The Secrets You Hide

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The Secrets You Hide Page 9

by Kate Helm


  ‘. . . you nag and you nag and I can’t stand it anymore! You’ve no idea what I’m doing to keep on top of everything.’

  Dad’s voice but not as I’d ever heard it before, coming from their bedroom, the room next to mine. I heard my mother murmur something soothing back.

  ‘They’re blaming me, Deb. But all you care about is whether I’m home in time for your lousy meals, or whether I help the kids with their stupid homework. Don’t you get it? This is trouble.’

  My eyes narrowed in the mirror’s reflection, and so did Abi’s.

  She blinked, reached for a brush, began to smudge the liner up across her lid.

  ‘And this is how you turn it into a smoky eye,’ she said. ‘Very sophisticated. You try.’

  On the other side of the wall, Mum’s tone was pleading. I caught odd phrases.

  ‘. . . look for something else. We can manage while . . .’

  ‘I have to fight. See! You have no idea. No fucking idea at all.’

  I dropped the brush. Dad never swore. I heard him stomp down the stairs, and out of the house, slamming the front door.

  Abi picked the brush up and continued to smudge the black pencil, ignoring the sound of my mother’s almost muffled sobs.

  ‘Abi, I—’

  ‘Shh. My parents argue. Everyone’s parents do,’ she said, placing the brushes back in their little plastic slots. ‘It’s better than divorce, though, right?’

  Except my parents had never rowed before. Ours was a house where soft-soled slippers were worn indoors. Doors were never slammed, and no one but Pip ever raised their voice.

  But after that day, a dam burst. My father’s anger filled every space. I stopped bringing anyone home, and Pip did the same thing. Even Marmite began to whine and do a pitiful half-crouch whenever my dad passed his bed on the kitchen floor . . .

  ‘Travel update now, and there’s been an accident on the M5 between junction 11a and 12, causing tailbacks . . .’

  I sigh: so much for distracting myself. I need to think about this afternoon, how to make it work. How to show Maureen and those snobby BBC bastards that I can create something worthwhile . . .

  I run through what Jim told me when we first met: how he has no one he talks to about what happened to him. That’s why he said yes, I’m sure of it. Well, I get it: the survivor’s guilt; the fight not to relive the same events over and over, when there’s nothing that can be changed.

  And if he wants to use me as an unpaid counsellor, that’s OK. Because I am using him too.

  I’m on the outskirts of the forest at last. What did Oli call it? Murky.

  Yet today Ashdean feels anything but murky. There’s a brochure-blue sky above the spiky forest that surrounds the town. It feels less oppressive than the first time I came, as though someone has applied the cheeriest Instagram filter to every street.

  I slow down as I approach the White House. The plastered walls reflect the sun relentlessly as I approach, blinding me momentarily. I park up on the grassy bank, and unload my easel, a canvas, pencils. No paint, not yet, though I have a box full of new, unopened oils in my suitcase. I haven’t used oils since I was a child, but the publisher insisted in the end, for the sake of variety. I try not to think about the smell, but even the thought of it makes me nauseous . . .

  The steel bolts retract noisily before I’ve reached the gate: Jim must have been watching me approach. He’s waiting for me on the other side, dressed in jeans and a checked, cobalt-blue shirt with short sleeves that reveal two large tattoos. A crimson snake weaves around his right arm, while deep-green leaves grow around the left.

  ‘Welcome back, Georgia. You like my ink?’ he asks. ‘My own design, a forest tattoo for a forest boy. Cost me a fortune and hurt like stink, but they cover up the ones I got in the young offender institution.’

  Is this his first admission? At art school a tutor told us that portrait sittings often take on the air of a confessional:

  ‘And like a priest, you must keep their secrets, except in the painting itself.’

  I ignore the mention of prison – it’s nothing the neighbour hadn’t told me already – and step a little closer to look at the details of his tattoo. It’s a little blurry, definitely not the best work I’ve ever seen, but the branches and roots intertwine, like a forest in a children’s storybook.

  ‘I’ll try to do them justice in my picture.’

  Jim nods, as though I’ve passed a test by not asking him why he went inside. He clicks a remote and the gate closes behind me. I don’t like being locked in and my heart pumps harder, but I make myself focus on Jim’s pale-denim eyes, and then the scarred hands that carried two children to safety.

  That’s better.

  ‘We’re alone, in case you’re wondering. Leah . . . still doesn’t completely agree with the painting. She knows how important my privacy is to me. But I told her you’re sound. That you won’t screw me over.’

  I smile. ‘I’m here to paint your picture, that’s all.’

  23

  We pass through the white kitchen and the vast living room, into a fully glazed corridor. There’s a door, a solid hunk of blond wood broken only by a keyhole halfway down.

  My heart speeds up a little as Jim unlocks it, but there’s something about him that’s reassuring.

  ‘Welcome to my lair. After you.’

  Instead of floor-to-ceiling windows, the room has cedar-clad walls, the only light coming from a pane in the roof. His office is large, dominated by his desk, a vast, black leather swivel chair and a tan couch. There’s no other furniture, no family photos, not even a bookshelf.

  ‘Take a seat. Coffee?’

  I sit on the couch facing his desk, a lump of oak that’s been varnished so it shines like water.

  ‘Black, please.’

  He pushes a cedar plank and a cupboard opens, with a kettle, tea and coffee on a tray, as though we’re in a hotel. I look more closely at his things.

  ‘You’re the tidiest man I’ve ever met,’ I say, as he busies himself making drinks.

  ‘Is that a sure sign I’m a psychopath or something?’

  ‘Why – are you?’ I say.

  ‘Do you always start interrogating the people you’re going to paint before you even pick up a brush?’

  I laugh. ‘Do you always answer a question with another question?’

  Before he turns away, I see a half-frown cross his face. He stirs my coffee, turns back and passes the cup over the desk. He sits down; his office chair is much higher up than the sofa, so I have no choice but to stare up, like a child before the head teacher.

  ‘I’m more into actions than words. But then, you know all about me, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  His voice is suddenly serious.

  ‘You can see through me, right? It’s what you do, in your job. You’ve got X-ray vision, can see all our darkest secrets.’

  I shake my head. ‘People always think that. I’d be worth billions if I could. The Human Lie Detector. But I do believe art can reveal more than a photo.’

  ‘Should I be worried, Georgia?’

  ‘Not if your conscience is clear.’

  He stares at me. I break the gaze first, unsettled by his intensity. The room feels smaller, as though the walls are moving in.

  ‘So is this the nerve centre of Fielding Construction?’

  ‘I have an office in town, they handle the cab business there too. Though the really important stuff is either in here’ – he taps his head – ‘or behind these walls.’ He pushes against another section of the wall, and it slides open to reveal dozens of folders. ‘It’s why I thought you might like to paint me in here.’

  I flinch. It’s a terrible setting. And the thought of being shut in here for hours on end turns my stomach.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or we can move the furniture around?’

  ‘This is quite a . . . dominant space. Not much light. And all the wood panelling migh
t make you look like you’re posing in a sauna or something!’

  He doesn’t smile.

  Shit.

  It’s not like the background even matters. What matters is making him so comfortable he can reveal himself.

  ‘So where would you suggest?’

  Colder, now, the chumminess gone as suddenly as the sun behind a cloud. This man is not used to people disagreeing with him.

  ‘Is there somewhere that’s more of a blank canvas? I didn’t want to offend you, but for the picture, we want you to be the focus.’

  ‘Not my cedar panelling?’ The twinkle is back. He stands up. ‘All right then. The atrium in the entrance hall enough of a blank canvas?’

  I nod. ‘That should work.’

  ‘Good stuff. I paid a bloody bomb for the curtain walling, it’d be nice to see it immortalised for posterity.’

  *

  I set up in silence, and Jim Fielding watches me. The artist at work.

  He sits in a brown leather armchair we’ve carried in from the living room. He chose this one specifically. It’s slightly too small for him, so he looks . . . not fat, but uncontainable. I was going to point it out, but I think he already realises exactly how this will make him appear.

  He smiles at me, as though he can read my thoughts.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, the light in here is really good.’

  Though even in full sunshine, the details of his face elude me. Instead, it seems to be made up of angles and planes, like a Picasso made real. My pencil hovers over my sketchbook but doesn’t quite make contact, as I prepare to make studies, imagine possible compositions.

  ‘Always used to look young for my age, but now my misspent youth is showing. Will I be able to stick your painting in my attic so I’ll stop getting old?’

  I laugh. ‘There’s no attic here.’

  ‘I loathe stairs.’

  I think of his four-storey town house in Cherry Blossom Lane – the journeys he made up and down a burning stairwell as he tried to rescue his wife. The injuries he inflicted on himself, trying to open red-hot metal door handles, only to be beaten back by the flames.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘You can ask me about that night. Get it over with. It’s the reason you’re here, after all.’

  It feels too soon to be prying. But I may not get the chance again.

  ‘I suppose I wonder what made you able to do what you did. I can’t imagine being that brave myself.’

  I know I’m not. I am a coward.

  Jim looks at me steadily, and I tilt my head so I can get a clearer look into his eyes. For so long, I’ve searched the eyes of killers, rapists, abusers, looking for guilt. I’d like to see what goodness looks like.

  But what I see is Daniel’s eyes.

  ‘I didn’t think. Jodie and Charlie were in my care. How could I have told Emma if I’d let them die? Those kids were all she had.’

  I remember the neighbour talking about the kids’ father leaving. Emma and . . . Robert, that’s her husband’s name.

  ‘But didn’t you feel afraid as you went back inside?’

  ‘Not at first. The fire didn’t seem to be spreading that fast. The kids were too tiny to get themselves out and I thought my Tessa must be right behind me.’ His injured hands turn into claws as though he’s reliving it, grasping for something out of reach. ‘But it was the smoke, see. She was unconscious by then. When I realised she wasn’t coming out, I tried to get back in but the other neighbours dragged me away. I shouldn’t have let them. For a very long time, I wished I’d died too.’

  I let the space between the words grow, for him to fill, as I work.

  ‘You know I lost my first wife too? My Sharon.’

  I look up from the sketch pad; the page is already full of little studies.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Always knew I might lose her, right from when we first met. She was in the kids’ home down in the town, and those places are pure evil . . .’ He shakes his head. ‘But we thought we could get past that. All the messed-up stuff from when we were growing up, we were gonna get right with our own kids. Whatever we did, whatever mistakes we made, they’d be loved.’ He scoffs.

  I sense that Jim doesn’t want platitudes, so still I say nothing.

  ‘I wasn’t up to the job, was I? Failed two wives. Sharon jumped off a bridge right in front of me, and my Tessa died as I watched. Fuck knows why Leah wants to marry me when you look at what went before.’

  Silence no longer seems enough.

  ‘Jim. I’m so sorry.’

  He stands up and leaves the hall. For a couple of minutes, I don’t know whether I should pack up or go after him.

  He returns with two glasses of water, and a small table to put them on.

  ‘I don’t know where that came from. Forget it.’

  I look into his eyes. The blue has blurred, making them hard to read.

  ‘My friend who works for the BBC says sometimes it’s only possible to be honest with a stranger.’

  He’s about to say something else, when a clock chimes somewhere else in the house. He looks at his watch, a silver Rolex.

  ‘Leah will be back in ten minutes and it’s best if you’re gone well before then. Just to keep the peace. I’m not scared of much, but my fiancée is a force of nature.’

  ‘A few more poses would be great in the time we have left.’

  ‘How does this work for you?’

  He places his hands on the arms of his chair and leans back. I think he’s acting, but I understand why.

  ‘Very powerful. The godfather.’

  He grunts. ‘The rumour mill in this town at work already, is it?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I know the gossip. Maybe I even start the odd rumour myself. Does no harm if people think you’re a hard nut, does it?’

  ‘I honestly haven’t heard anything.’ It’s only a small lie, and the nosy neighbour’s admission she had a crush on the teenage Jim hardly counts. ‘Except what you told me yourself about being in jail.’

  ‘Young offender institution. Not proper jail. Joyriding, and a few boxes of stolen fags they found in the boot of the car. Not mine. I didn’t even smoke, not then. But I took the blame for a mate. No sense both of us serving time.’ He laughs humourlessly. ‘Toughened me up. And that reputation’s made life a lot easier. But I’m a pussycat compared to Leah. And she’s due back in five minutes. That’s your warning.’

  ‘Understood. One last sketch.’

  I turn the page to make a hurried first attempt at a composition that might work for the final painting. My hand trembles, half-afraid of making the mark on the page, committing myself to the direction this painting will take, and the story it will tell.

  I narrow my eyes, take in the shape of him, his head, his body in the space, as my art teacher first taught me to do. The pencil meets the paper. His shape dominating the space, as heroes – and villains – always should.

  24

  Outside, late afternoon smells of sharp sap and crushed leaves. My body feels tight and my mind full. I need to stretch my legs before the long drive home.

  As I walk, I replay the last couple of hours. The Jim in the photograph, the Jim I drew in court, they’re both two-dimensional. Can I capture all the contradictions – his guilt and his heroism, his hard-man reputation alongside the vulnerability?

  Am I good enough?

  My talent used to be the only thing I was sure of, but now it seems elusive.

  The town is not quite deserted – a few women cross the square, bags of shopping weighing them down, and two drivers lean against their cabs at the taxi rank, one vaping, one smoking a roll-up. Maybe it’s my imagination, but there’s something predatory about the way they track me with their eyes.

  I pass a small supermarket and a laundrette belching out heat and the itchy smell of soap powder. The road slopes downwards, towards the modern part of town, where Jim lived, and Tessa died.

  Shit.

&
nbsp; Charlie – or at least, a boy in red – is skipping ahead, in the opposite direction. There is nothing ghostly about this kid. I follow him, veering right, down an alleyway sandwiching together two strips of workers’ cottages. The yards are mean and dark, space for no more than bikes and washing lines. A few spindly weeds grow in the shadows.

  I’ve lost sight of him.

  But when I get to the end of the alley, there’s a different surprise: a green, large as a cricket field, and on the other side, an enormous, double-fronted Victorian house, stone-built, the sunshine giving it a spectral glow.

  Now I see the high fence that surrounds it, topped with rusting barbed wire the colour of dried blood. Beyond the wire, the front garden has given up the fight against nature, with top-heavy plants that would reach my shoulder blades.

  A peeling sign mounted on the fence reads:

  DEVELOPMENT OPPORTUNITY: FORMER CHILDREN’S RESIDENTIAL HOME, 12+ BEDROOMS, PARKING, EXTENSIVE GROUNDS, VIEWS TO VILLAGE GREEN & FOREST SUITABLE FOR CONVERSION TO HOTEL OR BUSINESS HEADQUARTERS. POA

  Is this the children’s home where Jim’s wife had lived?

  As I walk the perimeter, I recognise the tell-tale signs of an institution. Blackened notices remind residents what’s forbidden: ball games, smoking, noise after 7 p.m. RESPECT YOUR NEIGHBOURS, one sign bosses in block capitals, as though the children here had less right to respect than everyone else.

  I keep walking. There’s a second sign as I face the front of the building. The same ageing advertisement, but a much newer board nailed over the top.

  COPSE VIEW ACQUIRED FOR REDEVELOPMENT BY FIELDING CONSTRUCTION: NEW HOMES COMING AUTUMN 2018

  Fielding Construction? I’m pretty sure that is Jim’s firm. But why would he get involved here? Those places are pure evil. That’s what he said.

  I suppose he must be able to separate personal trauma from business decisions. But even so . . . I hadn’t realised until the sitting that he’d been there when his wife jumped to her death.

  I shiver. Time to go.

  I follow the fence round, back towards the sunshine. The grounds are huge: a summer house that must have been built when the mansion was, crumbles at the end of the garden. Next to it, there’s an ugly modern garage block.

 

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