Sworn Secret (16 page)

‘I was rather looking forward to pudding,’ he said.

‘Don’t worry,’ Lizzie replied. ‘There’s tinned peaches. We’ll have those. And I’ll make some Bird’s. We haven’t had that for ages.’

He walked over to Lizzie and kissed her head.

He was surprised to find Kate in their bedroom. He expected her to be in her studio painting Anna with that frantic desperation that terrified him, convinced as he was that the behaviour was the outward manifestation of some morbid insanity. He had raised his concern once. It was five weeks after the funeral, and Kate had shocked him with her calm and reasoned response. She didn’t shout or cry, she just explained in even tones that it helped, that painting had always been a form of self-help for her, ever since she was a child. She described the panic attacks that took her. Told him how painting eased them, and that it was her alternative to medication and, far from being detrimental, it was a positive vent for her grief until she eventually came to terms with Anna’s death. But it had been over a year and Jon could see no sign of his wife coming to terms with anything. She was shutting herself away more and more. The painting wasn’t working. If anything it was holding her back. She needed something else. Maybe Rachel’s insinuations were right; maybe Kate needed a doctor, but he knew if he brought it up again, she wouldn’t be reasoned, she’d be angry, defensive, like a wounded tiger. She’d shout, question his love and support, his patience. Then she’d say that painting was the only thing that helped her, and he would feel bleak with inadequacy.

He sat beside her on the edge of the bed and stared out of the window as she did.

‘Did you forget the ice-cream?’

She didn’t move.

‘It doesn’t matter. Lizzie’s making custard. Would you like some?’

‘I lied. I didn’t go out for ice-cream. I was with Rebecca.’

Kate’s voice was expressionless. Her eyes were fixed. She looked numb, just like she had after she’d lost it in the playground. Panic surged, and he gripped the bedstead.

‘Please tell me you didn’t do anything. You’re not allowed anywhere near her. Kate, what did you do?’

‘I didn’t
do
anything.’

Jon breathed again.

‘She’s not pressing charges.’

‘What?’

‘Rebecca isn’t going to press charges.’

‘Oh, my God, Kate! That’s fantastic news!’ He sat next to her on the bed. ‘So that’s it? Nothing’s going to happen to you? No charges, no courts, no nothing?’

Kate shook her head.

‘Thank God! Thank God, thank God,’ he said. He put his hands on his hips and blew against his fringe. Relief washed through him, flushing out the anxiety that had dogged him since the memorial. ‘I’ve been so worried, Kate. I don’t think I even knew how much until just now. Christ, the thought of you going to court, maybe even—’

He stopped short of
prison
and looked at his wife. He noticed, then, how pale her face was, pale with tight lips, body rigid like stone.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘Aren’t you relieved?’

Kate didn’t look at him. She stretched out her hand and opened her fingers to reveal a phone. It wasn’t hers. Jon assumed she meant him to take it, so he did.

‘I need you to see if there are any films on it.’

‘What?’

‘She said there’s proof.’ Kate nodded at the mobile in his hand as if it smelt of shit. ‘On that phone. I need you to look. She told me things about Anna. Lies.’ Kate’s voice began to drift away. ‘I know she’s lying . . . I need you to check.’

‘What lies?’ Jon didn’t understand. ‘What did Rebecca say? You shouldn’t have talked to her . . . you know—’

Kate whipped her head round to look at him. ‘Just look at the fucking video!’

Jon shook his head, beaten by Kate’s temper. He didn’t want a row, not with Lizzie waiting for him downstairs. He sighed and sat back down on the bed, this time on the corner, away from Kate, his back to her. He brought up the menu on the mobile and began to scroll through the videos. A few seconds of girls in school uniform pulling faces. A different girl laughing hysterically, tears rolling down her rounded cheeks. Then boys playing football.

‘This is idiotic,’ he said, stopping the football film and scrolling to the next. ‘It’s just films of kids mucking about at school. It’s—’ And then . . . ‘Oh my God,’ he breathed.

‘What?’ Kate was at his feet, on her knees, her face stricken. ‘What is it? Please tell me it’s not her. Please, Jon. I’m begging you. Please tell me it’s not Anna.’

Jon didn’t reply. He couldn’t. His voice was strangled by what played out on the tiny screen. His throat tightened around his breath and his eyesight faltered. He wanted to throw the phone away, as far as he could, crush it, burn it, but at the same time he couldn’t let go of it. There she was. Not dead. Alive. But not how he remembered her. He felt something – a knife? – ram into his stomach. Her skin was flawless and her body like a delicate lily, and there was a man. Could it be him? Swamping her. Thrusting himself into her fragility.

Jon watched in horror, the knife in his stomach twisting, slicing his insides to pieces. His hand uncurled and the mobile fell to the floor. He staggered out of the room towards the bathroom, away from the film and Kate’s curdling moans, begging a God she’d never believed in to help her, her shivering, wretched, mother’s body rocking.

He was sick, his stomach emptying with the revulsion. When he felt able to stand he splashed his face with cold water and walked back into their room. Kate was on the floor, kneeling, as if praying, staring at the mobile phone in her quivering hands, and her head shook with disbelief as the sounds of Stephen Howe having sex with their child dirtied the air around them.

A Borrowed Scarf

Lizzie’s heart raced as she leapt up the stairs two at a time. Since she’d last seen him, the seconds had passed like hours. She hadn’t been able to sleep the night before. It was worse than Christmas Eve. She still couldn’t believe he’d killed a wasp with his bare hands! He was amazing!

She flung open her wardrobe and stared at the neatly hanging clothes inside. After a few minutes’ staring she wondered why she hadn’t noticed how dreadful her clothes were until this very minute. Not one thing screamed
wear me
; it all just hung there looking sheepish.

Twenty fraught minutes later her room lay scattered with every item she owned, discarded victims of a desperate frenzy. She stood amidst the aftermath in her bra and pants, despairing and chewing the corner of her thumbnail. What would Anna have worn? Again she searched the floor for signs of life. But there was nothing. She pictured Anna – she always looked great, easily chic, her clothes a stylish mix of fashion and individuality. Then she thought of those very clothes hanging unworn in the cupboard next door.

You can’t
, she told herself firmly.
You just can’t.

The other side of Lizzie tried to work out whether Anna would actually mind. She closed her eyes and conjured her there, sat her on the corner of the desk, and tried to imagine what she would say if she asked to borrow something for her special date.

Of course
, thought this other side of Lizzie.
She would have grinned!

She could see her, right there on the corner of her desk, grinning like the happiest Cheshire cat.

‘Go for it,’ she said. ‘Raid away. It’s not like I can wear them any more.’

Lizzie smiled at her. Then she glanced at her clock. Fifteen minutes until she was supposed to leave, and she still hadn’t tamed her hair or put any make-up on.

She hesitated outside Anna’s room, her hand hovering over the door handle. ‘It’s just clothes,’ she whispered.

Anna’s room was museum-quiet and as clean as a pin. Her mum went in there every other day to dust and polish. The alarm clock was kept to the right time, the spider plant on the window sill was watered and trimmed, she even opened and shut the curtains every morning and every night. Lizzie knew a psychiatrist would probably think it was wrong, but she liked that her mum did it. She wasn’t sure she’d want Anna’s things to be packed into boxes for Oxfam, her bed collapsed and the sheets folded in the airing cupboard. It seemed right to keep the room as Anna had it. It would feel like they had rubbed her out of their lives if they didn’t. And anyway, Lizzie loved Anna’s room; it was a peaceful, contemplative place, and if she ever felt that the little things were getting on top of her, like some of the nastier girls at school or exams, a few minutes sitting quietly on the floor in her sister’s room absorbing the vibes always helped. In her room, nothing else mattered. How could anything matter as much as losing your sister? It helped with perspective. There were even times, when Lizzie was feeling especially lonely, that she climbed into Anna’s bed and pulled the duvet right up to her chin and lay there until the pain in her stomach eased. But standing in front of the wardrobe about to steal, she didn’t feel comforted. She felt treacherous. She chewed on the corner of her thumb. But then again, all those clothes, attracting moths, gathering dust, becoming musty . . .

Lizzie took a deep breath and opened the cupboard door. She stared at the clothes. Each item brought a violent flash of Anna wearing it like a slide show; each sweater, shirt, skirt, pair of trousers, threw up Anna at her in the garden, on the beach, on the sofa watching TV, shopping in Hammersmith on Christmas Eve.

Her eyes settled on the red and orange scarf. It was Anna’s favourite and she wore it all the time. Lizzie remembered so clearly the small stab of envy at the casual swathe around her neck, the perfect length of scarf that hung each side, the loop exactly the right distance below her chin, just a simple striped Topshop scarf that belonged on the catwalk. Lizzie shook the memory away. ‘Just choose something quickly,’ she whispered out loud. Then she grabbed herself an outfit – a pair of combat-style black trousers, a grey T-shirt with a pop-arty picture of Elvis Presley and the striped scarf. She gazed at the neat row of shoes and boots. It seemed such a shame to be stuck with her grubby old trainers, but what else could she do? Her feet were still two sizes smaller than Anna’s had been.

With the clothes clutched to her chest she shut the cupboard door, made sure the room was as she found it, then ducked back to her own bedroom and closed the door behind her. She changed, then checked her reflection.

As she did her stomach pitched.

She lifted her hand to block her face out of the reflection and there was Anna again, but this time standing right in front of her, her hand held up to mask her face.

Lizzie sat down on her bed, and pulled her knees tight into her chest. She was paralysed by guilt, a sudden all-consuming guilt about taking her clothes to meet Haydn. Anna’s boyfriend. As she allowed the guilt to settle, it began to build in layers, guilt on top of guilt. Not just the clothes and Haydn, but guilt that she was alive, still able to dress up and have fun, the one who could kiss and laugh, who wasn’t buried in a tacky brass urn in the unfriendly, characterless graveyard two and a half miles away.

When she finally felt able to move, she slowly turned her head and looked at the clock. She was late, but even so, she couldn’t get up. She stared at the clock waiting for her strength to return. Eventually, she pushed herself upright and swung her legs on to the floor. She took a few full breaths, then stood, allowing her head to settle. She took her long winter coat out of her cupboard and started to button it up. Two buttons done, she hesitated. Would her mother think it strange she was wearing a heavy coat in this weather? Would she make her take it off? Then see her wearing Anna’s clothes? Lizzie shuddered at the thought. She buttoned it all the way to her chin; she’d blag it, blame it on a slight chill or something.

When Lizzie poked her head around the kitchen door, her mum was staring out of the window. She held a carrot and a potato peeler loosely in her hands.

‘I’m going to the library,’ Lizzie said. ‘I’ll be back after lunch.’

Her mum turned and Lizzie saw she was crying again; she didn’t need to worry about her noticing the coat, at least.

‘You can’t.’ Flat, uncompromising, a voice that offered no option.

‘What?’ Lizzie’s tummy started to fizz. ‘I’ve got a project to hand in, and the information I need is in the library.’

‘But you’ve finished your exams.’

‘Well,’ she said, faltering. ‘We still have homework, and . . . I’ve got GCSEs next year. Remember?’

‘You can do it tomorrow.’

‘It’s Sunday tomorrow.’

Her mum looked at the carrot in her hand as if she were surprised to find it there, then drew the peeler unenthusiastically down its length, allowing the ribbon of skin to fall to the floor unnoticed.

‘The library will be shut,’ Lizzie persisted.

‘Not in the morning.’

Lizzie nodded vigorously. ‘It’s shut. I promise.’

‘No, they extended the hours. It’s open till noon on Sundays.’

‘But I need to go now.’ Lizzie was panicking. She had to see Haydn. If she didn’t, she’d die.

‘Uncle Daniel’s coming in from New York.’

‘But I have plans. I—’

Her mum then seemed to find some life from somewhere. Her eyes fixed on Lizzie. ‘You can work tomorrow. Uncle Daniel will be upset if you’re not here.’

Lizzie knew Uncle Daniel wouldn’t give two hoots whether she was there or not. She spoke to him on the telephone once a year on Christmas Day for approximately a minute and a half, to say thank you for the present her dad had bought her from him. The last birthday he’d remembered was her eighth. He came over for Anna’s funeral, but left the next morning, and if he had spoken to Lizzie then she certainly couldn’t recall it. ‘What if I go for a couple of hours—’
Enough time for some kissing and a coffee
, she thought ‘—and get back to see him after?’

‘Lizzie, I’m not talking about this any more. Get upstairs. Get that coat off. Then come back down and help me with lunch.’

Her mum was getting cross. Lizzie looked at the floor. She was wary of upsetting her, especially given how upset she was already, but not seeing Haydn? It was too unbearable for words.