Burning Secrets

by Clare Chambers

  “What’s Narveng?”

  “Narveng? It’s a drug company – like Reckitt or Glaxo. If you’ve ever had hay fever or a migraine you’ve probably taken a tablet made by Narveng. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I just saw that logo the other day and now I’ve just seen it again on your coffee cup. I wondered what it stood for.”

  The doctor took this as an excuse to pick up the cup. “The sales reps bring all these freebies with them – mugs, mouse mats, calendars, enough stationery to open a shop. Look.” He opened a drawer in his desk to reveal hundreds of cheap plastic biros; the kind that give no pleasure to write with, and yet stubbornly outlast more precious expensive pens.

  “Here. Have one.” The doctor selected one and passed it over.

  “Thanks,” said Daniel, putting it in his pocket along with the prescription. He went off with the strange sensation that he had discovered something really important. If only he could work out what it was.

  Chapter 17

  THE BUS FROM Darrow passed through Stape on its winding route around the island, so Daniel got out to drop in on Ramsay, just as she had suggested. He’d intended to leave it a bit longer – he didn’t want to look too keen, and hadn’t forgotten the way she’d walked off without a backward glance – but after three days the urge to see her again overpowered all other considerations. If he looked keen, it was because he was keen: too bad.

  He was still some distance away from the house when he caught sight of her in the back garden, and his stomach gave a kick of excitement. She was by the rabbit hutches, putting in fresh straw and bowls of cabbage leaves, and Daniel was sure she’d seen him as she straightened up. But to his surprise, instead of approaching him or responding to his wave she darted back into the house.

  Daniel continued up to the front door and rang the bell, reminding himself that girls were strange creatures. Maybe she’d bolted inside to put on make-up or something. Louie, for instance, would never answer the front door with bare feet. Or bare arms, of course.

  He waited on the step for a couple of minutes, feeling increasingly uneasy, and then rang again, pressing the bell down for longer than strictly polite. Its trilling echoed through the house: there was no way anyone inside could claim not to have heard it, but still no one came.

  Daniel was just turning to leave when he heard movement behind the door, and it opened a fraction. Ramsay stood in the gap, with a troubled frown on her face.

  “I can’t see you,” she said, not quite meeting his eye. “You mustn’t come round here again.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not allowed. Dad says. You’d better go – he’ll be back soon.”

  “But why? What have I done?” They had been getting on so well at the fireworks, until Louie stuffed things up. And he’d done nothing since that could have upset her. Had he?

  She looked at him reproachfully. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d been in prison?”

  The question came out of nowhere like something solid and knocked him sideways. All he could do was try to recover his breath and blurt out, “It wasn’t a prison. Who told you?”

  “It’s true then,” said Ramsay quietly. “You killed a man.”

  One thing his mum had said through her tears, during those awful months leading up to the trial, came back to him now: this will follow you for the rest of your life. She was right. Even on a remote island where you couldn’t get broadband or Coke or a takeaway pizza, where they’d barely heard of McDonald’s or mobile phones, they’d somehow heard about him.

  “It’s not the sort of thing you go round telling people,” he muttered. “You try to forget about it.” Since he had been on Wragge, since he had met Ramsay in fact, he almost had.

  “You could have told me.”

  “So you could have hated me straight away instead of getting to know me first and then hating me?” Daniel retorted.

  “I don’t hate you.” Ramsay glanced anxiously at her watch. “I’ve got to go. You’ve got to go, I mean.”

  A new and terrible thought struck him. If one person on Wragge knew, they all knew. The stares, the whispers, the harassment, everything they thought they’d got away from, would start all over again. It would kill his mum. “I suppose it’s all round the island by now. Everyone knows everyone’s secrets here. You said that the first time we met.”

  “I haven’t told anyone!” Ramsay said, her voice rising with indignation. “And Dad won’t.”

  “Why? What’s to stop him?”

  “He promised me. As long as I don’t see you any more, he’ll never tell. That’s the deal.”

  Chapter 18

  “HELLO?”

  The voice on the phone was male, unfamiliar. Daniel resisted the impulse to hang up. “Is Helen there?”

  “Who’s that?”

  So it was her number. “Daniel.”

  “Hold on.” There was the muffling sound of a hand on the receiver, and a moment later Helen’s voice, tentative, suspicious. “Daniel? Is that you?”

  “Yes. I found this number inside the music so I—”

  “Don’t say any more,” Helen interrupted. “Where are you phoning from?”

  “Wragge.”

  “Yes, yes, but what phone? Can anyone hear you?”

  “No. No one’s in.” Louie and Mum were doing the supermarket run to Port Julian.

  “OK. Thanks for ringing. I hoped you’d find the number and put two and two together. In fact I knew you would, you’re smart.”

  “I came to the school like you said, but you’d already gone.”

  “I’m sorry. I had to get off the island quickly. I couldn’t leave you a message because someone else might have found it and I don’t want anyone connecting us. I knew no one else would look twice at the sheet music.”

  “Why mustn’t people connect us?”

  “Because if they think you’re anything to do with me you’ll be no use to me.”

  Daniel wondered when he had agreed to be useful. Chet whisked in from the garden and stood beside Daniel, panting. “Who are ‘they’? What’s going on? What’s Narveng?”

  “I can hear breathing,” said Helen sharply. “Someone’s listening in.”

  “It’s just Chet,” laughed Daniel, holding the phone out towards the dog, who sniffed at it then wandered off.

  “How do you know about Narveng?” Helen demanded.

  “No, you’ve got to tell me,” said Daniel, suddenly impatient, “not the other way round. Why you were hiding behind the bins? What were you looking for and why did you leave? And what did you mean you aren’t ‘even really a teacher’? I promised not to tell anyone and I haven’t. So now you’ve got to explain.”

  “Right. Where to start . . . I’m not a teacher, I’m a journalist. I did a degree in music and drama, even worked at a school for a term after leaving university, but I’m not qualified. I got this job using false references provided by my editor, which is not even vaguely legal. He wanted someone to go undercover to follow up a story that he’d heard about Stape High. But you can’t just waltz over from the mainland and start sniffing around the island. You’ve got to have a residency permit, which means you were either born there or have family there – like your mum – or get a job no one on the island can do. So when the music job came up I applied for it.”

  “What was the story he’d heard?”

  “When you work on a newspaper, you get all sorts of cranks and nutters writing and phoning you with barmy ideas and conspiracy theories – you know: people who think the moon landings never happened and Michael Jackson is still alive. Anyway, one of these calls was from a nurse in a hospice on the mainland. She said that she’d looked after a cancer patient who used to work as a groundsman at Stape High and before he died he told her that ‘what’s going on at the school is unnatural’ and ‘one day it will all come out’. She didn’t know what he meant at the time, and now he’s dead. She was worried though, because she imagined he must have been talking about child abuse. My e
ditor did a bit of his own research about the school, but couldn’t find one negative thing about it. In fact, quite the reverse – all evidence was that the children were really happy, placid and well behaved. You’ve seen what it’s like – they even hang out there at weekends and after hours.”

  “Well, that’s ‘unnatural’ for a start,” said Daniel.

  “Exactly. So having drawn a blank, my editor just filed it away in the back of his mind. Then six months later he was judging an art prize and got talking to one of the other judges; the subject of Wragge came up. This man and his wife had divorced, partly because of the wild behaviour of their teenage daughter, and the wife had gone back to live on the island, where she’d been born, taking the daughter with her. The man said that within just a few weeks, his daughter completely changed. Instead of having violent mood swings and getting into confrontations with people over nothing, she became a different person – easy-going, cheerful, lovely. From being someone who was always bunking off school, now she was spending all her time there – even weekends and holidays. He thought maybe she’d just grown out of a rebellious phase, but then the next summer holidays she came back to London to spend a month with him. By the third week she had completely reverted to her old ways and they were having screaming, door-slamming rows at three o’clock in the morning. He had to take her back to her mum a week early because he couldn’t stand it any more. But as soon as she was back on Wragge she was fine again. He began to wonder if he was the problem. But when he went to visit her on the island, they got along fine – she was a different person. She was ‘unnaturally placid’, he said, and that got my editor thinking again about what the groundsman had said. Are you still there?”

  “Yes, yes,” said Daniel, who had been listening out for the car with his free ear. “Carry on.”

  “Now, here’s the funny thing. My editor decided to contact the nurse from the hospice to see if she’d remembered anything more. When he rang the number she’d given him, someone else answered and said she didn’t live there any more; she’d come into some money and gone to live in Spain. It took a while to track her down. When he finally got hold of her, she claimed to have no memory of her original call, and denied knowing anything about a groundsman from Stape High. He knew she was lying. And when he rang again a week later the number had been disconnected. So now he really was suspicious: someone was obviously paying her to keep quiet. So I was supposed to get a job at the school and find out what exactly was going on.”

  “So what were you doing when I found you behind the bins?”

  “I’d let myself into the school at night to have a look through the files, but when I arrived there was a light on in the building. I didn’t want to bump into anyone, so I hid round the back to wait for whoever it was to leave. Then you and Chet turned up.”

  “Why did you take something out of the bin?”

  “I wondered why someone would dump something in the middle of the night – unless they didn’t want anyone else to see them doing it. I wanted to know what it was, but the box was blank apart from that smiley logo, so I tore it off and kept it so I could find out what it stood for, but you already beat me to it.”

  “Narveng,” said Daniel. “Although I don’t know much more than that.” He explained the various times he’d seen the logo: on his bag he’d found in the bin, the bag on the bonfire, and finally at the doctor’s.

  “That’s three times someone has tried to get rid of something with the Narveng logo,” said Helen. “Twice in bins and once by burning. Someone wants to destroy any evidence of a connection between Narveng and the school. So that’s the connection we’ve got to find.”

  What do you mean, ‘we’? thought Daniel, and then his mind took off in another direction. “Why did you run away from the island?”

  “I was scared. On the Saturday evening while everyone was at the fireworks I went into school for another look around. When I got back I could tell that an intruder had been in my house. Nothing had been taken, but I knew straight away that things weren’t exactly as I’d left them. And there was a strange smell.”

  “What sort of smell?”

  “I don’t know. Like chlorine or something. I think they were trying to find out if I really was who I said I was, or if I’d found out anything. And the worst of it? There was no break-in. Someone had a key. That’s what really freaked me out. So I packed up to leave. There’s no point staying on if the people you’re supposed to be spying on know more about you than you do about them. I went into school in the morning to leave you my phone number and there was a note on my desk from Mrs Ivory. It said she’d just had a call from the Education Office about some ‘irregularity’ with my paperwork, and could I come and see her as a matter of urgency. My cover was completely blown. I couldn’t stay and incriminate my editor, so I left on the lunchtime boat.”

  “Are you planning to come back?”

  “I can’t. I’d be arrested the moment I stepped off the ferry.”

  “There must be other ways of getting here. Secretly.”

  “What – you mean row across the Atlantic? I’m not James Bond.”

  “Well, how can you find out what’s going on here if you’re stuck in London?” Daniel asked. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a dust cloud approaching up the lane. In a few moments Mum would be back with the shopping, calling for him to carry the bags from the car.

  “I can’t,” said Helen. “You’re going to have to do it for me.”

  Chapter 19

  ON SATURDAY MORNING Ramsay set off for her job at the stables at Filey. In exchange for a few hours’ labour mucking out, cleaning tack, feeding and grooming, she was allowed to take her favourite pony, Trampus, for a ride along the lanes and, if she was feeling adventurous, up on to the moors. None of the stable girls were ever paid for their work, but the privilege of free rides was enough to ensure that there was no shortage of volunteers.

  As Ramsay left the house, with her riding hat, containing a packed lunch and an apple for Trampus, slung over one arm like a basket, she noticed Fay in the back garden, dusting down their shared bicycle. It was a while since either of them had used it, as was evident from its cobwebbed frame and depressed-looking tyres.

  “Where are you off to on that thing?” she asked, watching in amusement as Fay wrestled with the pump.

  “For a ride over to Ingle,” panted Fay, when she had finally managed to force some air into the tyres, satisfied that they weren’t punctured.

  Ramsay raised her eyebrows. There was nothing at Ingle apart from the old chapel, Joff Bay, Kenny’s house and The Brow. “Oh? Why’s that then?”

  Fay swung herself into the saddle, which had been extended to its highest point. “I’m going to visit Louie,” she said. She rolled forward to test the brakes, which let out a protesting shriek of metal on metal.

  “We’re not allowed,” Ramsay protested.

  “You’re not allowed to see Daniel,” Fay corrected her. “No one said anything about me seeing Louie. She’s my friend. I’m going to visit her.”

  Thinking back over her dad’s words, Ramsay had to concede that Fay was technically right.

  “Would you like me to give a message to anyone in particular?” Fay asked innocently.

  Having thought of little else all week, Ramsay now went utterly blank. “Just say I said hello,” was the best she could do.

  Chapter 20

  DANIEL WAS WOKEN from pleasant dreams about Ramsay by the sound of Chet barking in the kitchen. Nobody else seemed to be making any move to investigate so he pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a sweater and stumbled down the stairs. He was surprised to see Fay standing at the back door being growled at through the glass by Chet.

  “Hello?” he said, once he had unbolted the door and let Chet out into the garden.

  “Hello,” said Fay, looking curious. “I just called round to see Louie. But if she’s not . . . ”

  Daniel had already turned away and was at the bottom of the stairs. “L
ou. Visitor,” he bellowed in a voice that made the whole cottage quake.

  “I’m asleep,” came back the muffled reply. “Who is it?”

  “You’ll have to come down and find out,” shouted Daniel. “What am I – the receptionist?”

  He returned to Fay, rolling his eyes. “She’ll be down. Do you want breakfast?” He opened the fridge, which seemed to be full of half-litre bottles of Diet Coke and nothing much else.

  “Er, no thanks, I’ve already eaten,” said Fay. She patted her pocket. “I’ve got some Leaf if I get hungry.”

  Louie wandered in, smoky-eyed with yesterday’s make-up. She was wearing fake-fur slippers and a floor-length towelling dressing gown, which obviously also doubled as an art overall as it was streaked and spattered with paint.

  “Hello,” she said to Fay in a kind of wonderment at having a visitor. “Did you come to see me?”

  “Yes,” said Fay. “I thought we could go for a bike ride or something.”

  “I haven’t got a bike,” said Louie.

  “Why’s all this Coke in the fridge?” Daniel demanded.

  “Mrs Ivory brought it over for me yesterday,” said Louie. “She said you told her I was missing it, so she got someone to bring a crate back from the mainland. Twenty-eight bottles. She said if I can make it last a month she’ll get me another crate.”

  “That was nice of her,” said Daniel. “I didn’t think she was listening.”

  “Yeah. She’s quite cool. For a teacher,” Louie agreed.

  “Mrs Ivory is so kind,” said Fay. “When James broke his leg playing football and was off school for ages last year she went to visit him every week with food parcels. She’s always saying, I want you to be happy. If there’s anything that’s making you unhappy just come and see me and I’ll fix it.”

  “And does she?” asked Daniel.

  “I don’t know,” Fay admitted. “I’ve never not been happy.”

  “I wonder if Kenny’s got a bike he could lend me,” Louie was saying.