by Kate Helm
I stare at the children playing, running, jumping. They look less real than my dead brother. But how many of them am I imagining – a handful, or every single one? Where are they all coming from? And what do they want?
Ahead of me, the old West Pier pokes out of the water, rusty foundations exposed by the low tide.
I struggle to my feet, up and over the pebble banks, back to the flat, carrying the dog upstairs with me, because I can’t face the small talk from my lonely neighbour. I close the door behind us, pour water for him, and a brandy for me, and sit at the kitchen table, forcing it down like medicine. Dexter wedges himself between my feet, licking salt water off my skin.
‘It’s all right, boy.’
But it’s not all right. I grab my phone and google the number of a counselling clinic I know does work with Victim Support. Denial has got me nowhere.
I need professional help to make sense of what I actually saw twenty years ago – and what I think I am seeing now.
30
‘Happy Easter, Georgia!’
Jim is waiting for me on the other side of his gate, dressed exactly as he was a week ago. I didn’t have to remind him. The brown leather chair and my easel are in position in the entrance hall, with the virgin canvas I had sent ahead propped against the wall. It’s a muggy afternoon, and the lowest clouds seem close enough to touch the glass roof.
‘Hi, Jim. It’s great to see you again.’
I’m lying – the last thing I felt like doing today was driving from Brighton to the Forest of Dean and pretending to be OK. Since yesterday on the beach, I haven’t been able to get the image of Pip out of my head. When I was driving fast, it was bearable. But whenever I’ve had to slow down, I watched the people on the pavements, wondering if they were really there.
Two mahogany side tables – the nesting kind my grandmother had – are laid for each of us: tea for him, coffee for me, iced water for both of us. Next to the coffee, a bowl of chocolate mini eggs, and another of fruit.
‘Thought you might be hungry after the drive.’
I smile: living alone, I miss tiny, surprise acts of kindness.
‘Thank you. How long do we have?’
‘A couple of hours? Leah’s gone to the gym. I told her to take Easter off, but no, not with a wedding dress to fit into, apparently. Today it’s Bodypump, with weights. I said, “Leah, don’t overdo it, I like curves.” ’
I don’t remember Leah having very many curves.
‘And what did she say?’
‘She snarled. She’s always that bit more aggressive before she’s been to the gym.’ He gestures to the chair. ‘I’m all right to get in the hot seat, am I?’
‘Of course.’
I pin a large sheet on the easel, ready to work more closely on the composition. My sketches from the first sitting look pathetically tentative, compared to the figure in front of me. I hadn’t been in the mood for this, but now I’m back, I want to try to do Jim justice.
‘Do you mind if I take a few photos as we talk? Just on my camera phone, to refer to at home.’
It’s procrastination, really. After Neena’s comments on my work, I’m low on confidence.
Jim nods and sits up a little straighter.
My phone makes a fake shutter sound as I take pictures.
Click.
‘You’ve been having a good old nose around my home town, I hear?’
I freeze. Jim looks self-satisfied, as though he’s caught me out.
I remember the taxi drivers watching me as I walked through Ashdean the last time I was here.
‘Have you got me under observation?’
Click. Click.
Jim laughs. ‘I wasn’t kidding when I said this town runs on gossip.’
‘I just took a walk after the first sitting. Stretched my legs before I drove home.’ I think about Copse View. ‘You bought the children’s home where your first wife lived. I was surprised.’
He tuts. ‘Not you as well, Georgia. I’m disappointed.’
I frown. ‘I’m not criticising you.’
Click.
He peers at me, then sighs.
‘Sorry. I’m so used to Ashdean’s wagging tongues that I forget how normal people behave. I bought it to help the town. It’s a beautiful building, but it’s been empty for ten years now and it’s turned into a magnet for graffiti and toerags.’
I picture the kids I followed inside.
The cold feeling comes back.
‘You’re going to redevelop it?’
‘Yeah. Flats for young people across the main three floors, plus a couple of family houses in the grounds.’
Click, click, click, capturing his benefactor’s smile.
‘Sounds great.’
Though I can’t imagine wanting to live there.
Jim looks at me. ‘You felt it, didn’t you? The misery creeps into the mortar – all those poor kids, taken from their shitty families into an even shittier place.’ He spreads his fingers. ‘But imagine toddlers playing in that big garden. Young couples starting new lives. That’d banish the bad vibes.’
‘Very philanthropic of you.’
Jim shrugs. ‘I won’t lie, there’s money in it too. Got the place for a knock-down price. But I don’t believe in sitting on cash. My dad was the biggest bloody skinflint you’ve ever seen but counting money didn’t make him happy. Never even lived long enough to enjoy what he’d put away.’
Suddenly, he stands up.
‘You’ve done it again, Georgia, with your spooky ways. I told myself that there’d be none of that Jeremy Kyle crap today.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘And that’s your secret, right? Ask questions, then stay quiet for so long I fill in the gaps.’ He sits back down. ‘From now on, I’m keeping it zipped.’
Maybe silence will help me focus. God knows I need to. I’ve taken enough photographs to paper the walls of my flat. Time to get on with it.
I tuck my phone in my pocket and square up to the canvas-sized sheet of paper on the easel. But the longer I stare at Jim’s face, the less sense it seems to make. Perhaps I need to approach it differently. Start somewhere else. I step back.
Of course. His hands: the hands that saved two young lives. He’s folded them, one on top of the other, so I can’t see the injuries, and that feels the right way to paint them, wearing his heroism lightly. They’re good hands, in proportion, with a couple of solid gold rings, but a gap on the left ring finger.
‘Will you wear a wedding ring, when you marry?’
Jim looks up at me.
‘Course I will. I believe in equality.’ He nods at my hand. ‘No ring. Do you have a partner, Georgia?’
I don’t answer.
‘Come on, if you’re trying to get inside my head, it’s only fair I should get a peek into yours.’
I play along. ‘I’m single. I was engaged once, but it didn’t work out.’
‘No kids?’
‘No.’
‘Want them?’
‘I . . . No. It feels like too big a gamble.’
Jim leans forward. I sketch in his arms against the sides of the chair, trying to capture that sense of a man who has outgrown it.
‘A gamble how?’
‘Whether they’ll be happy. Healthy. So many things can go wrong for a child.’
Jim looks at me and something seems to shift in the room.
‘Did something happen to you, Georgia?’ His voice is gentle.
I shake my head. ‘Working in my world, I hear so many terrible things.’
‘It’s easier going into it blindly . . . Me and Sharon . . .’ But he stops himself.
He’s fighting it. He wants to let out all the pain and regret he’s been storing up.
‘Are you brave enough to do it again?’ I ask him. ‘Have kids with Leah?’
‘She’s broody. Wants to give me a son, she says.’
You had a son. You still have one.
Does
Jim even know Daniel attempted suicide?
‘To carry on the name?’ I say.
He laughs. ‘Something like that. The Fielding dynasty, forever . . .’ He stops. ‘I don’t want to make the same mistakes again. But how am I meant to avoid that, when I don’t even know what the mistakes were?’
‘With Daniel?’
The name hangs in the air between us. I half expect to be thrown out. But instead, Jim exhales slowly.
He nods. ‘With Daniel.’
It’s the first time he has said his son’s name out loud to me. I stay silent.
‘Every man wants a son,’ he says eventually. ‘Well, wants one of each. A daughter to spoil. A son to . . . be a chip off the old block.’ He scoffs.
I sketch in his torso, neck, the shape of his head, and wait for him to continue.
‘Amy was actually more like me. Danny was quieter but I loved that boy. And then Sharon was gone and . . . I should have realised how desperate he’d become. Done something.’
‘I’m sure you did your best, Jim.’
‘I did nothing.’
‘Have you talked to Leah about any of this?’
Another bitter laugh. ‘God, no. She thinks I’m as strong as she is. Funny. According to the gossips, I’ve sired little bastards all over the forest, but here I am, getting cold feet about the most natural thing in the world.’
I remember the gossipy neighbour’s hints about Charlie and Jodie when I visited Cherry Blossom Lane.
Loved those kids like they were his own.
Jim shifts in his chair.
‘Sometimes there’s nothing anyone can do,’ I say to him. ‘But you got it right with Amy, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, she’s a belter. Went to uni and everything, until Tessa died and she dropped out to look after me. Who knows what she’d have been if . . . But she’ll be a good mum. She’s been wonderful with Emma O’Neill’s kids.’
‘There you are. And you’re a father figure to them, too, aren’t you?’
Jim swears under his breath.
‘I’m not their dad, OK? Whatever you’ve heard.’
‘I wasn’t suggesting—’
‘People always look for an ulterior motive. Me buying Copse View or keeping an eye on Charlie and Jodie. No one can believe that I want to help. I’ve got money, those kids need it. What’s so fucking complicated about that?’
‘Their real dad doesn’t contribute?’
‘Robert? They’re better off without him.’
His tone has changed. I wish I could take out my camera and record the sudden ruthlessness, but instead I try to capture the set of his jaw on paper.
‘I heard you were friends?’
For a moment, everything is still. Jim’s knuckles turn white in his lap.
‘That all you heard?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought we were mates, too. But he was a user. I fell for it and I paid in jail and he got away scot-free. And then he came back and I fell for it a second time, until the fucker deserted his own family, his own pregnant wife.’
‘Why did he go?’
‘Search me. He always put himself first. I mean, we all do when we’re kids, but we’re meant to grow out of it when we become parents. Not Robert, though. He stayed a selfish twat and I was the one who picked up the pieces. It was me that drove Emma to hospital when she went into labour, me who held her hand when the doctors told her what was wrong with Jodie.
‘And what did I get for being decent? The Ashdean gossips decided I had to have an ulterior motive. And that tells you all you need to know about this fucking place.’
‘Jim, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you angry.’ I put down my pencil. ‘The point I was trying to make was that you’ve done your best for those kids, which means when you become a dad again, it’ll be fine.’
He looks at me and I feel he’s going to challenge what I said for being too glib. Which it is. But instead he sighs.
‘Georgia, I swear, the next time we meet I’m getting too drunk to speak.’
‘Not a word of what you’ve said will leave this room.’
He shrugs. ‘No one would believe it anyhow. Jim Fielding, a soft touch and a headcase?’
I look at my watch.
‘Time’s almost up.’
‘I hope you kept working while I was banging on. When does the painting bit start?’
I begin to pack up.
‘Next time. I want to do some work at home and then we need to schedule another couple of long sessions, ideally soon.’
He sighs. ‘This is harder than I thought it’d be but . . . I keep my word.’ He gets up from the chair, stretches out his long arms and with it, he loses the vulnerability, becomes Big Jim Fielding again. ‘No chance of a sneaky peek?’
‘Like a bridegroom seeing the wedding dress before the big day. It’d be bad luck.’
He winks. ‘You can’t blame a bloke for trying . . .’
I leave, and as I walk through the gates, I feel him watching me.
He’s right: I’m not progressing as fast as I should be. But Jim’s pain is always there in the room with us. If you’ve been lying to yourself for years, you need a stranger to hear your confession.
Who will hear mine?
I load my stuff into the back of the car, and once I’m in the driving seat, I study the White House, with its cameras and pristine fortress walls. I start the ignition, set the satnav and put my foot down.
31
I ignore Easter. People are busy with their families, so no one calls me. But I’m not lonely. I use the court recess to work on the book commission.
I still don’t feel I’m capturing anything about Jim that a photograph can’t. Maybe I’m kidding myself to think I might be good enough for the cover, or to be in the book at all.
I see nobody real, and nobody imagined either. No Charlie. No Pip. That’s a small consolation. When Tuesday comes, and I go back into the world, outside feels overwhelming. So loud and so bright I can’t quite process it.
‘Hey, I think I’ve got you a way in,’ Neena says when we meet outside the crown court. When I frown, she adds, ‘Into the prison where that Fielding boy is. You’ll have to pretend to be teaching an art class, but it’s better than going in and out with the dirty laundry, right?’
‘I’ve never taught anyone in my life.’
‘A bunch of lifers won’t know the difference, will they? They’ll be too busy staring at your tits. How much do you want to talk to this guy?’
I don’t even remember saying I did.
‘When would it be?’
‘Ah. That’s the only slight catch. My contact is changing jobs – I think that’s why he’s up for it – so it has to be this Thursday. I checked the witnesses here and they’re boring that day so we won’t need you. It’s all worked out perfectly.’
I shake my head. ‘Yeah, except I don’t even want to talk to Daniel Fielding.’
Neena tuts. ‘Seriously? It wasn’t easy to arrange.’
‘I can’t see the point.’
A taxi pulls up outside, and Maureen emerges, waiting for the driver to help with her cases and easel.
‘She’s the point, George. That talentless old bag has been boasting that she’s going to be on the cover of the crime book. But if you can get even a few words out of Danny boy, to be released at the same time as the book, then you’ll be the star turn. The publisher will have to put your painting on the cover.’
Maureen gives us a bright smile as she passes us.
‘Morning Neena, Georgia. Lovely day for a rape trial, isn’t it?’
‘See,’ Neena says, once Maureen has trotted into the building. ‘She thinks it’s a done deal already. You can’t let her get the kudos that you deserve.’
‘I’d like to think my work is good enough without having to resort to this sort of thing.’
I regret it as soon as I say it. I sound pious. Plus, I don’t even think it’s true anymore. Apart fro
m the odd exception, my most recent work has been utter crap.
‘And I’d like to think that I’d have climbed the greasy pole without schmoozing and sucking up. But I did those things all the same, just in case it wasn’t enough.’
Toby, the producer, is walking up the road towards us.
Neena leans into me to whisper, ‘You can have until the lunch adjournment to examine your conscience, George. Then I’ll have to let my guy know either way so he can get the paperwork organised.’ She reaches for my hand, gives it a squeeze. ‘Look, there’s still something about the Fielding case that gets the public fired up. I was googling the whole thing while I was at the soft play centre yesterday. It’s a good chance for you to make your name.’
And then Toby is back, all bossy and thrusting, and I think about it. Neena is probably right. I do need to raise my profile, but do I really want to use someone else – even if he is a convicted killer – to do that?
*
‘Perhaps you’d like to tell me what’s brought you here to see me this afternoon?’
The therapist is in his fifties, pebble-grey hair, dressed to blend in with the surroundings. His name is Ed or Ted or Ned. I choose not to remember. I am not here to make a new friend.
We’re in a counselling centre just off the seafront. An assessment session to see whether I can be helped, the appointment I booked after ‘seeing’ Pip. I’ve rehearsed this: a simple explanation, in my calmest, most rational voice, to show I understand only too well how crazy I sound when I explain what’s been happening.
I have been hallucinating two children who cannot exist. I know they can’t exist. I don’t feel crazy. But that doesn’t make them go away.
But now, in this bland, beige room, I’m dizzy with fear. Because once I start to tell him about why I am so scared, I’ll have to share other things I’ve never told anyone about.
‘Things are . . . getting to me. I’m not sleeping well. My work is suffering.’
The counsellor mirrors back with a nod of encouragement.
‘Things. What kind of things?’
Silent people. Lost children.
I saw Charlie again while I was walking over here, as three-dimensional and vivid as everyone else around me. When I tried to stare him out, he just grinned, before running past me, towards the pier.