Sworn Secret (18 page)

‘But that’s just it. They won’t throw away the key. Do you know how long these men get? Even if he does get sent to prison, which isn’t certain anyway, he’ll get, what, a year? Maybe eighteen months. How is that justice? We’ll end up feeling cheated.’ He paused. ‘And what about Lizzie?’

Kate screamed at him then. How dare he use Lizzie as an excuse? She questioned his love for Anna, called him names, insinuated he was too scared to face the truth. She had needed a fight, a diversion from everything she was feeling, so she’d pushed and pushed; the things she said to him got meaner and meaner. But rather than shout back, rather than give her what she wanted, he turned away from her. He took his pillow and the throw from the foot of the bed and walked out of their room, and she was left alone with nothing but her own vindictiveness, a suffocating miasma around her.

In the morning they’d tried to talk again, but it was clear he was never going to see her point of view.

‘I don’t care any more,’ she said. ‘I’m going to see him. I need him to know I know. I can’t explain why. I just do. If you can’t face it I’ll go alone.’

Jon stared at her and she held his gaze, set her mouth, crossed her arms. She could tell he was beaten. It was in his eyes – he was emotionally spent – and sure enough, a moment later he gave a weary nod. ‘OK. We’ll go.’

‘Are you both all right?’ Angela asked again.

Kate’s legs felt like jelly.

‘Is this something to do with Elizabeth and Haydn?’

It took a moment for Kate to register Angela’s question. ‘Lizzie and Haydn?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘About them seeing each other?’

‘Seeing each other?’ Confused and wrong footed, Kate searched Angela’s face for explanation.

‘Oh, didn’t you know?’ Saccharine sweet. ‘Clearly, young Elizabeth’s been keeping secrets from you. Teenagers!’ She shook her head indulgently. ‘She came here about an hour ago. They’ve gone for a walk together. They’ve been spending quite a bit of time in each other’s company since,’ she paused, ‘the memorial. He’s helping her a great deal.’ Her face fell serious. ‘I have to say, though, I would prefer them
not
to see each other. Haydn was devastated when Anna died. It’s taken him ever such a long time to recover.’ She paused. ‘It doesn’t seem right, the two of them together. I assumed you were also unhappy about it and wanted to discuss how we dissuade the friendship. I had no idea you were so in the dark.’

Kate tried to process what she was hearing. She had come to talk about Anna and Stephen. This talk of Lizzie was muddling her.

‘I don’t understand Elizabeth’s motivations at all. It seems a peculiar thing to do, to court your dead sister’s boyfriend.’ She looked at Kate as if she were a naughty pupil sent for disciplining.

Kate didn’t know how to respond. How could Lizzie be seeing Haydn? How could she be with him right now? Lizzie wasn’t even interested in boys. And if she was, it certainly wouldn’t be with Haydn Howe of all people, the boy who tempted Anna out of the safety of her bed, who plied her with drink, who sat back and watched as she danced the tightrope on the edge of that roof. No, it wasn’t possible. Not Haydn. Not with Lizzie.

Jon cleared his throat. He took Kate’s hand and stepped in front of her. ‘We need to talk to Stephen.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘We’ll wait,’ Jon said, and pulling Kate behind him, he walked past Angela Howe, who tried and failed to block their entry.

Stephen Howe was standing just inside the living-room door, his large frame filling their immaculate living-room with its dusky pink carpet and mawkish floral curtains.

‘I think you should sit down,’ Jon said to him.

‘I want to know why you are here,’ said Angela. Kate saw that she had paled a fraction, her fists had clenched at her sides and her eyes flicked nervously to and fro.

Oh my God
, thought Kate.
You know, don’t you?

‘We want to talk to him,’ said Jon.

‘If it’s something to do with Elizabeth and school, then the time to discuss it would be during school hours, not on a Sunday, an hour before lunch.’

‘It’s not about Lizzie. And it needs to be discussed today. Now. With Stephen. And I’m not sure you should be here to hear what we have to say to him.’

Angela’s fists flexed and reclenched. ‘Whatever you have to say to my husband can most certainly be said in front of me. You really have no right to barge into our home like this. You—’

‘Oh, I have every right,’ said Jon through gritted teeth.

Kate saw him lean close to Stephen’s face. There was a threatening strength to his shoulders, a set of his mouth, an aggression about him that didn’t sit right. Jon loathed violence. He thought it impractical and childish, and Kate remembered suddenly how much she loved that about him, the way he’d tut with disdain when tragic news from Iraq or Afghanistan was beamed into their living room.
Bloody waste
, he’d mutter.
Those boys losing their lives for another man’s politics and pocket
. Kate often wondered what her father might say about him. Though he’d left her and her mum when she was small, she could still remember the fights he got into.

‘Any fella so much as look at y’pa the wrong way,’ she’d tell Kate with undisguised pride as she patched an eye or a lip with peas from the over-frosted freezer drawer, ‘most likely end up with teeth on the floor.’

It was unforgivable that she’d called Jon weak the night before, that she’d goaded and bullied him into this situation, and she felt an agonizing stab of guilt.

‘I have more right,’ Jon continued, ‘than anyone to talk to this man, don’t I, Dr Howe?’

Stephen’s face fell to the floor and Kate winced.

It’s true then,
she thought.

Though she’d seen the film and heard with her own ears those contemptible moans, she had so desperately hoped it wasn’t real. Lying awake the previous night, as the hours loped on in a sleepless, anxiety-ridden marathon, she had willed Stephen to look stunned and then furious, to angrily demand who’d spread such evil rumours. She imagined him reassuring them he could never do such a thing. She saw him insist on questioning Rebecca, who’d then break down, admit her lie, explain how she’d contrived her monstrous film. But the guilt, his admission, was loud and clear in those lowered eyes.

‘Stephen,’ said Angela, firmly. ‘You need to tell these people to leave. If they need to speak to you they can make an appointment like any other parent.’

‘We’re not leaving,’ Jon said.

Kate allowed her eyes to drift to the picture on the wall above the Howes’ gas fire. It was too small for the chimney breast and looked out of place, as if it were only temporarily hanging there, waiting for them to find something more suitable. It showed a horse and farmer ploughing. The sun was low in the sky, bathing the earthy field in a sticky sweet glow. She loathed paintings like this, mean and chocolate-boxy, romanticizing scenes of hardship from a bygone era, rewriting historical fact, like showing poverty-stricken Victorian kids with clean plump cheeks playing marbles in spotless gutters. It wasn’t real. Where were the blisters on the farmer’s hands, or the ribs of the overworked horse? Where were the rocks in the soil that broke the cartwheels? Why was he so contented-looking when his children were hungry and cold and his wife had calluses from scrubbing? And what on earth gave little-talented artists the right to bathe these people and their breadline existence in pink sunshine?

‘Not until we’ve talked to him,’ Jon said.

‘For God’s sake,’ Angela said.

‘We know what you—’ Jon’s voice cracked. Kate’s stomach clamped and she tore her eyes off the ploughing horse. Jon’s eyes were closed and his face showed every bit of pain he was feeling. ‘We know what you did to Anna.’

Stephen glanced nervously at Angela. Kate did too, and saw her face twitching, as the cogs in her brain whirred and whirred. ‘Did what to Anna?’ she said then.

‘Had sex with her,’ Jon said.

Angela Howe didn’t flinch. Not a flicker of anything. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said. ‘Where did you come up with such utter nonsense?’

‘Rebecca Finch told me!’ Kate suddenly blurted, her tongue freed by Angela’s calm refute. ‘She told me all about it, how your husband had sex with my daughter.’ Kate turned on Stephen. Just looking at him made her nauseous. ‘She was just a child! How could you? How could you look me in the eye?’ She stared at him, her eyes flicking over him, willing him to do something, to drop to his knees and beg her forgiveness, or to cry, or to say sorry. But he did nothing. ‘You filthy bastard,’ she breathed.

‘How dare you speak to my husband like that! This is defamatory garbage. I am horrified you would think this appropriate. I insist you both leave our house now!’

Nobody moved.

‘I don’t care how upset you are about Anna’s death; to have the audacity, the
front
, to barge your way into our home and start throwing around disgusting accusations that are, quite frankly, not only offensive, but complete fabrication. You have no grounds for what you’re saying. The word of one child? A child who is in and out of the headmaster’s office like a yo-yo, who’s been suspended, and who has every misguided reason to make a malicious allegation against Dr Howe for personal reprisal. Do you know how many teachers are falsely accused by grudge-bearing pupils each year, Mr and Mrs Thorne? And let us not forget this was a child whom
you
assaulted in front of five hundred witnesses. A child you repeatedly hit.’

Kate felt her skin redden. ‘Rebecca wasn’t lying,’ she managed. ‘Stephen had sex with Anna. You did and you know it,’ she said, turning on Stephen. ‘You’re an evil piece of shit!’

Stephen didn’t move a muscle. The way he hung his head, his shoulders rigid, arms straight, reminded Kate of how a child might stand when getting a telling-off, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible in the hope that it might reduce the punishment.

‘You think this is going to help you, Mrs Thorne?’ Angela Howe continued. ‘You think judges take kindly to women who attack children, then attempt to denigrate upstanding members of the community without due evidence?’

‘So why’s he not denying it?’ Kate narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice, now switching her glare back to Angela. ‘You tell me that. Why’s he stood there like a mute idiot? If I was him and I was innocent, I’d be yelling it by now. He knows what he did. Your husband sexually abused my daughter. Did you know about it? Did you know what a vile paedophile he is?’

Then Angela’s eyes filled with tears. Two spilled over, tumbling down her ruddy cheeks. She shook her head, lifted her chin and waited, breathing deeply until the tears had gone. When she looked back at Kate her face was once again hard and glassy.

‘Stephen is as shocked as I am. He has done no such thing. You have no proof and you must be stupid to believe such lies. To walk in here and accuse my husband of such a serious and foul crime on the say-so of a child as troubled as Rebecca Finch, as prone to lies and exaggeration, is ludicrous. I am asking you to leave my house now. If you don’t, I’ll call the police.’

‘We do have proof.’

Kate had promised herself she wouldn’t show the film. Being in the same room as Stephen with the film playing would be unbearable, she knew that, and as her fingers fumbled with the keypad, unable to do what her brain asked them to do, she began to feel weak with sickness. Then she felt Jon’s hand on hers. He stilled her fingers, brushed his thumb against her and took the phone. She heard snippets of the other films, of the laughing children, those playing football, teasing, then Jon threw the phone into Stephen’s lap. He reached for Kate’s hand. She held him tightly, longing to get out of there so she could tell him how sorry she was that she’d forced them into this.

Stephen Howe picked up the phone and stared at the screen. Kate sang a song in her head so she wouldn’t have to listen to the sounds of the film. She saw his eyes widen as he watched, saw him shake his head like a drunk man trying to fight double vision. He looked at Angela with disbelief and bewilderment. She ran to her husband and snatched the phone. She stared at it, motionless, her eyes wide.

‘But—’

‘Be quiet, Stephen.’

‘But—’

‘I said be quiet!’

Angela Howe swallowed. Her face was stricken, not with anger or shame, but with what looked to Kate like abject fear. She was frantically chewing on the inside of her cheek. Her hands had started to quiver as if there were an electric charge running through her. Then as Kate watched, her breath bated, waiting for one of them to speak, Angela’s body relaxed and a fine veil of composure settled over her. She held the phone out towards Jon and a curious sneer cast a shadow across her face.

‘Well, Mr and Mrs Thorne,’ she said, crossing her arms as her sneer darkened. ‘That is certainly your daughter in all her glory, but the man in that film isn’t my husband.’

‘What?’ said Kate. She looked from Angela to Stephen, whose eyes were locked on his feet.

‘The man your daughter is so
enjoying
isn’t my husband.’

Kate grabbed the phone from Jon. ‘Of course it is.’

She pressed play.

‘That’s him,’ Kate spat. She faced the phone towards Stephen. ‘That’s you, isn’t it? You sick bastard.’

Angela took hold of Kate’s hand and turned the phone towards her face, pushing it close, about an inch or so away from her nose. ‘Look very carefully, Mrs Thorne. That’s no more my husband than it is yours.’

Kate stared at the phone, the picture blurred in its proximity. ‘It’s him,’ she whispered. ‘I can see it is.’

‘You can’t see anything. The picture’s far too grainy. Far too dark. I could find you a thousand men it could be. It could be anyone.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Kate moved her head back until the film came into focus. Yes, the picture was dark, and there were certainly shadows over the man whose head was obscured behind hunched shoulders and the lithe limbs of her daughter, whose perfect white skin glowed spectral in the gloom. It was also grainy, but she could still see it was Stephen. It was definitely him.