A Secret Life

by Christobel Kent

  She hung up. Staring down at the phone blindly, thinking of the two of them, Mark and Tim, always knowing where she was, mapping her movements. It had to be.

  Then she saw an icon that said, extras. She opened it.

  It won’t be there it won’t be. It was there. Find my phone. Find me.

  Georgie stood, stepped over the suitcase and walked through the house to the back. She opened the kitchen door, walked to the end of the garden and flung the phone, as far out as she could. There was a rustle in the dark as it landed, far beyond the fence.

  Now. She ran, back into the house. And as she reached the hall, the suitcase there waiting for her, she heard it. She heard the car.

  Upstairs, she heard Tabs’ footsteps, the creak of her door. Daddy’s home.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  They’d come into a town, they’d passed the sign and it had rung a bell but Frank didn’t have the time. Street lights, ye olde pub. Very nice, very safe. Commutersville.

  Frank had called Lucy. He just said, no time to be kind, ‘Eddie’s having a heart attack. We’re on the way to the hospital. Epping.’

  Frank had gone from thinking Eddie was going to kill him and bury him under the trees and Lucy was in on it, to knowing it was just a fuck-up. Eddie wanted to frighten him because he was shitting himself at the thought of that girl dead in one of his places.

  Mark was following his phone’s satnav. He was a bad driver, unsteady, jerky – or maybe it was the circumstances. He kept looking back over his shoulder.

  Half lying across the back seat and Frank crouched over him, Eddie was breathing, but his colour was bad. Despite himself, Frank held his hand. He’d known the bloke near on his whole life.

  ‘The police are going to want to know,’ said Frank. He was talking to Mark, leaning forward so Eddie wouldn’t hear. ‘I mean – you say you didn’t kill her but …’ A pause, for it to sink in, Mark at the wheel, staring grimly ahead. ‘You’re going to have to come up with some kind of story and if you didn’t kill her – raped and strangled, I heard – the truth is probably your best bet. They’re not all thick, coppers. So what was it you were up to that night, you and Holly? Eddie put you and him in touch, you and that Georgie’s husband? You know she’s got a kid, don’t you? Little kid.’ Mark’s eyes slid sideways to him then back to the road. ‘Going back to the hotel with ’em, three women. Did you spike the other one’s drink too? So you and Holly could sort out just what you wanted between you.’

  ‘She was begging for it,’ said Mark, knuckles white on the wheel, but his voice was dull. ‘Couldn’t get enough of it, you know what they’re like, these women, let ’em loose, can’t hold their drink.’ It was like he was repeating something he’d been told. ‘It’s not illegal.’

  ‘That’s not going to convince anyone,’ said Frank, softly. ‘Rape and blackmail are illegal, as a matter of fact. Just not as illegal as murder.’ He saw Mark’s jaw begin to work, but he said nothing, and Frank went on. ‘Have you done this before, then? What, for money, or just for fun?’

  Mark’s head whipped round then, the ghost of a smirk on his pale face.

  ‘They never go to the police,’ he said again. ‘You use enough stuff they can’t remember anyway. No one needs to pay for sex these days. It’s out there, you just take it.’

  Frank stared back at him, expressionless, wondering if he should stop it now, right now, open the door and leave them to it. But beside him on the back seat Eddie was struggling. He was trying to right himself from his sprawled position and Frank could see his face, slack with pain. He was trying to say something, reaching up with a hand to the window and Frank leaned down, but it wasn’t even words.

  The street lights strobed as they passed, down into the car’s interior, lighting them all the same yellow. It must be almost six, but the shops were still open. There was a sign, the black H that directed them to the hospital. It came to Frank, then, a little bounce of memory, that it rang a bell for a reason, that sign. Twinned with wherever in Germany, the town was where the accountant’s offices were. T. C. Baxter CCAB. A little high street, all cosy, London beyond the trees.

  Frank wondered if it was too late, from what Eddie had said under the trees to Mark, having a go at him. He’d sent proof to her husband, of what they’d got up to.

  Continue for one mile, said the mechanical voice.

  ‘He knew Holly,’ said Frank. ‘What was she to him? His bit on the side?’

  They slowed: red lights up ahead, and a handsome old house with all the windows lit up, with a little car park, a professional sign he couldn’t read. Mark rested back in his seat and gave Frank a look. ‘She thought she was,’ he said, sullen. ‘Silly bitch. Pathetic. She fixed everything for him, where the girl was going to be next day, I’d have caught up with her then if you hadn’t turned up.’

  ‘You said Baxter’s wife told you she was going to be at Fanelli’s herself,’ said Frank. Baxter’s wife, now, not Georgie any more. He’d liked it when he could call her Georgie. ‘But it was Holly told you?’

  ‘It was him,’ said Mark. ‘It was her husband, they were planning it together, him and Holly. To start with they were going to fix for her to meet Holly and Holly could, like, encourage her to see me again. Tell her what a sweetheart I am. Only then he calls me and tells me why don’t I go instead. And it’s going to look like we’ve got something going, witnesses and everything. He didn’t say the fucking kid was going to be there, though, did he?’ Irritable.

  ‘And Holly couldn’t go, could she?’ said Frank. ‘Holly was dead.’

  A grin, then Mark was looking through the windscreen again. Either he was too dumb to understand or he didn’t give a shit.

  ‘He killed her. He killed Holly.’ No one said anything.

  They were level with the tall red-brick house now and the last window went dark. The front door opened and the blue-white of a security light came on, illuminating the sign. And there it was, literally in black and white, T. C. Baxter, Chartered Accountancy Services. Frank stared, and in that moment Eddie flailed beside him, managing to locate his arm, his hand, tugging with surprising strength.

  Frank pulled away, his brain running like a train in another direction. He said, ‘Let me out here.’ Something in his voice turned Mark’s head, eyebrows up in surprise. ‘Now.’

  But Eddie hung on, exhausted, white, in the back, panting. And till trying to say something.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eddie,’ said Frank, his free arm on the door handle. Up ahead the lights had gone green. ‘Lucy’s going to be at the hospital. You’ll be all right, mate.’ But Eddie’s head was moving, side to side, no.

  And then he spoke, with an effort, slurred but his grip on Frank’s arm was tight. ‘Don’t go near him,’ he said. ‘Baxter. ’S’not safe.’

  Mark was revving the engine now, engaging gear. ‘How was I to fucking know?’ he said, loud and clear at last but not turning his head, talking to the windscreen. ‘Bloke’s a fucking psycho. I thought he’d like to see the bitch sucking cock.’

  ‘He’ll kill her too,’ said Eddie distinctly, and he fell back.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  And there was the sound of the garage door opening.

  The mechanism was smooth as silk, and quiet, Tim had insisted on it but Georgie had always registered it, almost as a vibration through the house. How many times had she heard the big car purr up on to the drive at six thirty and gone to the front window to look out? To see Tim behind the gleam of the windscreen, just a silhouette, head and shoulders, arm raised to point the remote at the garage door.

  The feeling was there now, in the pit of her stomach, it had always been there when she heard that soft sound that meant he was home but now Georgie knew what it had meant. She leaned down and raised the suitcase, setting her back against the wall. In her head she saw the inside of the garage, the tool bench, the row of heavy wrenches and spanners on the wall. She knew what came next. She knew. The detail was what escaped her: that was what
she needed to work out.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Tabs was out of her bedroom, standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. Her voice was high with anxiety and her eyes were wide, taking it in. Georgie wanted to reassure her but her face wouldn’t do it, it was a mask, and behind it she was calculating. Tabs could see the mask, and she was frightened.

  Georgie heard the car now on the drive, heard him engage gear, it was pulling into the garage, the door was coming down again. She smiled up at Tabs, holding her gaze, and willing her to understand, this is me, this is Mummy, she beckoned. A finger to her lips. And solemn, careful, one hand on the banister and her eyes never leaving Georgie’s face, Tabs came down.

  Her own car was on the front drive, on the paving, Tim would have glided past it. As Tabs descended Georgie remembered the Hungarian builders again, driving off and Tim shrieking after them.

  The soft whine of the garage door, and then silence. It ticked away. No sound.

  Where was he? Why hadn’t he come in?

  She could see him sitting in there, in the car. Find my iPhone. How close could he get, on the little map? She could see him behind the wheel in the dark, the little glowing screen.

  It occurred to her for a brief leaping second that a certain kind of man might never come out of the garage, if he’d seen what Tim had seen. What she thought he’d seen, the woman he loved with another man. Seal up the windows and doors, run a pipe to the car, run the engine. Not him. No. Not Tim.

  Tabs reached the bottom of the stairs, and stopped. Georgie – wishing Tabs’ daddy dead and slumped behind the wheel – knelt.

  Her bag was upstairs. She calculated. No time, the car unlocked, the keys upstairs. He can find me but he mustn’t find her.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ Georgie said, encouragingly, ‘I want you to go out and get into the car. Very quietly.’

  She tried to make her voice sound calm and reasonable, but she could hear the hoarseness in it. Tabs’ face questioning, then frowning, stubborn.

  Georgie took her hand. Leading her, two steps, three, to the front door and clicking it open as softly as she could. The cool evening air came inside and with its breath she could hear a sound, from inside the garage. Tabs lagged, pulling away.

  In the doorway Georgie leaned down, felt the small warm head against her breast, breathed in soft hair. She whispered, through the hair. ‘You wait for Mummy in the car, now. You climb inside and lie down on the back seat and have a little rest. You hide so I can’t see you.’

  As Tabs looked up Georgie saw it, saw her trying to understand, saw her beginning to grasp it, seized her chance. ‘Stay very quiet, all right? I won’t be long. Wait for me.’ There was no more than a second of hesitation now in Tabs’ dark eyes – those eyelashes from elsewhere, the thick black hair – and she nodded and was gone. Out into the dark on soft feet.

  Georgie closed the door behind her and her heart squeezed in her chest. The suitcase sat there, too big, stupid, why hadn’t they just run when they had the chance, why had it taken the sound of that garage door for her to understand and now it was too late, too late—

  No. Just move. Move. Georgie ran, swift, to the stairs and up, two at a time.

  If he thought she was in the garden, if he looked at the app that told him where her phone was and it said she was hiding out there, that she’d run out into the dark to escape him – then she’d have time. And even if she didn’t – just do it. Upstairs, keys, car, drive.

  If Tim thought she was in the garden he’d go back outside.

  He wouldn’t take the door that led from the garage into the house. The door that led to the utility room, then the door at the back of the hall – he wouldn’t come inside. She was in the bedroom but she couldn’t see her bag, the bed was covered in – and then she saw it, a couple of inches of strap and grabbed.

  And heard the door, downstairs. He was going to come inside.

  All right, reconfigure. New plan. Her heart was in her mouth but she slowed right down, straightened her back. Keys out of the bag and in her pocket, the bag – purse, driving licence – over her shoulder. Downstairs on quick feet, to the hall.

  Then she could hear him, not just the door from the kitchen to the garage opening but a sound she didn’t recognise, a horrible dragging, then a clank, that filled her with dread. She shifted, beyond the corridor that would lead him to her, so he wouldn’t be able to see where she was standing, wouldn’t guess anything.

  He was in the house.

  The suitcase stood there, though. In the middle of the hall.

  ‘Georgina?’ The name his mother used for her, in his voice. Inside her something tightened: the walls seemed to tremble and close. She needed to breathe.

  Breathe. Don’t pass out. Georgie gauged the distances, the steps, three, maybe four, across the hall in plain view, and she’d be at the door. Leave the suitcase, fuck the suitcase, this had gone too far for plans, for clothes. But she’d walked herself into a corner in the hallway, trying to keep out of his line of sight. She was behind the hard chrome console table he had chosen, she could see a corner of herself in the pale wood mirror – and there he was. Watching her in the mirror. She stepped out from her hiding place.

  He was standing in the kitchen doorway, his body half concealed from her. His head and half a shoulder out. She shifted the handbag back over her shoulder. ‘You’re home,’ she said, breathlessly stupid, and he smiled to hear it.

  His head disappeared, she heard the soft sound of something being set down that she couldn’t see and then before she could move he was out in the corridor, all of him.

  ‘What was that noise?’ she said, before she could stop herself. He didn’t like being interrogated.

  Tim had his phone in his hand: he looked down at it as if he didn’t know what it was doing there. It was as if he hadn’t heard the question, his old trick. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said, pulling at his tie to loosen it. Sweating, which wasn’t like him, sweating as if he’d been exerting himself.

  Usually he would set his briefcase down next but he didn’t seem to have brought it home.

  Standing frozen in the entrance to the corridor Georgie made a tiny movement with her head, looking over her shoulder back to the front door, a tiny crack ajar. Cautiously took one step backwards. Tim was still talking and if she interrupted him he might—

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he was saying, ruminatively, ‘that’s what we are, aren’t we, childhood sweethearts? Were. They do say you never leave them behind, the first one, however many—’ but then he stopped.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he said, and his voice was hoarse suddenly, she heard the danger. He had taken another step and was looking past her, at the suitcase.

  ‘Oh, I – no – my dad—’ She was turning as she spoke, thinking, not about what she was saying or how she was going to end the sentence but how to block him, how to get to the door before he reached her. Little plump Georgie always last in the hundred metres, the sack race, the egg and spoon: the stupidest thing to be thinking of at a time like this, Dad on the sidelines cheering her, a faded long-ago summer.

  He caught her before she’d got halfway, and his arm was round her. Pulling her into his side. From the outside would it look like they were lovers? She struggled briefly, feeling the hardness of his grip, pinching, and subsided, feeling her heart pattering, her breath quick. Once the fight began in earnest, she’d lose. Her only hope was to be submissive, eyes down, let him think she’d given up.

  All these years. Why hadn’t she fought before, why hadn’t she run— She felt the tears in her eyes and stopped them. No time.

  Tim was steering her into the corridor, arm tight around her, squeezing her shoulders. She needed to be in a better position. To run. She needed a clear route. She needed him to loosen his grip.

  He was taking her back to the kitchen. Before the door he turned her, quick, and she was against the wall, her back against the wall. Tim had one arm up, blocking her path back to the front door. The other hand
was under her hair, on her neck.

  ‘Where’s Tabs?’ he said. Looking around. ‘I’ve got something to show her.’

  ‘She’s with Sue,’ said Georgie, desperate, and she could hear it. He smiled, except that it wasn’t a smile, and shook his head.

  ‘No she’s not,’ he said and his lips were on her skin, at the temple, at the hairline. Kissing her.

  Was he – was he going to— her hands clenched.

  Raped and strangled. It felt like he was already strangling her, her throat tight as if it was in a noose and just at the feel of his fingers, under the hair at the back of her neck.

  But Tabs. Why would he be asking about Tabs? She had lied. He had caught her in a lie. His fingers tightened on her hair in that moment and he pulled her head back so she had to look up into his face.

  ‘She’s not with Sue,’ he murmured. ‘I went there first – of course I did.’

  ‘What – what did—’

  ‘What did I want to show Tabs?’ He tilted his head. His hand twisted in her hair, tugging it, tighter. The pain was nothing. She hardly felt it: it was as if there was something in her veins that numbed her. ‘Hold on a minute,’ he said, as if he was going to produce a present, surprise!, and then he was holding his mobile in his hand.

  ‘It’s this,’ Tim said softly, his thumb moving across the screen. Manicured: he had them done, once a month. The phone was in the hand that had blocked her path back down the corridor, but she didn’t dare glance that way. His other hand tight in her hair still.

  ‘This—’ and a speck of saliva appeared at the corner of his mouth. ‘This is what I want her to see.’ He held the screen up to her face, too close, it blurred. His face beside the screen and still with the smile on it that was not a smile.

  She didn’t look. She looked at him. She saw his face go dark and then his fingers dug into her, he had grabbed her ear, twisting it, and she thought wildly of the earring she’d lost. It came to her that he probably had that, too, taken from their bedsheets, hidden away to use against her.