Stay Mad, Sweetheart

by Heleen Kist

  I wracked my brain as to when this supposed meeting could have taken place. Would she have kept that from me? I knew I’d been less than supportive after a while, but it had been to protect her, to get to step away and forget the whole thing ever happened. Was I supposed to believe she gave this man a free pass?

  The clock told me I’d spent two hours dredging through the swamp again at my desk. My shoulders were stiff. As much as I finally understood Emily’s obsession, this was not the time or the place. I’d already neglected the acquisition and my new software model for too long. I’d been right all along to stay off social media, but now I wasn’t done — which meant I would need to break another of my cardinal rules. I stretched my neck and got up.

  Above the IT Help Hub in the corner of the office hung a bright blue sign: Here to help. I didn’t recognise the bearded chap in a checked shirt manning the station. We’d been hiring new people at a ridiculous rate. How was I expected to keep up?

  He was hunched over two mobile phones connected with a cable, white letters scrolling over black screens. Unlike other techies, I wasn’t interested in how devices worked, hacking them to get better performance or more control. They were a tool. The beauty was in what you did with them.

  He smelled of sweat and something sweet I struggled to place.

  ‘Hi,’ I said.

  The guy jumped.

  ‘Laura. Hi, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Have you got a laptop lying around that I could take home?’ I asked.

  The look of surprise suggested he was aware of my reputation as a strange one.

  ‘Sure. But if you’re going to be modelling from home, you might need one with much bigger processing power.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. Make sure it has strong malware and virus protection, though.’ He gave me a quizzical look, but probably knew better than to ask the boss what she was up to.

  He stood up. ‘Give me five minutes to configure it and I’ll bring it to your desk.’

  ‘Okay, thanks.’

  Where did we find all these nice new people; all these young men and women equally eager to please?

  As I stepped away, I caught sight of the news channel streaming on the rear wall. The demonstrators outside the Festival Theatre had grown in number and had gone from those accusing him of assault, to those accusing him of murder: a young woman had killed herself and it was his fault.

  I spotted the yellow, high-vis waist coats of the police on the TV, keeping the demonstrators away from the theatre’s entrance. Where had they been when Emily needed protection?

  Then again, where had I been?

  14

  ME

  The computer model I’d been working on was buggy. I made some additions earlier in the day that seemed to have made things worse. Like a poet losing the ability to rhyme, my code came out clunky and inefficient. I’d been an early adopter of R, a relatively new way to code, but it wasn’t working for me today.

  I smiled at a joke I used to make with Justin. ‘R: a pirate’s favourite programming language.’

  I yawned. My concentration was shot. I’d even taken a little book break and re-joined those poor souls in the prison camp. It didn’t help. Their fear in the face of the abuse from the guards left me drained. So much suffering.

  And thoughts of suffering just pulled me toward Emily again.

  The laptop rested on my desk inviting new investigations. How was it possible that so many threats, so much harassment be directed at someone, yet the instigators got away? I imagined what would happen if I tweeted back; raged about what they’d done to Emily. I shrugged. It was pointless. I’d spent long enough analysing the spats to know that trolls, when challenged by others, always said they were just having ‘a little fun.’

  But they were all guilty.

  Emily’s parents had said the police would look into it, not holding out much hope. From what I’d seen, crimes had been committed. The police had to be doing something, surely?

  I placed the new laptop in my rucksack. The way my brain was churning out nonsense, I was useless. I should just go home.

  Outside, the cool wind woke my face. A lively group of Italians walked past; their words accentuated by their hands. They wore the yellow plastic ponchos that came with tickets to the Military Tattoo, unwilling to let impending rain dampen their festival spirits.

  As I turned the corner into the Meadows, a young woman in a white-aproned, light-blue dress and black headband thrust a colourful leaflet into my hand.

  ‘A modern retelling of Alice in Wonderland tonight at 5 o’clock,’ she said. Too polite to refuse it, I glanced at the description, knowing full well I wouldn’t attend the show.

  The title in large yellow letters read Down the Rabbit Hole. They’d stapled a strip of paper onto the leaflet: a five-star review by the Scotsman. ‘A dizzying journey into the world of societal expectations and interpersonal relationships.’

  I wondered what Lewis Carroll would make of this interpretation.

  The leaflet said the play was staged in The Emplacement, a name I recognised as nothing more than a portacabin in the grounds of the Pleasance; an Edinburgh University-owned sandstone warren of bars, rooms and theatre venues that served as a student association during term time and exploded into a teeming hub of creativity in the summer. Queues of waiting audience members often snaked their way around the courtyard and onto the street.

  St Leonard’s police station sprung to mind. It was a stone’s throw from there. Like Edinburgh’s many sites glamorised by film and television, the station was marked on maps as a tourist destination for fans of Scottish crime fiction. I figured St Leonard’s would have been put on Emily’s case, since she lived Southside.

  Why not pay them a visit?

  I took a left towards George Street Gardens, another public space invaded by the Fringe and turned into, quite literally, a circus. A dazzling multicoloured, mirrored tent stood in the middle of the grassy square. Noise rose in stark contrast to the surrounding University buildings, which lay dormant. How many times had I walked across this square to go to lectures? I calculated an estimate for my four years studying computer science.

  Loud music insulted my ears as I approached the Pear Tree. The sight of the outdoor beer garden — full of happy people — knocked the air from my lungs. I could still see Emily sitting there, with her friends on a sunny day. I’d watched, once, willing myself to join. The tip of her long hair had fallen into her pint. She’d raised it into a ponytail, shaking her head, and spotted me. Tears welled in my eyes as I remembered her broad smile and enthusiastic wave. Her friends had looked up like a multi-headed beast. Intimidated, I’d pointed at my school bag and my watch.

  How could I have given up time with her?

  I walked on. A blue-and-white checked sign hung outside the red brick Police Scotland building. I wiped a moist palm against my thigh; it was my first visit to a police station. The large glass façade invited me in.

  Chairs lined three of the four walls, all occupied. I seemed to have hit upon a busy time. Perhaps it was always like this? I excused myself as I slipped through the various groups towards a booth in the far corner; a glass partition with a built-in microphone and a gap at the bottom for documents. The chair behind it was empty. The nerves on my neck prickled. I searched for instructions. A small bell protruded from behind a poster warning people about the dangers of drugs. I pressed it.

  A young man with spiky hair appeared, his tie oddly formal against his casual short-sleeved shirt. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘My name is Laura Flett. My friend Emily Nairn died on the thirteenth.’

  The young man’s eyebrows shot up.

  I gave him a small smile and said, ‘I’d like to speak to the officer in charge of the investigation.’

  ‘Nairn, was it? Like the town?’ He hit his keyboard. ‘Um, the investigation into her death appears to be closed. Was there something specific you needed?’

  Closed. My stomach dropped. ‘But the
re is evidence...’

  ‘Are you saying you have new evidence in the case?’ he asked.

  I didn’t like to bluff, but I wouldn’t let them fob me off. ‘Yes. May I please meet with the relevant person?’

  He returned to his keyboard. ‘DI Reddy was the last person listed.’ He picked up the phone. After some unintelligible mumbles, he confirmed Reddy would be on his way down.

  There was nowhere to sit. I hung about, trying not to eavesdrop on conversations of those I suspected from their dishevelled appearance and the wafts of alcohol emanating from their bodies weren’t here for the first time. I paced, leaned against the wall, paced again.

  When my name was called, I spun round and my eyes raced along a line of bodies, instinctively looking for someone white, middle-aged, with a receding hairline and in dire need of exercise. A man waved me over. I gasped and cursed myself for being so stupid. The policeman was tall and thin, his jet-black hair shaved neatly at the sides, his dark skin creased into even darker lines around his eyes pointing at the puffy bags underneath.

  I walked towards the door where he stood, thinking I’d be taken through to a room. He introduced himself as Detective Inspector Raavi Reddy, crossed his arms and asked, ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘Is there nowhere to go?’

  ‘We’re full up.’

  ‘I’m enquiring about your investigation into Emily Nairn’s death. She was my best friend and she died because she was viciously harassed. The officer at the desk said the investigation was closed.’

  His face softened ‘I’m sorry for your loss. You must understand, there wasn’t much to investigate. Your friend took her own life. I was told you had new evidence?’

  My chest burned and I hoped the heat wouldn’t rise to my face. ‘I have been looking at the online attacks on Emily and there were rape threats and threats of violence against her. Surely that’s a crime?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. Many people don’t realise that anything that’s illegal offline is also illegal online.’

  ‘Why are you not doing anything?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘It’s more complicated than that. Much of it is anonymous, people hiding behind fake identities. We’ve examined the abuse directed at your friend. It was gruesome. It clearly impacted her heavily. We researched the IP addresses that we could find. That’s like a computer address—’

  ‘I know what an IP address is. I’m the founder of Empisoft. I’m a data scientist. That’s why I think we could do more with what’s online.’

  His eyes shot open. He straightened up and pulled me into a quieter corner.

  ‘You know as well as I do how difficult it is to get behind people’s real identities. You’re right, the crimes that were committed led to a heartbreaking and unnecessary death. And I’m truly sorry for her family and for you. If only she’d come to us earlier.’ He caught himself when my jaw fell. ‘I’m not assigning any blame, of course, but this is a very tricky situation. She never made a complaint. It’s too late.’

  ‘Shouldn’t they still be punished? The guys who... Shouldn’t she have justice?’

  ‘I would love for there to always be justice. But even her parents aren’t seeking that. We explained the situation, what it would take, the obstacles... They’ve been understandably shaken by the experience and would much rather move on than to have things drawn out, only to end up with at best an unsatisfactory result.’

  ‘Why unsatisfactory?’

  He used the little patience he seemed to have left to convey the hopelessness of his predicament.

  ‘This isn’t a simple case of harassment, with a single culprit. This was a loose army coming together with a single target. Even if we could list all the profiles whose threats had indirectly contributed to Emily’s death, and even if we were able to get a court order forcing Twitter to disclose their whereabouts, what are we meant to do? They’re scattered across the globe. I’m sorry but with the victim dead — and there being no direct danger anymore — we would never get the resources to go after them, let alone cross borders. That’s “unsatisfactory”. Even if we suspended their accounts, nothing would stop them setting up new ones.’

  ‘What about local accounts? The person who identified Emily from the photo must know her, must be local.’

  He raised his shoulders. ‘It’s not illegal to name someone on a photo online. We checked and neither that person nor the one who posted the original picture of Emily with Adam Mooney made any threats. The work associated with even filtering out the messages that cross the line — a fairly wide grey area in fact — is not something for which we could ever gather the resources in the current climate. Look around, we’re struggling to police the streets of Edinburgh at festival time, let alone the whole Internet. I understand your frustration. Believe me, I feel it too.’

  I clenched my fists. I opened my mouth, but Reddy put up a hand to silence me.

  ‘Miss Flett, we looked at her emails; we looked at her Twitter; we visited her flat.’

  ‘You searched her flat?’

  ‘Yes, it took us a while to get officers allocated, so we’d had to ask her parents to leave the flat untouched. We got the keys from the landlord. We didn’t find anything we wouldn’t expect to find in the apartment of a single young woman going through a difficult time. We’ve been in contact with her parents in Peebles. We have jointly agreed to close the investigation. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘What if I can help? I have skills. This can’t be all.’

  Reddy blew out a deep, nicotine breath. At least that cliché was intact, I thought. ‘Your time is yours to waste, if that’s what you want. I would advise you to move on, however. Find some peace. Let the grieving process run its course.’ He fished a business card from his pocket. ‘But if you can’t let it go, and if you find something, get in touch.’

  15

  ME

  If cats had a built-in clock for feeding times, Atticus’s was broken. The fact that I was home earlier than usual did not impact his routine of jumping off the sofa to greet me at the door and circling my legs meowing, ushering me to the kitchen.

  Coming home early, I expected I might catch him in some energetic activity, sniffing around, playing with the many fuzzy toys lying around. It appeared not.

  I placed my bag on the table and hunched down to give him a scratch behind the ears. ‘Hi, buddy. I’ve still got some work to do.’ Atticus cocked his head. ‘Yes, I know. I’ve even got a new computer.’

  The device’s lead was tangled in some of the rubbish I carried around. I had to empty my bag to be able to plug it in. I moved a few piles of books — my normal evening companions — from the table onto the sofa to clear a working area.

  The hinge was still a little tight when I lifted the laptop’s lid. I powered up the machine, grateful to find that the Helpdesk guy had prepared it for immediate use. I punched in my login and password. An error message appeared: No network access. It asked if I wanted to set up a local profile. In the bottom right hand corner of the screen was a WiFi icon with a question mark. I always thought people were exaggerating when they slapped their forehead yet it’s exactly what I did at this point. I didn’t have any Internet at home. Why would I?

  I clicked on the icon and saw that all my neighbours had WiFi. But they were all securely protected. Now what? I couldn’t very well go round asking to piggyback on their network. I scrolled to the bottom of the list, to an open access point called Café Marchmont. The signal was faint, but it might do.

  Fat droplets of rain were sliding down the window, making the prospect of walking to the café most unsavoury. What had started out as drizzle on my walk home from the police station had amplified into a torrent. As if the gods were conspiring against me.

  Maybe the policeman was right? Maybe it was going to be a big waste of time.

  Atticus jumped up on the table not best pleased at the new competitor for my attention. Once he felt the heat radiating from the computer, however, he seemed to decid
e the keyboard was the place to be. ‘No Atticus, not here. I have to go.’ I plopped my cat on the floor, closed the lid and grabbed my raincoat.

  The café was only around the corner. I shot in and asked for an Earl Grey to go. The WiFi password was on a blackboard on the wall. Marchmontguest. Hardly secure. At least it was easy to remember. I paid for the drink and returned home.

  Once connected, I was able to log in. I entered Twitter again, the viper’s nest, and started to take a note of frequent harassers. The tweets led to others and to others again, each user replying to an ever-growing list of accounts. And Emily. They all tagged her, making her a party to every insult, every condemnation, every threat.

  How would it have been at the receiving end? I examined the feeds of some of those who’d been nasty to Emily. They were filled with innocuous content: statements about upcoming movie releases, pictures of kittens, pouting selfies. How could seemingly normal people become such animals?

  Would Emily have minded the assault from the women more than that from the men?

  I continued my note taking. It became unwieldy. As the messages were replied to and shared, re-tweeted, and replied to again, I understood why the police would have struggled. It was too vast a network, with too many connections. How would you separate out those who threatened versus those who only shared? Those who spewed venom versus those who mindlessly shared things they vaguely agreed with?

  My heart jumped when I recognised what I was looking at: a universe of words, with feelings. My expertise. If Empisoft could identify pockets of dissatisfaction and anger among employees, what was to stop me doing the same on Twitter — finding the most poisonous pools?

  The tea had coursed through me, but a full bladder wasn’t about to slow me down. All I had to do was get all that data into one place to let my software run on it: all those messages, their senders, the time, and who they’d tagged.