The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  As well as the face paints, I was saving up to buy him a Tamagotchi, though I had a bet with Abi that I’d end up taking care of it – Pip was as flighty as every other seven-year-old.

  Being a big sister was equally brilliant and irritating. But are you still a sister when your brother is dead?

  For a while, I had to be. The hearse picked us up from Grandad’s house, in a drab town a hundred miles from home, where no one knew me in person but everyone knew what I was: the tragic survivor.

  First, we went to the funeral home. I didn’t want to see my mother’s body, but I did ask to visit Pip before they closed the coffin, because otherwise I thought I’d believe he was still out there, giggling and playing tricks.

  They’d asked me what his favourite clothes were, and I’d told them they’d find his birthday outfit in his wardrobe. And that’s what they dressed him in, the wide-legged black sports pants, and a rainbow hoodie from The Gap. They’d pulled the hood up over his head and I thought it looked strange, until I realised he probably had injuries there. I wanted to paint his face like Spider-Man’s, but I knew no one would understand.

  Even though I’d never seen him so still, a part of me expected him to leap up.

  I get up again.

  But he never would. And that was down to me.

  *

  None of Pip’s friends, or mine, came to the church: it was too far for them, and anyway, what responsible parent would let their child experience something so unbearable. Instead, the congregation was made up of my grandfather’s elderly friends, and weeping thirty-something women who’d been at school with my mother.

  I wore a black party dress with a lace hem, too young for me, but the mourners treated me as an adult, with their hugs and handshakes and sorry for your loss platitudes. And I began to see myself as an adult too. I had chosen to come to the funeral and that made me realise I could choose not to stay with my grandfather. A couple of days later, I ran away. When the social workers held a family meeting – me and Grandad all that was left – I knew he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to look after me.

  ‘I doubt I’m up to the job, to be honest,’ he’d said, as though he was being asked to do gardening that might hurt his arthritic knees.

  Just because two people are mourning the same souls, doesn’t mean they can offer any comfort to each other. My grandfather died before the anniversary of Mum and Pip’s death. Another life my father ended.

  The relationship between Pip and me remains frozen. He is buried with Mum in the family plot, but I’ve never been back. Knowing he is supposedly ‘at rest’ does nothing to assuage my guilt.

  But it might still help Charlie and Jodie to have somewhere to visit their dad, to know they were not deserted. Another reason I have to make tomorrow work.

  55

  It’s too hot to sleep properly. I wake, hoping the weather has broken, but instead the morning sun rises white-hot and relentless.

  I don’t bother with breakfast. The landlord offers to store my stuff for the day ‘while you go off painting the woods’, but I take everything with me. I hope I won’t have to run, but it’s good to be prepared . . .

  Approaching the White House, I smile, in case Jim is watching me on CCTV. Fear is good, it’ll keep me sharp. And I need to be sharp, to make the most of this last chance.

  My steps falter.

  Admit it, Georgia. You’re afraid.

  I could still turn back. Why is this my responsibility?

  Because all I’ve seen – the girls in the photos, Robert’s will, and my companions Charlie and Pink – make it so. Because I know no one else will fight for them.

  The gate doesn’t open early this time. I have to press the intercom.

  I say, ‘Hello, it’s me, Georgia.’

  There’s silence.

  It’s a few seconds before the bolts are released.

  No one is waiting for me as I cross the white shingle – the dazzle makes my eyes sting – but when I enter the hallway, everything is as it was the last time: the brown leather chair; the two mahogany side tables with coffee, water, biscuits. Before today, that seemed courteous and considerate.

  Now it seems controlling.

  ‘Hello, stranger.’

  I turn. He’s dressed the same – jeans, checked blue shirt revealing his forest tattoos – and he’s the same person. But I’m not. I know about my failing vision, and I know about his lies.

  ‘Hello, Jim. Thanks for having me back.’

  He’s carrying a bottle of white wine, and puts it down on one of the tables, before stepping forward to embrace me. He’s never done that before.

  I let myself be held, though his touch makes me want to run. Are these hands that have killed?

  Finally, he lets go. I place my rucksack close to the easel, facing towards the chair. Hidden inside the front pocket, my phone is already recording everything we say. I’ve tested it three times.

  Jim unscrews the wine cap and pours himself a large glass.

  ‘Dutch courage. To tell you the truth, Georgie, after the last sitting, I’d decided to pull out because of all the memories it was bringing back. But then . . .’ He looks up at me. I can’t read his expression, but his voice is kind. ‘I saw you’d had a bit of bother. I didn’t want to let you down.’

  ‘The Twitter thing? Have you been googling me?’

  ‘Well, you know so much about me and I was curious about you. Got to say, I was shocked at the stick you got. I don’t understand this modern way of hitting someone when they’re down.’

  ‘I appreciate your support,’ I say, though I am wondering what else he found out about me. ‘I know the publishers were very pleased when I told them I was coming here today.’

  It’s a really heavy-handed way to let him know people know where I am, but Jim just nods.

  ‘Right you are.’

  I begin to set up.

  ‘Anyway, Georgia, let’s keep it light. None of your interrogation today.’ He sits down in this chair. ‘Alexa, play Classic FM.’ Music fills the room. ‘My new toy. My daughter got it for me. I can play whatever you fancy. Jazz. Songs from the shows. Whatever will help you to make me look handsome!’

  I nod, but I know the music will make it harder for my phone to pick up what he says. Is he doing this on purpose?

  No.

  He has no reason to suspect me.

  ‘They say they’re listening all the time,’ I tell him as I place my canvas and lay out my paints. ‘The companies. Recording your every word.’

  He shrugs. ‘Good luck to anyone having to wade through my ramblings, but I can turn it off if you’d rather.’

  ‘Can we keep it off to start with? Actually, before we get going . . .’ I decide to jump in. ‘I do have some news for you. You might know already but I think it’s only fair to check.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘A barrister friend of mine told me that Daniel’s being considered for release under licence. I wasn’t sure if the Prison Service would have informed you.’

  It’s a lie. I have no new information. But I want to see Jim’s reaction. I look up, tilting my head to try to read his face.

  ‘I – No. I hadn’t heard that.’

  ‘With the wedding coming up, I thought you’d prefer to know. I don’t know if you could be worried he might . . .’

  ‘Try again?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  Jim doesn’t move.

  ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  He sighs. ‘You’ve seen how we live? Inside, we’re safe. But I can’t hole up in here all the time, and neither can Leah.’

  ‘Surely they wouldn’t release him if he is still a threat?’

  ‘It’s not like I thought he was a threat before.’ He sighs again. ‘Thanks for the warning. I’ll get one of my guys to make a few calls.’

  I regret the lie now, in case it’s put Daniel at risk.

  I open my paintbox. The lids on the tubes are squeeze
d on factory-tight. Once upon a time, I craved the intense colours of oils the way other little girls craved sweets. But after that day I was locked in, blood and paint became inseparable . . .

  My heart is beating so violently I’m sure Jim must hear it. I choose Viridian green for the background of blurred leaves beyond the glass roof. Unscrew the cap, pierce the metal seal. Let the scent unfurl, like a new shoot on a pine tree.

  I try to breathe away the panic, the way the asthma nurse taught me, all those years ago.

  I am here. I am not there. I never have to go back there.

  Jim takes a slurp of wine, grimacing.

  ‘You think I’m to blame, don’t you?’

  I meet his eyes, the centre of his face blurring. Is this the moment when it all comes out?

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For what happened to Sharon and Tessa.’

  His voice is flat, but his eyes are soft-edged circles of Prussian blue.

  It’s not a confession: Jim wants me to reassure him there was nothing he could have done. Or he’s testing me.

  ‘No. But you’ve told me already, Jim, that you do blame yourself.’

  The smell of the oil paint reminds me Jim is not the only one to carry that burden.

  Jim sighs. ‘I know. We weren’t going to talk about any of this, were we?’

  He takes another gulp of wine and stares resolutely ahead. Conversation closed.

  I blend other colours: Cobalt for his shirt, Payne’s for the fading tattoos. The paint smell grows stronger, a potent cloud of memories. Jim stares into the distance, and I move my head so I can study his face.

  Hero or villain?

  My head says he’s guilty. My heart sees a lost man.

  I try to focus on simply capturing him as he is at this precise moment, my brush creating the broad shape of him on the canvas, vivifying the feeble pencil marks I’d made before. Time becomes irrelevant. All that matters is the two Jims – the one sitting there, and the one I am remaking in paint.

  ‘You had a moment, just now. Didn’t you?’ Jim says. ‘A lightning strike or whatever artists have. I saw it in your face. Lit up from the inside, like a candle.’

  I angle my head towards the canvas. His eyes stare back, keen and challenging. A few moments ago, this was no more than an outline; now there’s no doubt that this is Jim Fielding.

  I can still paint.

  I’m half-blind, but I still have some talent left.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s that feel like?’ he asks.

  ‘I . . .’ No one ever asks me this. They’re all too obsessed with the people I draw to care how I feel. ‘It is like you said, Jim. Brightness. For a moment, there’s just me and the work. A bomb could go off right next to me and I wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘Have you always had a talent for drawing?’

  ‘Painting more than drawing. I loved colour, as a kid. My mother always said I spilled my dinner on the tray of my high chair just so I could draw faces in it.’ I’d forgotten that. ‘Though maybe all children do that?’

  ‘Never fed the babies,’ Jim says. ‘Though my Amy is about to pop. So I’ll get my chance with my first grandchild. Unbelievable. My baby, a mother herself.’

  I go to ask him the usual questions – what day she is due, does she know the sex – when I stop myself.

  That isn’t why I’m here.

  The painting, the chit-chat, are irrelevant. But him talking about family is an opening for me.

  ‘Where does Amy live?’

  ‘Up on a new estate I built a couple of years ago. Closer to the other end of town, to where we used to live.’

  I seize my chance.

  ‘You’ve changed the face of Ashdean. And now you’ll do the same with Copse View.’

  He says nothing.

  ‘It really stayed with me, what you’re doing there. To transform a place that must have bad associations for you personally . . .’ I tail off.

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, poor Sharon. And isn’t that where you two met, at the home?’

  ‘I met her at school, after I got out of the nick.’

  ‘Oh, I thought . . . Well, I thought it must have been quite a draw for the young men of Ashdean.’ I know I’m getting into dangerous territory, but there’s no alternative. ‘A house full of teenage girls.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’ His voice is steely. ‘Never set a foot in the place until long after it closed, and then only with my architect.’

  I know you’re lying.

  The photographs prove he was there. But he’s losing patience, and I am running out of time.

  I’d planned to tease him into revealing pieces of himself, enough to give Oli, Neena, the police, something to pursue. But instead I’m just making him angry. I should stop this before it gets dangerous. Feign illness, leave the bloody picture behind.

  Movement in the corner of my eye makes me turn: Pink stands outside in the courtyard, her worried face clearer than anything else around me. Perhaps she doesn’t want me to give up.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to do you justice,’ I say, returning to the script I planned out. ‘So many aspects to your personality. Bravery. Strength. Generosity.’

  He raises an eyebrow. ‘Why are you buttering me up?’

  I laugh. ‘No. Seriously. Most people I draw are . . . small. Even the cruel ones, the criminals. They do terrible things because they’re inadequate. You’re different.’

  As I say the words, part of me believes them. Despite all the lies, I want him to prove himself a hero.

  But Jim shrugs it off.

  ‘I’m as inadequate as the next man, Georgia.’

  I shake my head. ‘No. I think you’ve always had courage. Look at what you told me about taking the rap for your friend. Richard, was it?’

  ‘Robert.’

  ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

  He is motionless.

  ‘Why did you do that, Jim?

  He opens his mouth, and I will him to unburden himself – to tell me he was blackmailed, that he’d done things he was ashamed of.

  ‘You know what, let’s call this a day,’ he says, very quietly.

  He stands up and I sense his power. Over his shoulder, I look at the open glass doors that lead out to the driveway.

  Calm down. It’s OK. People know where I am. And he knows that they do.

  I don’t have long left. I have to switch tactics. Plan B.

  ‘Jim, you let me come and paint you for a reason. I think it’s because there are things you haven’t been able to share for so long. Things that have been crushing you.’

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’

  He’s coming towards me now, knocking over the bottle of wine. His rage is sudden and intense. I brace myself for a blow. But instead he picks up my bag, rips open the zip, and empties the contents onto the floor.

  ‘Where is it?’ he’s asking. ‘Where have you hidden the fucking thing?’

  ‘What?’ The mind map drawing falls out, but he ignores it.

  ‘Whatever you’re using to record me. I trusted you, Georgia, I wanted to help you. Christ knows, I am a sucker for a girl in distress but—’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  He has emptied everything onto the marble floor now: art materials, toiletries, my laptop.

  ‘Where’s your phone?’

  Instinctively, I reach out to grab back my bag. He spots the front pocket and unzips it, pulling out the phone.

  ‘You little bitch! Have you recorded everything I’ve said?’

  He throws the phone at the floor and I hear the battery fly off.

  I manage to grab the handset and battery, and scrabble around to throw whatever I can back into my bag. I need to get out of here before Jim turns on me.

  As I head out into the courtyard, I pass Pink, who is watching, expressionless.

  ‘Open the gate, Jim.’ I hold up my useless phone, ‘or I wil
l call the police and tell them what you’ve done.’

  ‘What? What am I meant to have done except help you?’

  I am by the gate. The metal against my back is scorching though my T-shirt fabric, and Jim is panting from heat or rage or both.

  My mind races: my last chance to get him to say something, anything, that I can tell the police. Just one fact that’ll make them look into what happened at Copse View and to his supposed best friend.

  Otherwise, what has this all been for?

  ‘I wanted to believe in you, Jim. But too many bad things have happened to the people around you. Sharon? Tessa? Even Daniel has suffered.’

  Jim’s on me, now, his fingers gripping my clothes, holding me against the gate. Our faces are inches apart, his skin pale with anger, pupils black.

  ‘You think I haven’t suffered?’ He spits out the words. ‘I loved them and I lost them and still everyone thinks it was down to me. Can’t any of you get it into your heads – I didn’t hurt anyone!’

  I am teetering. Do I run, or jump?

  Jump.

  ‘Not even Robert O’Neill?’

  He flinches.

  ‘Jim. Did you kill Robert?’

  It feels as though I am falling, waiting for the impact as I hit the ground.

  56

  His eyes don’t even seem to see me anymore. I try to find the bolt to the gate behind my back, to work out if there’s a manual release.

  Before the blow falls.

  ‘That piece of shit is what this is all about?’

  ‘It’s about all of them,’ I say, my voice a whisper now. ‘The girls at Copse View. Your wives. And this guy who supposedly abandoned his kid and pregnant wife without leaving so much as a note.’

  I close my eyes and wait for pain.

  But instead, his grip on me loosens.

  ‘Why are you doing this? Do you get a twisted thrill from messing with people’s lives?

  ‘You can’t be allowed to get away with it.’

  ‘With what? You’ve decided I’m a murderer based on what . . .? Gossip from an old neighbour, and the ramblings of my sick son?’