Second Life (11 page)
I go back outside. There’s a breeze, it’s getting cooler now. I have another sip
of my drink then sit back down. I bite into my apple; it’s crisp but slightly sour.
I put it on the table and, as I do, my computer pings.
I have another message, but it’s not from him. This one is from someone new. As I
open it I get the strangest feeling. A plunging, a descent. A door has been nudged
open. Something is coming.
I sat in the garden for hours that day, my laptop humming in front of me. I was exploring
the site, clicking on profiles, opening photographs. It was as if I believed I could
stumble on Kate’s killer accidentally, that somehow I’d just be drawn to him. The
ice in my glass melted, the dregs of my lemonade began to attract flies. I was still
there when Connor came home from school, though by now the battery on my computer
had run down and I was just sitting, in silence, thinking about Kate, and who she
might have been talking to, and what they might’ve said.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, and I closed my machine. I said hello and patted the chair next
to me. ‘Just doing some editing,’ I said as he sat down. The lie slid off my tongue
so easily I barely noticed it.
The following night, he’s due to go to Dylan’s party. His best friend, a nice enough
lad, if a bit quiet. They spend a fair bit of time together, here mostly, playing
on the computer or on Connor’s Xbox. I tend to stay out of their way, listening in
from time to time. There’s usually a lot of laughter, or there certainly used to
be, before Kate. Dylan will come in occasionally and ask me for more juice or a biscuit,
terribly polite. Last Christmas I took them sledging on the Heath with another couple
of boys from school I didn’t know. We
had a good time; it was nice to see Connor
with people his own age, to get a glimpse of what kind of man he’ll turn into. Still,
I can’t think that he and Dylan discuss feelings. I can’t picture him as someone
Connor goes to for support.
It’s Dylan’s birthday and he’s celebrating at his house; just pizzas and bottles
of cola, some music, maybe karaoke. A few of them are staying over in a tent in his
garden and I imagine late-night DVDs and a final snack before torches and sleeping
bags are handed out. They’ll go out on to the lawn, spend the night laughing, chatting,
playing video games on their phones, and the next day, when their parents pick them
up, they’ll tell us nothing except that it’d been all right.
I drive him there. We pull up outside the house and I see the balloons tied to the
gateposts, the cards in the lounge windows. Connor opens the car door and at the
same time Dylan’s mother, Sally, comes out into the porch. She’s someone I know
quite well, we’ve gone for coffee after school, though always with other people,
and I haven’t seen her for a while. I wave, and she waves back. Behind her I can
see streamers, the flash of children running upstairs. She raises her eyebrows and
I smile in sympathy.
‘Have fun,’ I say to Connor.
‘I will.’
He lets me kiss him on the cheek then picks up his bag and races into the house.
When I get back home the place seems cavernously empty. Hugh is still in Geneva and
has sent me a text message – the flight was okay, the hotel is nice, he’s heading
for dinner soon and wonders how I’m feeling – and I tap out a reply. ‘I’m fine, thanks.
Missing you.’
I press send. I make some dinner, then sit in front of the television. I ought to
call my friends, I know that. But it’s difficult, I don’t want to inflict myself
upon them, and I can
sense that when they hear my voice the energy drops as the shadow
of Kate’s death falls on all of us.
I’m not me, any more, I realize. I carry something else now. The stigma of pain.
And I don’t want it.
I think of Marcus. We’d been seeing each other for less than a year when he said
he wanted to move. ‘Where?’ I asked, and he said, ‘Berlin.’
He seemed so certain, and so desperate. I thought he was trying to get away from
me, even though until that moment we’d been happy. He could see it in my eyes. The
flash of disappointment, suppressed a moment too late.
‘No,’ he said. ‘You don’t understand. I want you to come with me.’
‘But—’
He shook his head. He was determined.
‘You have to. I want to go with you. I don’t want to go by myself.’
But you will, I thought. If I don’t come. You’ve already decided.
‘Please come. What’s keeping you here?’ I shook my head. ‘Is it the meetings? We’ve
been clean for ages now. We don’t need to go any more.’
‘I know, but . . .’
‘Is it Kate?’
I nodded. ‘She’s only twelve.’
He stroked my arm, kissed me. ‘She’s in school now. You can’t look after her for
ever.’
I thought of all the fun we’d had, Kate and I, despite how hard it’d been at times.
We used to make popcorn and sit watching videos, or we’d play in the long grass at
the bottom of our garden, pretending to be chased by dinosaurs. Dressing up in our
mother’s clothes, wearing her shoes, spraying ourselves with her perfume.
‘How long have you been looking after her?’
‘Eight years.’
‘Exactly. And now it’s time your father started doing his bit. Besides, she’s nearly
a teenager now. You have your own life to live.’
I told him I’d need to think about it, but really I already knew. Kate was nearly
thirteen, older than I’d been when I started looking after her. She’d had enough
years of my life. Kate would be fine.
Except she wasn’t. I open my eyes. I reach for my laptop.
Anna’s online. I message her.
‘Any luck?’ she asks.
I think of the few people who have messaged me. There’s been nothing interesting.
‘Not yet,’ I reply.
Hugh comes back from his conference. He takes the train from the airport, then a
cab, and arrives carrying a huge bunch of flowers. He kisses me then hands them over.
‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I say, and he shrugs. ‘Nothing. I love you, that’s
all. I missed you.’ I find a vase. ‘I missed you, too,’ I say, a little too automatically.
I take the scissors out of the kitchen drawer and begin to trim the stems.
‘How’s Connor?’
‘Good, I think.’
‘And you?’
I tell him I’m fine. ‘I had a job,’ I say, thinking back to the day before. ‘A friend
of Fatima’s. Her daughter wants to be a model and needed some pictures for her portfolio.’
‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Have you seen Adrienne?’
‘No. But she called. She’s in York, with work. But we’ve arranged dinner.’
He smiles and says he thinks that will do me good. I didn’t tell him Adrienne has
asked if I’d decided about going online and I’d said no, not yet.
Another lie. I’ve logged on a few times, and now it’s Friday night. Hugh’s upstairs,
catching up with admin, and Connor is at a friend’s house working on a homework project.
I’ve already edited the pictures I took on Wednesday, and now I’m half watching the
television. It’s a drama. Undercover cops, a series of brutal murders, duct tape,
revenge and rape. Every victim beautiful, of course, as if we wouldn’t care otherwise;
plus, we’re supposed to envy them their lives right until the moment the blade slices
into their flesh.
It’s no use, I can’t focus. I switch it off. I can’t help thinking of Kate. She
was pretty, but not beautiful, and she wasn’t raped. Kate was killed because she
happened to be walking down the wrong alleyway in the wrong part of town at the wrong
time, or so Hugh and everybody else tells me. It’s as simple as that.
Except it isn’t. It can’t be.
I log back on to encountrz. I know I should leave it alone, do something else instead,
but I can’t. My message to Harenglish is now a week old and he still hasn’t responded.
He isn’t online, but there is something in my inbox, something new.
Largos86. I click on his profile and see that he’s younger than me – he claims to
be thirty-one, though if anything he doesn’t even look as old as that – and is attractive,
with curly hair, cut short. I imagine he could be a model, or an actor, though I
remind myself he’ll have chosen one of the more flattering photos of himself. If
he were in the drama I’ve just switched off he’d be playing a kindly doctor, or a
lover. He’s too attractive to be the husband. I open his message.
‘Hi,’ it says. ‘I’d love to talk. You remind me of someone.’
I flinch; it’s like being punched.
I remind you of someone
. For an instant there’s
only one thing, one
person
, he can mean. I’d deliberately chosen my profile photo
to be one that looks like Kate, after all.
I have to know. Beneath his message is a link, an invitation to a private chat. Largos86
knows I’m online. I click on accept, then type.
– Hi. Who do I remind you of?
His reply comes almost instantaneously.
– Someone I liked a lot.
Liked, I think. Past tense. Someone who isn’t around any more, one way or another.
– But let’s not talk about her. How’re you?
No! It’s her I want to talk about.
– Good, I say.
A moment later he replies:
– I’m Lukas. Fancy a chat?
I stop. Since I’ve been going online I’ve learned it’s unusual for someone to give
away their name so quickly. I wonder if he’s lying.
– I’m Jayne.
I pause.
– Where are you?
– In Milan. How about you?
I think of his first message.
You remind me of someone.
I want to find out if he might’ve talked to Kate. I decide to tell a lie of my own.
– I’m in Paris.
– A beautiful place!
– How do you know the city?
– I work there. Occasionally.
My skin prickles with sweat. I try to take a breath but there’s no oxygen in the
room.
Could he have chatted to my sister, even met her? Could it be him who killed her?
It seems unlikely; he looks too innocent, too trustworthy. Yet I know I’m basing
that impression on nothing, just a feeling, and feelings can be misleading.
What to do? I’m shaking, I can’t take in any air. I want to end the chat, but then
I’ll never know.
– Really? I say. How often?
– Oh, not that often. A couple of times a year.
I want to ask if he was there in February, but I can’t risk it. I have to be careful.
If he did know Kate and has something to hide then he might work out I’m on to him.
I have to keep this light, breezy. If things become sexual there’ll be no way of
finding anything out, nothing I can do but end the conversation as quickly as possible.
I want to look for clues, but I can’t let things tip over.
– Where do you stay when you’re over here?
I wait. A message flashes. I can’t decide whether I want him to tell me he has a
flat in the nineteenth, or that his office put him up in a hotel near Ourcq Métro,
or not. If they do and he does, then it’s him. I’m sure of it. Hugh and I can tell
the police what I’ve found. I can move on.
But if he doesn’t? What then? I still won’t know.
His message arrives.
– I’m not there often. I tend to stay in hotels.
– Where?
– It varies. Usually pretty central. Or else I stay near Gare du Nord.
I don’t need to pull up a map of Paris to know that Gare du Nord is nowhere near
the area Kate’s body was found. I’m curiously relieved.
– Why do you ask?
– No reason.
– You think maybe it’s near you?
He’s added a smiley face. I wonder if the flirting has moved to the next level. Part
of me wants to end it, but another part of me doesn’t. He might be lying.
I hesitate for a moment, then type:
– I’m in the north-east. The nearest Métro is Ourcq.
It’s a risk. If it’s him he’ll know I’m linked to Kate. It can’t be a coincidence.
But what will he do? Just end the conversation, log off? Or would he stick around
to try and find out exactly what I know? It occurs to me he might already have guessed
who I am and why I’m chatting to him. He might’ve worked it out from the start.
I press send, then wait. Largos86 is typing. Time stretches; it seems to take for
ever.
– Is it a nice area?
– It’s okay. You don’t know it?
– No. Should I?
– Not necessarily.
– So are you up to much? Have you had a good day today?
I hesitate. Last time, at this point, I was being asked what I was wearing, or whether
I’d like fantasy role play or straight cyber. It’s a relief that this conversation
is unthreatening.
– Not bad, I say.
I wonder why I’m relieved. Is it that in these few brief moments I’m not in mourning?
– Tell me what you’ve been up to.
– You don’t want to hear about me.
– I do. Tell me everything!
– Why don’t you tell me something about you, first?
– Okay, let me think.
He’s added a cartoon, another face. This one looks puzzled. A few moments later his
next message arrives.
– Okay. You ready?
– Yes.
– I really adore dogs. And cheesy love songs. The cheesier the better. And I’m really
scared of spiders.
I smile. I can’t help it. I look back at his photo. I try to imagine what Kate might’ve
thought, looking at him. He’s certainly attractive, and around her age.
His next message arrives.
– Your turn. You owe me two facts.
I run through a list of what I might tell him. I’m looking for something that will
draw him out, some fact that might lead him to tell me whether he was in Paris in
February, or might have chatted to Kate.
I lean forward and begin to type.
– Okay. My favourite season is winter. I love Paris, in February especially.
I press send and a moment later he replies.
– That’s fact number one.
– And – I begin, but then I freeze. There’s a sound, a key in the lock. The real
world is intruding, too loud. It’s Connor, coming home. As he opens the door I’m
still adjusting, to the living room in which I’m sitting, to my own home. I switch
on the television and the credits roll silently. Connor comes in.