The Silent Girl by Tess Gerritsen

Extract from The Silent Girl by Tess Gerritsen
Original full-length edition published by Bantam Press, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, London.
Condensed version © Reader’s Digest Pty Ltd, 2012

The Silent Girl is told by a series of narrators, including the forensic detectives investigating a case of murder in Boston. The novel opens in the enigmatic voice of an unknown, unseen narrator who is following a young girl and her stealthy pursuers into the back streets of a nameless town.

It is a vacant warehouse posted with a NO TRESPASSING notice. I slip inside, into gloom so thick that I pause to let my eyes adjust. I hear the floor creaking. I smell burning candle wax. I see the faint glow of the doorway to my left. I peer into the room beyond.

 

The girl kneels before a makeshift table, her face lit by one flickering candle. Around her are a sleeping-bag, tins of food and a small camping stove. She is struggling with a can opener, unaware of the men closing in from behind. Just as I draw in a breath to shout a warning, the girl whirls round. All she has in her hand is the can opener, a meagre weapon.

 

‘This is my home,’ she says. ‘Get out.’

 

I had been prepared to intervene. Instead, I pause where I am to watch what happens next. To see what the girl is made of.

 

One of the men laughs. ‘We’re just visiting, honey. You look like you could use the company.’

 

‘You look like you could use a brain.’

 

Not wise, I think. Now their lust is mingled with anger. Yet the girl stands perfectly calm, brandishing that pitiful kitchen utensil.

 

As the men lunge, I am ready to spring.

 

She springs first and her foot thuds straight into the first man’s sternum. He staggers, gripping his chest. Before the second man can react, she slams the can opener against the side of his head. He howls and backs away.

 

This has become interesting.

 

The first man has recovered and rushes at her, slamming into her so hard that they both go sprawling onto the floor. Her fist cracks into his jaw. But with a roar he rolls on top of her, immobilising her with his weight.

 

Now the second man grabs her wrists, pinning them against the floor. As fierce as she is, the girl is green and untrained, and the inevitable is about to happen. The first man yanks her jeans down past her skinny hips. His arousal is evident. Never is a man more vulnerable to attack.

 

He doesn’t hear me coming. One moment he’s unzipping his fly. The next, he’s on the floor, loose teeth spilling from his mouth.
The second man is not quick enough. I am a tiger and he is nothing more than a lumbering buffalo, helpless against my strike. With a shriek he drops to the ground and, judging by the grotesque angle of his arm, the bone has been snapped in two.

 

I grab the girl and yank her to her feet. She zips up her jeans. ‘Who the hell are you?’

 

‘That’s for later. Now we go!’ I bark.

 

‘How did you do that? How did you bring them down so fast?’

 

‘Do you want to learn?’

 

‘Yes!’
I look at the two men groaning at our feet. ‘Then here is the first lesson: Know when to run.’ I shove her towards the door.
 

 

I WATCH her eat. For a small girl, she has the appetite of a wolf, and she devours three chicken tacos, a lake of refried beans and a large glass of Coca-Cola. Though the girl’s features are Chinese, she is clearly American, from her cropped hair to her tattered jeans. A crude and feral creature who slurps the last of her Coke before gnawing on the ice cubes.

 

I begin to doubt the wisdom of this venture. She is already too old to be taught. I should release her and find another way. But then I remember how close she came to single-handedly taking down the two men. She has raw talent and is fearless—two things that cannot be taught.

 

‘Do you remember me?’ I ask.

 

The girl frowns. She shakes her head.

 

‘It was a long time ago,’ I say. ‘Twelve years.’ An eternity for a girl so young. ‘You were small.’

 

She shrugs. ‘No wonder I don’t remember you.’ She pulls out a cigarette.

 

‘You’re polluting your body.’

 

‘It’s my body,’ she retorts.

 

‘Not if you wish to train.’ I snatch the cigarette from her lips. ‘If you want to learn, your attitude must change. You must show respect.’

 

She snorts. ‘You sound like my mother.’

 

‘I knew your mother. In Boston.’

 

‘Well, she’s dead.’

 

‘I know. She wrote to me last month. She told me she was ill and said she had very little time left. That’s why I’m here.’

 

I’m surprised to see tears glisten in the girl’s eyes, and she quickly turns away. But in that instant she brings to mind my own daughter, who was younger than this girl when I lost her. My eyes sting with tears, but I don’t try to hide them. Sorrow has made me who I am.
I need this girl. Clearly, she also needs me.

 

‘It’s taken me weeks to find you,’ I tell her.

 

‘Foster home sucked. I’m better off on my own.’

 

‘If your mother saw you now, her heart would break.’

 

‘She never had time for me.’
‘Maybe because she was working two jobs, trying to keep you fed?’

 

‘She let the world walk all over her. She was spineless.’

 

I lean forward, enraged by this ungrateful brat. ‘Your poor mother suffered in ways you can’t possibly imagine. Everything she did was for you.’ This is not the girl I’d hoped to find. She may be strong and fearless, but no sense of filial duty binds her to her dead mother and father, no sense of family honour. Without ties to our ancestors, we are specks of dust, adrift and floating. ‘Someday, I hope you find the wisdom to understand what your mother sacrificed for you.’ I pay the bill for her meal and stand. ‘There’s nothing I can teach you.’

 

‘Why would you want to, anyway? Why did you come looking for me?’

 

‘I thought I would find someone different. Someone I could teach. Someone who would help me.’

 

‘To do what?’

 

I don’t know how to answer her question. For a moment, the only sound is the tinny music spilling from the restaurant speakers.

 

‘Do you remember what happened to your father?’ I ask.

 

She stares at me. ‘That’s why you came looking for me. Because my mother wrote to you about him.’

 

‘Your father was a good man. He loved you, and you dishonour him. You dishonour both your parents.’ I place a bundle of cash in front of her. ‘This is in their memory. Get off the street and go back to school.’ I turn and walk out of the restaurant.

 

In seconds she runs after me. ‘Wait!’ she calls. ‘Where are you going?’

 

‘Back home.’

 

‘I do remember you. I think I know what you want.’

 

I stop and face her. ‘It’s what you should want, too.’

 

‘What do I need to do?’

 

I look her up and down. ‘It’s not what you need to do,’ I reply. ‘It’s what you need to be.’ Slowly I move towards her. Up till this point, she’s seen no reason to fear me, and why should she? I am just a woman. But something she now sees in my eyes makes her take a step back.

 

‘Are you afraid?’ I ask her softly.

 

Her chin juts up, and she says with foolish bravado, ‘No. I’m not.’

 

‘You should be.’