Keep My Secrets by Elena Wilkes (large ebook reader .txt) 📗

The choking hiccoughs that racked her chest finally stopped her from running any further. She slowed, her breath stinging and burning, her tongue dry and aching. She couldn’t cry properly because her lungs wouldn’t let her. She was far away from anywhere and everyone she knew.

She came to a stuttering halt, resting her hands on her knees as she bent to catch her breath. She stared down at the pavement. Everything was wrong now, the world looked wrong. She thought of him sauntering back into work tomorrow, casually picking up where he left off, laughing and chatting with Jude and those girls, and no one knowing a thing. She thought of all the houses they’d broken into and all the things he’d taken and how there would be no consequences for any of it because no one knew what he’d done. A sudden rage slammed into her belly. She’d been picked up and manoeuvred just as easily as he’d picked up those bottles and tins. She was clearly nothing to him: a useful thing, a kid to be strung along and she’d fallen for the whole spiel. He’d suckered her in, big-time. Was she going to let him just get away with that? Was she? The hell she was.

She began to retrace her steps back along the streets until the noise told her she was close to the party. There were people still standing in the doorway as she barged past and into the hallway. An awful thought suddenly struck her: what if he was hooking up with Charlotte right now? The idea almost slayed her. Fighting back the threat of tears, she turned the whole lot into anger. Grabbing up a full bottle of wine from the table, she stormed up the stairs, banging each of the bedroom doors open in turn. A number of surprised faces peered back at her from amongst the coats and jackets but none of them were Martin or Charlotte. Stomping back down the stairs, she bulldozed her way through the horde in the living room and practically fell out of the open doors into the garden. She wouldn’t let them see what they’d done to her; she wouldn’t give them that satisfaction. But she’d make sure they felt the full force of it: all her pain and fury was coming their way. Yes, they could definitely have some of that.

Taking a big slug from the bottle, and then another, she marched down the path. Where were they? Smashing her way through the bushes, she tore and ripped at the stems, knowing that people were staring but she didn’t care. The lights above her swayed in the breeze and a tremendous weight of unbearable sadness fell around her shoulders. She would not cry. She staggered a little. There were the bushes where she’d lain with Martin, and a lump caught in her throat. Taking another gulp of wine, she pushed her way into the undergrowth and listened again. She couldn’t hear anyone. They’re here though… they must be here… Why would he do this to her? She gulped back a sob and scrubbed at her face. It was wet, and her neck was gritty with dirt and tears. She licked her lips and tasted… blood. Pushing her way back onto the path she realised that her palms were sticky with it; the skin was cut up and sore, and her nails were broken.

The wine buzzed loudly in her ears; the pills and the alcohol heaved together in a sudden squall in her gut. She closed her eyes as a wave of giddiness caught her and she sat heavily on a tree stump. What was she really going to find out here? Only more hurt and more pain. The garden came into focus and then drifted away again. Blot it out. Yeah. Blot the whole fucking thing out. She tried to stand and failed – tried again and dropped back, hard.

‘Are you okay?’

A voice came from somewhere behind, making her jump. She swung her head round in a wave of dizziness. There was a man, a bloke anyway, his leather jacket creaking as she felt the warmth of his hand cupping her elbow, helping her to her feet.

‘Doan worry ’bout me,’ she mumbled. ‘Mm fine… juss need to—’

‘Your face. You’re bleeding.’

‘No I’m not, iss my hands, I was—’

‘Hang on.’

There was a rustle as he delved into his pocket and she felt the papery touch of a tissue against her cheek and palms. ‘You’re in a bit of a state.’

‘Mm alright.’

‘I don’t think so.’ The voice was kind, concerned. ‘Let me get you a cab.’

‘Nah.’ She got up, swaying slightly. ‘I wanna walk.’

‘I don’t really think you should—’

But she’d pushed past him before he could finish.

‘Let me make sure you’re safe, at least!’ he called after her.

But she didn’t want to listen, she just wanted out of there. Surprisingly, her legs complied, allowing her to stumble her way back through the house and out onto the street. Glancing briefly over her shoulder, she saw he was following. For fuck’s sake, go away! She took every sidestreet and turning, repeatedly doubling back on herself, using the tactics that Martin had taught her, until she found a front garden that was shrouded in shadows and slid into them, crouching, waiting until he had gone.

Martin.

The things he’d taught her.

He’d changed her life. How she’d love to just forget she ever met him.

But he’d never forget he’d met her.

She stood unsteadily. If he wasn’t at the house, then she knew where they’d be. The streets were silent. She knew exactly where she was heading: she’d seen the blue fingerpost signs marked ‘Footpath’ and where it was pointing to.

It took her half an hour to get down to the canal. She couldn’t remember exactly where he was moored – she’d only been there once before – but she thought she could find her way there. The towpath was murky and