Keep My Secrets

by Elena Wilkes

  Martin. Wanted. Her.

  Two guys moved past them on their way out. One barged into Martin’s shoulder, making him lift his head and turn. He immediately saw Frankie: his face instantly withdrew. He took a step back and Charlotte looked round.

  There was a sudden silence in Frankie’s head.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She could feel her chin trembling with anger and tears. ‘What are you doing with her?’

  Her voice didn’t sound as she wanted it to. She heard her petulant tone, like a whining six-year-old, but inside she felt an absolute adult rage.

  ‘We weren’t doing anything.’ The ridiculousness of the statement as it fell out of his mouth made it worse. ‘I mean – not in the way you think. It’s not like—’

  ‘My hairband!’ Charlotte suddenly announced in surprise. ‘Where did you find that?’

  Frankie stepped back defensively, the tears threatening to cascade any minute.

  ‘What about before?’ She gestured weakly in the direction of the garden. ‘What about all that you said? What about us?’

  Martin opened his mouth and closed it again. ‘It’s not—’ he started.

  ‘Can I have my hairband please?’ Charlotte reached out a hand but Frankie slapped it away, her eyes ablaze.

  ‘Don’t you dare come anywhere near me! I don’t want the thing – it stinks!’ She ripped it from her head but Charlotte went to take it from her. The audacity of the action made her refuse to let go. She really did feel like a kid now. There were seconds of tugging and yanking, neither of them giving in. Frankie pushed her in the shoulder, somewhere between a punch and a shove. The girl staggered.

  ‘Hey! Oi! Hang on! Hang on!’ Martin got between them, holding his hands up. ‘Stop! Just stop.’ He blocked Frankie. ‘Calm down, Frank, seriously. It’s nothing. You’re getting mad over nothing… really.’

  She searched his face looking for the thing that had been there between them: that special thing that made them so different from everyone else, but she couldn’t find it anymore. It wasn’t there. He’d become ordinary and small right in front of her eyes.

  With a frustrated yell, she chucked the hairband at Charlotte. Frankie’s eyes desperately raked Martin’s. Why? Why would he need to do this? He’d humiliated her, embarrassed her in front of the one girl that she couldn’t bear to be humiliated by. She spun round. The front door was open and she made a bolt for it, the night wind slapping her tear-washed cheeks as she started to run. Her feet pounded the pavements; her breath was hot and jagging in her throat. She had no idea where she was going, she didn’t care who saw her or what they might think.

  How could she have been so stupid? Why hadn’t she seen what he was before?

  The choking hiccoughs that racked her chest finally stopped her from running any further. She slowed, her breath stinging and burning, her tongue dry and aching. She couldn’t cry properly because her lungs wouldn’t let her. She was far away from anywhere and everyone she knew.

  She came to a stuttering halt, resting her hands on her knees as she bent to catch her breath. She stared down at the pavement. Everything was wrong now, the world looked wrong. She thought of him sauntering back into work tomorrow, casually picking up where he left off, laughing and chatting with Jude and those girls, and no one knowing a thing. She thought of all the houses they’d broken into and all the things he’d taken and how there would be no consequences for any of it because no one knew what he’d done. A sudden rage slammed into her belly. She’d been picked up and manoeuvred just as easily as he’d picked up those bottles and tins. She was clearly nothing to him: a useful thing, a kid to be strung along and she’d fallen for the whole spiel. He’d suckered her in, big-time. Was she going to let him just get away with that? Was she? The hell she was.

  She began to retrace her steps back along the streets until the noise told her she was close to the party. There were people still standing in the doorway as she barged past and into the hallway. An awful thought suddenly struck her: what if he was hooking up with Charlotte right now? The idea almost slayed her. Fighting back the threat of tears, she turned the whole lot into anger. Grabbing up a full bottle of wine from the table, she stormed up the stairs, banging each of the bedroom doors open in turn. A number of surprised faces peered back at her from amongst the coats and jackets but none of them were Martin or Charlotte. Stomping back down the stairs, she bulldozed her way through the horde in the living room and practically fell out of the open doors into the garden. She wouldn’t let them see what they’d done to her; she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. But she’d make sure they felt the full force of it: all her pain and fury was coming their way. Yes, they could definitely have some of that.

  Taking a big slug from the bottle, and then another, she marched down the path. Where were they? Smashing her way through the bushes, she tore and ripped at the stems, knowing that people were staring but she didn’t care. The lights above her swayed in the breeze and a tremendous weight of unbearable sadness fell around her shoulders. She would not cry. She staggered a little. There were the bushes where she’d lain with Martin, and a lump caught in her throat. Taking another gulp of wine, she pushed her way into the undergrowth and listened again. She couldn’t hear anyone. They’re here though… they must be here… Why would he do this to her? She gulped back a sob and scrubbed at her face. It was wet, and her neck was gritty with dirt and tears. She licked her lips and tasted… blood. Pushing her way back onto the path she realised that her palms were sticky with it; the skin was cut up and sore, and her nails were broken.

  The wine buzzed loudly in her ears; the pills and the alcohol heaved together in a sudden squall in her gut. She closed her eyes as a wave of giddiness caught her and she sat heavily on a tree stump. What was she really going to find out here? Only more hurt and more pain. The garden came into focus and then drifted away again. Blot it out. Yeah. Blot the whole fucking thing out. She tried to stand and failed – tried again and dropped back, hard.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  A voice came from somewhere behind, making her jump. She swung her head round in a wave of dizziness. There was a man, a bloke anyway, his leather jacket creaking as she felt the warmth of his hand cupping her elbow, helping her to her feet.

  ‘Doan worry ’bout me,’ she mumbled. ‘Mm fine… juss need to—’

  ‘Your face. You’re bleeding.’

  ‘No I’m not, iss my hands, I was—’

  ‘Hang on.’

  There was a rustle as he delved into his pocket and she felt the papery touch of a tissue against her cheek and palms. ‘You’re in a bit of a state.’

  ‘Mm alright.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ The voice was kind, concerned. ‘Let me get you a cab.’

  ‘Nah.’ She got up, swaying slightly. ‘I wanna walk.’

  ‘I don’t really think you should—’

  But she’d pushed past him before he could finish.

  ‘Let me make sure you’re safe, at least!’ he called after her.

  But she didn’t want to listen, she just wanted out of there. Surprisingly, her legs complied, allowing her to stumble her way back through the house and out onto the street. Glancing briefly over her shoulder, she saw he was following. For fuck’s sake, go away! She took every sidestreet and turning, repeatedly doubling back on herself, using the tactics that Martin had taught her, until she found a front garden that was shrouded in shadows and slid into them, crouching, waiting until he had gone.

  Martin.

  The things he’d taught her.

  He’d changed her life. How she’d love to just forget she ever met him.

  But he’d never forget he’d met her.

  She stood unsteadily. If he wasn’t at the house, then she knew where they’d be. The streets were silent. She knew exactly where she was heading: she’d seen the blue fingerpost signs marked ‘Footpath’ and where it was pointing to.

  It took her half an hour to get down to the canal. She couldn’t
remember exactly where he was moored – she’d only been there once before – but she thought she could find her way there. The towpath was murky and deserted. The canal tunnels loomed black in front of her. The only sounds were those of her own feet as her soles pinged, their echoes ricocheting unsteadily across the water’s surface. It was a different world down here: the ages-old wet mustiness of bricks and lichen, and the slow clopping of the water inside the lock gates.

  Frankie.

  Startled, she whirled round. The voice had been in her ear: so close, right on her shoulder. But there was no one there. The shadows around her feet elongated like weird puppets – they began to move to her left and right, independent of her, not hers at all, her head becoming cartoonish, the hands wild and gesticulating, but she wasn’t moving them. Heart drumming, she looked around. The path behind was quiet. She looked back. No shadows. No waving figure. Nothing. She swallowed.

  Drugs. That’s all. Just the drugs. Come on, Frankie, keep it together.

  Up ahead, the canal boats reared like sleeping monsters out of the gloom. Using the torch on her phone, she shone the beam along the water’s edge, trying to make out the names: Annabella, Gypsy Rose, April Star— and then she saw it and instantly recognised the name: Morning Mist. Her eyes searched the length of the boat, peering painfully at the windows as she slowed her pace, searching for the sight she dreaded: Martin with Charlotte. And then she saw it. A faint gauzy yellow glowing through one of the closed curtains. Something gripped her gut.

  She stopped, listening. Her breath was high up in her chest and she blinked muzzily. She could see the door to the cabin was slightly ajar with a beading of light round the edge. If they were in there, she’d hear them. The boat rocked a little in its moorings as the sound of a voice made her turn her head.

  Heart thudding, she walked to the back of the boat. One foot forward and a flip of that door to swing it wide and she would see what her heart wasn’t ready to see. She put a hand on the rail. The boat moved alarmingly and her fingers gripped the metal tighter as she stepped onto the edge. Her fingers grazed the tiller. Noiselessly, she grasped the wooden end and pulled it free from the rudder. It felt heavy in her hands. She staggered a little, swaying with the motion. If she opened the door now… She imagined the look on their faces. They’d be scared of her, terrified. She’d show them that you can’t treat people like something that can be used and thrown away.

  Softly and very gently, she put a fingertip on the edge of the cabin door. The light arced into a geometric shape at her feet. She dipped her head below the roof edge. The black shadow of her outline loomed up in front of her like an uninvited guest.

  Everywhere went suddenly very quiet. The stink of Charlotte’s perfume filled her nostrils and she jumped as a flock of ducks squawked and flapped, skimming across the water’s surface. The end of the bed revealed itself; the bedclothes were rucked and tumbled onto the floor. She couldn’t see Martin or Charlotte. Where were they?

  She stepped inside.

  Chapter Six

  She didn’t remember how she got back to the home. She knew she was running; the juddering hammer of pain in the top of her skull; her breath hissing through her clenched jaw. There was a screaming in her head that wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t see or hear or think. The drumbeat of her heart pounded until she thought it might rip through her chest wall. Suddenly she was back in the familiar street with the shape of the house coming up in front of her. Tonight hadn’t happened, her head told her. None of it was real. None of the horror: none of the sights or the sounds. Nothing. She’d dreamt it. She knew she would wake up in her bed, and everything would be just as it was. But something inside said different.

  The birds of the dawn chorus twittered all around and a chill gathered down her spine. She stopped running. It had happened to someone else. Her head felt heavy, as though it was on a stalk that she could barely hold upright. No matter how hard she tried, the images fluttered and drifted, the pictures before her eyes rushing up to her as though on a surging tide before being dragged away again. She couldn’t hold on to her thoughts. Let them go; you don’t want them.

  Her window was still slightly ajar. The house was silent. As she had done so many times before, she scaled the first bracket of the drainpipe, back onto the porch roof and onto her windowsill. Within moments she was back inside her room. It was exactly as she’d left it. Pushing down the backs of her sneakers, she crawled fully clothed beside the hump of pillows, putting her arms around them, and holding on to them tight. She closed her eyes. A shock lurched through her jerking her arms and legs, but she only held on tighter and tighter, squeezing everything out – Don’t let it in, shut it all out, until oblivion dragged her down to a place that she really, really wanted to go.

  * * *

  Her surface dreams were full of grief, great, roaring waves of it, deep and all-consuming that kept breaking into her consciousness. She didn’t want to wake up; she didn’t want to remember. Her brain dragged and thrashed over a multitude of terrible fears. Someone was crying and begging; the wailing got louder and louder until she was forced to open her eyes. The roaring was real. Her eyes batted as she tried to make sense of the sound. There were voices. Two of them, coming from downstairs; they were loud, rising and falling. She lifted her head from the pillow. Somewhere in the background she could hear Martin. Her heart leapt and then utter despair kicked in. Shoving the covers away, she managed to stagger her way to the door. She could hear Jude, but not what she was saying. Easing herself quietly onto the landing, she tiptoed down the first few steps.

  ‘But I know, Martin. Don’t you get that? All this rubbish you’re spouting – it’s pointless!’

  Martin said something in reply, but she couldn’t quite catch the words.

  There was a whispered chatter from the hallway, and she realised she wasn’t the only person to have been woken up by the ruckus. She went down a little further, peering through the bannister to find Nat and Jaden perched on the bottom step. They both turned, saw who it was, and looked away again in disgust.

  ‘Come to gloat, have you?’ Nat sneered.

  ‘What?’ She tried to move her tongue against the roof of her mouth, but it felt as though it was coated with sawdust.

  ‘Martin’s in the shit ‘cos of you.’’

  Her eyes ached with a dull, angry throb.

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘Jude knows you wasn’t in your room last night. She’s blaming him. She says you was with him and says she’s gonna call the Old Bill.’

  Frankie felt her eyes widen painfully. The police? A shunt of fear lurched through her. No… If Jude called the police, if Jude asked them to question her…

  Pulling herself together, she slipped down the last few steps, marching straight into the office without knocking. Both Jude and Martin turned round in shock.

  ‘What’s going on?’ She pushed the door closed behind her and tried to keep her voice low, knowing those ears would still be flapping on the other side.

  Jude was bright pink with anger, but on seeing Frankie she tried to calm herself.

  ‘Ah. Good. I’m glad you’re here. Have a seat.’ She gestured to one of the comfy chairs next to the coffee table that was supposed to make the residents feel comfortable and relaxed. It never worked. Frankie sat, not willing to catch Martin’s eye. She stared stonily at the carpet.

  ‘Let’s cut to the chase.’

  Frankie could sense Martin’s tension.

  ‘Two things have been brought to my attention: I know you weren’t in your room last night, and I’ve been given information that there’s some kind of inappropriate relationship going on.’

  ‘Whatever Nat’s told you—’

  ‘Let’s leave Natalie out of this, shall we? She’s got enough going on.’ She paused. Frankie knew she was trying to read her body language. She kept completely still. Her fuddled brain tried to work out who might’ve seen them. She licked her lips, still refusing to look up.

/>   ‘I was explaining to Martin here that this behaviour has crossed a line. I know he’s only here as a volunteer, but we still may have to inform the authorities that—’

  ‘But he hasn’t done anything wrong!’ Frankie quickly blurted.

  ‘Frankie…’ Jude was using her patient voice.

  ‘He was covering for me.’ Her brain went into a whirl of plausible excuses. ‘He knew I was sneaking out at night and that you lot had no idea. He was afraid of bad things happening while I was out, so he kept following me to make sure I was safe.’

  She couldn’t look at either of them, but Jude was suddenly out of her seat and bending to examine her.

  ‘Frankie, what’s that on your face?’ She sounded alarmed. ‘And your hands…?’ She gently turned them over. ‘You’ve got blood all over your hands.’ She lifted her chin into the light. ‘Look, it’s all down the front of your shirt too.’

  ‘I think I must’ve got a cut without realising.’ Frankie studied her palms. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘How is that even possible?’ Jude crouched at her side and searched her eyes. ‘Where did you go last night, Frankie?’

  Frankie sniffed and studied the spot on the carpet again. ‘I wandered about the streets for a bit. Then I heard a noise, like there was a party on or something, so I went there.’ She glanced away awkwardly.

  ‘And you’re saying Martin followed you?’ Jude frowned. She didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Yeah. He followed me. But he’s kinda annoying and embarrassing, y’know? Having some bloke following you round like he’s your dad or something.’ She clicked her tongue and shook her head, but still she wasn’t going to look at him. ‘So I pretended I was leaving the gaff and I gave him the slip. It worked.’

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘Scored stuff, drank a bit, went out into the garden to chill.’ She shrugged again. ‘That’s when I must’ve done this.’ She turned her palms over. ‘Don’t remember. Then I came home and got back in my room and went to bed. No drama. Nothing to get all vexed about, anyway.’