The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  ‘I was hoping you’d call.’

  I chuckle. ‘Can I come and see you? Can’t stop long.’

  ‘Ah, a quickie. It’s come to that, has it?’

  ‘Are you at your office?’

  ‘No. Home. Why don’t you come here?’

  ‘Is Lucy not with you?’

  ‘No, she’s with your mum. Girly night. Or something. Wasn’t really listening. She’s staying the night. We’re perfectly safe.’

  ‘OK.’

  I’m nervous as I hail a cab. It starts to rain. Rain. Always reminds me of that night. Sometimes I dream I’m digging with a tennis racquet. Sometimes the pop star’s girlfriend is watching. But it always rains.

  Dylan and Lucy live in the very chi-chi Hale Barns. Big old brown stone detached houses. Four-by-fours. Bucolic village life for those who don’t want to be too far from the city. I’ve been coming to their house for about ten years. I’m glad I’ve not slept with Dylan here. Here is the place where we came when I was eleven. Did he notice me then? The thought is so repugnant I almost vomit as the cab bounces over a sleeping policeman. I push the thought from my mind. He is not some sort of paedophile. But even thinking the word makes my heart race with fear. What have I done? What mess have I created? It’s time to quash this once and for all.

  He opens the door in jogging bottoms and a vest. The muscles in his arm make my groin twitch as he hands me a glass of red wine. I wasn’t expecting the drink. But Dutch courage will definitely help. I slurp it greedily.

  ‘You sounded upset.’

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘You need to calm down.’

  He takes my hand and leads me to the living room. A fire is burning in the hearth. Now I’m with him, he’s not the monster I’ve painted him in my head. Sometimes. I feel disingenuous for even thinking the worst of him.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t carry on.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With this. I’m having nightmares. I don’t know why I’m doing it. I love Matty. I like Lucy. If they find out we’re fucked. My mum won’t speak to me again. Matty won’t speak to me again. I keep panicking about it.’

  Owen nods. ‘Well, you know I’m not going to tell anyone.’

  I nod. He seems so reasonable.

  ‘Why do you panic?’

  ‘When did you first notice me? Sexually?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘Since we became Facebook friends, probably. I’d always thought of you as . . . just . . . Nat and Danny’s kid. Then one day I was bored. And I saw a post by you. And clicked on it. And saw your pictures. And what a handsome man you’d grown into. And I felt guilty but . . . liked what I saw.’

  OK. I think about this. But he continues.

  ‘I’ve a confession to make.’

  I look at him. ‘What?’

  ‘The day I bumped into you at the Exchange. It wasn’t a coincidence.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘I saw you’d checked in there on Facebook. I went to see if I could see you. Sorry.’

  I shake my head. That’s OK. I actually feel flattered.

  ‘So you didn’t fancy me when I was eleven?’

  He pales. Stands. Stalks to the other side of the room and looks out of the window onto the garden. I suddenly feel terrible. This man is hurt. He’s not a monster. I get up. He swings round. There are tears in his eyes.

  ‘How could you even think that?’

  ‘I had to ask.’

  ‘But . . . why?’

  ‘Coz that’s how long I’ve known you!’

  ‘Of course I didn’t fucking fancy you back then. Jeez!’

  ‘Sorry.’

  And now of course I bitterly regret it. I get up. He looks back out of the window. I approach him and put my arm on his shoulder. He cocks his head to lean it against it. Within minutes we are upstairs. He has the good grace to push me into one of the spare bedrooms. He overpowers me and I surrender and every nerve ending of my body seems to come alive. Afterwards I fall asleep.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep but I wake suddenly to the noise of a car engine approaching and the crunch of tyres on the gravel path. Headlights illuminate the room. Dylan wakes too.

  ‘Fuck, she’s back.’

  We jump out of bed and start scrambling back into clothes.

  ‘We’ve got five minutes. She takes forever getting the car into the garage.’

  And indeed she seems to take longer.

  By the time Lucy puts her key in the door, Dylan and I are sat on the sofa, just as we were however long ago I arrived, both sipping on a glass of red.

  ‘Hi love, is that you?’ Dylan calls calmly.

  Lucy calls back, ‘Yeah, bit of an emergency.’

  ‘We’ve got a visitor!’ he calls again.

  Lucy comes through. Her face drops. She is astounded to see me.

  ‘Owen, have you not heard your phone? Your mum’s been calling you.’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘He was just in the area and . . .’ But Lucy is not listening to Dylan.

  ‘It’s Matty. He’s been . . . mugged. He’s in hospital. They couldn’t get hold of you so they called your mum. We better get you to the hospital.’

  Adrenalin is coursing through my body as I sit in the back seat of Dylan’s car. He and Lucy are up front. I see I have seventeen missed calls on my phone. Some from Matty. Most from Mum. Texts from her, increasingly despondent. I’ve called her, told her I’m on my way, said I’ll explain why I’m an hour late getting back to her when I see her, not that she seems that bothered, she’s just relieved I’m finally in contact.

  ‘So what were you doing at ours, Owen?’ Lucy says, not like she’s trying to catch me out, more like she’s been told and can’t remember. And now she’s asking, I have no idea what to say. I’m panicking too much to think straight. Thank God Dylan jumps in, all calm and reasonable.

  ‘He was in the area, visiting a pal. Called on the off chance.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice. Which pal?’

  My mouth is dry as I speak. I have to say Minty twice.

  ‘Minty?’

  ‘From work. She’s only round the corner from you.’

  ‘Well, thank God we found you.’

  I nod. Yes. Thank God. Though I don’t feel very godly right now.

  In the hospital car park Lucy gets out before me. I hiss at Dylan.

  ‘It’s over. I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says quickly.

  ‘Look what you’ve made me fucking do.’

  I run ahead of Lucy towards the entrance. I don’t particularly want my secret lover and his wife witnessing my poor Matty battered and bruised.

  Mum has come to reception and guides me through a warren of brightly lit corridors. I feel I have to explain myself.

  ‘I was round at Dylan’s. How weird is that? I had to take Minty from work some stuff over and . . . so I called Dylan and . . .’

  But Mum is not interested at all. She interrupts, curtly.

  ‘He says it was those guys. Who were rude to him in the restaurant the other week.’

  I stop in my tracks. ‘They did this coz he was gay?’

  ‘Well, it’s not coz he was fucking black, Owen. Come on!’

  I can’t believe how furious Mum is. She marches off down the corridor and I follow swiftly. At the next door she turns and shakes her head.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I just . . .’

  ‘He is OK, isn’t he? He’s not going to die?’

  ‘He’s going to be fine. He’s very scared, though.’

  ‘Why the fuck did I have my phone on silent?’

  She touches my arm. Squeezes it. Then pushes through the doors. She tells me he’s in a private room.

  When I see him it’s a shock. He looks like Picasso has painted him. I can tell it’s him. But his eye and top lip are swollen. His arm is in a sling. He’s been crying. I don’t recognize the T-shirt he is wearing.

  ‘I
brought that. It’s one of your dad’s. He didn’t want to wear the gown.’

  ‘You all right, Bubsy?’ I say, touching his good arm.

  ‘I am now,’ he says. And then starts to cry.

  I hear footsteps outside as I hug him. Mum retreating to the corridor. Murmuring voices. Lucy and Dylan. Fortunately they don’t come in.

  I want the world to go away. I want them to go away.

  This is my fault.

  This is all my fault.

  Natalie

  It would appear I’ve blotted my copybook with Laurence/Gripper. When I was off on my wild goose chase with Lucy the other day I forgot to take my phone with me. And then I was so caught up in the what the hell’s going on here? that I forgot he was coming over until it was too late. And by the time I got home, he’d been and left. And also left a few texts that ended with sad faces.

  I’m not that keen on grown men who use emoticons on texts. But maybe that’s judgemental of me.

  Since then I’ve felt him cooling. Not that, this time anyway, he was that warm to begin with. I called him and tried to explain why I’d stood him up. He sounded hopeful at first, but the more I talked, the more I could hear his voice deflate. And then he said,

  ‘Maybe it’s not such a good idea, us going for a drink. Sounds like . . . your life’s still all caught up with Danny. And I don’t think I can step into his shoes.’

  ‘That’s not strictly true,’ I countered.

  But by the time we finished speaking, I realized he may have had a point. I try not to think about this, though. When I do, I feel crestfallen and slightly panicky. If I can’t clear a way for a boyfriend now, five years after Danny went, when will I ever be ready? Maybe it just feels like Danny’s at the forefront of my mind right now because of what I’ve discovered. I didn’t choose the timing of that.

  And what sort of a wife would I be if I didn’t try and find out what happened?

  Or ex-wife.

  Or widow.

  Raymond Lee, the detective in charge of the investigation into Danny’s disappearance, has a few more grey hairs these days than he did when I first met him all those years ago. He’s quite handsome, in a wrong sort of way. Which to my mind means that whenever I’m in his company I always wonder what he’d look like naked. Which isn’t so bad now, I suppose, but back in the early days, when the disappearance was so fresh, it felt completely inappropriate. He must be about fifty now, and has that sandy brown hair that tells you he was probably a blond child. It’s cropped short (whoever saw a policeman with a perm?) and I’ve never seen eyes that twinkle so much. They’re really rather distracting. When I think of the amount of bad news he’s given me over the years, it’s bizarre that every time it was like there were two bright stars dancing in front of me. As inappropriate as disco lights in a hospice.

  And today he’s delivering bad news again.

  I called him last week and told him about Miriam.

  ‘Well . . . we got her in for questioning,’ he says as I pour us both some coffee. I don’t know whether to be alarmed or encouraged that he has deigned to visit me at home and not summonsed me to his office.

  ‘You should arrest her for having the gall to have that bloody pink streak in her hair,’ I quip nervously.

  He chuckles. ‘You were right. It wasn’t just a one-night stand. It went on for a while.’

  ‘How long is a while?’

  ‘Two years.’

  I stir his sugar quite fervently. Two. Years. TWO. YEARS.

  ‘Said she didn’t want to tell you the truth because she was trying to protect your feelings.’

  I do an involuntary grunt.

  ‘Big of her.’ I hand him his coffee.

  ‘She seems to know nothing of his disappearance. Except . . .’

  I look at him.

  ‘Except in the run-up to him going, she was putting the pressure on.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘She wanted him to tell you the truth and leave you.’

  ‘Well, he did one of those things. Nice one, Miriam.’

  I take a sip of my coffee. It tastes bitter today. Like my mouth has been coated in iron.

  ‘So what reason did she give for not coming forward when Danny went?’

  ‘She said she was in shock. Didn’t feel she had anything interesting to say. And again, didn’t see that it would make you feel any better.’

  ‘Knowing he was a two-timing bastard? She might have a point.’

  ‘The interesting thing I discovered. And you might not like this.’

  I look at him. What? What is he going to say?

  ‘Danny’s mum knew about him and Miriam.’

  I discover I am nodding.

  ‘So why didn’t she mention it when you talked to her?’

  ‘No doubt wanted to protect the precious reputation of her son.’

  Again, I nod. ‘Saint Danny of the Dirty Bastards. Sounds about right. He who can do no wrong. Well. She can’t have loved him very much if she couldn’t be arsed coming forward at the time. I remember you saying, vividly, anyone with any information, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Please come forward.’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘So you don’t think it’s worth digging her garden up?’

  Raymond smiles sympathetically. Simpering to my pathetic desperation, probably. ‘And why would we want to do that?’

  ‘In case she’s killed him and buried him in there.’

  ‘And what makes you think she did that?’

  ‘Because all she’s told me so far is a pack of lies.’

  ‘Her story’s plausible. Admittedly it’s not particularly palatable. But it’s believable enough.’

  ‘So why not come forward?’

  Something tells me he’s not going to budge on this one. My attempts to lay everything at Miriam’s feet appear to be fruitless. And maybe he knows more than me, and is more dispassionate.

  I look at him. He’s not telling me what I want to hear. I wanted him to walk in here and explain everything. Now I just want him gone.

  I need to get rid of him, anyway. I need to get to London. I check my watch. It’s hours till my train.

  Maybe what I really want to do is run away.

  Is this how Danny felt? Is this what spurred him on? Things get too much and you just think screw this, I can’t bear to even think about anything any more, I’m offski. I crave numbness where I don’t have to think. I crave the white noise of nothingness.

  Cally is going away. She is going to Mexico for ten days with Aba to do a shoot for Vogue magazine. I am gobsmacked by this, and I feel she is too. I am at once petrified and proud. Petrified that this is it, she has been swallowed away from me, never to be seen again. Proud that she chose to do something and first indications are that she is doing well. Let’s face it, it’s hardly bobbing on galoshes for Freeman’s catalogue. Some hotshot photographer has been asked to choose his New Faces, the models he think we’ll be hearing a lot more of pretty soon, and he is photographing them somewhere in Mexico. I know there is a beach involved. I have to meet Aba and Cally at the flat where she’s staying to hand over a suitcase of clothes and toiletries. No doubt I will have got this very wrong and she will throw a hissy fit and I’ll leave in tears. But at least I’ll have had a go.

  On the train down to London I treat myself, even though I shouldn’t, to a seat in first class. It’s mid-afternoon and I treat myself some more to a small bottle of white wine when the stewardess comes through. I’m really hoping Daffyd isn’t working this train. Much as I should really be grateful for what he did for me, I’m not exactly relishing the prospect of seeing him and having to tell him what I’ve discovered about the woman who collected the luggage.

  I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to think about her and I don’t want to think about what happened. Or didn’t happen. No, scrap that, what did happen. It’s not a level playing field. I can’t trust a word that comes out of her mouth, and I don’t have Danny here to ask
him if what she says is the truth or a lie.

  But of course I can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s such a sickening feeling. I actually feel queasy. It’s a physical sensation. Like I’ve eaten a bad prawn. It lingers. This whole sorry business has lingered for five years, and I hate it. I thought it would get better with time. And then Miriam Joseph walks into my life and the old feelings resurface and the pain is there and the sickening feeling, and it’s like it only happened bloody yesterday.

  And now of course it transpires that Barbara knew all along. She knew Danny was playing away and probably condoned it. Welcomed Miriam with open arms. Of course she did. She never liked me. And Miriam probably played up to her more.

  But why? Why hasn’t Barbara ever gone to the police? Why hasn’t she gone and told them about the affair, that there is another person on this planet who knew Danny and might hold a clue to what happened next? Was it not worth a shot?

  All I can keep thinking is this: if Barbara didn’t feel the need to go and help the police find her son, maybe she didn’t want him found.

  Or maybe she didn’t need to find him. Because maybe Barbara has known all along what actually happened to Danny. That if he is dead, she knows how it happened. Or that if he is alive, she knows where he is.

  And no matter how much I try and argue the point in my head, I keep coming back to this. Barbara didn’t tell the police because she didn’t need to.

  Barbara is in on it. Whatever it is.

  The poison pen letters, the angry phone calls, the stand-up rows. What are they?

  Red herrings.

  Barbara knows what happened to Danny.

  And rather than feeling nauseous, I now feel a sudden and transforming exhilaration.

  I will pay her a visit very, very soon.

  When I get to Cally’s flat, it smells of scented candles and bolognese. She has cooked for me. She has never cooked for me before, despite doing well in it at school when she was younger. Whereas in the past she’d get all stroppy and sulky and spit, ‘God I can’t be BOTHERED. Who needs to EAT?’ now she is uncorking me some red wine and telling me to take a seat. I hardly recognize her. I certainly don’t recognize her clothes.

  ‘Oh these? Oh, Vincente gave them to me.’

  ‘Vincente?’

  ‘Oh, this designer I did a little show for the other day. I got nine hundred quid and this playsuit.’