by B P Walter
I think sleep came at that point. Or another blackout – it’s hard to say. But when I woke and looked around, the sleeping boys on the floor were gone and a girl sat beside me. I had trouble focusing on her face – it kept blurring the more I tried to make it out.
‘The night seems to have got a bit out of control,’ she said. Her accent was American.
Chapter 19
Julianne
Knightsbridge, 2019
‘Have you started the second season yet, Julianne?’
I barely hear the voice to my side. I can barely hear or think about anything. Except one thing. The slight pressure on my thigh of something digging in. Something small. The case of a USB drive.
‘Julianne? Are you still with us?’
I plunge back into reality with a jolt. Not for the first time this evening, everyone is staring at me looking slightly worried.
‘Er … Sorry …’ I look around, trying to work out who’s spoken. ‘Miles away. Very rude of me.’ I laugh awkwardly.
‘What were you thinking about?’ Ernest asked. ‘You looked, well, haunted.’
Everyone gives a polite laugh and stares at their chicken fillets and sweet potato.
‘Oh, just, you know … Christmas.’ I laugh again, waving a hand as if to say it’s nothing, please stop looking at me. They don’t seem convinced. ‘Still so much to organise. It’s like, as soon as I’ve done one task another just arrives out of nowhere.’
‘Oh goodness, I know what that’s like,’ says Louise. ‘It’s like trying to beat the Hydra. And I still do all the stockings for the boys, even though they’re probably too old now.’
‘You still get a Christmas stocking, don’t you, Stephen?’ James says, smiling at his son, probably trying to coax him into the conversation. Like me, he’s been staring into space for most of the meal, looking like he’s just been diagnosed with something terminal. He just nods.
‘What type of thing do you put in a stocking for a seventeen-year-old boy?’ asks Ally. ‘Condoms and vodka?’
More awkward laughter, though Stephen doesn’t react. He just looks at his plate and starts moving a lump of potato around the edges.
‘I should hope not!’ I laugh. ‘No, no. It’s mostly boxsets and books and things like that. All probably totally useless in the age of Netflix and e-readers, but I enjoy getting them.’
‘Stephen doesn’t even have an e-reader,’ James chips in. ‘He likes collecting hardbacks, don’t you, son? Signed copies. First editions, some of them.’
Stephen nods.
‘I do rather love all the Christmas wrapping,’ Louise says brightly. ‘Especially with a roaring fire and a big box of those praline shells open in front of me while watching a good TV drama or festive film. I’ve got quite addicted to some shows – I watch episode after episode, even during the day. I keep recommending them to Ernest but he rarely manages to …’
Ernest cuts off his wife. ‘Well, we can’t all be housewives. Some of us have to manage our time with a lot of discipline. When so much stuff is competing for one’s attention, one has to be quite brutal in one’s choices.’
Louise looks hurt and starts spooning food into her mouth a little too quickly.
‘Which brings me,’ Ally says, cutting in, probably pre-empting a barbed retort from me to counteract Ernest’s dig at stay-at-home moms, ‘to my previous question, Julianne, which you never answered: have you started watching the second season of The Man in the High Castle?’
I shake my head. ‘No, sadly I haven’t found the time.’
Ernest sniffs a little, which in itself feels like a comment, and I feel my eyes flaring. This really isn’t a good time for him to test my patience.
‘Well, it is so good. You really must catch up. Now that’s something my oh-so-busy brother does manage to watch, don’t you?’
‘I put it on my iPad and watch it in the car sometimes on the way to the Commons. I should probably be reading over my notes for the day but it’s hard to resist. Once you’ve clicked play, you’re in. Best not tell the PM.’ He laughs loudly.
‘Probably explains the state the country’s in,’ says James with a smirk.
‘Cut it mild, dear chap,’ Ernest says, winking at him. ‘You’re the one who left the party floundering so you could go and spy on people’s Facebook pages and harvest their innermost secrets for profit.’
‘You were a fan of the book, weren’t you?’ I turn to James, hoping to steer the conversation away from James’s job and the kind of content he might encounter as a result of it. ‘The Man in the High Castle. Philip K. Dick, isn’t it?’
He smiles. ‘Yes, it’s brilliant. I’m a big fan of all his work.’
‘Love a bit of Dick, don’t you, James?’ Ernest says while his wife chokes on her wine. ‘Philip K., of course.’ Another wink from him, this time at me. I stare back at him blankly and he gives up and looks away. ‘Remember that Christmas when we read through his entire oeuvre when we were at school?’
‘Very well,’ James nods. ‘I loved our Christmas read-athons. Binge-reading, they’d probably call it now.’
‘Oh God, I remember those,’ says Ally, rolling her eyes. ‘We used to go to Hatchards at the start of every Christmas and you’d spend a few grand on a load of books and devour them through the whole of December while everyone else was busy organising Christmas around you.’
‘It wasn’t a few grand,’ he says. ‘But yes, quite a bit. And then we had to do it at Blackwells, when we were at Oxford. That’s when you started joining in, wasn’t it, Julianne?’
‘Mmm,’ I murmur, ‘I wouldn’t call it joining in. I met you there a couple of times while you piled up books on tables and people kept mistaking you for booksellers. I don’t think I was much help.’
‘Probably shagging James in the sci-fi section,’ Ernest said.
‘Ernest!’ Louise gasps, but Ally guffaws with laughter.
The thought of James and I being intimate sends a flash of alarm through me and reminds me again of the sex we had two nights ago. I was just a body to him. Just something to push into, to pound away at, to fuck like he didn’t care. Was it like that back then? Back when we were still just about teenagers and everything felt new?
‘Probably right,’ James says. His slightly wicked grin – the one I usually find quietly alluring – now looks smug and self-satisfied. ‘Though I don’t think it was sci-fi’.
Their voices are steadily growing fainter, as if I’m sinking slowly under water. I can’t do this. I can’t sit here and be the happy host, giving her guests a merry Christmas dinner party. I lay down my cutlery and put my hands on my knees, trying to stop my racing heart, forcing myself to calm down. Slow breaths. I pull my hands up towards me along my legs and my fingers feel the small, solid mass in my right pocket. I snatch them away as if it’s burnt me.
‘I need to go upstairs,’ I say, standing suddenly. ‘I have a migraine.’
James stares at me. ‘But … you don’t get migraines.’
‘There’s a first time for everything. I’m sorry, everyone, do please carry on. I’ll be all right. I just need twenty minutes in a darkened room.’
‘We can turn out the lights here!’ Ally says, as if excited by the prospect. ‘I’m sure we can still finish our food in the dark.’ Everyone’s looking around, clearly aware something is wrong and I’m not telling the full truth. Everyone apart from Stephen. His eyes are on his plate, is if he’s not really there at all.
I attempt a sound I hope resembles a laugh, not bothering to counteract Ally’s semi-joke with anything worth saying, and leave the room, a pang of guilt reverberating through me at leaving Stephen with them. They’ll want to talk about me, about how my behaviour is becoming stranger and stranger as the evening goes on, but I think they’ll resist with him and James there. Louise and Ernest will politely refocus the conversation onto something completely different and James will do his best to stay merry and play the good host, wondering all the while why I’m acting as
if I’ve lost my marbles.
In the bedroom, I lie down immediately, burying my face in the sheets, and smell the same scent of washing powder and air freshener as when James and I had sex the other night. What used to be a nice, homely scent now seems sickly and fake. I pull myself away and sit up properly, my hand going to my pocket again. In that moment, part of me wishes Stephen had never told me. Never come to me and said the word ‘Mum’ in that terrible way that had made my heart start to disintegrate. Never showed me what he’d found on his iPad. Never sent me spiralling into the vacuum of panic that’s steadily suffocating me. It’s a horrible thought – that my son shouldn’t have told his mother what was worrying him. But I can’t lie to myself: ignorance really can be bliss. Again, I feel my conscience stab at me through my thoughts. Calling it ignorance is a cop-out. Denial is the right word. Denial is bliss. And this gives me the kick I need.
I stand up, take the USB stick out of my pocket and walk over to the wardrobe to find an old Windows tablet I rarely use any more, preferring the interface of my newer, flashier iPad. I plug it into its charger and the home screen comes into view, bringing with it an image of my husband, smiling before my eyes. He’s standing topless on a beach, one hand raised, waving at the camera. In the other he’s holding Stephen’s hand, stooping to hold on to the little boy. He must have been about five or six. I stare at the image for a few seconds, then insert the USB.
The files that greet me show that heart-sinkingly familiar set of long numbers. I check the first one. It is indeed Ashley Brooks, the file identical to the one I read before. I skip a few and tap on one of the later ones. I’m taken aback to see a young man’s face come into view. In fact, it’s not a young man. It’s a teenager. I read the details:
Name: Dave Bolton
Date of Birth: 20 December 2000
Occupation: Officially unemployed, previously earnt money from stolen goods
Area: Grays, Essex
Aside from his gender and much younger age, it’s similar to the other records. The same lifestyle, the same sorts of problems, the same sense of desperation. He’s been in and out of care homes all his life. Absconding from a lot of them. A life ruined or wasted. A person in need of help or support.
I don’t spend too much time on Dave Bolton. I scroll all the way down to the end and see there’s a subfolder with the title HIGH COST INVESTMENTS. And another document. A different file type to the other PDFs. And the name spells it out simply. CALENDAR 2020. I tap it and the month of January 2020 appears in front of me. It’s completely bare, apart from one word, on the twenty-third of the month. Daffodil.
My pulse quickens at the sight of it. Then I flick to February. Again, there’s one day, the twenty-first, with one word. Daisy.
I stare at the word for what feels like a long, long time. Then exit the calendar and go back to the previous run of documents. And that subfolder. HIGH COST INVESTMENTS. I touch its name. Another list of files unfurls, looking the same as the last. The top one has a different title to the others – words instead of seemingly random numbers: BEST PRACTICE GUIDELINES. I tap on it and immediately start to read the document that comes up.
BEST PRACTICE – REVISED GUIDELINES AS OF NOVEMBER 2019
• It is strongly advised participants use a condom for all vaginal and anal penetration of subjects.
• The use of a condom is also generally advisable for forced oral sex. Please be aware that a small number of members have sustained injuries while receiving oral sex when the subject has used their teeth in attempts to withdraw from sessions. If oral sex is a preference, we strongly suggest allowing one of our armed customer-assistance members to remain present in the same room for the full duration of the session in case their intervention is necessary.
• To provide the highest protection from facial recognition, all participants are advised (though not required) to wear a form of face-covering material. Garments can be supplied upon request.
• Although we do not require participants to remain completely silent, sessions carried out ‘on location’ require a degree of sensitivity in respect to their surroundings (which are frequently densely populated areas) so as to avoid complications. If you would prefer not to be restricted by this, arrangements for off-site sessions can be made with select subjects.
• All sessions with minors are off-site and will be monitored by one of our staff members throughout.
• Although all subjects are tested for sexually transmitted diseases, including HIV and hepatitis B, we strongly advise participants to undergo regular STD screenings. This is a service we can provide upon request if necessary.
• A large proportion of our subjects are from ‘high-risk groups’ for HIV infection. These include intravenous drug users, men who have sex with men and people originally from sub-Saharan Africa. Although, as previously stated, subjects are tested for HIV prior to going live in our catalogue, we cannot guarantee they are free from infection. We can provide a course of post-exposure prophylaxis (PEP) for participants who feel they have had an instance of high-risk exposure. We can also provide pre-exposure prophylaxis (PrEP) for participants who regularly wish to take part in sessions without a condom.
• While it is understood that there may be a level of violence during sessions with subjects, participants are prohibited from a) causing deliberate bone breakages or bleeding that would require immediate medical attention, b) causing substantial bruising to the face of a subject, c) bringing weapons such as knives or firearms to sessions without prior discussion and clear consent from one of our personnel.
I am stunned. Sickened. Appalled. All my worst suspicions are coming true. I now know what this is. And I can hardly bear it. Jabbing hard at the screen, I come out of the BEST PRACTICE GUIDELINES quickly and look back at the rest of the files. I’m pretty sure of what I’m going to find in there. A number of references in the previous document have given me a rather clear idea. My hand hovers over the first of the long-numbered PDF documents, as if there’s a small voice screaming at me, telling me to stop. That as soon as I find out for sure what’s in here, I won’t be able to continue, to go on pretending, to stay sane. I think about putting everything away, flushing the USB down the toilet and spending my life trying not to think about what else might have been on it. But I know this isn’t possible. I tap on the first file.
Minutes later, I’m in tears. It’s as if I’ve pushed my face down on broken glass and rubbed it until my eyes are bleeding. I hold tight to the pillows and pull them up to me so I can cry into them; screaming, sobbing. I don’t care if they hear me down in the dining room. I don’t care about anything. I only know I will never be able to rid my mind of what I have just seen or look at my husband the same way again. I want to go down there and drag him up to the room right now and push the device in his face. Beg him for an explanation. Make him tell me why he would own something so vile. I reach for the wastepaper basket under the bedside table and vomit into it, bringing up my undigested dinner in a poisonous rush. I hold on to the sides of the bed, steadying myself as if I’m on a ship in a storm. I can feel the mattress moving, as if it’s swaying beneath me, and details, sick little details, float into my mind: Amelia Cousins. Date of birth: 6 July 2011. Fleet Ward Care Home, Surrey. Jimmy North. Date of Birth: 10 January 2013. Fleet Ward Care Home, Surrey. Alisha Jindal. Date of Birth: 2 August 2017. Fleet Ward Care Home, Surrey.
These details go round and round in my head. I can’t stop them. I make a small humming noise in my throat. Not an actual tune, just a low hum. It’s a mechanism I learnt when I was young, when my parents used to have blazing rows. I’d hide myself in the smallest place I could find in the house and focus on making that quiet but uninterrupted noise. It calmed me, gave me something to do, some place to fix my attention while the torment outside gradually ebbed away. With relief, I find that it’s working now in the same way it did back then. It takes some effort, but eventually I am able to pull myself back up onto the bed in a sitting position. If
I sit still, the nausea isn’t too strong.
I stay in this position for what may be an hour, or may be just five minutes. I can’t tell. Time seemed to stop the moment I arrived in this room and opened my tablet. I can’t even begin to assemble my memories of the past few minutes – I don’t really want to. I’d prefer to forget everything.
‘Julianne.’ The voice at the door almost stops my heart. And then the handle turns.
Thank God I locked it, I think to myself.
I hear James shuffle closer. He must be trying to hear if I’m awake. A gentle knock follows seconds later. The thought of letting him in makes me think I’m going to be sick again, so I just sit as still as I can, looking at the door. The strip of light on the cream carpet at its base shifts and dances subtly as his shape moves across it. Then there’s a soft, rubbing noise. He must have leant against the door.