The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  There are no dogs in sight.

  The central wall of glass slides open, and a woman’s shape is silhouetted against the light, her body as angular as the house. As my eyes adjust, I see she’s wearing workout gear, black Lycra with flashes of red, moulded to her faultless physique. She reminds me of a sports car.

  ‘You were in the pub last night,’ she says accusingly.

  Sweat blooms under my arms, while my mouth is dry.

  ‘I stayed over before my meeting with your fiancé. It’s about painting him for a book.’

  I step into the entrance hall, and she glares at me. Why is she so hostile? Behind her I can see the building has two wings, surrounding a central courtyard full of even spikier cacti.

  ‘Painting?’ She says it as if it’s the most awful perversion she can think of. ‘My Jim doesn’t even like having his photo taken. Why would he let anyone paint him?’

  ‘May I show you?’ I reach into my bag, and she steps back, as though I’m about to draw a weapon. I hold out an American book of court art I brought to show Jim. ‘I’m a court artist. We go to prominent cases to illustrate the hearings, because cameras are banned. I was there when your fiancé gave evidence thirteen years ago.’

  She takes the book from me, leafs through using the tips of her long nails.

  ‘Ooh,’ she says, stopping at a sketch of the trial of an actor accused of tax evasion. ‘Do you get to meet them, then?’

  ‘That was in the States, but I’ve seen a few stars in trials here.’ I try to think of one that might impress her. ‘Remember when the Echo Boys accused their manager of fraud? I was as close to them as you are to me now. And Tommy Echo,’ I whisper, as though we might be overheard, ‘kept farting all the way through.’

  ‘No!’ She giggles. ‘That’s rank. I had a poster of him on my wall and everything.’

  ‘Leah, what’s going on?’

  Another woman’s voice, low-pitched and slightly breathless, comes from further inside the building, followed by heavy footsteps.

  Amy Fielding, her belly impossibly big on her bird-like legs, enters the room.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘I was just telling Leah here how I’ve got an appointment with your dad to discuss painting his portrait.’

  She keeps her hand to herself.

  ‘How do you know he’s my dad?’

  I force a smile. ‘Well, you do look very alike.’

  Though she looks much more like her brother.

  ‘I’ve been commissioned to do a similar book to this, but for the UK,’ I say, returning to the script I prepared. ‘A mix of famous people and well-known cases. As well as the original court sketch, I do a new painting. Yours to keep.’

  ‘We’ve got loads of pictures already,’ Leah says.

  I can see them, behind her. Photos of the New York skyline, movie posters, a posed studio shot of the newly extended Fielding family – minus Daniel, of course.

  ‘Yes, but a portrait is special. Much more lasting than a photograph. Your fiancé was so brave; people really remember what he did that Christmas.’

  ‘I was too little to know anything about it, but of course, he’s told me it all.’ Leah slaps the book shut. ‘Which is why I know he won’t do it. It broke his heart, what happened to Tessa and the baby. But he’s moved on from that night, thanks to me. He won’t wanna go backwards.’

  So why did he agree to see me?

  I look at Amy, who shrugs.

  ‘What Dad does is his business, but it sounds like a terrible idea to me.’

  ‘I understand that, but I’d still love to explain it to him in person,’ I say, trying to keep them talking. ‘Readers would be thrilled to see he’s found happiness. I could paint the whole family, maybe, ready for when the little one arrives. And there’s the perfect space for it right here.’

  I point at a blank section of wall.

  ‘I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than have anyone draw me looking like this,’ Amy says. ‘Once the little one is here, I’m having my tubes tied as soon as I can.’

  There’s a wryness about Amy that I like. But Leah is completely humourless.

  ‘I reckon you’re wasting your time and your breath,’ she says. ‘But I suppose it is up to him. Now’s your chance.’

  Leah turns, and over her shoulder, I see the gates opening again, and an old London cab nudging through the opening, paintwork polished to a mirror shine. Jim Fielding smiles broadly as he gets out, and the gates lock into place behind him.

  17

  As I take Jim Fielding’s hand, the colour leaches out of our surroundings. Nothing else is as vivid.

  When he takes his hand away, I see a flash of scarlet on his palms, burns he sustained in the fire that have never quite healed.

  ‘Miss Sage. Sorry, I got held up.’

  ‘Georgia, please.’

  ‘Georgia.’ He makes the name last longer than usual, rolling the vowels around on his tongue. ‘Lovely. And you have to call me Jim. I see you’ve met the two women in my life.’ He kisses his daughter on the cheek, his fiancée briefly on the lips. ‘Do you want to come inside?’

  I follow him through the entrance hall again, and then to the right.

  ‘Welcome to the White House. I bet you’ll never guess how it got its name.’ He laughs.

  The first room is a spotless white kitchen. There’s a stack of pizza boxes next to the chrome bin, and a glass jar full of protein bars next to the kettle: his and hers, at a guess. Bright light pours in through triple-glazed windows on both sides, so the air is thick and humid. Beyond them, a strip of lawn so dazzling it must be AstroTurf.

  ‘Where do you keep your dogs?’ I ask.

  He chuckles. ‘On a CD. They’re part of the security. My bark is worse than my bite, whatever people say.’

  The living area is next, den-like with cream leather, sunken sofas and a modern fireplace hanging from the ceiling like a steel teardrop. I realise Amy and Leah have gone, without Jim having to ask.

  He gestures for me to sit down, and as I sink into the expensive cushions, he pulls up a chair opposite.

  ‘Not what you expected?’ he asks.

  ‘I had no idea what to expect,’ I say. ‘But it probably wouldn’t have been this.’

  ‘You thought it’d be all horse brasses and kegs of scrumpy.’

  I smile. ‘It’s an incredible space.’

  Jim nods, satisfied. ‘Something a bit special. Benefit of being a builder. I wanted nothing that’d remind me of the old place.’

  I let a moment pass.

  ‘I’m grateful that you agreed to see me.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean I’ll do it.’

  ‘Of course not. But I want to reassure you, there’s nothing sensationalist about this.’ It’s the kind of thing I’ve heard journalists say over and over. ‘What happened to your wife and unborn child moved so many people, including me. And now you are to marry again. I think everyone who followed your story would love to know that you’ve found happiness again.’

  ‘You were there, in court, weren’t you?’ He studies my face, his gaze unhurried. ‘I didn’t think I recognised you, but you know what, I do. You were so young. Like him.’

  Him. I wonder if he ever says Daniel’s name aloud.

  ‘I’d only just started work. But your evidence has stayed with me more than any other witness. It was incredibly dramatic.’

  ‘Put on a good show, did I?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound glib.’

  He waves it away. ‘It was a long time ago. I’m yesterday’s news.’

  ‘That’s not true. What happened touched people. The time of year, your heroism. The loss you suffered.’

  Jim sighs. ‘They’re always in my heart, Tessa and the little one. And of course, Charlie and Jodie are still in my life, they’re some consolation.’

  I decide not to mention I was in the bar last night.

  ‘Your godchildren?’

  ‘You’ve done your research.
Though only Jodie is my godchild. Their piece-of-shit father left before she was even born. I’ve done my best to be a better dad to them than Robert ever would have. Jodie is going to be a bridesmaid when I marry Leah.’

  I remember the photo of his wedding to Tessa. Jodie was a bridesmaid then, too.

  ‘And Charlie?’

  ‘Lovely lad. I tell him not to try to hide that scar on his face. Girls love a story, a rogue.’ Jim smiles. ‘He’s learning. He’s like the son I never had.’

  Except you did have a son.

  Though I suppose I can’t blame Jim for not counting Daniel. I’ve tried my hardest to forget I have a father.

  ‘Readers would love to know that you’ve been able to make a fresh start.’

  He says nothing.

  I look down at the book in my hands.

  ‘Anyway, this American book is similar to the one the British publishers are bringing out.’ I hold it out but he doesn’t take it. I try not to imagine how much Maureen will gloat if I fail. ‘I’d paint a portrait that would be yours to keep, and we might be able to pay some limited expenses, to cover the time you spend sitting for me . . .’

  ‘You can see for yourself, I don’t need the money. And I’m no oil painting neither.’

  ‘I generally use acrylics.’ I smile.

  But he’s still frowning.

  ‘Here’s your chance then. Why would you do it, if you were me?’

  I try to think of an answer.

  ‘It could be a way of ending that chapter of your life. You’re about to start a new one, with Leah. The painting would show the world that it’s possible to recover, even from the most awful trauma.’

  ‘Is it?’ he says, and for a moment, it feels as if he knows what happened to me. Even though there’s no way he could.

  ‘A portrait can capture much more than a photograph. Pain as well as happiness. It’s more honest. My aim would be to show the real Jim Fielding.’

  His eyes widen. ‘Not sure anyone wants to see that. We all have stuff we’d rather no one sees. Even you, Georgia, I’m sure.’

  ‘Well, you control everything. We’d have sittings, ideally three or four. I’d take sketches. You could play music. Daydream. Or talk.’

  He gets up, walks to the window overlooking the fake lawn and a line of bottle-green trees.

  ‘I don’t talk about what happened, to anyone.’

  ‘And you won’t have to for this either—’

  He talks over me. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t have liked to talk. But everyone around me wants to press on. Heroes aren’t meant to look back.’

  He says heroes as if it’s a curse.

  I remember Neena telling me how often victims of terrible tragedies were keen to talk to her, to be on camera:

  ‘You’d think it’s the last thing they’d want to do. But they want to speak to someone who isn’t involved, to help them work out how they feel. Even if that uninvolved person happens to be a reporter who is going to broadcast the whole lot to millions.’

  Perhaps that’s why Jim hasn’t told me to piss off. He needs someone to talk to.

  ‘It must be hard at times. Not feeling you can open up.’

  He says nothing, but flexes his fingers, as though he’s grasping for something.

  ‘Maybe the painting could show it takes as much courage to live with grief, day in, day out, as it does to run into a burning building. Courage and grit.’

  ‘With me, it was whisky and work. Until Leah came along, anyhow.’ He turns back to me. ‘What’s in it for you, Georgia Sage? Coming to the back of beyond, painting my ugly mug.’

  I smile. ‘I spend my days drawing bad people, the stuff of nightmares. Just for once, I’d love to paint someone good.’

  He laughs. ‘Flattering an old man is an underhand way to get what you want. But can I trust you, Georgia? Are you sure this is just about a painting?’

  I think of little Charlie, and the strange affinity I felt with Daniel in court all those years ago. Am I lying by not admitting I’m more invested than I said?

  ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘When the fire happened, the journalists used all kinds of tricks to try to get their tacky exclusives, to uncover things that weren’t even there. It left me . . . suspicious.’

  ‘This is a serious project with a serious publisher, Jim. There’s no agenda.’

  He sighs, opens up his hands. The skin that grew over his burned palms flashes scarlet again.

  ‘Leave the contract for me to look over. I’m not promising anything. It’s up to my family as much as me.’

  I try not to let my disappointment show. Jim might agree to it, but I don’t think I did nearly enough to convince Leah or Amy.

  ‘Thanks for thinking about it at least. I know readers would take a lot from seeing you’ve rebuilt your life.’

  ‘Phoenix from the ashes, that’s me,’ Jim says.

  18

  Monday morning, and the police medic is Oli’s first witness of the week. How he handles this will make or break the case. Yet as I try to concentrate on the evidence, all I can think about is Ashdean – and Jim.

  ‘How soon were you able to examine Miss Tranter after the rape took place?’

  The doctor frowns, deepening the lines on her forehead.

  ‘Unfortunately, it was a good thirty-seven hours. The young woman confided in her mother, who persuaded her to report what had happened.’

  It’s been two days since I met Jim Fielding, but I haven’t heard from him. The longer I wait, the less likely it seems he’ll say yes. Yet I want him to. He’s such a fascinating subject.

  And I want to paint a hero.

  ‘. . . but this isn’t uncommon, though, is it, after a rape?’

  The doctor shakes her head.

  ‘No. Reporting is often delayed, and we do what we can to preserve what is left. However, Miss Tranter had already showered multiple times. The skin on her legs and abdomen showed signs of being scrubbed. She told me that she had done that herself, but whatever she tried, she still didn’t feel clean.’

  Oli waits, to let those words sink in.

  ‘Did that affect the evidence you were able to gather?’

  ‘Yes. There was no semen or other DNA due to the delay and also the washing.’

  In sexual assault cases, juries appreciate hard facts, solid data. The lack of it won’t help Oli’s case. Yet his body language stays confident.

  ‘But we should differentiate between DNA and other medical evidence, shouldn’t we, Doctor? Because you did find relevant injuries when you conducted your examination. Could you explain to the jury what you found?

  ‘Although first, ladies and gentlemen, I must warn you that you may find some of the details – and photographs – distressing, but they speak very clearly to the violence the defendant used.’

  *

  Later, it’s the medic I draw for the evening news. In my picture, she’s holding up an evidence photograph of a woman’s horribly bruised back and hips, Delft blue mottled with manganese violet.

  Cruella’s cross-examination was as bad as I’d feared, suggesting the victim was a drunk with a liking for ‘rough stuff’ in the bedroom. The doctor stuck to her guns, insisting that the external and internal bruising appeared too extensive to have been from consensual sex, or accidental injuries. But Cruella argued back: even the victim’s own friends admitted she’d had too much champagne – surely the marks to her legs might have come from walking into furniture in an unfamiliar hotel room.

  And as for the genital swelling: ‘We are from a different generation, though, aren’t we, Doctor? Cultural phenomena like Fifty Shades of Grey show that today’s young woman is more . . . imaginative?’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s relevant.’

  ‘Could the injuries not be explained by experimentation with, say, domination and submission?’

  ‘Only if it were very extreme.’

  ‘Yet youthful passions are, by their very nature,
extreme . . .’

  Now, in Manny’s storeroom, my anger at Cruella’s tactics filters into my sketch, adding layer after layer of purple bruising, until I have to rein myself back and tone it down again with flesh tones.

  Toby pokes his head through the beaded curtain.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Almost.’

  As I step back to assess the final drawing, I jump. Charlie is sitting on Manny’s sofa bed, the one he kips on when the cafe is quiet at night.

  I blink, try to send the boy away. But when I open my eyes again, he’s still there, his Teletubby at his side. Tears are streaming down his face though still he doesn’t make a sound.

  ‘Shhh,’ I whisper.

  I know he’s not real. But it is impossible to witness a child’s pain and not want to take it away.

  What do I know about the real Charlie? That he survived the fire. That his sister was born disabled. That his father deserted both of them.

  What can I say to make any of that better? I remember how my mother would always be there when I woke from night terrors. I picture her face, feel her soothing touch on my arm, but I cannot hear the words she would use to calm me down. So many details of my childhood have been erased by what happened afterwards.

  Charlie’s face is distorted from crying, his right eye now as puffy as the burned area surrounding his left. His T-shirt is tear-soaked, and his balled fists begin to scrub away at his sockets. Big boys don’t cry.

  My body yearns to reach for him. But I am too afraid – of feeling nothing, or even more of feeling something.

  The kid looks so real, and despite my fear I feel completely normal. Not tired. Not stressed. Heart FM plays in the kitchen and I can hear every word of the ballad as Manny sings along. The smell of coffee drifts in as he makes my espresso.

  ‘Charlie, go, please. You’re not real.’

  He breaks my gaze and looks towards the door, his arms stretching up towards someone I cannot see. The crying stops, and he puts his thumb in his mouth. My heart breaks. Pip used to do that when he was little.

  ‘Are you here because I saw Jim?’ I ask him. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’