Second Life (44 page)

I dial Hugh. Still no answer.

‘Fuck!’ I say, but there’s nothing I can do. After a while I begin to recognize the
streets. I remember walking here, back in April. Consumed by grief, burning in a
fire that I’d fooled myself into thinking I had managed to avoid. How simple things
had been back then – all I had to do was get through it, survive the pain – yet I
hadn’t even seen it.

Finally we arrive in Anna’s street. I see the laundrette, still closed, and opposite
there’s a
boulangerie
where, last time, we bought fresh bread for our breakfast.
I need to be cautious.

I ask the driver to stop a few doors down from Anna’s building; it might be better
if I surprise them. He does so, and I pay him. A moment after he pulls away my phone
rings.

It’s Hugh. ‘I’ve just arrived in France. Where are you?’

‘At Anna’s,’ I say. ‘I think Connor’s here.’

I tell him what I’ve seen, ask him to call the police.

‘Anna was attacked,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to explain the rest later. And Hugh?’

‘Yes?’

I don’t want to ask him, but I know that I must.

‘The guy they arrested. What happened?’

‘What do you mean, what happened?’

Tell me the truth, I think. Tell me the truth, without me demanding it, and maybe
we still have a chance.

‘You told me they charged him.’

He’s silent, and I know what Anna told me is right, and Hugh knows I know it, too.

I hear him cough. ‘I’m sorry.’

I don’t speak. I can hardly breathe, but I have to stay calm.

‘I thought I was doing the right thing. Julia?’

I tell myself everything will be fine. Hugh will call the
police, they’ll be on their
way soon. I try to tell myself that whatever he’s done, Lukas is Connor’s father.
He might take him somewhere, but he won’t hurt him.

I should tell him. I should tell Hugh why we’re here. But I can’t. Not like this.

‘Just call the police and get here. Please.’

I run up to Anna’s building, then try the handle. I’m in luck. The digital entry
lock is broken, as she told me it often is. The door opens and I step inside, closing
it softly behind me.

I don’t turn on the light but climb the stairs. On the first landing I see Anna’s
door, just as I remember it. A dull light shines through the glass panels, but when
I stand beside it and listen I hear no sound. No voices, no shouting. Nothing. I
go over to the writing bureau and, as softly as I can, pull out the drawer, praying
that the key Anna stowed under it hasn’t been removed, and that she hasn’t changed
her locks since I was last here.

My luck holds. It’s there, taped to the underside. I take it and stand once again
outside Anna’s door. Still no sound. I let myself in. The light in the hallway is
on, there’s a vase of dead flowers on the side table. I step forward; the creak of
my shoes sounds improbably loud in the silence.

The apartment seems much larger in the dark. It takes all my willpower not to shout
out, not to ask if anyone’s there. I realize I don’t know which I’m hoping for more;
that someone is, or that the place is empty.

I search the apartment. One room at a time. The TV is on in the living room – some
news channel, but muted – and in the kitchen I see that a chair is overturned and
the sticky brown remains of a meal smear the walls. My foot crunches underfoot; when
I look down I see the remains of the striped blue bowl that must have once contained
it.

I carry on. I look in Kate’s bedroom then move on to Anna’s. I hesitate outside.
I wonder what I might find in there. I picture Kate, with her head staved in, her
hair matted with blood, her eyes open and limbs twisted.

I take a breath and swallow. I push open the door.

The bed glows blood red in the dim light, but when I flick on the light it’s just
the duvet cover, slipped off the end of the bed. The room is as empty as the rest
of the apartment.

I don’t understand. I take out my phone, switch on Find Friends. The purple dot still
blinks, now superimposed on mine, right here, right where I’m standing. She should
be here.

I press call. For a second I hear the international tone, and then there’s a buzzing,
low and insistent, from somewhere near my feet. I bend down. A phone is rattling
across the floor under the bed, flashing as it goes. It must’ve fallen to the floor,
been kicked under there. I get on to my hands and knees and grab it, and at the same
time see that there’s something else under there, too, something shiny and metallic.
The gun.

I freeze. I don’t want to touch it. I wonder how it got here, under the bed. I imagine
her and Lukas fighting, Anna going for the gun, trying to threaten him. Maybe it
was kicked under here in the struggle. Or maybe she never got that far. Maybe she
kept the gun here and didn’t even have the chance to go for it.

But where’s Connor?

I feel the world collapsing, begin to disintegrate. I breathe deeply and tell myself
I have to stay calm. I sit on the bed, the gun beside me. Anna’s phone shows my missed
call, but there’s another message, a text that has been sent to the phone from a
number I don’t recognize. ‘Julia,’ it says. ‘If you want to find Connor, return this
call.’

I hesitate, but only for a moment. I have no choice. I swipe the screen and the phone
connects.

It’s a video call. After a moment, it’s answered; the outline of a face appears.
It’s Lukas, he’s sitting in darkness, in front of a window. His body is blocking
what little light comes in from the street outside, throwing him into silhouette.
For a second I’m reminded of those true-crime TV shows, the victim unrecognizable,
her voice disguised, but then my mind goes to the times we’ve chatted on video before.

‘You found the phone.’

I take a deep breath, try to muster as much courage as I can. I put my hand on the
gun beside me; it gives me some kind of strength. ‘What d’you want?’ My voice still
cracks. I’m aware of how impotent the question sounds.

He leans forward. His face is illuminated by the glow from his screen. He’s smiling.

He’s unchanged, yet I don’t recognize him at all. The Lukas I knew has gone completely.

‘Where’s Connor?’

‘I have no idea.’

His words are loaded with threat.

‘Let me see him.’

He ignores me. ‘Like I said, I’ve decided I want Connor’s share of your sister’s
money.’

I know he’s lying. His words are flat, and unconvincing. Even if I didn’t know the
truth, I’d be able to tell.

‘This isn’t about money. I know who you are.’

‘Really?’

I close my eyes. Hatred pours into me; my mind will not be still. How long has this
man been talking to my son? His father, pretending to be his girlfriend.

For a moment I feel huge, unstoppable, as if my hatred is limitless and I could transcend
the hardware that links us,
the fibre optics, the satellites, and destroy him simply
by willing it.

Yet I know I can’t. I force myself to refocus on the screen. Lukas is still talking,
but I can’t hear him.

‘Let him go,’ I say. ‘Let them both go. What have they ever done to you?’

He doesn’t answer. He ignores me. He holds up the memory stick. ‘I told you what
would happen if you didn’t leave me and Anna alone . . .’

An image swims into view. Me and him, in a hotel room, fucking. I have one hand on
the headboard; he’s behind me. I feel sick.

‘Don’t do this. Please. Let me see Connor.’

He laughs. ‘Too late. I told you I’d tell your family the truth.’

He stands up, holding his camera phone in front of him so that his face remains static.
It looks as though it’s the background that’s wheeling violently, a ship upturned.
A bare light bulb spins into view – dead, I guess, or not switched on – and then
a glass-panelled doorway, beyond which must be another room, and next to it a cooker.

‘Julia . . .’ he says. The image spins again, then freezes; he’s standing still,
as if deep in thought. Over his shoulder I can see a window, through it the street.
‘I want Connor’s share of your sister’s money. It seems only fair, as I won’t be
getting Anna’s any more.’

I can’t understand why he’s doing this. ‘I know this isn’t about the fucking money!’
I’m shouting, my anger coursing through me, a boiling intensity. ‘I know who you
are, you creep!’

He ignores me. ‘Don’t forget those pictures. Tell you what. Why don’t you stay there
tonight? Make yourself at home, I’m sure Anna won’t mind. Then tomorrow, first thing,
I’ll
come round. You can give me the money, and then you can have this.’ He holds
up the memory stick once again. ‘Or else I can give it to your family. It’s up to
you.’

I’m silent. I have nothing to say, nowhere to turn.

‘Right. Until tomorrow, then.’ He laughs. I’m about to answer when he says, ‘And
if you like we can have one last fuck, just for old time’s sake.’

And then he’s gone.

I stand up. My rage is volcanic, yet impotent. I want to lash out, to smash and destroy,
but there’s nothing I can do. I look down at the gun and pick it up. It feels heavy
in my hand.

I don’t have time to think. The police haven’t turned up yet, but they might be here
soon. A wasted journey for them, but I’ve effectively broken in. I’m holding a gun,
they’ll ask questions. I have to get out. I pick up the pistol and rummage through
the chest of drawers over by the window. I pull out a lemon sweater and wrap the
gun in it, then put it in my bag. I close the door behind me as I leave, then slam
down the stairs.

Lukas has made a mistake. When he turned his phone round in the kitchen I’d caught
a glimpse through the window to the right of his shoulder, on to the street outside.
It hadn’t been for long, but it’d been enough. Through the window I’d seen a street,
a row of shops, a neon sign reading ‘C
LUB
S
ANTÉ
!’ with a jaunty exclamation mark
and a logo of a runner formed out of a curve and a dot. Above it was one word. ‘Berger’.

When I’m out of sight of the apartment I search on my phone, typing the words into
the browser, praying that there’ll only be one branch. My heart sinks as two appear
– one in the nineteenth, the other the seventeenth – but both
have maps attached
and one looks to be on a busy road while the other is opposite a park.

It must be the nineteenth, which I guess is a couple of miles away.

I have to go there. I have to get Connor back, and maybe I can force Lukas to give
me the memory stick, scare him into letting Anna go and leaving us all alone.

I hail a cab. I give the address, then get in. ‘How long?’ I say to the driver, in
English. It takes a moment before I realize my mistake and say it again: ‘
Combien
de temps pour y arriver?
’

He looks at me in the rear-view mirror. He’s indifferent, largely. He shrugs, says,
‘
Nous ne sommes pas loin
.’ A plastic tree hangs off the mirror, and on the dashboard
there’s a photo: a woman, a child. His family, I guess, mirroring mine. I look away,
out of the window, at the streets as they slide by. Rain has begun to fall; it’s
heavy, people have put up their umbrellas or are dashing with newspapers held over
their heads. I rest my head against the cool glass and close my eyes. I want to stay
like this for ever. Silent, warm.

But I can’t. I take out my phone and call my husband.

‘Hugh, where are you?’

‘We’re just getting into Gare du Nord.’

‘Did you call the police?’

He’s silent.

‘Hugh?’

‘Yes. I called them. They’re on their way.’

‘You need to call them back. Please. I went to Anna’s. She isn’t there. The place
is deserted. She and Connor . . . I think something terrible has happened.’

‘Terrible?’

‘Just meet me here,’ I say. I give him the address. ‘As soon as you can.’

‘Why? Julia? What’s there?’

I close my eyes. This is it. I have to tell him. ‘Hugh, listen. It’s where Connor’s
gone. This Evie, she doesn’t exist.’

‘But I spoke to her.’

‘It’s just a name he’s used to lure him here.’

‘Who? You’re not making any sense, Julia.’

‘Hugh, listen to me. Connor’s found his father. His real father. He’s here to meet
him, but he’s in danger.’

There’s a silence. I can’t begin to imagine what my husband must be feeling. In a
moment he’ll ask me how I know, what’s happened, and it will all come spilling out.
I take a deep breath. I’m ready.

‘Connor’s father . . . I know him. He didn’t tell me who he was, but—’

Hugh interrupts me.

‘But that’s not possible.’

‘What?’

I hear him sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Julia. Kate told me—’

‘What?’

‘Connor’s father is dead.’

I’m silent. ‘What? Who is he then? That’s ridiculous.’

‘I can’t tell you now. Not like this.’

I hear an announcement in the background. His train is pulling in.

I begin to shout. ‘Hugh? Tell me!’

‘We’re here. I’ve got to go.’

‘Hugh!’

‘I’m sorry, darling. I’ll be there soon. I’ll tell you everything.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

We slow to a crawl, then stop in traffic. There are lights ahead, a busy junction
where a railway bridge spans the road. Hugh is wrong, he must be. Connor’s father
isn’t dead, he’s here, and he’s lured his son here, too.

‘
Nous sommes ici
,’ says the driver, but he’s pointing forward. I peer through the
rain; ahead I can see the place. Berger. It’s still open, its doorway looks warm,
inviting. A woman comes out, almost collides with a guy going in. I watch as she
stands, lights a cigarette. I can’t sit still any longer; I have to get moving. The
driver grunts as I tell him I’ll get out here; I pay him and then I’m on the pavement.
The rain hits, instantly I’m soaked through. The woman with the cigarette is walking
towards me; she nods as we pass, then I’m outside the gym. Lukas’s apartment should
be just on the other side of the road, yet now I’m here I don’t know what to do.
I glance over the road, past a stack of prefab offices covered in spray-painted graffiti.
The building opposite is grey, its windows monotonously regular. It looks institutional;
it could be a prison. I wonder which flat is his, and how I’ll get in. Further up
the street a train thunders along rails and I see a row of bollards strung like sentinels
along the pavement. Just beyond them is a kiosk, bright blue, advertising
Cosmétiques
Antilles
, and just this side of it an alleyway arcs off the road, unlit, towards
who-knows-where.