Tell Me Your Secret

by Dorothy Koomson

  ‘That will be difficult.’

  She’s silent and I can see her slipping away from me. I shouldn’t have gone in so soon, but I was trying to see if she was ready to talk about it yet.

  ‘Do you have a good relationship with your family?’ I ask. I’m holding my breath, this will either push her away or draw her back in.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes. Unless we spend too much time together, then all bets are off and we want to throttle each other.’

  She smiles in recognition. ‘Same with me. Do you think all families are like that?’

  ‘Yes. Well, no. But a lot of healthy families are like that. What job did you do? I’m just assuming you’re not working right now.’

  ‘I worked in publicity and public relations. I worked for lots of companies. I loved my job. I loved being able to make the most mundane thing sound interesting, or being able to put a positive spin on something. I love having the ability to shape and mould something. Do you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do know what you mean. Were you out with work friends when this happened to you?’

  Callie sits back against the arm of the sofa and stares down at her hands for long seconds. I try not to breathe too hard, try not to fill the space where words need to go.

  She slowly raises her eyes to me, then she looks away, runs her hand through her hair. This is it. The moment she’s ready to talk.

  Pieta

  Monday, 17 June

  ‘Let me take you for a coffee,’ Ned says afterwards.

  I’ve helped him carry his stuff outside into the corridor so he can pack up there because Callie is a mess. By the end of our conversation she was shaking, losing words in her sobs, looking closer and closer to tearing at her own flesh. I kept taking deep breaths to stop myself joining her – her distress as infectious as it was affecting. I wasn’t sure when Ned had stopped taking photos but he sat quietly in the corner of the room, his camera lowered and his head bowed. DI Foster stopped pretending to ignore us and simply watched as Callie disintegrated.

  I shake my head, aware of Officer Perry who is sitting in a chair in the corridor facing the room ignoring us, even though he doesn’t seem to have moved for the hours we’ve been inside.

  ‘Come on, you look done in,’ Ned says gently. ‘We’ll just go and sit downstairs in the café bar, but I don’t think either of us wants to be alone right now.’

  I glance at Officer Perry, seeking his approval to go for a coffee with a man who made my life hell. I’m sure I notice the corner of his eye twitch for a moment, signalling his not complete approval at the idea. Ordinarily, this wouldn’t be happening, but Ned has it right – I don’t want to be alone right now. If I am, who knows how much of The During will crowd itself into my mind, growing and consuming, taking over like a deadly bacteria until there is too much of that for there to be anything else.

  I help Ned with a couple of the easier pieces of equipment and we descend to the ground floor, find ourselves a spot in the café bar that has a full-frontal view of the seafront, and drop heavily into our seats.

  I want to order something strong, something that will burn the lining off my throat, but I have to drive, I have to look after Kobi, I have to be adult when, right now, I really don’t want to do anything but hide.

  We don’t speak while we wait for coffee. We sit with our bucket chairs facing the window, watching the people punctuate the coastline as they carry on with their lives. A couple, dressed like tourists, lean against the aquamarine railings opposite the hotel eating chips, blissfully unaware of the circling seagulls. I’ve seen seagulls swoop down and grab food from people’s hands before, I’ve seen them sit in rows and watch while people eat, I’ve seen them front up to cats and dogs twice their size. The way they’re scoping out this unsuspecting couple right now, I don’t blame Kobi for thinking what he does.

  ‘My son thinks that seagulls are plotting to take over the world,’ I say. ‘Watching them stalk those poor people over there, I don’t blame him for thinking that.’

  It feels good to say something that isn’t a part of what Callie revealed. This feels like normal conversation with a normal person, not something that exposes the nefarious underbelly of human nature. This brings me back to a normality where I can go home and be a mother to my son.

  As I pick up my coffee cup, I see Ned’s eyes flick to my left hand. It’s bare, of course.

  ‘You have a child?’ he says in surprise. ‘Really?’

  ‘Why is that such a shock to you?’ I reply defensively. ‘Staggered that someone would ignore my rolls of fat and piggy face long enough to screw me, possibly with the lights on, let alone knock me up?’

  ‘No! Jeez, no! I didn’t mean that. I was just surprised, that’s all. I mean you haven’t mentioned him, you’re not wearing a wedding ring, and you don’t look completely knackered like most parents do.’

  ‘Right.’ Nothing like being aloof and sanguine in the face of someone who nearly destroyed you years ago and from whom you’re keen to hide that damage.

  ‘You’re not fat,’ he says.

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘And you don’t have a piggy face.’

  ‘I know that too.’

  ‘And even if you were big, fat, overweight – which you’re not in any way – but if you were, it wouldn’t preclude anyone from wanting to make love to you.’

  ‘And I know that.’

  ‘And no matter what you look like, even if you weren’t as beautiful as you are, it wouldn’t mean no one would want you.’

  ‘Yup, know that.’

  ‘You’re not fat, you don’t look like a pig and even if you were those things, it wouldn’t mean you’re not attractive,’ he reiterates.

  ‘I know all that, Ned, the question is, do you?’

  Saturday, 25 April, 2009

  ‘Why are you doing this, Peter?’ I asked.

  ‘Are you going to analyse me, now, Pieta?’ He was tracing the tip of the blade over my skin, drawing an intricate, infernal pattern. I wanted it to stop. All of it to stop, but this part, this bit particularly, terrified me. That was why he did it, I was sure. Out of everything, this was the part I couldn’t control my breathing for, couldn’t slow the thundering of my heart about, couldn’t stop myself from leaking tears of fear over. I had to get a handle on it. If I could control myself when he did this, he might stop it. ‘Are you trying to get into my head? Find out if I’ve got “mummy issues”?’

  ‘I just want to know why you’re doing this.’

  ‘I do have “mummy issues”, Pieta. And “daddy issues”. But that’s not why.’

  ‘Why then?’

  ‘Because I can. Haven’t you worked that out, yet? Because I can.’

  He paused his knifepoint, pressing it a fraction deeper into my skin as he moved it. I wanted to scream at him to stop it, but I had to do this. I had to concentrate. ‘I . . . I . . .’ Breathe, breathe, breathe; calm, calm, calm. ‘I think there’s more to it than that.’ I got the words out, forced them to sound normal as they left my mouth. ‘I think there’s more to you so there’s more to why you’re doing this.’

  Mercifully, the knifepoint paused its journey over my flesh. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Calm, calm, calm.

  ‘I . . . I think you feel things so intensely, you think about things so deeply that there is more to this. I . . . I think . . . there’s so much to you that the world hasn’t seen, and there must be a real, profound reason why you’re doing this in this way. And . . . And I’m just asking you what it is.’

  I’m just asking so you’ll stop doing this to me.

  He stood back, took the knife away. I wanted to relax, to collapse in relief, but I couldn’t. If he saw that, he would know, and he would do worse to me.

  My eyes were burning, I’d been squeezing them so tight because these were the times when I knew I would open my eyes to end this cruel bit. He hurt me constantly, consistently, completely, and this torture with the knife added another layer to
it.

  I could hear him breathing, inhaling and exhaling heavily, rapidly, as though he’d been running. He was angry. I’d pushed him too far. I felt the rush of air as he brought his arm and the knife up high, really high, from the velocity of it. He paused, his breathing increasing with every passing second.

  I forced my eyes shut even tighter, I didn’t want to watch when he did it. Didn’t want to see it coming.

  He growled, loud and angry, the sound sending shockwaves of fear through me, as he slammed the knife down towards me. The wood of the bedframe splintered as he drove the blade deep into it, the force of it violently shaking the bed. I flinched, cowered as I waited for the rest of it, the consequence of pushing him too far.

  Then he was gone. Not simply standing to the side, waiting for me to open my eyes, but properly gone. For the first time, he slammed the door behind him.

  Monday, 17 June

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ Ned says. ‘Of course I know that. I was a shit, Pieta. I can’t deny that. I haven’t tried to deny that. And I am sorry for what I did. But who I was back then is not who I am now. I wouldn’t imply, or even think, that you wouldn’t manage to get a man or be in a relationship.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Fine?’

  ‘Fine.’

  We sip our coffees without speaking, passing the time in a silence that isn’t unpleasant but isn’t companionable. I understand why he suggested this, why he needed to decompress with someone who was there. I feel a bit sorry for Callie. Not simply for what she went through, but the fact she was left with DI Foster as the only source of comfort after revealing the most traumatic experience of her life.

  My skin is tingling. I’ve been ignoring it, pretending that it isn’t, but it’s prickling. Like a million biting ants are skittering all over my body. This is probably part of The After, of reliving it with Callie.

  I close my eyes for a moment.

  This is my fault.

  There is a vat of guilt that bubbles like a cauldron at the centre of my being and it is probably guilt that is crawling all over me. Guilt. Culpability. Remorse. Responsibility. I should have told.

  When the police came to my flat, I should have told. When I found I couldn’t live in London, I should have told. When I came to Brighton and I was still standing on the beach, trying to imagine myself as the raging sea, I should have told. But once I’d made my decision, I knew I could never tell. It was as simple as that. Once I had decided, I was shackled by that choice.

  Saturday, 25 April, 2009

  ‘Do you still want to know why I do this, Pieta?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

  ‘Do you know what you look like? What you truly look like?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you, Pieta, really?’

  ‘Yes, Peter, I know what I really look like.’

  ‘I see you. I see you and what I see is ugliness. For forty-eight hours, I have taken that ugliness away from you. For forty-eight hours, you won’t be able to see what the rest of the world sees and I’ve done that for you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  The knife was immediately at my throat, a chance for me to fold, to give in, to say what he wanted both of us to hear. ‘Say that again,’ he snarled.

  ‘I don’t believe you because I’m not ugly. I don’t care what you or anyone else says, I am not ugly. So that’s not the reason.’

  The very tip of his blade pressed harder into the soft flesh at my throat. It was going to go in deeper, slice its way through, then cause my throat to peel back. He was probably going to cut my throat, silence me for saying it, but I had to say it anyway. Like everything else, I had to do it.

  ‘You can lie to me all you want,’ I whispered loud enough for him to hear, ‘but I don’t know why you’re lying to yourself.’

  ‘You know nothing,’ he whispered right by my ear. ‘Nothing.’ He pushed the tip even deeper. ‘Do you? You know nothing.’

  ‘I know nothing,’ I said quickly. ‘I know nothing.’

  Monday, 17 June

  The last few sips of this Americano are circling the bottom of my white cup and we both should be leaving. I glance at Ned. He is slumped in his chair, his coffee cup in his hands, his eyes fixed somewhere out there but not on the sea. He’s not ready to leave.

  I am sitting in almost exactly the same position as him, holding my cup in almost exactly the same way, but inside I am circling the drain of my memories of The During, doing all I can to stop myself finally going completely down the plughole into that place with no hope of return.

  Neither of us is going anywhere soon.

  ‘How did you manage to do that without breaking down?’ Ned asks. His voice is so sudden, unexpected, I start a little. ‘It was so hard to listen to, but you kept going, you got her to keep opening up even when I thought she might be shutting down. How did you do that?’

  To be honest, I don’t know. I don’t know how I’ve been able to do this. How I’ve been able to remove myself enough from this story to listen, question, record. ‘It’s my job,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, you were incredible at it. I mean . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘That was tough. I hope the pictures will do the story justice.’

  ‘I’m sure they will,’ I say reflexively.

  ‘How are you going to cut it all down? Get all that you need to say into it but not make it too long or too salacious?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to do it somehow.’

  Ned’s hand on my bicep causes me almost to leap out of my seat. ‘Sorry.’ He snatches his hand away. ‘I was just . . . I just thought . . . do you want another coffee?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes,’ I reply with a smile. ‘But only if you don’t talk any more. I can’t take any more talking.’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  Saturday, 25 April, 2009

  ‘Girls like you have no time for me.’

  No blade, no weapons. He returned a while ago, but stood above me, staring, watching, studying. My throat hurt where he had held the sharp point earlier; he’d obviously nicked the skin and it was sore, stinging every time I swallowed.

  ‘You don’t notice me. I am always there but girls like you won’t look in my direction. You all think you’re so much better than me. You all think I’m not good enough for you. I try to talk to you and you look at me with those sneers on your perfect lips and that condescending disgust in your flawless eyes.’ He moved his face even closer to mine and I had to stop myself from shrinking away as all the revulsion I felt gushed to my nerve endings. ‘You all think I am beneath you. Until you’re here. When you are here, I can do what I want. I can make you do whatever I want you to. I am in control, just like a man should be.’

  He nuzzled into the crook of my neck and I stopped my body from recoiling. Inside, though, I screamed; I screamed and screamed and screamed.

  ‘Here, you are all mine.’

  Monday, 17 June

  ‘I’ll probably need to speak to Callie again,’ I tell Ned at the revolving door of the hotel. ‘You should probably come and take some photos then, as well.’

  ‘You don’t have to sound so happy about it.’

  ‘You don’t have to sound like I should be so normal about it.’ I’m not good with impressions, but being from the same place as him allows me to harness the Ned inflections when I reply.

  He grins. ‘Touché.’

  ‘Olé.’

  This amuses Ned and he laughs. ‘You’re funny, has anyone ever told you that?’

  I nod thoughtfully. ‘Almost no one.’

  He laughs again and I can see he’s about to reach to touch my arm, to tap it as you would a pal. When I step aside, he changes his mind and lowers his hand. ‘I’ll see you, then.’

  ‘You certainly will,’ I reply. ‘Do you want a hand to your car with your stuff?’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, no, I’ll go and bring my car round.’

  I reach out for the nearest panel of the revolving door. ‘Bye.’
<
br />   ‘You know, Pieta, it’s been good to see you,’ he says. I lower my arm and turn a little towards him. ‘I mean, not for you, clearly, but you’ve obviously done really well for yourself – great career, you’re a mother and you live in one of the most amazing places on Earth. It’s good to see that things turned out all right for you.’

  ‘Is that your guilt talking, Ned?’ I reply.

  ‘Yes.’ He exhales deeply. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘Good. As long as you still feel guilty, we’ll continue to get on just fine.’

  He laughs again. And I fling another ‘bye’ at him and push through the doors before he says something else to stop me leaving.

  Saturday, 25 April, 2009

  ‘Do you understand now, Pieta? Do you understand how when you’re here, you’re all mine?’

  Couldn’t speak.

  Couldn’t think.

  Could barely breathe.

  Jody

  Monday, 17 June

  I want to make love to my fiancé.

  It’s been one of those days. One of those hard days. It was like being skinned alive listening to Callie talk, knowing that Jovie went through that. All of us were deeply shaken by what she revealed. I’d heard her statement, more than once, but the things that Pieta Rawlings got out of her, the way she managed to slide into spaces I’d never have even thought to explore was incredible. The result, of course, was the type of information that didn’t help to capture this man, it just renewed and strengthened my resolve to find him and to make him pay.

  But I need comfort now, I need the strong embrace of the man I love. I want to hold him, have him touch me, kiss, explore, screw with the intensity you can only really get from someone you know and trust. I want that so much.

  I want to have sex with him, but I can’t. This case is messing with my mind. They always do, but this one in particular is battering me.

  Work doesn’t just distract me and make me emotionally unavailable, it chains me physically, too. Cases like this creep into every avenue of my mind, soak under my skin. I’ve never been sexually assaulted or raped. Yes, like most women, stuff that is inappropriate has happened to me, but the stories I hear from work tend to stay with me. The stories, the words they use . . .