HIDDEN SECRETS (3 page)

As soon as she heard the shower burst into action, Kate rushed into the kitchen and retrieved the photographs from the bin. She needed to hide them somewhere Ben wouldn’t look. The only place she could think of was her sewing box, so she hurriedly emptied the contents onto the carpet and placed the photographs inside. Replacing the spools of cotton untidily on top, she closed the lid.

          There was something niggling at the back of her mind, and she was compelled to discover the identity of the couple in the photographs. This could only be achieved by visiting Southpool, and she was determined to travel there the next morning. Ben didn’t have to know anything about it, as far as he was concerned the photos had been disposed of.

The shower fell silent, followed by Ben’s footsteps padding across the landing towards their bedroom. Ten minutes later, he appeared in the lounge doorway dressed in a pair of grey trousers and a black shirt. He looked smart and handsome, and Kate kissed him gently on his lips.

“That’s better,” he said with a smile.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier. Let’s not talk about it again,” she replied.

“Are you going to get changed love?”

“Yeah, I’ll be ten minutes,” she jumped up.

“Wear your red dress, the one with the black buttons,” he raised his eyebrows.

“It’s the middle of the day Ben, it’s far too revealing.”

“I know,” he replied with a provocative smile.

“I’m not wearing it,” she called over shoulder making her way up the stairs.

Kate’s mobile rang before she had chance to undress. Glancing at the screen, she recognised her mother’s number as it flashed across.

“Hi mum, how are you today?” she enquired cheerfully.

This was not the best way to start a conversation with her mother, who then spent five minutes relaying a blow by blow account of her inflamed bunions! Steering the conversation away from her ailments, Kate informed her she would not be accompanying her to visit her father’s grave.

“You know I hate going to the cemetery mum. It’s nothing personal, I remember my father in my own way,” she spoke quietly.

She didn’t need reminding that her father had died; he was in her thoughts constantly, especially today, the anniversary of his death. The image of his emaciated body ravaged by cancer was not a sight that could easily be forgotten. The thought of constantly visiting his grave was a depressing reminder she did not want to relive. Today she was going to keep her mind occupied with other thoughts.

“I’m sorry mum but I’ll have to go; we’ll call round to see you when Ben has a free weekend,” this seemed to pacify her and the call ended.

After taking a hurried shower, Kate dried her hair and slipped the red dress from its hanger. As she walked slowly down the stairs, a smile spread across her face. Ben loved to see her in the tight-fitting dress, and Kate relished in the sensuality it evoked. From the door- way she cleared her throat.

“I’m ready,” she whispered provocatively.

“Wow you look fantastic.” His eyes wandered slowly up and down her body and Kate felt a tingle of excitement as he slipped his arm around her waist. Then she was in his arms. Her eyes closed as he drew her close, and tenderly kissed her. When they parted she was breathless and flushed from the depth of his passion. 

“Let’s go,” Ben took her hand and she didn’t resist.

“Where are we going?”

“I thought we could try that new Italian in the high street, one of the girls in the office says it’s fantastic, and not too expensive,” he replied.

“And which girl would that be?”

“I don’t know her name, why do you ask?” he asked sharply.

“I’m only joking, its sound fine,” she replied with a smile.

Half an hour later, they sat down to order their meals in the newly opened restaurant, and spent an enjoyable afternoon in each other’s company. The food was excellent, and after a couple of glasses of wine, Kate became relaxed and sleepy. Neither of them mentioned the photographs, but Kate did not intend to forget about them. She knew there was a reason why she had received them, and she was determined to discover why. If she had known the consequences of her actions, she would have left them in the bin.

CHAPTER 2

Patrick Hinds opened his eyes and slowly lifted his head from the pillow. His mouth was dry and a dull throbbing pain surged across his forehead as he swung his legs out of bed. Vague images flashed through his mind as he recalled the previous evening. He had no memory of how he arrived home; the last thing he could remember was drinking with an old tramp in ‘Benny’s Bar,’ whose name now evaded him, but his appearance remained clear. He looked and smelled like an old sea dog, a musty unwashed smell that had lingered in his nostrils. Nicotine stained his white beard, and he barely had a tooth in his jaw. The few clothes he wore were threadbare and filthy; but despite his repulsive appearance, Pat had financed his drinking all evening.

      Perched on the edge of the bed, he held his head in his hands and sighed. How had he allowed his life to be ruled by alcohol? Without the excessive drinking he could have been the editor of a prestigious newspaper, instead of a discarded reporter covering news that no one wanted to read.

       At barely twenty three years old, he was awarded The Young Journalist of the Year, and presented with a cheque for £250. That was a lot of money in those times, but the accolade of winning the trophy had been the ultimate achievement for a young journalist. However, with it came the added pressure to maintain high standards, which he struggled to achieve. It was at this point in his career that his drinking began to escalate, and eventually take control. Still dwelling on the past, Pat turned to look at the glass trophy on the shelf. It was long forgotten and covered with dust and dirt, not too dissimilar from how his life had turned out. How much longer could he continue to abuse his body this way? How much longer would his body tolerate the abuse he mercilessly unleashed on it night after night? He knew his health was beginning to suffer as he finding it increasing difficult to eat, and his weight had plummeted. Together with the feelings of regret and guilt that constantly overwhelmed him, a deep depression plagued him and persisted for days at a time. It was because of his heavy drinking that his wife had left him and taken their young son with her over thirty years ago. His son Greg, had been only two years old at the time, and Pat had missed seeing him growing up. He too had been very young, too young to be a father. At twenty one years old he could barely look after himself let alone a wife and child. The drink helped, but then it started to take over his life. His wife Trisha had taken Greg to her mother’s while he was out drinking, leaving a note on the kitchen table. At the time he thought she would be back in a few days, but he was never to see either of them again. Trisha may have seemed young and naïve but she wasted no time in filing for a divorce, and convinced the courts that her husband was an inapt parent, with a chronic drinking problem. Consequently he was denied access to his child at all times until he could verify he had stopped drinking. This was to prove to be an impossible task, and Pat gave up any ideas of ever seeing his family again. Perhaps he didn’t want reconciliation, even though he missed his son, he did experience a degree of release from the huge responsibility. Later in life though, he realised how wrong he had been. If he had tried harder he could have turned his life around, but it was easier to walk away and take solace from the bottle. He later heard that after Trisha had remarried and taken Greg to live abroad with her new husband, but it was never confirmed.

        Greg would now be in his thirties; perhaps even married with children of his own. Or had he followed in his father’s footsteps and become an alcoholic? Because that’s what he was and he could deny it no longer, Pat Hinds was an alcoholic; and it was time to stop, before it stopped him. The words sounded ironically familiar because he had tried to stop drinking before, but only because his job was in jeopardy. A local support group had seemed a good idea at the time, but after the first meeting he had convinced himself he didn’t have a problem and never attended again. It was a totally humiliating experience which had left him in need of a drink and consequently, he spent the rest of the evening draining a bottle of 25 year old single malt. He never felt the urge to discuss his drinking habits with a bunch of strangers ever again.

      He was reminded of his own father now. As a young boy, there were many times when his father would come staggering along the cobbled streets falling drunkenly though the front door. His parents were both of Irish descent, but moved to England where his father drifted from one menial job to another drinking most of what he earned. When he died prematurely ten years later, his mother was left to rear four children single-handedly. Through the years, she constantly reminded him of the perils of the demon drink, but as soon as he was old enough to work he began to get a taste for alcohol. Perhaps it was in his genes inherited from his father, or a form of escapism, but he didn’t want to die prematurely like him; it was time to do something about it.    

        Rising to his feet, he headed in the direction of the bathroom where he caught a glimpse of his drink ravaged reflection in the mirror. Sunken eyes and three days of beard growth aged him beyond his fifty six years. His hair was thick with grease and plastered to his head, and his sallow skin exuded an aura of severe illness. Turning away from the disturbing image, he filled the basin with cold water and splashed the icy liquid onto his haggard face. The temperature of the water awakened his senses as he dragged a towel roughly across skin. Fingering his stubbly chin, he contemplated shaving in an attempt to improve his disgusting appearance. Reaching into the wall cabinet for the necessary equipment, his hands trembled as he selected an old disposable razor and a can of shaving foam. As carefully as possible, he drew the blade over his cheeks and under his chin, but his trembling hands were out of his control and blood dripped into the white basin. Cursing his clumsiness, he dabbed the cuts with tissue and continued, determined to finish the task. Feeling slightly better, he turned on the shower and stepped into the stream of cold water. Picking up the first bottle of coloured fluid he found, regardless to its contents he washed his hair and body in record time. Minutes later, he stood wrapped in a towel shivering from head to foot inspecting the contents of his antiquated wardrobe. The only half decent outfit he could find was an old suit which had been hanging there for at least a decade. A shabby once white shirt hung next to it, and he snatched the garments from the rail and dressed.

        The transformation was quite astonishing, and Pat admired the clean-shaven reasonably dressed figure in the mirror.

“Not bad Pat,” he spoke the words aloud. “Now let’s clean this shithole up.

He glanced around at the filthy surroundings. Within no time, Pat had filled three black bin bags with empty bottles, newspapers, old clothes, cigarette cartons and anything else that had no place in his reformed life. He was determined to clean up his tainted existence and get away from the grip of alcohol which was threatening to drag him into the gutter, which seemed just a few steps away.

When he was satisfied with the appearance of the flat, he picked up his mobile phone and scrolled down his contacts list.

“Hi Danny, it’s Pat, I need to see you.”

“What’s up Pat, are you broke again?”

“I’m always broke, but I want to come back.”

“Are you drunk Pat.”

“Of course not I’m finished with the bottle. Can we meet at lunch time; say one o’clock at Benny’s?”

“Sure thing Pat but you’d better be serious; you’ve said all this before.”

“I am serious this time. I’ll see you later Danny, thanks mate.”

Danny Wilder was Pat’s only life-line. Anyone who had never met him could be mistaken for analysing his character from his appearance. A small man of no more than five foot three, Danny possessed a very loud voice and intimidating manner which seemed out of place given his generous personality. He had earned a reputation as a tough editor who would not tolerate substandard journalism in his office. Pat had learnt all he knew from this man, and he had let him down badly, yet still he stood by him. It was now Pat’s turn to repay the favour in full.

        Replacing his phone into his jacket pocket, Pat smiled to himself. This was the beginning of his new life, his last chance to sober up and regain a degree of self discipline and respect. The other option was to be controlled by demons. Or dying in squalor in a filthy back street, choking on his own vomit. He would be remembered as a hopeless alcoholic who achieved nothing in his life. That was not going to happen. Patrick Hinds was back and he was going straight to the top without a drink in his hand, but first he had to convince Danny that he could be trusted. He had abused the one man who had stood by him without passing judgement, always making sure he had enough work to keep him off the streets. This time it would be different; he was filled with the same intense hunger to succeed that had driven him to the top as young man and he wanted it back.