by Dan Malakin
‘Give me strength,’ she muttered, typing in her password. God knows when she’d be able to afford a decent new handset, so until then she had to try to be grateful for this piece of junk.
Her inbox opened, and she scrolled up and down, looking for the e-mail, but couldn’t find it. It had come this morning, before she left, she was sure of it, but it wasn’t there. She must have deleted it by accident. She checked the Bin folder. Empty.
She froze, staring at the screen, feeling like there’d been a silent earthquake. Like the world had suddenly tipped.
E-mails didn’t just disappear.
It couldn’t be–
The break door beeped and Spence danced in, dressed in his pale-blue tunic, a faint bassline seeping out the red Beats covering his ears. When he saw Rachel, he did a double take and pulled off his headphones.
‘That’s it,’ he said. ‘I’m buying the boat.’
That was their running joke, concocted over too many rum punches at last year’s Christmas party. If life got too much, they’d buy a boat and cruise the world, despite neither of them having the nautical knowledge to navigate their way out of a bathtub.
Rachel swilled the rest of her coffee, getting a mouthful of vanilla sludge. ‘I look that bad?’
‘Caribbean, Cuba, then a few days in Miami to finish off.’
‘I’m already finished off,’ she said, offering a wan smile.
Spence shoved his headphones in his Adidas satchel bag. ‘Konrad?’
‘It’s fine. He… Nothing. He got in a bit late. Woke me up.’
‘And I’m the queen of King’s Cross.’
Rachel clicked on the kettle. ‘Drink, your majesty?’
‘You want to cancel the soirée tonight?’ He hung his satchel on a hook by the door.
‘My dad’s babysitting. I’m having a late one.’
‘Bed for nine?’
‘Ha flippin’ ha.’
Although Spence had only been on the ward a year, replacing Rowena after she went to live in Australia, it felt like they were old friends. They just got each other. Rachel didn’t make friends easily with men; even with Mark, who she trusted as much as anyone, she used to worry that he secretly wanted more, and would turn on her if he didn’t get it. With Spence, that would never be an issue. Short and finely muscled, his bleached hair waxed into textured spikes – in gay terms, a classic twink – it didn’t matter he was far from her type. He wasn’t going to flirt with her when they were drunk, or come onto her in the taxi home. Without the twitchy frisson of sexual tension, what they had felt genuine.
‘You get the e-mail?’ Rachel asked, as Spence dropped a peppermint tea bag in his mug.
He nodded for the kettle. ‘What e-mail?’
‘From payroll.’
‘What did it say?’
‘I had to check my bank details, but the attachment wouldn’t download. Now I can’t find the mail…’
Spence sipped his tea, burning his top lip and rubbing it with his tongue. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing important.’
‘What if there’s a problem with my wages?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘But what if–’
‘Let’s get down from the ledge, eh?’ He steadied her agitated hands. ‘Besides, I didn’t get the e-mail. So it’s just you who’s screwed.’
‘Thanks. You’re a good friend.’
She couldn’t help but return his smile. His perpetual optimism, the way he could stop her negative spirals before they dragged her down, was what she loved most about his company. Not just her, but everyone. If she was the better nurse, at least technically, he was the more popular among the patients, able to charm a good morning out of even the grumpy ones, and beneficiary of by far the most thank you cards on the ward.
‘Give them a call,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing.’
She found the number on the Trust’s website, and called. ‘It’s the helpdesk line,’ she moaned. ‘On payday. I’m going to be here until next week.’ She glanced at the wall clock. It was already quarter to twelve. ‘I’d better get back. I’ve been off the ward fifteen minutes. It’ll be mayhem out there. Grannies gone wild.’
‘Carry on up the Catheter,’ Spence said, grinning. ‘Stay on. I’ll start early.’
‘But your tea.’
‘Too hot. I’ll come back for it when you’re done.’
‘I’ll make it up to you!’ she called, as the door closed behind him.
She gave it another ten minutes, then hung up and headed back to the ward. But no matter how many times she told herself to stop stressing, that if there was a real problem with her bank details, then HR would get in touch again, and at the worst she could borrow from Mark until her wages came through, she couldn’t relax.
E-mails didn’t just disappear.
The last time that kind of thing happened, it was during the worst eighteen months of her life. She thought back to that time, nearly ten years ago, and the same fear shook her spine.
Something was going on. She could feel it.
Chapter Four
Snap
After work, Rachel hurried to get the bus. The 91 was waiting at the stop with three people left to board. She sprinted to it, swinging inside a moment after the last person got on, slamming her debit card on the reader and saying a breathless thanks to the driver. He dragged the wheel right without looking at her. Ah, London. City of a thousand scowls.
She stayed downstairs, dumping herself on the raised section at the back, and got out an Innocent berry protein smoothie. A couple of exploratory sips went down okay, so she took half the bottle in one. She couldn’t let her hunger get to that again, where it felt like her stomach was wringing itself out, although it had helped to distract her mind from all the stress the day had heaped on her. At least she’d been paid – she’d checked her account online – so she could stop fretting about that. The HR department had probably recalled the e-mail, which explained why it had disappeared.
So that only left Konrad to worry about. Despite telling herself to forget it, that she’d accepted his explanation, she still didn’t buy it. Sure, some of the blokes he hung out with, Pete in particular, were a monobrow away from being Neanderthal, but she couldn’t see them sitting round stubbing cigars out on each other.
What was really going on? Not just last night, but how he’d been acting all week. Did he want her to break up with him? Was he one of those men too chicken to dump you, so behaved in such a way that you did the dirty work for them? Twenty-six years of scrabbling through life, searching for nuggets of happiness, and she was finally settled in a relationship, her head together, or as much as it ever could be, and it felt like it was slipping away! It was so disappointing. Not just for her, but Lily as well. Her daughter had become attached to him, and he was great with her too, happy to play tea parties, or read the same Elmer the Elephant book on repeat, or to crawl with her on his back, whooping and kicking her heels into his side. What other thirty-year-old bloke would not only accept her daughter, but welcome her into his life? Plus, he was hot. Protein-shake muscles and sighing green eyes and cheekbones you could rest your teacup on. No matter how many times he called her beautiful, she still sometimes wondered what he saw in her, a stressed skint single mother. She imagined her profile popping up on Tinder, her eyes stained black from never having enough sleep. Swipe left! LEFT!
Mark, Lily’s father, was already convinced Konrad was trouble. Dodgy as a .biz website, were his exact words. At the time, she’d dismissed it – boys like Konrad, confident, handsome, good at sports, probably tormented geeks like Mark in school – but what if he was right after all?
She got out her phone and opened Instagram. Konrad didn’t use social media much, but his mates did, and she wanted to see if she could spot him in any of their photos from last night.
She froze, goosebumps prickling over her neck.
That was weird. Just as with her Gmail account earlier that day, she was logged out. She went back t
o her home page and checked Facebook, then Snapchat. Same for both of them.
Stay calm. Don’t panic.
She logged into each of them and scanned up and down her timelines, in her messages, her heart pounding in her throat.
Nothing.
She breathed out. See? All that had happened was her barely working phone had glitched and reset itself.
No more sinister than that.
Except, she couldn’t shake that same unbalanced feeling as before. Like the world was being slowly pulled from under her feet.
Rachel got off the bus at the gym. She hurried through the reception and past the step machines looking onto the road, wondering not for the first time about those who had the confidence to use them in full view of passers-by. Showing your gurning exercise face to the world was never a good idea, in her opinion.
She rushed into the changing room, pleased that she’d put on her active vest and gym shorts under her uniform before leaving work, so all she had to do was slip off her nurse’s dress. Even though she was as comfortable with her body as she ever had been, she hated getting changed in public, the way everyone flicked their eyes around, comparing, judging. It made her want to shrink into herself and disappear.
Her height, that had always been the problem – at five eleven, she could step over most railings, or comfortably wear men’s trousers, or maybe both at the same time – and there wasn’t anything you could do about that. No diets, no pills, no operation to lop off a couple of inches. For as long as she was alive, she was stuck with looming over people, stuck with feeling cumbersome and big-fingered when shaking hands. It was a world away from what she’d always wanted to be, what Becca and the other popular girls at school had been: pretty and petite.
In fact, where was Becca? She was supposed to be meeting her here after work. Rachel glanced at the wall clock and saw it was twenty to six. Why was her life always ten minutes behind? There was no time to wait for her, not if she was going to get to Mark’s to pick up Lily for half past. Maybe it was for the best. Becca was a pain at the gym anyway, preferring to chat and ogle guys than exercise.
Rachel headed to the weights room, hoisted the ten-kilo bar from the second bottom rung of the stack and turned to find a space on the mats. When she saw who was there, she let out a groan.
Konrad’s mate Pete, by the pull-up station, in a low-hanging Raiders vest, surrounded by his usual crew of hooting show-offs. Sure, they had fit bodies, but they were always so loud and obnoxious, and she was too tired and frazzled to deal with them.
They didn’t usually come in until after six. Why do they have to be here early tonight?
Thankfully, they were crowded round Pete’s phone and hadn’t noticed her. Hoping they wouldn’t recognise her from behind – her threshold for their “bantz” was low – she carried the barbell backwards to the mats. She turned her head to check if they’d seen her, just as Pete glanced up. Warily, she raised the end of the barbell to him, a gesture she hoped said, Hi, but in the nicest way possible, leave me alone.
Pete slapped his hand over his mouth. His eyes zigzagged and he drove his elbow into the ribs of the pumped-up stocky one who always pretended she wasn’t there. When he saw her, his face dropped open.
What was the matter with them? She felt like she was standing there with one of her boobs hanging out. The rest spotted her. They gawped at each other, then collapsed in breathless laughter, clawing at one another’s shoulders to stay upright.
Rachel’s cheeks flushed, her mouth went dry. Idiots. She couldn’t use the barbell now, squatting in front of them. She dragged it back to the stand, her arms shaking as she spilled it onto the hooks. Bastards. Bastards, bastards. Just piss off!
She went to use the lat pulldown machine. They carried on snickering behind her back. Did she have a wedgie or something? Children. She set the weight to twenty kilos, two heavier than normal, and grabbed the bars.
‘Don’t worry ’bout no photo,’ called Pete. ‘I prefer the real thing.’
A sick feeling spread through her so fast it felt as though it were being pumped out by her heart.
Photo? What photo?
She shook her head. Ignore them.
She lowered the bar, lifting the weights, and clanged them down. Stupid Becca, she should be here. They’d never do this if there were two of them.
‘Rach? Hey Rach?’
She dragged the bar again, holding it behind her head. Please. Go away.
‘Check your Snap. Sent you a reply.’
More laughter. High fives like fireworks. Her phone vibrated on her arm – she kept it strapped there in the gym. She focused on the weights. Pull, hold, drop. Pull–
‘Fuckin’ prick tease.’
She let go of the bar. Metal slammed metal. She launched off the bench and crossed the rubber floor. ‘What did you say?’
Pete widened his stance and lifted his chin.
She stopped, unsure. She wanted to back away, but he couldn’t talk to her like that; she was Konrad’s girlfriend. He needed to show her some respect.
‘Check your Snap, Rach.’
Still staring at him – she wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking away – she removed her phone from the Velcro pouch on her bicep. She saw the notification for a new Snapchat message, and tapped on it. At first she couldn’t understand what she was seeing. The base of a weird brown tree, surrounded by thick black grass. But the angle was strange, the lighting fractured, and it was blurry. Then she got it; blood rushed to her face; she gasped and fumbled her phone, dropping it to the floor.
It was his dick.
Pete grabbed his crotch and shook it. ‘See it for real any time.’
The sounds of the gym – clanking weights, spinning wheels, grunts and coughs and pounding feet – became muffled as though she’d been pulled underwater. She felt herself flushing, tears building in the back of her throat, and had the horrible feeling that she might actually start crying in front of those utter shitheads.
Her phone had spun under the shoulder press. She half crawled, half stumbled towards it. She got on her knees and reached under the machine, cheek pressed to the cold metal frame, her fingers finding the corner of the case, but pushing it further away. Meanwhile they laughed and wolf whistled, and called out, ‘While you’re down there, love!’
Why would he send her that? Why?
Chapter Five
Photo
Rachel pushed into the changing room, shouldered her way to her locker, knowing it was rude, but she had to get out of there. What kind of person does that? She cringed at the memory of herself scrabbling under the machine to get her phone, prickling again as she recalled them laughing at her. Was it something to do with last night, with what happened to Konrad? Should she be happy Pete didn’t lunge at her with a lit cigar?
Outside, the evening air was fresh and sharp, and cleared her head. She started for the top of the road, phone to her ear, calling Konrad. It went to voicemail. He’d be on the tube, heading to hers. She wanted to leave a calm message, explaining what had happened, how upset it had made her, but it quickly became a garbled, sweary rant about how that prick obviously hated her, had always hated her, and how could he stay friends with someone like that? And yes, as much as her heart ached even thinking about them breaking up – it was either that sleaze, or her.
Check your Snap. Sent you a reply.
What did Pete mean by that?
She opened Snapchat. A message had been sent from her account, less than ten minutes ago. Not only to Pete, but to Becca, and Spence too. It contained no words, no message. Just one thing – a photo.
The photo.
The one from ten years ago.
The one that had brought him into her life.
She turned the phone around in her hand, as though it were a puzzle box she’d just been handed. What the fuck? What the actual fuck? She went back to the app, checked what time the chat was sent. Ten minutes ago.
When she was inside the gym
!
How was that…? But before she could even complete the thought, she knew how. And who. It had his fingerprints all over it. He used to love messing with her head, making the people around her think she was losing her mind.
He was back.
Alan Griffin was back.
She’d managed to convince herself that when he got out of prison he’d be too busy trying to rebuild his own life to come after her again, but maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe he’d risk going back inside, for revenge.
Stop. Take a moment to think. If it was really Alan Griffin, how did he get her password? Was he somehow watching her when she logged in on the bus? How was that possible? And even if it was possible, it meant he’d have her Facebook and Instagram passwords too. So why not do more? Why not take over her accounts, lock her out of them, and pretend to be her. Just like he used to do.
She scrolled up and down her timelines again, looking for anything suspicious. She wasn’t a huge poster on social media, more a watcher, a liker, someone to weigh in with an encouraging remark only if ten other people had replied first. After what he did to her last time, she preferred to keep a low profile.
Nothing.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. Think rationally. Wasn’t it more likely that Pete had found that photo of her on the Internet – she knew there were plenty of copies of it floating around, many with her name in the title – and done what? Sent it to himself from her Snapchat account, just so he could reply with his stupid self-portrait and get a laugh from all his mates?
Was that such a ridiculous idea? As well as being in business with Konrad, didn’t Pete also run a stall in Old Street station that unlocked mobile phones? So without doubt, he’d be able to hack into her account, or find someone who could. And he was at the gym early, when he knew she’d be there…
What if it wasn’t a joke? What if it was part of a plan to break her and Konrad up? To convince her boyfriend that she’d been coming onto his mates so–