A Secret Life

by Christobel Kent

  He’d thought Eddie had asked him to shift the boxes as an excuse, to get him out there. They could have had bricks in them, for all Frank knew, although he had thought from the weight of them and the way their contents shifted as he carried them, that they were full of papers. None of his business anyway.

  But then Frank’s mother had called that morning. Which she did, most Sundays, and he’d sat on the edge of the bed and let her mild grumbles about the weather wash over him, with her little dog yapping away in the background and the ex-policeman who’d been her boyfriend for years moaning at the television. It had never been anyone but him and Mum growing up, in Brockley, Frank had no real idea who his dad had been or where he’d gone. But this morning the grumbles were different: she had a bee in her bonnet. She’d gone on and on about Holly until he’d let it slip, he knew her, well sort of.

  ‘A customer, Mum, that’s all.’

  But it had been too late and she’d been on about Soho not being safe and what kind of a club was it again, he worked for? She knew well enough: he’d even brought her in for a drink early on. He’d introduced her to Eddie.

  And now she was suggesting he worked for gangsters. ‘Mum,’ he’d tried. ‘It’s a bar. People come here after work for a bit of a dance. Girls on a night out.’

  When she appeared to have got the hump very suddenly and hung up, with just a whatever.

  It was normal enough, for Mum. She saw something in the news and drew conclusions. But it had unsettled Frank: he saw himself. Never curious, never poking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, never asking questions. Until now. Partly Mum, partly Lucy telling him to stay out of it, telling him it was none of his business.

  So he’d let himself back in, careful to lock the door behind him, and gone to look for the boxes.

  Frank hadn’t turned any lights on: why hadn’t he done that? Two hours till opening, he could have been in and out.

  And then he heard the door go and darting forward on instinct closed the door between the bar and the corridor and in the next movement, quietly stepped back, behind the curtain that lined the corridor, and everything shifted round; this wasn’t his turf, suddenly. This was unfamiliar territory. Frank was hiding in the dark for a reason, he just wasn’t sure yet, what that was.

  It was Eddie, and he wasn’t alone.

  They were talking in low voices, standing in the bar, the other side of the curtain that closed off the corridor. Frank held his breath: he wouldn’t come out the back. Would he? Eddie never came out the back. He couldn’t hear all of what they were saying: he caught phrases from Eddie, more at ease maybe on his home turf. He didn’t know the other voice, talking in an undertone.

  Eddie was telling him not to worry about something.

  ‘… all sorted. Easy. No worries. I can handle her.’

  Handle her? Lucy? Lucy had stuck to her story, Lucy had run for the waiting car, so yes, Eddie could handle Lucy. If that’s who they were talking about.

  One of them must have stepped against the door at the end of the corridor because it opened a crack and light spilled into the corridor where Frank stood. Behind the curtain he stepped back, silent, and pressed himself against the wall where the boxes had been. Carefully he turned only his head, to look, left and right. They were gone, all right, you could see in the dust where they’d been. A single sheet of paper curled up against the wall and invisible unless you stood where he was standing.

  The boxes had contained papers, then, he’d been right. Eddie had wanted them gone while he worked something out? Eddie had a shredder, Frank knew that too. He knelt, very carefully, picked up the single sheet, folded it and put it in his pocket.

  He waited for them to leave.

  Tabs was drawing in the sitting room, papers all around her on the floor, when the car pulled up on the drive. The solid chunk of the door closing sent Georgie in her apron hurrying from the kitchen. Too hasty, she tripped, catching herself on the low table.

  ‘Daddy’s back,’ she said, her hand on her shin to stop it hurting and at the same time trying to smile. Straight away Tabs understood, making a pile of her papers, sitting up straight, and Georgie went into reverse, careful, brushing herself down, trying not to limp.

  Tim called from the threshold, loud and cheerful, which was already not like him, and when he saw her dropped his bag, holding out his arms. Georgie stepped into them, reaching up for the kiss and then his hand was on her backside. She smelled aftershave, the air freshener he used for the car, dry cleaning. He held her against him, tight: squeezed, she looked up into his face, it was the only movement possible. He smiled down at her. Those eyes, somewhere between green and brown, smiling, deep set. You’ve known him since you were twenty-three.

  Her eyes darted through the kitchen to the door into the garage: she hoped she’d closed it behind her. Poking about. That’s what Tim would call it, poking about. His tools hanging at the wrong angles.

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said and his voice was throaty.

  ‘Me too,’ Georgie said, brightly and couldn’t stop herself, she pulled back. ‘I – there’s something on the—’ and moved back, awkwardly, turning for the kitchen as quick as she could so he couldn’t see her face. She saw it herself, a glimpse in the sharp-edged mirror as she passed: pale, drawn. She saw panic and guilt. She saw fear.

  There was a light haze of smoke from somewhere in the kitchen, for a moment she couldn’t remember what she was even cooking, she was only listening for his footsteps. He didn’t come straight after her, but he didn’t go upstairs, either. She could hear him, waiting. A soft sound as he took a step, a sigh with a hint of impatience in it.

  The garage was Tim’s domain, always had been, as much as his study. His study was locked so she’d gone into the garage when they’d got home from the supermarket on the same blind impulse, to understand him. Her husband. To make it better.

  All that equipment: the tools he hardly used although he always showed them off, to every builder and roofer and paver that came to the house. The tent furled in its nylon bag, the new long wooden box holding whatever, some new drill. Two big red gas cylinders, for camping: she had knelt beside them because she couldn’t remember one, let alone two. Rolled them gently to see if they were full or empty: both full, heavy. She had stood them back up again, carefully. Brushing the flake of red the movement had dislodged out of sight.

  She was kneeling at the stove – it was chicken, the oven was too hot, that was all – and he came up behind her. His hands were light on her waist, he leaned past her to close the oven door, raising her up. Still behind her: she froze. His lips were on her neck, he was sliding one hand up her skirt.

  ‘Tabs – Tabs is—’ her voice was high, she didn’t want to turn round.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said. ‘I saw her in there, making a mess. She’s fine.’

  She’s not, thought Georgie wildly, thinking only of the haste with which she’d tidied. Not making a mess, or not fine? Tim’s hands were heavier on her now and still she didn’t turn round. He lifted her skirt and she heard him gasp: he was rough. It hurt her.

  He mumbled something into her neck, like I’ve missed you, again. Something about it having been a long time.

  Georgie held on to the kitchen counter, trying to stay silent. The counter digging against her soft thighs, the pain still throbbing in her shin. She didn’t turn around, she wouldn’t stop him. It felt like a kind of game, or a test, or something, she couldn’t protest. Their game, they both knew this wasn’t normal, this wasn’t them, it wasn’t just because he’d been away. He wanted her to turn around, and she wouldn’t. He wanted a reaction, that was why he was pushing her. Her mind spun, out of control, her breathing ragged, what was it he wanted to know?

  What she’d done.

  She could hear his breathing ragged in her ear, she could smell booze somewhere, not on his breath but in his skin, and she had a vision of his weekend, smoke-filled rooms, staying up drinking with other men, conference speeches before
an audience of the hungover, the unshaven. Holding her breath till it drummed in her temples.

  And then suddenly he was finished. His breathing eased, and when she turned round he was buttoning himself back up. Peering down at a speck on his shirt. A blotch of colour of his neck, already fading.

  He wasn’t looking at Georgie but she looked down at herself. Her knickers halfway down her thighs, her skirt ridden up. She could feel the slime between her legs. She tugged at the skirt, she could feel the knickers rolled and twisted underneath it, she could feel the heat in her face. Haltingly she began to lay the table. Mats, plates, knives, forks. She found herself staring at the setting, unable for a moment to remember which way round the cutlery went. Tim walked out of the room and in a second she could hear his voice, murmuring to Tabs.

  Tim didn’t usually carve but in the bright hot kitchen he insisted on it, humming something under his breath. There were beans and carrots and broccoli, three vegetables, all done to four minutes as Tim liked them, plus roast potatoes. She saw the food pile up on his plate, saw him look around for gravy, saw Tabs looking from one of them to the other then back down to her plate. He ate greedily but the hunger seemed to be to do with her, in the way he looked at her across the table not caring if Tabs intercepted the look.

  In the sitting room after the meal he flicked between channels restlessly, still looking across at Georgie. The news came on, something in North Korea. Georgie hesitated: did she really need to tell him? He’d hardly known Holly.

  ‘You remember – when we went out?’ she began. ‘In London? The three of us, me and Cat and Holly?’ He grunted, watching the fat Korean president in his blue suit, raising his hands to a huge crowd. ‘It’s – well, Cat phoned and she told me Holly’s – something’s happened to her. She was found – she’s died.’

  He looked across at her, frowning, as if he didn’t believe her. Then abruptly leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. ‘Died?’ he said, incredulous. ‘What, like, heart attack? Drugs or something? Wasn’t she the one who used to—’ Then he sat back again.

  ‘Not drugs, they don’t think. They think someone killed her.’ Georgie could feel herself growing agitated, Holly’s violent death had no place in the quiet sitting room, the evening news. Tim’s frown said as much. He raised the remote as if to change the channel, turn down the sound, but did nothing. Then he blew out his cheeks.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ he said, sober. Darted a glance at her. ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear it. Christ. Good job we left London when we did. All these stabbings, every night another one.’

  She didn’t say, She was strangled. Raped and strangled and left there in a bedsit. Tim seemed almost irritated, as if she was spoiling his fun, letting him know she hadn’t been in the mood, back there in the kitchen.

  It flashed up in her as she sat there that the truth was she couldn’t imagine that mood any more, she couldn’t imagine leaning over to him in bed and putting her hand on him. There was a second in which neither of them moved or spoke, then Tim sighed explosively, and leaned to set the remote back down on the coffee table.

  ‘And the car, then?’ he said, such a change of subject that she had no idea what he meant for a moment. ‘The prang?’

  Georgie stared. Any idea she’d had of saying, she was going up to town to talk to the police about Holly evaporated. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘I honestly can’t remember. I couldn’t have done it without noticing, it’s a big dent.’ Feeling panic close her throat, in response to the way he was looking at her patiently, sceptically. And as if on cue Tabs flitted to the door behind her, clutching her papers, a little ghost and Georgie got up, gratefully, to put her to bed.

  In Tabs’ bedroom she sat a long time reading aloud in the bed beside her: she could feel the small head hot under her hand as she stroked Tabs’ hair, she could sense the small heart pattering, pattering, in time with hers. So long she heard the television go off downstairs and through the door saw the lights disappear, one by one, kitchen, hall. And still she stayed, Tabs asleep now, slipped down beside her on the pillow, until there was silence.

  Padding across the landing she was as quiet as she could be, holding her breath in the dark room, watching for movement and seeing none – but there was something in the air, like electricity. There were marriages where there were separate bedrooms, where that was quite normal. She didn’t want to touch the bed, let alone to get under the quilt, but she did it.

  His hand went out to her.

  She’d known him fifteen years: she repeated that in her head. This is your husband, you’ve known him fifteen years, your husband, father of your— not quite, though. Was he? And now everything was wrong.

  He was on top of her.

  Lying awake afterwards she made her plan. On her back staring in the dark at the ceiling, making patterns, sorting, shaping.

  There would be no need to tell him about Holly, all that, about going up to London to try and talk to the police. She would let him go off to work and she would take Tabs in as usual. She would tell them she was feeling sick – and she was – because they could manage without her. She would call one of the other mums and ask them to have Tabs after school for a couple of hours in case she was delayed. She would call the police and talk to them.

  Fifteen years: but when she scanned the years somehow Georgie couldn’t see Tim, she could only see herself, scurrying, scurrying. Lying on her back in a white room while her ovaries were plundered for eggs, she could feel the lump in her throat, of fear. She could see the walls going up around her, glass and concrete, sharp edges, higher and higher.

  It rose in her throat, her sinuses throbbing with it, the saliva rushing into her mouth, and she scrambled out of bed. She got to the toilet in time and vomited, strings of chicken, carrot. She tried to be quiet but couldn’t, she went on retching until yellow bile came out. And then sat back against the wall, her face wet with tears squeezed from her eyes. She could hear Tim snore.

  He knew something. How could he know what she didn’t know herself? And Holly the only witness, gone.

  Gone, gone, gone. Raped and strangled, beside her little suitcase, her nice underwear, policemen looking between her legs for evidence.

  But not the only witness, Cat might have been dead to the world but you were there, Georgie. You were there stumbling on the stairs, up in the family room, saying goodbye on the doorstep. You were there. And so was he.

  Georgie squeezed her eyes shut until sparks flew behind the lids like fireflies and there in the dark was the shape of a man, coming out of the forest. A tall man, he stood and watched her. He was patient.

  Chapter Twenty

  Monday

  Frank woke at ten out of dreams of women in need, a flickering black and white movie of train tracks and dark water and his hand went straight to his mobile, on the side table. It was ringing.

  Bright sun again: he had to shade his eyes, squinting: Mum. Again. On a Monday? She launched straight into it.

  She wanted him to go, to leave Soho. She didn’t like him working for Eddie.

  ‘It’s Benjy,’ she said, cryptic. ‘He said I had to say something.’

  Benjy, her ex-policeman boyfriend. Sitting on the bed in his boxers Frank tried to make her understand.

  ‘Three strip clubs, a massage parlour, this block of apartments and the Cinq,’ he said, patiently.

  ‘And the rest,’ said Mum, sharp. ‘There’s one house in Soho, where that girl was found, B and B if you say so but most of the guests seem to be single women and no doubt booked in someone else’s name, so that’s one brothel in my book. And seven more out of town.’

  ‘What?’ Frank sat there half stunned, scratching his head. ‘Mum—’

  ‘That’s what Benjy says.’

  Frank had always thought Benjy was only interested in fishing and crossword puzzles.

  ‘Eltham, Bromley, Wanstead, Harrow.’ She reeled off the names. ‘Benjy says, they’ve been trying to get a case together against Eddie for fifteen years
. And now this girl. Murder.’

  ‘Eddie isn’t a killer,’ he said, automatically. But he didn’t know if it was true.

  It wasn’t like he hadn’t been thinking about leaving. Since Vince gave him that Sunday evening look in the dim club and mentioned Savoy-style. But this was crazy.

  Holly was in everything now, since they found her body. Even Vince had mentioned her name, lowered voice, but his eyes sliding away when Frank said, ‘You knew her?’ Mumbling, changing the subject. And Frank had begun to wonder about the man he’d seen her with on the street, the man she’d gazed up at, searching his memory. Could have been anyone. Anyone not fat, anyone who owned a dark suit. The details were sparse, the sharpest of them her knuckles, her hand on his arm.

  Mum was still talking. ‘You never would listen to me,’ she said, exasperated and he was back in Bromley and her smacking him across the back of his bare legs for coming in late. ‘All right, Mum,’ he said, feeling alarm start up in him and just wanting to think. Time to think. ‘All right. I get it. I just – it’s a lot to – let me—’

  ‘Benjy’s retired, love,’ she said, on the edge of defeat. ‘It’s not like he wants to get you involved, get you asking questions, he just thinks you want to be out of the picture. Soon as.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ he said, obediently. ‘I will. I’ll – get out, soon as.’

  The thought of it, though, the picture of him and Eddie having a little chat, gave him a nasty feeling. Something told him he’d have to be very careful what he said.

  Frank got the impression Mum could have gone on another half hour but he must have convinced her, or the dog needed taking out, because suddenly she gave in and hung up and he was left there with the phone in his hands.

  Oh, shit, he thought. Because he’d forgotten he sent it, until now. Never text after midnight, he’d heard a couple of girls confiding that one at the bar more than once. Never text when you’re pissed or after midnight. He hadn’t been pissed, but there’d been a cold beer in his hand and he’d been winding down up here, one o’clock in the morning and looking down to the street when he’d texted Matteo.