Can you keep a secret, p.24
Can You Keep A Secret?, page 24
I saw it clearly. And then the bulb that had been shining in this yellow bedroom flickered, there was a loud bang beneath me, and the music which had been blaring was suddenly cut and the light went out. At first, I just sat there, overcome with fright, blinking, my eyes trying to adjust to the blackout. The suddenness of the silence felt like a kind of violence, and I dropped the pictures on to the ground. Straining for a sound, for a chink of light, I got to my feet. I put my hands out in front of me, edged cautiously in the direction of the door. I couldn’t see a thing. Coming up hard against the bed, I cried out involuntarily. The dark was thick around me. And then I heard the door opening, a footstep on the threshold. ‘Rachel?’ I asked, squinting to see. ‘Is that you?’ Urgency in my voice. A swift movement through the air and fear loomed in my heart. I stumbled backwards but the blow came anyway – I felt the hard crack of it, heat exploding through my face, my eye, and then the murkiness and silence flooded through me, taking me down, down, sucking me into darkness.
27
1992
I arrive back at school alone. When asked about Rachel, I say that she is sick. Throughout Monday and Tuesday, I answer this question over and over again.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ Hilary asks.
I shrug and say: ‘Tummy bug,’ then quickly look away.
The questions have petered out by Wednesday, interest moved elsewhere.
The following week, when Mrs Meara, our form mistress, interrupts class to announce that one of the students – Rachel Bagenal – will be absent for the rest of term, whispers ripple through the classroom, heads turning in my direction.
‘What happened?’ Hilary hisses, but I shake my head and tell her I don’t know.
As soon as class is over, I race back to our room to find Rachel’s bed stripped of its sheets, her belongings packed up and spirited away. It has all been done so swiftly, every trace of her removed while I was sitting through a geography lesson. Her side of the room is bare like a wound, and when I sit on my bed and stare at it, for the first time I feel the gravity of the situation. My heart kicks with fear.
Patrick remains in school, and his answers to any queries about his sister are distant and laconic. She’s been sick, he says, some kind of gastric flu that’s wiped her out. Their parents have decided to get a private tutor for the rest of term to help her catch up while recuperating at home. After a while, he grows sick of having to talk about it, withdrawing into mulish silence. I don’t ask him about Rachel. It feels like we are both keeping our distance.
Rumour is rife throughout the school, but I close my ears to it. When Ridgeway is replaced by another teacher just weeks before final exams, the whispers become a cacophony. I am worried about Rachel. Wracked with guilt about the ugly row we had, I ring Thornbury, in the hope of speaking to her. But every time I call, Heather tells me Rachel is resting or studying and cannot be disturbed. She promises to let Rachel know that I called, but her voice is cool and I’m not sure I believe her. Several times, I sit at my desk and begin writing a letter, but the words look wrong on the page and I cannot express myself clearly. I put down my pen and sit back in my chair. I am losing her, I think.
The room feels large and empty without her. Sometimes when I lie awake at night I am seized by anger. She pushed me away, I think to myself. This is all her fault, not mine. Indignation boils in my veins. I close my eyes and I am back in Peter’s studio, in the eye of the camera, being seen the way I have never been seen before. I hear the echo sound of the shutter click and feel that jolt of electricity go through me. Again and again I return to it, the memory a welcome distraction to my troubled conscience. And then, a reprieve. Just before term ends, I receive an invitation to Patrick’s eighteenth birthday party. It is to be held in Thornbury on Midsummer’s Eve. All the sixth-years have been invited but only Hilary and I have been chosen from the lower years. I am surprised and secretly delighted. I think, for the first time, that the coldness I felt emanating from the Bagenals has all been imagined. When I meet Patrick in the corridor, it feels like months since we’ve talked, both of us made shy by the time that has passed.
‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I say, and he shrugs like it’s no big deal.
‘Will you come?’
‘Yes,’ I answer, and I cannot suppress the smile of joy that comes over my face.
School breaks up at the start of June, and I spend the rest of the month at home with my parents, earning some money helping out behind the bar.
‘You seem chirpy,’ my father comments, observing my happy manner with the punters, whereas before I was always sullen, slightly resentful of having to lend a hand clearing tables or serving drinks.
Hilary and I have arranged to go to the party together and, when the day arrives, my father picks her up from her home in Kilkenny and drives the two of us the short distance to the house. We sit in the back seat in our gauzy gowns – the invitation issued a formal dress code – as the car turns through the granite pillars and begins to drive up the avenue. It is only now that I start to feel nervous.
This is the first time my father has been to Thornbury, and I can feel the hushed awe emanating from him as the car rounds the final bend and the house comes into view. In the early-evening sunlight, it appears at its best. The wisteria drapes its way over the arched entrance in lazy elegance and the stone walls appear warm in the sun. High overhead, the statues that line the rooftop’s perimeter have been rigged out in yellow bunting. Their stone faces blankly oversee the lawn below, where men and women in uniform carry trays between the house and a large, striped marquee pegged to the grass. A horseshoe of trestle tables around the sycamore tree shimmers with glassware catching the light.
‘Look,’ Hilary says, pointing to a stage that has been set up outside, massive speakers hanging like ballast around it. ‘The Gin Freaks must be playing.’
She giggles next to me, and I can feel the excitement trembling through her.
Neither one of us has seen or spoken to Rachel in weeks, and as my dad leaves us outside the house and drives off slowly, I look up to the window of her bedroom, watchful for a face looking down, but the glass, opaque in the sunlight, glares blankly back at me. Then Hilary tucks her arm in mine and starts marching me to the house, our stiletto heels sinking into the gravel. We are the first to arrive, and I feel uncomfortably conspicuous in my pale blue dress, tight around my body as a bandage is to a wound. My mother had cast a disapproving eye over it, but she had let me wear it anyway. As we reach the front door and cross the threshold, I wonder how it will be between Rachel and me, and grow suddenly fearful of the reunion. Braced for confrontation, I step into the house, trailed by a wistful thought that I am no longer a favoured guest here. No longer Rachel’s special friend. For the first time, my invitation does not extend to staying the night. I am one of a crowd, that’s all. But then voices from the kitchen corridor grow louder as they near the bend and I see Peter walking towards me in conversation with a friend of his – a man of similar age and bearing – both of them dressed in tuxedos, and when he sees me his face lights up and he holds his hands aloft and cries: ‘Lindsey!’
My heart moves in my chest. He opens his arms to me and we hug warmly, and all the while I am thinking: this man has seen me with my clothes off. He has looked on me in a way no other person on this earth has done. Hilary stands off to one side, her hands clasping her purse in front of her, silently observing.
He pulls back, holds me at arm’s length, his eyes running over my face as if alert for changes in me the way that I am in him. Is he thinking about it? I wonder. Is he thinking about what we did together? Then, remembering his friend, he introduces us, and the friend – Steven – shakes my hand, his brow wrinkling as if he knows me from somewhere and is trying to place me.
‘How is Rachel?’ I ask, and Peter waves his hand in the direction of the staircase.
‘She’s up there somewhere, getting ready. Why don’t you go up to her?’ Already he is steering Steven into the library and, when the door closes behind them, I find myself alone. Hilary has disappeared. From behind the closed door comes a low rumble of male laughter.
Tentatively, I start up the stairs. Outside, I can hear tyres crunching over the gravel as the guests start to arrive. Voices rise in greeting – I think I hear Patrick’s among them. My heart is still recovering from my reunion with Peter. Perhaps it is the tuxedo and bow tie, but he looks older than I remembered. I have grown used to his louche presence in jeans and rolled-up shirtsleeves, a flap of hair hanging rakishly over his brow. Strange to see him oiled and shaved and buttoned up.
I am halfway up the stairs when a shadow falls across my face.
‘Well. Look who it is,’ Heather says.
I don’t say anything, too startled by her appearance for words to form. A woman who has always been stylish, she has pushed the boat out tonight. A statuesque vision of gold lamé worn with old-style Hollywood glamour – the white turban around her head is pure Marlene Dietrich, as are the carved lips painted crimson, old diamonds gripping her earlobes and knotted at her throat. She towers above me, staring down under dense black lashes, and I feel small and insubstantial beneath her gaze.
‘You look amazing,’ I say, and she smiles. But the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Pupils like pinpricks, they flicker over me, and she remarks:
‘You look different. There is something changed about you.’ I’m pinned by her examination of me. Scanning my body, she asks: ‘Have you grown since I last saw you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
My answer dissatisfies her, like she cannot tell what it is about me that’s different and it irritates her.
‘I was just going up to see Rachel,’ I venture, but she stops me:
‘No. No, don’t do that.’ Softening her voice a little, she adds: ‘She will come down when she’s ready.’
She waits on the step. Dutifully, I turn around and go back down the stairs beneath her watchful gaze. She has been perfectly polite, but there was a shard of glass in her voice, something rigid about her stance that suggests to me I am not welcome here. I cannot help but feel that the party has barely started and already I have overstepped a mark, crossed some invisible line.
By the time darkness falls, the party is in full swing. The night pounds with noise. The Gin Freaks, having played their set and departed the stage, are replaced by a DJ playing Soft Cell, INXS, U2 and The Cure. There is laughter and screaming, the loud hum of voices. The marquee is lit up like a luminous jellyfish. There are people I know here from school – all sixth-years – as well as adults I understand to be friends of Peter and Heather. Generations mingle with ease and, at the bar, no one asks for ID or quizzes you on your date of birth. There are kegs of beer and bottles of wine, and it’s all free until it runs out, Niall informs us. He’s pretty wasted already. We all are.
‘He was drinking brandy and smoking cigars with Peter,’ Marcus says with amused contempt. ‘You should have seen him. Five minutes out of school and he’s acting like he’s forty.’
‘Have you seen Rachel?’ Hilary asks, shouting to be heard above the throng, but Marcus shakes his head.
‘She hasn’t come down yet, I don’t think.’
‘What’s keeping her?’ Hilary wants to know. She is eager to see her cousin, driven by curiosity. I see her hungry eyes roaming the crowd and know she is desperate to discover whether the rumours about Rachel are true. I feel it again – that creep of guilt; nerves making themselves felt in my tummy at the thought of her reaction to me. I knock back the dregs of my glass and look around for a refill.
Rachel doesn’t appear during the dancing. Not even when the music stops and Peter takes to the stage to raise a toast to his son.
‘It’s an important birthday,’ he tells us all. ‘It’s the birthday which really ushers one into adulthood, into a life of responsibility. To know where one has come from, and to honour that place, and one’s past, is a privilege. It’s one I believe Patrick will uphold with dignity, and with integrity.’
While the crowd listens, then erupts into applause, I scan the faces for Rachel’s. I barely hear Peter’s speech, or Patrick’s, so intent am I upon finding her. Surely she is here somewhere?
Patrick makes his way through the crowd to join us. He is red-faced and delighted, his mood soaring as the party reels around him. He puts his arm about my shoulders and leaves it there while Niall and Hilary slag him over the speech he made, his lame joke about having to sell the family silver to pay for the party. It feels nice having his arm about me, like I am once again being marked out as special. Hilary sees it and raises her eyebrows at me, grins into her wine. Something is happening between Patrick and me. I haven’t felt it for months, but it’s back now, warming me against the night air, making everything fizz and sparkle. The anxieties of the past few weeks seem to dissipate and fade. I am welcome here. I am happy. I feel Patrick’s arm around me and think: I belong here.
‘Dad!’ Patrick calls out, as Peter moves past us back towards the house. He turns and sees his son, and comes towards us. I think he notices the way Patrick has me held against him, but he doesn’t comment, doesn’t look directly at me.
‘How are we all doing? Not too drunk, I hope?’
Niall makes a sozzled face, his knees buckling, and we all laugh.
‘Are you going to hit the dance floor with us?’ Patrick asks, but Peter holds his hands up in a halting gesture and says:
‘Count me out. That’s a younger man’s game.’
‘Sloping off to bed with your cocoa already?’ Niall teases him, and Peter laughs.
‘Not to bed, but I think I’ll slope off to my study,’ he says, then his eyes slide to mine and he adds: ‘Or to my studio. Leave the party to you youngsters.’
He smiles all around, slaps Niall on the back, and departs through the crowd.
Patrick’s arm is still around me, but it feels different now. Leaden. For the past few minutes, my mind has been racing on ahead. I have been imagining weekends at Thornbury as Patrick’s girlfriend now, rather than as Rachel’s best friend. I have seen in my mind’s eye the two of us taking walks in the woods hand in hand, or snuggling up together on the sofa in front of the fire. I have imagined Patrick sneaking me into his room at night and then, in the morning, the two of us at the breakfast table, pretending that nothing has happened, bound by our silent complicity. I have imagined all these riches, but with that one glance Peter has kicked it all away, shattering the illusion. How can I ever sit down at a breakfast table with Patrick and his father, knowing what I have done? For the first time since it happened, I feel a wave of regret so strong it throws me.
‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I tell Patrick, and slip out from under his arm. Heat has come into my face, a loosening deep in my guts. I need the bathroom and hasten towards the house. Inside, the hallway is thronged, and it is clear that most of the older set have taken refuge indoors, leaving the garden to the younger folk. Music is replaced by a cloud of conversation and laughter, and I hurry through it. Finding the bathroom, I lock the door behind me and lean against the sink. The room whirls about me, alcohol scrambling my thoughts.
After a few moments, I feel calm again. I wash my hands, fix my dress, reapply lipstick and go back out. But the door has barely closed behind me when I feel the grasp of someone’s hand about my upper arm. Looking down, I see red nail polish, a claw-like grip. Heather’s eyes are rheumy and cold, and however drunk I am, I can see she is worse.
‘Tell me, Lindsey – what is it you want?’ she asks, sibilance becoming a slur.
‘I don’t want anything,’ I say, shrinking from her. The grip around my arm is uncomfortable, but what frightens me is the anger in her eyes, the white-hot rage.
‘Is it my daughter or my son?’ she persists, and as I tug my arm from her grasp, she adds: ‘Or my husband?’
I’m too shocked to answer. She knows, I think, a sour taste coming to my mouth, fear contracting inside me.
Her face changes. Her eyelids grow heavy. She seems to slump inwardly.
‘You shouldn’t have come back,’ she says, then turns away.
Outside, the air feels too warm. Dry-mouthed, I rush to the bar table and grab the first thing I reach – a glass of red wine. I fill my mouth and swallow, then fill it again. I see the back of Hilary’s head, the auburn frizz of her hair, and hurry towards her. I need company. I need to be among friends, so that the shrivelled feeling inside me can inflate to their familiar laughter. I don’t want to think about what I’ve done. I shrink from the possibility that Heather has seen those pictures. My head fills with the image of her mouth curling with disgust.
There is a burst of noise overhead – a loud explosion followed by screams and shouts and applause as the night sky is studded with fireworks. The crowd separates and parts as people move to get a better view and, as they do, I see Hilary turn, and there beside her is Rachel. I stop where I am and stare.
The change that has occurred in her is remarkable. She has grown thin, emaciated even. It looks like she’s been starving herself for weeks. Arms like sticks emerge from a grey chiffon dress that hangs loosely from boney shoulders. The dress stops above her knees, which seem bulbous and swollen compared to the narrow, fleshless calves. Everything about her seems sinewy and brittle. Her hand clutches a glass of red wine to her chest, and it seems amazing that she has the strength to hold it, to stand up. But the biggest change is in her face. It has shrunk back to the bone, shadows lurking around her eye sockets and underneath her cheeks. Her eyes are black, liquid pools, dead eyes in a sunken face. Those eyes are on me now while everyone else stares up at the pyrotechnics. I gather my courage and move towards her, making myself smile as I do. But she doesn’t smile back. It’s like she’s looking through me. Even when I’m right up close to her, her eyes seem unfocused, glassy and lifeless.
‘Hello, Rachel,’ I say.
Her empty gaze rests on me for a moment. Then she flings the contents of her glass at my chest. Gasping, I feel the cool splash coming through the fabric to my skin and, looking down, I see the purple stain spreading across my breast like a gunshot. I am breathless with shock, but she is cool, and unmoved. She leans in close – close enough for me to feel the heat of her breath.
