by Nora Valters
I only had around two hundred followers, but a lot of those were journalists and media contacts I knew from work. I see one influential online editor from a huge news agency has blasted me on a comment, and follow the thread to see it picked up by many of his contacts all weighing in.
Immediately I spot the tweet that has gone viral. It has three hundred thousand retweets and fifty-two thousand likes. It tagged a well-known, controversial right-wing commentator, and he retweeted it to his 1.1 million followers.
And there are tens of thousands of angry replies. I gulp as I click on one of the hashtags and see that #laurencohen is trending on Twitter. It’s hard to even take in the enormity of that. It’s overwhelming. The internet has taken it upon itself to publicly shame me, like a virtual public whipping. And – even though I didn’t even post any of that crap – I do feel ashamed. My name is tainted, and it will take a miracle to disentangle it from this… scandal.
The content Jenna has posted has taken on a life of its own. As if she’s simply lit a fire – just like she did at Mum’s flat – and now it’s raging out of all control.
I attempt to switch into crisis-management mode. What would I advise a client to do if something like this happened to one of their brands? But that part of my brain is wholly disconnected. There’s not even a flicker of inspiration. I just feel completely… Blunt? Dull? Dampened? Muted? All of the above?
I google my name and change the settings to see the latest results. There are pages and pages of search results, my name showing up all over the place – not only in UK media but globally. I spot an article on a huge digital site with the headline: IS THIS THE MOST HATED WOMAN IN THE WORLD RIGHT NOW?
I click into the article and see my Facebook profile image of me in Provence. I read the first paragraph:
Who is Lauren Cohen? The 38-year-old from Manchester, UK, has catapulted into public awareness with a series of mind-bogglingly offensive, discriminatory and aggressive posts across her social media channels. And – unsurprisingly – has sparked a huge backlash across the world, including an announcement from Twitter that her account will be permanently suspended for violating its hateful conduct policy. With the other social media channels likely to boot her off too, one thing’s for sure – this piece of dog turd has been CANCELLED.
I stop myself from reading on and click out. I can’t possibly feel any worse than I already do.
There’s a post from OPNN on its social media channels with the photo of me that the woman took outside just moments ago and the text: ‘Look who we’ve been talking to today. She’s coming to our next Manchester meetup. Be there.’
Horrified, I click back to the search results only to see a post in what appears to be a far-left activists forum of my picture from the MBW website, along with my address and mobile phone number and a message that says: ‘TAKE HER OUT’.
Is that a death threat? Is my life in danger now? Jenna has succeeded in getting the whole world to hate me, in turning not only my loved ones against me but complete strangers too. And now I have a target on my back.
My stomach somersaults, and I crawl to the toilet, put up the seat and vomit the granola bar.
24
There’s nothing left in my stomach, but I continue to dry heave. Finally, that eases. I rinse out my mouth with water and brush my teeth.
I’m ruined. The entire world hates me. I call Kemi, the only friend I still have, but her phone’s off. She always switches it off when she’s teaching. I slump back to the bathroom floor. Never have I felt so desperate and so, so alone.
I hug my knees and try to make myself very small, willing the ground to open and swallow me up.
But there’s a little voice in my head. It’s my bruised and bloody optimism, clinging on for dear life, piping up. This is still redeemable. You can make this right, it squeaks.
But what can I do?
Only one thought pounds between my ears: I have to get to Jenna. I need to log on to all my social media accounts and delete all that shit. This is getting dangerous now. Jenna has made her point.
I have to stick to the plan.
Frightened to make any noise in case one of the right-wing group has their ear to my door, I heave myself up and creep downstairs. I tiptoe into the front room and, taking care to stand far back from the window, open the still-closed curtain a crack.
Bollocks. They are still there, milling about on the pavement. The woman is on her phone, clearly the one to have posted my photo, scarf guy is talking on his mobile, but the other two men watch my house.
I know I should go out there, force my way past them and get in my car. How dare they trap me in my house. I’m a prisoner hemmed in by people. Perhaps I can clamber over the downed fence panel in the garden and sneak around the back and approach the car from a different direction? They might not notice me until it’s too late and I’ve driven off?
Yes, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll work, it has to work. Come on, courage, show yourself one more time. But movement outside distracts me from this pep talk. Scarf guy finishes his call and gives a signal to the others.
He gives one last look at the house, and then the four of them cross the road and walk off towards the main Chorlton high street.
Relief soars. I let the curtain go, count to ten, force my feet to move one step at a time and head back into the hallway. I reach out to open the front door, but the doorbell rings. Every muscle tenses. I don’t move. There’s no way I’m opening the door.
I listen hard, but don’t hear anything. I edge closer to look out the peephole. I don’t see anyone on the doorstep. But that doesn’t mean they’re not waiting for me to the side.
Creeping into the front room, I check from behind the curtain again. But don’t see anyone. The street looks quiet. A cyclist goes past and doesn’t even glance at my house, making me think there’s no one crouching on my front doorstep or acting bizarrely that might catch their attention.
I wait a few moments longer. Whoever rang the bell must know no one’s coming to the door by now. If they were still there, they’d ring again, right? I wait a little longer, then head back into the hallway and slowly, carefully, quietly, pull down the front door latch and open it a fraction. It’s unusually sticky, as if something has warped the doorframe. I tug softly, but then yank.
There’s no one stood on my step. The release of anxiety whooshes in my ears. I fight off the inexplicable urge to do a little dance.
But the outside of my pale-wooden door and the matching doorframe is blackened. As if someone has splashed paint on it.
But it’s not paint. I inspect the wood closer, and it almost looks… charred? I slam the door and stagger back inside my hallway. Whatever it is, it’s not good. No, not good at all.
My phone pings with a message. I fish it out of my coat pocket and see it’s from a mobile number that is not in my contacts list.
It reads:
- Next time it’ll be acid on your face, Nazi scum.
Sheer terror boils over, and my vision swirls.
I come to in a crumpled heap on the carpet. I must’ve fainted. I have no idea how long I’ve been out, but I massage my temples to bring my brain back to life.
As soon as my memories snap into place, I sit on the bottom stair and call the non-emergency police number on 101. Although someone throwing acid on my front door is frightening and makes me fearful for my safety, I’m not in any immediate peril. I’m safe in my house.
At least, I think I am.
I get through to a man who introduces himself, checks it’s not an emergency, takes all my details and then asks me to explain what’s happened.
His steady, competent professionalism reassures me and instead of a hysterical outburst, which so nearly comes out of my mouth, my heart rate lowers and my tone settles to match his.
“Someone threw acid at my front door and sent me a text telling me that next time it would be my face,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Do you know who this someone might
be?” he asks.
I’m about to say Jenna, but I know it can’t be her – she’s meant to be at work. “I think it was someone from a far-left group. My address was posted online on what looked like an activist’s forum.”
“Why was your address posted in this forum?”
“Because someone else has gained unauthorised access to my social media accounts and posted vicious, hateful, right-wing content, and it’s got out of control, and everyone thinks I posted it, and now I’m being targeted.”
“Okay, so this hateful content that’s been posted on your channels, just to confirm, you didn’t post it?”
“Absolutely not. I reported that I’ve been hacked to the police’s cybercrime hotline. I have a reference number if you want it.”
He says yes, and I haul myself up from the stairs, holding onto the banister as my head spins when I get up too quick, and plod into the lounge, my feet feeling like they’re stuck in tar. I find the notepad I wrote it on and read it out for him. I head back as I do to sit on the stairs, my lounge feeling disconcertingly alien.
“Other than your social media accounts being taken over, is there anything else?”
“Yes!” I babble at him about the work emails that I didn’t send, the porn playing in the presentation, the attack on my relationship with the dirty texts, the lingerie and sex toy parcel, the faked home movie on a USB, and the letters. The fact that my bank account has been screwed with too and that my brother and father have also been targeted. The fire at my mum’s apartment that looks like it was deliberately started.
He listens patiently to this and then says, “I’ll make a note of all that. Do you think this is all related?”
“Without a shadow of a doubt, yes.”
“So a far-left group has done all these things to you?”
“No, I think it’s my brother’s ex-girlfriend.”
“But she didn’t throw the acid?”
“Um, no, I don’t think so – I think she’s at work now.”
“Do you have any evidence that she’s done these other things?”
“No… She shouted that she wanted to ruin my life, and then all this stuff started happening.”
“Okay.” He pauses a moment, and I imagine him assessing his notes. “I think the vandalism is because of what has been posted online. Are you able to stay with a friend or family member tonight? I’ll be able to send round an officer, but it’s unlikely to be today.”
“When will it be?”
As soon as I ask, I have a premonition of what he’s going to say.
“Between twenty-four and forty-eight hours.”
I silently scream at the top of my lungs down the phone. “Fine,” I say curtly, clenching my jaw against the rage. I can’t shout at a police officer, can I? That’s not going to help.
He gives me another reference number, and we end the call.
Why is no one taking this seriously? Why does everyone think I’ve got all the time in the world to just sit by and watch my life be blasted into smithereens for the next twenty-four to forty-eight flipping hours.
That. Is. It. I have to get to Jenna. If I can just reach her, I can make all this go away, set everyone straight and get my life back on track.
I stand and grab my things and look at the front door. What if there’s someone lurking out there ready to throw acid on my face? What if the OPNN are back and aggressively try to accost me this time? What if I get beaten up? Or kidnapped? Or worse?
What if, what if, what if.
My chest constricts, and an iciness pricks at my cheeks. I shiver. I could just stay inside my house, hide for a while, wait one to two days for the police to get back to me, for the bank to get back to me. But what could happen in that time? What else have I got left for Jenna to destroy?
My spirit. That’s what.
And I refuse to be broken.
Reaching deep down, I pull upon my reserves of strength and fearlessness. There’s some left. It might only be the dregs, but it’s enough to get me moving.
I look out the front room window, but can’t see anyone in particular milling around. I spot my car up the road and plan the most direct route I’ll take to get to it. Through the massive puddle by the drain that I usually skirt around. But not today. I’m taking the fastest path.
Back in the hallway, I wrap my scarf around my head, pull my hood up, sling my handbag across my body and hold my car key in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I open the front door, slam it shut behind me and sprint towards my car, figuring speed and the element of surprise will deter any would-be assailants.
I splash through the puddle, the cold water immediately seeping through my boots, and jump in my car. I speed away without looking back.
25
I race into the city centre, not caring that I’m speeding, entering roundabouts with barely a glance and racing through traffic lights that have just turned red.
In my entire driving life, I’ve never had any kind of traffic violation, not even a parking ticket. But for once, drivers will have to wait or swerve or brake for me. This is urgent. I don’t care.
A few times I glance in my rear-view mirror to see if anyone is following me, but there’s so much traffic that I really can’t be certain. As I pull to a stop at a traffic light, I look again behind me. I see a silver hatchback overtake the car behind me and cut in. It’s going so fast I think it might shunt me, but it skids to a halt, earning it a few angry horn blares from the car it cut up.
There are four people in the car, and I see the driver and passenger clearly: tattoo guy and scarf guy. Scarf guy waves at me and gives me a thumbs up, while tattoo guy sticks his thick arm out the window and gives the middle finger to the car behind, which promptly stops beeping.
Oh, fuck, OPNN have caught up with me and are following me. This is bad. What are they hoping to achieve? To intimidate me so that I go with them or agree to attend their next meeting? Follow me wherever I go now and not let up until I’ve signed up with their group? Will they prevent me from getting to Jenna?
I look forward at the busy crossroads. The light is still red, and I watch as cars whizz past from right to left, left to right. I put the car into first gear and release the handbrake, attempting not to move my arms too much so tattoo guy won’t get any hint of what I’m about to do. I see a gap in the traffic and then just DRIVE.
I screech forward, faster than I’ve ever pulled away from a stop before, and the engine revs powerfully. The Mini nips through the space, and I get honked at by oncoming vehicles. I swerve out of the way of one car and lose control of the steering, heading on a direct collision path with the traffic light pole. My insides tumble and lurch as everything slows right down. The pole is coming right at me, and I’m about to smash into it.
I’m going to crash. Oh god, I’m going to crash! I freeze in terror.
But my reflexes kick in, and I yank the steering wheel, mount the kerb with a huge crunch as it scrapes all the underside of my car, and knock the wheel arch on the pole. I right myself, turn away, and I’m clear – back on the road, racing away from the crossroads and leaving OPNN far behind. I don’t look back.
Adrenaline pumping, I cut in and out of traffic and speed at twice the limit to put as much distance as I can between me and the silver hatchback. I turn off the main road and take a different back route into the city centre to throw them off the scent. It works, and I don’t see their car behind me again.
Out loud, I thank the universe that I didn’t just cause a huge collision and kill myself or anyone else.
Without thinking, I switch into autopilot and start heading towards the car park at work. I catch myself and change lanes at the last minute, receiving a honk from the car behind that brakes to miss me, and head to a city centre car park that I know is close to the department store where Jenna works.
As it’s in the heart of the main shopping district, it’s expensive. None of my bank cards are working. Shit. How much loose change have I got in the bottom of my han
dbag to pay for parking? A couple of quid maybe. Not nearly enough.
Keeping my eyes on the road, I rummage in the holder between the seats, shifting aside anti-bac hand gel, some breath mints, and a packet of tissues until my fingertips graze a couple of coins right at the bottom. Still not enough… The glove compartment. There should be a twenty-pound note floating about. The ever-practical Akshay put one in there when I first got this car in case of emergencies.
“Thank you, babe,” I say out loud as I turn into the car park. I lean across as I’m waiting my turn to go through the barriers and open the glove compartment, pulling out the folded banknote.
I pull into the first space I see, not caring about the inconsiderate angle and half-covering another space. My wet foot squelches in my boot as I run to the department store. Shoppers stare as I dash past. I accidentally knock one man’s arm and shout, “Sorry,” without even looking back.
I fling myself through the department store’s glass doors and pause to catch my breath. I wildly remove some layers, as I’m overheating. My coat snags in my cross-body bag, and I grumble loudly as I untangle my arms. The security guard watches me.
The beauty hall is in front of me, but the place heaves with shoppers. I scan the floor to find the right counter, but am momentarily disorientated, as the front displays are different to the last time I was here. I spot the All Yours Make-up brand logo and charge towards it, not even thinking what I might say.
There she is!
Jenna stands behind the counter, arranging some products on the shelf, her back to me. Her colleague is dealing with a shopper at the till.
Fuck subtlety, fuck handling this right. She’s going down. I weave in and out of the crowd and practically slide to a stop inches from the counter.
“Jenna,” I bellow, and I see her shoulders tense.
Time stands still as all my surroundings drop away, and all that’s left is the space between me and her. There’s movement in my peripheral vision, and I feel the disapproving stares of shoppers pricking me. But I don’t care. My eyes are puncturing a hole through this snake’s back.