by L. Smyth
None of this was relevant anyway. Even if those comments could be traced, there was no certainty that the person who had thrown the rock through the window had ever posted anything at all. What I’m saying is: the Northam police didn’t seem to understand the nature of social media posting. It wasn’t a small pool of people from university who were saying hateful things about me. It was a network of complete strangers from everywhere – people I would never be able to identify, who had probably never seen me in person.
Eventually the police rounded up the case as ‘inconclusive’. A man in police uniform told me what I already knew, in solemn patronizing tones while wearing a solemn, patronizing expression. He said that someone had posted a screenshot of my house on Google Earth on one of the forums, and that that IP address had been traced back to Northam. Beyond that, however, ‘it is impossible to locate a specific device’, since everyone at Northam was wired to the same Internet. They said that they would ‘keep an eye’ on Internet activity, and that we should contact them ‘if there were any similar disturbances’. Then they left; the case closed and the police moved on.
They moved on. Good for them. But my leg continued to ache, and so did my head. I had read the death threats sent to my parents. I had read the comments and the news and the letters and the abusive emails. My parents tried to keep me away from it all again, and shut off my access to computers and the Internet and the news. It was too late. I had seen it all.
I was terrified, and I hated myself.
There was a lot of talk about what to do next and where to send me. My parents couldn’t afford to move. My grandmother lived miles away, in a tiny one-bedroom flat up the coast. One set of aunts and uncles lived abroad; the other set – my mother’s – weren’t on speaking terms with us. As a result there was no option but to stay in the house. My bedroom window was taped up. It was decided that I would move to the spare room.
The spare room was a converted cupboard at the back of the house with a bed along the wall, a bedside table and no window. I had slept in it only a few times before, either when I was ill or when relatives were staying over and had to sleep in my room. I did not like the spare room much. The fact it had no window had always unnerved me, and now I was doubly insecure: no window meant no escape route.
I spent my days lying in a mottled dark, a thin artificial beam of light streaming under the door. I stared at the outline of the wall, reassuring myself that I was in a concrete, physical space. I was not dead. I existed in relation to other things, touchable things.
This didn’t always work. I had chronic hallucinations involving the attacker. I imagined her – it was always a her – breaking into the house, sneaking through the dark corridors and finding me asleep in bed. I imagined her raising a thick cutlass of glass high above her head, bringing it down quickly and plunging it into my skull. I thought of her hands grappling at my throat and smashing and slicing my face, her teeth coming down to bite great chunks out of skin… and I often woke up screaming, with my mother pressing a hand onto my forehead.
My mother was good at arriving quickly – I’ll give her that. Seeing her face would, at first, make me relieved. I’d hear the light snapping on, the smell of sour perfume filling my nostrils, see the familiar features coming into view, and all that was soothing. But as soon as she started talking, I’d immediately feel more anxious. Her tone was shrill and demanding. ‘We will come up with a solution,’ she would say repeatedly. ‘We’ll find a permanent solution. OK?’
Her voice always had a cracked uncertainty, as though she were trying to reassure herself that those things were true. Then she would look at me meaningfully, waiting for my expression to change – waiting for validation. I would try not to wince at the stinging as she stroked my foot. I always remained silent, with my mouth in a tight grim line.
Once after dinner, when I was sure my parents were fully occupied by the television, I limped along the landing and went into my bedroom. It was colder in there – a subtle, bitter kind of lightness in the air. I stood in front of the smashed window. It had been boarded up with masking tape, but it was possible to pick at the edges and, if I was gentle, then peel it off. I tugged at the corners of the tape. I tugged a little harder. Tiny shards of glass made a tinkling sound. Then the tape stuttered, purred softly, and came off in one thick chunk.
I stuck the tape along the wooden window frame, then looked at the hole that the rock had left. A star of splinters shone iridescent in the moonlight, a gaping black mouth in the centre of the glass. As the wind blew through it the glass teeth seemed even sharper, and I moved towards them instinctively, reaching out my hand, curling it into the gap. My fingers fluttered there for a moment, adjusting to the proximity of sharpness, of danger, then I brought the index and my thumb together, moved them forwards, and sliced them along the ragged edges of the glass.
I felt a sharp jolt of pain, almost enjoyable. I pushed the fingers further against the spike so that the jolt intensified. I kept pushing. I kept it there for as long as I could.
Eventually I retracted my hand and pinched my thumb and forefinger together tightly. The tips felt bloody and smooth. I brought my finger to my mouth and licked it. It was salty, good to taste. I thought about doing that to my entire hand. I wanted to become smooth all over, so that I could curl into a ball and roll away.
***
In a recurrent dream I am back at Northam. It is raining, dark, the trees and buildings are moving silhouettes; everything has blurry edges. I am walking along the moors. I am trying to find Marina. She is not in the library. Not in the silent room; not in the nooks upstairs; not in the café. She is not in the park or by the lake. I walk to the other side of the campus. High in a window – there! There she is! I recognise the pale blue fabric of her dress. I see her pulling up the blind. I call to her.
She sees me, looks alarmed.
‘Eva?’
Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t coming back? I shout. Why didn’t you tell me about your drug habit?
‘What?’
Why did you speak to Henry. Why didn’t you come to me first. Why have you been ignoring me.
‘Eva, not now. Leave me alone.’
She repeats that I should leave her alone. She tells me that she doesn’t want to hear from me at all.
I tell her that no one cares about her. I tell her she is a fake human. A shallow, empty shell of a human. I tell her to kill herself.
‘Everyone thinks you’re a whore,’ I say. ‘That’s all you are – a pathetic, shallow, stupid slut. Even your dad probably thinks you’re a waste of space. That’s why you’re here.’
Her face falls then. I see the gold in her eyes flash and disappear. She leans far out the window, puts one foot on the ledge, calls to me.
I do not hear what she says. I turn around, and walk quickly, dizzily back to my car. I get in and slam the door.
Then I wake up.
ii.
On the morning of the 3rd of April, the phone rang. I heard my mother sweep across the room and pick it up. She answered in a tone of strained politeness. Then her voice became louder, affected; occasionally punctuated by a sterile laugh. The footsteps began plodding upstairs. My door clicked open. I sensed she was standing in my doorway.
‘How is your leg today, Eva?’
After a pause, I said: ‘It’s fine.’
‘What is “fine”? Better? Completely healed?’
‘It’s not like it was ever broken,’ I said.
‘Just answer the question. Is it healed or —?’
‘Yes. It feels better. Much better.’
‘Show me.’
I peeled back the bedclothes, stuck my calf out towards her. The congealed, bloody bruise had now grown a scab; looked healthy. My mother made a satisfied noise, like ‘hmm’. I still didn’t look at her. I tucked my leg back under the covers.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now listen – there is someone on the phone for you.’
I didn’t answer.
&
nbsp; ‘There is someone on the phone for you,’ she said again. ‘Eva.’
‘Who?’
‘Just someone who wants a chat.’
The words were meant to sound casual, and when I finally looked up I saw that she was trying to look casual too. Her hip was leaning against the frame, one hand propped above the door handle. We stared at each other.
Both she and I knew that this quite obviously was not a normal scenario: I hadn’t been allowed to use the phone myself, and to my knowledge no one had tried to call me since the news had come out. I couldn’t remember the last time I had even heard a voice on the phone – Henry perhaps?
I looked at her for a long time, pleadingly. She remained tight-lipped, dangling the plastic towards me. Her body sagged at an awkward angle. I wondered whether she was leaning against the door in that way to stop herself from shaking.
Eventually I took the phone and brought it to my face.
‘Hello.’ I said.
‘Eva.’
A male voice – one I recognized. It had a smooth, glossy quality with a very slight American accent.
‘Marcus?’
‘Please don’t hang up,’ he said. ‘We aren’t angry at you. We don’t blame you for anything you’ve done.’
I sat against the edge of my bed, sensing a numbness creep into my fingertips, up my neck into my face. With one hand, I drew the sheets around me. With the other I pressed the phone deep into my cheek.
‘I-I’m so sorry,’ I began.
‘Please, Eva,’ Marcus’s voice was gentle. ‘You’ve suffered enough. I’m not calling to reprimand you. The media have been completely unfair, blowing everything out of proportion. It was a silly mistake. No one deserves the abuse you’ve suffered.’
Abuse. At the mention of that word, my fingernails crept up to the skin at the front of my throat.
‘The whole thing,’ I said, trying to keep my voice level. ‘It was stupid. I don’t even know why I did it. I didn’t mean any disrespect. I really had no idea that …’
There was a pause, but he said nothing to fill it so I continued: ‘Well, that Marina was … I had no idea.’
‘Listen, we all make mistakes.’ His voice sounded soft, controlled. ‘It was a careless and petty error, a human error. You certainly don’t deserve to be hounded like this. Marina would have … well, she may have even found it funny.’
I processed his words as the mattress softened underneath me.
‘I trust you’ve recovered from your illness?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve recovered from the, ah, break-in incident?’
I breathed hard. ‘Yes.’
‘I hear you’ve since remained excluded from the news.’
The news. I thought about the headlines I’d glimpsed during the policeman’s report.
DID STALKER EVA HUTCHINGS KILL MARINA BEDE?
The anxiety swelled. It was impossible to concentrate on anything again.
‘Eva,’ Marcus said, somewhat impatiently. ‘You’ve remained excluded from the news?’
‘Yes.’
‘What is your plan now?’
‘Well,’ I said vaguely, ‘My leg is healing. I haven’t thought much beyond that.’
‘Have you thought about where you’re going next?’
I paused here and wondered how to answer.
‘I’ve tried to contact firms for work experience. But I haven’t had any responses.’ I corrected myself: ‘Positive responses.’
Marcus paused, and a weight fell upon the conversation. I heard him take in a breath on the other end of the line.
‘Well,’ he said. ‘I’d like to help you in some way. It’s not healthy for you to be cooped up like an animal.’
Tears welled up under my eyelashes.
Marcus continued: ‘There’s no point in someone with your potential wasting their time at home, on their own, worrying about the future.’
He quickly cut to the chase after that: he wanted to help navigate where I was going next. He said that he had a few friends who could use my ‘skills’, who might help me decide what to do. I could return to university later, he thought, ‘though give it a few months, to let the hubbub die down’.
I didn’t know what to do with this information. I felt suspicious, first, that he was going out of his way to help me. Then I felt ashamed: he felt sorry for me. I was a subject of pity. That was worse than being a subject of hatred.
‘It’s only a suggestion, anyway,’ he said. ‘But I think it would benefit you to hear a few plans. I’ve helped out many people in a tough spot.’
‘That’s really kind.’
‘Yes. Perhaps something in banking or consultancy would suit you.’
I suppressed a scoff at that, but not entirely successfully – a tiny sigh escaped.
‘I mean, perhaps.’
It wasn’t like I had many options.
‘Well what else could we consider, let me think …’
As Marcus continued to talk in this manner, I noticed something else in his tone which disturbed me – a note of impatient aggression, almost, like a bargain had already been struck. I became aware that my mother was still standing in the doorway. Why was she looking at me like that?
‘Have you …’ I said. ‘Have you spoken to my mother about this already?’
Another pause.
Marcus said: ‘We have talked briefly about it, yes.’
Of course they had. Of course my mother had snivelled to him about all my problems, of course she’d wheedled up to him to ask for a good word – or, alternatively, perhaps he had contacted her; out of the goodness of his heart, to seem like a nice guy. Whichever it was, I was tired of other people offering me help. I was tired of being told how to behave in my life, of having to feel grateful towards everyone pushing me around when I hadn’t even asked for their help. I didn’t want their help, especially when it was cushioned it in terms like ‘opportunity’. It was all so insincere. My parents, Marcus, the papers, the Internet trolls …
A wave of rebellion rose and crashed.
‘What about the Marina Bede Foundation?’ I said.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘The Marina Bede Foundation,’ I repeated. ‘I would love to help with the MBF. That is, if you need anyone to do … any admin stuff.’
It felt good to say something intentionally inappropriate, to feel the air clam up with tension.
I heard a brief cough on the other end of the line.
‘Well, that’s … an interesting proposition …’ Marcus said, trailing off.
At the same time my mother shook her head: ‘Darling I’m—’
‘Yes,’ I continued, ‘I think it would be interesting. As I said before – in my email, I mean – the MBF represents a cause which I really care about. Having been through similar experiences myself, I know how it feels to be in that position – being an isolated teenage girl. Being part of the foundation would give me a huge sense of … um, perspective and redemption.’ I paused, then added: ‘Doing charity work would make me feel much better about what’s happened too. In fact, I think it’s … something that Marina might even have wanted.’
I loved listening to myself speak such bullshit with a high, brazen level of self-conviction. It was satisfying to hear. And more than that, it was easy: once I swallowed my pride and tapped into cliché, I realized, I could come across as fairly normal. Yes, churning out dull, pious soundbites and modulating my voice in such a way to seem vaguely sorry for myself, like I’d Learned My Truth – that was the key to being ‘nice’. Following this mantra, I outlined other clear reasons for my suitability as a charity worker. I mentioned what I had been through in my early teenage years. I laid it on thick, but I also sounded matter-of-fact and therefore – unusually – convincing.
Marcus said nothing, but he listened and made the odd noise to indicate surprise or agreement. In the corner of my eye I saw my mother starting to walk towards me. I tried to wriggle away, but as she came ne
arer, she bent over me and she grabbed the phone.
The edge of her fingernail caught my palm as she snatched away the plastic.
‘Marcus? Marcus, hi it’s Linda here. Yes, I’m sorry about that. Yes, she’s had a difficult – oh no, no, no not at all. It’s so kind of you to even … yes …’
I watched her walk out of the room. Her slim neck was twitching a little, and her fingers had turned white with the strain of holding the phone.
‘Oh no Marcus,’ she said. ‘Oh no, no don’t apologize, it’s us, please.’
My mother didn’t mention the conversation later that evening. She didn’t mention it the next day, or the day after that.
But then a funny thing happened. On the sixth day of April, my mother told me that Marcus had called again. There was, in fact, an event coming up to launch the Marina Bede Foundation. Marcus had said that his research assistant wasn’t available, and so he urgently needed somebody to help out for a few days. It would just be sorting through paperwork, preparing the decorations, setting out the chairs, making sure it was all in order. And he wanted to know, specifically, whether I would be available. I would only need to work for him for a few days.
‘We’ve thought about it, your father and I,’ said my mother. ‘The idea seemed strange to us at first, but at the end of the day we think you may benefit from the experience. We think … well, it might help you see that there is a reality to the situation. There is life beyond this, you see.’
My mother stood in the doorway as she told me this – at a safe distance. I looked at her from my bed. I studied her shy mouth, her neck with its slight forward bent. All of it communicated one word: defeat. I tried to suppress a smile.
‘I’ll think about it,’ I said. ‘I’ll mull it over.’
A short while later, I rang Marcus and accepted.
It seems astonishing to me now that my parents would agree to this arrangement. Even suspicious. Sometimes I look at coincidences like this and I think that they knew.
In the days before I left they both began talking about my future ‘plans’ with great enthusiasm. They said that my going to Marcus’s house presented an ideal opportunity. They said that it would mean that I could be away from the ‘scene of the incident’, by which they meant their house. They said that it would afford me a sense of independence. Crucially, it would mean that I was able to make amends with the Bede family.