The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  ‘This woman he . . . hurt. Why would she talk to you now?’

  ‘I have to be honest. I can’t be sure she will. But if I can make her understand that it didn’t stop with her, that Jim has hurt so many people since, and still could, maybe that’ll be enough to get her to talk.’

  ‘And if she doesn’t want to help?’

  Jim doesn’t deserve mercy. And if the system can’t deliver, maybe rough justice is the only option remaining.

  ‘If she can’t help, then I promise I won’t try to stop you doing it your way.’

  67

  I try to persuade Daniel to move back out to the copse to sleep tonight, but the food has made him tired and tetchy. So I let him lie down on my sleeping bag. We’ll move at six, before the media circus begins.

  He is a killer, but he’s a victim, too. That anonymous letter came at the worst possible time. Whoever wrote it, whatever their reasons, they created the spark that made Daniel start the fire.

  But who would do something so reckless? Chrissie, the neighbour? A friend of Sharon’s? I even wonder about Jeanette. But she only began to suspect Daniel after the blaze.

  Daniel cries out in his sleep. I crouch next to him.

  ‘It’s OK, Daniel. You’re not in prison. I’m Georgia – Suzanne – remember?’

  His eyelids snap open, pupils dilated. For a moment, I think he’s going to attack me, but then he blinks.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  Lying down, his slack face reminds me of the addicts I see begging around Brighton station.

  ‘Daniel, are you on drugs?’

  He gestures at the discarded takeaway containers.

  ‘No! How many junkies do you know who could polish all that off and still be hungry?’

  I smile: he’s never said anything lighthearted to me before, and it gives me a glimpse of the person he might have been, or might still become.

  He falls asleep again, becoming rigid as a corpse in a coffin, limbs straight and unmoving. I suppose years in a prison bunk will do that. In his jacket pocket, there’s the outline of a knife.

  Could I reach over, disarm him?

  I made him a promise – try it my way first, but then let him do what he wants.

  As soon as the sun’s up, I am going to call Rosanna. Now she’s read my email, she knows what this is about. I have to persuade her to talk to me about what happened. If she won’t help, I am out of ideas.

  And out of time, too.

  I sit on the floor, back up against the wall, facing the door. Begin to rehearse the words I will use to persuade Rosanna that now is the time for justice.

  *

  ‘Georgia. Suzanne. Wake up.’

  I smell Daniel’s sour curry breath before I open my eyes.

  ‘They’re here. Dad, and Amy.’

  Now I’m awake. There are voices coming from somewhere else in the house: a woman’s and a man’s.

  Getting louder – heading towards this room.

  I gesture towards the French windows, and scramble up, grabbing my things. Daniel looks as though he’s going to pick up his stuff too.

  ‘There’s not time,’ I whisper.

  The truth is, it won’t matter if he leaves his sleeping bag and gear. It’s indistinguishable from the other rubbish left by previous rough sleepers and partying kids.

  The glass doors are bolted but not locked; when I turn the handle, I hold my breath, half-expecting one of the loose panes to fall out and shatter. But they hold, just, and I inch through, followed by Daniel.

  I’m relieved he’s following. Though it doesn’t mean he won’t still hurt his father, only that he wants more of an audience.

  I flatten myself against the outside wall, close enough to the room to hear what is being said. Daniel does the same, on the other side of the windows.

  ‘. . . sure you don’t want to tidy up a bit?’ Amy says in a low voice. ‘It stinks.’

  ‘That’s the whole point, sweetheart, we want this to be the before. Like on TV.’

  Jim sounds affectionate, but his voice makes my hackles rise.

  I glance over at Daniel. I can’t make out his face, but his body is rigid.

  ‘All right,’ Amy says. ‘So I thought after this, you could lead them out through the French windows, towards the summer house, and the garaging?’

  They’re walking towards us. I can’t shrink back any further. We didn’t close the doors behind us.

  I don’t dare breathe.

  ‘No. I don’t want them anywhere near there.’

  ‘Come on, Dad. You’re being daft. It’s not like it has any architectural merit. Like I said, we should bulldoze it. We could even squeeze in an extra dwelling if Brian does something clever. Wheelchair accessible bungalow. Even the council couldn’t say no to that.’

  ‘I won’t tell you again, Amy. It’s staying.’

  His tone has changed. Is there an unspoken threat underneath the fatherly tone?

  I hear Amy sigh. ‘All right. So just a quick glance in here, then, and then back out the front to give the . . .’

  Her voice fades as they move out of the room. I dare to look over my shoulder, and catch a glimpse of Amy, her belly even bigger than it was when I saw her the night of Jim and Leah’s engagement.

  But Jim hasn’t left the room. I freeze. He’s staring out of the French windows and for a moment I am certain he’s seen me. I brace myself. My bag is at my feet. Inside it is the kitchen knife I brought.

  Jim isn’t seeing me. He’s focused on something outside, yet when I look ahead of me, there is nothing moving, nothing different. Only the materials, the summer house and the garage block.

  Jim sighs and turns around, leaving the room.

  I exhale.

  When I look over at Daniel, he seems smaller, younger. Without saying anything, we creep back into the room, sensing they won’t come back here. I hear a car start and drive away. Then, silence.

  Daniel doesn’t move.

  ‘Was that the first time you’ve seen him since . . .?’

  ‘Since I was sent down. Yeah.’ He shrugs. ‘He’s exactly the same. Like none of what’s happened to me, to Tessa, to Mum, has affected him at all.’

  I could tell him the things Jim confessed to during the sittings: the guilt about not saving his wives; the missed chances to help his son. But everything he told me was untrue, designed to manipulate me, find out what I knew.

  ‘What is this place to him, Daniel? Do you know?’

  ‘Apart from Mum being here . . .’

  I catch a glimpse of movement outside, but I already know who it is, and that Daniel won’t be able to see her.

  The sight of Pink leaning against the garage’s breeze blocks reminds me of one of the photos.

  Could that have been where Jim hurt her, and where he took other girls, to do what he wanted? And is that why he doesn’t want it touched?

  As another figure moves to join Pink – Charlie, throwing his ragged Teletubby toy as though it’s a ball – an even more sinister thought occurs to me.

  Is that where he buried Robert?

  ‘He doesn’t deserve to live,’ Daniel says.

  ‘You promised to let me try to make it right my way first.’

  He says nothing.

  I look at my watch. It’s gone seven. It’s just late enough for me to call Rosanna, and keep calling until I get an answer.

  ‘When is the tour meant to be happening?’

  ‘Noon, from what the blokes I heard said.’

  I nod. ‘Give me until then.’

  As I step back outside to make the call, I realise that a girl Jim abused is now the only person with the power to save his life.

  68

  I walk to the far side of the garage block, facing the copse. Pink stands next to me as I prepare to make the call.

  I try to picture this woman – Rosanna – as she goes about her morning routine. Fixing breakfast, getting the kids up – I don’t know how old they are, but she’s
Jim’s age so I imagine them as teenagers, oversleeping, ignoring her increasingly irritated calls up the stairs.

  Whenever I picture a family house, I still default to thinking of the one where I grew up, despite what happened there.

  Now, I guess another family occupies the space that was ours. Two or three families might have come and gone since we did. Do they ever sense what happened to my mother, my brother and me?

  Stop putting this off.

  I take a deep breath, rehearsing what I want to say, and then dial Rosanna’s number.

  The line rings.

  Picks up.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Chapman, my name is . . .’

  Her voicemail talks over me.

  ‘Hello, I can’t come to the phone right now. Leave a message after the beep.’

  An adult woman’s telephone voice, carefully enunciated. Not the voice I expected but then, I picture her as Pink, a teenage tearaway. I take a deep breath before speaking.

  ‘Mrs Chapman, my name is Georgia. I emailed you and I know you’ve read the message. Please, let me speak to you just once. I’m . . . visiting the area and I could meet you anywhere. But soon. Today even. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t really, really important.’ I hesitate. Is there anything else I can say? ‘Just call me back. Thank you so much.’

  I leave my number and when I hang up, I wonder if it’s enough.

  The garage wall is already warm against my back, from the morning sun, or perhaps still retaining the heat of the sultry night. I close my eyes. I don’t smoke but I wish I had one of Daniel’s roll-ups.

  My phone buzzes. The screen is hard to read in the bright light but it’s from her.

  Don’t call me again in case someone else picks up. My family don’t know. They can’t ever know.

  I’m formulating a reply apologising and promising discretion when another message follows.

  Text me instead of calling.

  She’s not saying no.

  Adrenaline floods my system, making up for the lack of sleep. I don’t want to pressure her so I wait for her to send a third message.

  A minute goes past. Two. My resolve falters as I try to plan some persuasive words.

  The phone buzzes.

  I didn’t sleep last night for thinking about your email. I know the home closed down. I thought it would have stopped then. Are you sure he’s been doing it again?

  I type:

  I think he’s done worse. I think he’s killed someone. Maybe two people. He has to be stopped.

  When she doesn’t reply immediately, I type:

  You’re the only one who can make it happen, Rosanna. And maybe your family don’t need to know. I have lawyer friends who can advise on staying anonymous. But first, please let us meet. I can come to you. Whatever you want.

  I wait. Three, four, five minutes. I wonder if I’ve pushed too hard.

  Not at home. It’s too much of a risk. Let me think of somewhere.

  Any time now, she could get cold feet. But I cannot say any more. I look up at the decaying old mansion, wondering what secrets it holds.

  There’s a place in the forest, Little Pike. Eight miles from Ashdean. A visitor centre with a cafe and a kiddies’ playground, I take the kids there at weekends. But weekdays it’s quieter. Safer.

  I recognise the name: the bus stopped there when I came here from Gloucester. I’d imagined her with much older kids.

  When?

  My fingers are trembling as I type.

  I could be there this morning. 10.30?

  Enough time to persuade her before the press launch.

  I remember one last thing, and text, How will I recognise you?

  She doesn’t reply, but Pink is here now, smiling at me.

  I whisper, ‘You’ll show me who you are, won’t you?’

  69

  Daniel agrees to walk with me to the bus stop two miles out of Ashdean, lured by the promise of a bacon roll from the petrol station opposite. We both have good reason to avoid Ashdean itself.

  There’s an edginess between us as we sit back from the road, hidden by the bus shelter, him eating his sandwich, me with a coffee I don’t actually want in this heat.

  What Daniel did – the murderous thoughtlessness of it – is shocking. But it doesn’t stop me seeing he’s a victim, too.

  ‘This woman, Rosanna. You reckon she’ll talk?’

  ‘I don’t know, Daniel. She seemed keen to meet, which has to be a good sign. Right?’ I need reassurance.

  He shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t. If this wasn’t my blood, I’d walk away. You still could.’

  ‘I know.’

  Daniel finishes eating and rolls the sandwich wrapper into a ball, throwing it into the bin.

  ‘We used to go there when we were kids. Little Pike. Me and Amy. Mum and Dad.’

  I imagine him as a kid. Think of what Jim said about him and Sharon trying to raise their children happy, to overcome ‘all the messed-up stuff from when we were growing up’.

  Another lie designed to gain my sympathy? Or a rare glimpse of the truth?

  ‘You sure you want to go back inside, Daniel?’

  It’s my way of asking the bigger question: can you really kill again? Starting a fire that spreads too far is one thing. Sinking a knife into the father you used to love is another.

  He doesn’t respond.

  ‘Think about it, Daniel.’

  ‘Phone me after you’ve spoken to the woman.’

  I could always take it out of his hands. Report him for breaching parole – I’m sure being caught with a knife would get him arrested again within hours, taken back inside.

  We hear the bus approaching and I step forward to hail it. As I board, I glance at the other passengers, assess if any of them might know Jim. They’re all women, mostly pensioners. One fans her face with a magazine, a red, tartan shopping trolley taking the space next to her. An ordinary day.

  The bus pulls away. Daniel stays mostly hidden, but I wave at him through the window, and I think he waves back.

  There are only twelve stops to Little Pike. Each one feels like a countdown.

  The next stop is Nailbridge.

  As the bus trundles along the forest road, I will my brain to come up with a hallucination to distract me. But the greens and browns stay blurry and everyday. Charlie and Pink have deserted me. Though perhaps I am so close to an answer that I don’t need my little guides anymore.

  The next stop is Steam Mills.

  What can I say to Rosanna to persuade her to do the right thing? I mustn’t lie by promising her she’ll be happier, or safer, if she speaks out. Whatever she asks me, I owe it to her to tell the truth . . .

  Outside, branches reach out to strike the metal sides of the bus. I feel shaky. But how scary can a kids’ adventure playground be? I imagine Neena’s answer – ‘fucking terrifying, you better believe it’ – and it makes me smile.

  The next stop is Little Pike.

  I press the stop button.

  The bus pulls up next to a rusting iron shelter, incongruous against the wild forest backdrop. I step off and watch the bus retreat over a hump towards Gloucester. Gone. Now I turn away from the road, towards the woods and the visitor centre, looking for a signpost.

  It’s quieter than I expected, but that’s the reason Rosanna suggested it. A wide track opens up, big enough for cars and coaches, and I follow it. Despite the heat, the earth under my feet is springy and damp, the canopy of trees creating a rainforest climate.

  The track leads to an empty car park. I look again for signage, and finally spot a wooden arrow. I get close enough to read the carved-out words, and have to push ivy out of the way to make out:

  LITTLE PIKE ADVENTURE CENTRE – TAKE A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE!

  PLAYGROUND, CAFE, WCS >>>

  I follow the arrow down further into the woods. It’s the first time I’ve been into the forest proper, and though I’ve seen it from the road, everything is very different on foot: there can’t be anywhere else in Eng
land that’s as green, as primeval. I picture the memorial statue in the centre of Ashdean: the forester and the miner with their torches and their axes to help them fight their way through the woods, and plunder the riches under the earth.

  My small backpack rubs against my shoulders, making the skin sore. I left my sleeping bag for Daniel. Though if he does what he plans, tonight he’ll be back on a prison bunk.

  As I walk, I listen for the sound of children playing, but all that comes back is the rustling of leaves far above, and the soft padding of my own feet on the forest floor.

  Sweat soaks through my cotton shirt. I lean against the trunk of an oak, grateful for its shade, and look up. The tree’s leaves vibrate against a white-hot sky, a colour chart of different greens: Hooker’s, Alizarin, Sap. One day, perhaps, I might paint this as an abstract, the absence of my central vision represented by the sun.

  Who am I kidding? There is no ‘one day’. After next week, when I meet my father, there will be nothing but absence.

  Stay focused on now.

  The temperature has dropped. Overhead, charcoal clouds stutter across the sun.

  I walk slowly, wary of the roots and branches that are reclaiming territory from human trespassers. The further I go into the woods, the more it resembles a Tolkien landscape. Root balls stand tall as cars, and are covered in moss. Trees twist and warp and I have to use the roots to clamber up and over without tumbling back down.

  I peer ahead, hoping Charlie or Pink might suddenly appear to show the way. But I’m alone. It’s still early, though.

  I send a text to Rosanna anyway. I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to be. If I can’t persuade her by noon, it’ll all be over.

  It’s me, I text: no names. I’m walking up from the road. It seems very quiet, are you here yet?

  It gets wilder. Rust-coloured lichen and moss make it hard to get a footing. Every now and then, there are timber planks sticking up, perhaps old walkways, which collapsed long ago. There’s a smell like the dying embers of a bonfire.