If You Only Knew Read online

  Back downstairs, alone in the silent house, I pick up Chloe’s file, trying again to analyse the sparse information. Chloe’s words come back to me, her hard looks, and sudden flashes of vulnerability. Her reluctance to tell anyone about the rape baffles me but I understand her contradictions at the same time. Still, I get the feeling that there’s more to her story, that she’s hiding something important. I just cannot figure out what, yet.

  I am so wrapped in my thoughts that I don’t hear my husband walk in. The sound of the garage door opening and the car door being slammed shut, that I’m usually so attuned to, don’t register and I almost jump when I hear him behind me.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, kissing me gently. I run my fingers through his hair. It’s starting to get long, almost as long as the first time I’d properly met Miles Perkins as he lay on the ground in front of my dorm building, thick hair fanning his face, throwing up spectacularly.

  I have Luigi to thank for reintroducing us. Occasionally I still reel at the fear that used to paralyse me whenever I thought of Miles Perkins, wondering whether he had been able to remember more than my bruised face that night, if he had also noticed the blood in my hair, my scared look, whether he realised that John Larkin’s estimated time of death coincided with the night he’d seen me trying to sneak into the halls of residence. Two years passed before I saw him again. One evening Luigi dragged me to the pub after a marathon studying session. “Come on Elizabetta. We’re going to turn into books ourselves if we don’t leave the library.” Luigi was ordering drinks when Miles walked in. The hairs on the back of my neck stood out in fear as immediate recognition took hold.

  “We meet again,” he’d said. “I promise not to get too drunk tonight.”

  Smiling weakly, I looked away, unwilling to engage with him. Yet as much as I wished he would leave, he stood his ground next to me.

  “How have you been?” he asked.

  “Good, you?”

  “Better now that I’ve seen you again,” he flirted.

  Starting a relationship was the last thing on my mind, least of all with the sole other person I had seen, and who had seen me, that night. Getting close to anyone terrified me, risking having them see through my well-crafted facade and into my real self, filled me with fear. Anxiety that my secret would slip out led to my self-imposed isolation.

  But somehow, as Miles talked, I started feeling myself relax and despite myself, I started giving him more than one-word answers. The next time Luigi started badgering me to go out, I didn’t put up much of a fight. Miles was already at The King’s Arms and I tried to keep the smile off my face. I came to see that he wasn’t like all the other guys I’d met. He didn’t try to push me into a relationship, barely asked me out on a date. We kept bumping into each other and I was transfixed by his kind voice and gentle behaviour. Somehow, without even realising it, I had started to fall in love, something I always thought that I would never be able to do. My conviction that I would remain alone started to weaken under Miles’ caring, respectful attention. Even before any intimacy entered our relationship, we would spend hours talking, about important stuff but also about the most mundane things that happened in our lives. His jokes, even the bad ones, made me laugh harder than I had in years and gently started peeling away the layers of protection that I had built around myself.

  But there was still a major hurdle to overcome. For months after we started dating, my body would stiffen up whenever he tried to be intimate. Each touch, every caress reminded me of that awful night and the man looming over me. John Larkin’s contorted face kept flashing in front of my eyes. But stronger than my fear of intimacy was my absolute terror of losing Miles. I couldn’t risk him slipping away. That night had cost me enough and it could not be the reason I lost this person I had become so fond of. Aside from Luigi he was my only real friend and quickly becoming more than that. Determined not to do anything that would jeopardize my blossoming relationship, I somehow found the strength to slowly start getting physically closer to Miles.

  Despite our years together, I still fear that he knows that I’m keeping something from him, or that he knows there’s something I’ve tried so hard to bury, that there is something distancing between us. Sometimes I catch him looking at me with an intense expression on his face, as if he’s trying to drill into my head and read my thoughts. “What’s your darkest secret?” he asked me once. I’d struggled to keep the fear that was bubbling inside me from showing on my face. “Sometimes, when clients give me chocolates, I bring them home, but eat them all in the car,” I told him. He smiled, but said nothing, and I knew he didn’t believe me.

  “Have you eaten?” he asks, walking back into the living room, his hair still wet from the shower. As if on cue, my stomach grumbles loudly, the sound reverberating around the silent room. Miles laughs. “Pizza?”

  “Yes, sure.” I would have preferred Chinese but let him make the choice. “Can you order some garlic bread as well?”

  While Miles orders our dinner, I reread my notes. “Working on anything interesting?” he asks, sitting on the sofa next to me.

  Closing the file, I put it down on the coffee table. “There’s a new case I’m thinking of taking.” I summarize Chloe’s story, including the new information that the teenager had divulged about the rape. “She’s basically alone in the world.”

  “Jesus Liz, why are you so obsessed with these rape cases?” Miles exclaims.

  “Everybody deserves a good defence,” I argue. “This case is in the hands of legal aid right now, but they can’t cope with it. She doesn’t stand a chance.”

  “You cannot rescue every victim of abuse,” he says, his voice hushed, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. “And then you get so engrossed in these cases that you’re barely recognisable.”

  “What does that mean?” My head thumps as a flash of anger rises.

  “You know exactly what I mean. You end up spending every waking moment thinking about these girls and are never present.”

  “That’s not true,” comes my quick retort. “You’re being unfair.”

  “I’m not being unfair. You’re the one being unfair. To me, to the kids, and to your own firm. You focus so much on these cases that everything else becomes an afterthought.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Hurt sears through me at his allegation that I’m putting him or the kids second to my clients.

  “Why are you so obsessed with these victims? These young girls are nothing but a handful of trouble!”

  “Do you even realise how unfair you’re being?” I spit back. “This is my job, what I do.”

  “You’re also a wife and a mother and you must never forget that,” he says.

  The doorbell rings as I am about to respond and Miles gets up to get our delivery.

  Chapter 8

  1998

  I pushed the fact that I was carrying a child to the back of my mind. There were way too many other things to think about. First were the exams that were just around the corner, and then the stress of the discovery trickling into the news a little piece at a time. My body had started showing signs of the stress I was under. My normally clear skin was breaking out in angry spots and every time I brushed my thick hair, I noticed more and more red strands falling out. I felt wiped out, like I hadn’t slept in days, which I hadn’t really. As for eating, I was picking at food like a bird. I’d always been thin, but in the past days I started to see my collar bones sticking out in a painfully angular fashion and my normally round cheeks had taken on a hollow appearance.

  To the outside world, I was still the hard-working student, with no boyfriend or close friends, and only one real care in the world – to get through college. Forcing all thoughts of my current situation aside, I turned to prepping for my exams. The investigation had moved on from John Larkin’s death to the girls who had been found. The bodies had started to be identified and police were trying to determine what had happened to them. News about the dead man s
tarted becoming more sparse. While I was still on high alert for every piece of information I could find, other students had started to move on, losing interest in the story. They talked about the end of term, their plans for the summer, what would happen next year. Everyone else was putting the horror at the back of their minds and focusing on what really mattered to them. Only I couldn’t, I felt like screaming. Discussing the case had felt dangerous but liberating. As if I could somehow relieve the pressure in my chest that was caused by keeping such an enormous secret.

  Focusing on my studies, I spent most of my time in the library, pouring over books and distancing myself further from other students. My job at the supermarket kept me busy but even there I kept to myself, spending my breaks reading in the car park now that the weather had improved. The fresh air was welcome and the books a distraction from my terrifying memories.

  It was no surprise when I aced all my exams, placing me at the top of my class in almost every module, which earned me a scholarship for a year in the United States. It was an experience that I had longed for, especially now. I needed to put some distance between myself and this place.

  My parents were thrilled with my results and the scholarship. They could never have afforded to pay for the coveted experience. Mum hugged me tightly when I got off the train and I felt myself startle at the sudden contact. Barely anyone had touched me since that night. I kept my distance. Most of the time my arms were crossed over my chest, and I would step back when anyone got too close. Even though I still thought about him and that night multiple times during the day, I was trying my hardest not to allow the incident to take over my life, and keeping people at bay was one way of trying to remain in control.

  But how could I tell my own mother not to touch me? Not to hug me? I resolved to tolerate, even welcome, her embrace and hugged her back, breathing in her familiar scent. My eyes welled with tears as I thought that my mother could have lost her only daughter because of my stupid decision.

  A soft sob escaped. She lifted my chin and wiped away my tears. “It’s so good to see you,” she said, looking at my dad and beaming with pride.

  My parents had always struggled to make ends meet. My dad worked hard as a car salesman and my mother had a part-time job as a secretary. They lived in a small house on a middle-class suburban street. They counted their pennies and lived meagrely, saving just enough money to send their only daughter to a good college. They’d talked late into the night about how they could afford the fees after I got in. Thankfully my grades had won me a partial scholarship, taking some of the burden from their shoulders and making my dream of going to the university of my choice achievable.

  Mum came to help me unpack. My bedroom seemed childish, with its pale pink flowered wallpaper and teddy bears lining the bed. I had few trinkets, but my heart skipped a beat when I caught sight of the red faux leather jewellery box, its deep rich colour pooling beneath the bedside lamp. Panic started rising in my chest, my heart starting to beat faster, my breathing becoming laboured. The feeling terrified me and I tried to shake it away, make sure Mum didn’t notice. She was looking at me intently, her brain churning as she tried to figure out what was disturbing me and trying to determine how she should ask questions without being intrusive.

  Picking up the jewellery box, I averted my eyes as I emptied its contents, before handing it to my mum, forcing a smile. “Here, I don’t really want this anymore.”

  She took it and turned it in her hands. “Why?” she finally said, her eyes slitted.

  I shrugged. “I guess I’ve gone off red.” I hoped the explanation would suffice.

  “What about your hair?” She reached out and touched my bright tresses.

  “I’ll keep it,” I said with a watery smile.

  That evening we had a quiet dinner. I picked at my mother’s lasagne, a dish I used to love. But seeing the thick red liquid oozing out from between the sheets of pasta made my stomach turn. As much as I tried to force myself I couldn’t bring myself to eat. My mother’s eyes glimmered with disappointment as she saw me shredding the pasta with my fork, and taking tiny morsels.

  After dinner she joined me in the conservatory. Closing my book, we sat in silence for a while, listening to the birds chattering through the open door. Then she asked about my year, my friends, my shifts at the supermarket.

  It was a while before she broached the subject of John Larkin. I feared she might ask about it at some point. The shack was too near the campus for her not to worry. She’d asked about the case when I’d first spoken to her on the phone after his body was found and then when the other girls’ bodies were discovered, and I had quickly changed the subject. “I don’t know much,” I lied. “Just what I’ve heard on the news.”

  “Those poor girls,” she said, her voice drifting off in the night. “I wonder how he caught them.”

  I shrugged. From the corner of my eye I saw Mum looking at me. Then I felt her hand grabbing mine, squeezing tightly. “Promise me you’re always careful,” she said. At that moment I felt my heart break.

  *

  By the end of the summer I no longer jumped at every noise I heard, whenever a door creaked, or if someone walked towards me too fast, or jostled me in a small space. The nightmares persisted but I’d feel better soon after I woke up. I no longer spent hours in a daze of fear.

  Most of my time I spent with my parents, enjoying quiet time at home with them, painfully aware that these moments might not have happened had I not found that shard of glass. Although I met up with some of my old friends, the ones I had growing up, I was constantly on guard, worried of letting anything slip that might blow my cover.

  Dad had got me a job at his car dealership and I was genuinely grateful. It meant having something to do and being able to earn some money. It wasn’t a great job, just a gofer, doing whatever small jobs were needed that day, from wiping the inside of the cars after a buyer went in to check out the interior to getting lunch for the salesmen.

  I spent most of my other time at the library, reading everything I could. I borrowed books and read late into the night, focusing on making sure I was prepared for my year abroad, yearning to make a good impression.

  It was Mum who commented on my weight gain one Sunday morning as I walked into the kitchen in my nightgown. “I’m glad to see you’re finally eating properly,” she said.

  My face reddened and I looked down at my body. “Are you calling me fat?” I joked to dispel the tense atmosphere.

  “Of course not!” Mum exclaimed. “You were just too skinny when you came back from university.”

  But I knew that this wasn’t the whole truth. I’d noticed my belly growing all the time and it was becoming increasingly difficult to suck it in. Instead I concealed it underneath baggy t-shirts, while worrying that I wouldn’t be able to hide my increasingly rounded form for much longer. I was thankful to be going to a place where nobody knew me.

  But even as I saw my body change in front of my eyes, I refused to do anything about the situation, completely in denial. The baby was pushed out of my mind, as if it didn’t exist, and I tried to convince even myself that the weight gain was due to my mother’s cooking. The constant struggle to appear normal was as much pressure as I could handle and I feared that one more piece of stress would break me. Despite realising how irresponsible it was, I refused to see a doctor. The thought of having this pregnancy confirmed was more than I could handle. For now it was an abstract, something that I knew was true but refused to believe. It was all I could do to cope.

  When the last weekend before the start of term rolled around, I woke up to find Mum crying gently at the kitchen counter as she prepared breakfast. Hugging her tightly, I arched my back so that she wouldn’t feel my stomach.

  On my last night at home, in my childhood bedroom, I lay in bed, wide awake, staring at the soft lights on the ceiling. Every time the curtain moved, the lights looked like they were dancing. Tomorrow I’d be boarding a plane to take me far away. And then I would ha
ve to deal with the problem that I had put off for so long. The thought terrified me but I knew that I couldn’t will this situation away. I had to face it and find the best way to deal with it. My future depended on it.

  Chapter 9

  2014

  Chloe strides into my office, her head held up, her face steely. She is wearing the same shabby grey knit. The neckline has been stretched, making it fall over one bony shoulder.

  “Sit down,” I tell her, motioning to the chair across from my desk, before going back to finish an email, guilt eating at me for putting paying clients on the back burner while I considered this case. Minutes tick by as I concentrate on the right wording, the silence broken only by my fingers tapping the computer keys and Chloe’s barely suppressed huffs.

  Miles’ disapproval and accusations are threatening to distract me. So is Luigi’s resistance about me taking on this case. Only Jennifer seems committed. “I’m glad you’re helping her,” she said when I asked her to set up another meeting.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I warned.

  But something about Chloe excites me and unnerves me. I want to be the one to find out what happened that day, dig deep into her story and determine whether she was really wronged. Ben’s actions need to be exposed, if anything to protect other girls from him. Girls who he might hurt in the future unless he’s stopped. Girls who, like Chloe, might have to hide their emotions under a sharp exterior and struggle every day with guilt, shame and fear. Just like I did. Like I still do.

  Chloe’s irritation is becoming palpable. But I keep her waiting for a little longer, knowing that I won’t be able to fully concentrate before wrapping up my other work. Sure enough, her face is beginning to flush, and her crossed leg begins to twitch and then swing and shift with the other and back again. “Let’s start,” I finally say. She utters something indecipherable under her breath, but I ignore her. “Tell me exactly what happened that day.”