Tell Me Your Secret Read online

  ‘I know I say this almost every time, but I miss you. Which is the craziest thing because you were in my life in a positive way for a microsecond. I suppose you did make good use of that time, though.’

  As well as Sazz moving in, Ned is the snag that stops life going completely back to normal. Coming to see him, talking to him, those are things that are out of the ordinary and make my days different to how they were before. I’m not sure if it’s helping, or if it makes no difference, but I do it anyway. I have to see him. It’s probably guilt, but it doesn’t sit like an anvil in the cavity of my chest like guilt usually does, it doesn’t scrape over my skin like the roughest edge of a grater, like self-blame usually does. Is it guilt? Is it affection? I don’t know, but something keeps me coming back, still connected to him.

  ‘I didn’t want to say anything before, but my period started this morning. I decided not to get the morning-after pill after we had sex. I could pretend that I’d forgotten, but I didn’t. You were in a coma and I thought . . . oh, I don’t know, I left the choice up to Fate. And for a while there, I thought . . . I don’t think I hoped I was, no, I definitely didn’t hope, I just thought I might be pregnant. But I’m not.’

  Ned’s hand is heavy in mine when I pick it up, and cool. Not cold, because cold means something else. Something I’m not ready for.

  ‘Now that would have been a thing, eh? Me and you, having a baby after everything. I’d have fun explaining that to Kobi. Oh yes, Captain Ned is the baby’s father – after one night we both described as being “a very bad idea” and yet “most excellent”. I could see how that would play out.’

  I suppose it’s the surface or the appearance of my life that hasn’t changed, because underneath, everything has been stirred up, churned and agitated, and even though it’s settled, nothing has quite gone back to where it was before. For example, Lillian has reverted to type – but she treats me badly like I’m an equal, like I am worthy of my title, position and wage. She has seen who I am and she has reassessed me, I suppose.

  Another example is my social life, which has bloomed. No, no wild nights on the town, but no sitting in staring at the television while constantly waiting for my attack to catch up with me. No more hiding my trauma from the people who love me the most. My family know about what happened, about Kobi, and they are supportive.

  Yes, on the surface everything is the same, unruffled and unscarred by the rock aimed in its direction, but nothing is truly an exact copy of what it was before.

  I don’t know what will happen when they formally charge that woman with everything that she’s done and we have to go to trial. I have given several statements and I know that it is not over, not by a long shot, but I don’t think about that for now. I’ll deal with that when it happens.

  ‘Look, I really wish you’d wake up. I don’t know what for, other than I wish you were here and not where you are. I want to say take as long as you need, but the doctors tell me that’s not good. They say that you need to wake up sooner rather than later. I’d prefer that, too. But, you know, if you’re not ready, then you’re not ready. I remember you said that we all do the best we can to get from one end of the day to the other. Maybe it’s the same for you wherever you are. Maybe you’re not ready to come back. Maybe you can’t get to the end of where you are, yet. But I . . . I wish you would. I will be waiting for you when you do come back.’

  I squeeze his hand, try to pass on with that touch all the affection I feel for him, all the gratitude for what he sacrificed for me.

  ‘I’d better go. I’ve got a pottery class tonight. I’m making you some of that stuff I said would transform your boat. I can’t wait for you to see it. You’re going to love it. Talking of your boat, your parents have finally moved it into long-term storage. They didn’t want to, I didn’t want them to, but it’s for the best. Their faces when I suggested they live on it instead. Not got much of a sense of humour, have they? But anyway, it’ll be there, waiting for us to take our round-the-UK trip.

  ‘Kobi sends his love, as always. I will let him come to see you sometime soon, but at the moment, I don’t think either of us could handle his shock.’

  I get to my feet, slowly.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, OK? Bye, Ned. Bye.’

  ‘How was your friend?’ Reggie asks when I get down to the Eastern Road entrance to the Royal Sussex County Hospital. It’s dark, but I can still see the sea from here, I can definitely hear the sound of the waves, I can still breathe in the salt and ozone rolling in from the water.

  ‘No change.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ he says.

  ‘Thank you.’ We stand awkwardly, both of us still unsure what is going on. He asked me out and I said yes as friends. We’ve been out doing stuff together as pals. A couple of times we’ve hugged for too long, we’ve stared into each other’s eyes for too long, we’ve been a bit too near for too long. But mainly, truly, we’re friends. Good friends. Close friends.

  ‘Shall we?’ He indicates to the direction of Brighton, to Mirin’s place where we’re going to paint a cup-and-saucer set.

  I nod. ‘Yes, let’s.’

  He holds out the loop of his arm and I slip mine through it. We’re honestly just friends.

  Because I can do that now. I can spend time with people, I can spend time with men, I can act like danger doesn’t lurk around every corner. And on the days when I don’t quite feel safe, I don’t quite feel able to connect with others, I can take my time. That’s what I like about the way that the world has been altered after the boulder was lobbed into it – with everything, I can take it one day at a time, I can take it one minute at a time, if I want to.

  In fact, I can take all the time in the world.

  Jody

  Thursday, 14 November

  At the back of Mirin’s Pottery Palace, Pieta Rawlings is concentrating on painting a cup. She has a sponge brush in her hand and is peering very hard at it while she applies turquoise to its round body.

  It’s her fault Winston and I are here. I discussed with my therapist that beyond work and television I didn’t have any way to relax. I then mentioned that Pieta Rawlings told me how therapeutic pottery could be. I made a throwaway comment to Winston about it and next thing I knew we were booked in. I almost did a ‘yeah, but’ about it – almost. Instead I bit my thoughtless tongue and remembered his words about having one life to live and not giving up on things before I’d even tried. This is our fourth time. Last time we actually made fruit bowls on the wheel. This time we’re painting our creations. Mine is so much better than Winston’s but don’t tell him I said that.

  I suppose you want an update? I don’t have a job and I don’t not have a job, either. I’m on suspension pending review of all my cases. All of them. They’re having fun doing that, especially as I know everything I’ve ever done has always been by the book. I’m not one of those people who cuts corners or omits things. So far, I think, a couple of IOPC (Independent Office for Police Conduct) people have been disconcerted that they’ve found literally nothing out of place.

  Technically, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’ve never used any of the resources for personal gain or to fulfil a personal vendetta, it’s always been to try to catch The Blindfolder (both of them as it turns out). Professionally, they’re going to do everything they can to get rid of me. I doubt I’ll keep my job, but that’s all right at the moment.

  We’ve moved to Brighton for now. It makes the investigation easier and I like it here. I love it here. Winston has to travel to London for work still, but being here on suspension is just as easy as being there on suspension. We’re looking into buying a place, a big house by the sea so we can start the adoption discussion for real. At the moment there is too much up in the air to start thinking of bringing a child into it.

  And what of the living half of The Blindfolder? She is, so far, playing to type: she acts like the pretty, beleaguered victim of circumstance, not the mastermind behind it all; she manipulates as she c
ooperates, teasing out deals and privileges whenever she can. But she is slowly, tortuously, revealing the burial places of the women who didn’t survive forty-eight hours with them. She has shown them where she used to hold the women. It was a warehouse in East London. They told the people they hired it from it was a film set. They had done it up like their parents’ bedroom so they could recreate that weekend when their mother took to her bed and wouldn’t engage with her children for forty-eight hours.

  DCI Nugent showed me the pictures as part of the investigation and me being a key witness. It was the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen. Even though it hasn’t been properly used in ten years, it’s still there. It’ll be torn down once all the bodies have been found, I hope.

  Of course, a trial date won’t be able to be set until the investigation is complete and for now, she is controlling everyone by setting the pace of when that happens. Sometimes I regret not shooting her. (Oh, what? I’m not perfect.)

  Winston and I have hustled through the door of the Pottery Palace, late and a little stressed. His train was late back, I didn’t have dinner ready, we both faffed for far longer than necessary. We take our seats near the door, shed our jackets and get out the wine, which is when I spot Pieta Rawlings.

  I have to admit that I do feel rudderless, like I am without direction and purpose, but then I no longer have the thing that has driven me for the last thirteen years, so that was bound to happen, suspension or not. But, in some ways, I think I was due a checking-out time, a reassessing period, an acknowledging losing Jovie interlude. That’s what the therapy is all about.

  ‘Hello, Pieta,’ I say. I have to speak to her. It’d be stupid to sit in this small space and not do so, especially when I quite like her.

  She glances up from her painting and does a double-take when she sees it’s me. ‘Detective Foster. Sorry, Detective Inspector Foster.’

  ‘I don’t have that title any more. I’m on long-term suspension. Just call me Jody.’

  ‘You’re called Jody Foster?’ the man sitting with Pieta says. ‘That is so cool.’

  Both Pieta and I treat him to the same ‘get over it’ look and he mumbles, ‘Or maybe not,’ before returning to his painting.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks, now a bit softer since she knows I’m no longer officially police.

  ‘I am good. I am trying pottery, thanks to you.’

  ‘So you saying I was prolific wasn’t an insult after all,’ she says.

  ‘It wasn’t. Listen, Winston – that’s my fiancé over there – and I are getting married in about three months, do you want to come? Can I send you an invite?’

  A frown wrinkles her face. ‘You’re inviting me to your wedding?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t do things by halves, do you, Detective? I mean, Jody? Most normal people would have asked a person out for a coffee or something, not boom, come to my wedding.’

  ‘Is that a yes or a no?’

  ‘It’s a “coffee next week would be lovely, thank you”. I’ve got your number, I’ll call you.’

  I can’t help but grin. I need people in my life. This is what therapy has shown, living down here has shown – I need to, want to make more connections. I need to open my eyes, my life, my self to the world around me. I have Laura, who is my wonderfully dramatic friend, and I’ll hopefully have Pieta, who I think has got the measure of me. I’m probably not meant to be in touch with either of them since they are part of an active investigation, but there you go.

  ‘Happy painting, Pieta Rawlings,’ I say before I walk away.

  ‘Happy painting, Jody Foster,’ she replies. She has definitely got the measure of me.

  Callie

  Wednesday, 25 December

  ‘Thank you,’ I say to the prison guard who clatters my meal tray onto the desk in my room. ‘Thank you so much.’

  He grunts at me. He always does.

  ‘And Merry Christmas,’ I say from my position on the bed with my knees pulled up to my chest. I try to smile at him but can’t manage it without tears filling my eyes. I snatch my head downwards, hide my face from him.

  ‘Yeah, Merry Christmas,’ he replies gruffly.

  ‘Thank you . . . thank you for being so kind to me.’

  He grunts at me and moves to leave.

  ‘I feel sorry for you having to work on Christmas Day,’ I say. ‘It must be such a strain on your marriage.’

  He snorts. ‘Yeah. Yeah.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m actually grateful it’s you today. Makes Christmas feel a bit more like Christmas when I get to see a friendly face.’ When I wipe at my eyes, smile at him, he reaches up and strokes his beard with his nicotine-yellowed fingers, offers me a small grin with his tea-drinker, chain-smoker teeth.

  He’s nothing approximating a challenge, but he’ll do.

  He’ll have to. Because this current situation is not going to stay like this.

  ‘Look, I’ll see if I can get you some of the guards’ Christmas pudding,’ he says quietly. ‘It’s nicer than that slop.’

  I’m going to get out of this. I promise.

  ‘Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.’

  And when I do get out of this, watch out, Pieta Rawlings. Watch out, Jody Foster. I am going to make all of them regret Jody Foster sparing my life.

  I’m going to make all of them regret the day they were born.

  Kobi

  Thursday, 26 December

  ‘Are you all right, Mum?’ I ask her.

  She doesn’t say anything for a while. She just stands there, with her back to the sea and her hands up. She looks a bit shocked. Actually, she looks very, very shocked. A bit like ‘Huh?’

  ‘But . . .’ she says.

  I shrug. ‘I said we should have stayed at home with Grandma and Grandpa,’ I tell her.

  ‘But . . .’ she says.

  ‘I said I wanted to stay home and play with my toys.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I said Boxing Day wasn’t the day to go to the beach.’

  ‘But . . . Kobi, that seagull just took my pastry,’ she says.

  ‘I know.’ I shrug again.

  ‘And then his mates came and took my coffee. Two of them. Working together, they stole my favourite coffee mug.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘But . . .’

  She looks at me for the first time since it happened. I tried to help. I ran at the seagulls, shouting, ‘Stop! Stop! Thief! Thief! Stop!’ I did my best but it didn’t work. They took her stuff anyway. I didn’t even care that everyone stopped and stared. I think some of the people thought I was shouting at a human thief.

  ‘Oh, Kobi, this is just . . .’

  I was going to draw those seagulls, to try to get a picture of them in case I see them again. But I won’t now. She looks far too shocked. This is all going in my book, though. Every minute of it.

  I take Mum’s hand, she looks like she needs me to. Sometimes, my mum needs me to hold her hand or tell her how much I love her. I think this is one of those times.

  ‘Do you know what the worst part of this is?’ Mum asks as I start to take her home to Grandma and Grandpa.

  ‘That I was right all along and the seagulls are plotting to take over the world?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mum says. ‘That’s exactly the worst part of it.’

  I smile at my mum. ‘Told you so.’

  ‘Yes, Kobster, you really did.’

  Normally, she’s not allowed to call me that, but since the seagulls took her stuff, I’ll let her off. This one time.

  Find your next favourite read by Dorothy Koomson . . .

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