Sworn Secret Read online

  As she neared the playground gate the bees fell out of her mind and Haydn stepped into their place, and quickly her fear was replaced with frantic nerves. She’d thought about this meeting almost continuously since they’d arranged it, self-conscious and full of happy jitters, soon after their kiss on his bed. She hid herself behind a tree, peering around it to watch for him. She couldn’t be the first to arrive. That would make her look desperate, not to mention put her at risk of being stood up, and though she’d experimented a hundred different ways to look nonchalant whilst she waited, she had yet to succeed. No, it was way better to stay hidden until after he arrived, then appear half-running and apologizing for being late. This would get three birds in one hit: she wouldn’t look too keen, she’d be certain he was there and her apology would fill those first awkward minutes, the spectre of which loomed over her in all its stilted hideousness.

  Everything clenched when she finally saw him.

  She tucked herself tighter into the tree and watched him open the gate to the playground. He was too amazing for words! His slight swagger, the way he had his hands in his pockets, so cool, so confident. One earphone was in his ear, the other trailed over his shoulder. She felt a shiver of excitement as she remembered the way his lips had felt and tasted, all soft and smoky.

  He sat on a swing and kicked himself back and forth while he reached into his jacket pocket for tobacco and papers. Her pulse hammered. She watched as a woman eyed him warily before pulling her son off the next-door swing, her arm protectively around the small boy, her eyes fixed on Haydn as she hurried them away. Lizzie was confused; the only thing that looked the tiniest bit scary was the top-to-toe black, and perhaps the fact his hair obscured his face, and, maybe, the convict-style smoking. It was a book-and-cover thing; if the lady knew what Haydn had done for her at the memorial or how gently he stroked the back of his fingers down her cheek after they’d kissed, she’d never have run away.

  Lizzie smoothed her hands over her hair to calm the static, pinched her cheeks like they used to do instead of blusher, took a deep breath, then sidestepped out from behind the tree and ambled casually – she hoped – concentrating on each step as she tried to keep her pounding heart in check.

  ‘Hey,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ she said, with feigned surprise.

  ‘Y’OK?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ She tried looking at him, but found it scrambled the monosyllables in her head, so she fixed her eyes on the church steeple that peeped over the trees that surrounded the park. ‘You?’

  ‘Yup.’

  Lizzie perched herself on the vacant swing next to his and was immediately overwhelmed with dread. It was the painful silence; she’d forgotten all about the apology for being late, and now they were firmly wedged in the gloopy quiet she’d feared. He squashed his cigarette into the bark chips at their feet. Lizzie glanced at the mother who’d hurried her son away. The woman glared at her, which made Lizzie feel like poking her tongue out.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Whatever you want is fine,’ she mumbled.

  Then he laughed, and Lizzie’s cheeks flushed hot.

  ‘Look, I’ll be in charge today,’ he said. ‘There’s somewhere I’d like to take you.’ He jumped off the swing. ‘You do next time.’

  Next time.

  A warmth spread through her and she allowed herself a fleeting smile. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll do next time.’

  ‘Cool. The tube then.’

  Talk was stilted as they walked, and Lizzie’s heart quickly sank. She found it impossible to think of anything to say. She fired a couple of mundane questions into the quiet, but the single-word answers that came back only intensified the ugliness. When she mentioned the weather he didn’t even acknowledge it. Of course, to make matters worse, everywhere she looked people were chatting – bustling cafés had set up on the sunny pavements, work colleagues shared cigarettes and gossip outside their offices, mums with barefoot babies nattered at the bus stop – all of them ramming her inadequacy down her throat with their relaxed and easy ways. Becoming desperate, she ventured music. It was a risk as they both knew she knew nothing about music, but at least it was interesting to him. Though it worked to a point, what resulted couldn’t really be called a conversation. While Haydn talked, Lizzie could only contribute bland nods. What he was saying was gobbledegook. It was useless, and only a matter of hours before he realized they were as compatible as ice and fire. When he mentioned someone she’d heard of, Chris Isaak, Lizzie almost said something, but the words got jammed by the pressure. And what would she say anyway? Oh, yeah, I know his name, he did that song, you know, the one Anna played me that time. She hung her head and followed him down the station steps. They didn’t say another word for the rest of the tube journey, and with each second of silence she cringed a little more. It wasn’t until she’d followed him off the tube, up the escalator, crossed to the overground platform and then stepped on to the train, that she managed to ask him where they were going.

  ‘Dalston,’ he said as he scrolled on his iPod.

  She hadn’t even heard of it. If she could have spoken she would have suggested he carry on alone. This was a terrible mistake. She never should have kissed him. What a stupid thing to do! No thought for the consequences. It was so unlike her. She stared blindly at the adverts on the platform billboards of the stations they passed, hating herself for imagining this could work.

  Finally, Haydn stood and moved to the doors. ‘Come on then.’

  Dalston station was decorated with splashes of graffiti and rubbish that lay in the sun like washed-up flotsam. Lizzie began to panic as she thought of her mum, who would have hated her in this part of London, what with all the guns and knives and terrorists blowing stuff up without warning.

  ‘You all right?’ Haydn asked. ‘You look tight.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘It’s just, well, I haven’t been here before.’

  Then he reached for her hand. His fingers laced through hers. His thumb grazed the length of hers. Her stomach turned over and her pulse quickened. His grip was a shot of hallucinogen. When his thumb stroked her again she had to bite her tongue to stop herself shouting out in joy. Where his skin met hers she tingled, as if energy flowed between them, all her previous worry forgotten. The sun was warm on her face, she was floating, her feet dancing clear of the dirty pavement. She felt like laughing, not just happy, but ecstatic. She started to look around her – the colours had turned celluloid, the strange noises were sounding like music. Even the smell of the place – ripe fruit, old rubbish, cooking smells, musty sweat – was intoxicating. She took three deep breaths and enjoyed the feeling of her body relaxing.

  As they walked, she noticed how many different places to eat there were. On just one side of the road they passed Turkish, Indian, Bangladeshi, Kurdish, Italian, Polish. Reggae boomed out of a parked car that overspilled with young men laughing and talking with West Indian accents so thick she couldn’t make out the words. They passed a mosque, an Orthodox church and a man with sandwich boards who told her that without Jesus she’d burn for eternity. A rainbow of people flowed past them. Some laughed, others ambled or strode, some looked sad or angry while many seemed to drift along without purpose. A few sat in doorways with grubby sleeping bags draped over their knees, loosely holding misspelled pleas for help on torn bits of cardboard.

  ‘I like Chris Isaak’s music,’ she said, suddenly.

  ‘Really?’ said Haydn, squeezing her hand tighter as he pulled her through a crowd of gathered people.

  ‘Yeah, he sang one of Anna’s favourite songs.’

  Haydn smiled at her. ‘“Wicked Game”.’

  ‘She loved that song.’

  ‘It was Anna who told me about him. I thought he was a bit of a prick, but then she played me this song.’ He looked at her. ‘“Two Hearts”?’

  ‘From True Romance.’

  ‘Yeah! That’s right!’ He grinned. ‘And she said I shoul
d watch the film and listen for the song, and then tell me if I thought he was still a prick.’

  ‘She loved that film. She tried to make me call her Alabama for a couple of days, but I kept forgetting,’ said Lizzie. She smiled, remembering watching it with Anna like it was yesterday. Someone had given it to her at school. It was an eighteen certificate, a pirate copy. Lizzie wasn’t sure about it.

  ‘Listen to your evil big sister,’ said Anna, with a naughty lift of her eyebrows. ‘You’ll love it.’

  They snuggled under a duvet in the dark, eating microwave popcorn and falling in love with Christian Slater. Lizzie recalled the worry she’d felt when any violence or sex came on to the screen. She’d pull the duvet up to her nose and cross her fingers, praying and praying their parents didn’t walk in.

  ‘You like it too?’

  Lizzie nodded. ‘That’s one of the only similar things about us. We loved the same films.’

  ‘And your voice.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Your voice. You have the same voice as Anna. Exactly.’

  ‘I’ve heard that so many times,’ she said. ‘Lots at her funeral.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Uh-huh. When people ran out of the normal things to say, like “you must be so upset”, and “what a shock for us all” or whatever. There’d be this awful silence and they’d mention our voices.’ She smiled at him to break the tension that talk of her funeral had brought.

  ‘It is weird though,’ he went on. ‘When you came to my house. I heard you from upstairs, and like, it could have been her.’

  ‘It sounds different to me.’

  ‘It would, wouldn’t it? I mean, your own voice always sounds different in your own head, like when you hear yourself on a phone message or something. But to other people you sound exactly the same.’

  ‘Weird,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, really weird.’

  ‘So,’ she said, keen to change the subject. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Nearly there.’

  They turned into Stoke Newington High Street. Almost instantly the faces began to whiten, the rubbish lessened and the discount stores and pound shops gave way to old-fashioned toy-shops and organic bakeries; Lizzie felt a pang of disappointment.

  Haydn stopped walking, flourished a bow, then opened his arm in the direction of some imposing iron gates.

  ‘Velcome,’ he said, in Draculesque.

  Lizzie didn’t understand, and looked from the gates to him then back again. ‘A cemetery?’

  He gave a cartoon evil laugh. ‘Don’t you know zat all ze girlz love ze place of ze dead?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Ladiez virst.’

  Lizzie peered through the gates at a couple of lopsided gravestones.

  ‘So? What are you waiting for?’ He took her hand and pulled her after him. ‘You’ll love it. I promise.’

  Within minutes her doubts had vanished. The cemetery was beautiful, the most unusual place she’d ever been. She even forgot about the dead people everywhere. It was like a spell had been cast. The noise from the street was lost behind towering yew, ivy crept in thick blankets over hunks of carved marble and birds sang. It was an enchanted forest. As they walked down an avenue of trees dappled in sunlight, hand in hand in a silence that was comfortable now, she gazed around and drew as much of the magic into her as she could.

  ‘It’s amazing,’ she whispered. ‘It reminds me of Anna.’

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘Like I imagine her now. Serene and at peace. I can see her asleep in her coffin; her face is like this, undisturbed, beautiful and sort of other-worldly.’

  Lizzie thought then of her mum. Of how she’d lost it at the funeral. She saw Anna’s alabaster face stir, her eyes flick wide open, riven with horror as her mother raged. Lizzie shivered.

  Haydn stopped walking and pulled her towards him. He kissed her on the lips. If their first kiss was a ten out of ten, this second one was off the scale. Intense and gentle, her heart pounding, a moment of fear as his mouth opened and she panicked that his tongue would make the kiss awful. It didn’t. It was better. She did the same, and soon it felt like this was what she’d been born to do, to kiss Haydn. He was the one. She knew it. She pushed her fingers into his hair, loving its softness, its unfamiliarity.

  ‘I could do this for ever,’ she murmured.

  ‘Me too,’ he said, between kisses. ‘I think you’re amazing.’

  This was her best day ever. ‘Come on,’ she said, taking hold of his hand. ‘Show me more.’

  Every step threw her something else. There were stone piers with eagles perched ready to take off, praying angels gazing heavenwards, gleaming marble headstones, then ones so weathered they might be mistaken for odd-shaped rocks. There were flat graves with broken slabs that made Lizzie wonder if the souls within had forced their way out to wander the earth for eternity.

  ‘It’s like something out of a fairytale,’ she said. ‘How did you find it?’

  ‘My grandad. He was from round here. He taught me all its history, showed me his favourite graves and stuff. You’d never know, but it’s one of the most important wildlife areas in London. Anyway, when he died a few years ago, I came back, you know, to remember him and that. And, well, now I volunteer here every week.’

  ‘Volunteer?’

  ‘Clear weeds, tidy the paths, help count the animals. It helps keep my mind off stuff.’

  ‘What stuff?’

  ‘The dark stuff. The things I shouldn’t think about. Things about Anna, what I should have said or done. Wishing her back. Wondering what life would be like if she hadn’t died.’ His voice was quiet, but over the stillness Lizzie heard every syllable, every breath between, every heartbeat beneath.

  It was the same in her own head. The thoughts she tried to stop. Useless, waste-of-time thoughts that could eat up hours and hours of the day. Her what-if thoughts, she called them.

  ‘How often do you come here?’

  ‘Most weekends. I’d come after college too, if it was closer, but by the time I get here they’re ready to lock the gates. I’ve done the morning chorus a couple of times.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘It’s a walk. People come at dawn to listen to the birds. There are loads of different breeds nesting here. Butterflies too. It’s got the largest population of Speckled Woods in inner London. And,’ he went on – his enthusiasm bordering on the divine to Lizzie – ‘it was the first European cemetery that would bury anyone, however poor they were, and there were no special closed-off areas for different religions, and there was nothing official to say it was a burial ground. It was just a beautiful place where anybody could end up.’ He stopped speaking suddenly and looked at her. His face fell. ‘God, I’m boring you, aren’t I?’

  ‘No, no. Gosh, no.’ said Lizzie, horrified that he might really think that. ‘You’re the least boring person I’ve ever met, and I love it here. I love places like this. It’s like these woods we used to go to when me and Anna were little. It’d be a treat, you know, on a Sunday afternoon or whatever, with lunch in a pub or fish and chips in the car, and then this long walk, kicking through leaves. I used to imagine there were fairies there, and sometimes I’d write these silly notes for them in the morning before we left and leave them in places I thought they would go. And we’d pretend we were fairies too.’ Lizzie picked off the tip of a low-hanging branch and twirled it between her fingers. ‘Anna would always be the fairy princess, of course, and make me be the evil goblin trying to capture her. I wanted to be the fairy princess, but she’d never let me. I used to get so upset.’ Lizzie smiled at Haydn and dropped the piece of twig. ‘Silly, huh?’

  ‘Not at all.’ His eyes stared at her so intently she tingled all over.

  They walked the sylvan paths for over two hours, Haydn smoking and doing most of the talking, Lizzie holding his hand and listening. It was perfect. No bees, no parents, no sadness, just the heat of the sun and the feel of someone else’s skin on hers.
r />   They stopped at a ruined chapel, all broken windows and rotten wood and signs suggesting they keep out for their own safety. They crept through a gap in the chained gates and surprised a group of dozing pigeons that complained loudly as they flapped off their rafters. Then they kissed for ages. When Lizzie slid her hands underneath his holey cardigan, a flash of heat shot through her as she felt the hardness of his chest through his T-shirt. She breathed him in. Closed her eyes. Lingered over the feel of his hand on the back of her head. She thought about every movement, her tongue, his tongue, the way their heads moved, the way their kiss grew between them.

  And then there was buzzing.

  She stopped both kissing and breathing to concentrate. She willed the buzz to be in her head, but she knew it wasn’t. The thing was real. She pulled away from him and scanned around her for the wasp or bee. Her hand flew automatically to her bag.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, dragging the back of his hand across his wet mouth.

  She shook her head and chewed on her lip, desperate not to look as scared as she was.

  ‘You’ve gone white.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ she said, grasping her bag even tighter. She searched around them, still hearing the buzzing, louder then softer, as if it were circling her. ‘It’s, um, it’s just. I—’

  Then the wasp landed on her shoulder and she screamed.

  ‘It’s just a wasp. Keep still.’

  ‘I can’t!’ Lizzie ducked and ran, but the wasp followed. She started crying and beating her hands.

  ‘Stay still!’ Haydn’s voice – strong and unruffled – stopped her in her tracks. ‘Let it settle.’

  She held her breath and waited, trying to stop tears spilling out of her eyes. Why did they go for her? It was as if she gave off some irresistible pheromone. Even in the concrete of the chapel, with no flowers and no jam, they still knew where she was.

  Then, out of the blue, and making her jump, Haydn clapped his hands together. The sound echoed around them, setting the disgruntled pigeons squawking again.