The Only Secret Left to Keep

by Katherine Hayton

  Sam had known. Sam had trodden the same path before Matthew and make it into a well-defined road. He’d made it possible for Matthew to accept himself for the person he was instead of fighting against his own inclinations at every turn. Sure, Matthew no longer stood on the same strip where he had resided as a teenager but that, too, was easier knowing it was a choice that he was free to make.

  Matthew’s eyes shot open before the bad memories could follow. The images that made his heart and stomach ache.

  A tap at the bathroom door. “Are you okay in there, Mr. Jamieson?”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Matthew uttered through lips frozen cold with fear, his mind spiraling helplessly back to that dreadful night.

  When Matthew had first spotted George and Jessie following them, his heart had skipped a beat, his mouth feeling stuffed with dry cotton wool. He had his arm slung through Sam’s at the time, and immediately pulled away, letting his hand drop down to his side.

  Sam had turned then, looking behind them at the trailing teenagers and dismissing them without a second glance. Matthew wished he could do the same but it wasn’t as easy for him. In the schoolyard, it was Matthew that they singled out for a beating, Matthew that they flung insults at until nobody else in their right mind would choose him for a friend.

  “What’s the matter?” Sam had asked, as though he hadn’t seen the approaching threat. Perhaps he hadn’t. Maybe Sam’s world was colored in a different shade where not every other person was a threat.

  That wasn’t Matthew’s world, though. He knew better. The knowledge had been beaten into him in the schoolyard and on the streets and spray-painted on his father’s car at home.

  “Keep walking,” Matthew urged when Sam stopped to take another look. “My car is just around the corner.”

  Matthew had parked next to an old, abandoned warehouse building. A place populated only by homeless strays who never took a second look when he sat there alone, sometimes for hours.

  He’d said, ‘my car’, but it really was his father’s. If he didn’t get it home in good nick then he’d have a hiding waiting for him. Matthew wasn’t allowed to borrow it without asking, which meant he wasn’t authorized to take it at all. Tonight, though, his father had been down at the pub watching the game. What he didn’t know, wouldn’t hurt him.

  When Sam called him for a ride home, it never occurred to Matthew that he could say no. With his heart beating high up the back of his throat, he’d stolen the keys from the wooden holder mounted on the wall.

  Of course, his mom would know he took it. His mother always knew the naughty things Matthew got up to. He could only hope, as he had so often before, that she would also look the other way.

  As the boys began to gain on them, Matthew tried to match his stride to Sam’s, physically holding back the urge to run.

  Loud knocking on the bathroom door again, this time making Matthew jump. The officer outside was really pounding, the door shook under his fist.

  “Mr. Jamieson? Do you need some help?” The tone sounded like if he didn’t exit soon, he’d need all the help that he could get.

  He stood and flushed the toilet, though his camping out in the bathroom had just been an excuse. A chance to collect his thoughts, but instead, they were in even more disarray.

  When he pushed his hands under the running water at the sink, Matthew saw his hands were shaking. He closed his eyes and leaned his head forward against the cold mirror. If only he could wish the entire thing away.

  As Matthew unlocked and pushed open the bathroom door, he saw an officer, hand raised to knock again. He nodded and pulled the door closed, following meekly along behind.

  “Matthew?” Emilia asked, hesitation making her voice quiet.

  “Don’t worry, love. You go about your day as normal. I’ll give you a call when I’m able to leave the station.”

  When her face didn’t alter from its worried expression, he leaned across and gave her a kiss on the cheek. With one hand, he stroked her stiff shoulder while the other reached to squeeze her forearm reassuringly.

  “Everything will be okay,” he whispered. “I’ll be back before you know it. What’s for tea?”

  Emilia blinked rapidly, then looked down, hiding her confusion behind a curtain of straight brown hair. When she looked back up a façade was in place, blank and pleasant. The same expression she used to greet any unwanted visitor at the door.

  The police escorted him to the waiting car, opening the door for him and telling him to watch his head. Just the same as a thousand television shows except they’d spared him the indignity of handcuffs.

  “Am I under arrest?” he asked the officers, genuinely puzzled as to the answer. They’d turned up and demanded he accompany them down to the station for questioning, but Matthew couldn’t remember in the buzzing haze that had descended if they’d said anything more.

  The officer in the passenger seat turned to look at him. “You can be if you want,” he said. “But at the moment, we’re just taking you in for questioning.”

  “As a suspect or a witness?” Matthew asked, pressing. He knew the answer already, but he wanted them to confirm his suspicions.

  “A suspect or a witness,” the officer said unhelpfully, turning back to scan the road in front of them. “I’m sure once the detectives interviewing you get here, they’ll be able to expand more on that.”

  The nest of snakes in Matthew’s stomach struck, digging in their fangs and pumping poison into his bloodstream. He thought of the last detective who’d visited him, making guarded accusations and direct threats. It had taken him hours to return to his usual equanimity after her departure. If that was the effect from a chat on his home turf, then the rest of his day wasn’t going to be pleasant.

  Sam’s face flashed into Matthew’s mind, blood trickling down the side of his forehead, a crimson caress flowing down his cheek. He blinked and the image shattered into shards of bitter light, sharp and dangerous. They pulsed in time with his heartbeat—an aura foreshadowing a sickening migraine.

  He leaned forward until his head rested on the seat back in front of him. Tiredness washed over him in a wave. With a headache, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate. That detective would dance in rings around him, while he struggled just to see through the flashing lights.

  Just confess everything. Wipe your soul clean.

  Whose voice was that? George’s? Jessie’s? Sam’s? Was that tiny voice compelling him into doing the right thing God’s voice or was it the last remnant of his conscience, left bleeding on the concrete floor of a warehouse long ago?

  In the midst of his exhaustion, the thought held so much appeal that Matthew couldn’t force it from his mind.

  How would that feel, to stop fighting, to stop lying? To lay all his cards down upon the table and take whatever punishment was in store?

  The snakes in his stomach writhed again, spitting venom. The aura in his eyes flashed, and Matthew’s head throbbed.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Ngaire had thought that traveling up and down the country alone was bad. Going side by side with her superior officer was far worse. Now that a resolution seemed possible, DSS Harmond had plonked herself front and center of the Sam Andie murder investigation. Ngaire was still spinning from being sucked into Harmond’s wake turbulence.

  The flights were taking a toll physically, as well. Even though the turboprops couldn’t get as high in the air as a jet, Ngaire’s ankles still protested the change in atmosphere by swelling. The edema made her feel clumsy like she was walking around on someone else’s legs.

  “You’ve met this guy before,” the DSS said in the long taxi ride to the station. “Tell me what your impressions were.”

  Ngaire stared out the car window at the fields rich with grass and dotted with animals. Her ears still buzzed from the plane ride, hearing engines that had ceased to thunder an hour before.

  “Matthew Jamieson is conservative and confident,” she said. “He’s…” Ngaire faltere
d to a stop and tried to mimic the lost words, folding her arms around her shoulders and pulling herself into a stiff, tight knot.

  “Contained?”

  “Yes. And detached. Matthew talked about the troubles some of the men he ministers to experienced, but there was no sign of empathy, no emotion in his voice. He was robotic.” Ngaire paused and shook her head. “Or maybe just going through the motions long after he gave up caring.”

  “What about Sam Andie? Did he say anything about knowing him?”

  “He denied it, if that counts,” Ngaire said. “Otherwise, there wasn’t much reaction at all.”

  “What are your feelings about the interview? Where would you like to focus your questions?”

  Ngaire knew the focus would be beneficial in an hour or so but her mind was currently too tired to take advantage. To her credit, Harmond recognized the signs and backed off. Instead of seeking further advice, the DSS made notes to herself.

  No matter that she wanted to veg out and think of nothing, after a few more minutes, Ngaire’s mind wandered back to the case and Matthew. Bob’s adamant statement that Matthew knew more than he’d admitted so far meshed so completely with her own thoughts, that Ngaire hadn’t questioned him too closely. Now, miles from the pressure of staring at Mr. Rickards across a narrow table, she wondered if the entire outburst wasn’t too easy. Lots of showmanship and little substance.

  Pick, pick, pick. As though Ngaire’s brain was made of fingernails and Matthew’s potential guilt was a hardened scab. Each time she told herself firmly to push it aside, it would steal back to pursue its guilty pleasure. Pick, pick, pick.

  At the base of her doubt was Shannon’s confession. To take on jail time for her father was an incredible sacrifice but in the framework of tightly knit families it made a horrible type of sense. To insist that she be put away for a crime that a teenage boy committed? Ngaire couldn’t understand the impetus required to make that decision.

  They hit the sharp angles of the hills circling Dunedin and descended the steep old roads until the car coasted around a bend to the police station. Ngaire’s adrenal system suddenly sped into overdrive, pumping out so much adrenaline that she had to hold onto the door handle to stop herself from taking off in a run.

  She closed her eyes, breathed in slowly and deeply through her nose, and reminded herself that there were times and places and this situation met none of those. Using the willpower born of long practice, she thrust the fears back into the hiding hole where they belonged.

  “Ready?” DSS Harmond’s eyebrows were cocked in a quizzical expression.

  “Yes,” Ngaire lied, “I’m ready.”

  “Tell us about the night of August 18, 1981,” DSS Harmond said.

  They’d moved quickly through the introductory part of Matthew’s interview. A good thing, Ngaire thought, judging by the pallor of the man’s cheeks. That he looked even worse than she felt, cheered her up enough to keep her buoyed through the initial questions. Reaching the meat of it early, she tensed, each muscle hardening into rock-hard stillness as she tried to catch every trace of expression, every nuance, every word.

  Matthew Jamieson sighed and bent his head forward, rubbing his fingers lightly over his temples. A headache or stalling for time? If it was the latter, his acting skills had been honed up since she’d last laid eyes on him.

  “It was a long time ago,” he hedged. “My memories of that day are hazy.”

  “Try the best you can,” Harmond said, her tone encouraging. “If we need clarification, we’ll ask.”

  “I don’t know what I was doing for most of the day,” Matthew said. “Hanging around home, most likely. It was just before school holidays, so I didn’t feel the need to fill up every day.”

  Ngaire understood immediately. The holidays always offered such endless hours of fun and frivolity, that it seemed a waste to do anything leading up to them. Any small jobs or activities that would more usually be done after school or on the weekend could be stored up for the expanse of free time ahead.

  Matthew leaned forward, elbows on the table, hand clasped in front of him. He stared at his interweaving fingers with a frown of concentration.

  “It’s no use telling you about that day. Not until I tell you what happened two days earlier.” He looked up at Ngaire with eyes as sad as a basset hound and lips twisted in dismay. “First, I need to tell you about the night that George Kenton and Jessie Collingwood murdered Sam Andie.”

  They caught up with him and Sam just as they drew close to the old warehouse. Jessie smashed a hand into Matthew’s right shoulder blade by way of greeting, then followed along with a knuckle punch to his left kidney.

  “What are you doing out in public with a girl, fagboy?” Jessie said.

  George popped his head between Sam and Matthew, armed with a grotesque smile that sent Matthew jerking to the side. Jessie slung his arm around Matthew’s neck and for two steps forward, they walked four abreast.

  It was George that spotted it. Perhaps it was just the close proximity, or maybe he recognized Sam from back at school. Either way, his eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open. He pushed back from the two of them, retching—either in pretense or in real distress—then ran two steps and flicked Jessie on the side of his head.

  “What?”

  “His girlfriend is a boy!” George cackled with falsetto delight while Jessie wrenched his arm back from Matthew’s neck and shoved him aside.

  “Who’s a pretty boy, then?” Jessie cooed, sticking his face so close to Sam’s that he turned away with a flinch of disgust.

  Matthew could understand, Jessie’s breath was rank. It smelled like his toothbrush was only use for cleaning the grouting. If he’d been in a cartoon, the sink lines would have wriggled like wavy snakes into a cloud bigger than his head.

  “Oh, did we interrupt something, precious?” Jessie asked. He turned to look back at Matthew and then grabbed Sam’s arm to stop him walking forward. “Were the two of you on a date?”

  His voice climbed through the registers, cracking on a high note for the final word. Matthew felt his heart starting to pump at double-time. He’d heard the same false interrogation masking the real disgust before. In the playground before a fist drove into his face and a boot drove into his knee. On the pavement, walking home, just before a textbook whacked him in the face from Jessie, merrily cycling past.

  Where Matthew would have retreated, looking to save himself as much pain as possible, Sam turned and got in Jessie’s face. He had three inches on the boy, most of those heels, but still offering enough of a physical intimidation that Jessie took a step back. Matthew went to Sam’s side, joining him in a united front. A thrill of the unexpected ran in a quick shudder through his body. Perhaps, this time, he would reign supreme.

  Jessie’s leading foot moved back to join its partner--a simple sign of retreat. Matthew felt the strength of victory surge through his body. It was possible! They could intimidate the bully boys into leaving them alone.

  Then George giggled.

  Jessie’s face twisted into a slew of rage, and he powered forward. Like a full back in a rugby scrum, he drove from the thighs and toppled Matthew to the ground.

  As fist after fist crunched into his face, breaking his nose, crushing his lips against his teeth until they burst like rain-fattened worms under a shoe on the unyielding pavement, Matthew’s sense of victory faded into resigned defeat.

  Take your beating, he thought as another impact burst his vision into a blur of white light.

  Then Jessie was being pulled off Matthew. Sam stood in front of him, pushing a solid hand into Jessie’s chest. “You get the fuck away from here,” he said, his voice a low growl that was completely at odds with his feminine dress. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this kid alone.”

  Desire and shame fought a path through Matthew’s body. Someone he admired was sticking up for him but also revealing that they thought of him as a child. He dragged himself into a sitting position,
then used the wall of the warehouse entrance door to pull himself to his feet. If he wanted to be thought of as a man he should act like one.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” George said, advancing. Like a true bully, he dismissed Sam as too large a target and zeroed in on the weedy runt instead.

  “Fuck off, Kenton,” Matthew said. The thrill of the swear word puffed out his chest in pride. At his side, his fingers curled into a fist. “Run on home to your fat momma.”

  When George aimed a punch at his face, Matthew sidestepped—his body following the command too slowly to entirely escape the blow, but enough to lessen the impact. While George was still off-balance from the swing, Matthew threw his own punch into the side of the boy’s face. A blast of pain from protesting knuckles lit his hand up as though on fire but he ignored it to draw back and throw another.

  George staggered back, holding his hands to his bleeding nose, his eyes wide with surprise and pain. “You little shit,” he said, pulling one hand away long enough to spit blood onto the pavement. “You’ll pay for that.”

  It looked like his payment might be a way off, though, as George backed up another step. Matthew swung his body in beside Sam again, facing down the real threat, side-by-side.

  “It’s nice that you found someone as faggy as you,” Jessie sneered. Sam stepped forward and pushed a hand flat against his chest, walking him back two paces.

  “You need to get out of here,” Sam warned. Jessie looked down at the concrete path, then ducked down and threw a swift punch at Sam’s crotch.

  Maybe it was an off-center shot, or maybe the strapping that Sam wore to smooth out his panty line held off the impact of the blow. Whatever the cause, he didn’t crumple into a ball as Jessie expected, instead leaning forward to grab the boy by the throat.

  “Don’t you know,” Sam whispered, his lips brushing against Jessie’s ear, “that doesn’t work so well on girls?”