Seamless ‘Silence’

Private memorial services were held Sunday for novelist Brian Moore, who died last week at age 77 in Malibu. The Belfast-born author of 20 books was regarded as one of Los Angeles’ most important writers.

The following excerpt, taken from the early pages of his 1990 novel “Lies of Silence,” which was short-listed for the Booker Prize, demonstrates Moore’s skill in seamlessly turning a domestic scene into a taut political thriller.

*

She rocked back on her heels and stared up at the ceiling, tears puddling her eyes. “Why don’t you leave me?” she said. “You want to, don’t you?”

He could not say it, not now, not with her weeping like this. “Let’s go to sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

She caught her breath in a half-gasp. “Talk about what in the morning?”

“Nothing. Come on. Put the light out.”

“Talk about what in the morning? About leaving me? That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t say any such thing. I have a big day tomorrow. I want to go to sleep.”

Slowly, almost absent-mindedly, she wiped away her tears. She stared at him for a long moment, her face immobile as a mask, then lay down and turned to the wall.

“Do you want the sheet over you?”

She shook her head. He got into bed, careful not to touch her. He reached up and switched the bed light off. Here at the back of the house there were no street lamps outside. Darkness made strange shapes of the dressing-table and the bedside chair. . . .

“Michael?”

“Mmm?”

“Don’t leave me. Please?”

He felt his eyes burn as though he would weep. And then, what he dreaded happened. She moved across the bed and spooned into his back. “Do you love me at all? Just a little bit?”

He turned and held her in an embrace. He kissed her, a traitor’s kiss. “Now, stop it,” he said. “Let’s go to sleep.”

*

But, of course, he did not sleep. He lay for hours beside her, listening to her breathing, feeling her body twitch slightly as her restless mind fled through the corridors of her dreams. When at last he dozed in a light, confused state, he was wakened suddenly by the noise of a car outside. He sat up, looked at her lying on her back, then got out of bed, intending to go to the bathroom. The dial on his bedside clock said four-fifteen.

As he passed the bedroom window, he looked out at the garden. A car had come into the entryway and was now parked in front of his own car. It was a white Ford. . . . The car headlights then blinked on and off. Were they signaling someone? . . .

He turned and looked at Moira’s sleeping figure in the bed. She had not wakened. Now, coming up the entryway toward the white Ford, he saw the shadowy figures of two men. They went past the Ford, and one of them quietly opened the garden gate. When he saw them come in, he turned and went quickly out on to the landing and down the stairs. He reached the ground floor, and stopped to listen. He heard a murmur of voices at the back door. He knew the back door was locked. At once, he turned and ran to the front hallstand where the phone was. As he did, there was a tinkle of broken glass behind him. He reached the hallstand but, in the darkness, fumbled among gloves and scarves, trying to locate the telephone receiver. As he picked it up, footsteps sounded behind him.

“Put that down,” a voice said. “Stay where you are.”

A blinding light shone in his face. “Where’s the switch?” a second voice said. They were young voices, flat, male, Ulster accents. The blinding light came closer.

The hall light came on.

Facing him, a flashlight in one hand and a revolver in the other, was a hooded figure, its head masked in a woolen balaclava helmet, the eyeholes cut wide showing the cheekbones. The intruder wore woolen gloves, a cheap blue Western-style shirt with metal-clip buttons, faded jeans and running shoes. Behind him, standing by the light switch, was another, similarly dressed figure, also pointing a revolver.

He had seen them on the evening television news and in newspaper photographs, theatrical figures, firing revolver volleys over paramilitary graves, marching in parades with banners and flags. But like most people he kept well away from the events themselves so that now, for the first time in his life, he was looking at them, here in his house, real revolvers, faceless, staring eyes, scruffy boys in woolen masks. Who are they? Are they Protestants or Catholics--UDA or IRA? Is this one of those mistakes where they come in and shoot the wrong person?

“What do you want?” He heard the fear in his voice.

“IRA. Where’s your wife?”

*

Reprinted with the permission of Jean Moore and Nan A. Talese / Doubleday