Keeping Secrets Crane

by Cindy Crane

  Of course, it all came at a price: no nights out, no boyfriends—at least nothing serious. She didn’t have time. Art and Design and Business Studies might sound pretty cool, but the work involved was immense, especially while juggling a child as well.

  After University, she worked in a clothes shop for a while and was soon promoted to manager, at the same time freelancing some fashion designs. She’d spend evenings making them up, along with all the other jobs she had to do. And then, a couple of years ago, she decided to take the bull by the horns and go it alone.

  “It was a big risk. And providing the Bank Manager with a business plan was almost as scary as that appointment with the head teacher,” she grinned. “But I’m doing okay at it. Not making a fortune. But I can pay the mortgage and the bills. And that’s all that matters.”

  She was doing more than all right, if the cute little number she drove was anything to go by.

  Jake sat in complete silence, never questioning or probing. She was amazing. He’d worried about her for so long, wondering if he’d made the right decision twelve years ago. But if anything now convinced him he had, then this did. He was sorry she’d been so hurt—so hurt she slept around, probably to punish him too—but she’d picked herself up and made such a success of her life. He could never have provided that for her. What would the scenario have been if she’d stayed with him?—Life in a lousy bed-sit with no money and no prospects.

  For the first time in his life, Jake almost admired her father’s persistence in what he had done. Whether it was right or not was still open to debate, but the outcome for Frankie had been a good one. And they appeared even to be friends these days. That was why it was so damned hard to bring himself to tell her about his part in it all.

  “So come on then,” she grinned, “your turn now. I can see you’re super-impressed with my rags to riches story. How about telling me yours?”

  Chapter 20

  Where did he begin?

  “I think you know most of it already,” he said. He’d never kept anything secret from her. At least, not back then.

  “Ah, but the kids won’t.”

  “Well, I’m sure I can fit my dysfunctional family into a nutshell for them.”

  He didn’t want to go through it all again for her. She knew all about his parents. How his mother was a street girl, hooked on drugs—although in the early days it hadn’t been quite so bad. At least he’d not been born a junkie, like some poor souls he knew of. She’d given them up when she was pregnant; when she had a husband to support her. How his father, who, by some strange quirk of fate, had actually fallen in love with her. But when he lost his job and couldn’t get more work, he’d sunk into a deep depression and turned to the bottle as solace.

  Unable to manage on what pittance was left out of the dole money, after he’d headed straight to the nearest pub, his mother had turned back to the only thing she knew. At least it put food on the table to begin with.

  But then, as life with her husband became more and more intolerable, she turned back to drugs. Until one day Jake found her. She was so still, so silent, her eyes dull and glazed. All life had gone from them, and the needle was still in her arm. He remembered it as if it were yesterday—a thirteen-year-old boy pulling it from her skin and shaking her so hard, shouting at her to wake up.

  His father, as usual, was out somewhere, blotto on the booze—the butt of someone’s jokes—leaving his son to deal with it all and call the ambulance for his dead mother.

  If life was bleak before she died, it certainly got bleaker. The only reason Jake was allowed to stay with his father was because he promised to clean up his act—which, to his credit, he did at first. But it only took one drink to drag him back down into all his old habits.

  By the time Jake left school, he’d been in trouble with the police a couple of times—a bit of damage, stealing. Both times he was let off with a caution. It was only the care and understanding of a social worker who pointed him in the right direction and, after he left school, helped him to get an apprenticeship at a local garage. After that he never looked back—kept his nose clean, even stayed at home to support his father when it would have been easier to walk away.

  Until, that was, the fire.

  So that was where he started, speaking easily and honestly as Frankie continued to wind spaghetti round her fork and take small sips of red wine. Her lovely eyes never left his, spellbound by what he had to say.

  His father, coming home one night, drunk as usual, decided to cook himself some chips—except he left the pan on and fell asleep instead.

  Jake turned up just in time and got him out before it really took hold. But the flat was so badly damaged they had to move out. His father went to stay with a drinking buddy. Jake dossed down at a friend’s.

  The Council were in no hurry to re-house them. Jake had foolishly tried giving his father some responsibility, expecting the man to pay the rent with the money he gave him every week. He should have known better. He’d been drinking that away along with everything else.

  So Jake collected his few belongings, which had survived the fire, and found himself a bed-sit. At first he kept an eye on his father from a distance, but, as time passed, he lost touch altogether; only finding him again shortly before he died. The big man had been a wasted shell, lying in a hospital bed, finally facing his demons, and eager to make contact with his son before he left this world forever.

  “I know he did it to himself, but I couldn’t rid myself of the guilt for ages that perhaps I could have done more. I’d got the garage by then—my own business. Perhaps I should have tried harder, got him into rehab or something.”

  Frankie covered his hand protectively with hers.

  “You were always looking out for him,” she sympathised. “I’m sure you did all you could. From what I remember of him, he wouldn’t have thanked you for your interference.”

  Compared to Jake’s life, hers had been a doddle. And at least she had Debs to show for it. Her daughter had brought her unbelievable joy.

  “Is that why my last letters came back?” she asked softly. “After the fire? When you had to move out? You weren’t there any more?” Maybe it would go part way to understanding why they’d been returned unopened, if he’d never received them.

  Jake swallowed hard. He’d known this was coming.

  He folded her delicate hand into his big one, threading his fingers through hers. He was trying hard to ignore the hot needles of pain shooting through his heart, knowing this was to be the test. How would she take the news?

  He shook his head. “No. The fire came much later, after I met Rachel. It was sheer luck that I even came back that night. I should have been staying with her. I’m sorry, Frankie, but it was me who sent them back.”

  He caught her fingers more tightly in his as he felt them slacken against his skin, ready to pull away. He watched the pain and uncertainty flow into her eyes; the questions, as he also reminded her that another woman had once taken her place. It confirmed, once and for all, that he alone had been responsible for not contacting her again.

  “There were things going on in my life,” he explained, yet didn’t explain. “You were better off where you were.”

  Her gaze hardened, her mouth set in a straight line, finally sliding her hand from his clutch and abandoning it alone on the cloth. He sounded just like her father, making decisions for her. She was suddenly back to square one. The same place she’d been for twelve years. Jake had let her down when she’d needed him most.

  “And what gave you the right to make that decision for me?” The softness had left her voice as a muscle clenched in her jaw. She’d been fooling herself to think things could go back to how they were. Truth was—he’d not cared enough to come for her, back then. What made her think it would be any different now?

  Jake inwardly groaned. He was doing this all wrong.

  “The decision was out of my hands too,” he said, trying again to make her understand. “I was in trouble. I
could have gone to prison. Where would that have left you?”

  “I’d have stood by you. That’s what I’d have done,” she said, calmly. And she would have done it unconditionally—no questions asked. “I’d have waited for you.”

  It was exactly what he knew she’d have done; the passion behind the calm exterior was all the proof he needed.

  “But like I said, where would that have left you? You’d never have gone on to do the wonderful things you have done.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. I’d have got a job—any job. I’d have still been there for you.”

  “You’d have ended up hating me.”

  “Well, I did that anyway.” Her voice was cool now as she sat back in her seat, straight-backed, arms crossed just beneath her breasts.

  “But at least something positive came out of it,” he said, reminding her of her successes.

  She fixed him with a hard stare. What was it about people who wanted to run her life, telling her what was best for her?

  “So what was so bad, then? You’re going to have to tell me sooner or later.”

  The determination etched into every muscle of her face was enough to loosen his tongue. If he wanted her forgiveness, he was going to have to prove himself, so he might as well start now.

  “Word was out on the Estate about some bad gear. That dealer Carly was going out with when the police raided her house; he had a taster with him that night. He was hoping to get a few of you hooked. Increase his business. Except when they did their searches, they said all his stash wasn’t at his place. They said a bag of it was at mine.”

  They —what he really meant was her father and paused for a moment to allow the full extent of what he said sink into Frankie’s brain. But her eyes barely flickered. Suddenly her father’s accusations were ringing alarm bells in her brain. And for a moment Jake thought she was stunned into believing he could be part of it. But she kept a cool head, saying,

  “Yours? How?” She would get to the bottom of it. “Did somebody put it there?”

  He gave her a knowing look but still said nothing. The bag of drugs might not have actually been there, but it was as good as—if he’d not complied with her father.

  “Who?” She asked with such ferocity, he knew she believed him. But as she searched his face for the answer, all Jake did was shrug. He still couldn’t bring himself to say it—not yet.

  “Everyone knew you were anti-drugs,” she went on, outraged by the thought of someone setting him up like that. “Couldn’t you find out? Couldn’t the police find out who it was?” She paused for a second. “Why didn’t you say something? I could have asked Dad to help.”

  Jake raised an eyebrow, reminding her that her new-found friendship with her father had clouded her memories. And that it was ironic she should now be suggesting that he helped. “I don’t think he was in a position to do that,” he said softly. “It was your father who found it.”

  Or said he had.

  Here was his opportunity to put her in the picture, but something was still stopping him. What was wrong with him?

  The pause that followed crackled with uncertainty—of knowledge and secrets neither was yet ready to share with the other.

  Jake , kicking himself for not telling her everything: the bastard had plotted the whole thing—the plant, the deal, the lot.

  Frankie , still remembering her father’s earlier words before she’d set off on her journey; yet still wanting to hear Jake’s side of the story.

  But he was being so evasive; she was almost beginning to understand why her father had wanted to get her away from him. He’d been frightened for her safety. After all, wouldn’t she do all she could to protect Debs if she were in a similar position?

  “Perhaps it was Carly’s boyfriend who’d hidden it there,” she finally said, slowly, thoughtfully, with no real reason for her idea—only that she still couldn’t believe Jake would have done it. “We could have tried to prove it, told my father. Everyone knew you wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. That’s part of why Carly never liked you. You wouldn’t experiment like the rest of us; just lecture us on the evils of the dreaded weed and what it could lead to. We could have all vouched for you. You shouldn’t have kept it all to yourself.”

  She couldn’t keep the frustration out of her last sentence.

  Stupid, stupid man —he shouldn’t have shouldered everything himself. From such an early age he’d had to stand on his own two feet, not asking for help from anyone. Why did he have to do it then?

  Jake smiled, perhaps a little too indulgently. She made it sound so simple.

  “I don’t think it quite works like that. And you’re forgetting your parents were desperate for you to stop seeing me. This played right into their hands—your father’s hands.”

  Finally, he’d said it; made a slight indentation towards the truth. Maybe Frankie would see it for herself without him having to spell it out for her. But all she did hear was the condescension in his tone and the insinuation that her father would use something like this to his advantage. Even she couldn’t believe that. Her father was nothing if not a good cop. He did everything by the book. Why else did he want her to follow him into law?

  “So you’re saying he wouldn’t have done anything to help you?” She sounded horrified.

  Jake raised his eyebrows, a wry twist to his mouth. Maybe she’d get there in the end. But there was more to come first.

  “Some of the drugs were already on the street. Someone had already died. It was one of the street girls who lived on the landing below us in the flats. It happened a couple of days after we’d all been released. The girl she shared with met me on the stairs. She was in a right state.”

  He paused. The memory was still strong. And he didn’t know what the worse part was: that he’d been the one to deal with it, or how the poor girl’s death had played right into Richardson ’s scheming hands. He’d used it as a further threat to Jake’s freedom.

  “When I saw her, it was like seeing my mother all over again. She was lying so still, the needle still in her arm. I pulled it out and tried giving her mouth to mouth. But it was too late. She was already dead.”

  Frankie caught the corner of her lip between her teeth. She couldn’t help herself, all previous indignation suddenly gone. Her hand covered his once more, squeezing gently. Poor Jake, he’d never said a word to her. But then, she’d seen very little of him after they’d been released from the cells. Her father had made sure of that. And for some reason Jake had been in no rush to see her either.

  “You never said,” she whispered.

  “There was too much going on,” he explained. “The needle went missing for a while, fuelling speculation that if she’d been on her own, how could she have injected herself, and then got rid of it? When it did turn up in the bins outside the flats, my fingerprints were all over it. And it didn’t seem to matter how many times I told them I’d taken the damn thing out, it was as if they wanted to make out I’d done it then tried to get rid of it. And that I’d used the bad lot of drugs they found in my flat.” He still didn’t tell her who they were. Her earlier irritation, at his veiled suggestion that her father might be responsible, made him realise it was going to be even more difficult than he thought.

  Frankie’s appetite was now completely gone. The only thing that filled her stomach was a hard knot of pain and sorrow. He’d gone through so much. And he’d been alone too.

  “It was then I told you to go with your parents. I know we’d made plans, but I couldn’t have you here while I was dealing with all that shit. I’m sorry. It was too much to handle.”

  Until then, everything had been between Richardson, Turner and himself. But now, others were involved, and he was getting really scared. Richardson was just waiting for the right opportunity to weave the rest of his evil plan.

  Frankie rested her other hand against his cheek, stroking her thumb against the rough stubble. How could he have been in so much trouble and she’d never suspected a
thing? She’d just wallowed in her own misery that he was insisting she go away with her parents. “Oh Jake, if I’d only known.”

  He shook his head sadly. “You were better off not knowing.”

  There he was again—trying to protect her from things she should have shared. “But the police obviously never proved anything, otherwise you’d have gone to prison,” she protested. “And what about Carly’s boyfriend? Surely he didn’t get away with his part in it?”

  Jake shook his head. “No, he didn’t. He was finally arrested a few weeks later. He went down for dealing, though they never found the actual supplier—at least not then.”

  “And what about the girl who died?”

  “He eventually admitted he’d sold her the stuff.”

  “And he confessed that he’d left the drugs in your flat?” It was still the only way Frankie could imagine they’d got there.

  Jake gave her a look as if to say, “Don’t be silly.”

  Of course he hadn’t . It was just Frankie clutching at straws.

  “But the police didn’t arrest you?”

  “No. Evidence was too circumstantial.”

  Weren’t those her father’s very words too?

  Frankie mulled it over. “So if I’m to accept that you did all this to protect me, why didn’t you call me afterwards?” She wasn’t going to let it go. She was relentless, gnawing away for the truth. However bad it had been, he could have called her afterwards. Whatever excuses he came up with, he did abandon her.