The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  He doesn’t react. I cannot make sense of this: there is no reason for me to hallucinate. I’d planned to look for a counsellor, but maybe the cause is medical. A brain tumour? Cancer?

  If it is, I should seek help, soon. I might be getting worse.

  ‘Done?’ Toby says, pushing past me to see the sketch, unable to see the sobbing child. ‘That’s bold. Very dramatic colours.’

  I let him carry the board and my drawing out to where the cameraman is waiting. But I don’t join them. Finally, when I look around, the child has gone.

  I slump onto the sofa, right where Charlie was, and feel tears pricking behind my eyes. But they’re not for him. They’re for my brother, the child I really failed.

  19

  The walk-in centre waiting room is packed.

  ‘It’s our rush hour,’ says the receptionist. ‘You’d be better off going to your own GP.’

  ‘I need to see someone tonight.’

  She shrugs. I take my ticket from her and sit down. 432. As I look up, the electronic display flickers.

  The red 420 turns to 421.

  Like the minutes on my clock radio, the countdown to the moment everything changed.

  I close my eyes, but the memories keep coming. The echo of half-heard male voices. A spray of blood across aqua tiles. The choices I made that make me share the guilt with my father.

  I force my eyes open, look at the woman next to me, wincing as she flexes bleeding fingers to type a message into her phone.

  I get mine out too. No missed calls or messages from Jim Fielding. He’d have called by now if he was going to do it.

  To distract myself, I google my symptoms. The phone screen is completely knackered, but the results for hallucinations, causes, couldn’t be clearer:

  Schizophrenia

  Parkinson’s Disease

  Dementia

  My finger hovers over the words, but I already know too much about each one. A boy at art school was schizophrenic. At first, his eccentric behaviour gave him an edge, but then he deteriorated until only numbing medication kept him alive.

  There’s a judge in the Western region with Parkinson’s but before he was diagnosed, everyone thought he was an alcoholic. I look down at my hands, which are steady. But what if it’s happening when I draw? Maureen’s snide comments – ‘Not your best work, Georgia’ – might be truer than she realised.

  And dementia? My memory feels as sharp as ever, though often I wish it weren’t. And anyway, surely it’s a disease of the old.

  Unless this is another legacy from my father; perhaps he’s given me faulty genes, along with the money I never wanted.

  There’s another thing the three conditions have in common.

  They are all incurable.

  ‘Last chance, number 432, or I’m going straight to 433!’

  A florid doctor in his sixties is scanning the waiting room.

  ‘Sorry, that’s me.’

  I follow him into the consulting room, which smells of BO and disinfectant wipes.

  ‘What seems to be the problem?’

  He sounds weary – he must have asked this tens of thousands of times in his career.

  ‘I’ve been seeing things.’ He doesn’t look up, and his indifference makes me brave. I couldn’t have said this out loud to my regular GP. ‘Things that don’t seem to be there.’

  ‘Hmm?’ The doctor frowns up at me, as though I’ve only said it to annoy him. ‘Things?’

  ‘People.’

  ‘What makes you think they’re not there?’

  ‘Other people don’t see them.’

  ‘You’ve asked them?’ But before I can answer, he’s checking my records on the computer. ‘Georgia Sage, DOB 7 April 1986?’

  I try not to flinch. For my NHS records, I had to keep my real birthday. Everyone else thinks I was born in November.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Have you had a fever?’

  ‘No.’

  He reaches across the desk with a claw-like hand and touches my forehead to check for himself.

  ‘Are you using drugs? Heroin? Legal highs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How many units of alcohol do you drink a week?’

  I try to remember how many I am supposed to.

  ‘Is it twenty-one? I’m not a heavy drinker anyway.’

  ‘It’s fourteen. In a woman of your age, with no known medical conditions, drugs or alcohol abuse are the most likely cause of hallucinations. Unless there are other symptoms? Dizziness, vertigo, the shakes?’

  I tick them off in my head.

  ‘No. I feel normal. Tired but normal.’ I take a breath. ‘I’m afraid I might be going mad. Or getting dementia. Or Parkinson’s.’

  There’s a moment of relief after the words leave my mouth: the release of sharing your worst fears.

  But the doctor tuts.

  ‘Diagnosis by Dr Google, I suppose? Look, you’re clearly a healthy young woman. Stress, is it? Or burning the midnight oil?’

  I stare at him.

  ‘This clinic isn’t equipped for mental health issues. You’re registered with a GP. Make an appointment to see her?’

  I feel attacked.

  ‘And what would she do differently?’

  The doctor sighs. ‘Refer you for CBT. Or possibly an MRI, though personally, I think that would be a waste of NHS resources.’

  ‘Could I get an MRI privately, to rule anything out? I have the money.’

  He sighs again and reaches for a sticky note decorated with a drug company logo, to write down the name of a hospital.

  ‘This place does them. Over in Hove. But it’ll cost thousands and honestly, you’re wasting your cash. Get early nights and cut back on the sauce. That should do it.’

  He hands me the note, plus a leaflet, and presses the button for his next patient.

  It’s only when I’m back on Queen’s Road that I realise the leaflet lists local addiction services. But my irritation gives way to a kind of relief. He’s right: I am young, well, unaddicted. A doctor wouldn’t let me walk away if he thought I had something serious.

  I will book an MRI, to put my mind at rest. At least my inheritance means I can afford to do that. But I’m probably physically OK. Mentally? The jury’s out.

  Still, I keep my head down as I walk home, so I don’t risk seeing the boy who isn’t there.

  20

  Today the defence case begins, and Cruella calls the footballer. Sam Carr is immaculately dressed, and as he steps into the witness box, he reminds me of a bridegroom waiting at the altar.

  ‘Perhaps you’d begin by telling us why you stayed at the hotel on that weekend?’

  We hold our breath until he speaks. Like the girl, he’ll have been well prepared for this.

  ‘We were there for training.’ Carr is known for his gruff voice, but these first words are softer. I wonder if he’s reciting a script. ‘We always go there. Time away from the ground, helps with teamwork.’

  ‘With bonding?’

  ‘Yeah. Hotel’s very private, so there’s no hassle from paparazzi.’

  He glares at the press bench: is that fear, or scorn? I’d guess it’s both. We have the power to make or break him, and he doesn’t like that.

  ‘So, that was your plan on the night in question?’

  ‘Just chilling. We were knackered from training, plus there’d been team talk, tactics. My brain was full of it. We had a swim, to unwind.’

  ‘And was that when you first saw Miss Tranter?’

  Carr sighs. ‘Don’t remember. There were some girls splashing about in the spa pool. Giggling, you know. But I didn’t take much notice. Wasn’t what we were there for.’

  ‘When did that change?’

  The footballer half smiles. I hadn’t understood before why he was such a pin-up. But momentarily, he’s film-star handsome.

  ‘They recognised us.’

  ‘The young women?’

  He nods.

  ‘And this happens often?’<
br />
  He can’t help himself: he smirks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  I want him to go to jail. To see the smirk disappear – rapists and baby-killers are never allowed to feel safe. Even ones as charming as the footballer.

  Did Daniel Fielding suffer for his crimes? I bet he had his share of revenge beatings.

  ‘And when you said, they recognised us, did you mean all of you?’

  ‘Me, I guess. Dunno why.’ He turns to the jury, as though he’s sharing a joke. ‘Maybe because I’m tall.’

  Cruella frowns. She doesn’t want her client to come across as too full of himself.

  ‘Every young man might dream of being followed by pretty girls. But, are there negatives to your fame?’

  ‘Sure.’ Carr smiles laddishly at the jurors. ‘Honey traps. Girls who pretend to like you, but really they want the cheque they’d get for selling their story. Bunny boilers.’

  ‘Are you currently in a relationship?’

  ‘No. I’m too busy. I won’t lie, there’s been the odd girl, but I’ve always been sensible. Behaved myself.’ He raises his hands in a gesture of bafflement. ‘But look where that got me.’

  I look at the jury, hoping they’re seeing through him. I can’t tell . . .

  ‘Behaved yourself. What does that mean?’

  ‘Some lads forget that we’re never off duty. Lose control. Not just with women, but with drugs. Gambling.’ He scoffs.

  ‘But not you?’

  ‘I’m a brand. I built that. Sure, the pundits take the pi— the mickey, call me a control freak, on the pitch, and off. But I’m looking after number one.’

  Cruella nods. ‘And this self-control extends to relationships?’

  ‘Yeah. This is why this is all such bullshit.’ For the first time, Carr’s voice reverts to a threatening growl, as his frustration spills over. ‘Like . . . Why would I make a girl do anything she didn’t want? I know this is gonna sound arrogant but I don’t need to force anyone to come to bed with me. I could go out any night and . . . Not because I’m God’s gift. But right now, I got money, I’m in the magazines. Women can’t get enough of that.’

  So he is a pig, as well as a rapist. I sneak a glance at the gallery. No Charlie. I’m relieved – I don’t want him to hear this kind of bullshit.

  OK. Stop that right there.

  He can’t hear it because he’s not real.

  Cruella nods, as though Carr has just described something deeply traumatic in his past, rather than stated how rich and desirable he is.

  ‘And that makes you vulnerable?’

  ‘It . . . Yes. I’m not complaining about my life. But this? The stuff I’m accused of? This is not how it was. Not in a million years.’

  *

  I draw him handsome.

  Too handsome.

  Not that the footballer would ever see the difference. I wouldn’t be surprised if his ‘people’ get in touch with me after this goes on air, to ask to buy my sketch.

  Carr won’t realise I’ve puffed him up, made his stance overbearing, almost threatening, in the dock. His tan is amplified, a shade too tangerine. Still a good likeness, but with just enough arrogance to make you doubt his pleas of innocence that Neena will parrot in her piece to camera.

  ‘Hope that’s OK,’ I say, handing her the sketch outside Manny’s.

  She holds up the drawing.

  ‘Better than OK. This is great, Georgia. You’re back on form! Fancy a drink to celebrate?’

  I think about what the walk-in centre GP said about drinking.

  ‘Not tonight.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. Vegan, tantric-sex evening class, or whatever the funky people are doing in Brighton these days?’

  I nod. ‘Something like that. See you in the morning.’

  *

  Walking home along the blustery seafront, my phone rings.

  Jim Fielding Mobile

  I cross my fingers as I answer, a silly childhood habit I’ve never lost.

  ‘Georgia, I can hear the sea!’ He sounds jovial.

  ‘Yes, I’m right next to it.’ I wait.

  ‘I’m probably crazy for doing this,’ he says, and I let my hopes soar like the gulls, ‘because I’m an ugly old bugger. But I’m in.’

  ‘That’s fantastic.’

  And it is, though I ignore the way my stomach lurches as I imagine going west again. Nerves, that’s all. This commission is a big deal.

  ‘Yeah, well, what you said made sense, kind of. A way to mark the end of one era, and the start of a new one.’

  ‘That’s a great way of seeing it.’ I try not to scare him off by seeming too keen. ‘When could we start, do you think?’

  ‘No time like the present. Do you have any plans for the weekend?’

  21

  It took me years to understand the rituals, the costumes, the pomp of the courtroom.

  But now I get it. The crimes we commit against each other are raw and savage. The ermine and the oak contain that savagery.

  As Oli prepares to cross-examine the footballer, I want him to win. Cases don’t get to this stage unless the evidence is strong.

  ‘Would you describe yourself as spoiled?’ Oli asks Carr, without preamble.

  ‘I’m well off. But I’ve worked for that.’

  ‘You don’t have to delay gratification very often, do you? Whatever you see, you can have.’

  Cruella stands up, rolling her eyes.

  ‘This isn’t a real question, is it, Your Honour.’

  The judge agrees. I glance at Oli. When we lived together, we kept a Chinese wall when I was sketching a case where he was prosecuting. His idea. So I wouldn’t be swayed to see the defendant as guilty.

  He never knew I see everyone as guilty, deep down. He never had an inkling about why I do this job, even though he knows me better than anyone else alive.

  Oli addresses the witness box.

  ‘The point I want to make is about your life, and your expectations. Can you remember the last time anyone said no to you?’

  Carr scowls, before regaining control and settling his features into that expression of injured innocence.

  ‘Money doesn’t buy everything. I still need to work hard. Do my training. I can’t pay someone else to get up at the crack of dawn. Or stand here, with my whole life on the line.’

  I try to gauge how that goes down with the jury. They’re giving nothing away, their faces blank. But I sense Oli’s frustration, as though there’s something about this case that he can’t bring up in court.

  ‘You didn’t answer my question.’

  Carr shrugs.

  ‘What was it again?’

  ‘I asked if you could remember the last time anyone said no to you. I wonder whether the fact you can’t suggests you wouldn’t hear it if they did.’

  Cruella is on her feet but Oli concedes before she speaks.

  ‘Withdrawn.’ But I can tell from the little flick of his wrist that he feels the jury got the point he was trying to make. ‘Let us move on to the first time you exchanged words with Miss Tranter.’

  *

  At the break, I corner Oli near the toilets.

  ‘What aren’t you allowed to say about the handsome sportsman?’

  ‘Careful, Georgie. Hopefully, it’ll all come out when he’s locked up.’

  ‘He’s got previous? There’s nothing in the press cuttings. Not so much as a kiss and tell.’

  Oli shakes his head. ‘You know I can’t—’

  ‘OK. I won’t push it. But I reckon you’re doing all right this morning.’

  He nods. ‘Hope so. Oh, have you heard any more about the book?’

  ‘Yeah. Fielding says he’s going to do it. I’m going there for the first sitting with him tomorrow.’

  ‘I was actually hoping he’d have turned it down. It’s a murky old place. I don’t like the thought of you getting tangled up in it.’

  My hackles rise.

  ‘I’m a grown-up now.’

&nbs
p; ‘You always were. But what if I could think of another case, a better one?’

  ‘It’s already set up. Unless you can give me a stronger reason—’

  Neena turns the corner, on her way to the ladies’.

  ‘No fraternisation, you two. If the judge doesn’t give you a bollocking, Imogen might. Pregnant women have hormones you shouldn’t mess with, Oliver.’

  Oli nods. ‘Don’t I know it?’

  And he’s gone before I can ask him what exactly it is that’s troubling him about Ashdean.

  22

  It takes me five hours to drive to the forest, even though I set out first thing on Saturday. As soon as the West Country landscape becomes familiar, I switch on the most raucous music I can find, to leave no room in my head for memories – or hallucinations.

  Instead, I think about the court case, and yesterday’s evidence.

  Will the jury convict Sam Carr?

  If I didn’t know how justice works – and how hard it is to get a rape case to court at all – maybe I would be swayed by Cruella’s innuendo. Yesterday she outlined the evidence she has in store next week: CCTV from the hotel’s public areas, showing Julie Tranter drunkenly bashing into objets d’art, explaining away the external bruises. And a new medical expert to dismiss the internal injuries too.

  Whatever happens, that young woman will never be the same. Something shifts inside when you become a victim. You realise the idea that we have any control over our lives is an illusion.

  I’ll never know why my father killed Pip and Mum, and spared me. But I do remember the instant I realised he was changing from my familiar, overworked dad, into a man full of anger.

  It was a Sunday, a fortnight after Christmas. Abi Murray had been given a proper make-up set and had brought it round to my house for us to do each other over. The Spice Girls were being interviewed on the radio, and Abi was getting frustrated with me because I couldn’t draw the kohl eyeliner on straight.

  ‘I look like a badger. Let me show you how to do it, you nana.’

  She held the mirror up in front of both our faces, and with her other hand, she guided mine along the curve of her lashes, so it made a neater stripe. Instantly, she looked five years older, or at least, she did to me.