Keep My Secrets by Elena Wilkes (management books to read .txt) 📕

deserted. The canal tunnels loomed black in front of her. The only sounds were those of her own feet as her soles pinged, their echoes ricocheting unsteadily across the water’s surface. It was a different world down here: the ages-old wet mustiness of bricks and lichen, and the slow clopping of the water inside the lock gates.

Frankie.

Startled, she whirled round. The voice had been in her ear: so close, right on her shoulder. But there was no one there. The shadows around her feet elongated like weird puppets – they began to move to her left and right, independent of her, not hers at all, her head becoming cartoonish, the hands wild and gesticulating, but she wasn’t moving them. Heart drumming, she looked around. The path behind was quiet. She looked back. No shadows. No waving figure. Nothing. She swallowed.

Drugs. That’s all. Just the drugs. Come on, Frankie, keep it together.

Up ahead, the canal boats reared like sleeping monsters out of the gloom. Using the torch on her phone, she shone the beam along the water’s edge, trying to make out the names: Annabella, Gypsy Rose, April Star— and then she saw it and instantly recognised the name: Morning Mist. Her eyes searched the length of the boat, peering painfully at the windows as she slowed her pace, searching for the sight she dreaded: Martin with Charlotte. And then she saw it. A faint gauzy yellow glowing through one of the closed curtains. Something gripped her gut.

She stopped, listening. Her breath was high up in her chest and she blinked muzzily. She could see the door to the cabin was slightly ajar with a beading of light round the edge. If they were in there, she’d hear them. The boat rocked a little in its moorings as the sound of a voice made her turn her head.

Heart thudding, she walked to the back of the boat. One foot forward and a flip of that door to swing it wide and she would see what her heart wasn’t ready to see. She put a hand on the rail. The boat moved alarmingly and her fingers gripped the metal tighter as she stepped onto the edge. Her fingers grazed the tiller. Noiselessly, she grasped the wooden end and pulled it free from the rudder. It felt heavy in her hands. She staggered a little, swaying with the motion. If she opened the door now… She imagined the look on their faces. They’d be scared of her, terrified. She’d show them that you can’t treat people like something that can be used and thrown away.

Softly and very gently, she put a fingertip on the edge of the cabin door. The light arced into a geometric shape at her feet. She dipped her head below the roof edge. The black shadow of her outline loomed up in front of her like an uninvited guest.

Everywhere went suddenly very quiet. The stink of Charlotte’s perfume filled her nostrils and she jumped as a flock of ducks squawked and flapped, skimming across the water’s surface. The end of the bed revealed itself; the bedclothes were rucked and tumbled onto the floor. She couldn’t see Martin or Charlotte. Where were they?

She stepped inside.

Chapter Six

She didn’t remember how she got back to the home. She knew she was running; the juddering hammer of pain in the top of her skull; her breath hissing through her clenched jaw. There was a screaming in her head that wouldn’t go away. She couldn’t see or hear or think. The drumbeat of her heart pounded until she thought it might rip through her chest wall. Suddenly she was back in the familiar street with the shape of the house coming up in front of her. Tonight hadn’t happened, her head told her. None of it was real. None of the horror: none of the sights or the sounds. Nothing. She’d dreamt it. She knew she would wake up in her bed, and everything would be just as it was. But something inside said different.

The birds of the dawn chorus twittered all around and a chill gathered down her spine. She stopped running. It had happened to someone else. Her head felt heavy, as though it was on a stalk that she could barely hold upright. No matter how hard she tried, the images fluttered and drifted, the pictures before her eyes rushing up to her as though on a surging tide before being dragged away again. She couldn’t hold on to her thoughts. Let them go; you don’t want them.

Her window was still slightly ajar. The house was silent. As she had done so many times before, she scaled the first bracket of the drainpipe, back onto the porch roof and onto her windowsill. Within moments she was back inside her room. It was exactly as she’d left it. Pushing down the backs of her sneakers, she crawled fully clothed beside the hump of pillows, putting her arms around them, and holding on to them tight. She closed her eyes. A shock lurched through her jerking her arms and legs, but she only held on tighter and tighter, squeezing everything out – Don’t let it in, shut it all out, until oblivion dragged her down to a place that she really, really wanted to go.

Her surface dreams were full of grief, great, roaring waves of it, deep and all-consuming that kept breaking into her consciousness. She didn’t want to wake up; she didn’t want to remember. Her brain dragged and thrashed over a multitude of terrible fears. Someone was crying and begging; the wailing got louder and louder until she was forced to open her eyes. The roaring was real. Her eyes batted as she tried to make sense of the sound. There were voices. Two of them, coming from downstairs; they were loud, rising and falling. She lifted her head from the pillow. Somewhere in the background she could hear Martin. Her heart leapt and then utter despair kicked in.