Silent Witness: A Gripping Tale of Unspoken Truths and Hidden Secrets

Don’t touch me! Get your hands off! Ah! Someone, help! a girl screamed, her voice echoing down the slick cobbles.

Ethel lunged forward, but a patch of mud sent her skidding, her ankle twisting as she nearly collapsed. She barely managed to steady herself when the frantic girl vanished, her highheeled shoes disappearing into the mist. Brushing the filthy beige coat from her shoulders, Ethel glanced up and saw an ancient man sprawled in the gutter, mud clinging to his ragged coat. He tried to rise, his hands slick with blood, but each attempt only sent more dark liquid splattering the road. It was his desperate, gurgling moans that had frightened the screaming girl.

The evening was a damp, overcast London autumn, the sky a lowhanging blanket of grey, the street slick from a recent downpour. Twilight was swallowing the lamplight, turning the world into a muted watercolor.

The old man muttered incomprehensible sounds, his bloodstained fingers reaching toward Ethel. A prickling unease settled over her.

He’s drunk, stay away from him! shouted a woman strolling along the same path. She brandished a folded umbrella like a shield, thrusting it toward the prone figure before stepping back. Turning, she fixed her gaze on Ethel.

What are you standing there for? Got a lot of problems, do you? You lot are always down the pub for a bottle, ready for anything, bless you she muttered, then hurried toward the rows of terraced houses where brighter lights flickered from street lamps.

Behind the fallen man and the bewildered Ethel lay an empty lot, fenced off with a high concrete wall topped with barbed wire. Beyond the fence, the silhouette of an old factory loomed, its rusted towers swaying in the wind. Tall, skeletal poplars shivered as the night deepened.

Mmm mmm the man continued his animallike croak.

Are you alright? Need an ambulance? Ethel asked timidly, hesitant to step closer. He shook his head vigorously, still mumbling, gesturing wildly toward a sodden sack lying beside him. He was a frail, almost gaunt old soul.

Ethel felt a pang of pity. She recalled her own grandmother, long gone, who had taught her never to ignore another’s suffering. Near the end of her life, though, the old woman had warned her that intervening in someone else’s misfortune could land you in court if you weren’t a doctor. Better call the ambulance, shed said. Or keep your distance; you might get tangled in some fraudsters trap. Yet Ethels thoughts drifted elsewhere.

She stepped toward the old man, leaning over him. He let out a sharper whine, extending his bloodsplattered hands. Tears welled in her eyes as she pulled a pack of moist wipes from her bag, discarded the broken glass into a nearby bin, and began gently cleaning his shaking fingers. Then, with a determined grunt, she helped him to his feet. It was clumsy work, but she managed.

Thank heavens, my hands are still strong she murmured. Where do you live? Where are you staying?

The man croaked again, his balance precarious, his legs trembling. Ethel wondered if he was truly intoxicated or merely mute from some longago wound. The old womans caution about the ones who cant string a sentence together floated in her mind, but Ethel pressed on. It was cold, and the mud would only make him sicker.

Where do you live? she asked again.

He gestured vaguely toward a cluster of warmly lit houses, their windows glowing like friendly eyes against the encroaching dusk. He moved slowly, each step a shuffling protest against the soggy road, his back hunched.

Ethel noted the sack the man clutched. Inside, the soft clink of glass bottles resonated with each of his uneven steps.

He must have been carrying them to return, maybe dropped them when he fell Ethel thought, supporting his weight. Thats how he got hurt or perhaps the bottles were already shattered. Why would he keep broken glass?

They finally reached the nearest doorway. The old man let out another faint sound, waving his arms frantically. Ethel realized this was his home.

Intercom she said, puzzled. We dont know the code Is this the right flat?

He lifted a hand, tapping his fingers as if counting. One, three, one, three

Thirtyone? Or thirteen? Ethel stammered, then pressed the numbers. A nervous female voice answered on the first ring.

This is the Ethel began, unsure what to say, doubting if shed reached the correct flat.

Im coming down! a voice shouted, the minutes of waiting stretching like taffy. The old man muttered again, his sack rattling as shards of glass chimed softly.

The entrance door flung open, revealing a woman in her thirties and a man of similar age.

Granddad! the woman exclaimed, pulling the frail figure into a hug. Thank you so much! Thank you!

She turned to Ethel, gratitude spilling from her words, while the man carefully lifted the old man and led him inside.

Ill be right there! the woman called, holding the door so it wouldnt close. Just a moment, please

Ethel stood, bewildered, in a courtyard she had never visited, watching the lowrise brick houses and the tiny corner shops that lined the ground floor. She had passed these buildings countless times on her evening jogs to the local gym, the very path where the old man had stumbled.

Here you go the woman said, stepping out of the hallway with a small bundle. Some apples. A fine variety, sweet and fragrant. He used to plant the orchard many years ago.

No, please, you dont have to Ethel blushed. Your grandfather should have his wounds cleaned; he might need a visit to the clinic. He could need stitches. Take the apples, I dont need them Why thank you? I only helped a little.

Not just a little, not just a little the woman sighed. Im Gwendolyn, and my husband is Henry. The old man is Arthur Peters. Hes a war veteran. Do you have a minute? Ill tell you why were so grateful.

Ethel nodded, ready to listen.

Arthur just celebrated his hundredth birthday, Gwendolyn said proudly. He fought in the war, was captured, and deliberately injured his tongue so he couldnt speak under interrogation. After escaping, an infection ruined most of his tongue, and hes been mute ever since.

Ethel gaped, absorbing the tale.

He doesnt drink at all, Gwendolyn continued. You probably thought he was drunk because of his speech. One winter, he slipped and lay on the road for hours because nobody would help. He caught a severe chill and took a long time to recover.

Why do you let him wander alone? Ethel blurted.

We dont let him go, Gwendolyn smiled. He insists on leaving. Weve tried to persuade him, but he wont listen. Hes my grandfather, my mothers father. My husband and I live in his flat; he let us in after we married. We look after him, help him. We have a little girl, Emily, who once fell on this very road and cut her leg on broken glass. We still have the scar. The area around here is a bit rough; two old houses are being demolished, and all sorts of people loiter, drinking and scattering bottles. Since Emilys accident, Arthur has taken it upon himself to collect glass and bottles, hoping nobody else gets hurt. He does it every day, no holidays.

Listening, Ethel thought how glad she was to have helped him, realizing how many passed by, assuming he was merely an inebriated vagrant.

We were worried all day, looking for him. He didnt answer the phoneforgot it at home. Then you rang the intercom. We were overjoyed when he turned up! Gwendolyn said. Arthurs mobility is poor. We bought him a walker and a stick, but he refuses them. He turns down any help, yet he still tries to help us. A real fighter!

Ethels mind drifted to her own grandfather, also a veteran whod marched into Berlin, later suffering a stroke that left one side paralyzed and his speech garbled. After rehab, his right hand barely worked, yet he managed repairs around the house with his left, tended the garden, even fixed the shed roof alone, earning a fierce scolding from her grandmother whod imagined him teetering on a rickety ladder while she was at work.

As a child, Ethel remembered his slurred wordsspoon became spoonk, rain turned into raind, Nina was the name of her own grandmothermixed with a strange, almost poetic profanity that somehow sounded less harsh. Her grandmother would swat him with a damp rag, saying, Keep quiet, dear, the child is listening; you cant swear around children.

Ethel walked home, the bag of apples now in her handsshe had taken them, not wanting to offend Gwendolynfeeling a warm glow from the memories. How comforting it is when those we love watch over each other, worry, and cherish. For some, that shabby, drunkenlooking old man is a beloved grandfather, awaiting his return home, loved and missed. Perhaps we all need to be a little kinder, a little more attentive.