The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  ‘I do quite a stressful job. It can be hard to switch off. Now and then I have . . . nightmares. Vivid nightmares.’

  ‘Switching off we can help with. And sleep is so often the first casualty of stress.’ Another nod, reassuring this time; the counsellor knows the territory. He’s not my first. I know how they work. ‘Tell me about your job, Georgia.’

  ‘I work as a court artist. I sketch what happens in the big cases that are of most interest to the public. Cameras aren’t allowed so I draw the murderers, rapists. Terrorists.’

  The counsellor leans forward, professional interest replaced by unconcealed curiosity.

  ‘The stuff of nightmares,’ he says, when I’ve given him a potted history of my career so far. ‘Anyone doing this work would be affected, I’d imagine.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  I think of Maureen, scratching the surface with her acrylic nails, and I know it’s not true. Some people are impenetrable.

  ‘Has anything else changed recently?’

  ‘I moved to Brighton a couple of years ago after a relationship break-up, but the . . . sleep problems have only started recently.’ I try to steel myself to go deeper, but I can’t. ‘My work is suffering. And it can’t, because they’re cutting right back on court artists.’

  Maureen will be OK if it ends, of course, settling into an early retirement of geraniums and geriatric wife-swapping. But me? I don’t know what I’d do – who I’d be – without this.

  ‘Aside from sleep issues, are you experiencing other symptoms?’

  He has the same carefully non-judgemental expression as the counsellor and social workers I saw in 1997. I wonder if I could have been ‘fixed’ back then, if I’d admitted how I really felt.

  ‘Sometimes it feels as though I’m being followed.’ It’s as close as I dare go. ‘Does that sound insanely paranoid?’

  The counsellor smiles. ‘We’d call that hypervigilance. Along with physical symptoms, like racing heart, clammy hands, unsettled tummy. They’re caused when the body misinterprets a benign situation as threatening. Does that sound familiar?’

  I don’t want to disappoint him.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘The body can get stuck into this fight or flight response, like a needle on a record.’ He smiles.

  ‘Right.’ His glibness frustrates me, but then I’ve only given him half-truths to work with. ‘Why does it do that, though?’

  ‘There could be all sorts of reasons. Current stress. Unresolved feelings or traumas can manifest themselves in some fairly unpredictable ways.’

  Manifest. As in, hallucinations.

  ‘And counselling can make that better?’

  ‘That’s certainly our aim. But there are more practical ways to calm the body’s responses, one by one, to make life more comfortable in the short term. Simple techniques. Relaxation. Breathing. How does that sound?’

  Bloody predictable.

  But it’s my fault for lying.

  ‘Useful.’

  The counsellor nods again.

  ‘Excellent. And who knows, if we make progress with this, perhaps you can tell me the real reason you’re here.’

  He doesn’t actually wink, but he holds my gaze for just long enough to make me realise I’ve been rumbled. For a moment, I imagine telling him everything, unlocking that roomful of secrets.

  Unthinkable.

  ‘I’m sure you have enough to be going on with,’ I say, and we share a smile that makes us both complicit.

  As soon as I leave the consulting room, Charlie is next to me, mimicking my leaden walk.

  For all the platitudes, the counselling has helped me see one thing clearly. These manifestations are definitely linked to my past, and – somehow – to the Fielding case, too.

  I’ve decided: I will visit Daniel, even though the idea makes me feel sick. Because, as much as I’ve tried to bury it, there was always a deeper connection between us.

  And I either have to break it, or it will break me.

  32

  On Thursday, I take the train to the West Country, setting out early to get to the jail on time.

  I buy a magazine to read but toss it aside, unable to focus. Confronting a suicidal man, even one guilty of the worst crime, is not something I ever thought I’d do. And especially not in a place with hundreds and hundreds of locked doors.

  I stare out of the window, and despite my anxiety, the rapid movement makes me nauseous so I let my eyes close.

  When I open them again, I can glimpse the sea as the train speeds along the coast. A memory comes unbidden, unwanted but impossible to ignore. My family’s journey to Cornwall, that final summer.

  *

  The holiday was terrible, but on the way there, Dad was still making an effort. Pip even got to spend the last leg of the drive in the front, and pretended to be steering the car. Dad played along, telling my brother to take his foot off the gas and slow down, because the police were going to give him a speeding fine.

  And not long after we reached the coast, Dad suddenly yelped, and pointed through the window:

  ‘Look, Suzie, Pippin! Dolphins! See them?’

  I couldn’t see them. But Pip did. He whooped and pointed and laughed.

  ‘And mermaids!’ Pip cried out. ‘I see mermaids too, on their backs, going for a ride on the dolphins.’

  And even though my father always frowned on Pip’s imaginary friends, that afternoon he just smiled as my brother described their long blonde curls and their shimmering turquoise tails . . .

  I dig my nails into my hand. It’s somehow worse to remember the good times. So I force myself to think about the rest of the holiday: my father snapping at the slightest thing; that morning when he refused to leave our cottage, even though it was the only day when it didn’t rain from dawn to dusk.

  Mum had ignored him. She took the car keys – even though she hated driving – and took us to Porthcurno, just the three of us.

  ‘You’re not going to spoil everything! I won’t let you!’ she’d shouted, as he banged on top of the car roof, telling us it wasn’t safe.

  I chose that day to paint later when Miss Hamilton set us homework of ‘capturing a good moment’. Not because of the argument, but because of afterwards – the beauty, the landscape lit up by that special kind of sunshine you only see after rain.

  On the beach, my mother had asked me, ‘Suzie-Soo, how would you feel about living with just me and Pippin? If Daddy wasn’t with us anymore?’

  I wasn’t stupid. I had school friends whose parents had divorced. I knew how the news had been broken to them: with half-truths and choices that turned out to be anything but.

  ‘Why?’

  Mum leaned in closer. Pip was digging a network of canals in the sand, which kept filling with water.

  ‘He’s not happy at the moment, you know that, don’t you? Maybe it’d be temporary. I just . . . Can you imagine living in a house with no arguments?’

  ‘But no Daddy either?’

  She sighed. ‘Suzie, I don’t want to do it, but – I can’t seem to get through to him. We may not have a choice.’

  ‘I’d hate it,’ I said. ‘If you threw Daddy out, I’d go to live with him. You can leave him, but I never will.’

  I remember she nodded, as though she’d known my answer all along. After that, we had ice creams, and when we returned to the cottage, my father ordered pizza, and it ended up being the nicest evening we had that week. Even though I couldn’t sleep afterwards.

  33

  I hadn’t expected it to look so much like a prison.

  HMP Moor Heath is in the most isolated place I’ve ever visited, and the building is clearly designed to put the fear of God – or justice – into you. The Gothic façade faces north, dark slates slicing through a cloudy sky.

  ‘Got a reputation, this jail,’ my escort Gary says, as he parks up. ‘Even the government admit it’s rough. Fights, suicides, drugs. The screws are even greedier than usual, though of course that
works in your favour.’

  Gary is pretty greedy himself. To get in, I’ve given a ‘donation’ to the prison education programmes he runs, though I’m sure he pockets most of it. I’m also going to deliver a sham art class, while Gary pays someone to ensure Daniel comes along. The rest is up to me . . .

  Gary is an ex-con himself, a wiry man, forty or so, with oversized dental implants. I don’t think too hard about what happened to his real teeth.

  We enter the jail through a high iron gate; it closes behind us with a chilling finality. Sweat prickles through the long-sleeved white blouse I thought an art therapist might wear. When Neena first suggested this plan, she made it seem so easy. Now, I’m in my idea of a nightmare, and I’ve forgotten why I even agreed.

  ‘Everything in the tray.’

  My heart pounds while the gate staff rifle through my art materials, and make me sign countless forms. The £500 I gave Gary is in the glove compartment of his car, but no one searches him anyway.

  ‘You’ve come a long way,’ the security officer says, gesturing at the form where I’ve written my address.

  ‘This is important work,’ I manage to say.

  Gary gives me a dirty look. Perhaps I’m overplaying it.

  Another officer takes over to escort us into the prison. More gates, more bolts locking into place behind us. My body sways. I reach out to steady myself before anyone sees.

  I imagine Daniel Fielding arriving in jail on the first day of his sentence, knowing there’d be no way out for a decade or more.

  But why try to kill himself when release was so close? I’ve been trying to work it out: laying out my notes and sketches from the original trial and my sittings with Jim, looking for something I missed.

  The jail smells of disinfectant, boiled vegetables and something else. Testosterone? As we walk further into the bowels of the building, and I see the state it’s in, I realise it’s the stench of rising damp.

  ‘Place is earmarked for closure,’ Gary says. ‘Too far away from the outside world and the men’s families.’

  The screw – young, and red-cheeked – turns around and glares at Gary.

  ‘We’re not here for their bloody convenience.’

  Gary raises his eyebrows at me.

  The prison is a vast city, but I haven’t yet seen a single prisoner. I can hear them, though. I keep my eyes on the railings, the stone treads of the staircases. The straight lines seem to curve as though I am in an Escher woodcut.

  From nowhere, I hear a loud drilling, smell sawdust and hot metal.

  ‘Don’t worry, they’re not escaping,’ Gary says. ‘Metalwork. Government loves to let men out with practical skills.’

  ‘Safe-breaking skills, more like,’ the officer mutters.

  The atmosphere changes. More light is entering the building; I can see a little better. We exit via two secure doors, back into the fresh air.

  ‘The resettlement section is away from the main prison,’ Gary says.

  He doesn’t explain what resettlement is, but I’ve done my research. Daniel had a life sentence, but life – as the tabloids always rage – doesn’t mean life for most. The judge recommended a sentence of twenty-five years, which means Daniel can be considered for release on licence after thirteen. And it’s the resettlement wing where prisoners prepare while they wait to hear if they’ll be let out.

  Resettlement is more relaxed than the Cat A regime – yet again, I wonder why he tried to end his life.

  In a few minutes, I plan to ask him.

  The red-faced officer buzzes us out of the main prison concourse, and I see my first prisoners, dressed in sweatpants and jumpers. We’re handed over to another officer.

  ‘I’m Mike.’ He grins.

  I reckon he’ll be getting a chunk of my ‘donation’. He shows me into a small room with blue padded chairs, school tables, a whiteboard, and a narrow window just shy of the ceiling. The light is flat, the walls blank and blurry with damp.

  ‘This is the best we could do for your “workshop”,’ Mike says, eyebrows raised. He knows this is a sham. ‘I’ll round up your students. They’ve been looking forward to it.’

  As the men troop in, they glance at me, without real interest. They’ll already have been on short trips to the outside world as they prepare to rejoin it. Despite what Neena says, a woman is no great novelty.

  They’re older than I expected, one hobbling on a dodgy knee. They could be retirees at a council art class. Perhaps my father is taking a watercolour class, in his own jail. The more I try to focus on these men, the more I see Dad, older, greyer. Sicker? I cannot imagine how he’s adapted to a prison regime. He always had to do things his way.

  ‘And here’s our straggler,’ Mike says, stepping aside to let the final student into the classroom. ‘Shift yourself.’

  Even before I see his face, I know it’s Daniel: that shuffling, defensive gait, like a dog always waiting for a blow. I grip the edge of the table.

  Does he know he’s the only reason for this charade? He moves painfully towards the back of the room, wincing. I look for dressings or marks on his wrists, but the skin appears to be unscarred.

  His sweatpants rise at the ankle as he sits down and that’s where I see dressings and realise why he was shuffling. He didn’t slash his wrists. He cut through his ankles. Did he do it this way thinking that his attempt would go undetected for long enough to bleed out?

  If I was apprehensive before, now I am afraid – of this place, of his story, and of what I might learn.

  Gary sits down next to the door. Mike nods at him, then at me.

  ‘Have fun!’

  He leaves the room.

  I let go of the table and look at the six men in front of me. Only Daniel stares at the floor; the others wait for me to speak.

  I take a breath.

  ‘Welcome, gentlemen. My name is Georgia, I’m an artist, and this afternoon I’m going to give you an introduction to the basics of drawing faces.’

  34

  In an hour, all my students but one manage to get something on the page.

  Daniel simply stares at the blank sheet of paper.

  I walk behind him.

  ‘Sometimes it’s hard to get started, but remember, it can all be changed later. That’s why we work in pencil.’

  He turns and I look at his face properly for the first time. The last thirteen years have been hard on both of us. His pale skin is still unlined, but his eyes are guarded, like a veteran who has seen too much. I smile, hoping he’ll smile back, but instead he stiffens.

  Does he remember me from court, all those years ago?

  Before I can say any more, Mike walks into the room.

  ‘Time’s up, Da Vincis.’

  As the other men leave – the oldest guy, my star student, thanking me on the way out – I don’t move.

  Daniel pushes his chair back. The metal chair legs screech against the lino.

  I look up at Gary, hoping he realises I need more time. Despite my fears, I haven’t got to this point to leave without a single word from the person I’ve come to see.

  He studies me, and then Daniel.

  ‘Your first visit to a Cat D, isn’t it, Miss Sage? You need the tour of our nursery garden. Fielding, do the honours?’

  Daniel scowls, but it’s clear he can’t say no. He shuffles ahead of me, into the lobby, then through a door leading to an outside courtyard zig-zagged with tiered troughs and lush greenery.

  He is taller than his father, and more muscular than I remembered. But there’s nothing menacing about him. In fact, I think he’s scared of me.

  Once we’re far enough from Mike not to be overheard, I speak.

  ‘You recognise me, don’t you, Daniel?’

  He keeps his eyes down, but stops next to a raised bed full of young tomato plants.

  ‘You’re the art teacher.’

  His soft Forest accent comes as a surprise. I barely heard him talk in court, except to confirm his name and then to speak th
ree words. ‘Not Guilty’ on the first day of his trial.

  And ‘Guilty’ on the last.

  I stare at him until he can’t stop himself looking up. When he finally does, the raw memory of the last time I saw him in court rushes through me, turning away from everyone to be taken ‘down’ to begin his sentence.

  Justice being done.

  Daniel leans over, pinches off the side shoot of a tomato. The sharp green smell is too fresh for this grey place.

  ‘Why are you here?’ His voice is hoarse. ‘What the hell has this got to do with you?’

  I knew the question was coming, rehearsed an answer. But now my mind is blank and mouth dry.

  ‘Daniel,’ I say eventually, ‘yours was the first big case I drew. I’ve been asked to go back to it, to paint your father as he is now. But I feel like no one ever listened to you, to your side of the story. I came to give you a chance to talk.’

  Daniel snorts. ‘Do I look like I give a toss about art?’

  He takes a few steps back towards the prison building.

  ‘It’s not about art, it’s about . . . truth.’

  ‘Truth. Like that picture of me you drew for the papers? The one where I looked like a monster?’

  So he does remember.

  ‘I . . . I drew what I saw.’

  ‘Yeah. A psycho. Lock me up and throw away the key. So how much did he pay you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My father. One day you drew me looking normal, the next . . .’ He stops. ‘Unless it was love.’

  He laughs drily. He sounds exactly like Jim.

  ‘My drawings showed what I saw, Daniel. I had no contact with your father. But I did feel sorry for you, on that first day. We were the same age. Out of our depth.’

  ‘You looked right at home to me.’

  I ignore him. ‘And then you changed your plea and we never heard why.’

  He groans. ‘Look, there’s an entire bloody prison full of men who’d swear blind they’re innocent. Don’t waste your time with me, it’s too late.’

  I glance at his ankles.

  ‘Is that why you tried to kill yourself?’