Second Life (24 page)

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I think so.’ I open Facebook and navigate to
his timeline. Friday
night. It’s true. There are photos of him.

I feel awful. Guilty. Filled with an overwhelming desire to make everything better.
‘I’ve been really stupid. I’m sorry.’

‘You do trust me, don’t you?’ His voice is calm, now. Kind. Soothing. The voice I’m
used to. Yet from nowhere I flash on a vision. Him saying exactly the same thing,
but to Kate.

‘Julia? Are you there?’

I realize I haven’t answered him.

‘Yes. I’m sorry. I just panicked, that’s all.’ Relief floods my veins as I realize
the truth of what I’m saying. A brightness returns to the world, one I hadn’t noticed
had disappeared. I go on. ‘I’m sorry. All this fantasy talk, I suppose I was worried
. . .’

‘It’s okay . . .’

‘I should never have accused you.’ Pleasure floods my veins. The pleasure of tension
released. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘It’s
okay
. Calm down, Julia. It’s all going to be okay.’

Is it? I want it to be. I think of all the good times we’ve had, all the support
he’s given me over Kate. I get the sense that if anyone can make it okay, then it’s
him.

It’s his voice. He does that. He makes me feel better, calmer.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I might’ve found out something. About Kate.’

My heart surges. ‘What? What is it?’

His answer seems to take for ever.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘What? What is it?’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

‘What have you found?’

Again I hear him hesitate. He doesn’t want to raise my hopes.

‘There’s a site—’

‘What site?’

‘I don’t remember. But I found someone on there. She’s using the name Julia.’

‘Julia?’

‘Yes. It’s why I looked twice. There’s no photo, but she’s about twenty-eight or
twenty-nine. She lives in Paris. And . . .’

‘And?’

‘Well, the thing is, she hasn’t logged on since the end of January.’

‘What’s the name of the site?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to try the login details that worked with encountrz. I want to know
if it’s her.’

‘Why don’t you leave it to me?’

Because I want to know.

‘Please, Lukas. Just tell me what it’s called. I’ll take a look . . .’

He sighs, loudly. I can almost hear him try to decide what’s for the best.

‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea,’ he begins. ‘You’ll just get upset, and—’

‘Lukas!’

‘Hear me out. Here’s what I think we should do. I’ll send this person a message.
If they reply we’ll know it’s not Kate.’

‘But they haven’t even logged on since January . . .’

‘Okay. Well, why don’t you give me Kate’s login details? I’ll try them for you.’

So this is it, I think. I have to decide now. Do I trust him, or not?

What choice do I have, really? I give him the password. Jasper1234.

‘It’s the name of our dog, growing up. Promise me you’ll try it.’

He calls me back an hour later. I haven’t been able to settle. I’ve just been pacing,
sitting at my computer, trying to work, failing. When my phone rings I snatch at
it.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You didn’t get in.’

‘No—’

‘She might have used a different password—’

‘Julia, wait. This woman responded to my message. I asked her for a picture and she
sent me one. It’s not Kate.’

‘Can I see the picture? It might be someone impersonating her . . .’

‘It’s not,’ he says. ‘This woman’s black.’

I feel utterly flat. It’s not worth it, this false raising of my hopes, when it leads
only to crushing disappointment. Anything feels better. Even emptiness.

‘I’ll keep looking. If you want me to?’

I tell him. ‘I’m just disappointed.’

‘Try not to be. Will I see you next week? Tuesday?’

I hesitate. Everything is too bright, too intense. I want normality, stability. I
think back to the visceral love I feel for my son, the way in which I missed him
last night after finding out about Paddy’s attack. As if for the first time, I realize
this love isn’t compatible with what I’m doing.

I remind myself why I chatted to Lukas in the first place, why I first met him. To
find my sister’s killer, for the sake of Connor, for the family.

But that’s got me nowhere, and now Connor needs something else from me. A trip to
the cinema. A burger. Mother and son. I make my decision.

‘I can’t. Not Tuesday. I’m busy.’

I have the sense of a grip suddenly relaxed. I’m relieved. It’s
a good feeling. I’ve
been selfish; now, I’m doing the right thing.

‘Busy?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

I realize I’m holding my breath. Part of me wants him to argue, to protest, the rest
hopes he’ll just suggest another day. I want to make sure I can last a week without
seeing him.

Silence. I need an excuse. ‘It’s just that I have a friend. Anna. She wants me to
help her look for a wedding dress.’

‘She can’t do a different day?’

‘No. I’m sorry . . .’

‘Okay.’ I want him to argue some more. I want him to try and persuade me, to ask
me who’s more important, him or Anna.

But he doesn’t. He’s saying goodbye and a moment later the call is over.

Chapter Twenty

Tuesday comes. It’s Connor’s day, and I decide we’ll do whatever he wants. I owe
it to him; he deserves it. He seems more cheerful, is talking more now, more like
his old self.

At the weekend we went to see Paddy. Hugh’s idea. He didn’t look as bad as I was
expecting. His eyes were swollen and bruised, there was a graze on his cheek. He
couldn’t tell how many people had attacked him, or even if it was more than one.
They took nothing, just knocked him out. He didn’t look at me once the whole time
we were there.

I get up early. I haven’t slept well; last night I’d seen the figure again, outside
my window. It looked more real this time, it had more substance. I even thought I
saw the glow of a cigarette, but once again, once I’d looked away to talk to Hugh
then gone back, he’d gone. If he’d ever been there at all.

I’m blurry eyed as I go downstairs. I find my phone and see I missed another call
from Adrienne last night. I feel guilty. She’s been travelling; she wants to know
if I got my present, a silver necklace I admired months ago when we were out shopping.
‘Just let me know,’ she’d said, in her last message. ‘And let’s meet up. I’m busy,
as ever, but dying to see you! Call me back.’

I haven’t done so, and I’m not sure why. Maybe because she knows me too well; she’d
see straight through me if I
tried to hide anything from her. Plus, there’s the lie
I told Hugh, about me falling on the escalator. I need to put a bit of distance between
us. It’s easier to avoid her, just for a little while.

Connor and I have breakfast in front of the television. When we finish I ask him
what he wants to do today, and he says maybe we could go and see a film. ‘Sure!’
I say. I tell him to choose one. ‘Whatever you like.’ He picks the new
Planet of
the Apes
film. I’m disappointed, but I’m careful not to let it show.

We walk to the cinema, across Islington Green. I realize it’s been a long time since
we did this, just the two of us. I’ve missed it, and wonder whether he has, too.
From nowhere I’m filled with a deep sense of love, and of guilt. It hits me that
now Kate’s gone Connor is the only blood relation I have, the only person with whom
I share DNA. I realize Kate was the link, to all of us. Our mother and father, me,
her, and now Connor. She was the centre of it all.

I have to say something. The need is overpowering. ‘You know I love you,’ I say.
‘Don’t you?’ He looks at me; his expression is inscrutable, as if he’s slightly embarrassed.
For a moment I see the vulnerable little boy inside him, the one trying to cope with
the adult world in which he’s finding himself more enmeshed with each passing day.
But then it passes and something else flashes briefly on his face. It’s pain, I think,
followed a moment later by the resolve to conquer it.

‘Connor? Is everything all right?’

He nods, raising his eyebrows as he does. It’s a familiar gesture, meant to be reassuring
but now too automatic for it really to mean anything at all. ‘I’m good.’ We cross
the road, then on the other side we stop, both at the same time, as if we’d rehearsed
it. ‘Honestly.’

I put my arms on his shoulders; sometimes he doesn’t like
to be hugged, and I guess
that standing in the middle of Upper Street might be one of those times. ‘You can
talk to me, Con.’ I remember how long it’s been since I used to call him that. Did
he ask me to stop, or did it just fade away? Perhaps that’s what always happens between
mothers and sons. ‘Please remember that. I’m here for you. Always.’

I feel guilty as I say it. Am I there for him? I haven’t been, recently.

‘I know.’

‘The last few weeks . . . months . . .’ I begin, but I don’t know where I’m going.
I’m trying to build the connection between us, one that I should never have put in
jeopardy. ‘. . . they’ve not been easy. I know that. For any of us.’ He looks at
me. I want him to forgive me, to tell me I’ve been there for him, that he’s all right.
‘I know they’ve been really shit for you, too, Connor. I want you to know that. I
do understand.’

He shrugs, as I knew he would. He’s silent, but he looks at me with an expression
of gratitude, and something passes between us. Something good.

In the cinema Connor goes to the bathroom while I buy our tickets at the machine
then queue for the popcorn I’ve promised him. When he returns we make our way to
the screen. I’d thought it would be busy, but it’s less than half full. People are
dotted around – mostly couples – and I suggest that we head for an almost empty row
about halfway back. Connor agrees and we settle ourselves. The film hasn’t yet started
and the room is filled with the symphony of bottles being opened, drinks being slurped
through straws, bags of sweets or crisps being torn into. I pass our popcorn to Connor.
‘Have you got everything you want?’ I whisper,
and he says he has. He’s checking
his phone and looks up guiltily. A message from his girlfriend, I suppose. Evie.
He mentions her occasionally; he’s said she wasn’t at Carla’s party, but he’s evasive,
still at that age where discussing a girlfriend with his parents is embarrassing.
Without thinking, and to reassure him it’s fine, I pick up my bag and check mine.

I have a message, from Lukas. I’m relieved; our last few conversations have been
frosty, and since I last saw him I’ve thrown an accusation at him and told him I
didn’t want to see him today. I thought maybe he’d taken the decision to end things
before I did, and to do it with silence. ‘How’s the shopping?’

I type my reply quickly.

‘Boring. But thanks for caring . . .’

I press send. Part of me is hoping he won’t respond, yet still I keep my phone in
my hand in case he does. Sure enough, a moment later, there’s a reply.

‘I wish I was there with you.’

I smile to myself. He’s no longer angry with me, if he ever was. I was being ridiculous.

‘So do I.’ Once again I press send then I switch off my phone.

The film begins. It’s not my kind of thing at all, but I remind myself I’m here for
Connor and when I look across at him I can see that he’s enjoying it. I try to settle.
I try to stop thinking about Lukas, try to ignore the temptation to fish my phone
out of my bag and check whether he’s replied. I concentrate on the movie.

A minute or so later Connor shifts his legs. Someone is pushing past him, murmuring,
‘Sorry,’ as he does so. It’s odd, I think. This new arrival is alone, there are plenty
of seats.
Why does he choose our row? I move out of the way, too, and he says sorry
to me, though he’s looking at the screen while he does it. I’m even more surprised
when he sits in the seat right next to me. I consider pointing out that there are
plenty further along, but then think, really, what’s the harm? I go back to the film.

A few moments later I begin to feel a pressure on my leg. I’m not certain at first,
but then it becomes definite. The newcomer is pressing his leg against mine; it feels
deliberate, though I can’t be sure. I look down – his leg is bare; he’s wearing board
shorts – then move my leg away, just an inch or so. It might’ve been accidental;
I don’t want to make any kind of fuss. I pretend to be engrossed in the screen, but
then the man’s leg moves to connect with mine again, more urgently this time, too
deliberate for it to be coincidence.

I look over. The action on the screen is dark and I can’t see much. I make out thick-rimmed
glasses and a baseball cap, one of the ones that’s rigid and sits tall on the front
of the head. The man’s staring at the screen, rubbing the lower half of his face
with his right hand, as if in deep contemplation.

I move my leg again and take a deep breath, readying myself to say something, to
tell him to pack it in or get lost; I’m not sure which. At the same time the stranger
drops his hand from his face and turns to me, and as he does the action on the screen
moves overground, to a scene of lit brilliance, bathing the theatre with light. It’s
then I see that the man sitting next to me is no stranger. It’s Lukas. He’s smiling.