gentle hum of the engine and the tires on the road mingled with the stereo and the turbulence of the air. Motorway turn-off's led into darkness and unfamiliar towns and cities. Streaks of dead insects were arced across the windscreen by the wipers. He changed the music again - Scott Walker now on the stereo, mournful and haunting and beautiful as ever. Songs cast like eulogies into the dark abyss of night.
Every song seemed to resonate with Jason’s dark thoughts, and the lyrics took on a myriad of unwanted new meanings in the context of loss. He turned the stereo off.
Four hours later the indicators splashed pools of orange across the roadside as the car exited the motorway. In one sense at least, he was home.
Jason came off the Clatterbridge roundabout and drove towards the centre of Birkenhead. Some things had changed over the years but it was still basically the same. A new roundabout here, a fresh set of lights there, a face-lift for an old slag of a boozer. Splashes of tungsten and neon pierced the gloom.
He couldn't face going to the old place just yet. With his mother gone the family home on the Noctorum Estate would now be empty. His father had died five years ago of cancer, and since then his mother had lived alone. Another wave of guilt swept over him. They had always been so close, and she had been the only one to encourage him when he decided he wanted to move to London and go to college. His father, of course, thought it a total waste of time and that he should learn a trade and get a proper job. Yet she had always stood by him, and proudly showed all the neighbours when his work started appearing in magazines. Jason realized with a jolt how much he had taken her for granted.
He had arranged to see his uncle Ted and his wife Bea in the morning, and for now had booked himself into a hotel. He headed the Audi down Borough Road towards Birkenhead and the river. The town centre was quiet and empty of people – just another weekday evening, he guessed, and miserable enough to dissuade all but the hardened drinkers. He negotiated the light system at Charing Cross junction and took a right past the old indoor market that had always reeked of fish. The car glided down towards Hamilton Square, quiet and empty at this time of night. The old town hall clock still marked out the time, but now it sat above a museum. In the center of the square the ghost of Queen Victoria and her monuments still presided over it all.
He turned another right, reached the hotel he had booked, and parked the car.
Jason removed his travel bag from the boot, set the alarm and climbed the steps to the hotel entrance. Glancing over his shoulder, as he passed through the door, he even managed a wry smile. The night was cold and beautiful. Liverpool, lit up like a cheap Christmas tree, lay quietly glowing across the water, its new waterfront skyline bristling with fresh tower blocks and office space. Even the elegant facade of the city had changed.

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