The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  ‘Your colour perception may have been diminished by the dystrophy, and straight lines may appear to bend.’

  All this time I believed my wild colour choices and claustrophobic compositions were a sign of my unique artist’s eye. But really, they were symptoms of the disease leaching the pigment out of the everyday.

  Dr Nash says the faulty gene could have come from my mother or my father; either way, it’s a legacy I can’t get rid of. Thirteen years as Georgia, but Suzanne has had the last laugh.

  I remind myself how to put one foot in front of the other.

  She told me there will be genetic counselling, to discuss the risk of passing on the disease to my children. I don’t tell her that it’s my father’s actions, not my genes, that will stop me having kids.

  ‘We make accommodations,’ the doctor said. ‘When sight loss happens gradually, we interpret it as the world changing, not us.’

  One in five patients – because that’s what I am now – get the severe form, which is affecting my right eye, causing the loss in the centre of my vision.

  A black hole.

  Though it’s not a hole: more of a softening. As I wait to cross the road, I cover my left eye with my hand. Automatically, I angle my head, so that the cars that race past are in the periphery of my vision, and immediately clearer. Without realising, I’ve been doing this for years. There are so many ways to be in denial . . .

  I step off the pavement and I see him waving at me. Charlie. Right in the centre of my vision, where nothing else is in focus.

  Not real.

  An accommodation made by my brain to fill in the gaps left by the disease.

  But why Charlie? It’s the one question Dr Nash couldn’t answer.

  ‘What patients see is utterly random, according to the research so far. There’s no hidden significance. One patient was documented as seeing Victorian child mourners processing through her garden,’ she told me. ‘Another looked at the New York subway map and saw flowers blooming at each stop. The visions do recur, but there is nothing to suggest they have meaning.’

  Yet still I cross the road to join Charlie. He smiles up at me, his young face rendered in perfect detail. This is why he’s seemed so much more alive to me than everyone else. I can see him face on, no need to tilt my head or look askance. It’s so obvious, I cannot believe I never noticed it before.

  He is vivid, colourful, beautiful. More real than the real world.

  I should probably hate him, but I don’t. I remember something else Dr Nash said:

  ‘You may find it reassuring to know that once a diagnosis has been made and patients realise they are not suffering from dementia or other mental health issues, the hallucinations become much less alarming. Even comforting.’

  As I near the courtroom, I see a cluster of sat vans parking up. I look at my phone and I see I’ve missed five calls from Neena. I listen to my message.

  ‘Where are you? The jury is coming back, I need you here.’

  I step up my pace, jogging, then running the last two blocks. I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t have a good feeling about this. It’s too soon for the jury to be back unless the verdict has gone the wrong way . . .

  42

  ‘It’s going to be OK, sweetheart. It doesn’t mean they didn’t believe you.’

  The girl’s sobbing reverberates around the lobby. The footballer and his legal team sweep past her, and Neena glares at me as she moves to join the media scrum.

  I stay inside, out of shot, as Sam Carr takes up his position on the steps to give his victory speech. What I learned in the hospital has turned my world upside down. This verdict is no surprise, yet it feels like another blow.

  ‘This should never have happened,’ he begins, when he’s sure the cameras are rolling. The glass doors open and close so I hear snatches of his words. He’s glad it’s all over and relieved justice has been done, not to mention dying to get back to the squad.

  When I turn away, I see Oli. He waits at a respectful distance from Julie Tranter and her family. He never runs away if a prosecution goes wrong. He’s ready to take the blame, to soak up all the anger, if it’ll help.

  ‘Of course they didn’t believe me,’ the girl is saying to the policewoman who grips her hand.

  I try to read either of their faces: the lack of definition in them now makes horrible sense. How did I not realise?

  Despite the blurriness, Miss Tranter’s distress is crystal clear.

  ‘Not the legal system’s finest hour,’ Oli whispers when I approach him.

  ‘It was never going to be an easy win,’ I say, touching his arm. Like most barristers, he works to maintain an emotional distance, yet I sense this verdict has upset him. ‘I’m surprised the CPS brought the case at all.’

  ‘They wouldn’t have. Except he’s done it before.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Carr paid off the others. This was the strongest case so far – he got sloppy. Or too carried away. She was stronger than he thought. Hence the bruises.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘The police told her about the other girls Carr had raped, appealed to her conscience.’ Oli sighs. ‘That worked out well for her, didn’t it?’

  We watch over the banister as the girl stumbles down the marble stairs, caught just in time by her father. She and her family wait in the lobby until the footballer’s limo speeds away and the hacks head off to file their stories.

  ‘Maybe he’ll stop,’ I say, though I don’t believe that.

  ‘Or maybe he’ll just become even more careful when it comes to covering his tracks.’

  *

  ‘Keep it dead simple,’ Toby tells me as we wait to cross the road to Manny’s. ‘Just Carr and a hint of the jury foreman and His Honour Judge Seriously Grumpy in the background, big smiles all round.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You’ve drawn it all before, right?’

  The traffic clears. As we walk over the gaps in my central vision make something I’ve always taken for granted suddenly terrifying.

  ‘Sure. It’s a doddle,’ I tell him.

  Of course, I am no more damaged than I was yesterday, but now I know what’s wrong with me, everything is different.

  ‘Triple espresso is on me,’ he says, leaving me behind in Manny’s storeroom.

  I face the easel, the blank paper almost accusatory.

  I am no longer the court artist. I am an actor, cast in a role I’m not equipped to play. When I saw Neena just now, I half-expected her to see the truth. But she just told me off for being late, before heading straight into a live two-way on the verdict.

  Why couldn’t she tell I am a fake?

  Maybe because she’s only ever heard lies from me, from my made-up name to my invented past. Even my ‘unique’ way of viewing a subject – obliquely, like a cat observing prey – turns out to be part of the deceit.

  This drawing will have to be my swansong. Not a grand portrait to grace the cover of a coffee table book, but a workmanlike sketch representing just another everyday miscarriage of justice.

  I take a pencil, force myself to make a mark, sketching in the shape of the footballer, because he is the main event today. The innocent man.

  Like hell.

  There is no black hole in the centre of the page, but there is a softening of the line. I shift my body so that I’m seeing more with my peripheral vision. I have to imagine Carr’s expression as the jury delivered its verdict when I was still at the hospital.

  I temper his relief with a hint of gloating.

  Maybe my picture doesn’t quite paint a thousand words, but today three would be enough: arrogant; triumphant; liar.

  ‘Done?’ Toby says.

  I step away from the easel and he surveys what I’ve done. Nods, picks up the mount and paper, calls back over his shoulder, ‘Manny’s just made your coffee.’

  I got away with it.

  More than that – knowing my weakness allowed me to hide it better.

  In the
cafe, Maureen and the other journalists are round the big table in the window, comparing notes before heading off.

  ‘Another close shave, Georgia!’ Maureen calls out. ‘Still, we’ve got bigger fish to fry now, haven’t we, darling?’

  She’s holding up a magazine and I sense her watching as I take it. It’s The Bookseller, and I angle it towards the light so I can read the small type:

  Art of Justice book to Geronimo

  A full-colour illustrated book featuring the artists whose work influences the criminal justice system is to be published by Ben Rowland, non-fiction publishing director at Geronimo.

  The book, described by Rowland as ‘CSI meets Portrait Artist of the Year’, will be published in May 2019. It features specially commissioned portraits by artists who work on reconstructions, artists’ impressions and courtroom sketches.

  ‘I’m excited about the line-up, which will include a portrait of Santa Claus fire hero Jim Fielding, by up-and-coming court artist Georgia Sage, as well as a new picture of disgraced actor Daisy Moritz by veteran Maureen Lomax. I expect it to appeal to true-crime fans and portraiture fans alike.’

  I force a smile, though I know I will never finish the commission. A terrible painting is not the way I want to end my career.

  In some ways, it’s a relief. I was never going to understand what really happened in Ashdean anyway.

  I’ll have to call the publisher to explain. I imagine Maureen cracking open the sweet sherry to celebrate her victory.

  ‘Paintbrushes at dawn,’ one of the journalists says, and everyone laughs.

  ‘I don’t appreciate veteran very much, but it’s certainly going to be interesting,’ Maureen says. ‘I’m having tremendous fun with Daisy. I’ve had the nod that she’ll be cover girl, too. Sorry if you were hoping for that slot, Georgia.’

  Yesterday, I’d have argued. Now I don’t have the heart. I hand back the magazine and go to meet Neena outside.

  ‘Good job, sweet cheeks,’ she says, after she’s finished her broadcast. ‘It’s almost as if you were actually in court . . .’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  I consider telling her where I really was. No. Not until I’ve come to terms with it, decided what to do. We air-kiss goodbye and then she’s off to record her voice-over. As the other journalists depart in a swarm, I feel as though they’re already in my past.

  I walk home, and Charlie is back with me. Every now and then I close my eyes, taking blind steps, trying to prepare myself for the worst-case scenario.

  Whenever I feel I can’t go any further, I imagine Charlie’s little hand in mine.

  Dr Nash said the hallucinations sometimes disappear once Charles Bonnet patients adapt to their altered state. I don’t want Charlie to leave me. He is the only one who understands who I am.

  43

  As a kid, I was always a planner. Saved my pocket money for paint and brushes, had calendars ticking off the days until my birthday, summer holidays, Christmas.

  After it happened, I never planned again. Why bother, when something – or someone – could render it all pointless?

  Now I know I ought to start planning for my new future: research what is happening to me; call the hospital to chase the next appointment; make practical adjustments to my routine; think about what to do with the rest of my life. But since my diagnosis three days ago, I’ve hidden from the world.

  A normal person would call on those close to them – someone like Neena, or Oli, even my foster-parents . . .

  Marion and Trevor would be here in hours. They were paid to look after me, but I know our closeness went deeper than that. They believe I have made something of my life, that they helped put me on that path. They are proud of me.

  I cannot break their hearts by telling them how everything has gone wrong.

  Instead I call someone who is paid to listen.

  *

  My counsellor is fighting to conceal his interest in his newly exotic client. Charlie lopes in behind me, as though I’m dragging him to a dentist’s appointment.

  ‘How are you feeling about the diagnosis?’

  ‘Right now, this second, I’m angry. Before I left home to walk here, I felt overwhelmed. And when I woke up, I was terrified. I think the psychiatric term for me right now would be a total fuck-up.’

  ‘Humour can be a useful strategy.’ He smiles. ‘A diagnosis like this must be deeply unsettling. But you’re still the same person.’

  ‘I’m an artist. I observe. Record.’

  And judge and condemn.

  Daniel’s face flashes before my eyes; I haven’t thought of him for days. Now that I do, all the questions about what happened in Ashdean fill my head.

  ‘You’re more than your job, Georgia.’

  ‘I’m not me at all if I can’t do that anymore.’

  Though perhaps it’s just as well. I may have helped convict an innocent man. Maybe Daniel isn’t the only one who has suffered from my particular form of blindness.

  ‘Did the specialist know how quickly your vision might deteriorate?’

  I shrug. ‘It’s already bad in my right eye, but my left may be stable. One day, there might be gene therapy. But it’s genes that got me into this mess in the first place.’

  It’s the closest I’ve come to mentioning my family. I wait for him to go in for the kill, but he doesn’t.

  ‘What sources of support do you have, Georgia?’

  ‘I don’t want to burden people. That’s why I called you.’

  He nods. ‘Of course. Though people who love you are unlikely to see any cry for help as a burden. I’m sure they’d want to help.’

  ‘How? My career as an artist is over – there’s nothing my friends can do to change that.’

  ‘I understand how important your work is to you. But there are other ways to find meaning in your life.’

  Meaning.

  I stopped believing that on the day I lost Pip and Mum.

  ‘Do you honestly think that?’

  The counsellor leans forward.

  ‘This isn’t about my opinions, Georgia. But I’ve seen countless clients change direction, and many do find meaning, yes.’

  ‘But some don’t.’

  ‘You have choices. And in the short time I’ve known you, I’ve seen determination. Even if it’s mainly directed at keeping me in the dark.’

  I smile. ‘Touché.’

  I look up at Charlie, who sits on his haunches, back against the wall.

  ‘Are you seeing a vision now?’

  I blink. Charlie has gone. I’m relieved, because I promised myself I wouldn’t lie to the counsellor anymore.

  ‘No. I don’t want to talk about that.’

  He nods. ‘Let’s stay with work, then. Did you know what you wanted to do from an early age?’

  ‘I always loved to draw. The idea of doing it at criminal trials came later. It’s not exactly on the careers officer’s list.’

  ‘No. So when did you realise it might be an option for you?’

  ‘I used to hang out around the law courts, after I moved to London for my art course. I pretended it was for a project but really . . . I’d been in a court before. As a witness.’

  He says nothing, letting me choose how far to go.

  ‘Isn’t this the bit where you say “tell me about your childhood”?’

  Again, he doesn’t react.

  ‘Would you like to talk about your family?’

  ‘I have no family.’

  ‘But once you did.’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  I expect condolences but all I get is a sombre nod, and silence again.

  ‘My brother, my mother. Both dead.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Murdered.’

  I hear him take a breath. He waits.

  ‘Don’t you want to know how?’

  I’m surprised at how angry I sound.

  ‘Would it help you, Georgia? That’s all that matters in here.’

  I s
igh. ‘I doubt it. It was twenty years ago.’

  ‘You were very young.’

  Only four words, but he speaks them with such compassion that I feel tears building behind my eyes.

  ‘My brother was even younger.’

  The counsellor nods.

  ‘Twenty years can feel like a lifetime ago, or yesterday.’

  ‘Sometimes it feels like both at once.’

  Another nod. ‘Have you talked to anyone about this before?’

  ‘They all wanted me to let it out. Social workers. A psychologist. The police, too. But I couldn’t, not then.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  The same words Daniel said to me in the prison garden, before he turned away.

  ‘Perhaps it helps to recognise that, sometimes, you still feel like the little girl who lost her family?’

  No. I’m the little girl who made it worse.

  ‘We were too ordinary for what happened. Two point four children. Well, two plus a dog.’

  ‘What’s your definition of ordinary?’

  ‘Ordinarily happy. My mother worked part-time in an office. My dad . . . He was a manager in an engineering firm. Never had the chance of university, worked his way up from the factory floor. He wanted more for us . . . Well, for me . . .’ I stop. ‘I don’t even know where this is coming from.’

  The counsellor glances at the clock.

  ‘We have time.’

  ‘Yeah, I have an entire pointless lifetime to fill.’

  He lets my anger go.

  ‘There will be a point, Georgia.’

  ‘My father killed them, you know.’

  The counsellor says nothing.

  ‘My mother, my brother. He killed them, but he let me live. I wish he hadn’t. I wish we’d all died.’

  I’ve wondered for many years what it’d feel like to confess that to someone. But it’s an anticlimax.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  I want to change the subject.

  ‘Do you believe in good and evil?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ the counsellor says, at length. ‘My training tells me all human beings have the capacity for change. But I’ve met a few individuals who . . . challenged that. What about you, Georgia? What do you think?’

  ‘I think we all have the capacity to be evil.’