The Secrets You Hide

by Kate Helm

  ‘I don’t blame you for being angry.’

  I smile. ‘Is that how you’ve spent the last twenty years? Doing therapy?’

  He shrugs. ‘I’ve talked to people. But mostly I’ve been alone. Thinking.’

  ‘Thinking up excuses?’

  I sound petty now but I don’t care.

  Heather shifts in her chair.

  ‘Do you know why I came, Dad? I came to tell you I hope you suffer, that the pain relief stops working. And to tell you that no one will mourn you.’

  But as the words tumble out, they don’t feel as good as I’d hoped they would.

  ‘Georgia,’ Heather says gently, ‘it might be best if you let him speak.’

  I look at my father: did he know I’d changed my identity?

  Dad nods as though he heard my unspoken question.

  ‘It’s a pretty name. I can understand that the one we gave you was a burden you prefer not to carry now.’

  How polite he is. How restrained.

  But I want to upend the table and wreck this room, smash my fists against the walls until my knuckles are bleeding.

  ‘I want you to know that I always loved you, Su—’ He stops himself. ‘And Pip, too. It was just . . . different with him. I don’t know if you have children yet, but you were my special one.’

  ‘Lucky me.’

  ‘When you were born, it was instant. The love I felt. And as you grew up, with your talent and your quickness. You were just . . . a kindred spirit. But Pip wasn’t like us: I didn’t understand him.’

  Us.

  I loved being the favourite: the little treats, the praise, the glow. I was guilty, too.

  Except he was the adult. And I’ve remembered over the last few days that I did try to change things sometimes. That last summer when Dad changed, I observed him closely to try to understand what set him off, so I could warn Pip before it happened. So that we could be happy again, like other families.

  ‘You were our father. You should have tried to treat us equally.’

  ‘I know.’

  He reaches over the table towards the water jug. Heather tries to help but he brushes her off. He spills some of the water when he pours, and gulps down what he’s managed to get in the cup.

  ‘Is that why you killed him? Because he wasn’t the perfect son?’

  He looks up sharply. ‘No. Of course not.’

  ‘Why, then?’

  ‘To protect him from them.’

  I scoff. ‘Them? There was nobody else there.’

  But even as I say it, I hear the voices on the landing again and my certainty wavers. What if he was telling the truth when he gave his first statement to the police?

  ‘I know that now,’ he says. ‘But back then, all I knew was that the men had come back. Into our house, this time. And that I could no longer keep you all safe.’

  79

  ‘I’d never seen any of them before that summer. Then there were two of them, sometimes three. To begin with, I thought they were local guys, hired to rough me up. So I paid one of the men from the production line, bit of a thug, to watch the house. Reckoned he saw nothing, even on the nights I’d seen them on the street from my bedroom window. He laughed at me. But I knew it meant they were professionals. Dangerous.’

  My father’s breathing quickens, but it’s not until Heather passes him a tissue and he uses it to scrub at his eyes, that I realise he’s crying.

  ‘Why would there be men after you?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d been having . . . trouble at work. I’d been making mistakes. Big errors. People were displeased. People you didn’t want to displease.’

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? You worked for an engineering firm, not the bloody Mafia.’

  ‘That’s why I knew no one would believe me. But I also knew I was seeing them . . .’ He sighs. ‘I shouted at them to go away, but they ignored me. They never said anything, they were just there. Menacing. Following us everywhere.’

  Suddenly, I know what’s coming. But I don’t want to hear it.

  ‘I felt like I’d put you all in danger and so it was my responsibility to protect you now. Then, after Cornwall, I realised we would never get away.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Pip saw them too, in Cornwall. That’s when I knew they were real. That I couldn’t protect you.’

  For a moment, it makes no sense. But then a memory comes to me.

  We’re in the car, on the way to Cornwall. Pip, staring out of the window at the sea, telling us he could see mermaids and dolphins and even the Loch Ness monster.

  Of course my eager-to-please kid brother would have agreed if Dad had asked him if there were men around. But my father never bothered to get to know his own son well enough to understand this.

  Wild thoughts fill my head like birds trapped in a tiny room. Even Heather is sitting bolt upright; I’m pretty sure this is new to her too.

  ‘I came home after the trip and I started to plan,’ my father continues. ‘I saved your mother’s sleeping pills. I ground them up and added them to her tea. And yours. And the milk on Pip’s cereal.’

  ‘You drugged us?’

  I replay that last morning. I remember how unusual it was, Dad making breakfast, and I feel sick now, knowing why.

  ‘No one ate it. Pip was in one of his crazy moods. I was tense. Even Marmite refused to touch it.’

  I remember.

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘You and Pip were painting, until he made a mess . . . I sent Pip to his room, your mum made the burgers for later and then went for a lie down, she had a migraine coming on . . .’ He hesitates. ‘Actually, it all made things easier.’

  ‘You planned this. It had nothing to do with Pip spilling the turps.’

  My father looks astonished. ‘Of course it didn’t. And I promise you your mother knew nothing about it. She was dozing and . . . There was no struggle.’

  ‘But Pip did know, didn’t he?’

  He nods. ‘If only he’d had breakfast.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Pip was drawing you a picture. He’d written I’m Sorry Suzie-Soo in letters so big even I could read them. There were flowers—’

  ‘And clowns and trees and dogs.’

  ‘You’ve seen it?’

  ‘They gave it to me.’

  ‘He was crying, saying he was sorry. I told him it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t in trouble. But he . . . wouldn’t stay quiet.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘I didn’t want the sound to scare you, Suzanne. So I had to quiet him. Just one blow and he was out cold. I took the pillow and—’

  I stand, throwing back my chair.

  ‘I can’t listen to this.’

  ‘Pip saved you, in a way. I looked at him . . . At the blood and I knew, instantly, that I’d got it terribly wrong. I was supposed to protect you all from violence, not . . .’ He bangs his fist against his head.

  ‘But you left Pip alive. They said so in court.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. I held him after. I knew he was gone. I was his killer but I was also his father. The paramedics can’t have found a pulse.’

  I close my eyes.

  ‘When I came out of his room, I heard you humming to yourself. A pop song. I stood on the landing and my hands were shaking and there was blood on my shirt and the men were there. Right in front of me. I locked your door to stop them getting in.’

  He hesitates. ‘And I locked it to stop myself, too. Because you needed to be protected from all of us.’

  I am back there, in my room. Hearing the key turn. Realising only one of my parents could have done it, that it wasn’t another of Pip’s jokes.

  ‘I tried to sound calm, when I told you what to do. I knew I couldn’t live with what I’d done. And I thought if I ended my life, at least you’d be safe. What would they have to gain by coming after you?’

  The metal key glints on the purple carpet.

  ‘I b
egged them to leave. I shouted. I hissed.’

  The voices on the landing: not several people, but one, my father, trying everything he could to send the visions away.

  ‘And when they said nothing, I tried to kill myself. But I couldn’t even get that right.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say any of this in court?’

  ‘My lawyer told me I could probably plead manslaughter on the grounds of diminished responsibility. No one but me believed the men had ever been there, so I must have been mad. I’d have been free by now, if I’d taken it. But I thought staying silent was the last thing I could do to protect you.’

  ‘Protect me? No. You were too bloody proud to admit what you’d done, to let anyone know you might be going mad!’

  He bunches his fists. ‘I still thought the men were real. That if I spoke out in court, they’d come back for you.’

  ‘Fuck you, Dad,’ I say, trying to manoeuvre myself towards the door.

  ‘Please. Let me finish. There’s one more thing to tell you.’

  I wait.

  ‘It was only after I was sentenced, that I got a diagnosis. I know you can’t forgive me, Suzanne. God knows, I can’t forgive myself. But the other reason I wanted you to come here was to warn you. Because the visions? The people I saw, who weren’t there?’

  I nod, because I know what’s coming.

  ‘They came because my sight was failing. My brain . . . It created the men to compensate. And it was caused by Best disease, which is genetic. You need a test, Suzanne . . . Georgia. In case—’

  ‘In case I go on to kill my family too?’

  I look my father in the eye, expecting to see evil. But instead, I see only weakness and arrogance.

  If only he’d asked for help, everything would have been different. Then again, I was in denial for years, too, ignoring my vision loss. Another thing that I inherited, perhaps?

  And there’s another quality that defines the man sitting opposite me: he is haunted. Do I really need to make it worse for him by telling him I have the disease too? His own vision is so damaged, he hasn’t even realised I might be affected too.

  ‘Thank you for the warning,’ I say.

  I take my crutches and manoeuvre them into position, ready to go.

  There has been no apology. I suppose I shouldn’t have expected one.

  ‘Suzanne.’

  I look at my father. ‘What?’

  ‘I haven’t said I’m sorry, because it doesn’t change anything. But I am. I really am.’

  He can still read me, even after all this time.

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ I say finally. ‘About the pain and everything. I hope they take care of you.’

  I leave without looking back and the door snaps closed behind me.

  September 2017

  I am painting a picture. A seascape. The sky is turning crimson, melting into the horizon rendered in a steely Davy’s Grey.

  The beach is quiet, but also full of my people. In the distance, children play in the late September surf. One or two are real: I hear them calling out. But there’s also a little girl of six or seven splashing at the shoreline, seawater dripping from the bottom of her modesty-preserving Victorian swimsuit.

  A dragon, or perhaps it’s only a wave, writhes in and out of the struts of the pier. The haze around it is sea spray, but I am painting it as smoke.

  Pink runs along the pier, chasing someone I can’t see. I half-expected that after the police found Rosanna’s remains the hallucinations might stop, but in fact she and Charlie still dance in and out of my vision, even more vivid than before.

  The difference is that now my life is filling up with real, blurry, wonderful people too.

  ‘How much longer do you need?’ Marion asks me.

  My foster-parents have come to Brighton, their first visit. She and Trevor can’t stop beaming at me, and I at them. I was mad to keep them away.

  ‘Almost done,’ I say, holding my brush in the air.

  Robert has been charged with Rosanna’s murder, and my attempted murder. They are reviewing the sexual offences: two girls from the home are willing to testify that they were raped. They both say the garage block was known as Robert’s ‘party place’. That’s why Jim didn’t want a house built there.

  One of the girls shared a room with Rosanna. She will testify that Rosanna tried twice to report what was happening, but no one took her seriously. After the first time, Robert tried to buy her off with booze and jewellery.

  After the second time, she disappeared. The girls hoped she had run away. It was easier to convince themselves of that than the alternative.

  The police haven’t found her body so it’s hearsay, but some of it should stick. Once Robert is jailed, his fellow inmates will know enough of what he did to make his life as miserable as it can be. Though, from what I know of the man, it’s the lack of control that will be the worst punishment.

  I heard from Jim a month ago. Actually, it was just a photograph of a small wedding, featuring a skinny, bronzed bride in an enormous dress. Next to her, Jim looks half-embarrassed, half-delighted.

  I turned the picture over, and on the back, Jim had written:

  Thank you for leading the police to Robert.

  Daniel has called me, too. He’s met his father once, and though it’s a long way from happy families, they’re trying. I was wrong about them both, and about so much else. For too long, I viewed people through a strange prism, believing everyone had a streak of cruelty or evil that only I could see. But I was wrong: I cannot see through anyone, I only see what they choose to reveal.

  Perhaps a tiny handful of people have no good in them – Robert O’Neill, and a few of the other unrepentant killers I’ve seen across a courtroom. But mostly, we all do the best we can, with what we’re given.

  And as for me, I’m learning how not to be lonely. It is like learning to read or write. Plus, I’m learning to see and to paint the world in a different way. As a brighter, more surprising place. My specialist has told me that Degas and Monet both suffered vision loss as they aged, yet their later work is still appreciated by millions. People say my landscapes are good. Perhaps I wasn’t only born to paint faces after all.

  I have things to look forward to. Oli wouldn’t take no for an answer, so I intend to be Millie’s coolest godmother, to make up for the lack of religious instruction.

  Neena has had a couple of scoops out of the Ashdean stuff, and more to come. There’s talk of a documentary after Robert’s trials are over – she wants me to be the star.

  ‘The blind artist amateur sleuth. Honestly, it’s going to be an award-winner, George, it’ll make our careers.’

  She deserves her success – but she’s going to have to keep me out of it. And anyway, I am not blind. My vision is stable and my other senses are exquisitely sharp, compensating for what is in shadow.

  My father is still alive, just. I may visit him one last time. I no longer hate myself, and perhaps that means I can forgive him too.

  ‘Who are they?’ Trevor asks now, looking over my shoulder.

  My new paintings always feature three figures that aren’t really there. Mostly, they’re in the distance, but in today’s picture, they’re in the foreground.

  Mum, Pip, me. I reach over, add a smudge of rose madder to my mother’s cheeks, and my own.

  ‘People I remember.’ I smile at him. ‘Shall we gather everything up before the light goes?’

  I am still a little afraid of the dark. My eyesight is stable, but there are no certainties.

  As I scramble up from the pebbles, I glimpse a group of men down at the water’s edge. One turns and stares right at me, then waves. It’s only as he begins to walk towards me that I recognise his walk and remember who he is. The teacher, Niall, from the pub quiz, and the first night I saw Charlie, all those months ago.

  I feel myself blushing. But instead of ignoring him, I make myself wave back. Perhaps he could teach me my latest lesson: how to let nice things happen.
/>   ‘Look!’ Marion shouts.

  From nowhere, starlings are flocking around the skeleton of the old pier. At an invisible signal, they begin to soar, forming impossible patterns against the reddening sky. On and on they go, swooping, regrouping, making shapes that have never been made before, just for the joy of it.

  Now I no longer look for evil, there is so much more to see.

  Acknowledgements

  From the first magistrates’ hearing I attended as a 19-year-old trainee reporter, I’ve been fascinated by the justice system. In fact, it goes back even further. I longed for occasional afternoons off sick from school, watching Crown Court with my mum and pretending to be a juror. And on Sunday evenings, Dad and I were utterly addicted to Rumpole of the Bailey.

  The idea of writing about a courtroom sketch artist was partly inspired by the Pen and Paper episode of the genius podcast Criminal (www.thisiscriminal.com) and my story grew progressively stranger when I read about Charles Bonnet Syndrome.

  I’d like to thank Dr Amanda-Jayne Carr, Sensory System and Therapies in Stem Cell Biology Research Fellow at the Institute of Ophthalmology at University College London for advising on Best Disease symptoms and treatment.

  A big thank you to author and lawyer Neil White (whose legal thrillers I love: neilwhite.net) for advising me on cross-examination and legal habits. However, all errors and inventions are mine, including the creation of a Gothic courtroom in Brighton, rather than the more mundane Hove Crown Court building, where I reacquainted myself with the delays and occasional dramas of everyday justice. Thanks also to Steve O’Gorman for the most thorough copy edit ever.

  Many lovely writer friends have read, commented and encouraged along the way. Vin rouge and hummus came courtesy of Janie and Mickey at Chez Castillon. Thanks especially to Cally Taylor, Julie Cohen, Rowan Coleman, Miranda Dickinson, Tamsyn Murray, Angela Clarke, Araminta Hall, Sarah Rayner and Laura Wilkinson, for brainstorming plus virtual and actual gin.

  Friends and family members have kept me going – big love to Geri, Jenny, Toni, my dad Michael, and my partner Richard. My mother Barbara died a few months before this book was published but thrillers were always her favourite genre – Mum, I hope I’ve done you proud.