Walls of Silence

By Helen Pryke

An innocent child. A perfect life. Until she discovers that evil exists, with all its dark sides.

Living in the mountains of Sicily, Maria has the perfect childhood until the tragic accident that changes her life forever. The events that follow will take her away from her home town to the streets of Milan, in an ever-increasing spiral of abuse and deception. Will she ever be able to trust anyone again?

Set in turbulent 1960s Italy, Walls of Silence is the story of a girl who must find the courage and strength to survive her family's betrayal and the prejudices of her country.

5 star reviews for Walls of Silence:
"The wonderfully written characters and the world in which they find themselves in Italy in the sixties is captivating and superbly done."
"A very powerful novel that is filled with abuse, strength, sadness and love."
"A well written book, it was difficult for me to put it down."
"This is a story which leaves you thinking at the end."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pink Quill Books
• Release date: Mar 20, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224991501

Book preview

Prologue

The carabinieri found me walking the streets of Rome at two o’clock one Friday morning, icy-cold sleet whipping my cotton pyjamas against my body, only minutes away from hypothermia. Flashing blue lights suddenly filled my vision and gentle voices quietly asked me if I was all right. Unable to answer, I let them place a blanket around my shoulders and help me into the back of the police car. I watched the windscreen wipers swish back and forth as we drove through the city, their hissing sound slowly hypnotising me, until my eyes closed. I knew no more until I woke up in hospital the next day.

My breakdown was attributed to my wife’s death from cancer only a few weeks earlier. I’m no psychiatrist, but even I could have told them that. After a long talk with a doctor I was sent home with a prescription for antidepressants and more hospital appointments. As soon as I got indoors I threw the prescription in the bin, unplugged the phone and locked myself away from the big, bad world outside.

I’m told it was quite a spectacular downward spiral, although I don’t remember much. I only have vague recollections of a gaunt, spectral face staring back at me from the bathroom mirror, of shuffling relentlessly around the apartment as if I were searching for something that could never be found, of making plates of food and then leaving them mostly untouched on the kitchen worktops, until they filled every available space and overflowed into the sink. Yes, they were bad times and I am thankful I can hardly remember them.

If it hadn’t been for Antonella, I think I would have simply lain down and wasted away until I joined my wife. Antonella, with her long, dark hair, her smooth, olive skin and her open, honest smile that lit up her whole face; so like her mother it hurt me to look at her. She gave me a couple of weeks to wallow in my grief, then one day she let herself in and quietly began sorting out the apartment.

I heard her scraping the congealed food off the abandoned plates, then the clatter of china as she loaded the dishwasher. Quietly, efficiently, she moved around the apartment cleaning, tidying, sorting, putting some order back into my life as I lay, feigning sleep, on the sofa. My eyes half-closed, I sensed rather than saw her standing over me, and I knew that behind her crossed arms and aggressive stance she was smiling.

Your turn, Papà, she said, not fooled for a second by my comatose appearance. Protesting vociferously, I allowed her to guide me to the bathroom where she handed me soap, shampoo and electric shaver.

I’ll be waiting outside, she said, hands on hips.

I closed the door and leant over the sink, already exhausted. I glanced up at the mirror and stared at the stranger before me. A thick bristly beard peppered with grey covered his chin, there were deep black smudges under his emotionless eyes and what was visible of his emaciated face was the colour and texture of raw pizza dough.

Not a pretty sight, I muttered, and set to work.

Half an hour later I came out of the bathroom, looking and smelling a lot better. Antonella wasn’t there but I could smell a delicious aroma coming from the kitchen. For the first time in ages I felt hungry and my stomach grumbled its protest.

There you are, Papà, I was starting to get worried, Antonella said as I entered the kitchen. She had her back to me and was stirring something in a pot on the stove which made my mouth water.

It was a mammoth task, I joked, sitting down at the table. I noticed she had used her mother’s best china and felt a sudden stab of pain in my chest.

You’re looking more human now, she commented, turning around and staring at me critically as she brought the pot of food over to the table. She must have caught my pained expression as I stared fixedly at the plate in front of me.

I’m sorry, Papà, it was all there was, she apologised. All the other plates were dirty.

It’s okay, I managed to say, and then I realised that it was. I smiled. Honestly, it’s okay. Your mum always said it was to be used for celebrations… well, that’s what today is, a celebration.

Here’s to the future, Antonella said. She raised her glass of water and smiled at me, then reached over and held my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. Her tender expression was so like her mother’s that tears sprang to my eyes and I suddenly found it hard to breathe. I blinked away the tears and stroked her cheek, thinking how lucky I was to have her.

Let’s eat, I’m starving! I exclaimed, making us both laugh.

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It slowly got easier over the next few months. Every day I felt stronger, every feat I accomplished brought me one step closer to returning to normality. Antonella dropped by four or five times a week and phoned me every day, chatting about anything and everything but really checking if I’d got out of bed that day. I didn’t mind, it would have been only too easy to slide back down into oblivion again.

Eventually I felt strong enough to face the last hurdle in my healing journey. I called Antonella. Will you come and stay the weekend? I asked her. I want to sort through your mum’s things.

There was silence, then Antonella’s voice, sounding worried. Are you sure you’re ready?

No, I replied. But if I don’t do it now, I never will.

Okay, Papà, I’ll be there Saturday afternoon, she promised.

True to her word, the doorbell rang at half past three on Saturday. She gave me a hug and we stood there like idiots, feeling strangely awkward for a moment.

I’ve got a bottle of Pinot in the fridge, I said. I think we’re going to need it.

The hardest part was going through her clothes. They still held the fragrance of her perfume and as I closed my eyes I could picture her clearly. I buried my face in her favourite jumper and breathed in her scent, ignoring the tears pouring down my cheeks.

Papà?

I shook my head. It’s all right, I said, my voice muffled by the jumper. Just memories of happier times, Anton. It was true, I could see images of my wife standing a little way away, half-turned towards me, her black hair blowing in the wind. She was laughing at something I’d said, some stupid comment, but she’d found it immensely funny. I found myself grinning as I recalled the moment, crystal clear in my mind.

At long last almost everything was packed in boxes, ready to be stored at Antonella’s house. Neither of us could bear to give the clothes to charity. Just the thought of seeing someone walking down the street in her things sent a cold shiver down my spine. Antonella was busy pulling shoe boxes and carrier bags out of the wardrobe, the last things we needed to go through before loading everything into her car. She opened each box carefully, checking its contents and sighing occasionally.

What’s this? she said suddenly.

A pair of shoes? I suggested. "It is a shoe box, Anton."

She glared at me. "I know what it is. No, this." She lifted an A4 notebook out of the box, its edges worn and torn as if it had been handled many times. She opened it and we saw that the pages were covered in her mother’s scrawling handwriting, page after page, filled from top to bottom.

"‘My story, from the beginning’, Antonella read out loud. Her voice faltered. ‘The events, good and bad, that led me through my life all the way to you.’ She closed the notebook and handed it over to me. I think you should read this," she murmured.

I gently took the book from her and held it at arm’s length, my heart thumping. I could hear the blood roaring through my head as I realised the enormity of the gift my wife had left me. I hadn’t spoken her name since the day she died, it had been my only way of retaining some sort of grip on my sanity. I knew if I opened the book, I would hear her voice one last time as she told me her story. And I knew anything could happen to me if I read it. I also knew that I would risk even my sanity for that opportunity.

Maria, I whispered. I opened the book, and my daughter and I started reading together.

Part One: Maria’s Story, Sicily

Chapter One

Childhood memories are like a butterfly resting on a flower. At the exact moment when you think you’re close enough to touch one, it flutters away on trembling wings, tantalisingly out of reach.

It’s funny how certain memories seem to stand out in your mind, while others fade away and become long forgotten. As sharp as the image of an exotically coloured butterfly seen on television, I can clearly picture that great adventure of the summer of ’58, the last time I truly felt free before the incident that turned my world upside down and changed everything forever.

When you’re young, summer holidays always seem magical, especially when you’re eight years old; long, hot days in which to forget everything you’ve learnt at school during the year, and endless opportunities to get into all sorts of trouble that no one will ever find out about.

Living in Ferla, my friends and I had more freedom than most. Our mothers could let us leave the house in the morning knowing we were completely safe from harm, playing our innocent childhood games together just as they did when they were young. Never once imagining that we turned into little savages running wild around the countryside as soon as we were out of sight.

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It was a stiflingly hot August day, hot even for Ferla. I ran along the footpath, kicking up clouds of dust as I rushed towards our secret meeting place just beyond the corn field. I headed towards a clump of juniper bushes where I knew my four friends had been waiting for me for ages by now. I pushed my way through the tough branches, heedless of scratches, until with one final shove I fell into the cleared area right in the middle of the bushes. I grinned at my friends’ startled faces and threw myself down beside them.

Sorry I’m late, I said, breathless from my run. Papi caught me just as I was leaving and kept on and on at me not to be late tonight. I smirked and moved my hand as if it were a jabbering mouth. We’ve got guests, apparently.

Yeah, well, you’re here now, Beppe said. "We’ve only been waiting half an hour for you."

Oh, leave her alone, Beppe, Sara retorted. It’s not as if she does it all the time.

Beppe glared at me, his stern face making him look much older than his eight years, and then he suddenly smiled. Yeah, you’re right, he admitted. We kids have got to stick together against the adults, eh? We all nodded, united in our rebellion.

Right, what’s the plan then? I asked, looking around at my friends. The five of us had known each other ever since the first day of school and we were inseparable.

There was Giuseppe, Beppe for short, a tall, robust boy with olive skin and brown eyes with long, black lashes a girl would die for, and dark hair cut so short it stood up in little spikes.

Sara was exactly the opposite, so small everyone thought she was only five or six years old, her pale skin and long, blond hair making her look like a porcelain doll. She seemed so delicate that you were afraid to touch her in case she would break. Most people didn’t realise that beneath her angelic demeanour there was a mischievous streak that would have got her into trouble if it wasn’t for her innocent appearance. The most striking thing about her was the colour of her eyes – a brilliant blue that mirrored the exact hue of the sea near the town where she was born, and made her mother sigh with nostalgia every time she looked at them. Ferla is up in the mountains, a long way from the coast and the fishing village Sara’s mother grew up in.

Luca and Beniamino were twins and typically Sicilian in every way. They took no nonsense from anyone and often fought boys much bigger than themselves. But they were loyal – once a friend, always a friend, and they defended you until the bitter end. I experienced this loyalty once, when a girl from Year 3 decided to make my life hell. Luca and Ben found me crying in the playground one day, books spilling out of my broken schoolbag and buttons missing from my blouse. They quietly asked what had happened, listening carefully as I told them, then hunched their shoulders and strode across the playground in silence. I never asked them what they did, but the girl never bothered me again; in fact, she practically curtsied to me whenever we chanced to meet in the school corridor.

Okay, here’s what we do, said Luca, a natural leader and the one with all the ideas. The nest is over by the old olive tree, right under its roots. He drew a circle in the dust with a stick, while we listened intently. Beppe, you’ll go and poke this stick down the hole, until they come out to attack. Ben, you and Maria stand by, ready with these. He handed us two long sticks that forked out at one end. When they come out, you pin them down and hold them steady. We nodded enthusiastically. Then you and me, Sara, we’ll grab them and put them in the sacks. Everyone clear? We all nodded, too excited to speak. Right, let’s go and get us some snakes!

We stood under the ancient olive tree, its twisted branches creating a silvery-green canopy that shaded us from the afternoon sun. Looking up, we could see it was loaded with small, green fruit – not yet ripe enough to eat but we were keeping an eye on it, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Luca pointed to a large hole among the tree’s roots. There’s the nest, he murmured. Everyone, remember the plan and don’t mess it up… old Iacopo pays good money for quality reptiles.

What if they’re not in there? Beppe asked.

Oh, they’re in there, all right, Luca replied. Everyone get into position.

As we moved back, there was a movement in the grass over to our right. We watched, amazed, as two snakes writhed on the ground, entwined together and rolling in a never-ending spiral, their leopard-skin pattern helping them blend into their surroundings. Hypnotised, we stood there motionless until they wriggled down the hole into the nest.

See! Luca said triumphantly. Told you they were in there. But we could have picked those two up, no problem, he added dejectedly. Ah well, let’s get to work.

Ben and I grasped our sticks tightly and stood behind Beppe. Luca and Sara stood back a bit, holding their sacks ready. Beppe turned and grinned at everyone, then started poking his stick down the hole. We all held our breath; the only noise was the grunt Beppe made when he shoved the stick with all his force.

All of a sudden an angry snake popped out of the hole. Shit! Beppe yelled and leapt back. He bumped against Ben, who fell over awkwardly. As he put his hand down to