Tell Me Your Secret

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘Pig-eta the Pig!’ he shouted and then ran away to a group of boys who were all snickering and then started chanting, ‘Pig-eta, Pig-eta.’

  I didn’t understand. I just didn’t understand.

  Saturday, 17 March, 1990

  ‘Oh, God, I bet you she only started working here because of me.’ Ned Wellst. He was sitting in my section of the café where I had a Saturday and holiday job. He did this almost every weekend. I’d had three years free of him through high school and then six weeks ago, he had walked in with a girl he was clearly on a date with. My heart had sunk when I saw him walking through the door and I’d been praying, hoping, that he wouldn’t remember me. That he’d moved on from his campaign to destroy me. I never worked out in middle school what I’d done to provoke him, why he chose me, why he and the boys wouldn’t stop, not even after a teacher had a word with them.

  When I went over to ask what he and his date would like, he’d clocked me and I had hoped for a second he would, at the very least, pretend to not know me.

  ‘Hello and welcome. My name is Pieta, what can I get you today?’ I asked.

  ‘She’ll have a cola and I’ll have a pint of whatever’s on draught,’ he said. He was obviously trying to play the big man in front of his girlfriend, but I couldn’t get him a beer.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not able to serve you alcohol, can I get you anything else?’ I said.

  Anger flared in his eyes, on his face. ‘Why can’t you serve me alcohol?’ he demanded. I could tell by the tone of his voice that he was giving me a chance to not embarrass him, not let on that he was only sixteen and couldn’t buy or drink booze.

  ‘I’m not old enough to serve it. And you’re not old enough to buy it,’ I said.

  His face hardened. He’d given me a chance and I hadn’t taken it.

  ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ I asked.

  ‘Two cokes,’ he mumbled.

  I noted it down on my pad and turned away.

  ‘You know, when we were in school, they used to call her Pig-eta and Roly-Poly Rawlings,’ he said loudly as I walked away. ‘It was hilarious, because, well, look at her.’

  The girl he was with laughed, loudly. I walked away with their laughter scraping away at the insides of my ears.

  And he kept coming back. Kept bringing pretty young women with him who would laugh at what he said to please him, to keep in with him. No matter how much it hurt me, demeaned me, these girls giggled and simpered and, sometimes, joined in.

  ‘You really think she started working here because of you?’ asked one of the girls squeezed into his booth. His latest entourage was made up of four pretty blondes, all of them perfect size tens with flawless make-up.

  I was cleaning up next to them, taking away plates and wiping down the table and the vinyl seats.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said loudly. ‘I mean, we used to call her Pig-eta at school. I thought it was funny at the time, I think it’s absolutely genius now. If you saw how she spelt her name, you’d know what I meant.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you called her that because she looks like a pig,’ one of his blondes smirked.

  ‘Oh, don’t,’ Ned said. ‘ “She’s got a heart of gold,” people used to say. The teachers kept telling me and my friends that. “She’d do anything for you, she’s got a heart of gold that one.” ’

  ‘She’d have to under all those rolls of fat.’ At least that blonde had the good grace to lower her voice for that, but they all laughed at a volume that shuddered through me.

  ‘You’re evil,’ Ned said to his companions. ‘But not lying. She really is the ultimate lights-out, eyes-closed shag.’

  I picked up the tray of plates and half-full drinks and moved towards the kitchen, ready to go and hide away. Then changed my mind and instead went in the direction of his table. He was sixteen and he was not allowed to do this. I was sixteen and I didn’t have to put up with this. I’d had enough of it in middle school, I didn’t deserve it now. We were older, we shouldn’t be stuck in this pattern.

  I made it look good; made a huge performance out of tripping over my feet and the tray flying out of my hands, the contents landing almost exclusively on Ned Wellst.

  ‘You stupid cow!’ he said, as the dribbles from four different drinks dripped down all over him. ‘You’ll pay for this.’

  The other girls at his table just stared at him, then at me.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, my voice a monotone as I moved slowly to pick everything up. ‘I don’t know what happened.’

  The girls fell over themselves trying to clean him up. Ned and I made eye contact in the midst of the flurry of activity. And my look said very plainly: Screw you.

  July, 1990

  He didn’t stop. Even after I dropped a tray on him, he carried on coming to the café with his female acolytes, sniggering at me and making piggy sounds whenever I was in earshot. I ignored them mostly, but sometimes I would glare at them until they looked away. On the outside – to them – I wasn’t bothered, but inside every comment and laugh and sound was a laceration on my soul. I rose above it to them, I almost drowned in it to me. Their scorn would scorch me, their ridicule would wound me.

  I still didn’t understand. I just never understood what I’d done to provoke Ned; what it was about me that meant he targeted me.

  Saturday, 24 October, 1992

  I was at university in Leeds and so was Ned Wellst. I’d seen him on our first day and my heart had stopped. He’d looked at me like he knew me, as if he remembered, but he hadn’t said anything. He had, for the most part, acted like I was a total irrelevant to his life. Which was fine by me.

  I still held my breath whenever I saw him, still felt the explosion of fear as my defences went up and I braced myself for what he might say, but these past few weeks had been fine. He stayed away from me and I him.

  ‘What can I get you?’ I asked Ned and the blonde woman beside him.

  I had a job in a cocktail bar right in the centre of Leeds. It was by the station and was in an old observatory, with a retractable roof and fully working telescope up in the eaves. After-hours we would regularly climb up there, pick our way through all the dusty boxes and relics that had been unceremoniously shoved up there, and look out at the night sky through the lens.

  I liked working there, not just for the money, but I got to talk to people, make new friends, learn how to mix cocktails.

  ‘Nice to see you, Pig-eta, I mean, Pieta,’ Ned said with a sly grin.

  My stomach turned. He was obviously going to do this to play the big man to his date. Great. And there was nothing I could do to retaliate because I did not want to get sacked. I simply looked at him and the woman beside him, waiting for their order.

  ‘What the hell was that, Ned Wellst?’ his companion practically shouted to be heard above the thumping music.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘You just insulted that woman, called her names and then stood there smiling about it. How dare you! Who do you think you are?’

  I blinked at her, as surprised as Ned was shocked.

  ‘Apologise to her.’

  ‘What?’ he asked again.

  ‘Apologise.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A-pol-o-gise,’ she said slowly so he could understand. ‘Or I go home. Alone.’

  He was blinking at her, totally stumped. He hadn’t been expecting that. To be fair to him, neither had I.

  Swallowing, he turned to me. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ He glanced back at his companion and she raised an eyebrow at him, indicating it wasn’t enough. ‘It was rude,’ he started up again. ‘And I apologise. Unreservedly.’

  I wanted to tell him where to shove his apology (it was somewhere the sun didn’t shine) but instead I moved my gaze to his companion. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’ll have a piña colada, please,’ she said. ‘And whatever you’re having yourself.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I said, w
ith my head on one side.

  ‘Oh absolutely. Get yourself whatever you want.’ She pointed. ‘He’s paying.’

  We both glanced at Ned, who was hanging his head, completely mortified at how this evening had played out.

  After that night, he never did it again. I stopped existing for him, it seemed. Even when he split up with the woman from the bar he stopped harassing and bullying me and we spent the next three years at university passing each other like the unconnected strangers we were.

  Wednesday, 12 June

  Ned pulls into the car park of the White Tern. It’s well known as having nice pub lunches, an ideal setting for weddings and lovely quaint rooms to stay in should you come to a wedding or just fancy a night in a country pub.

  I’ve kept my bag on my lap during the drive so I could regularly reach in to make sure I have my tape recorder, my notebook and my ID. We were told, categorically, that if we didn’t have at least two up-to-date forms of conventional ID, we wouldn’t be admitted to the ‘bidding chamber’.

  ‘Pieta . . .’ Ned begins and then stops.

  ‘That’s my name,’ I reply to his sudden muteness.

  ‘This is beyond awkward. I feel terrible. And I’m sorry.’

  ‘OK,’ I reply.

  ‘Didn’t we used to be friends?’ he asks, genuinely puzzled. ‘I don’t understand why we fell out and why all that stuff came afterwards.’

  I grin first of all, then start to giggle. Maybe someone ‘out there’ isn’t messing with me after all. Maybe they knew that what I needed at this time was Ned Wellst, comedian extraordinaire. Why did we fall out? The man was an absolute joker. As if there was ever anything equal in what he did to me. ‘You’re really funny,’ I tell him. ‘Really, really hilarious.’ I open the car door and let myself out.

  ‘What did I say that was funny?’ he asks when he has uncurled himself from the car, too.

  ‘That’s the most amusing part, you don’t even know why you’re so funny.’ I giggle some more. ‘It’s genius.’

  I wait for him to grab his portfolio from the back seat, and then side by side we enter the hotel/pub. As with most places of this age, the change in light and atmosphere is immediate and brutal as soon as we cross the threshold. The dark beams are oppressive, they seem to be holding the gloom in instead of keeping the building up. The dark carpets speak of an old, worn opulence; its flock wallpaper is expensive but feels too eager to suck up light from the space.

  A receptionist meets us as soon as we come over the doorstep. ‘We’re closed for a private event,’ she states coolly.

  Her tone seems to have triggered some sort of silent alarm because suddenly a uniformed policeman is standing just a little behind her. Both Ned and I focus on him, shocked by his quick appearance.

  ‘Yes, we’re on the list,’ I say with a smile. ‘Pieta Rawlings and Ned Wellst.’ I hand over my driving licence and latest gas bill. ‘And here are our two forms of up-to-date ID.’ Ned hands over his passport and a bank statement. New passport, I say in my head. I need to renew my passport – and Kobi’s. I scrawl the words on the chalkboard in my mind so I don’t forget.

  ‘Of course,’ she says, suddenly all smiles. ‘Can I ask you each to read through and sign these legally binding non-disclosure agreements, while I go and photocopy your identification documents.’ She indicates to a seating area where we can perch while we read through the contract. ‘Officer Perry will wait with you.’ She hands me her clipboard and scuttles out of sight.

  Officer Perry stands like one of the Queen’s foot guards outside Buckingham Palace, his feet turned slightly out, his hands by his sides, his face set, his eyes staring straight ahead, but I know he can see us and he would physically tackle us if we tried to get past him.

  Ned leans down close to my ear and I shudder, flinch away, I can’t stand people doing that to me – it makes me feel physically sick. ‘What did I say back there that was so funny?’ he asks.

  ‘Oh, stop, Ned, you’ll make me laugh out loud in front of this nice policeman.’

  Ned straightens up, still perplexed. I read and sign the agreement – which basically says I personally, as well as my publication, will be sued if we disclose any part of the story before the blanket media embargo has been lifted – and then hand the clipboard to Ned for him to sign the copy below.

  The receptionist relieves me of the red clipboard and pen, checks both of our contracts, matches our signatures at the end to the signatures on our ID. This is serious stuff. Obviously we both pass the test. ‘If you could leave your mobile phones and any recording devices in this box,’ she says, holding up a plastic container. Once we comply, she hands us a ticket with a number to get our phones back. ‘Can I remind you that there are to be absolutely no photos and no note-taking. Thank you. If you don’t mind following Officer Perry, he will take you to where you need to be.’

  I glance over my shoulder at the gash the doorway makes in the gloomy interior. It’s an escape route. A way out of here before I put myself through this.

  I think of Kobi’s words about selfishness. I think about Lillian’s words about not coming back if I don’t get the interview.

  I think of my mother’s face when she hears that her daughter spent the weekend with a murderer and didn’t report it to the police.

  You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

  Jody

  Wednesday, 12 June

  I put Callie on notice.

  I told her what she can and can’t talk about. How she should listen more than talk. What she has to keep back.

  I warned her in no uncertain terms that she would be putting her life in danger if she revealed too much. I threatened to end the interviews and make it impossible for any publication to publish a word of her story if she wasn’t careful.

  ‘You want to do this to feel safe,’ I reminded her. ‘Don’t mess it up.’

  ‘I won’t,’ she promised. ‘I won’t.’

  Inside, I’d rolled my eyes at her and myself. We both knew the second this audition process started she’d abandon everything we discussed and I’d be powerless to stop her. Callie is desperate to be heard, to have her story out there to protect herself. I understand her thought process: once this secret is told, other women will join her. She will not be alone, she will not be the sole focus of The Blindfolder, she might stand a chance of escaping from this alive. I also understand that the way she does things is going to get us all into trouble.

  The last two journalists of the morning are about to arrive. There has been a steady stream of them, all of them displaying different levels of curiosity, and they have all been, to a certain degree, understanding that this is a big story, that their cooperation is likely to net them it, and that – non-disclosure agreement or not – all bets will be off once they don’t get picked as her mouthpiece.

  Pieta Rawlings and Ned Wellst from BN Sussex enter this plush meeting room out in this place called Arundel. I chose here because it is a pain to get to and we can move back to Brighton a lot easier after being here.

  I barely look up as they enter the room. They don’t need to engage with me, they only need to know I’m there – that the police are taking this seriously, which means they should as well.

  ‘I’m Callie,’ she says when the pair take a comfy seat each across from her. I roll my eyes inside again. So much for ‘Miss X’. So much for anonymity until the publication has been chosen – this is the twentieth time she’s told people her real name. I’m surprised she doesn’t give them her surname and be done with it.

  ‘The woman at the back is a police officer. Detective Inspector Foster. She’s supervising the interviews. She’s basically making sure that I don’t do anything naughty.’

  She’s putting them at ease by being a bit ditzy. This is what everyone has encountered so far. She comes across as friendly, a little flighty then . . .

  I settle down in my chair at the back, ready to listen to Callie once again break all the rules I set; prepare
myself to listen for any new clues in her tale once I hear it another time.

  Pieta

  Wednesday, 12 June

  I’m not sure what I was expecting.

  Up until now we haven’t been told her real name – she’s just been known as Miss X because they don’t want us to do any background checks on her and put her in jeopardy.

  I’ve never done this before, and I’ve never been so closely monitored and controlled by the police before. And, of course, I’ve never met anyone who went through what I experienced.

  I watch her watch me while I tell her my name, Ned’s name and a little about our magazine.

  She’s blonde and pretty, too, although she plays that down. She has not one scrap of make-up on. Her skin is a light-buttermilk colour, she has dark circles under her eyes. Her lips are pale, and I get the impression from the way she doesn’t reach up to push it back, she wears her shoulder-length hair in loose waves to hide her face. She has navy-green eyes that fix on you while you’re talking, watching your mouth, observing your expressions, studying for mendacity in everything you do.

  She wears a dark grey skirt suit with a white shirt buttoned up to just at her breasts, while her suit jacket is buttoned up, too. She has on matt-black heels with toothpick-thin spikes that I’d never be able to stand on, let alone walk in. She’s dressed for a job interview, even though she’s the one vetting suitable candidates. Once I stop talking, she moves in her comfy pink velvet seat to look at Ned. And you are? her expression says.

  ‘As you probably heard, my name is Ned Wellst,’ he says. ‘I’m a photographer. I’ve come along because if you like my photographs, and you choose to be interviewed by my colleague, here, I will be the one photographing you. I’ll do a formal shoot if you prefer, but I think candid shots as you talk to Pieta will work best, will show you as you are, capture your emotions as you talk about your story.’ He hands over the large, black, leather-bound portfolio. ‘These are some of the photos I’ve taken. They’re of different things but it’ll give you an idea of what I can do.’