Keep My Secrets

by Elena Wilkes

  ‘Di, I really appreciate—’ But she doesn’t have to say anything further.

  ‘Oh god, sorry,’ she cuts across her. ‘I’m getting carried away here, aren’t I? This is your Friday night and I’m eating into your weekend. All this work stuff can wait. Give my love to Alex and I’ll see you on Monday.’

  ‘Great. Thanks. Thanks for all the support.’

  She ends the call and gently slides the phone back onto the counter and a deep flutter of satisfaction thrills through her. Alex doesn’t speak. The atmosphere in the room is palpable with tension. She goes and sits and picks up her napkin.

  ‘So?’

  ‘It was Di.’

  ‘Of course it was. Who else would you be so desperate to speak to?’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  How she would love to share Diane’s conversation with him. How she would love to blurt out that tonight Keeley is a ‘changed girl’ and somehow her actions have made a difference: that her job isn’t all about protocols and paperwork – it’s about seeing kids as people with potential – But she knows even a hint will just make everything much, much worse.

  ‘You haven’t been in five minutes.’ He chucks his fork down with a clatter. ‘You’ve been out of the house for twelve hours. Twelve. All I wanted was an hour of just us – one hour but even that’s not possible.’

  The final flutter of joy fades away. ‘You’re right, you’re right,’ she soothes. ‘I’m sorry. I find it so difficult to switch off because it matters a lot to me, but you’re ri—’

  ‘You mean “it” matters a lot, but I don’t. Or if I do, there’s a queue and all those kids come first.’

  He’s like a sulky child now: wounded and angry and unforgiving.

  ‘Alex, don’t be like this. It’s the kind of job that req—’

  ‘But it’s not though, is it Frankie? It’s not a job. Climbing onto roofs is not a social services job. No one else would dream of doing that! You do it because you’re compelled to. It’s something inside you. You’re driven. Even with the threat of the sack you won’t stop. And one day you’re going to meet someone who is just as driven and as passionate as you are, and who “gets” you. Someone who really understands who you are.’

  ‘But that’s you!’

  ‘I thought I was that person.’ He pauses and leans back, folding his arms. ‘But let’s get it out into the open, Frankie: you come home late, and you go out early. You’re distracted and distant a lot of the time. You’re evasive. I know something isn’t quite right. I don’t know if you’re lying to me, exactly…’ He looks at her, his eyes meet hers.

  Tell him, a voice in her head instructs her. Tell him what’s been going on. It’s better than torturing him like this. But she finds her eyes automatically sliding away.

  ‘Like doing that.’ He glares at her. ‘Can’t you just be straight with me, Frankie? Be deathly honest. I can take it. It’s far, far better than deceit.’

  His face is pale: pinched raw with emotion.

  She goes to speak but stops.

  ‘Arghh, what’s the point?’ He shoves the seat back and it judders with a squeal across the floor.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  But he ignores her. She listens to the weighted tread as he makes his way up the stairs and then the shunt of their bedroom door as it opens and closes. She stares down at her plate of congealing food and his, mostly uneaten. She considers going after him but knows it will only make it worse. What’s happened to them both? How have they got here?

  She slumps at the table and rests the heels of her hands into her eye sockets. She knows exactly how they’ve got here. How long do you really think you can keep all these secrets, Frankie? How long before he finds out exactly what you’ve done? You’re deceiving the man who you swore to love and cherish. Are you pleased with yourself? Look at him; he’s so fragile he’s almost broken, and now you’re going to be the one who snaps him in two.

  She glances over at the window. The blind is open and she finds herself unable to get up and close it. Some warning vibration outside in the blackness tells her he could be out there. The blank pane of glass sits there, dark and square. If she stands up he’ll be able to see her but she won’t see him. She has this terrible thought: what if he was there watching that whole performance? What if he’s just waiting for the right moment to knock on the door? How long will it be before he makes himself known and her whole carefully constructed world comes tumbling down?

  She can hear Alex walking across the landing; the loose board by her office door creaks violently.

  She gets up from the table, switches the kitchen lights off and creeps up the stairs, listening for the sound of the electric toothbrush or the swish of the water down the drain, but it doesn’t come; the bathroom is still and silent. Their bedroom door is tightly closed. When she clicks it open, she’s shocked to find he’s gone to bed, the mound of duvet is just a shadowy huddle.

  She goes into the bathroom to clean her teeth and then gets undressed quietly and slides under the covers beside him. She knows that sleep is probably several hours away. She lies there, staring up at the ceiling, watching the weird shadows around the pendant light as the breeze from the window catches the shade. She hears the sounds of the foxes crying across the fields, all the while listening to the man beside her, knowing that he’s awake too – unhappy and not knowing how to express it. She’s never told him the truth, not even from the very moment they met.

  Somewhere, down the hallway, that parcel is calling to her from its hiding place. She closes her eyes but it makes no difference: he’s calling to her and she knows it.

  Everything, from that day on the park bench to now, has been a fabrication: her marriage to Alex, their relationship, the last fifteen years is a sham. He’s out there and he wants her and she knows it.

  How can she even bring herself to think about that man? She disgusts herself. But there’s a tiny part of her that remembers the tiny part of him that was good and kind and beautiful, and that’s the tiny part of her that wants him, too.

  Chapter Three

  She opens her eyes with a start and the grind in her stomach begins churning again. It’s just light and the house feels strangely still. She looks across at the dented pillow. She didn’t feel Alex get up and she certainly didn’t hear him leave. She puts her hand out. The space beside her is hours cold.

  Swinging her legs from the bed she goes over to the window and pulls open the curtains. His car’s not on the drive. It’s Saturday morning. He could have gone anywhere.

  Pulling on yoga pants and a sweatshirt, she walks quickly along the landing to her office. Her desk sits there, clear and tidy. All the usual things for working from home are laid out: the wigwam of pens she never uses; the papers in their tray; the black screen of her PC, and her mouse lined up neatly.

  Silently, she wheels the leather chair back and crouches to kneel beneath the desk. She feels with her fingertips for the back where the board has come loose. Levering it a little wider, she gingerly draws out a large, crumpled envelope, and then reaches in again for the jiffy bag. The seal opens easily and she shakes its contents out across the floor.

  At first, the thing doesn’t register. It lies, curled slightly, an old bit of red jersey fabric with crumpled silk flowers badly tacked along one edge. She swallows. Something from a long way back taps at her memory and her heart squeezes in a vice. The panic rises. Of course she knows what it is. She looks down at it, feeling oddly light-headed. Her mind conjures up images of flickering strobe light whirling across a ceiling, the sweep of long blonde hair, the buzz-thump of the music shivering under her ribs as she watches the girl raise her arms as she moves, sinuous and sexy, the coloured lights catching the contours of her beautiful face, the red fabric stripe against the blonde, like a deep crimson gash.

  Her hand comes up to her mouth. Oh. My. God. It’s the hairband.

  She glances up at the window at the bank of uninterrupted morning sky. It’s the sa
me sky, same blue, but nothing is the same. She picks up the jiffy bag and turns it over. The postmark is an over-stamped blur. So this is it. This is the thing she was afraid of, and it’s here: now. The tatty envelope sits on the floor next to her knee. She doesn’t need to look at the contents; she knows what’s in there. Opening the flap, she draws out one of the folded pieces of paper. She knows what’s written on it; she knows what’s written on them all.

  Did you think I’d never find you?

  She can hear his voice saying the words. Her fingers flit over the next.

  You can never run away, Frankie. You’re mine. I’m yours.

  She can’t read any more. Bundling the envelope back beneath the desk, she goes to grab up the notes, but there’s a flash and the phone suddenly jangles into life.

  Her heart ramps up, her eyes snatch to the handset on the desk where it sits, lighting up and drilling into the silence. Her hand grabs for it.

  ‘Hello?’

  She glances at the window again. Is he out there? Crouching on her haunches, she peers above the sill. The village lane is empty.

  ‘Hello?’

  An anxiety beneath her heart begins to flutter. The sky has that blank, dead look as though some sort of nerve gas has taken out every living thing.

  ‘Who is this?’

  At the end of the line there’s the quiet purr of someone breathing.

  ‘Can you please answer? Or I shall put the phone down.’ She is aware of the begging shake in her voice. She thinks about saying his name, the one she hasn’t said out loud for years. Her lips press together to form the sound, but she can’t bring herself to utter the rest.

  She hears the breathing change, the lips smacking slightly. There’s a quick intake of air.

  ‘Remember me?’

  It slides like syrup.

  The floorboard creaks, and her head snatches round to find Alex’s dazed face staring at her from the doorway and then down at the strewn letters. Her mouth drops open and her hands begin to scrabble as if in slow motion. He steps back, dazed, as if she’s struck him.

  ‘Frankie?’ His voice has an ache to it that breaks her heart. ‘Frankie? What’s…?’

  And then he steps forward into her slow-motion world, only he’s not slow, he’s quick: dipping forward to scoop up one of the pieces of paper and reading the few words as his hand trembles and he drags its meaning into his brain. This is his nightmare. The thing he’s dreaded; the thing that she said would never happen. She can see his whole world tumbling in all the rifts and shadows crossing his face.

  ‘I-I can explain,’ she stammers, the phone falling from her hand. ‘It’s not how it looks.’

  ‘Yes. It is.’ The piece of paper drops like an autumn leaf, the words tumbling through the air in front of her. He stares at it and looks up at her in agony. She knows what it says. It burned itself onto her memory from the moment she read it.

  I love you more than life and even beyond death.

  ‘This is exactly how it is, Frankie. This is how it’s always been. I’ve just been scared to face it.’

  ‘No, Alex, no!’ Her hands reach out to him. ‘It’s not what you think.’

  ‘It’s not what I think, Frankie. It’s what I see; what I know. It’s what I’ve known for a long, long time.’

  ‘None of this is true, Alex. Let me explain. Let me tell you the truth.’

  But his head shakes sullenly from side to side.

  ‘I’ve been so stupid.’ His tone is soft and tender. ‘All you had to do was tell me, that’s all.’ He casts a hand at the strewn paper, at her there on her knees in front of him. ‘This isn’t you, this isn’t who you are. You didn’t have to reduce yourself to this.’

  His tenderness is killing her.

  ‘Alex, listen! You honestly have no idea… You don’t know what you’re saying! Listen to me, please!’

  ‘No, I’m done listening. I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know who we are.’ He turns to leave.

  ‘Alex!’ She’s up off her knees in an instant. ‘Alex. Don’t go.’

  He pauses with one hand on the door.

  ‘I couldn’t tell you, I was scared—’

  He blinks. ‘Tell me what?’

  Her brain stumbles and falls. He’s giving her a chance: one chance. The truth feels like a foreign country where the language ties her tongue in sounds she can’t make.

  ‘I’m being followed. Stalked… A few weeks now. A man. He doesn’t show himself but I know he’s there. These started coming at the same time – and then that parcel yesterday.’

  Alex’s face stays completely still. He doesn’t move. He looks at her and she looks at him.

  ‘Give me a chance to tell you everything, Alex. That’s all I’m asking. One chance.’

  He pauses. His nod is almost imperceptible.

  ‘I’ll tell you all of it. I promise.’

  And the fiction begins to fall from her mouth… Drip, drip, drip…

  The truth, whatever it is, can’t live here. There’s no place for it. She has a life now, she has a future that she needs to keep together. And the past? The past is hers. It’s a secret and private place that’s full of pain and anguish and loss that she just can’t face.

  And with it, an almost unbearable love.

  Chapter Four

  Then

  She’d been watching from the bedroom window, waiting for him to walk down the road. As he turned the corner, she dashed to the mirror to make sure her eyeliner was on point.

  Practising a sideways glance, she gave her reflection that slide of her eyes that always made him laugh, and then smiled at the result. He didn’t stand a chance.

  She could hear some of the girls as they thundered down the stairs, squawking and giggling; they’d spotted him too and were running around to alert the others. She wasn’t included. None of them were speaking to her, but who cared? She really couldn’t give a toss.

  The doorbell went and her heart went with it. She pressed an eye up against the windowpane, glimpsing the top of his dark head as her stomach did a complete three-sixty. She was glad they all hated her; she didn’t need any of that lot. She had Martin now, only none of them knew it. Sixteen weeks. Sixteen weeks two days and… she looked at her watch and did a quick calculation – Five hours and eighteen minutes since they’d done the quiz night. Someone mentioned that the new volunteer was going to be there. He’d sat opposite her – God, he was clever. Cleverer than all the other staff. He’d winked at her when no none was looking, then in the break had come up behind her in the kitchen and put his hand on her back. The jolt of electricity went right up her spine and made her gasp. He’d asked her name and told her he thought she was beautiful. He’d said it just like that: all matter-of-fact. Not creepy: like it was obvious. ‘You’re beautiful.’

  She shivered at the memory as another cacophony of shrieking echoed up from the hallway and Jude’s voice bellowed, telling them to be quiet. She closed her eyes in irritation. That lot hadn’t worked out what had been going on right under their noses.

  She could hear the deep boom of his voice and Jude’s more measured tone. She was obviously going to tell him what had happened as part of the afternoon shift handover. So what if she’d given Natalie a slap? She’d deserved it. She shouldn’t go around into other people’s rooms, should she? She hadn’t hit her that hard, really, but somehow she’d managed to smash through the coffee table. At the sight of blood, the others had gone wild and Nat was carted off to Chester A&E. Jude wasn’t even giving him a chance to get his coat off before she started bumping her gums about how ‘challenging’ Frankie had been that morning. Stupid cow – like Martin would listen to anything she had to say.

  ‘She’s part of the system, Frankie,’ he’d said. ‘And right this moment, so are you. The system’s too powerful to fight. Once you’re eighteen it’s different, they can’t control you anymore. Then you’re free. Free to be with me.’

  They’d laughed and she’d kissed him. She’d g
o and live with him on his canal boat. That’s what they’d planned. She sighed. Eighteen. It was nearly a whole year away. It felt like a lifetime.

  Trying to quell the mounting excitement in her stomach, she stepped back, catching sight of herself in the mirror again and smoothing her hands over her hips. The weight of Martin’s belt and buckle hung heavy in the loops of her jeans. It was their little way of touching each other when they were apart.

  Running her fingers around the top of the belt, she had a sudden memory of his hands in exactly the same place and a quiet thrill thrummed through her stomach. He’d started sneaking into her room when he was on night-duty. Martin wasn’t like anyone she’d ever met before. He’d shown her how to look at things differently: to see things as they should be seen. He didn’t just see the bigger picture; he saw the whole landscape, the seas, the moon, and the stars. He saw beauty in a world of ugliness. The truth was, she’d been like a stone and he’d brought her to life. Colours looked different, the streets felt different, she was different. She would have jumped off a cliff if he’d asked her to.

  She sighed, looking over at the door again, wondering what the hell Jude was telling him. All kinds of make-believe shit probably. Martin would be on her side though; his rules weren’t other people’s rules; he challenged all that. She knew his secrets. She knew his world, not just the different way he thought about things – but also the things he did. He didn’t abide by authority and laws – they were for other people.

  ‘I’m an old-fashioned revolutionary,’ he’d whispered. They were cocooned under her duvet. He’d grinned and kissed the end of her nose. ‘A dissenter, a disrupter of the social order.’