Second Life (35 page)
I think of Anna’s reaction when he gets upstairs. There’ll be blood everywhere by
then, it’ll look like a frenzied attack. It’ll look like he’s had a lucky escape
and she’ll believe
whatever he tells her. That I’m jealous, crazy. That I’m trying
to split them up out of spite, because I have no one of my own.
‘Still think she’s going to trust you?’ he says, then a moment later he’s gone and
I’m alone – even though there are cars and people, I’m alone – and all I can hear
is the beating of my heart and a dog, way in the distance, howling into the dark.
I have no choice. I go home.
It’s late; the house is quiet, in darkness. It ought to feel safe, a place of refuge,
but it doesn’t. Hugh and Connor are upstairs, asleep. Completely unaware of what’s
happening, of where I’ve been. I’m separate from my family. Separate and alone.
I go into the lounge and turn on a table lamp, then sit in its warm glow. I turn
the memory stick over and over in my hands. It’s so small, fragile. I could destroy
it easily, crush it under foot, melt it over the flame from my lighter. For a moment
I think I will, but I know it’s futile. I put it down, pick it up again.
I fetch my computer, switch it on, slide the stick into the port. I know I shouldn’t
look, but somehow I can’t help it. Once, maybe even just a few weeks ago, I’d have
still been hoping it might all turn out to be a joke, that he’ll have loaded the
device with one of those tacky e-cards I used to hate but now send routinely when
I’ve forgotten someone’s birthday. I’d have half expected the file to be an animated
cartoon. Dancing monkeys, my face superimposed, singing a song.
Fooled you!
But not any more. I can’t even pretend to myself now.
There are a dozen or so files, some pictures, some videos. I make sure my machine
is muted then choose one at random.
It’s a video. The two of us. On the bed, naked. I’m underneath him, but my face
is in the frame. I’m recognizable.
My eyes are closed, my mouth open. I look faintly ridiculous. I can bear it only
for a second or two. I feel a sort of detached horror; detached because I could easily
believe the woman on the screen has nothing to do with me, horror because this most
intimate of acts is here, recorded without my knowledge, preserved for ever.
Exhaustion wipes me. How did he film this? Did he set up his laptop, angle the inbuilt
camera towards the bed? I would’ve noticed, surely?
Maybe it was something more sophisticated, then. A hidden camera, disguised as a
drinks can, built into the cap of a ballpoint pen. I know they’re available, I’ve
even seen them in the department stores – John Lewis, Selfridges – when I’ve been
looking at cameras. At the time I wondered why anyone would want one. They were for
professionals, surely, private investigators. They belonged in the realm of James
Bond. I guess now I know.
I shiver. These videos and pictures go right back to the beginning of our affair;
he must have been planning this, all along. A wave of nausea breaks. I breathe as
deeply as I can, long, slow breaths that don’t help at all, then slam my machine
closed before ripping the memory stick out of the port and throwing it across the
room. It bounces off the wall and clatters to the floor at my feet.
I stand up. I can’t leave it here. I imagine Connor picking it up, taking a look.
What would he say? What would he think? I find it and go upstairs. I put it in my
drawer; tomorrow I’ll take it out, throw it in the canal or under the wheels of a
bus. I want a drink, yet am aware it’s the last thing I ought to do. Once I start
I might not be able to stop. I run a shower instead, as hot as I can bear it. Still
my skin
has never felt less alive. It’s only when the water is so hot it nearly scalds
that I feel anything at all.
For the next two days I don’t sleep. I call Anna, over and over, but she doesn’t
answer. I’m on edge. I startle at every noise, wondering if it’s Lukas. I dread every
call or message, every package in the post. I’m not sure what to do. I call Adrienne,
but I can’t tell her what’s wrong. I just say I’m not well, I have a virus, I’ll
talk to her next week. She’s going to be away for a few days anyway, she says. Bob’s
taking her to Florence.
I decide I’ll turn up for lunch with Anna, at her hotel as we arranged. He might
be there, of course, or she might not want to speak to me, but I have no other option.
In any case, I decide a severance might actually be better; I could go back to my
own life, then, concentrate on Connor and Hugh.
Still I can’t settle. I want to leave the house but can think of nowhere to go. I
want to switch my phone off, but daren’t in case I miss a call from Anna. By Thursday
Hugh has noticed; he tells me I need to get out, to do something to take my mind
off Kate. ‘You’ve just taken a step backwards,’ he says. He thinks the grief has
returned, and in a way he’s right. There’s the grief he knows about, and also the
grief he doesn’t.
I take Connor out for supper. I choose a bun-free burger and a salad, though when
I look over at Connor’s meal, all melting cheese and twice-fried chips, I wonder
why I’m bothered. My life is falling apart, my affair about to be exposed in the
worst possible way. Why do I care what I look like, what I eat?
Perhaps Kate had the right idea. Eat, drink, fuck who you like and never mind the
consequences.
And then die.
I reach over and grab a couple of Connor’s fries. He looks up from his phone, his
brow furrowed, his face a picture of mock-indignation. ‘Mum!’ he says, but he’s laughing.
It’s a tiny moment of pleasure, seeing him happy. I wonder if it’s the first time
since we told him they’d caught Kate’s killer.
I nod at his phone. ‘What’re you up to?’ I say.
He puts his phone back on the table. Within reach, face down. It buzzes almost straight
away.
‘It’s just Facebook. And I’ve got a chess game going.’
‘With Dad?’
‘No. Hugh only likes to play in real life.’
‘Hugh?’ I’m shocked, momentarily.
‘He said I could call him that, if I wanted. He said he didn’t mind.’
It bothers me. He’s growing up, but also pushing away from us. The first is inevitable,
but like every parent I’d hoped to avoid the second, for a little while longer at
least.
But in a way it’s good to be upset by this. After the horrors of the last few days,
the worry about Anna and the pictures Lukas has on his computer, this is something
mundane and easily sorted. It feels normal. Family stuff.
‘Just don’t ask to call me Julia.’ I’m Mum, I want to add.
‘Okay.’
I smile. I want him to know I understand, that I remember being a teenager; that
desperate hunger for adulthood and responsibility. I want him to know I’m part of
his world, that I love him. He takes a huge bite of his burger; juice runs down his
chin. He wipes it with the back of his hand and I pass him a napkin. I can’t help
myself. He takes it from me but doesn’t use it. I pick at my salad, casting around
for something to talk about.
‘How’s football?’
‘I was picked for the team again. I’m playing next Saturday.’
He pauses, then says, ‘Oh! Did I tell you?’
I put down my fork. The noise in the restaurant seems suddenly to increase. He’s
looking at me, expectantly, his eyebrows raised, and I shake my head.
He takes another bite of his burger, a few fries.
‘Well . . .’ he begins. I’m about to tell him to please finish chewing before beginning
to speak but something, some kind of premonition, stops me. ‘You remember when we
went to see
Planet of the Apes
?’
I feel myself tense. ‘Uh-huh?’
He reaches for the mayonnaise. ‘Well, you remember the creepy guy? The guy who came
in and sat right by us and then just left?’
I try to sound as though I’m struggling to recall. ‘Oh, yes,’ I hear myself say.
I don’t recognize my own voice; it sounds filtered, distorted, as if it’s coming
from some distance away. ‘I’d completely forgotten about him,’ I add. There’s a catch
in my voice and it sounds false, even to me. Yet he doesn’t seem to notice. I watch,
silently, bile rising to my throat, waiting for him to continue as he squirts mayonnaise
on to his plate, then goes for the ketchup. As he speaks he mixes the two to a marbled
pink mush. I want him to hurry up with whatever he’s got to tell me.
‘Last night I saw him again,’ he says. ‘You remember I went bowling? With Dylan and
Molly and the others? Well, he was there. Over in the next alley.’ He picks up a
handful of fries, dips them in the pink sauce. ‘I noticed him first of all ’cos it
looked like he was there on his own. Y’know, no kids or anything. We thought he was
waiting for someone, but nobody turned up. He just stood there bowling by himself.
Then he left. Weird, eh? I mean, who does that? Molly thought he looked like a paedo.’
My head begins to spin. I flush, as if all the blood in my body were rushing to my
head and neck, then a moment later everything – Connor, the rest of the restaurant
– begins to recede, as if disappearing down a tunnel.
‘Mum?’ says Connor. ‘Are you okay?’
I reach for the glass of water in front of me. It’s cool to the touch; I bring it
to my mouth. The movement is mechanical, I do it without thinking. I sip, and some
spills from the overfull glass. I barely notice; it’s as if I’m watching myself
from the other side of the room.
‘Mum?’ says Connor, more urgently. He looks worried, but I can do nothing to allay
his fears.
My head spins with images of Lukas. I should’ve known. I should have protected my
son. I’ve let him down, just like Kate and Anna. I force myself back to the present.
‘Yes?’ I realize water is dripping down my chin. I wipe it. ‘I’m fine. Sorry? Go
on . . .’
‘Well, that’s it. He just turned up and bowled and—’
Another rush of panic hits. ‘How did you know it was him?’
‘Oh, y’know?’ He picks up another couple of fries. I grab his hand.
‘Connor. How did you . . . are you sure?’
He looks at my hand on his arm, then up to my face. ‘Yes, Mum. I recognized him.
He was wearing the same cap. Remember? The Vans trucker? It was a classic patch—’
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I must look puzzled; he seems to be about to
describe it to me when he changes his mind. ‘Anyway. He had the same cap on.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘Not really . . .’
Anger begins to displace the panic. Anger with myself, with Lukas, with Connor. ‘Not
really? Is that not really yes, or not really no? Which is it, Connor?’
My voice has risen, in both pitch and volume. I fight to control it.
‘He just said sorry.’ Already he sounds resentful, sulky. He’s looking at me as if
I’ve gone crazy. I can see he wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. ‘He spilled his beer
over me. That’s all. It was an accident. Anyway . . .’
It’s clear he wants to change the subject, but I ignore him. ‘So what did this guy
say?’
He sighs. ‘He said, “Hey, dude, I’m sorry.” That was it. That’s one of the ways I
knew it was the same bloke, ’cos that’s what he’d called me in the cinema. Dude.
No one says it any more.’ He sips his milkshake. ‘Can you let go of my arm?’
I hadn’t realized I was still clutching him.
I release him and sit back. Anger is burning within me now, a rage. Yet it has nowhere
to go, nothing to burn, and so it sits, deep and poisonous. I’m trying to keep my
face neutral, my features calm. I’m failing. I tense, I’m chewing my bottom lip.
A question comes to me, with an awful, sickening lurch: I now know Lukas has been
following me on the iPhone app, but how did he know where my son would be? How did
he get to Connor?
I sit forward. ‘Who knew you were going bowling?’ I say, trying to keep the panic
out of my voice. ‘Who did you tell?’
‘No one. Why? Mum?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I’m almost shouting. ‘You must’ve told someone!’
‘Mum—?’
‘Molly, and Dylan? They knew, for a start! Who else was there with you?’
He looks at me. His expression is odd; almost fearful. ‘Dylan’s dad took us.’
‘When?’ The questions come thick and fast. ‘When did you arrange it? Who did you
tell, Connor? Who knew you were going?’
‘Jesus, Mum! Some of the guys. Y’know? We invited Sahil, and Rory, but they couldn’t
come. Oh, and I guess Molly might’ve invited a few people. And I guess Dylan’s dad
might’ve told Dylan’s mum. Just possibly . . .’
His voice has a new note, one I haven’t heard in him before. Sarcasm.
‘There’s no need for that attitude—’
He ignores me.
‘. . . and I probably told Evie, and I suppose I just might’ve posted it on Facebook,
so there’s all the people who follow me there, and—’
I interrupt him. ‘Who follows you on Facebook?’
‘I dunno. Friends. Friends of my friends. People like that.’
Something begins to coalesce in my mind. All the way through, Lukas had always known
more than I thought I’d let him know. I now know he was tracking my location, moment
by moment, but I’ve never worked out how he knew the other details. The fact we were
planning on going to a cinema at all, what film we were going to see. Hugh’s name,
when I’d only ever called him Harvey.
And now I think I know. If he was following Connor’s posts, and Connor was posting
everything . . .
An awful thought occurs. Could that be how he’d figured out Paddy’s last name, too?
And where he lives? I can see how it might be. Connor might’ve mentioned our guests
by name, and from there a quick search – Maria, Hugh, surgeon – would lead to a surname.
He could then easily
look at Paddy’s Facebook page, or LinkedIn, or whatever else
he might use.
‘Give me your phone.’
‘Mum—!’ he begins, but I silence him.
‘Give me your phone, Connor. Now.’
He passes it over and I tell him to unlock the screen, to open his Facebook profile.
I can see he wants to fight, to protest, but he knows he’s not old enough to stand
against me, yet. I hold my hand out for him to give me the phone back, but he tosses
it on to the table.