Silent Voices

the message and placed the phone on the counter.

“One coffee,” said the woman behind the counter. “No milk. No sugar.”

“Thanks,” he said, and grabbed the cup. It was almost too hot to hold. “That’s lovely.”

“Anything else?”

He took a sip, burning his lips. “Lovely,” he said again. “Yes, I suppose I could use a bite to eat. Do you have a sandwich, or something?”

“Whatever you like, love. We serve food 24-hours here. Hot and cold. Sweet and savoury.”

“How about a tuna salad baguette?”

“Speciality of the house.” She winked, and it was a grotesque sight. The eyelid moved slowly, as if it had been damaged. The motion reminded Simon of a faulty roller blind going down over a dirty window.

“Thanks,” he said, and spun around on his stool.

The motorcyclist in the window seat was still absorbed in his Kindle. A young couple sat at a table by the toilet door, holding hands across the tablecloth. They were staring into each other’s eyes but not saying much. The woman had been crying; her cheeks were grubby from the tears. The man was biting his bottom lip.

Further along the counter from where Simon was perched, an older man sat staring at his hands as they made knots on the countertop. He looked like he was puzzling over an intense riddle. He kept frowning, shaking his head, and then frowning again.

These places at night, Simon knew from experience, attracted only the lost and the lonely. Long after all the normal travellers — the families and the truckers and the salespeople — had got wherever it was they were headed, these troubled souls remained on the open road, and they were drawn here like moths to a guttering flame.

The woman brought out his baguette. It looked surprisingly good.

On the counter, his phone began to vibrate. Simon picked it up and looked at the screen. It was another text from Natasha. She was either out late with her modelling clan or sitting up unable to sleep and thinking about him. He supposed that Mike was right; he was in an enviable position. He was a rich man and had a Russian underwear model pestering him to settle down and make their relationship more stable. If he detached himself from his life, and examined it all like an outsider, it seemed perfect. But in reality, nothing had ever been perfect for him. Since his youth, Simon had felt dogged by something. Whatever good things happened, he was always expecting the other shoe to drop, or waiting for the hammer to fall… he only ever acknowledged the dark cloud to every silver lining. It was as if he were tainted by darkness, and where other people saw the connections in human relationships, all he ever saw were the cracks.

He switched off the phone and considered throwing it in the bin, severing all ties. He wasn’t sure why this urge came upon him, but he felt that it might be something to do with the surroundings and a hell of a lot more to do with the fact that he was going home.

Not for the first time, Simon admitted to himself that he was more comfortable in places like this diner, among people like these, than he was in his penthouse flat sharing space with his girlfriend. All his life he’d felt cast adrift, untethered, as if the normal rules of society did not concern him. He only ever felt at ease when he was in transition, between destinations; he only ever sought companionship from those who would not hang around for long. The single constant in his life was that there were no constants; he held to no routine and followed his whims as if they were sent to guide him.

He ate half of his sandwich, paid the bill, and got up from his seat, ready once again to answer the call of the road. Lights flared in the distance, and he couldn’t tell if they were approaching or moving away. As he drove the car past the diner’s windows, the woman behind the counter stared at him. She lifted a hand, as if to wave, and then looked at the hand as it hung in the air, unmoving. Her expression was troubled; she didn’t know why she had begun the gesture. By the time she worked out what to do with her hand, Simon was leaving the diner behind him to rejoin the dark stretch of dual carriageway.

The rest of the journey unfurled just as smoothly. Before long, Simon found himself driving past the familiar landscape of Birtley and Low Eighton before Antony Gormley’s Angel of the North statue reared majestically into view.

Simon felt a vague tugging sensation inside his chest as he watched the statue rise above him, as if the hill upon which it stood were slowly lifting away from the earth. The Angel was a massive, imposing structure, twenty metres tall and fifty across the wings. The blank face of the statue gazed impassively, overseeing the region like some cold, emotionless deity.

Simon pulled over into a lay-by and parked the car facing the hill. He switched off the engine and stared through the windscreen, feeling strangely attracted to the controversial structure. He remembered the uproar when it was first conceived; how a lot of people had spoken out about the faux rusted effect on the metal figure, and complained at the waste of the million pounds it had cost to create and erect. But now, all these years later, the figure had become an icon, an emblem of the northeast. Simon had always thought the Angel an unsettling sight. Its straight, razor-edge wings, the rigid stance, and the suggestion of the figure looking on in disdain… it was as creepy as it was compelling. He wasn’t sure if he loved the thing or loathed it.

“So I guess this means I’m home,” he whispered, staring at the Angel. The dark sky offered a dramatic backdrop, and the thin clouds and the distant stars seemed to retreat from the figure, afraid to get too close. As Simon watched, he was overcome by the sensation that the hulking figure was just about to move, that it was going to turn its massive rusty head and gaze down at him, judging him unworthy of entry into the land where he had been born, the place where his forefathers had set down their roots and carved out a life for themselves. He became convinced that the two-hundred-tonne metal figure was poised to shift, tilt, and then perhaps tear its feet from the concrete foundations in order to chase him, crush him, and finally send him back into the bosom of the earth from which he had sprung…

He shook his head, smiling. “Jesus. I must be going mad.” He gripped the steering wheel, clenching his fingers around it. He left the car, not bothering to lock it, and entered the site of the statue. He climbed the hill, feeling drowsy yet energised, as if the air up here were fresher and cleaner than that on the road.

When he drew level with the elevated feet of the Angel, he reached down and touched the rough metal. He expected to feel something — anything: a shudder along his spine, an itching at the back of his neck — but nothing happened. He remained unmoved. The feelings he’d experienced back at the car, whatever they meant, had deserted him, and all they left behind was a curious emptiness.

“You don’t want me, do you? I’ve come home, and you don’t even care.”

The Angel did not respond.

Simon sat down between its feet and stared at the sky. There was no light yet visible at the edge of the horizon, and for a moment he felt that he might never see daylight again, that he was trapped inside some endless night, populated by lonely waitresses and heavy metal sculptures. Then, sighing, he got to his feet and walked back down the hill to the car, feeling as if the giant figure had slowly twisted at the waist to watch him depart. He paused, stood still, suddenly too afraid to turn back and take a look. Then, allowing the feeling to pour through him and out the other side, he finally glanced behind him. The Angel had not moved.

“Of course not,” he whispered, trying and failing to smile. He hurried the rest of the way to the car, and once he was inside he locked the doors before starting the engine.

He’d be home soon. In half an hour he’d reach Morpeth. From there it was less than twenty minutes to the Concrete Grove, where God knew what was waiting for him.

The Angel receded in his rear-view mirror as he drove further north. It did not move, nor did it register his departure. It was just a hunk of metal parts. A grim angel of broken promises standing at the border of a land whose dreams had always been dark and restless.

CHAPTER THREE

BRENDAN WAS DOING the hourly rounds. His lower back ached from sitting in his chair and he was feeling sorry for himself because of the way Jane had been acting earlier that evening, but the work had to be done. The work always had to be done.

He walked one more circuit of the Needle, feeling the rash across his shoulders bristle as he stepped into the