by Paul Burston
‘Funny you should say that,’ he replied. ‘I saw the words ‘ghost IP’ and ‘keystroke recorder’. And there’s a software package on your hard drive that looks suspiciously like spyware. That’s an invasion of someone else’s privacy, not to mention a crime.’
‘Spyware?’ I laughed. ‘What on earth would I want with that?’
‘That’s what I was wondering. What would you want with that?’
‘It must have downloaded automatically when I was watching a film on some file-sharing site.’
He frowned. ‘Are you lying to me?’
I felt my skin prickle and my voice rise. ‘I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I wouldn’t risk infecting my computer with viruses. I’m not a complete idiot.’
My father sighed. ‘I can’t keep protecting you, Evie. Not if you’re engaged in criminal activities.’
‘I’m not,’ I insisted. ‘It’s not what you think. Honestly.’
A strange look crossed his face. ‘I need to phone the police.’
‘The police? What for?’
‘I reported you missing. I didn’t know where you were.’
‘I’m home now. That’s all that matters.’
‘Where were you?’
‘Out and about.’
‘But where did you sleep?’
‘Around.’ I smiled meaningfully. ‘Like mother, like daughter.’
‘Stop it, Evie. I’m calling the police.’
‘Don’t do that, Dad!’ My voice was louder than I’d intended.
He looked at me warily. ‘If I find out that you’ve lied to me – about this, about your mother.’
I know I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I pictured my mother falling to her death, and the corners of my mouth twitched.
‘Oh my God, Evie!’ My dad’s eyes hardened as the truth finally dawned. ‘How could you?’
I could have lied, but there was no going back now. The cat was out of the bag. In some ways it was a relief. My lip curled and my smile became a snarl. ‘What does it matter? She was an evil bitch. She got what she deserved.’
But Dad wasn’t listening. ‘This is all my fault,’ he said. ‘If I’d only protected you more, none of this would have happened. She only hurt you to get back at me.’
I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘What did you just say? You knew what she did? How could you know and not do anything?’
Dad’s mouth opened, but whatever he was about to say next, I may never know. The words seemed to catch in his throat. His left arm flinched, and he grasped it with his right hand. Then his eyes bulged and his hand went to his chest. His face paled and a slick of sweat formed on his top lip. I could see he was short of breath. He tugged at his shirt collar, mouth gaping as he gulped for air.
‘Call an ambulance,’ he rasped.
I stared at him, my mind racing. I needed time to think.
‘Evie!’ He slid down in his chair, his voice practically a whisper. ‘Help me!’
I reached for my laptop and rose from the table. My shopping was where I’d left it, in the hall. I pictured the eyes of the fish turning milky in the heat, but there was no point worrying about that now. My rucksack was hanging at the bottom of the stairs. I put the laptop inside, took out my phone and made the call.
Later, in the ambulance, while the paramedic explained that my dad had likely suffered a heart attack, I thought back to our earlier conversation, Dad’s and mine, and felt a fire growing in my belly. I’ve seen my dad angry before. Raising me wasn’t always easy. I don’t need anyone to tell me that. Teenage girls can be a nightmare, and I wasn’t immune to the usual temptations – drink, drugs, boys. More than once he was required to collect me from some teenage party where I’d drunk too much and made a show of myself. The hangovers were skull-crushing and usually accompanied by a stern talking-to as I lay in bed, riddled with remorse and barely able to move.
But I’ve never seen him as angry as he was today. Actually, no. It was worse than anger. It was despair. I saw it in his eyes and heard it in his voice. I’ve never had any doubt that my dad’s love for me is unconditional. Until today. But I know we can pull through this. If he can forgive me my wrongdoing then I can forgive him his. There’s no reason to let my mother come between us. He was as much a victim of her cruelty as I was.
When we arrived at the hospital and they rushed Dad off to theatre, I vowed that if he pulls through this I’ll change. I’ll come off social media. I’ll even abandon my book if that’s what it takes. I’ll do whatever’s necessary. All I ask is that he doesn’t die. My dad is all I have left. Without him, I’m all alone in the world.
That was hours ago, and now my hope is dwindling. Has Dad survived the operation? Has he spoken to the doctors? Sitting here in this soulless waiting room, a familiar, nagging voice whispers in my head. I close my eyes and count my breaths. But it’s no use. The pressure builds. Rage burns through my veins. I scratch at my wrist, drawing blood.
Then my thoughts return to you. This is all your fault. The court case. The stress and strain it placed on my poor dad. Without you, none of this would have happened. It’s your actions that have led me here. You were like the Pied Piper, leading me a merry dance. You’d have lured me to the nearest river and drowned me if you could. In court, on Twitter, with all the lies you told, not once did you show even the slightest compassion. I was just a plaything to you – someone to be toyed with and then not so much tossed aside as thrown into the path of an oncoming juggernaut. Anything to shut me up. Anything to silence me.
You think you’ve won now, don’t you? You think this is all over. Well, I hate to burst your self-congratulatory bubble but you’re wrong. This isn’t over by a long way. How can it be? How can I go down without a fight? You’ve taken so much from me already. You’ve had your pound of flesh. Any normal, decent person would think that’s enough. But it’s never enough for you, is it? You and your appetite – never satisfied, always wanting more. You took from me and you stole from me and you kept on taking. Soon I’ll have nothing left to lose. And you know what they say, Tom – never leave someone with nothing left to lose. They’re capable of anything.
I see a movement up ahead. There’s someone heading towards me. I sit bolt upright in my chair and there he is – the surgeon. He’s wearing a lab coat and has one of those tight-lipped expressions. My throat tightens and my stomach lurches. I know what he’s going to say before he even opens his mouth. He’s standing over me now. He looks down at me with a mixture of professional concern and pity. But he doesn’t tell me that he’s sorry for my loss. Instead he says, ‘The police are here. They’d like to ask you a few questions.’
And then I run.
29
Tom’s head pounds. His throat is dry and his mouth tastes like something crawled inside during the night, curled up on his tongue and died there. How much vodka did he drink yesterday? Half a bottle? More? And how many cigarettes did he smoke? He dreads to think. One thing he knows for sure: those men’s magazine articles are right – smoking makes a hangover a thousand times worse. He can’t remember the last time he felt this rough.
Hauling himself out of bed and staggering into the kitchen, he puts the kettle on, pours a glass of water and gulps it down. He refills the glass and begins opening and closing cupboard doors in search of painkillers. He knows they’re here somewhere. Where the hell did he put them? Yanking open the cupboard above the sink, he leans forwards too quickly and catches his head on the corner of the door. ‘Fuck!’
Lurching into the bathroom to inspect the damage, Tom studies his reflection in the mirror. A visit to A&E won’t be necessary. There’s a large bump on his forehead. A bruise is forming, purple against his pale, tired complexion. The skin is broken, revealing a small pink gash. But there’s no blood. Just as well – there’s enough of that in his eyes, the whites yellow and veined with red. He tests the bump with the top of his finger. Ouch. Then, satisfied that it doesn’t need a plaster, he heads into t
he kitchen.
Waiting for the coffee to brew, he struggles to piece together yesterday’s events. He remembers getting home and pouring himself the first of many drinks. He remembers stepping outside for the first of many cigarettes. He knows he ordered a pizza, because the leftovers are staring him in the face, congealed in the box and making his stomach cramp and gurgle ominously. And at some point during the evening he had a sudden craving for a different kind of takeaway, opening the Grindr app on his phone and checking out the local talent. After that, it’s all a bit of a blur.
He didn’t invite anyone over for sex. He knows that much. The pickings weren’t particularly tempting, consisting mostly of young men still claiming to be straight and older couples looking for a third person to spice up their flagging love lives. There were very few face shots and some profiles had no photos at all. The feelings of angst and frustration dating apps invariably brought him were compounded by the fact that he hadn’t had sex in quite some time. How long has it been exactly? A few weeks? Hardly a drought by most people’s standards, but he can’t recall the last time he went so long without getting his rocks offs.
He pours his coffee and takes it into the living room. The curtains are drawn, the sunlight bleeding around the edges of the fabric. He pulls them open and looks up at the sky. No sea mist today, just sunshine and blue skies as far as the eye can see. Then he lowers his gaze to the beach. At first glance, it looks as if the lad with a crush on the girl next door has been back, leaving love notes written with pebbles on the concrete groyne. But something isn’t right.
Tom squints and his stomach lurches. ‘Fuck!’
Moments later he’s hammering frantically on Colin’s door, shirtless in his boxer shorts, muttering impatiently under his breath, ‘C’mon, c’mon!’
After what feels like an eternity, the door cracks open and the old man appears. ‘Alright! What’s the emergency? Oh, it’s you. Are you okay, son? You look awful. What happened to your head?’
‘The groyne,’ Tom says, ignoring the question and waving his hand in the general direction of the beach. ‘Have you seen anyone out on the groyne this morning?’
‘What?’
‘The groyne opposite. That concrete thing on the beach.’
Colin rolls his eyes. ‘I’ve lived here for over twenty years. I think I know what a groyne is.’
‘Right. But have you seen anyone there this morning?’
The old man looks at him as if he’s mad. Maybe he is. ‘I can’t say I have. Should I? What’s going on? Why aren’t you dressed?’
‘Come with me,’ Tom says, turning towards the front door. ‘I’ll show you.’
‘Shouldn’t you put a shirt on first?’
‘Never mind that now. Please, hurry.’
Agitated, Tom waits for Colin to find his keys, then leads him across the road to the promenade.
‘There,’ he says, gesturing at the concrete groyne, where an arrangement of pebbles spells out the words ‘Hello Tom’ in large letters.
Colin smiles. ‘It looks to me like you have an admirer!’
‘A stalker, more like!’
The old man’s face falls. ‘You don’t think it’s her, do you? That woman who was bothering you?’
‘Who else would it be?’
‘It could be anyone. It could be kids. You haven’t broken any hearts in Hastings, have you?’
‘Of course not,’ Tom says. Then he remembers the pirate. The waiter from London. What’s his name? Luke! But there’s no reason to suppose he even knows where Tom is staying. Maybe it’s one of the men he chatted with last night on Grindr. They could have tracked him down using the app. Did he chat with anyone? He can’t remember. He reaches into his pocket for his phone but hesitates. He doesn’t want to open the app with Colin standing right next to him.
‘What are you doing?’ the old man asks.
‘What does it look like? I’m calling the police.’
Colin looks doubtful. ‘What will you say? That someone’s written your name in pebbles on the beach? I don’t think they’ll take you very seriously. I mean, it’s just a few pebbles. There’s nothing to say it’s even her. There’s nothing threatening.’
Tom runs his hand over his head, flinching as it comes into contact with the sore spot. He blows out his cheeks and takes a deep, steadying breath. His mind is all over the place, anxiety levels spiking with the effects of the hangover. ‘What should I do?’ he asks, gazing around as if the answer could be found hanging somewhere in the sky.
‘Honestly? I think you should go back to bed. You look terrible. Go and sleep it off. Things will look better after a few hours’ rest.’
Tom takes Colin’s advice plus a couple of painkillers from the blister pack he finds in the bathroom cabinet and sleeps for a further four hours. When he wakes again it’s late afternoon, the hangover has receded and he’s feeling almost human. Reaching for his phone, he checks his emails and Facebook account and resists the temptation to see what’s happening over on Twitter. Whatever it is, it won’t be pleasant.
He puts the phone down and immediately there’s a pinging sound. He has four notifications from Grindr, all from men he has absolutely no interest in. One looks young enough to still be at school, and the remaining three are either too old, too plain or too out of shape. Tom knows from experience that the less attractive some men are, the more persistent they can be. He goes to each of his admirers’ profiles and hits the block button.
He’s in the shower when the phone rings. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he sprints into the living room, leaving a trail of wet footprints.
It’s his agent. ‘Tom, darling, you’re a genius!’
Instantly, his spirits lift. ‘You like it, then?’
‘Like it? I love it! It’s dark and twisty, and just what publishers are after. Sylvie is a really compelling character. Readers will love to hate her. Honestly Tom, it’s the best thing you’ve written. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. I’ve shown it to a few readers here and we’re already in talks with editors. I think we’re looking at a bidding war.’
‘That’s wonderful news,’ Tom says. He’s already picturing the book jacket, the book launch, the displays at all the big bookshops. This could be it. His second big break. He won’t need to sell up and leave London after all.
‘When are you back in London?’ Lucinda asks.
‘Later this week.’
‘Let’s make a lunch date soon. You must be getting tired of all that fish and chips.’
Tom chuckles. ‘They do have other restaurants here.’
‘Of course they do, darling. Of course they do. But isn’t it all a bit shabby?’
‘Shabby chic,’ Tom corrects her.
Lucinda audibly shudders. ‘Two words that should never go together. Anyway, enjoy the rest of your week and we’ll speak soon.’
‘You too,’ Tom says, but she’s already hung up.
All this talk about food and restaurants has made him hungry. He takes a shower, dresses quickly and heads downstairs.
‘You’ve resurfaced, then,’ Colin says from his usual spot out front. ‘You’re looking a lot better, I must say. How’s the head?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ Tom replies and tells his neighbour the good news.
‘What are you doing here?’ Colin asks. ‘You should be out celebrating. I’d come with you, but my knees aren’t what they used to be and I’d only cramp your style.’
‘Maybe a toast later?’ Tom says. ‘I could bring back a bottle of champagne?’
‘That sounds very civilised. But see how you get on. No need to rush back on my account.’
‘It’s a date,’ Tom says. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Colin smiles. ‘I’ll see you when I see you.’
When Tom signed his first book deal, his agent took him for dinner at The Ivy. He still remembers the excitement at being welcomed into that hallowed space and served by briskly efficient waiters who’d seen more famous faces than he’
d had hot dinners. It felt like he’d arrived.
Today, two hours after the same agent rang to say she thinks she can sell his new book for rather a lot of money, he’s sitting in a pub on the seafront in Hastings, finishing off a large plate of scampi and chips. He’d like to think that this is a sign of how much earthier and unpretentious he’s become. Still, he can’t help but notice that he’s the only person here whose choice of drink to accompany his meal is a chilled bottle of champagne. Not a particularly good bottle of champagne, it has to be said. But champagne, nevertheless – a fact that hasn’t been lost on the family at the next table, who keep staring over as if they’ve never seen a man dining alone before.
The bottle is already half empty. Tom wishes he’d insisted on bringing Colin with him. They could have taken a taxi. But then he wonders what this lot would have made of the pair of them – him with his champagne tastes, Colin in his dodgy wig. Perhaps it’s for the best that he came alone.
His phone vibrates in his pocket and he slides it out. Emma’s name flashes up. He hesitates before answering.
‘I can’t hear you. I’m in a pub on the front. The signal’s a bit dodgy here.’
‘This can’t wait. It’s important.’
‘Hang on, I’ll take the phone outside.’ He rises from the table and heads for the door. Outside the sun is low in the sky, and people are making their way back from the beach, laden with bags, windbreaks and inflatables. A group of foreign-language students with backpacks are filing onto a coach by the Jerwood.
‘Tom. Are you there?’
‘I’m here and I’m celebrating. My agent loves the book. She’s already had lots of interest, so she’s confident of a decent advance. I’m back, Em. Tom Hunter is back!’
‘Good for you. Look, I’m sorry to rain on your parade but she’s missing.’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? Evie Stokes. I’m at Charing Cross Station and there’s a bloody great digital-display poster with her face on. Christ! She’s a missing person, Tom.’