Sworn Secret
Page 13
Kate whipped her head round to look at him. ‘Just look at the fucking video!’
Jon shook his head, beaten by Kate’s temper. He didn’t want a row, not with Lizzie waiting for him downstairs. He sighed and sat back down on the bed, this time on the corner, away from Kate, his back to her. He brought up the menu on the mobile and began to scroll through the videos. A few seconds of girls in school uniform pulling faces. A different girl laughing hysterically, tears rolling down her rounded cheeks. Then boys playing football.
‘This is idiotic,’ he said, stopping the football film and scrolling to the next. ‘It’s just films of kids mucking about at school. It’s—’ And then . . . ‘Oh my God,’ he breathed.
‘What?’ Kate was at his feet, on her knees, her face stricken. ‘What is it? Please tell me it’s not her. Please, Jon. I’m begging you. Please tell me it’s not Anna.’
Jon didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His voice was strangled by what played out on the tiny screen. His throat tightened around his breath and his eyesight faltered. He wanted to throw the phone away, as far as he could, crush it, burn it, but at the same time he couldn’t let go of it. There she was. Not dead. Alive. But not how he remembered her. He felt something – a knife? – ram into his stomach. Her skin was flawless and her body like a delicate lily, and there was a man. Could it be him? Swamping her. Thrusting himself into her fragility.
Jon watched in horror, the knife in his stomach twisting, slicing his insides to pieces. His hand uncurled and the mobile fell to the floor. He staggered out of the room towards the bathroom, away from the film and Kate’s curdling moans, begging a God she’d never believed in to help her, her shivering, wretched, mother’s body rocking.
He was sick, his stomach emptying with the revulsion. When he felt able to stand he splashed his face with cold water and walked back into their room. Kate was on the floor, kneeling, as if praying, staring at the mobile phone in her quivering hands, and her head shook with disbelief as the sounds of Stephen Howe having sex with their child dirtied the air around them.
A Borrowed Scarf
Lizzie’s heart raced as she leapt up the stairs two at a time. Since she’d last seen him, the seconds had passed like hours. She hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. It was worse than Christmas Eve. She still couldn’t believe he’d killed a wasp with his bare hands! He was amazing!
She flung open her wardrobe and stared at the neatly hanging clothes inside. After a few minutes’ staring she wondered why she hadn’t noticed how dreadful her clothes were until this very minute. Not one thing screamed wear me; it all just hung there looking sheepish.
Twenty fraught minutes later her room lay scattered with every item she owned, discarded victims of a desperate frenzy. She stood amidst the aftermath in her bra and pants, despairing and chewing the corner of her thumbnail. What would Anna have worn? Again she searched the floor for signs of life. But there was nothing. She pictured Anna – she always looked great, easily chic, her clothes a stylish mix of fashion and individuality. Then she thought of those very clothes hanging unworn in the cupboard next door.
You can’t, she told herself firmly. You just can’t.
The other side of Lizzie tried to work out whether Anna would actually mind. She closed her eyes and conjured her there, sat her on the corner of the desk, and tried to imagine what she would say if she asked to borrow something for her special date.
Of course, thought this other side of Lizzie. She would have grinned!
She could see her, right there on the corner of her desk, grinning like the happiest Cheshire cat.
‘Go for it,’ she said. ‘Raid away. It’s not like I can wear them any more.’
Lizzie smiled at her. Then she glanced at her clock. Fifteen minutes until she was supposed to leave, and she still hadn’t tamed her hair or put any make-up on.
She hesitated outside Anna’s room, her hand hovering over the door handle. ‘It’s just clothes,’ she whispered.
Anna’s room was museum-quiet and as clean as a pin. Her mum went in there every other day to dust and polish. The alarm clock was kept to the right time, the spider plant on the window sill was watered and trimmed, she even opened and shut the curtains every morning and every night. Lizzie knew a psychiatrist would probably think it was wrong, but she liked that her mum did it. She wasn’t sure she’d want Anna’s things to be packed into boxes for Oxfam, her bed collapsed and the sheets folded in the airing cupboard. It seemed right to keep the room as Anna had it. It would feel like they had rubbed her out of their lives if they didn’t. And anyway, Lizzie loved Anna’s room; it was a peaceful, contemplative place, and if she ever felt that the little things were getting on top of her, like some of the nastier girls at school or exams, a few minutes sitting quietly on the floor in her sister’s room absorbing the vibes always helped. In her room, nothing else mattered. How could anything matter as much as losing your sister? It helped with perspective. There were even times, when Lizzie was feeling especially lonely, that she climbed into Anna’s bed and pulled the duvet right up to her chin and lay there until the pain in her stomach eased. But standing in front of the wardrobe about to steal, she didn’t feel comforted. She felt treacherous. She chewed on the corner of her thumb. But then again, all those clothes, attracting moths, gathering dust, becoming musty . . .
Lizzie took a deep breath and opened the cupboard door. She stared at the clothes. Each item brought a violent flash of Anna wearing it like a slide show; each sweater, shirt, skirt, pair of trousers, threw up Anna at her in the garden, on the beach, on the sofa watching TV, shopping in Hammersmith on Christmas Eve.
Her eyes settled on the red and orange scarf. It was Anna’s favourite and she wore it all the time. Lizzie remembered so clearly the small stab of envy at the casual swathe around her neck, the perfect length of scarf that hung each side, the loop exactly the right distance below her chin, just a simple striped Topshop scarf that belonged on the catwalk. Lizzie shook the memory away. ‘Just choose something quickly,’ she whispered out loud. Then she grabbed herself an outfit – a pair of combat-style black trousers, a grey T-shirt with a pop-arty picture of Elvis Presley and the striped scarf. She gazed at the neat row of shoes and boots. It seemed such a shame to be stuck with her grubby old trainers, but what else could she do? Her feet were still two sizes smaller than Anna’s had been.
With the clothes clutched to her chest she shut the cupboard door, made sure the room was as she found it, then ducked back to her own bedroom and closed the door behind her. She changed, then checked her reflection.
As she did her stomach pitched.
She lifted her hand to block her face out of the reflection and there was Anna again, but this time standing right in front of her, her hand held up to mask her face.
Lizzie sat down on her bed, and pulled her knees tight into her chest. She was paralysed by guilt, a sudden all-consuming guilt about taking her clothes to meet Haydn. Anna’s boyfriend. As she allowed the guilt to settle, it began to build in layers, guilt on top of guilt. Not just the clothes and Haydn, but guilt that she was alive, still able to dress up and have fun, the one who could kiss and laugh, who wasn’t buried in a tacky brass urn in the unfriendly, characterless graveyard two and a half miles away.
When she finally felt able to move, she slowly turned her head and looked at the clock. She was late, but even so, she couldn’t get up. She stared at the clock waiting for her strength to return. Eventually, she pushed herself upright and swung her legs on to the floor. She took a few full breaths, then stood, allowing her head to settle. She took her long winter coat out of her cupboard and started to button it up. Two buttons done, she hesitated. Would her mother think it strange she was wearing a heavy coat in this weather? Would she make her take it off? Then see her wearing Anna’s clothes? Lizzie shuddered at the thought. She buttoned it all the way to her chin; she’d blag it, blame it on a slight chill or something.
When Lizzie poked her head around the kitche
n door, her mum was staring out of the window. She held a carrot and a potato peeler loosely in her hands.
‘I’m going to the library,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll be back after lunch.’
Her mum turned and Lizzie saw she was crying again; she didn’t need to worry about her noticing the coat, at least.
‘You can’t.’ Flat, uncompromising, a voice that offered no option.
‘What?’ Lizzie’s tummy started to fizz. ‘I’ve got a project to hand in, and the information I need is in the library.’
‘But you’ve finished your exams.’
‘Well,’ she said, faltering. ‘We still have homework, and . . . I’ve got GCSEs next year. Remember?’
‘You can do it tomorrow.’
‘It’s Sunday tomorrow.’
Her mum looked at the carrot in her hand as if she were surprised to find it there, then drew the peeler unenthusiastically down its length, allowing the ribbon of skin to fall to the floor unnoticed.
‘The library will be shut,’ Lizzie persisted.
‘Not in the morning.’
Lizzie nodded vigorously. ‘It’s shut. I promise.’
‘No, they extended the hours. It’s open till noon on Sundays.’
‘But I need to go now.’ Lizzie was panicking. She had to see Haydn. If she didn’t, she’d die.
‘Uncle Daniel’s coming in from New York.’
‘But I have plans. I—’
Her mum then seemed to find some life from somewhere. Her eyes fixed on Lizzie. ‘You can work tomorrow. Uncle Daniel will be upset if you’re not here.’
Lizzie knew Uncle Daniel wouldn’t give two hoots whether she was there or not. She spoke to him on the telephone once a year on Christmas Day for approximately a minute and a half, to say thank you for the present her dad had bought her from him. The last birthday he’d remembered was her eighth. He came over for Anna’s funeral, but left the next morning, and if he had spoken to Lizzie then she certainly couldn’t recall it. ‘What if I go for a couple of hours—’ Enough time for some kissing and a coffee, she thought ‘—and get back to see him after?’
‘Lizzie, I’m not talking about this any more. Get upstairs. Get that coat off. Then come back down and help me with lunch.’
Her mum was getting cross. Lizzie looked at the floor. She was wary of upsetting her, especially given how upset she was already, but not seeing Haydn? It was too unbearable for words.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I have plans.’ The strength of her voice surprised her and she could tell by the look on her mum’s face that it surprised her too.
‘Excuse me?’ Her mum crossed her arms, and for a moment or two Lizzie considered apologizing. She remembered the fights her mum used to have with Anna. Blazing rows, screaming, things thrown, doors slammed, her mum muttering under her breath as she paced around shaking her head, referring to Anna as your daughter when she later filled her dad in on the row. Lizzie loathed listening to them. Confrontation of any sort terrified her. But this wasn’t fair. She wanted to be kissing Haydn, not staying in to play perfect niece to some uncle who couldn’t pick her out in a line-up. Lizzie was starting to fume. She knew exactly what seeing him would be like: a pathetic state-the-obvious comment on how much she’d grown, followed by a handful of uncomfortable pauses when Anna was inadvertently alluded to, then pointless questions about school, which GCSEs she was taking, do-you-know-what-you-want-to-do-afterwards, then lastly silence, and she would end up sitting in the living room trying not to look at the spot on the mantelpiece where Anna’s urn had sat, listening to boring adult rubbish. She was nearly sixteen. That was nearly old enough to get married and live in a completely different house. She should be allowed to go to the library whenever she wanted.
‘You know, you can’t tell me what to do all the time. I’m nearly sixteen.’ Lizzie felt a slight buzz as a shot of adrenalin hit her system.
‘No, Lizzie, you’re only just fifteen,’ said her mum, as if she were talking to a three-year-old. ‘You were fifteen in April and it’s only June. But sixteen, four, twenty-seven, it doesn’t change the fact that your dad’s brother is arriving from America and he’s coming here before he goes to your grandparents and you should be here to see him.’ She turned her back on Lizzie and began to peel carrots as if her life depended on it.
‘Well, he’ll have to see me some other time. I’ve. Got. Plans!’
Her mum whipped around and pointed the peeler at Lizzie. ‘Don’t you dare raise your voice to me!’ she shouted. ‘I don’t get you. It’s the library! You can go tomorrow. You’re usually so reasonable. Why on earth are you choosing today to be like this? Honestly, Lizzie, I thought you were above all this childish nonsense.’
‘But, you don’t—’
‘Lizzie!’ she shrieked as loud as a gunshot. ‘I can’t talk about this anymore!’
Then she seemed to collapse from the stomach as if she’d been popped. The back of her hand went up to her mouth, and she dropped her head forward. ‘Please, Lizzie,’ she whispered. ‘Please don’t do this.’ Her eyes welled with a fresh batch of tears and Lizzie knew she wasn’t going to see Haydn that day.
Her mum turned and went back to the carrots, the noise of her peeling too faint to crack the angry sadness around them. As Lizzie made to leave the kitchen they heard the sound of the car pulling up outside, then a misplaced cheery hoot of the horn. Lizzie looked back at her mother, who silently swore under her breath, then dragged her sleeve across her eyes and smoothed the front of her shirt. Lizzie ran upstairs before her dad and Uncle Daniel came in. She shut her door and fell on to her bed. What on earth would she say to Haydn: I’m staying in because my mum told me I had to? How pathetic. She felt sick. She sent a text so she wouldn’t have to hear the scorn in his voice.
mums freaking out :s i cant see you sorry xx :((
Then she stared at the phone in her hand and waited. It bleeped back.
:L all parents are twats . . . talk to you later bye sexxy
She couldn’t help her smile.
bye sexxy
He thought she was sexy!
All the frustration pooled from the argument with her mum evaporated. She collapsed back on her pillow, clutching her phone to her chest and imagined kissing him. Then she lifted the phone and reread the text. Could she brave a call? She chewed on her lower lip as she considered it. Then she dialled, her fingers hesitant, her tummy turning over and over.
‘Hey,’ he drawled.
‘I’m sorry about today.’
‘Your mum wouldn’t let you out?’
‘No, I can’t believe it.’
‘What a total bitch.’
Lizzie flinched with the shock of hearing him call her mum a bitch, and in an instant went from hating her to being fiercely protective of her. ‘My uncle’s arrived from abroad, so, actually, it’s right that I stay in.’
‘You’re going to be bored shitless.’
‘He’s OK. In fact, he’s quite cool.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Haydn sounded like he didn’t believe her.
‘Yeah, he’s, like, this famous artist. He went to art school with my mum and he lives in New York, and he’s really different, with this American accent on some words, and he swears and smokes and stuff. And he wears clothes like leather jackets and beaten-up baseball caps.’
‘He sounds like a prick.’
Lizzie didn’t want to talk to Haydn any more. ‘Well, he’s not.’
‘Hey,’ said Haydn. ‘No need to get pissed off at me. I’m on your side, remember? It was you who was grounded and can’t come out with me, not the other way round.’
‘I know. Sorry.’ Lizzie looked at the ceiling and sighed. ‘Can I see you in the morning?’
‘Sure. Come by my house when you can get out.’
She hung up and lay back on her pillow. She pushed Haydn calling her mum a bitch out of her mind and concentrated on the bye sexxy.
The following morning she jumped out of bed as soon as she woke and got dressed into A
nna’s clothes and her long coat. Haydn annoying her was forgotten; all she could think about was touching and kissing him. She crept down to the silent kitchen and made toast and tea, enough for three, ate and drank hers while she set a tray for her parents. Then she carefully carried the tray upstairs. Her dad wasn’t in bed and her mum was fast asleep. Lizzie stared at her. She thought she looked like an angel. Her face was soft and untroubled; there was even the shadow of a smile across her mouth. Lizzie could see she was dreaming beautiful, happy things and decided to leave her sleeping, but left the tray of tea and toast by the bed so that when she woke up, even though it would be cold, she’d know she’d thought of her.
She went back downstairs and met her father coming in through the front door.
‘Hey Dad,’ she said. He looked dreadful. His hair was scruffed, his clothes crumpled, and his skin grey and puffy with his eyes rimmed red. He was holding a blanket and a pillow.
‘I made you tea,’ she said. ‘It’s upstairs on a tray next to Mum.’
He smiled, but then the smile turned into the saddest face she’d ever seen. ‘Dad?’ She walked over to him and gently touched the top of his arm. ‘Are you OK?’
He didn’t say anything.
‘Where have you been?’
He hesitated and looked at the floor. ‘The car,’ he said finally.
‘You slept in the car? Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the tea.’
Lizzie told Haydn about her dad sleeping in the car.
‘I mean,’ she said, ‘what’s the point of getting married if you can’t talk your problems through and one of you ends up spending the night in a car?’ She leaned back against his wall and picked at the corner of a Dennis the Menace sticker on the headboard. ‘Like, I could understand if it was a camper van with a bed in it and stuff, but a Ford Focus? How rubbish is that?’
‘My parents never talk to each other,’ Haydn said.