The Rest is Silence
Two days after they lost Annie, Mitchell stops talking.
Though, in reality, George suspects the silence started before then- perhaps even from the moment they left the facility. He tries to recall those first, frantic hours; tells himself that he must have offered something, some word of comfort or support- must have noticed the barriers coming down. But the memory has been edited within his mind to the point of incoherence, and he's reluctant to probe any further. Even Nina, always so quick to put words to an event, never gets beyond the beginning when it comes to their escape, beyond a soft, whispered, "When we...".
Like Mitchell, it's closed off. They don't attempt a recovery.
So it is only later, as Nina dozes against his shoulder and Mitchell lies, shivering on the back seat, that the sheer depth and breadth of what was lost truly registers.
Refugees once more, they drift, and begin to look towards the next stage in their survival. Nina signs the lease on a cottage twelve miles from the main town; writes to Sam and forwards her the money for delivery of George's belongings at the local station.
"Can't do anything about Mitchell's stuff, not from here. Anyway. They might still be watching the house."
Somehow, George doubts it. The terrified chaos of that night seemed to offer no chance of continuation, for them or anyone else.
But then he thinks of the house itself, of all it contained and everything it used to mean, and merely nods.
Wherever they go now, they must leave that part of themselves behind.
-
As they approach the front door Mitchell stops. Behind him Nina gives a little yelp of surprise and steps back, both arms weighed down by suitcases.
"What is it? Mitchell, what's wrong?"
Mitchell doesn't move, so rigidly still that for a moment George is afraid to draw level with him, in case the person there has become a stranger once more. Then he follows his friend's gaze, to the threshold a few yards away, and understands.
"I think- you have to invite him in."
Nina makes a strange stifled noise in the back of her throat- half-gasp, half-sob. She shuffles past him and turns in the doorway, her eyes fixed on some point in the middle-distance, away from them.
"Come in, Mitchell. Come on."
They are greeted by the curious, decaying smell of damp wallpaper, and a tiny, choked-off passageway that twists through into the sitting-room. Nina turns her attention to the fuse box just beyond it, and after a few minutes there is a distant clank as the elderly boiler sputters into life, followed by the electric lights. Mitchell crosses to the mantelpiece and fiddles with the radio by the wall. Unprepared for this, George is about to issue a caution; but to his surprise it starts up almost at once, with a dull, static hiss like falling rain.
"Least that works, then." Nina reaches across to the tuning dial, but Mitchell shifts a little to block her, and she flinches away as though burned. The look in his eyes is hard, and ancient, and utterly, impossibly tired.
They stand there for a full minute, and listen to the sound of in-between.