Sworn Secret

by Amanda Jennings

  Lizzie moved the paper and pens to the floor and then climbed on to the desk, one knee at a time, trying to ignore its wobble. Then she carefully swung each leg out of the window, gripped the frame with both hands, and lowered her head beneath the sash to ease the top half of her body outside. Her heart pumped. She didn’t look down. If she did she might think of falling, and she couldn’t think of falling. She tried to distract her mind, tried to concentrate on herself, her body, the feel of the cool rain on her warm skin, anything to keep away her dark thought of Anna. But the dark thought fought back, pushed itself out of the shadows in her head where it prowled day and night. She closed her eyes and winced. Now it was here it wouldn’t go away. She would have to indulge it, but only for a moment: any longer and its ugliness would begin to crawl beneath her skin. She took a deep breath and readied herself. Then she closed her eyes.

  Immediately, Anna was there. She was standing on the edge of the roof. Her arms were outstretched. Lizzie could feel her sister’s blood fizzling, little bubbles of adrenalin rising and bursting inside her like champagne. Anna wanted to fly. She wanted more than this world could offer her. There were tears. They glittered like tiny diamonds embedded in her eyes. Lizzie wanted to call out to her, but like in a dream her voice was muted. Lizzie had to watch, helpless to stop her, as Anna leapt like a glorious angel, her hair billowing out behind her, ecstasy shining out of her like the beam of a lighthouse. And then Lizzie felt the familiar sickness. The sky behind Anna turned a deep, gunmetal grey. Her luminescence faded. Lizzie shook her head. It was time to shoo the thought away. If she stayed with this imagining of Anna taking her own life, of leaving without a goodbye or even a note, unable to talk to her own sister, she’d feel too sick to breathe.

  Your sister didn’t jump. She fell. It was an accident.

  Lizzie made herself think of the rain again. She turned her face upwards. The drops were falling harder now, almost tropical.

  Your sister didn’t jump.

  Then as quickly as the thought had shown itself, it was safely hidden away and she was suddenly aware of how soaked she was, of how wet her shirt and jeans were, how the fabrics clung to her. She felt the rain running down her cheek and into her mouth, fresh and cold, down her neck and chest. How glorious! Her arms became peppered with goose bumps and she shivered. Then she smiled. She could feel it again, the change in her, Lizzie-the-Adult pushing out of her shrivelling childish cocoon like a spectacular butterfly. It was exciting. Exhilarating. The promise of so much unknown.

  She eased herself back into her room and wrapped her wet arms around her body. She shivered again, this time from the cold alone. She rubbed her hands against the tops of her arms to warm herself, gripped herself, dug her fingers into her skin. Then she closed her eyes and imagined the hands weren’t hers. They were his. They belonged to him. Her him. A him with no name, no face even, but a him who wanted her, who yearned for her. A boy who loved her so much he would do anything for her: sail seven seas, slay dragons, even die for her.

  She squeezed her eyes tighter and leant closer to him, opening her lips just a fraction in case he was about to kiss her, hoping and hoping and hoping he would.

  The Colour Grey

  In the next-door room Kate sat on the bed and stared out of the window. She stared past the trailing raindrops and over the rooftops to somewhere much further away. Visions of a previous incarnation of herself flashed through her mind, numbing her. Visions of her young self, happy, sublimely unaware of the unfathomable sadness she would one day feel. A free spirit who skipped in the streets and laughed until she cried, who walked the city pavements barefoot in the sunshine, pavements of the very same city that all the while watched, passive and silent, as her life within its walls crumbled to nothing.

  When she first arrived in London, centuries ago it felt like, she imagined she’d crash-landed in heaven. Seventeen, wrinkle-and cynicism-free, excited by the opportunities this place could give her. She was determined to make the most of every single one. It was like stepping into Wonderland. A kaleidoscope of characters bustled along golden paving, busying about each other like insects, scuttling from one corner of the city to another. Kate would lie awake those first few nights with blood pumping through her heart like she’d run a hundred miles. Sirens flew past on a road outside her window that growled like a thousand bees twenty-four hours a day. Drunken voices laughed and fought. An orange glow from the street lamps sent unidentifiable shadows dancing across the ceiling hand in hand with smells of the next-door kebab shop, of rubbish bins and exhaust fumes. Kate felt alive then, woven into the fabric of this magnificent, filthy, wondrous city. That first year so many things happened to her, each one revealing a little more of a self she wasn’t aware of. She lost her virginity. Passed out from alcohol. Smoked marijuana on the top deck of the number thirty-seven. The following year she pierced three holes in her left ear, a few weeks later her nose. She marched against the poll tax and skinny-dipped in the Serpentine. These were the moments of Kate’s youth. She unfolded like a rose, nourished by the smoggy vigour of London Town.

  But staring across the rain-drenched buildings of Brook Green and Hammersmith, with Chiswick, Hounslow and Heathrow somewhere beyond, she could see nothing of the wondrousness that once held her so captivated. Kate’s tear-blurry eyes searched for the honeyed colours, but all that was left were shades of grey. Losing a child will do that, you see. Losing a child turns everything grey, settles over life like a dirty shroud, sucking the joy out as it smothers every last thing.

  Kate lay back on the bed and turned on her side, tucking her hands beneath her cheek, pulling her knees into her chest. She wished she’d been able to tell Stephen to cancel the memorial. But it just wasn’t that easy in the end. He’d been to so much trouble, put so much time and thought into remembering Anna, and Kate knew how important it was to remember her. Remembering Anna bled her days dry, left little of herself for anything else, desperate as she was to keep Anna alive in her head. It wasn’t always easy, and sometimes, when her memories were hazy, harder to come by, a panic consumed her, so violent she often passed out, only to wake moments later, weak and nauseous on the floor.

  A knock on the door dragged her from her thoughts. She lifted her head from her hands and saw Lizzie.

  ‘Hi, Mum,’ her daughter said. ‘Can I get you anything from the kitchen?’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  Kate laid her head back on the pillow to avoid the despondency in her daughter’s eyes. She wondered what harm could have come from thanking her and asking for a drink of water or a ham sandwich. Lizzie was such a good girl. So soft and gentle. So caring. Kate knew she wasn’t being fair. She found it too easy to withdraw herself from Lizzie, so much easier than engaging and risking seeing Anna in her sister’s mannerisms, of hearing her echoed in Lizzie’s voice, of glimpsing Lizzie out of the corner of her eye, having her mind trick her into believing she was Anna, alive, then the crushing realization when she looked again and saw it wasn’t Anna, but only Lizzie. At times like this she had no choice but to walk away from her youngest child, for fear the sweet thing might see her disappointment.

  ‘Thank you, though,’ she managed.

  Lizzie didn’t move from the door. ‘Can I lie down with you?’

  Kate’s stomach pitched and a lump grew in her throat. She nodded and lifted her arm. Lizzie lay on the bed and pushed herself into her mother, her back to Kate’s front. Kate lowered her arm and held Lizzie to her, then she moved her head until her lips rested lightly against her daughter’s head. Her hair was wet and cold.

  ‘You’ve not been out in this rain, have you?’ she asked.

  Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, I just had a quick shower.’

  ‘Good,’ Kate said, closing her eyes, and breathing Lizzie in. ‘I don’t want you catching pneumonia.’

  ‘I know, Mum.’

  The Stranger’s Second Photograph

  There were six people in the photograph: a man, the man’s parents, h
is wife and their two daughters. They were on a rocky outcrop. In the Lake District. The sky behind them was navy blue with splashes of wispy cloud. Jon could hear the screech of the red kite that circled above them, unseen in the photo, but there nonetheless, searching beneath it for prey. The six people all looked happy. He could hear them laughing. He remembered putting his arms around each of the girls. Hugging them to him. Telling them to smile as the stranger pointed the camera hopefully at them. The stranger pressed the button. Then the stranger told them he would take another one just to be on the safe side. He heard his father thank the stranger and the stranger waved and rejoined his wife. They walked on while his family rearranged themselves, tied laces, unscrewed a bottle of water and passed it between them. Kate’s jacket was around her waist. She wore trainers. His parents wore walking boots, of course, with thick khaki socks turned over their tops – mighty hiking warriors, Kate had whispered with a giggle when they’d appeared in the reception area of the bed and breakfast.

  His father carried the rucksack and map, and his special walking stick, the extendable one that looked like a ski pole, which Jon and Kate had given him for Christmas. Jon remembered how happy his father had been with it. He walked around the garden in Chiswick in the wet snow that didn’t stick, thrusting the pole in front of him, unaware he was being watched and affectionately mocked by the rest of them through the kitchen window.

  Jon stared at the photo. Those smiling faces. Blissful in their ignorance of what lay in wait. He stroked the tip of his finger over the face of his dead daughter. Then his father, strong and dignified, so different from the frail man being consumed day by day by an illness that fed on that very strength and dignity. Jon looked at his mother. The comb in her hair – like the kite, out of sight but there. Her face was kissed brown by the sunshine they’d enjoyed that week. Seven days of dusty August heat. Jon remembered Kate asking his mother to hold her watch while she put sun cream on her arms and face. He saw her hands rubbing. He remembered feeling desire for her, remembered leaning close to her and telling her so, remembered her lifting her eyebrows and mouthing a promise of herself. His wife. Kate. Destroyed. And, lastly, he looked at Lizzie. His precious girl. Tossed into a world of misery and silence, all the happiness drained out of it, the people around her struggling to cope, her needs so poorly met. She deserved more.

  He shut the album. Then straightened his tie and took a deep, full breath.

  ‘It’s time we left!’ he called up the stairs.

  He went into the kitchen and grabbed the car keys from the bowl. When he went back into the hall, Lizzie was at the bottom of the stairs.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked.

  She nodded and smiled. ‘You?’

  He didn’t attempt a reply, worried in case he found himself unable to speak. Instead he reached for her hand.

  ‘Lizzie and I will wait in the car!’ he called again. ‘Is she ready?’ he asked his daughter.

  Lizzie shrugged. ‘Your bedroom door was closed. I didn’t want to disturb her.’

  He handed her the keys. ‘Go and get yourself strapped in. We’ll be out in a sec.’

  Kate was sitting on the end of their bed. When he got near her she looked up. She seemed terrified, her pale fragility accentuating her striking beauty, and as always he was surprised how she took his breath.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I think we should leave, don’t you?’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not quite ready.’

  ‘Don’t worry; we’ve time yet.’

  ‘This is awful, isn’t it?’

  Jon nodded.

  Kate’s red and puffy eyes pooled with fresh tears. She lifted a raggedy scrap of tissue and dabbed at them. ‘I must look a real mess.’

  ‘You look fine.’

  She breathed deeply and sniffed. ‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ she whispered.

  ‘You’ll be fine. It’s just a school service and it’s only an hour. It’s for the kids, her friends. It’s a nice thing for the school to do.’

  Kate shook her head and uncurled her fingers from his. Her eyes were fixed on the carpet. ‘I can’t go back there. I can’t. I . . .’ She shook her head, unable to finish her sentence.

  He knelt at her feet and stroked her hand. ‘You don’t have to come, you know,’ he said softly.

  Then she shot him a look, suddenly accusatory, incredulous. ‘I’m her mother,’ she said, enunciating each word with deliberate restraint. ‘Of course I have to come.’

  He stood and nodded once. ‘Lizzie and I will be in the car,’ he said. ‘Take whatever time you need.’

  Chalk and Cheese

  Lizzie found it hard to look at anything else but her music teacher, who was flinging herself around to the disharmonies of the school band like some drugged-up druid casting demons out of village folk. Anna wouldn’t have approved. She hated Mrs Goldman. Most of them did. She was one of those teachers who was all at once ridiculous, humourless and ferociously hormonal, and double music was universally torturous.

  Lizzie forced a glance at her mum. Her heart sank. She looked tranquillised, her eyes glazed and distant, no doubt desperate to protect herself from this day, the whining music, the dreary hall, the acrid smell of chip fat and pizza wafting in from the kitchens making the stuffy air almost unbreathable. Lizzie crossed both sets of fingers and prayed for the hundredth time that her mum kept a hold of herself. The possibility of repeating Anna’s funeral turned her blood to ice. Though she’d mostly managed to block that day out of her head, there were always the occasional flashbacks that turned her stomach inside out. No, better her mum stayed safely tucked away wherever she was, somewhere mundane, with the week’s shopping list, perhaps, or maybe beside the sea in a long-ago memory.

  She looked away from her mum, drawn back against her will to Mrs Goldman who was mid-flourish, dragging the hotchpotch ensemble, squeaking and crashing, to their final note. The woman held quivering hands aloft and teased the discord to nothing more than an awkward silence during which the audience wondered whether they were supposed to clap. In unison they decided against it, and instead there was a rustling of paper as photocopied service sheets were consulted blindly.

  Anna’s memorial. An hour to think about Anna. It was laughable. Lizzie didn’t think there’d been a single hour in the whole of the last year when she hadn’t thought about Anna. An hour of oblivion might be more satisfying. Yes, how lovely, she thought, Anna’s existence, past and present, obliterated by sixty minutes of blissful amnesia.

  Her sister’s face beamed out of a huge screen that hung at the back of the stage, the hum of the overhead projector underwriting her beauty. Lizzie marvelled for the umpteenth time how different they were. Beautiful, glamorous Anna, with her rosy cheeks and thick chestnut hair that shone like a varnished conker, her womanly curves and blinding self-confidence. On top of all that, she was popular and cool, the girl to know, whilst scrawny, freckled Lizzie, with blonde hair that stood in a permanent static halo around her head, was studious, flat-chested and forever referred to as ‘Anna Thorne’s little sister’. As far as she was concerned she was Anna’s echo, arriving a little later, a little fainter. There were eighteen months between them but nobody would have been surprised if it had been double that. How unusual, people always said, for sisters to look so different! Are you sure you’re actually sisters? Lizzie had never been a hundred per cent.

  ‘We can’t be, Mum, I mean . . . look at us!’

  But her mum assured her they were.

  Lizzie loved Anna deeply, idolized her. Anna was the funniest, most charismatic person Lizzie had ever met, and though it could sometimes be a bit chilly in Anna’s shadow, Lizzie wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  Lizzie came back to earth with a jolt and realized that Dr Howe had started speaking. She focused on what he was saying, but quickly wished she hadn’t bothered. His words made her feel somehow uneasy, melodramatically perched as they were on the edge of emotion. He called Anna an angel in Heaven, the epitom
e of everything one could wish for in a young woman, so much potential extinguished like a candle; the world was a desperate place for losing her. He knew she’d stay alive in the hearts and minds of all of those present. He knew she’d be in his. Lizzie couldn’t believe he could even think up such pompous words, and what on earth gave him the right to speak about Anna like that?

  She tuned his voice out, and as she did her thoughts settled on the night Anna died. It was still so vivid; she could recall every creak of the floorboards, the smells around her; she even imagined she could remember the sound of tiny insects scuttling in the boards beneath her carpet, the bed bugs in her mattress, the spider spinning a web in the corner of her room. She also remembered how hot the night was, the type of hot that makes sleep sweaty and fitful so that when the phone rang at two in the morning she might well have been awake already. Then the harrowing wail from her mum that she still heard in her frequent nightmares. A door banging. Her mum screaming. Her parents’ feet thumping down the stairs. Her stomach fizzing with dread as she went out to the landing blinking in the harsh electric light. When she called to them from the banister they looked up at her as if she were an unexpected stranger, their faces drained of colour, both shaking like skeleton leaves in a storm.

  ‘There’s been an acci—’ Lizzie’s father’s voice dried up before he could finish.

  ‘What accident?’ Lizzie asked.

  Then her mum collapsed and a noise came out of her like she’d been speared, and that was pretty much the moment that Lizzie knew her big sister was gone.

  Remembering Anna

  It was worse than Kate imagined it could be. She felt faint and resentful, claustrophobic in this manufactured ceremony of grief and celebration. Stephen’s voice sent surge after surge of nausea billowing up inside her. The sickly sweet tone of his voice, the politician’s hand gestures, the pumped-up gravitas. She wished she could stop him talking. She wished that dreadful woman would start up the awful band again, anything to stop his voice.