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

can’t. She feels a great, churning tangle of old emotion that’s now full of a terrible panic. But the idea of him being killed? The fear rattles and rattles… Her brain goes into overdrive.

The screen in the console jangles into life and Alex’s name flashes up.

‘Hiya!’ She tries desperately to sound upbeat. There’s a slight pause on the other end.

‘That’s a very long journey home.’ His voice is flat.

She snatches a look at the time. ‘Oh! God, Alex… I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. I was—’

‘Please don’t bother,’ he interrupts. ‘I’ve heard it all before,’ he sighs. ‘I said I’d cook dinner, didn’t I?’

‘Uh-huh, you said—’

‘That we should talk about stuff.’

‘And we should.’

‘But I really can’t see the point.’

‘Alex—’

‘Why would I, Frankie? You don’t invest in us. It’s like you can’t see or think of anything apart from that job. Even now, even now with a lunatic prowling about, you’re still behaving as though your feelings are the only ones that matter. You carry on as though there’s no one to consider but yourself.’

‘It’s not like that, it’s—’

‘Stop trying to justify the unjustifiable, Frankie. Just take a moment and think. What about me, Frankie? Consider me for once.’

She goes to argue but stops herself. ‘You know what, Alex? You’re exactly right.’

Her reply takes the wind out of his sails. He hesitates.

‘I’ve been selfish and I’m sorry. I want to make things better between us.’

‘Right, then. Well, that’s a start. So convince me, Frankie. Convince me that you’re in this marriage as much as I am.’

‘I am in this marriage, Alex. I want to be with you.’

‘Then change.’

‘Yes, I will, I’ll talk to Diane—’

He sighs, huge and exasperated. ‘No, Frankie. Not Diane – I mean change by changing your life. Change our life, for god’s sake! Leave that bloody job!’

She stares silently into the road in front of her, wishing and wishing that they weren’t having this same old conversation right now. That somehow, it could be different.

‘I’m really close to home.’

‘Are you?’ He sounds doubtful.

‘Can we talk then?’

‘I’m still at the community centre, but yes, let’s talk later, Frankie. Let’s talk about changing both our lives. Let’s put a time band on it for a brand new start. Can we agree to that?’

‘Let’s agree to talk – yes, definitely.’ She tries to sound as definite as her words.

‘Okay. I’ll see you later, then. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

The depression leaches over her in a blanket of pure exhaustion. Yes, give up your job, run away from all this, her head tells her. So what if Peter kills Martin? Why should you care? Move away where no one will ever find you, leave it all behind, and start again – No Martin, no Chloe, no Vanessa or Peter or Jack. None of them ever existed. Start again.

Could she do that?

Looking up, she realises she’s almost home. Pulling on to the drive, she practically stalls the engine. Her head feels like a pressure cooker that’s ready to explode. If she screamed out here, no one would hear her.

There’s a stillness in the house as she walks into the hallway. She’s thankful Alex is out. She thinks her head might burst. The thought of Chloe’s photograph keeps coming back to her in a stunned, dragging ache. All those feelings that she’s pushed down hard for years are now simmering in a great surge that she can barely keep contained. She puts her hand in her pocket and brings out the photograph that Jack gave her.

Chloe, Chloe, Chloe.

It’s an immediate compulsion. She doesn’t even pause to take her coat off. Walking quickly upstairs, she goes into the bedroom and pulls out a cardboard box that’s hidden at the back of the wardrobe. The pink ribbon has frayed and dried out with age. She sits on the end of the bed holding the box on her knees. It’s been a long, long time.

The pain forms a stone in the centre of her chest as she forces her fingers to slide the dusty band over the end and tip off the lid. Inside is the plastic hospital wristband with her name ‘Frankie Turner’ on it. Underneath it are two tiny ones: ‘Chloe Turner’ they both say, one for her ankle and one for her wrist.

She slips her fingers inside them: so, so small.

How could she have done what she did? How could she have done any of it?

She didn’t. She couldn’t have. It must have been some other person, someone who lived some other life…

How she wishes that were true.

She picks up the little bits of things one by one. A single scratch mitten, a tiny hat, a necklace chain that she unwinds holding it up to the light. The tiny crystal ‘C’ dances there. ‘C’ for Chloe. Undoing the clasp, she puts it around her neck, stroking it with the tips of her fingers. Chloe. A miniature onesie that looks like it could have belonged to a doll. She brings it up to her nose. The scent is still there; it’s unmistakable. It’s a primal smell that tells her they were once joined in a way that no one else could ever be joined to her: not Vanessa, not Peter, not even Martin.

Jack had gathered these tiny memories for her to keep. Smuggled them out to the house where his friend lived; the place they should have been going together, but where she ended up going alone. He got his packages, and she got these small lifelines. He sent her photos too, little video clips of Chloe as a baby that he took when no one was looking. She didn’t know how she would have coped without him in those first few weeks and months. They let her see Chloe in the beginning, once a month at a park or a shopping centre – somewhere there were lots of people in case she thought of snatching her – but they would never let her hold her. She saw Jude twice in that time, who asked lots of smiling questions and