‘It is you. Oh my goodness.’
I let go of the handle and the door swings closed behind me as I take a step back into the bar. A female voice is calling me, but it’s one I don’t recognise. I take another step.
‘What a coincidence,’ she says. ‘I’ve been hoping to speak with you. Can I get you a drink or something?’
‘Amber,’ I say, uncertain.
‘Yes,’ she replies, shuffling out from behind a table that’s too close to the wall; it forces her to lean her belly over the sticky timber and stick her bum out at an unflattering angle as she tries to squeeze past. ‘I was worried you wouldn’t recognise me.’
I grimace as she stands in front of me. She’s much taller than I am. I’m used to most people towering over me, but something about Amber’s height is intimidating. Maybe it’s the way she rolls back her shoulders, forcing her boobs to perk up as if she’s parading a catwalk.
‘I recognise you from a Facebook photo,’ I say, as I grown inwardly, disgusted with myself for offering her an explanation. Especially one that suggests I care enough about her to snoop on Facebook.
‘Oh.’ She smiles, revealing straight white teeth. ‘I didn’t realise we were friends.’
She flicks her hand across the air, throwing the comment away, as if her online social life is just so hectic she can’t keep up with her virtual popularity. I don’t correct her and explain that we are not friends. I only have thirty-three Facebook friends, and they’re all friends in real life too. I don’t feel the need to share photos of a lasagne dinner with hundreds of strangers and get excited about how many likes the image can muster. David’s the opposite. We laugh about it. Or at least, we used to.
‘Can I get you a drink?’ Amber’s smile grows, and I wonder if she feels awkward or ashamed.
‘Um.’ I toss my head over my shoulder and eye up the door.
‘I really need to talk to you about something, Emma. Please. Can you give me five minutes?’
I honestly think she’s going to tell me about her one-night stand with my husband. And my reaction is the oddest thing; I want to laugh in her face. Or scream that I know. That I’ve known for four long, shitty weeks. But I don’t do either of those things. Steadily, I look at her, my eyes meeting hers. She has hazel eyes. They’re like mine, except hers have some subtle specks of green dotted unevenly. Goose bumps run the lengths of my arms, and I shiver as I realise they’re the same pretty, hazel eyes David looked into as he made love to her.
‘Five minutes,’ I scowl.
‘Great. Thank you. Drink, yeah?’
‘Yes. Okay. White wine.’
I sit on the outside of the table, partially because I remember how stupid Amber looked trying to squeeze around the other side, but mostly because this side feels closer to the door and I can convince myself that I can flee at any time. I’m tempted to leave while Amber’s at the bar with her back to me. But I’ve taken off my coat, and I’m desperate for the taste of bitter, sweet wine. I roll my eyes at the irony. Having a drink with the bitch who’s driving me to drink.
An ivory china cup on a saucer wobbles in Amber’s hand as she makes her way towards the table. She’s walking slowly, and the concentration it takes not to spill any coffee is written on her face. My eyes switch to the glass of wine in her other hand, and my tongue tingles just thinking about the taste. I’m embarrassed as she places the sensible, hot beverage down on her side of the table and slides the cool alcohol over to me. But as I raise the glass to my lips and take a huge slug, I’m momentarily relaxed, and my whole body softens as the chilly liquid makes its way down my throat. I take another mouthful and then another. Before Amber even sits down, I’ve drained half the glass.
Amber watches me like an animal stalking its prey, but the wine is taking effect, and I couldn’t care less about her. About everything. I allow myself another sip.
‘Emma,’ she says, finally. ‘I … I … I don’t know what to say.’
‘I thought you had something you want to talk to me about?’
‘I do. I mean I just don’t know how to say it.’
‘Just say what you have to say, Amber,’ I bark, my patience waning.
‘Look, I know you must see me as the enemy.’
I toss my eyebrows and do my best to feign indifference.
‘But we have more in common than you think.’
‘Really?’
Besides sleeping with the same man, I can’t think of anything that makes Amber and me even remotely similar. She’s a hungry, go-getter business type. I’d say she’s ruthless in the office. I stare at her blankly as I run my eyes over her manicured appearance. Even in December, her blond hair looks sun kissed. I imagine the colour comes from a bottle, but it’s elegant and classy nonetheless. Despite the gale-force wind howling outside, not a single strand of Amber’s shoulder-length hair strays out of place. She runs her fingers over the side, sweeps a silky lock off her face, and tucks it neatly behind her ear. Her ivory fingers with naturally polished nails catch my attention. Something about her hands and the way she fixes her hair is familiar. So familiar I know I’ve seen it earlier that day. I know those hands; I recognise the motion as she adjusts her hair. I guess it’s a habit; something she does subconsciously. And it’s my clue. Bumping into Amber in this pub, at this time, is no coincidence. She’s here because she’s followed me. I have no doubt that she’s the girl from the graveyard. The girl from the train station. And the girl from Danny’s funeral.
I deserve to despise the woman sitting opposite me. She took my happiness and trampled all over it. I don’t deserve to be afraid of her, but right now, seeing the bitter resentment in her eyes, I’m scared.
I can’t remember the last time I ate. I focus on the half-empty glass on the table in front of me. The wine has gone straight to my head, and I curse my fuzzy thoughts. I squint as if it’ll help me think clearer. Amber looks on; a smudge of satisfaction etched into the smile lines around her eyes. I want to leap across the table and tear her impossibly perfect hair out.
I clear my throat. ‘You think we have something in common,’ I say, trying desperately to keep my voice level.
‘Yes.’
My eyes narrow to the point of barely open, and I feel myself sway on the spot. I reach for the wine glass and raise it to my lips. I snort. Amber’s not the only one with subconscious habits, I realise, knowing well that I rely on the pleasure of wine too often. A sharp blade was once my emotional crutch, and now, it’s alcohol. I place the glass back on the table with a force that isn’t necessary and push it away from me.
Amber hasn’t touched her coffee. She sits with her legs crossed under the table and her hands by her sides. The conversation is stilted, but she’s confident and comfortable, almost thriving on the stagnant atmosphere. Every so often, I throw my glance towards the barman, but I don’t catch his eye. I’ve gone from anxious to get away from him to leaning on his presence like a security blanket. The thought of being alone with Amber scares me, although I’m not sure why, and I slide to the edge of the chair.
‘Here,’ she says, suddenly, causing my heart to jump. ‘I want to show you something.’
She pulls her oversized handbag onto the chair beside her and rummages around for what seems like an eternity. I crane my neck and try desperately to see over the table and into her bag. I’ve no doubt she’s hiding a burnt orange hoodie and a pair of mucky pink Converse in there. She pulls out her phone and slides it face up across the table to me.
‘What?’ I mumble, my eyes still on her bag.
‘It’s our common ground.’
‘Your phone?’
‘It’s what’s on my phone.’
My chest tightens. I swallow a lump of air too wide for my throat, and it burns like hell the whole way down. I’m afraid to drop my eyes to the screen. Maybe she wants to show me messages David has sent her. Texts telling her he loves her or that he’s going to leave me. Tears gather in the corners of my eye, but I don’t dare blink. The
last thing I could bear is losing it in front of this bitch.
‘It’s an internet troll,’ Amber explains. ‘Look.’ She leans across the table and taps her finger on the screen. ‘They have multiple Facebook accounts all created to harass me. They send me pictures. Call me terrible things. They know about David and me. They threaten me.’
‘Oh.’ One word is all I manage.
Amber’s words have knocked the air clean out of me. I gather the phone into my hands and flick frantically through the Facebook posts. Slanderous messages from many different accounts litter Amber’s newsfeed. None of the users have any friends, and they’re all new accounts. No posts date back longer than a few weeks. It’s obvious, even at a glance, that the accounts don’t belong to real people. There are so many nasty posts that I don’t bother to read them all.
I run the back of my free hand across my forehead. My skin is sticky and clammy, and some of the wine is making its way up the back of my throat. One account stands out amongst the sea of others. This account posts most frequently and is always the most callous. But it’s not the vicious words that draw my attention, it’s the profile picture. Or rather, my profile picture. One I used months ago. I downloaded the silly quote from some spiritual healing website. It was an inside joke between David and me. If I could download the quote, anyone could. But I don’t believe it’s a coincidence. Someone chose that exact phrase on purpose. Someone wants me to recognise it.
‘I don’t understand.’ I sniffle, shaking the phone in my hand as if I can somehow expel the messages.
‘Me neither. But two heads are better than one. I thought we could figure this out together.’ Amber sighs.
She’s calm. Too calm. Surely, this must be freaking her out, but she shows no signs of worry. I glance around. Amber and I are the only patrons in the pub now, and the barman has disappeared somewhere, probably to change a barrel or something.
‘Is that why you’ve been following me?’ I soften, thinking I understand and trying desperately to match Amber’s cool exterior.
I catch the corners of her lips twitch, but she quickly turns them into a smile. ‘What? Following you? Oh, Emma. C’mon. Don’t be ridiculous.’
I nod. Certain. ‘At the graveyard. I saw you there. Just earlier.’
Amber shakes her head, but I don’t miss her left hand drop to her handbag to tuck it closer against her thigh. And I’m one hundred percent convinced she’s hiding her jumper with a big, floppy hood in there.
‘Look,’ she says, still smiling, but acrimony laces her tone. ‘This is a stressful time for us both. I know what you mean about feeling someone is watching you. It’s this internet stuff. It’s creepy. God, I know.’ Amber rolls her eyes for dramatic effect. ‘I swear I’m a quivering mess sometimes when I think about who could be behind these messages. Like some psychopath who wants to kill us. But I’m not following you, Emma. That would be weird.’
‘It would be weird,’ I say and try to smile.
I decide to indulge her. She’s not going to admit she’s been shadowing me. Pushing her on it will only piss her off, and I don’t know what she might do.
‘What are you going to do about this?’ I ask, concentrating to make sure the wobble in my tummy doesn’t shine through in my voice. I distract myself by flicking through her phone some more.
‘What are we going to do, you mean?’
My eyes shoot up to take in her face. Christ, I truly hate her.
‘Emma, I’m not stupid.’ Amber grunts. ‘I know we’re never going to be friends or anything. I’ve hurt you terribly, and I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not asking that. But whoever this online freak is, they have a grudge against us both. I don’t know who they are or what their problem is, but I want to find out. I think our best chance is working together, don’t you?’
I shrug. ‘It’s just the internet, Amber. It’s not real life. It’s not as if someone can jump through your computer screen and murder you while you sleep.’
‘You’re right.’ Amber nods. ‘But what about when real life and online life mixes? What then? What about when the person harassing you on the internet is watching you in real life too? Would you take it seriously then?’
‘I know they’re watching me in real life,’ I growl, some saliva spraying past my lips with force. ‘They’ve told me so. They know what clothes I wear and where I do my fucking grocery shopping, for God’s sake.’
‘And doesn’t that scare you?’ Amber eyes are round and wide, and her forehead is turning purple around her hairline.
The rhetorical question gives me the shivers. Of course, I’m scared. It’s bloody terrifying to know a stranger is stalking me. Someone is tracking my mundane day-to-day tasks. I don’t know when they’re watching and when they’re not. Maybe they are always there, lurking in the shadows. Maybe they’re watching right now. And it kills me a little inside because I know they can sense my fear. They can see it, smell it, and I know they feed off it. My terror gives them exactly what they want. They win, and I lose. Anyone would be scared in my shoes. But Amber isn’t scared. Why not?
Fear is a natural instinct. Even when I was at my lowest point, I still had fear. Fear of dying, fear of living on. Fear of my secret getting out. But the fear I feel now is different. The internet is infinite. It’s all around, like invisible lasers that shoot through the air. A parallel world that sits so comfortable between the spaces of this world that it’s become hard to tell where one ends and the other begins. Sure, I can delete my Facebook account and get a new phone number. But that just masks the problem, it doesn’t solve it. I suppose it’s a bit like pulling down the kitchen blind and hiding in the cupboard under the sink. It doesn’t stop the axe murderer from lurking in the garden, it just stops you from seeing them do it. The vastness of the internet is out of my control, and maybe that’s my biggest fear. No control.
Everything I’ve ever done I’ve done for myself. I’ve done it all to try to keep control. Control of my mind. My own selfish urges drive me. I’ve sliced a blade through my flesh like a butcher gutting a lamb, and I did it for my own satisfaction. The satisfaction of watching my dark red blood pour from my wounds like rain. I always believed rain could wash everything clean. Even someone’s soul. But I never thought about the marks my actions were leaving on the souls of everyone who loved me. Psychological bruises that they might never be able to wash away. I’m done causing bruises. I can’t be that person anymore.
‘Emma, you are afraid, right?’ Amber says, her eyes searching mine for clues.
I want to shut them and not let her see. I don’t want to offer her any opportunity to read me. I don’t want her to see my fear. To feed off it. I pause as a sudden realisation zaps my brain, and I find my eyes wide and stinging and my lips pressed so tightly together they twitch. So many thoughts race through my mind that I shake my head as I struggle to process the information overload. I can’t believe I didn’t add everything up before. The clues were always there. The conclusion suddenly seems so glaringly obvious. It’s Amber. It’s all Amber!
All the online stuff started the weekend David went to Kilkenny. When he went to Kilkenny with her. I think about the photo I received of the two of them out to dinner. Thinking back, I realise it was a selfie. I don’t know how I didn’t see that before now. The angle was all screwed up, just like in most selfies when your arm isn’t long enough to stretch the camera far enough away from you. I curse myself for deleting the photo. I can’t remember if Amber’s arm was around David’s shoulder or if his arm was around her. I don’t know if he took the photo or if she did. If it was Amber, then maybe David wasn’t even looking at the camera at all. I try so hard to remember the picture, and I have a feeling David’s head was turned as if he was talking to someone beside him. They’d been drinking, so he might not have known she took the photo at all, and if he did, he certainly didn’t know she sent it to me.
‘There’s nothing to be afraid of, Amber.’ I straighten my back.
Ambe
r coughs dryly, and I know I’m irritating the hell out of her. Good.
Fire begins to burn in my tummy. The wine seems to evaporate, leaving my head much lighter, and I can actually think straight. I’m certain now that David wasn’t looking at the camera in the photo.
‘Really? You’re not worried someone is trying to hurt you?’
I bring my shoulders up to meet my ears and scrunch up my face. ‘Oh, I’m certain someone is trying to hurt me.’ I drop my shoulders again and straighten my back until I feel the base of my spine crack and object to the rigidness. ‘I just don’t think they’ll actually succeed.’
Amber makes a noise like she’s about to say something but thinks better of it, and the spit gets caught in her throat.
‘What if they’re watching right now?’ Amber clears her throat, exaggerating her efforts to scan the bar for psychopaths.
‘It’s just you, me, and the barman over there.’ I point. ‘It’s not me. I doubt it’s him, and it’s certainly not you, right?’
Amber laughs. ‘You’re right. Of course. I’m just being silly.’ She smiles wryly, showing some teeth. ‘I wish I had your mental strength.’
I twitch, and I wonder if that’s some sort of a dig. David could have confided in her about his crazy wife. He’d be justified, but it gives her ammunition, and it makes me feel sick.
‘Right. So I guess we don’t really have a problem here, do we?’ I say.
‘If you say so …’ A flash of temper gathers in the lines of Amber’s forehead.
I place my palms flat on the table, keeping them close to my chest. If Amber comes at me, I’ll push hard and pin her to the wall. I flick my eyes to the bar as quickly as possible, afraid to let Amber out of my sight for more than a split second. The barman is back. He’s polishing the black granite surface of the bar. He’s not paying any attention to us, but I’m okay with that. I can scream if I need to. My confidence grows.
See Me Not Page 17