Their Little Secret

by Mark Billingham

  She says, ‘Well …’

  She knows that for some people, just to get this close, to know that they could have done it if they’d wanted to, would be enough.

  Not for her, though. Not now.

  Michelle says, ‘We’ll have to see how it goes, won’t we?’

  FOURTEEN

  Sarah retrieves the small metal box from behind assorted pots of paint and dusty bottles of drain cleaner and windscreen wash. She takes out one of the pre-rolled joints, lowers herself into a ripped and ratty deckchair and lights up. The fan heater hasn’t really kicked in yet, so it’s seriously cold in the garage, but she has to come out here to smoke.

  She can’t have the smell in the house.

  She doesn’t want the dog-walking woman or the window-cleaner or whoever else catching a whiff and calling Social Services. They’d be doing the right thing, she knows that, and she would probably do the same. A house stinking of weed is definitely not the ideal environment in which a single mother should raise a six-year-old, but no official knock at the door is ever going to work out well for her.

  It’s decent stuff, bought from one of the older kids in the park near Brooklands Hill before pick-up, and she feels it start to kick in after the second hit. The drift and then the lightness moving through her.

  She lays her head back and thinks about him, about what she’d said in the restaurant and the way he’d reacted. What was in his eyes and what was coming off him. She thinks about the side of him he seemed so keen for her to see and those other things he couldn’t hide.

  About every awful thing she’d wanted, sitting there just an hour before in his big, shiny car.

  She reaches for her phone and sends him a text: have u sorted yourself out yet? She stares at the screen, waiting for a reply.

  She tries to remember the last time she’d felt remotely like this about anyone, then gives up, because she’s sure that she never has. Desire, yes, because everyone needed that lovely itch scratching once in a while, but this sort of connection is not one she recognises. She starts to wonder if it’s him and not the weed that’s making her feel so light-headed and couldn’t-give-a-monkey’s reckless. So ready to abandon herself. She laughs out loud.

  He terrifies her too, of course.

  Not him, not who he is or what he wants, but the power he so obviously has to transform her, whether he knows it yet or not. To create a very different kind of desire; one that’s taken hold so quickly it’s ridiculous and feels so much more overpowering than anything physical.

  Yes, way stronger than that, even as she pictures him lying in bed.

  Conrad, or whatever his real name is.

  Because what really frightens her, what sucks the breath from her when she so much as thinks about it, is that she wants, more than anything, to tell him the truth.

  There’s certainly no chocolate on his pillow and nothing in the bathroom anyone would fancy taking home. A sliver of soap in plastic and a few miniature bottles of shampoo from the market. It’s a turn-up for the books that there’s even a remote for the TV and that the sheets have been cleaned, considering how cheap the place is.

  He could have afforded to splash out a little, of course, considering his recent windfall, but he’s always been thrifty, never seen the point in throwing money around for the sake of it.

  Maybe next time, he thinks. After this one has paid out.

  He sits at the semicircle of MDF attached to the wall that passes for a desk and opens his notebook. It’s still a little early to make a viable plan, obviously – he needs to get to know the mark first – but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Sometimes the perfect opportunity to make his pitch comes well before he’d thought it would, because, in an ideal world, they’re the ones who dictate the pace. That last one was hugely keen, almost caught him with his pants down. From the first moment he’d mentioned that lecture business, she was practically begging to throw her money at him.

  Candy, baby, whatever.

  The alert sounds on his phone. He picks it up and reads her text. It doesn’t look as though this one will take very long either.

  He starts to make notes. A few areas of interest to think about, the kind of thing that might tickle her up a bit. She’s arty, stands to reason, so that’s where he needs to start. Some kind of publishing thing would be an obvious one, maybe a company that specialises in undiscovered talent. That might be the thing, but he knows less than nothing about it, so he’ll need to do more than his usual amount of homework.

  He’s not sure where to start …

  He looks at her message once more. It makes him want to climb straight back on to that skinny hard bed and sort himself out all over again.

  He should probably go online and get the basics about a few books as well, make out like he’s keen on reading. Some proper novels, he decides, not just airport thrillers or whatever. He needs to sound passionate, because that’s what always gees them up, gets their purses open.

  He fires off a reply: Yeah and guess who I was thinking about? Still thinking about, is the truth. The shape and the smell of her, something dirty when she laughs and the way she’d opened her mouth when he leaned across in the car.

  He tears out the page, the few scribbled notes, and screws it up. There was nothing much to get excited about, he knows that, but still he’s shocked, because the truth is, his heart isn’t in it. He can’t do the work. Because that’s not the way he’s thinking about her, hasn’t been since she sat down next to him in that cinema.

  He’s kidding himself, because he felt something happening the first time she looked at him in the coffee shop.

  An instinct he ignored and a voice he didn’t listen to, telling him to run.

  Christ, he thinks, there’s a first for everything, and how’s this going to pan out, and he doesn’t really care, and his phone is still in his hand while he sits like a horny sixteen-year-old and waits for her to send him a message in response.

  His mind on nothing but Sarah; what she’s thinking, feeling, what she wants. Not how much she might be worth and not how much he can take her for.

  For the first time since he was old enough to pull, not that.

  FIFTEEN

  By the time Thorne slipped quietly into the back of the crematorium, the funeral had already begun. He closed the door as carefully as he could and took his seat. He picked up an order of service from the empty chair next to him and stared down at the picture of the young woman on the front; one taken during her student days, it looked like. The cliché came unbidden and impossible to ignore.

  Her whole life in front of her.

  Thorne turned the page and glanced through the contents.

  It was a humanist ceremony and Thorne saw that he’d missed the officiant’s opening remarks and the singing of ‘Amazing Grace’, a tribute from friends after the plain wooden coffin had been carried in to the strains of ‘Everybody Hurts’ by REM.

  He wondered about that. Hadn’t the song been written for someone contemplating suicide? Perhaps the dead woman had simply liked the song and picked it well before she’d made that decision. Maybe others had made the choice, unaware of its connotations and without listening very carefully to the lyrics. Or perhaps those closest to Philippa Goodwin had seen no reason to shy away from the truth and known exactly what the song was about, which was precisely why they’d chosen it.

  Either way, it was a nice song and it could easily have been worse.

  They hadn’t plumped for ‘Going Underground’ by The Jam.

  While the minister – a smiley, middle-aged woman – gave the address, Thorne looked around. Aside from a couple of rows at the back, the place was full, a hundred people, maybe. It was usually the way, he thought, after a premature or unexpected death. The crowds began to thin out the longer friends and relatives clung on. Craning his head, he saw Mary and Ella Fulton on the front row next to a man he presumed was Mary’s husband, and an elderly couple; an uncle and aunt, perhaps.

  The celebrant spoke ov
er a litany of sobs and sniffles.

  Once she had finished giving her thoughts on life and death – with no mention made of a life taken by choice – Mary Fulton stepped forward to pay tribute to her sister. She fingered the delicate silver chain around her neck as she described a woman who had been generous and full of life, who had always tried to see the best in people. She paused briefly at that point and Thorne had a good idea what was going through her mind. Who. Then it was Ella’s turn to stand up and read a poem, which she struggled to reach the end of.

  Better by far you should forget and smile,

  Than that you should remember and be sad …

  The committal came after a minute or so of silent reflection and then the room slowly began to empty, the sobs and scraping of chairs just audible above a piece of classical music by Elgar, which Thorne was surprised to recognise. Perhaps he’d heard it on some advert, he thought.

  Outside, he joined the mourners gathering to look at the floral tributes lined up near the doors, inching along and stooping to read what had been written. It was at this point, he thought – in films or crime novels – that one message in particular might catch the detective’s eye. Something cryptic, scribbled by person or persons unknown, that might give a clue as to why any of them were there at all.

  Of course, there was nothing of the sort.

  Gone too soon.

  Miss you, Pip.

  Sleep well, my darling.

  Thorne turned to see Ella Fulton walking towards him and, without being altogether sure why, he stepped away from the others and across to her, so that they would not be overheard.

  ‘It’s really nice of you to be here,’ she said.

  ‘It’s no problem.’

  ‘Is it … I mean, is that normal?’

  Thorne could not give her any good reason why he was there. Having taken the decision to dig out his black suit, he had toyed with the possibility that Patrick Jennings himself might decide to turn up. He had certainly known sociopaths, such as Jennings probably was, to do the same thing in the past. Almost immediately, of course, he had seen how ridiculous the notion was. A man like that would have been away on his toes as quickly as possible, would in all likelihood have already moved on to his next victim.

  On top of which, unless he showed up in disguise, he would have been recognised by Ella Fulton and her mother.

  ‘I wanted to come,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Well, it’s lovely that you did.’

  They turned together to watch the mourners, several now moving away towards the car park. Others were lining up to make donations to the Humanist Society or shake hands with the minister. Mary Fulton and her husband were hugging each other in the doorway.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you about the song?’ Thorne said.

  She looked at him.

  ‘The REM …’

  ‘I chose it,’ Ella said.

  ‘Right. I was wondering, that’s all.’

  ‘Pip would have thought it was funny, I know she would. Besides, she hated bullshit.’ She looked down for a few seconds, nosed the toe of her shiny black shoe through the gravel. ‘Makes it all the more ridiculous that she fell for it. Fell for him. You know?’

  ‘He must have been very convincing,’ Thorne said.

  ‘He would have had to be.’

  ‘Well, I think we can be pretty sure he’s done it before.’

  She nodded and lowered her voice. ‘So, did you find out anything?’

  Thorne saw that Mary Fulton was hovering, clearly keen to speak to her daughter about something. She nodded and smiled at Thorne. He raised a hand.

  ‘I’m not really sure this is the place …’

  ‘Can we talk on the phone then? I’d like to know what’s happening.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Or perhaps you could come over, if you’re not too busy. For tea, or whatever. Have you got my address?’ She unzipped a handbag and began to dig around.

  ‘I’m sure I can find it,’ Thorne said.

  ‘Right.’ Ella closed her bag, smiling as she stepped backwards. ‘You’re trained for that sort of thing, aren’t you?’

  Thorne turned and walked away, exchanging a nod with the driver of a hearse that was already pulling up, bearing the next customer in line. He had taken off the black tie by the time he reached his car.

  SIXTEEN

  Today, Sarah’s even happier than usual to join them in the coffee shop after drop-off, to sit with Savita, Heather, Caroline and soppy David. Savita had beckoned her over to the top table the moment she’d come through the door in fact and Caroline had shuffled her seat across to make room. What a welcome! There’s no sign of dishy Alex this morning, but that doesn’t matter because she’s not thinking about him any more and there’s certainly no need to bring the laptop out, to look as if she’s ‘writing’, because she’s far too busy on her phone.

  She and Conrad have been texting since she woke up.

  Once the drinks and the cakes are delivered, Savita and the others are keen to make conversation. Leaning towards her, conspiratorially, desperate to know what’s going on. The big secret she’s so obviously itching to share with them. The smile she can’t keep from her face. The mystery man she’d been talking to in here the week before.

  It’s so rare and thrilling to be the centre of attention and she’s determined to milk it for all she’s worth. To be fair, she can hardly blame them for wanting to know. They can clearly sense what’s happening to her, the magnitude of it, so it’s only natural they should want her to toss a morsel or two their way.

  Another message arrives.

  OK. Done film done dinner so what next?

  Sarah holds the phone close to her face so that they can’t see the screen, but she can feel their eyes on her as she replies.

  what do u think?

  ‘Somebody looks happy,’ Savita says.

  She nods and smiles. ‘Well, this cake is seriously gorgeous.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ Savita rolls her eyes at Heather. ‘The cake.’

  The message alert pings again. She could have turned the sound off, of course, but she wants them to hear. Every time.

  Theatre?

  She says, ‘So, I’m in a good mood, so what?’ as she’s typing her reply.

  ecch!

  ‘It’s a man,’ Caroline says. ‘It’s so obviously a man. Should have seen her mooning around yesterday at pick-up.’

  ‘I wasn’t mooning,’ she laughs. ‘I was probably just looking bored waiting for my bloody son, as usual.’

  ‘Why does it have to be a man?’ Heather asks. ‘Maybe it’s a work thing.’

  They wait, but she’s not going to make things easy for them.

  ‘Is it a work thing?’ Heather asks.

  Sarah says nothing.

  A gallery or something?

  ‘Told you,’ Caroline says. ‘Of course it’s a man. Look at her.’

  double ecchh!!!

  ‘So anyway … how’s Jamie doing?’ Bloody David, the one least interested in the gossip. The one who’s always banging on about Ofsted or pastoral care or something equally dull.

  ‘He’s good,’ she says.

  ‘Great.’

  ‘Driving me mental, obviously, and he’s never where he’s supposed to be.’ David seems keen to continue the pointless conversation, but she’s saved by the arrival of another message and focuses on her phone for half a minute.

  Help me out here.

  i’m sure u can think of something.

  I can think of LOTS of things …

  She hesitates. She’s thinking about just replying with a smiley face to match her own, but she’s not a child.

  ‘Is it that bloke who was in here?’ Caroline asks. ‘Wednesday, was it?’

  ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ David says.

  ‘You remember … wearing a cap. They were talking. I think I’ve seen him in here once or twice before, actually.’

  ‘Really?’ Heather shakes her h
ead. ‘I can’t say I do.’

  Caroline turns to look at Heather. ‘Actually, I’d got it into my head he was a friend of yours.’

  Sarah glances up from her phone.

  Heather seems amazed. She says, ‘Well, I don’t know where you got that from. I’d never clapped eyes on the bloke until the other day.’

  ‘My mistake,’ Caroline says.

  ‘Either way, he looked nice,’ Savita says. ‘Fit.’

  Caroline sips her coffee. ‘Yes, I suppose you’d have to admit that much. You know, if you were looking.’

  Sarah stabs at the keyboard, thinking: You could look all you bloody well like and it wouldn’t do you any good, because he was looking at me.

  i bet you can

  ‘Good for you,’ Savita says. ‘I mean, I didn’t know you were looking, but as long as you’re happy.’

  Sarah lays down her phone, just for a few seconds, to fork in a mouthful of cake. Happy? She feels mad with it, and bound up by it, by him. She feels like she’s on the edge of something and, even though she knows that it’s dangerous, that she might even be out of her depth, she’s never known a rush that comes close. She’s buzzing, boiling with it.

  She feels utterly invincible.

  I could come to your place.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Savita says, when the alert sounds again. ‘I hope you’ve got plenty of battery on that.’

  Another message arrives almost immediately: Well?

  Heather can barely control herself. She leans in close and wriggles like she might wet herself with excitement. ‘So, come on then.’ She actually claps her hands. ‘Details, woman, details.’

  Sarah grins while she’s considering how much to let slip. It would be churlish not to give them something, and besides, she desperately wants them to know. She shrugs and says, ‘It’s … early days,’ as she’s sending a reply.

  i wondered when you’d get round to that!

  Heather says, ‘Yes,’ and pumps her fist like she’s scored a goal or something, while Savita sits nodding happily. Caroline, though, is half turned away, saying something to David and pretending that she’s already lost interest. Like none of this is particularly important, like Sarah is not important.