The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

But murder is different.

  I don’t really believe that Daniel was telling the truth about his father killing Robert, or Sharon for that matter. Yet I want to be sure. I want the man I am painting to be a hero. I want to believe in courage and selflessness, though at times those qualities seem as improbable as the existence of Father Christmas.

  Jim seems good to me, but I thought my father was, too. My judgement is not to be trusted. I keep going, just to prove Daniel wrong.

  A missing persons’ charity website lists the criteria for presumption of death, which have changed in the last five years. Now a family member can apply to have a lost relative presumed dead by filling in forms and advertising locally, even if no body has ever been found.

  I look for the local paper near Ashdean and find its online archives. Nothing comes up. I have run out of other options, so I widen the search area to papers throughout Gloucestershire.

  And then I see it: a small ad marking the possible end of a life.

  In the High Court of Justice Chancery Family Division

  In the matter of an application for a declaration of the presumed death of Robert Gerard O’Neill.

  A claim has been issued in the High Court of Justice, for a declaration that Robert Gerard O’Neill, whose last known address was 22 Oakland Close, Ashdean, Gloucestershire, is presumed to be dead. Any person having an interest may apply to the court to intervene in the matter.

  If you wish to apply to the court, you should do so at Gloucester and Cheltenham County Court and Family Court hearing centre as soon as possible, and if possible within 21 days of the date of this notice. Delay may harm your prospects of being able to intervene.

  Maurice Brett

  Brett & Tomlinson Solicitors, 2 Harrison St, Gloucester

  The date is March 2015. The rules say if the application is unchallenged, a certificate will be granted. I follow another government link to see if there’s any trace.

  And then I find it. Probate was granted a few months later, with Robert O’Neill’s date of death marked as 20 December, 2008, which must be seven years after the last time anyone saw him alive.

  Jim lied.

  He must know that Robert’s family applied for a presumption of death, so why insist to me that the man did a runner?

  Unless Daniel is right, and Jim knows exactly what happened to his old friend.

  My hands are shaking as I apply for a copy of Robert’s will, which should arrive within ten days. Maybe it’s a dead end, but I must try, because I want to banish any doubt about Jim. Otherwise, the idea of going back to paint him seems foolish at best. And at worst . . .

  I pour my coffee down the sink and reach for a brandy instead.

  39

  ‘I’ve been seeing things.’

  The counsellor blinks. Whatever he’d been expecting after our first evasive session, it wasn’t this.

  ‘Seeing things?’ he repeats.

  ‘Things that aren’t there.’ It’s easier than I’d feared to say it out loud, in this bland room, to a man I am paying to stay calm. ‘Not things, actually. People.’

  On cue, Charlie steps out from behind the counsellor’s chair. He’s been with me all today in court, as the judge did his summing up, and sent the jury out. The verdict could be back by tomorrow lunchtime, or it could take days. Rape cases often drag on, as the he said/she said nature of the evidence – and the life-changing nature of a guilty verdict – makes juries hesitant to convict.

  ‘When did you first realise you were hallucinating?’

  I blush. ‘It began about a month ago. Before I started coming to see you. In fact, it was why I made the appointment. Sorry.’

  He opens his hands out in a gesture of acceptance.

  ‘It takes time to trust. Would you like to tell me more about what you see?’

  So I do. I tell him that Charlie looks a bit like a kid from a case a long time ago. I don’t mention Robert or Jim. I don’t want to overwhelm the counsellor or sway his diagnosis.

  Then I talk about Pip, but not yet about how he died. My voice is businesslike, as though we’re fellow professionals trying to resolve a puzzling problem. I need him to know I understand this isn’t normal.

  ‘When you see the boys, do you know they’re not real?’

  ‘I didn’t at first with Ch— the first kid, but then I realised because no one else seemed to see him, or his distress. If I’d seen my brother first, of course, I’d have got it immediately. For all I know, some of the other people I see aren’t real, either.’

  The counsellor nods. He’s trying to pretend this is bread and butter for him, like the humdrum stories he hears of broken relationships and family feuds.

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Nothing. They’re completely silent.’

  The counsellor is silent too.

  ‘That’s good, isn’t it? No voices in my head?’

  He ignores my fishing for reassurance.

  ‘How do they make you feel?’

  Charlie smiles at me.

  ‘I . . .’ I hadn’t expected the question. ‘It depends. If the little boy isn’t crying, then I don’t feel too bad. But sometimes he’s upset, and that’s hard, because there’s nothing I can do. And my brother . . . I can’t put that into words.’

  Again, the counsellor says nothing.

  ‘They frighten me, though, because I know I shouldn’t be seeing them, which means . . .’ I am afraid to say this out loud but I promised I would. ‘Look, I’ve seen a doctor, I’ve had a brain scan. There’s no medical cause. It means I’m going mad, doesn’t it?’

  *

  Next morning, I walk to the hospital for the earliest appointment they do. I take the lift to the private wing. The dusty silk flowers in reception are a step down from the arrangements at the maternity hospital where I visited Oli’s new baby.

  The counsellor was kind but firm yesterday. What I’m experiencing is beyond his area of expertise, so he got me in urgently to see a friend who is a full-blown shrink. My daddy’s money comes in handy again. But I bet it won’t fix my genes.

  ‘Georgia Sage?’

  I follow the consultant’s assistant down a corridor decorated with soothing art: seascapes and still lives blur as we pass. She ushers me into a consultation room and closes the door behind me.

  ‘Miss Sage. Please, sit down.’

  The psychiatrist has bifocals that make his keen brown eyes bulge slightly at the bottom edges.

  ‘I understand you’re in some distress.’

  Initially, his questions follow the same pattern as the counsellor’s, until he begins to focus on details that obviously mean something to him. What exactly do I see, and when exactly do I see it? He asks me three different ways about the voices or sounds that accompany my visions, and each time I answer the same: they are children, they are silent.

  ‘It would be helpful to know a little about your family background and history,’ he says.

  I tell him the truth – most of it. No one has heard it for twenty years. My mother and my brother are dead. My father killed them, and tried to kill himself. I am the only one left.

  I don’t tell him that I was partly to blame.

  He looks up, eyes sad behind the magnifying lenses.

  ‘I am sorry. Was he ever diagnosed with any condition?’

  I don’t know how to respond.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘What was the finding of the court?’

  ‘He was offered manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility but insisted he was innocent. They found him guilty of murder.’

  ‘This is what you’re most afraid of? That whatever happened to him, is now happening to you.’

  I nod.

  ‘Let us go back to your own experiences.’

  I answer more questions. Yes, I think my past has probably affected my relationships, but no, I haven’t felt depressed or desperate. Until now.

  When he asks a fourth time about voices, I am tetc
hy.

  ‘They’re not telling me to do anything bad. But I know there is something wrong with me.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you, Miss Sage. Not for a moment. But if you have time today, I’d like to call a colleague downstairs, see if she can organise some urgent tests.’

  The hospital is only ten minutes from the court; if a verdict comes in, I can run back.

  ‘Tests on my brain?’

  He shakes his head.

  ‘Actually, they’re tests on your vision.’

  40

  I haven’t been this frightened for twenty years.

  The psychiatrist’s colleague is an ophthalmic specialist named Lynn Nash. He phones her PA, and once they’ve established I have the necessary funds to have the tests privately, everything becomes surreal.

  Machines puff air into my eyes, blind me with red lights, make me stare, and blink, and look this way and that, until I don’t know my left from right.

  And all the time, the fear grows. I’m escorted from room to room with light touches to my arm or elbow. I’m en route to an unknown destination, wishing I were back with the psychiatrist, because – and this is most terrifying of all – somehow it felt safer there.

  I wait for the consultant to finish her NHS clinic. Some of the patients have eye patches; one even navigates his route across the room with a white stick. After an hour or so – checking in with Neena to make sure the jury hasn’t come back yet – a nurse appears.

  ‘Is there someone you’d like to call? To be with you when the doctor sees you?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure? Only it can be helpful—’

  ‘There is no one.’

  She smiles tightly.

  I pick up a magazine, but they warned me the eye drops would make it hard to focus, so I put it down again. Beyond the window, a fine drizzle falls.

  ‘Miss Sage?’

  Dr Nash says nothing as I follow her along the corridor to the consulting room. It’s smaller and scrappier than the one in the private hospital.

  She takes a breath and her perfectly straight, grey fringe lifts a millimetre or two as she breathes.

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I appreciate you didn’t go to meet my psychiatry colleague today expecting to end up here. What I am going to tell you is quite complex, and it will take time to process. I’ll write to you as well, to explain your options.’

  I nod, though I have no idea what she might mean.

  ‘You came to seek advice on the visual hallucinations you’ve been having. Understandably, you were concerned these might be a symptom of a psychiatric issue. However,’ the fringe shifts again, before falling as she inhales, ‘these hallucinations are actually a result of physical changes.’

  Her calmness riles me.

  ‘Am I imagining them or not?’

  ‘What you’re seeing is not real. But equally, you are not mentally ill.’

  It should be a relief. But I sense this is the good news, and the bad news is to come.

  ‘The visions you’re experiencing are due to what we call Charles Bonnet syndrome. It is most common in the older population, but even there, it is under-reported. Patients can be reluctant to share what they’re seeing, in case relatives or medical staff jump to the wrong conclusions.’

  ‘That they’re crazy?’

  ‘Exactly. But it can be seen as a more exaggerated version of what all of us do every day. For example, I’m sitting behind this desk. All you can see is my upper body, plus my feet resting on the floor. But your brain fills in the gaps. Just because you can’t see my legs doesn’t mean they’re not there.’

  ‘Right.’

  The conversation is almost existential.

  ‘Charles Bonnet syndrome produces visual hallucinations which can seem as detailed and real as what is actually there. More so. Typically, patients see figures – perhaps in unusual dress. Sometimes people they know. Often complete strangers. Children are very common indeed.’

  ‘I’m not the only one to have this?’

  She nods. ‘It can be an enormous relief to know that.’

  ‘Well, yes, but . . .’ I think of Charlie and Pip. ‘But the children move, they play—’

  ‘But they never speak, do they, Miss Sage? You see, that’s the thing good psychiatrists like my colleague pick up on, the ones who know about Charles Bonnet. The hallucinations are always silent.’

  I’m not mad.

  I am not my father.

  ‘Why am I seeing them if I’m not crazy?’

  ‘This is where it becomes more complex.’ Dr Nash places her hands together on the desk. ‘Charles Bonnet syndrome happens when there’s a . . . deficit in visual information. That’s why we’ve been carrying out these tests, to establish what might be causing that deficit.’

  A deficit? I shake my head at my own stupidity.

  ‘It’s been on my list for ages, to get my eyes tested. I moved from London a couple of years ago and haven’t got around to finding an optician.’

  I’m almost euphoric with relief. It makes perfect sense – this is the cause of my visions and my substandard drawings. I look around the room. Yes, the details aren’t as sharp as they should be, especially in the middle of my vision.

  ‘Miss Sage—’

  But I interrupt her. ‘I guess most people don’t notice if they need glasses as it’s gradual. Can you prescribe them or is there someone you’d recommend?’

  ‘Miss Sage, it’s not really about glasses.’

  I try to ignore the warning note in her voice.

  ‘An operation, then?’

  ‘Charles Bonnet is the cause of your hallucinations, but not the cause of your vision loss. The preliminary test results appear to confirm what I suspected, that you have a form of macular dystrophy, known as Best disease.’

  ‘Macular . . . Isn’t that what older people get?’

  ‘Best disease is not age-related. It is a rare genetic condition, and the damage begins far earlier, often in childhood, though it’s common to reach your thirties or forties before you notice. Our tests showed the distinctive egg-yolk like deposits at the back of your eye, and then the one where we placed electrodes on your face confirmed changes associated with Best. We generally confirm by taking a family history. Have either of your parents suffered from early sight loss?’

  I’m about to trot out the lie about both my parents being dead when I realise what she’s said.

  ‘Sight loss?’

  Dr Nash nods. ‘You’re managing incredibly well. You’ve developed adaptive strategies, as people often do when the loss is very gradual. Do you tend to look at things from an angle, for example?’

  I nod. ‘I always have. When I draw, or paint, tilting my head helps me to . . .’ I stop.

  ‘To see more clearly?’

  ‘It’s how I’ve always done it. I thought it was my . . . technique.’

  Dr Nash says, ‘I’m afraid you may need to find a new hobby.’

  ‘Art isn’t my hobby,’ I snap back. ‘It’s my job.’

  She shuffles her paperwork. ‘I . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t realise that.’

  ‘You said loss. What does that mean?’

  ‘So. The deterioration is affecting the central retinal cells, your right eye more than the left. From the initial tests, we’d place the left at Stage Five of the disease.’

  ‘How many stages are there?’

  ‘Five.’ She pauses. ‘Your vision is poor, but stable. But there is a further complication, which some specialists regard as Stage Six. It happens when new blood vessels grow through to the retina and cause bleeds. That is most likely responsible for the more severe deterioration in your right eye. It may also be what prompted the hallucinations, which typically happen only once the deficit reaches a critical level.’

  I nod, trying to take it all in.

  ‘Our aim now will be to avoid a similar crisis on the left side, which can usually be arrested with injections. We will monitor you regul
arly.’

  I breathe and try to think positively.

  ‘OK. OK. So will you treat me here, or in London? Funds shouldn’t be a problem. I’m freelance too, so if it’s surgery I need, I can clear my diary straightaway.’

  Dr Nash sighs. ‘Miss Sage, I’m sorry if I haven’t been clear. With Best disease, I’m afraid there is currently no treatment. There is nothing we can do to turn back the clock.’

  The breath catches in my throat.

  I am going blind.

  41

  It is as though I am watching this happen to someone else.

  Dr Nash’s voice seems to come from a long way away as she explains that full blindness – the profound darkness we fear the most – is rarer than people think. Glasses won’t restore all my vision, but they might make reading and other tasks easier. There are tools, software programmes, injections to stop further damage. I may be able to live a life that looks quite normal from the outside. If I’m lucky, there may never be a crisis in my ‘good’ eye, the one that is doing most of the work.

  But I will never drive again. I certainly won’t be able to draw for a living.

  ‘Will you be all right to get home, Miss Sage? Georgia?’

  My name isn’t real. But this is.

  ‘I’m going back to work, actually,’ I snap. ‘And I’m exactly the same as I was when I walked in. I don’t think I need a guide dog quite yet.’

  ‘I meant, after such shocking news?’

  ‘Oh.’ I shake my head. ‘I’ll be fine. I just need some air.’

  She hands me a bundle of printouts from the internet. I glance at the first page. The font is huge.

  Best disease: cause, prognosis, management.

  I sign the forms for payment – Dr Nash reassured me I’ll now be called back for further investigations for free under the NHS – but as I leave the building, I realise what I said to her is a lie. I’m not the same person I was when I walked into the hospital. How could I be?

  Cool rain veils my face. I look around me, trying to understand how I missed such a drastic vision loss. As I pass front gardens, I scrutinise the leylandii hedges that cushion the houses from the noise of the main road. The leaves should be green, but to me, they look black.