by Jane Hill
I had got into the habit of Googling my name regularly, just to check. Or rather, I Googled 'Lizzie Stephens', once a month at least. The last time I'd tried it was before that first note had arrived. All I'd got were a couple of hits from some Victorian murder trial that featured a servant girl with the same name as me and lots of stuff from genealogy sites. I went over to my desk and turned my computer on. I went to make another cup of tea, and then went back to my desk. I clicked on the Internet Explorer icon, and went to Google. Hands shaking, I typed 'Lizzie Stephens' and waited, expecting the same old links to come up. But this time it was different. The third link on the first page took me somewhere that made me feel cold all over. It was a picture of me, right there on the internet for everyone to see. It was me – it was Lizzie – with my hair all scrunched and curly, in my full late-1980s teenage finery. And just below, something that completely demolished my secret identity, such as it was. It was a picture of me now, a relaxed, informal family photograph, my hair off my face, no glasses, with my usual little bit of make-up, almost smiling at the camera. I looked utterly recognisable. All those years, all that careful reinvention, and my kid sister Jem had blown it with just one entry in her blog.
Twenty-five
I was sitting at a table outside the cafe in Russell Square, trying to gather my thoughts. I had my baseball cap rammed down over my face and a copy of one of the London free papers to hide behind. I probably looked ridiculous but I didn't care. I was taking sensible precautions, something I should have started doing years ago. I'd chosen this open space because it felt safer than somewhere enclosed. There were plenty of escape routes, plenty of places I could run to if I felt threatened. It was the first time I'd ventured out of my flat since getting that second note. I'd spent Sunday indoors with my phone turned off, avoiding calls from my parents and Danny's ring at the door, and his calls through the letter box. I'd watched old black and white films on Channel Four and tried to empty my head. Eventually I went to bed and tried to sleep, but even when I was asleep my dreams were full of faceless men following me.
I left my flat and took a complicated route to Russell Square. On the way, I popped into the supermarket at the Brunswick Centre and wandered around the aisles, checking that I hadn't been followed, trying to lose anyone who might be tailing me. I went into the toilets there and I changed my T-shirt and put the baseball cap on. Even as I did it, I felt ridiculous. It felt as if I was in one of those paranoia thrillers from the 1970s – Three Days of the Condor or The Parallax View. I felt stupid doing it, but also stupid that I hadn't started taking precautions like this a long time ago.
From my vantage point outside the cafe I could see everyone who was entering and leaving, and all the other customers at all the other outside tables. There was a middle-aged couple at the neighbouring table, the man slim with thinning grey hair and heavy black glasses, the woman in some kind of ethnic dress, the pair of them absorbed in their conversation and their lattes. There was a yummy mummy of about my age in a Boden skirt that was plastered with brightly coloured appliquéd flowers. She had two kids, one a little boy of about four, the other a pink-clad girl a couple of years older, and they were running in hyperactive circles around the tables and the chairs. The woman caught me looking at her over the top of my newspaper and she smiled a weary smile. It was probably supposed to be a smile of sympathy at the sticky hot weather, or maybe because she thought I understood her.
Then there was a man alone, a man with dark hair. Tallish, from what I could tell by the way he was sitting. He was sitting there in a white shirt and a pair of suit trousers, his jacket flung over one of the other seats. He had loosened his tie and rolled his sleeves up. He had dark glasses on – very dark glasses. It was impossible to see his eyes behind the lenses. He was in his late twenties, perhaps, loose-limbed and arrogant of posture. He was sprawled in his chair. There was something relaxed yet attentive about the way he was sitting. There was a cold drink – Coke, I think – on the table in front of him. He could have been staring right at me; it was impossible to tell because his shades were so dark. He could have been watching me, hiding in plain sight. He could have been Rivers Carillo's son, or the son of an old friend of his, or Elliot or Jason or Jonas, or someone, anyone, who knew what I had done and hated me for it. Someone who knew what I looked like now, because he'd seen me on my sister's blog.
I'd printed off the page and I had it with me now. The blog was called It's All True – the story of a girl called Jem. There was a little square picture of her, half her face, one lens of the heavy glasses that she liked to wear. The piece about me was under a heading that said 'Tell us about someone that you used to know.' It seemed to be a question or a challenge set by someone, maybe another blogger, or whoever ran the particular website, network, whatever it was called. Underneath the old photograph of me, Jem had written, 'My sister Lizzie Stephens, when she was seventeen. She was seven years older than me, and was the best sister ever. She was fun and outrageous and she let me try on her clothes and her make-up. We used to dance to songs on the radio and pretend we were pop stars. She was my best friend.'
Then there was the photograph of me now, that snapshot taken last Christmas. I looked like I normally did: neat, pleasant, ordinary. Jem had written, 'Just when I needed her most, Lizzie went away. Beth replaced her. Beth's a schoolteacher in North London. She's perfectly nice and everything, but I really miss Lizzie.'
At the top of the piece there was a little symbol of a lock, open; next to it, the words 'viewable by anyone'. The whole world could read this touching piece and look at the pictures. It would have been a heartbreaking little story of sisterly love, if only it hadn't scared me so much.
Jem was walking towards me, across Russell Square. I would have known her walk anywhere. She had scoliosis as a kid. Well, I guess she still had it. I don't think you stop having it. She was eight or nine when they diagnosed it, and she had to wear a brace for months on end. She was supposed to, anyway, but she didn't. She ended up having to have surgery. There was some kind of bone graft from her hip. There was a metal rod in her spine now. She always said that it was fine, that it didn't hurt a bit, but it had given her a strangely jaunty walk: uneven, as if she was exaggeratedly swinging her hips.
When I rang Jem, asking her to meet me, she suggested some place in Soho. I insisted that we meet here, on my home ground; somewhere out in the open where I felt comparatively at home, comparatively safe. Somewhere where I wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb. It was Jem who looked like the odd one out. She was wearing those same huge black sandals that looked like car tyres strapped to her feet, cropped trousers and a tiny, torn vest top decorated with some kind of cartoon. I noticed that the tattoos that had long adorned her shoulders were now snaking down towards her elbows. When she saw me she smiled, and despite the three rings through her bottom lip and the thick-framed glasses that dominated her face, her smile made her look about twelve years old.
'What's with the hat?' she said as she sat down. 'Are you in disguise or something?'
I didn't answer. I pulled the cap off. She was right. It was too obvious. 'I found this on the internet,' I said, and showed her the printed page that I'd brought with me. As I did so, I mentally kicked myself. I hadn't even said hello to my own sister. I'd just rudely launched straight in.
Jem didn't seem bothered. 'You found my blog!' She sounded thrilled.
'It really upset me.' I was trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. This was still my sweet little kid sister, who I didn't want to hurt.
'My blog?' She was peeling an orange that she had dug out of her huge canvas courier bag, and the juice squirted onto the piece of paper.
'This piece. The photos. All that stuff about me.'
'Why?' She frowned at me, not so thrilled now.
'Why what?'
Jem sucked her orange. 'Why did it upset you?'
'Because you can't just put stuff on the internet like that. It's my life. It's private.'
&nbs
p; 'Is this why you wanted to meet up?' she asked. 'To tick me off? T o come the heavy big sister and tell me what I can and can't do?' Her voice had turned chilly.
'Sorry,' I said. 'I didn't mean to sound like that. I didn't mean to jump straight into it like that.'
'Sure you did. It's what you always do. You specialise in being abrupt. Well, when you're not walking out on people or pretending to have migraines, that is.'
'Jem . . .' That really hurt. She'd been so sweet to me when I was ill at my parents' party. This wasn't going how I'd planned.
'Look,' she said. 'I'm sorry this upset you . . .' and she pointed at the printout from her blog. 'But you need to know that it really upset me too.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean what I said there, in that post. I needed you. I had that operation, and I had to wear that horrid brace, and Mum and Dad were on my back the whole time about it, nagging me. And all I wanted was to hang out with you. With Lizzie. And do all the stuff we used to do. I wanted things to be normal, and they weren't, because you were, like, this whole other person. You suddenly became an alien pod-person.'
Behind her glasses I could just see the start of tears in her eyes. I was stunned. It had never occurred to me that my eleven-year-old kid sister would have noticed the change that strongly. 'Sorry,' I said. 'I didn't realise.'
'I thought it was because of me.'
Despite the tattoos and piercing I could still make out the vulnerable little girl.
'It wasn't. It's . . . complicated.'
Jem stuck her beringed bottom lip out at me. 'That's you all over,' she said. 'Things are always "complicated" with you. Like there's this big mystery that you've invented. "It's complicated." It's probably the thing you say most. Well, after "Sorry, have to go, I have a migraine." Or, "Marking." Lizzie, everyone's life is complicated, not just yours. Haven't you realised that yet?'
I wanted to cry. But instead I squared my shoulders and I steered the conversation back to the subject that mattered most to me. 'When did you put this on there, this piece about me?'
'I don't know.' She seemed relieved that I hadn't reacted to her outburst. 'There should be a date on it somewhere.' She pulled the sheet of paper towards her, pointed at a tiny figure with her index finger. 'There you are. Third of July, at 11.57 p.m. Does that help in some way?'
It helped. At least, it helped me to know that this must have been what had sparked the letters. The timing fitted, perfectly. The first note had arrived just a week later. 'The thing is, Jem, I really need you to take this stuff off the internet. I don't want photos of me out there for everyone to see.' As I said this, I realised that of course it was already too late; that whoever had been looking for me had found me. But still, I didn't want it there any more.
Jem scowled. 'It's my blog.'
'And anyone can read this. It's personal stuff, about our family. How would you feel if I put a picture on the internet of you when you were five, saying "This is my cute little sister Jemima Stephens," and then a picture of you now? You wouldn't like it, would you?'
She thought about this for a while. She ate a couple more segments of her orange. She swayed from side to side in her seat, weighing something up. Then, abruptly, 'Tell me your secret.'
'What?'
'Tell me. Tell me why you changed. I've always wondered. And don't just say, "It's complicated."'
I looked at her, and tried to make out the expression in her eyes behind those glasses. I picked up the printout of her blog and I folded it in half, lengthways, very precisely, scoring the fold with my thumbnail. I folded it in quarters, and then into eighths. I was warding off the temptation to blurt. It would have been so easy. What an easy person to tell. She would have been cool with it. Jem was pretty much unshockable. She wouldn't have told anyone else in the family about it; she wouldn't have reported me. But she wouldn't have been able to keep it a secret. She'd probably have been proud of it. She'd have posted it on her blog. She'd have drawn a manga-style cartoon strip about it. She'd have told a stranger in a bar about her cool, evil sister. She'd have put the information out there, one way or another. And there was another reason I couldn't have told her. She was my kid sister, and she wasn't as tough as she thought she was. I didn't want to sweep her into my nightmare. And so I lied to her.
'When I went to San Francisco, I met this guy.' True, so far. Jem was listening intently. 'We got involved.' Still true. 'It all went wrong. It became abusive. He hurt me.' Almost true, if you looked at it figuratively. 'I was scared of him. And I'm still scared. He threatened me; he said he'd come looking for me.' A total lie, but Jem believed me, as far as I could tell.
'Shit, Beth. That was aeons ago.'
'I know. I can't help it. Please get rid of those photos.'
'Have you ever talked to someone? The police?' She thought for a moment. 'Nah, they'd be no good. Never are, when it comes to this kind of stuff. Maybe you should get, like, counselling.' She ate another bit of orange. 'Have you told Sarah?'
'No. Why?'
She shrugged. 'Because Sarah's a grown-up. She'd know what to do. Shit, Beth, this is huge. This is unbelievable. I don't mean I don't believe you. I do, course I do. I mean, I believe that you're scared. Jesus, it's freaky. After all this time this guy's still scaring you? What can I do to help?'
'Please, Jem. Take those pictures off your website. And don't do anything like that again.'
'But you can't imagine that this guy's out there, just, like, randomly Googling your name, planning to track you down?'
'I think he might be.'
'Shit. That is fucking out of control.'
I thought I had finally got through to her. She put her hand on top of mine and patted it. I clasped her hand in mine, and we held them like that for a while, something we hadn't done in years.
'Please take those pictures off, Jem. And please don't tell anyone what I've told you. Anyone.'
'No problem,' she said. 'I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll lock that blog entry, make it friends only, okay? That means it won't turn up on a search engine.'
I guessed that was the best I could hope for.
'And call me – yeah? – if anything weird happens. Shit.
This is . . . complicated.' And Jem gave me a half-grimace, half-grin. She started to walk away across the square and then she turned around suddenly and called to me. 'Sorry, Beth, something I meant to say – I really liked Danny. Top bloke. It was great to meet him the other weekend. Sexy nerd boy – my favourite type of man. He's cracked on you, by the way. Really into you, big time. Don't screw this one up, will you?'
Danny.
Does your new lover know how evil you are?
What on Earth was I going to do about Danny?
Twenty-six
The man in the white shirt with the dark glasses had gone, and there was an elderly couple sitting at that cafe table now. I hadn't even noticed him leave. I hadn't kept my guard up. I'd been completely unobservant. For all my precautions I realised I was useless at being a fugitive. Whoever was watching me was no doubt too assiduous, too professional, too relentless to be fooled by a baseball cap and a change of T-shirt. He knew where I worked and he knew where I went and when, and presumably he knew where I lived. It was useless, pointless trying to escape. I was exhausted, sick to death of the whole thing.
I stood in the paved circle in the centre of Russell Square, surrounded by the fountains, and looked around me. I'd chosen the park because it was an open space with plenty of escape routes. But there were tall buildings all around: the elaborate façade of the hotel at one side of the square; rows of tall Georgian terraces full of offices and university departments on the other sides. Everywhere I looked there were windows glinting down on me, and behind every window there could have been someone watching me, someone who had me in their sights. What was the point of trying to run or hide? Whatever they had planned for me, I might as well face up to it.
I threw my baseball cap in the nearest bin. I stood there in the centre
of the square and I flung my arms out as if to say, 'Here I am. Come and get me,' and I spun round so that every side of the square could see my face. If a sniper had shot me then, I think I would have been relieved. What else could I do? I was thirty-five years old and I was scared of shadows and ghosts. This had gone on too long. I would be brave and stoic and open. But first I had something horrible to do: I had to dump Danny.
Does your new lover know how evil you are?
It was an ambiguous threat. At the very least, my stalker seemed to be threatening to tell Danny what I'd done. Or he was challenging me to tell Danny first before he – my stalker – got to him. And there was a chance that he was threatening something worse; that he was threatening to take revenge by doing something awful to Danny. It reminded me of something you'd hear in a gangster movie. The villain would make a comment about someone's wife or family, a seemingly harmless comment, but it would be accompanied by a creepy smile and you'd know that it was a veiled threat. And although one half of my brain told me that this was absurd, that this couldn't really be happening, the other half told me that the note behind the windscreen wiper was tangible and chilling. Anyone prepared to follow me all the way to Southampton wouldn't stop at writing anonymous notes. The threat – although ambiguous – was very real. I had two choices. I could tell Danny the whole story, or I could end our relationship for good. That very day. As soon as he got home from work that evening, I would have to go round to his place and try to extricate myself from his life.