The Secrets We Keep

by Jonathan Harvey

  The only saving grace for China Crisis was that her friends were adamant they’d taken the drugs at the party and not at the club, where they’d gone on afterwards. She was on the cover of every newspaper, our logo spread-eagled across it too. And even though some of the press were quite lenient on us – I was coming across as the bewildered boss who was so upset he tried to drive her to hospital himself; some papers even printed a map showing how close the club was to the hospital – instinct told me, in a very loud voice, that our days were numbered.

  I never told Natalie what had actually happened. I gave Jimmy a pay rise, but he was too messed up about it to ever come clean about what we were really doing.

  If anything, the girl’s parents were the ones pilloried for letting their young daughter attend the sort of party where there might be drugs. The general consensus was that Tiffany and her pals looked well over eighteen, and this was in the days before we asked for ID on the doors of clubs. If you looked the part, you got in. So in a bizarre twist of fate, her mum and dad were being seen as the devils and me and Jimmy as the saints.

  And although this sat as uncomfortably on me as a bull mastiff on a stool, what could I do? The die was cast. I had a little lad, and a baby on the way. I needed to keep that club open.

  Remarkably, we kept our licence. But it was a black mark against us, and we were warned that if there were any further incidents we’d be in serious trouble. We didn’t even face prosecution, as it was deemed that we hadn’t exercised undue negligence. We were in the clear. We couldn’t believe our luck.

  We lucked out legally, but word gets around. And from then on, China Crisis was seen as the killer club. The place where that girl had died. After a few weeks of ambulance chasers parting with their hard-earned cash to see what the fuss was all about, to visit the almost-grave of Tiffany Keith, the numbers started dwindling. The kids wanted to go where they were safe. And let’s be honest, the human rights record in China has never been that great. Talk about a crisis!

  Sinking

  It’s pointless running a club when no-one wants to come. It’s better to shut down and rebrand or move on. I knew we had to do it, it was just deciding when. The better DJs didn’t want to come any more, even the ones we’d given their first breaks to. There’s no loyalty in clubland.

  Natalie was five months pregnant and was now saying she didn’t want to bring both kids up in London. She’d taken against the grime and pollution, the crowded streets, tubes, buses, the fact that no-one ever spoke to you in public without risk of being sectioned. Since Thatcher had introduced the care in the community lark, honestly, everyone assumed anyone who opened their mouth in public had just been let out of the local asylum. But with our savings disappearing, the only thing we had going for us was our loft. The mortgage was paid off. Maybe we could sell that and use the money to buy somewhere up North. A contact passed on some advance news of some railway arches in Manchester that Railtrack were going to be selling off, but the purchase price was sixty grand. Sixty grand we didn’t currently have.

  Salvation

  I’ll never forget where I was when that initial phone call came through. I was walking down Shoreditch High Street holding Owen’s hand, taking him to a soft play games session in a converted church. We always attracted looks and glances whenever we were out. I looked too young for my years and Natalie always dressed the kid in über-cool clothes that she got from designer friends who frequented China Crisis. Or used to, before the rot set in. I can still picture what he was wearing. This sort of woollen beanie hat, an oversized cardigan coat thing, and baggy jeans. My mobile rang, and a posh voice said,

  ‘Hello, is that Daniel Bioletti?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr Bioletti. Sorry to disturb you. Do you have two minutes to talk?’

  ‘Possibly. Who is this?’

  Instinct told me to be wary.

  ‘I’m calling with regard to a friend of yours. Samuel Korniskey.’

  ‘Oh, shit. What’s he done now?’

  Owen looked up at me. He knew ‘shit’ was a bad word. I pulled a ‘sorry’ face, and he looked away.

  ‘I was wondering whether we might meet to discuss that. It really could prove quite advantageous for you.’

  He’d piqued my interest. Anyone using the word advantageous did.

  It was only when I hung up that I realized I’d arranged to meet a fella without even getting his name.

  Disadvantageous. But I was still going to go.

  We met on the South Bank, by the Royal Festival Hall, next to the steps up to Charing Cross Bridge. The man was in his mid to late forties, and had the air of a civil servant who’d done a trolley dash in Burton’s Menswear to try and look like a normal man on the street. It was like he was in fancy dress. Mr Normal. He walked up to me confidently and held out his hand.

  ‘Danny? Alastair Carmichael. Let’s walk and talk. Today I will be speaking completely off the record.’

  He said he was representing an anonymous third party. He said he wanted to sound me out about something, no strings attached.

  Except when he got to the end of his little discourse, there weren’t just strings, there were frigging guy ropes attached.

  It turned out Sam had been a busy boy since I got rid of him that day. He had been making a bit of a nuisance of himself up the Houses of Parliament, turning up on the gate and waving his bag in the air, shouting, ‘HERE SHE IS!’ and claiming he could bring the whole place down with what he knew. And he claimed to have evidence.

  When this had proved fruitless, he’d gone to the police. He’d made an accusation against Sir Benedict Bishop – that over the course of many years, Sir Benedict had sexually abused him at his home on days out from his assessment centre. He said he had proof in the form of letters that Benedict had written to him over the years, but he wasn’t prepared to show them until he had some sort of financial compensation from the MP for messing up his life. When the police explained that wasn’t how it worked, Sam asked how it did work. They said that they would need to see evidence and decide whether to press charges. Sam said he’d think about it. He then returned a week or so later saying his flat had been burgled and the evidence stolen. But he was adamant he now wanted to press charges, as he felt ‘the powers that be’ had got wind of this and had it in for him, which is why they’d robbed the evidence from him.

  As this was now an investigation that stretched back a good few years, there was no physical evidence. This was just going to be Sam’s word against Sir Benedict’s. But Sam was also adamant that his best friend from the assessment centre would back him up and tell them the abuse had happened. That friend was, of course, me.

  Oh, God. This was not something I wanted to get into. I felt a pang of fear in my guts. Did I really want to take on the establishment when things were already going so badly for me?

  But it appeared I had a Get Out of Jail Free card.

  ‘What we are proposing is this. We are friends of Sir Benedict. He is a man of good character, at the peak of his career. It will be your word against his. Mr Korniskey is clearly an unstable individual.’

  Yeah, you got that right, mate. But maybe you need to ask yourself why?

  ‘And were you to corroborate his story, this could ruin your character on the stand in a court of law. It would be a very hard case to prove, and a decent barrister would make mincemeat out of two boys who’d been in care.’

  OK.

  ‘I believe you are in the process of trying to secure a loan to purchase new business premises in the North West?’

  How? How did he know that?

  ‘Unsuccessfully.’

  My eyes narrowed. This was like talking to God. He knew everything.

  ‘If you were to deny Mr Korniskey’s claims, this would be looked upon very favourably. And you would discover that you had several successful financial backers to help you in your transition.’

  Jesus. He was offering me some sort of deal?

  ‘So
, what? I say that Sam’s lying, and miraculously I get money for my new club?’

  ‘You wouldn’t even have to accuse your friend of lying. You could just claim innocence. That you don’t actually know.’

  We’d stopped. We were leaning on railings looking out onto the Thames. Today it looked like gravy.

  They wanted me to sell Sam down the Swannee – whoever they were. Which, the more I thought about it, meant this person was probably Benedict’s right-hand man.

  ‘I need time to think,’ I said. And I did.

  ‘I hear there are great things afoot in the North West. Liverpool, Manchester, all going to get complete makeovers.’

  ‘How much time have I got?’

  ‘If I were you, I’d expect to be hearing from the police in a matter of days.’

  Ah, the ticking bomb.

  ‘Give me half an hour.’ He looked taken aback that I might resolve this so quickly. ‘Meet me back at the steps to the bridge in half an hour.’

  He nodded, unsure whether this was promising or not; after all, I’d given nothing away.

  My heart was pounding in my chest. I ran. I ran through the side alleys of the South Bank, away from him, past stretches of grass, across streets, under barriers, till I found myself in Cardboard City. It’s not there any more, but it used to be this crucible of a shanty town: fires burning, makeshift boxes covered in old curtains, the smell of piss, the sound of groaning. I kicked a can. Some grey-looking fella with a nicotine beard looked up. I ignored him. I went and leaned against one of the concrete pillars that seemed to be holding up the roundabout above. One of the busiest intersections in London, and the homeless had used it as their umbrella. And I thought. And I thought.

  I had accused Benedict Bishop of this before. And I’d not been believed. And why?

  Two things. Firstly, I’d told a social worker who’d gone and repeated my accusations to a fellow abuser.

  Secondly, I’d had no evidence.

  All I had ever seen was Sam chatting with this fella. All I’d then seen was him clambering into his Rolls-Royce. And back then, Sam had told me he hadn’t laid a finger on him. Since then, the only things I knew were the hints that Sam had dropped when he’d reappeared in my life.

  But I couldn’t go back to this Alastair bloke and tell him it didn’t matter coz I didn’t know anything for FACT. There was nothing I’d witnessed, in terms of Bishop, with my own two eyes.

  But he didn’t know that.

  They were assuming Sam was telling the truth.

  If I went and told him, ‘OK, I’ll say nothing,’ I’d stand to make a lot of money here.

  Sixty K was a lot in those days. It still is, of course. But no-one else was going to get me that money right now.

  They wouldn’t know I was hiding an untruth. Or was it a truth? I was even confusing myself. Should I just step up to the plate and defend Sam?

  The bottom line was, I’d be a useless witness. I’d not seen anything; I’d be laughed out of the police station, never mind the court.

  But maybe I should talk to the police. Tell them what I’d told the social worker that day. Stand up against all the shit that went on that must have messed up so many lives.

  I was torn. The idea of the sixty grand kept spinning round my head like a boil wash.

  I looked around me at the squalor. I certainly didn’t want me or my wife or my kids to end up anywhere like this. And for what? To defend a lad who’d kicked off at my toddler? Sam? Off-his-face, talking-shite Sam?

  I looked back to the concrete buildings barring me from the steps to the bridge.

  I’d decide on my way to meet the bloke.

  I started to walk.

  Cally, 2014

  Aba says she’s going to call Mum about what happened at El Paisano.

  That is SO . . . UNFAIR!

  Why? Well, several reasons actually:

  One: I didn’t really do anything wrong.

  Two: I didn’t do any drugs – the staff at the restaurant put paid to that.

  And three: well, all of the above, really. Plus it was that stupid insect Iris who practically forced me into the toilets. If it was the sort of place that had CCTV cameras in it they’d have seen that, et ceterata n shiz. I was practically frogmarched to the loos, like something out of World War Two n shiz. Completely ridonculous. But oh no! I’m now officially the big bad wolf or something. When really I should be Little Miss Red Riding Hood, et ceteratalala.

  I quite like that. Et ceteratalala. Might start saying it. Might make it a thing.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering, you know, Aba,’ I say, like it really wasn’t a big deal.

  ‘Because, like Bimbi said, you need to learn that your actions have consequences.’

  God, she’s changed her tune. She’s come over all holier-than-thou. Whereas up until the ‘incident’ occurred she was half-cut on piña coladas ninety per cent of the time and getting on everyone’s tits with her non-stop twerking. Jeez! Talk about double standards!

  THIS WHOLE TRIP IS TWISTING MY MELON, GUY!

  Aba says everyone is really pissed off because the restaurant have banned us from going back and that’s seriously bad news as El Paisano was the only place Seth wanted to eat. Last time he was here he got food poisoning from a crab shack on the beach, and that’s put him off it for life. He’s now insisting the magazine provide him with his own personal chef while we either eat in the hotel or down on one of the salmonella stalls on said beach. Well, I’m more than happy with pizza, thank you.

  I seem to have gained some new-found respeck from those haughty knoblets that are the other models on the shoot – Angel and the severe lesbiany one – not Nancy, she’s always thought I was coolio inglesiarse. They give me the time of day now. And the severe lesbiany one even said she really liked my hair over breakfast this morning. Well, I say that; what she actually said was, ‘I covet your hair. It’s so . . .’

  ‘It’s a wig,’ I butted in. ‘I went prematurely bald because of the stress about my dad going.’

  ‘Really?!’

  ‘No.’ And then I tutted – which, when I think about it, is a bit rude – she was only being nice. So I take her a bottle of water later, when she’s shooting on the beach, and say something about her looking hot.

  Only as I walk away I think, ERMIGERDDDDD – hope she doesn’t think I meant hot as in sex on legs. So I turn round and call back, ‘As in temperature?’

  And she’s like, ‘Sorry?’

  So I explain, ‘Just in case you thought I was a total lez pants?’

  She looks back to Seth. Iris prods at her grass skirt.

  Every time I see Aba, I’m like, ‘Have you called her yet?’

  And she’s like, ‘I’m just about to,’ or ‘My phone’s dead,’ or ‘Mind your own, nosey Joan.’ No, I have no idea what that means either and it’s incredibly irritatingado.

  I think I might be depressed. I’m choosing to stay in my room more, rather than hang out on the beach with the others. Depression is no laughing matter, I’ve seen documentaries about it. And Stephen Fry’s got it. Oh my God. Maybe it only happens to super-brainy intelligent intellectuals like me and him. Maybe I’m like . . . a genius child. I’m sure there’s a word for it, only I can’t think of it.

  Oh God, I should really know that word. Especially if I’m so intelligent now.

  I go online on my iPad and do an IQ test to double check. But four questions in I know I’m doing really shit at it, so I switch it off. I think I got the IQ test for, like, forty-year-olds. I don’t understand half the things they’re asking me. And I’m fracking brainy! Imagine if thick people were doing it. They might take it really seriously and have no chance and be like, ‘Oh God, I’m really stupid.’ Whereas everyone knows it’s really cruel to let stupid people know they are stupid. We did it at school. In a lesson about tolerance. I remember turning to Keesha Lomax and saying, ‘I just want you to know I will never refer to your cousin as stupid.’

  And then th
e ungrateful haystack went on Twitter saying I had issues with people with learning difficulties. She hasn’t even got learning difficulties, she’s got Down’s Syndrome! God! Some people need to read a few books! I tweeted that back to her and did that full stop before the tweet so that THE WORLD gets to see it and join in. She tweeted back that I was digging myself a hole and then blocked me. Bitch.

  Aba eventually calls Mum. And calls her again. But each time, she can’t get hold of her. I hear that she doesn’t leave any messages and I twig that Aba’s as embarrassed as me. I’m meant to be in her care and a ‘bad thing’ happened. I say this to her. I do think it’s worth pointing out.

  ‘Aba?’

  ‘Yes, hon?’

  ‘Are you worried about telling Mum because she’ll go really ape and blame you rather than me coz you’re like a grown-up and I’ve not even left school and stuff?’

  She gives me a Bimbi-esque death stare.

  ‘I’m not going to play your mind games, Calista.’

  And I wander off, muttering under my breath, ‘Thanks for the heads up, babe.’

  She is. She’s totally pooeroonying her La Perla panties. It’s like every time I see her she’s probs doing these tiny smell-less ladyfarts. Bet you any money.

  Oh God! Major scandal!

  Angel has put the fear of God in all of us. Some guy from the restaurant we are now longer persona non grassy-arse at (or maybe it’s the other way around?), called Chino, named after the pants presumably, has been off sick from work since we were there (how she knows this I don’t know, but severe lesbiany one reckons Angel is giving blowjobs to one of the waiters in return for takeaway starters which she then eats in her room). And now Angel reckons she’s seen him in the bushes at the hotel, staring up at her balcony. She says she keeps seeing him, watching her. She gets quite hysterical one day and makes Aba get the hotel to call the police, who come and talk to her, with the receptionist from the hotel acting as an interpreter. I can just imagine what they’re saying.