by Paul Burston
For years Tom has been attuned to the rhythms of London – the snarl of traffic, the rumble of the underground, the madness of the rush hour, the constant push and shove for which Londoners are infamous. Here, the rhythms are different. Most people appear to walk or cycle to work. There are no maddening crowds and far fewer exhaust fumes. The air is clean, and the only sounds are the cries of gulls, and the crash and drag of the sea – the waves hissing as they hit the shore, the suck and roll of pebbles as the water retreats. No wonder so many Londoners are making a new home for themselves in Hastings. Based on what he’s seen so far, Tom is seriously thinking of joining them.
Heading downstairs, careful not to disturb his neighbour and risk another warning about the dangers posed by the skate park, it suddenly strikes Tom that he hasn’t bumped into Luke once since Pirate Day. Not that it was inevitable. But Hastings is a pretty small town and Tom has seen every part of it. He’s surprised they haven’t crossed paths. Surprised and, if he’s completely honest, a little disappointed. That night in The St Leonard, he’d felt there was a connection between them, even if Luke seemed wary after their previous encounter. He could look for Luke on Facebook, but he doesn’t even know his surname. He could call the restaurant in Clapham and ask for him, see if he’s returned to work. But he’d hate to come across as some kind of bunny-boiler. Tom has never chased after anyone in his life. He’s not about to start now.
He’s hardly been on social media. It’s not that he’s been avoiding it, simply that he’s been so absorbed in his writing he’s almost forgotten it’s there. Every few months Tom promises himself a digital detox so he can clear his head and get more work done. He’s seen other authors announce their breaks from Facebook and Twitter to complete their latest novel. It’s always seemed like a good idea, like giving up smoking or not drinking for a year. And like many good ideas, with Tom it tends to get stuck at the ideas stage. But not this time. Whether by accident or design, this time he’s been off social media for the best part of a week. And though it pains him to admit it, all the things the proponents of the digital detox say are true. His anxiety levels have dropped. He’s sleeping better. He feels calmer and more focussed. If he’d only known it would make this much difference, he’d have done it months ago.
Still, there’s no point dwelling on what might have been. The important thing is to keep moving forwards – the next day, the next page, the next chapter. But now it’s relaxation time. The sun is high and there isn’t a cloud in the sky. Time to hit the beach.
There aren’t many sunbathers today. Down by the shore, a man is teaching his small son to fly a kite, barking orders at him while the boy struggles to keep control, the kite barely rising a few feet above the ground before dive bombing back down again. Tom is reminded of his own father, who never had any patience with him, making every shared activity a source of dread.
A short distance away, a male school teacher with a strong Geordie accent is leading a field trip, explaining the principles of sea erosion and longshore drift to a class of largely uninterested teenagers. Tom listens as the teacher enthuses about the varieties of rigid hydraulic structure – rock groynes, wooden groynes, concrete groynes – and how they interrupt water flow and limit the movement of sediment, preserving the beach from erosion by the tide. He then divides the class into four groups and sets them each a task – taking measurements, inspecting the groynes, collecting sand samples. ‘And try not to disturb the man who came here for a bit of peace and quiet.’
Feeling self-conscious in his swimming trunks, Tom reaches for his phone and pretends to be checking something as a group of teenagers draw nearer, the girls giggling excitedly and the boys laughing and jostling each other as they approach. He thinks he hears one of the boys say ‘queer’ but he can’t be sure. His body tenses. People who joke about men having sand kicked in their face seem to think that it ends there, that kicking sand is never a precursor to something more violent. He keeps his head up, reminds himself that there’s a teacher present, that it’s the middle of the day on a public beach and not some remote corner of a park in the dead of night. Nothing bad can happen to him here. He fumbles in his bag for his earbuds and selects some music. The opening strains of ‘Aerial’ by Kate Bush fill his ears.
After a few minutes, the teenagers leave, reassembling at the top of the beach, where the teacher is gesturing towards the sea wall, no doubt explaining its function and construction and not the meaning of the graffiti scratched or spray-painted onto the concrete. Tom lies back, enjoying the warm sun on his body. His eyelids grow heavy and he can feel himself drifting off to sleep, when the music cuts out and his phone’s ring tone cuts in. There’s no name displayed on the screen and the number isn’t one he recognises. His first instinct is to decline the call but curiosity gets the better of him.
The caller gives her name as Ruth Freeman. She’s a freelance journalist and she’s writing a piece about online harassment for the Guardian.
‘Can I ask how you got this number?’ Tom asks.
She sounds surprised. ‘It’s on our database. I think you’ve written for us before?’ There’s an upward inflection at the end of her sentence, making the statement sound more like a question. Tom immediately puts her age at around thirty.
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘How can I help?’
‘I was hoping to ask you about what happened with Evie Stokes. I read about the case on the Court News site.’
‘Then you’ll know what happened,’ Tom says. ‘She was found guilty.’
‘Yes, I know,’ the journalist replies. ‘Sorry, I wasn’t very clear. This piece is really about the impact harassment has on the victims. Most of the people I’ve spoken to are women. It would be really good to get a male perspective on this, to give it more balance? Obviously a lot of the hate online is directed at women but I think it’s important for people to know that men can be on the receiving end, too.’
‘I see,’ Tom says. Part of him wants to end the conversation here. What’s the point in going over it all again? What’s to be gained? Unless of course it’s to publicise the fact that Evie Stokes is a convicted criminal who obviously can’t be trusted.
‘Mr Hunter?’ the journalist says. ‘Are you there?’
‘I am. Sorry, could you tell me your name again?’
‘Ruth Freeman.’
Tom makes a mental note. ‘Now’s not a very good time,’ he says. ‘Could you call me back later, around six o’clock?’
‘Can we make it six-thirty? I have another interview at half-five and it might run over.’
‘Six-thirty it is,’ Tom says. That’ll give him more time to run a background check on Ruth Freeman and see what kind of journalist she is.
The sun glares off the screen of his phone, making it difficult to read. He sits upright with his back to the sun and leans forwards, shielding the screen with his upper body. It takes him a few minutes to confirm that Ruth Freeman really does work for the Guardian. She has her own profile, complete with a photograph and links to various pieces she’s written for the newspaper. The photo shows a young blonde woman with a determined expression and just a hint of a smile. The pieces are mostly opinion columns of the kind the paper specialises in – feminist slants on popular culture, angst-ridden takes on environmentalism, trans politics and class privilege. There are a few longer, more investigative pieces, too – one about knife crime in inner city schools, another about grooming gangs. She has a head for crime, then. That’s something.
Next he checks her Twitter profile, sees that there’s a blue tick next to her name and she has more than sixty thousand followers. The numbers are meaningless, of course. There are plenty of people on Twitter with larger followings, most of them paid for or acquired on the basis of fellow nobodies shoring up each other’s egos. But the blue tick means her account has been authenticated. Someone, somewhere has decided that Ruth Freeman is exactly who she says she is. In light of his recent experience, Tom wishes he’d always been so circumspec
t.
He’s about to put down his phone when his thoughts return to Evie Stokes. So far he’s resisted the urge to check her activity on Twitter. But with her fresh in his mind the temptation is too strong. It won’t hurt to know what she’s up to, especially now he has an interview lined up. He types her name into the toolbar and her Twitter account appears immediately. It’s still set to public. He knew it would be. Protecting her tweets would mean limiting the number of people who can see them, and she’s all about playing to the gallery.
He taps the link with his forefinger and there it is, pulling him back to all the times he checked her profile, all the hours he spent taking screenshots for the police. It’s changed since he last saw it. Her profile picture used to be a shot of Bette Davis in All About Eve, complete with poised cigarette and mad staring eyes. It was her idea of a joke, a play on her name and the relentless narcissism of social media – All About Evie. Now the image has been replaced with one of Kathy Bates in Misery.
The header has changed, too. Where there used to be a photo of Marilyn Monroe surrounded by hordes of adoring men in Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, now there’s a picture of a starry sky and a quote from Oscar Wilde: ‘Always forgive your enemies – nothing annoys them so much.’
Tom’s pulse races, the soothing sound of the sea drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears. This is all for his benefit. The film reference, the quote, the twisted sense of martyrdom and sly little digs – they’re all aimed at him. There’s nothing here that breaches the terms of her restraining order, just enough to let him know she’s thinking of him.
But what really makes his heart pound is the tweet pinned at the top of her feed. It reads simply, ‘I’m not the kinda girl…’ and includes a link to a music video on YouTube. The song is ‘The Tide Is High’ by Blondie.
‘“Who gives up just like that”,’ Tom thinks, completing the lyric as the sky darkens and a cold shiver runs across his skin.
19
‘Tom!’ Emma snaps. ‘Slow down. You’re not making any sense!’
‘Don’t you see? The Blondie video. It’s her way of telling me she’s not giving up, she’s not going to stop.’
‘Or maybe she just likes Blondie.’
‘This is her we’re talking about,’ Tom says. ‘Evie Stokes. You saw her in court. You know what she’s like. Nothing she posts online is ever entirely innocent. It’s all designed to provoke a response. It’s all calculated. This is what she does. Troll people. Harass people. It’s her whole pathetic little life.’
He’s walking as he talks – shifting and sliding over the shingle, barely looking where he’s planting his feet. His beach things are in a bag slung over his shoulder. It bumps against his rib cage as he walks.
‘I think you need to spend less time on social media,’ Emma says.
‘I haven’t been on social media. Go and look if you don’t believe me.’
‘Who said anything about not believing you? You just said you’d checked her Twitter feed. What am I supposed to think?’
Tom reaches the top of the beach and climbs the wooden steps to the promenade. ‘I told you,’ he says, pausing for breath as he leans against the railing, gazing down at the sea. ‘I only looked at her feed because I’d spoken to that journalist. She’s calling me back in a few hours.’
Emma sighs. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’
‘Why wouldn’t it be?’
‘What’s the point of reliving it all again? Let it lie. Move on. Finish your book. Get on with your life and leave that poor pathetic woman to get on with hers.’
‘She doesn’t have a life,’ Tom says. ‘That’s why she latches on to those of us who do. She’s a parasite. And if I didn’t know better I’d say you were feeling sorry for her.’
There’s a pause before Emma replies. ‘Well, don’t you think she’s been punished enough?’
‘Hardly, if she’s still messing about on Twitter.’
‘But you have no way of knowing if this is even about you. You’re reading into things. And why risk antagonising her?’
‘Whose side are you on, Em?’
‘What? Yours, obviously. But this isn’t about sides. I’m simply saying you should leave it alone. Why do this? What do you stand to gain from it?’
‘It’s a chance to tell my side of the story.’
‘You’ve done that already. You did it in court. And the judge believed you. You won the case. Surely that’s enough? This just makes you look vindictive. And it could lead to people harassing her online the way she harassed you.’
‘Tough. I’m not responsible for anything that happens to her as a result of her actions. She is.’
‘You’re being very hard, Tom.’
‘Am I? Maybe I am.’ He stares at the sea. The water is rising. The stretch of sand where he lay only a few minutes ago is now fully submerged, the waves lapping at the pebbles and crashing against the wooden groyne, sending up spray. At high tide, all that will be left visible of the groyne is the wooden post set in concrete at the top of the beach. A thought crosses his mind and a knot of anxiety tightens in his stomach. ‘You don’t think she knows I’m here, do you?’
‘What?’ says Emma. ‘Of course not. How would she?’
‘It could be a message – ‘The Tide Is High’. It could mean she’s here in Hastings.’ He looks around, scanning the crowds for her face. ‘She could be watching me as we speak.’
‘Now you’re being ridiculous. It’s a summery song. It’s summertime. And Hastings isn’t the only seaside town in the world. Maybe she’s lying on a beach somewhere. Maybe she’s simply wishing she was. It doesn’t always have to be about you.’
‘Ouch,’ says Tom.
‘You know what I mean,’ Emma says. ‘We all do it sometimes – think the world revolves around us. The things other people say or do aren’t always about us. Sometimes it’s just about them.’
‘She’s not just “other people” though, is she? She’s obsessed.’
‘I know. But you obsessing about her isn’t helping anyone, least of all you.’
‘I saw her,’ Tom blurts.
‘What? When?’
‘A few weeks ago, in London. I was out running and I thought I saw her, at the Southbank.’
‘Hang on. You saw her, or you only thought you saw her?’
‘I was sure I saw her, but when I looked again, she’d gone.’
‘Oh, Tom,’ Emma says. ‘Is that why you were in such a hurry to get away?’
‘Partly,’ he replies. He doesn’t have the heart to tell her that part of the reason he left so quickly is that he wanted a break from everything, her included. ‘I needed a change of scenery. I thought the sea air would do me good. And it has. I’m sleeping better and writing more.’
‘Well, then,’ Emma says. ‘Try to focus on that. Don’t waste your time worrying about her. And please don’t do this interview. Cancel it. Tell them you’ve changed your mind. Say you’ve been advised not to talk to the press. Tell them I told you.’
‘I will,’ Tom says. But he’s lying, even to himself. Evie Stokes is like the scab on a wound. He knows he shouldn’t pick at it but he can’t help himself.
Arriving back at his building Tom sees his downstairs neighbour, sitting on a kitchen chair on the front terrace. He’s dressed in a pale-yellow short-sleeved shirt, olive-green knee-length shorts and the curious combination of sandals and grey socks often sported by men of a certain age. His lower legs are far paler than the rest of him, the sun turning the mottled skin the pink of raw sausage meat. Beside him, on a small table, are a newspaper and a jug of water. His head must be sweltering under that wig, Tom thinks, wondering why he doesn’t just swap it for a sun hat. It’s not as if he’s fooling anyone.
‘Hello again,’ Tom says, smiling as he approaches. ‘Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?’
‘I’m glad I’ve seen you,’ Colin replies. ‘I’d like a word.’
Tom’s face falls. ‘I hope I haven’t disturbed you. I
’ve been trying to keep the noise down but I tend to be up pretty early.’
The old man snorts. ‘You call that early? Wait till you’re my age. I’m lucky if I can stay in bed till five. No, you’re not disturbing me. Why don’t you sit down for a minute?’ He gestures towards a second chair a few feet away. ‘You’re not in any hurry, are you?’
‘No,’ says Tom, pulling up the chair and placing his beach bag on the paved floor beside him.
‘Good,’ says Colin. ‘Only you look like someone who’s always in a hurry. Believe me, life happens fast enough, without all this rushing about.’
Tom feels a prickle of indignation but decides to humour the old man. ‘So you didn’t fancy the beach today?’ he asks, speaking slowly and enunciating each word like a foreign-language student.
‘I prefer to sit and watch the world go by. Stay in one place long enough and it all comes to you eventually.’
Great, Tom thinks. A philosopher in our midst. ‘You must have seen some changes,’ he says. ‘Living here all this time.’
‘I have,’ Colin replies. ‘And there’s no need to talk like that. I can hear you perfectly well.’
‘Sorry, I thought you were—’
‘Deaf? Yes, I am.’ The old man grins, revealing startlingly white, even teeth. Crowns, Tom thinks, or possibly dentures. But good ones, not the kind you normally see on British men of a certain age. Either Colin is rich or National Health dentistry has come a long way. ‘I’ve got my hearing aids in,’ he adds, still smiling. ‘The doctor says I’m to wear them all the time, but sometimes it pays not to hear half of what’s going on. There’s so much noise nowadays. All that constant chatter. I’m surprised people can find time to think. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe that’s why the world is in such a mess.’