by L. Smyth
The 13th of December was the final date in that notebook.
Everything seemed very still at that point. Very light, suffused with an ominous energy. It felt as though some instinctive part of me had figured something out, and the rest of me was now playing catch-up, waiting to find out what that was.
I saw my head from behind, staring at the screen. Past that, through the window, I saw Marcus’s hand reach through the golden strands of his hair, fiddling with the dark stripe at the root. I could hear him talking: something in Italian, a roar of laughter.
I blinked and tried to focus. An email flickered in another tab.
I shifted slightly, regained my composure, and then leaned forward in my chair. I put the notebook under the keyboard. I moved my hand over the mouse. I drew the cursor to the subject line of the first email.
Click.
The message of the email was blank. At the bottom of the screen there were two attachments: ‘untitled2.jpeg’; ‘untitled3.jpeg’. I clicked the first file. A picture began to load up.
It started off as a series of pixels – indecipherable pieces of colour: a flash of blue, a blob of white, a speckle of red. Then they slowly spread over the screen piece by piece until I could see the image in its entirety. Initially it looked like an abstract, maybe some bird’s-eye view of a piece of land. But then the pink and brown blotches melded together, their edges sharpened, and the shape appeared to me as a pair of thighs. The strip of paisley blue down the centre: underwear. The tiny tessellations of white-pink: cellulite. Dots of red: a light rash.
I pressed down hard on the ‘back’ button. My fingers were shaking.
In the distance I could hear Marcus still talking on the phone. His voice was becoming impatient, more clipped, like he was trying to wrap up the call.
I took a deep breath. Then another. I went back onto the browser and selected the next email.
There was text in this email – a forwarded message thread. When I scrolled down I saw the name in the sender box:
[email protected]
09.37 AM
10/04/2013
Thank you for meeting with me earlier. See below for further ‘comments’.
H
The ‘comments’ he’d referenced contained a number of weird in-jokes: a web of interconnected references – like some sort of high-brow ‘banter’ trove. There was an obscene pun on an obscure poem by John Donne. A meme about history of art. A satirical cartoon of cereal boxes floating in the air, the caption: ‘cerealism’. And then, later, there was a captioned photo: a picture of a girl I recognized from campus. The caption read: ‘Spotted: Tess of the Murmurvilles in her natural habitat.’ The photo showed her sat on a bench by the lake, with her hand in her hair. She seemed to be looking down, maybe at something on her phone. That was it.
Who was the girl – and why did she look familiar? Wait, I had seen her. She was in Henry’s year, I was pretty sure. I might even have seen her at his parties a few times. Had I stalked her on Facebook? I didn’t think so.
The professor’s reply read:
Ha, ha! Yes very good! Here’s the essay I was talking about. Long but worth ploughing through if you can. PS see attached for one I made earlier.
Attached to his email was an edited photo. It was much clumsier, less witty even than Henry’s offering. But it was of a similar theme and just as laborious: ‘Jane Hair returns to Lowood.’ The woman in the photo appeared to be giving a lecture – she had a frizzy bob and a slightly mottled complexion – and as she raised her arm, her shirt had lifted up to show a flash of armpit hair. I recognized her as a lecturer in the English department.
SENDER:[email protected]
11.14 AM 05/06/2013
Impressed that you managed to get a photograph. Good sleuth skills.
I scrolled further down the email thread. There were only fragments – not the full transcript of each conversation – but there was enough information for me to see how this sick game might have started, how it might have happened.
SENDER: [email protected]
12.59 07/09/2013
Here’s another one I made earlier.
The photographs in the early emails were all fairly PG. They were taken at a distance, in public places. But the further down I scrolled, the more intrusive the pictures became. The lens zoomed closer. A mole on a neck (Adrienne’s mole); a ladder in a pair of tights (Stairway to Heaven). Then a pair of trousers. A speckle of dirt on the buttocks of a skirt.
And then the upskirt pictures started.
The captions for these were more succinct or entirely absent. The images spoke for themselves.
A pair of thighs. A strip of crotch. Sometimes they were taken slightly further away so that you could see the outline of hands on a lap. An elbow bent, fingers entwined. The shadow of a phone on a skirt.
I clicked onto the next email, and the next. I felt guilty as I did so, as though seeing it made me complicit in the taking of the photos. Yet the sense of voyeurism was ultimately undercut by a sense of mission. I clicked and clicked and scrolled and clicked. An imminent revelation seemed palpable.
There was another conversation; another photo, one far, one near. I clicked past it impatiently. A new picture loaded on the screen.
Then I froze.
The pattern on the underwear I recognized: a distinctive zigzag print with frills around the edges. I thought of that particular night before the Faustus seminar, Marina rolling around in her room after a night out. Falling backwards with her legs sliding apart. A triangle of zigzags. A thin stretch of lace pucked around the edges. I remember I’d felt embarrassed seeing so much of Marina, but also envious – of course she would possess such fine, expensive-looking lingerie.
My face became incredibly hot. I scrunched my eyes into their sockets. I tried to block it out. But even with my eyes shut I could see the photos – they were still there, hot-wired onto the backs of my lids, and as I stared further the pixels seemed to separate, the network of events opened up and suddenly all the wires – all the threads of the last few months seemed to break from each other and swirl towards me. Henry. The Professor. The photos. The images that Marina had found over Christmas. Before she died.
Suddenly I heard a door click shut – somewhere in a distant corner of the house. Marcus’s leather shoes were approaching, snapping against the tiles. The sound of quiet humming getting louder and louder, closer and closer.
I minimized the tab again and pushed the notebook further under the keyboard. The footsteps stopped. Then the door creaked open. I breathed deeply, digging my fingernails into my knees.
I heard Marcus’s voice. ‘Cup of tea?’
An outline emerged from behind the door. I knew it was Marcus, but everything about him was distorted. His nose appeared to float somewhere off-centre. His eyes were in duplicate. I felt myself nod.
‘Earl Grey, isn’t it?’
He was holding the phone, cupping the speaker with one hand.
‘Yes please,’ I said.
It was surprising to hear my voice: how smooth and confident it sounded. Marcus nodded. I felt myself smile. Then his face disappeared, the door closed, and I heard him resume his conversation. His shoes clacked towards the kitchen.
I stared back at the screen.
I went back onto the photograph and stared at the image, thinking hard. Thinking.
A memory slowly surfaced. I forced myself to confront the memory, to think about it three-dimensionally. It was from a day in November, after we went to the beach, early in the term. We had arrived back at her room. All my clothes had been soaking and damp. My arms had been shivering. My teeth chattering. Marina had told me to have a shower – my dramatic discomfort was ‘irritating’ to her – and when I emerged from the bathroom afterwards, I saw that she had left a fresh set of clothes for me. A T-shirt, some tracksuit bottoms. And a pair of zigzagged underwear.
I had given them back. I was sure I’d given those back. Yes, yes, I had. Hadn’t I?
; I peered closer at the screen. I inspected the tiny red prickles of a rash along the upper thigh. I zoomed in so far that the dots appeared to separate. I moved the perspective a little to the right- and then I saw a faded brown ripple. It was about the length of a thumbnail. It was a birthmark.
This wasn’t a picture of Marina. It was a picture of me.
My fingers flew to the keyboard, and I tapped my own email in the sender’s box:
[email protected]
I dragged the mouse to the ‘send’ button. I hovered for a second and then attempted to push send before—
A shadow fell over the screen.
Marcus’s voice: ‘Here we are.’
A hand reached forward and pushed a teacup towards me across the desk. Splashes of milk jumped up and slid down the side of the china.
‘What are you working on?’ Marcus said, ducking his head over the monitor. ‘Are you finished printing all that off …?’
Instinctively I minimized the tab. Marcus frowned, set his mug on a coaster and walked around to my side of the desk. He leaned forward toward, pressing a hand into my shoulder.
‘I’m not sure your parents would approve of you being on a computer, you know,’ he said amiably.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Well why don’t you show me what you’re doing?’
A silence descended.
‘Eva, if you don’t show me then I’ll have to look at it myself—’
‘NO!’
My hand jumped forward – but it was too late. Marcus had grabbed the mouse and clicked on the minimized tab. The conversation looped up onto the screen, showing the photo HD, write large, horribly visible. The close-up of my thighs. My crotch. Marina’s underwear.
White-hot embarrassment curled up my neck.
‘It’s not …’ I began.
Marcus looked away
‘Oh,’ he said tonelessly, into the distance.
‘It’s …’ I began. ‘Well …’
I wanted to scream.
What else could I do? I panicked, I wanted to justify myself. And so I told him everything. I told him about the email address and the login. I told him about the records of the dates. I told him about breaking into the professor’s office with Marina.
Marina had discovered that Montgomery and Henry were taking photos of students, I said. She had marked the dates in her diary when the professor would be free. She had sneaked into his office before – I knew because, I had been with her once.
The only thing I did not tell him was that the picture was of me. But I had a strange feeling that he just knew anyway – something about the way he was looking at me … I can’t explain it, but I could tell that he knew.
Marcus studied my face for a while and was silent. He pressed his finger into his mouth.
‘We should call the police,’ I said. ‘Or at least the university.’
Marcus exhaled.
‘I – ah – I don’t think that would be necessary,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I said I don’t think that would be necessary. It might be better if the university don’t get involved. I can deal with this directly.’
I thought about what I knew of Marcus’s previous ‘direct dealings’ – what he’d also referred to as ‘helping people out’. He’d helped me out, he’d helped Henry out, he’d helped Montgomery out.
‘I’m not sure that’s responsible,’ I said. ‘We need to do something now.’
Marcus laughed lightly. ‘I thought you’d say that,’ he said.
I felt a surge of annoyance.
‘I mean it,’ I said. ‘It’s important that someone sees this.’
Marcus nodded thoughtfully. He picked up the notebook and began to thumb through it. Then he put it down on the desk, and leaned in towards the mouse. He minimized the tab.
‘I agree with you,’ he said. ‘But we’ll deal with it after tomorrow, after the launch party.’
‘No. Now. Having an affair with a student is bad enough, but this— This is so much worse. It’s a huge invasion of privacy – an abuse of – ’
‘Yes, as I said, I agree with you, but it’s too much to think about now.’
‘Give me a phone,’ I said. ‘I’m going to call the police.’
‘Eva,’ Marcus’s voice was now edged with steel. ‘I suggest you keep out of it.’
I began to search frantically for a mobile, for a landline. I opened drawers, lifted piles of folders. There was nothing there. I started to make my way to the door.
‘Eva.’
Marcus grabbed my hand. I flew around to face him. His face was very close to mine, so close that our noses were nearly touching. I could feel ragged breath against my cheek.
‘It’s not worth you getting involved,’ he said quietly.
‘It’s a sex crime,’ I said.
His fingers tightened on my wrist.
‘To push this would only be damaging, to yourself and others,’ he said. ‘Think about it. No one would believe you, after everything that’s happened. The case would be thrown out.’
Perspiration dripped over my eyelashes.
‘I’m not sure that’s—’
‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘It’s not a good idea to draw attention to yourself. If you get involved in a court case, you don’t know what the police might find. They might start asking …’ The corner of his mouth lifted. He finished: ‘They might ask what you were doing on the day of Marina’s death.’
I froze.
‘What?’
His eyes met mine.
‘There’s nothing I can prove,’ he said, ‘but it’s a bit convenient, don’t you think? Your parents say that you were driving around in early January. Colin says he saw you in Northam at the station during the holidays. And then the dates of the Swipe impersonation … the stealing …’
‘No.’
‘Not to mention sneaking into her room.’
‘That’s insane,’ I said. Slowly I repeated: ‘That’s insane.’
‘Call it what you like,’ Marcus said. ‘But where were you?’
A second went by, where I said nothing.
I squeezed my eyes shut. I thought of Marina looking down at me from her window.
‘I was at home,’ I said.
‘Right,’ said Marcus. ‘And your parents can vouch for that, can they?’
I said nothing. It was a dream, I told myself. It was a dream.
‘You think it’s bad now. You’ve been feeling sorry for yourself about some nasty strangers saying mean things and you think nothing is ever going to get better. It will, actually, but only if you continue to keep a low profile. If evidence emerges linking you to Marina – then you’re in real trouble.’ He drew back. He gave a little shrug.
‘All I’m saying is: think about it,’ he said. ‘Would it be worth opening your mouth again – drawing attention to yourself – for the sake of a tasteless joke?’
My head was cloudy for a long second, but hearing that final word – joke – I felt a fierce surge of defiance.
‘It’s … not a joke,’ I said. ‘It’s not a joke and it’s not a game. These are photos of real people – the bodies of real people. I mean, it could be your daughter’s body. Don’t you care at all about Marina?’
Marcus frowned, as though he found me distasteful.
‘Do you realize that it’s her underwear in that photo?’ I said, raising my voice.
Marcus’s frown shifted to the floor, his mouth twisted into an ‘o’ shape. He scratched his jaw with a single finger.
I was pushing it, I knew – I was going above and beyond respectful boundaries, I was about to say something unfair, something speculative, something which could only work to my disadvantage, my downfall, but now there was no way back and I couldn’t help myself from carrying on talking.
‘Why is it that you’re so defensive of Montgomery, Marcus?’ I said. ‘You two are very close, aren’t you? You have shared interests. Not just teaching – other stuff. I’ve seen
the way you look at me, the way your—’
Marcus reached forward quickly then – for a moment I thought he was going to hit me – but instead he snatched at the ends of my hair. He pulled at it sharply, so that my head stretched slightly backwards. I couldn’t move.
‘Stop that,’ he said.
I stayed there suspended, too shocked to speak. My breathing was slow and cautious. I watched his face, his mouth curling into a smile as he gently twirled the ends of my hair. Then, gripping it inside his fist, he yanked sharply and my neck flung backwards. The muscles stretched painfully. I opened my mouth to scream but I couldn’t push air out of my lungs. Marcus clamped his other hand over my mouth. He leaned over me, his fingers pushing into my teeth.
‘How dare you,’ he said. ‘You’re a guest in this house.’
His face came very close to mine again. His nails dug slightly into my cheek. I struggled to break free.
‘When you’re in my house you will be respectful,’ he said. ‘You will behave as a guest.’
I tried to nod but my head was stiff. I tried to speak but I couldn’t breathe.
There was a long silence. I felt the intensity of his hatred heating the air between us.
‘You stupid girl,’ he said. ‘You stupid, stupid girl.’ His voice was low and controlled, but I could sense it would soon rise to an agitated pitch. ‘Your conspiracy theories might seem sophisticated to you, but you’re wrong – even wrong about the photograph. Of course that’s not Marina. You can see it’s not her. There’s that very distinctive mark, isn’t there?’
My breathing became extremely shallow. From my blurred peripheral vision I could see Marcus’s face. The sweat glistening on his cheekbones. The fanaticism in his eyes: detachment.
I thought back to a recent memory. The smell of dark fresh sweat, expensive, strong cologne. An actor on the screen. Next to me, a man in a white shirt. His eyes staring at me, straight down at the long, brown birthmark on my inner thigh.
Now his hands tightened on my hair. ‘It’s unique,’ he murmured softly.
Tears sprang at the edges of my eyelids.
His face was too close, his breath was getting harsher, and I could feel my body coiling defensively. I was preparing myself, steeling myself. I curled my hand into a fist.