Tell Me Your Secret Read online

  I could totally imagine it, the defiance that would have shaded her face, the contempt that would have coloured her eyes. She’d only started taking the whole thing seriously when Mum told her that she’d be living on the streets if she didn’t show the court some respect by wearing one of the suits she had for interviews.

  My twin and I had continued on different paths. I loved her – fiercely – but the things she did . . . not only did they upset our parents, they made me sad and mad in equal measure. Why couldn’t she just play the game? Keep her head down, try to get on?

  ‘Why should I?’ she’d replied when I asked her that one time. ‘I have just as much right to be whoever I want to be as those middle-class white kids out there.’

  ‘I know but . . .’

  ‘But what, Jodes? I can be anything I want, isn’t that what living in a democracy like ours is all about?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Aren’t I allowed as many youthful indiscretions that people will turn a blind eye to when I want to get a job as the next person?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Am I not a human being with all the same flaws and complications and reasons for doing what I do as the people we’re always being asked to give understanding and sympathy to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, why should I spend my time kowtowing to people who mean me harm? Why should I keep my head down, try to get on without letting them know I’m a different, darker shade to them? Why can’t I live just like everyone else?’

  I had no answer. She was right. Why did I always assume that my way, the ‘don’t let them notice you’ way, was best? Why didn’t I just speak out instead of quietly working to prove people wrong? I had no idea. I just didn’t.

  The court clerk came out and I locked eyes with him just before he said, ‘Jovena Foster.’ It bothered me that we were here. That my sister had broken the law and that she was right in that she should be able to do that just like everyone else did and have the opportunity to turn her life around.

  It bothered me more than anything that she was right. That the world didn’t work like that, no matter what I liked to pretend. That, no matter what people tried to tell me, not all petty criminals were created equal.

  Friday, 17 March, 2000

  ‘You can’t keep doing this to me,’ I told her. ‘You can’t keep getting into trouble and then calling me to come and sort it out.’

  ‘Holy fuck,’ the charming man with dirty blond hair, clammy skin and mud-coloured eyes said as he visually, unpleasantly, devoured me. ‘She really is the good angel version of you.’

  I was standing in the middle of a squat. It wasn’t an official squat, in that it had a proper front door and doorbell, but everything else about the place would have it pegged as one. The windows were covered with sheets and blankets, casting a dank, fusty atmosphere over what was probably once a nice living room. There were papers all over the floor, the furniture was frayed, the carpet ripped and torn, the surfaces covered with dirty plates. I hated standing there for so many reasons. Not just because I was in uniform, having come here on refs, but because I hated watching where Jovie’s life was leading.

  It was another slip down the spiral, her descent to rock bottom. There’d been so many times in the last seven years, so many times since that day at the court when she’d called and I came. She’d rung me today, her voice slurring out the panicked words that said she needed to see me, needed my help.

  ‘I told you,’ she said to the man she cuddled up with on the sofa. ‘I told you she’s like the good angel to my bad devil.’ She was incredibly thin, the skin hanging off her bones like clothes hung off her body. Her skin was a grey-brown, her eyes underscored by dark circles, her lips dry and cracked. We looked nothing alike now. We used to, back when we used to think and act differently, when it was only our attitudes and beliefs that separated us. But now, she looked nothing like me.

  ‘What is it you want?’ I asked sternly.

  ‘You know how it is, Sis,’ she said. ‘I just need a few sheets.’

  ‘Money?’

  She shrugged an emaciated shoulder at me.

  I rubbed my hands over my face, trying to calm my body down. ‘My partner is outside, it’s his refs too. And it’s bad enough that I’ve dragged him here, but he’s sitting in an area car. Do you know how much trouble I could get in just being here with you, with all this evidence of drug-taking? He and I could both get royally screwed. This isn’t on, Jovie.’

  The man, who was starting to piss me off in ways he couldn’t imagine, started laughing. ‘You’re called Jovie?’ He made his voice posh to say her name. ‘I thought you were cool “Vee” not “Jovie”.’

  ‘Shut it, you!’ I said, my patience finally leaving me.

  He smirked. ‘Yes, officer.’

  ‘Did you really call me here because you want cash, Jovie?’

  ‘We just need to pay back a couple of people. It can’t wait. They are not nice people. I just need to borrow a few sheets and then they’ll be off my back.’

  This was not what Jovie was meant to be for. This was not the life she was meant to live. She was so bright, so funny and astute. She was always that bit sharper than me, more clever, more brilliant. She was incandescent. She could see things that I couldn’t, she had worked out how the world really worked a long time ago. And, I knew, this was where that insight – those hideous, painful truths – had led her.

  I’d asked my partner to stop at the cashpoint on the way here because I knew what she wanted. It was what she always wanted these days. Money.

  ‘This is all I’ve got,’ I said to her. I reached into my pocket and pulled out the bundle of twenties. ‘Two hundred.’

  She tore herself away from the scumbag next to her and held out her hand. This isn’t my sister, I thought. This isn’t my twin. This is a condition that she may never recover from. ‘Once you take this, don’t call me again,’ I said. ‘Take this cash and know that I won’t come next time. No matter what you say.’

  She hesitated at that. Our eyes locked across the distance in the oppressive gloom, and she realised I was serious. This was the last time I would do this. It wasn’t about my job, it wasn’t about her taking drugs and living in this squalor, it was about not being able to stand this any more. There was always some awful guy, some dodgy place, some sign that my sister wasn’t going to make it. I simply couldn’t watch it happen any more.

  If she didn’t take this money, if she showed me that she might find another path, I would stick around.

  Her fingers clasped around the ‘sheets’ and she took them from me.

  I left without saying goodbye.

  Thursday, 27 June, 2002

  ‘Well look at my sister, working for “The Man” and thriving on it.’

  I came down the steps of Raynes Park Police Station to find Jovie standing a little to the side, waiting for me. I hadn’t seen her in two years, not since I’d given her £200 and told her not to call me again. She had, of course, but I’d stuck to my word, followed through on my proclamation and hadn’t gone to her. No matter how desperate she sounded.

  I had to protect myself, and her. Me giving her money was not helping her. Yes, I probably just told myself that to make myself feel better about what I was doing. It wasn’t easy, it wasn’t simple, but it was what I’d decided to do and I was sticking with it.

  She looked like my twin again. Her body had filled out, her skin was back to its usual tone, her eyes were bright and quick, and she had such a smile on her. I liked her camel-coloured coat that buttoned up on her left shoulder across her front, and her legs were back to a normal thickness in her jeans. I grinned at her. She was back. I knew she could do it.

  I waved to my two colleagues that I’d see them tomorrow.

  ‘Got time for a coffee? Fairtrade, of course,’ Jovie said.

  ‘Eurgh! Why do I have to drink crap coffee because you’re a socialist?’ I replied.

  She hooked her arm thr
ough mine. ‘That’s just the way of the world, baby.’

  ‘You look really good,’ I said to her. The coffee wasn’t crap, it was actually nicer than my usual stuff.

  ‘Looks aren’t everything,’ she said.

  ‘Why? What’s wrong, are you ill?’

  ‘No,’ she scoffed. ‘I mean, we live in a looks-obsessed world. Looks aren’t everything. Sometimes beauty isn’t even skin deep.’

  ‘Are you all right?’ I asked, scared of the answer. What if she’d changed back too late?

  ‘I am fine, Sis, I’m fine. I got a job, I got somewhere to live. I’ve even found a therapist who is helping me deal with a lot of issues.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yep. It’s been enlightening. I feel better for a lot of it.’

  ‘Not all of it?’

  ‘Therapy isn’t easy. Therapy is bloody hard work. But I can handle it.’ She sipped her coffee and smiled at me. ‘Had to see you. Missed you so much. Did you miss me at all?’

  ‘Every day, every day.’

  ‘Do you feel old? I feel old. I feel like I’ve lived a hundred lifetimes and I haven’t even scratched the surface of growing up.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘So, what you been up to, apart from the police officering? Any new men? New house? New normal stuff?’

  ‘No new men. Well, not really. Unless you count . . .’

  ‘Unless you count?’

  ‘Ah, you don’t want to hear about that.’

  ‘Oh I do, I do, I absolutely do.’

  ‘All right then. Unless you count this guy I met at this club the other week.’

  Jovie sat back and listened to me talk, just like we used to when we were young and proper sisters.

  Pieta

  Wednesday, 12 June

  You can do this, I remind myself.

  I’ve been pep-talking myself all morning, all last night. I’ve decided to do this, to see this woman who may be another survivor of the man I encountered.

  Oh stop it, Pieta, I tell myself sternly as I arrive on the BN Sussex floor. Stop thinking about it in euphemisms; in polite, friendly terms.

  You didn’t ‘encounter’ anyone. You were kidnapped, you were held, you were . . . My mind veers off at that point. It always does. I can only confront so much at any given moment, even in the privacy of my own head.

  My pass bleeps the entrance pad from red to green and admits me into the hollow of our office. Most people are already there, working away, creating a comforting, familiar buzz with their phone calls, computer clicks, typing, chair rolling, chatting. From the entrance I can see that Lillian has someone in her office – most likely the photographer who’ll accompany me to meet this potential interviewee. We don’t usually engage a photographer before we know we have a story, but Lillian thinks showing that we’re ready to go will mean Miss X takes us more seriously.

  You can do this, I remind myself. This is like the moment of Mum’s cracked plate being discovered – it was always going to happen, but unlike the plate you can manage it. You can handle it. You can shut off everything you need to and get through this.

  ‘Pieta!’ Lillian calls from her office before I’ve even settled my coffee cup on my desk or unhooked my bag. She waves her hand for me to come into her office.

  I shed my raincoat and other ‘coming to work’ items and straighten the jacket and then the skirt of my charcoal-grey suit. This suit gives me fortitude, it makes me feel more powerful than I am and I need all the strength I can get. I’ve left most of my colour at home and have opted for a red, long-sleeved top under this grey suit.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ Lillian says with the most charming smile on her face. She clearly fancies the man in front of her – only an attractive man can make her behave. ‘This is Ned Wellst, photographer extraordinaire. Ned, this is Pieta Rawlings, one of the journalists here.’

  Ned gets up from his seat and holds out his hand for me to shake. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he says pleasantly.

  I shake his hand and generate a smile to match his.

  We’ve met before. We’ve met many, many times before. The fact that he is here, and he is the one doing this means that something I’ve long suspected is obviously true: someone ‘out there’ really, really likes to mess with me.

  We’re heading for the White Tern over in Arundel, the countryside to Brighton’s bright lights, big city. Ned has suggested he drives us over there since he’d have to move his car from where it was parked soon, anyway. Through one of her smiles, Lillian had told me not to come back if I didn’t secure the interview. Ned had laughed, clearly not realising that she had meant it.

  He has a large, family-sized car, but no type of child car seat in the back, no normal child debris anywhere in sight, which makes me think that he probably doesn’t have children. The blast of music that had greeted us when he’d turned on the engine was the same Black Panther soundtrack I keep in my car to turn up when I need to drown out my thoughts. He’d immediately hit the mute button because of the language coming out of the speakers and when I glanced sideways at him, I noticed that he had flushed an embarrassed red.

  ‘So this story is something, huh?’ Ned says as we head up towards Dyke Road to join the A27 towards Worthing.

  ‘Yup,’ I reply.

  I keep stealing looks at him from the corner of my eye, just double-checking, I suppose, that it is him. If he really is the person from my past.

  ‘She must be very brave to talk about it like this.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I reply.

  Silence between us again.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve got forty minutes or so until we get there, and we’re hopefully going to be working together after this if you get the nod for this interview, so do you want to tell me about yourself? Where are you from?’

  I consider his question for a few minutes, the hum of the engine counting out the hush like the ticks of a clock. ‘You really don’t remember me, do you?’ I eventually say.

  I notice his body sag and then his fingers tighten on the black, padded steering wheel, as he exhales. ‘What did I do?’ he asks tiredly.

  ‘What makes you think you did anything, if you don’t remember me?’

  ‘No one ever starts a conversation with “You don’t remember me, do you?” if the other person has been good to them. If it was positive, you’d have said, “OMG! It’s so amazing to see you again!” So, what did I do?’

  ‘Just for the record, I don’t say things like “OMG”. And certainly not in that voice you just did.’

  ‘Look, I was a bit of a dick when I was younger. Actually, I was a lot of dick. I slept around, a lot. And I didn’t behave very well towards the people I bedded. I’m sorry I didn’t call you. It really wasn’t you, it was all me and my general arsehole behaviour.’

  My giggles, small and discreet, start in my chest, but they move rapidly and fluidly through my whole body until I’m clutching my stomach as I convulse with laughter.

  ‘What are you laughing at?’ he asks. ‘It wasn’t that bad of an apology, was it? I meant it, but maybe it sounded a bit rubbish. I’m sorry . . . What? What are you laughing at?’

  ‘I’m just laughing at the idea of me and you together,’ I say through the gaps in my mirth. ‘You and I did not sleep together. I can’t actually think of anything that would be further from the—’ I smirk, ready to collapse into giggles again. ‘Nothing could be further from the reality of how we know each other.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We went to school together. St Leonard’s Middle School? Actually, we went to Westegate Primary together first from nursery. Then St Leonard’s. Then we went off to different high schools. And then we ended up at the same university in Leeds.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes are frantically searching through time, ransacking his memory for a point when he remembers me. I clearly never really featured in his consciousness after the first year of university, when he was done with me. ‘We were linked in so ma
ny ways and I don’t remember you?’

  ‘Ahh, it’s no big deal. I wasn’t that important to you, but maybe you’ll remember the nicknames you made up for me? Pig-eta?’

  ‘Oh . . . bloody hell,’ he breathes as his body draws still while his face and hands drain of colour. I think for a moment he’s going to take his hands off the wheel and I’ll have to grab it to keep us on the road. ‘Oh . . . bloody hell.’

  ‘Or how about, Roly-Poly Rawlings?’

  ‘Oh . . . bloody hell,’ he whispers.

  ‘The Ultimate Lights-Out, Eyes-Closed Shag?’

  ‘Oh . . . bloody hell.’

  ‘Yup, that’s me.’

  I turn my body to face the formation of cars all moving in the same direction as us, trying to get from here to there with as little trouble as possible.

  Tuesday, 18 September, 1984

  ‘Do you know what?’ said Ned Wellst, my best friend from primary school, as he came running up to me in the playground. I was standing against the wall, waiting for Dana Bradley to come back from the toilet so we could do double-Dutch skipping again.

  Ned was quite a bit taller than me now. His family had gone to stay in Spain for six weeks and I hadn’t seen him at all. And when I had seen him at school, he’d barely looked at me, let alone spoken to me. I’d run up to him in the playground a week ago to say hello and ask if he wanted to play with me like we used to and he’d just stared at me. I thought I had snot on my face or something, because he looked at me like I was the yucky stuff left in the toilet when it wouldn’t flush properly, and then he turned away.

  He didn’t want to be friends any more. That made me a little sad, but I had other friends, girls who would play adventurers and skipping with me, and he would, I suppose, go and play with the boys. He’d always liked football and now he had other boys to play it with.

  ‘What?’ I asked him.

  ‘Your name should have a “g” in it. Then you’d be “Pig-eta” cos that’s what you are! A pig!’

  I stared at him. It was like he was talking a different language. I didn’t understand why he said that and what he meant by it. He had been my best friend and now he was calling me names. Why?