After I've Gone

by Linda Green

  ‘They’ve done a post from my dad now,’ I say, reaching into my pocket to get my phone. ‘Saying I died in an accident. And they’ve changed the date to make it seem like it’s from next year.’

  ‘How can they do that?’ asks Sadie.

  ‘You can’t, according to Google,’ I reply, clicking on Facebook and going to my timeline. ‘Which is why it’s freaking me out. The virus scan was clear too. Somebody’s doing this on purpose.’

  ‘Show me. I still can’t see anything on mine.’

  I don’t respond because I’m staring at my timeline. It’s back to normal. The posts aren’t on there. I scroll up and down. Nothing. I look up at Sadie, phone in hand.

  ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘Good. Maybe it just took that long for the password change to take effect.’

  ‘But they were there just now, before I left the house. I checked again before I came out because I wanted to show you.’

  Sadie looks at me. I can almost hear her choosing the right words in her head before she says anything.

  ‘Well, at least they’re gone, that’s the main thing.’

  ‘I wanted you to see them though!’

  ‘I believe you, Jess. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? They’ve gone and that’s what you wanted.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’

  ‘You could always check with Facebook? Maybe they could tell you if your account was hacked.’

  ‘But I haven’t got any proof now, have I? It would just be me saying there were some crank posts with nothing to back it up. They wouldn’t bother looking into it.’

  ‘I guess not. Anyway, like I said, it was probably some spotty thirteen-year-old lad in Hong Kong with nothing better to do.’

  I hear the whistling on the tracks and a moment later see our train coming into view. Sadie’s right. I should forget it, I know that. But there’s a cold place deep inside me that can’t. Somebody did that, knowing full well how upsetting it would be. And I can’t let that go.

  *

  Nina is back with the rest of us plebs on the hosting team today. Hosting is a rather grand word for dashing in and out of different cinema screens with pizzas and burgers (posh ones that they can charge more for because they’ve got halloumi in). I suppose it’s like the bin men now being called refuse collectors, and woodwork and metalwork being called resistant materials at school. Everyone and everything has to have a souped-up title these days.

  ‘No flowers today then,’ Nina says as I walk past her in the corridor. I turn and look at her, trying to work out if the smirk on her face is a guilty one.

  ‘Have you been messing with my phone?’ I ask.

  ‘What kind of question is that?’

  ‘One that I want answered. You were pretty interested in who gave me the flowers yesterday.’

  ‘Do you honestly think I’m desperate enough to go trawling through your contacts for your supposed boyfriend?’

  ‘Maybe you wanted to have a look at my Facebook.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I dunno. You tell me. Some people get off on that sort of thing.’

  ‘Well, I’m not one of them. I have no interest in your private life. And I suggest,’ she says, jabbing a finger towards my face, ‘you don’t go around making accusations like that.’

  I look at her, trying to work out whether she’s telling the truth. Her dyed blonde hair is scraped back into a ponytail. The whole of her face looks like it’s been scraped back with it. She has one of those mean, vacant faces you see in mugshots. But, despite the smirk, I’m not sure Nina’s capable of doing something as clever as hacking into my account.

  ‘Fine. We’ll leave it at that, then,’ I say, walking off.

  I hear a loud tut and muttered swearing behind me, but I choose to ignore it. I go to the staffroom to make myself a tea, swishing the kettle side to side to check there’s enough water in it before I flick the switch. No one else is around. I know I shouldn’t but I can’t help myself. I get my phone out of my bag and go to my Facebook page.

  The posts are back, with even more comments under them, dozens of them now. Sad emojis and RIPs by the bucketload. My fingers tense around the phone. I don’t understand this. Has the hacker somehow discovered my new password? I go into my account and change it again. I check back but the posts are still there. And the dates on them are all from July next year.

  The kettle has boiled, but I’m no longer bothered about the tea. I march out of the room to go and find Sadie.

  ‘Look,’ I say, hurrying into the kitchen, where I find her sorting out the ketchups and mustards. ‘They’re back again.’

  I thrust the phone in her face. She takes a step back, stares at it then looks at me, a frown creasing her brow.

  ‘Crazy, eh?’ I say.

  ‘There’s nothing there,’ she says softly. I turn the phone round to look at it. She’s right. It’s my usual timeline. No RIPs in sight.

  ‘I don’t understand!’ I cry. ‘They were there a minute ago in the staffroom. I just checked.’

  Sadie gives me that look. The one she used to give me when it was at its worst. The one that says, I really don’t want to hurt your feelings but I think you should know you’ve lost the plot.

  ‘Maybe leave it for a bit, eh?’

  ‘I know this doesn’t make any sense, but it’s like I’m the only one who can see them.’

  Sadie nods slowly. ‘Like I said, maybe stop checking all the time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, putting the phone back in my pocket. ‘You’re right.’

  She smiles at me, but even Sadie, who is experienced in these things, can’t hide the concern behind her smile. She returns to organising the mustards.

  ‘Here,’ I say. ‘I’ll give you a hand. Pass me the ketchups.’

  Sadie Ward  Jess Mount

  12 July 2017 at 8:37pm

  I still keep expecting to see one of your posts on here. I see your name and I think it’s going to be you, posting something stupid, and it isn’t, of course. It’s someone posting a tribute to you. And the daft thing is you never had any idea how many people loved you. I know you came across like a cocky sod sometimes, but you weren’t, not underneath. You were as insecure as the rest of us. More so, I think. That’s why you fell so hard for Lee. It was like you couldn’t believe someone could actually love you. I wish you had known because look at this now, Jess Mount. Look at all the people queuing up to say how much they loved you. People who are heartbroken that you’re gone. It’s stupid, isn’t it, that people don’t tell you that until you die? Even Nina at work cried when she found out, and you thought she hated your guts. Love you, Jess. We all do. And we miss you like crazy. And don’t worry about H. I promise I will find a way to look after him.

  Jess

  Tuesday, 12 January 2016

  I read Sadie’s post several times. And the comments below. People sending their love to her. Telling her to be strong. Saying how devastated Lee must be. And everyone thinking about ‘H’.

  I am lying on my bed as I read, but my head is spinning like I’m on a waltzer at a fairground. So many thoughts are ricocheting around inside, crashing into my skull. I tell myself that it is complete rubbish, but a tiny part of me doesn’t want to believe that. A tiny part that can’t help feeling ridiculously excited at the idea of still going out with Lee in eighteen months’ time. Which means I am being doubly stupid, because if I do believe it, I’ll be dead by then, so the having-a-boyfriend thing wouldn’t exactly matter.

  The weird thing is how whoever is doing this can know these things about me, because I’m not friends with Lee on Facebook and I only met him two days ago for a matter of minutes. The people who are sending Lee their condolences don’t even know he exists.

  I sit up in bed, as if hoping the mere act of being upright will stop the world spinning
. Instead, it feels like I’m standing at the side of the waltzer, my legs trembling, sure I am going to throw up at any moment. And the one question rising above all the others that are competing for my attention is who is H? People are sending love to H and Sadie is telling me she’s going to look after him and I don’t know who the hell H is. All I can think of is that guy from Steps and I’m quite sure he has nothing to do with any of this. Maybe I’ll get a kitten and call it H. I want a kitten, a tabby one, but I also know that if I got one I would call it Minerva, after McGonagall in Harry Potter. I would definitely not call it H.

  And the other thing I can’t get my head around is that the date of these posts is still in eighteen months’ time. Does whoever is doing this want me to think that this is my future? That they are some kind of demonic fortune teller and I only have eighteen months left to live? It’s the social media equivalent of finding a voodoo doll of yourself with a hundred pins stuck in it – next to a ticking clock. No wonder it’s freaking me out. I want it to stop but I don’t know how to make that happen. It’s pointless ringing Sadie. I know she’s already worried about me and I don’t want to make things any worse. I can’t show Dad because saying, ‘Hey, you know how you’ve never got over your wife dying, well, now someone’s saying I’m going to die in eighteen months too,’ is clearly not an option. And I can’t go to the police because they won’t be able to see it. I have no proof. And if they did bother to investigate, they’d find out about my history and decide I’m a fruit loop.

  I sigh and rest my head on the desk. The fact is, I wouldn’t blame them. The whole thing is beyond belief. I sigh and sit up sharply, unable to believe that I haven’t thought of it before. I check my laptop, making sure the post’s still there, and take a screenshot. I have a little smile on my face as I do it, like I’ve caught someone out and they haven’t realised it yet. The smile lasts for only a matter of seconds until I check the screenshot and find it’s of my usual timeline, the one everyone else can see. My stomach clenches. I try it again but the same thing happens. Even if there was a way that someone could hack my account and post all this stuff, there is no way they could stop it coming up on a screenshot, no way at all.

  Another idea comes to me. I get out my phone and take a photo of the laptop screen. I take three in a row, just to be sure. But when I check, the photos are of the usual timeline too. The one that isn’t even on my fucking screen. I start shaking, and put my laptop down on the floor.

  I lie back on my bed. Maybe Sadie’s right, maybe I am cracking up. Perhaps I’m the only one who can see it because it exists only inside my head. And we all know what my head is capable of. Maybe it’s just different this time, which is why I didn’t recognise it at first. It makes sense, if you think about it. If you are thwarted from gaining control one way, you find another way to do it, to get past security. If my mind is playing tricks on me, it’s making a bloody good job of it. I’m not even sure I’m clever enough to have a mind that could make that up. I let out a snorted laugh. It’s come to something when the best-case scenario is that I am going mad.

  You hear about people who have white blood cells that attack their own healthy cells. What if I’m somehow programmed to do this? What if I’m so used to being miserable that I am destroying any signs of happiness as soon as they appear?

  *

  I open my eyes, instantly surprised that I managed to drop off at some point during the night. I reach straight for my phone. More posts, more comments. More grief that only I can see. If I can see it at all, that is.

  I time my entrance to the kitchen so that Dad will know I haven’t got time for breakfast. He looks up from the table.

  ‘There’s a banana on the side,’ he says, nodding towards the kitchen counter.

  ‘I’m fine thanks,’ I say.

  ‘You should have something.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Saving yourself for the big date tonight, are you?’

  ‘Yeah, something like that.’

  Dad is still looking at me.

  ‘It’s not too late to blow him out,’ he says. ‘If you’re having second thoughts. Your mum blew me out on our first date. Did I tell you that?’

  ‘I’m not having second thoughts,’ I say. ‘And yes, you both told me lots of times.’

  I see his face and look down at my feet. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to leave now if I’m going to make the train. Don’t wait up, OK?’

  ‘Have fun. Be careful.’

  I nod and open the door. When I look through the window as I pass it, he is still sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the flowers.

  *

  I get changed in the toilets straight after work. I have no idea what you wear for a date at a swanky bar with an associate director, which is why I brought my favourite vintage dress with me and am now wriggling into it while trying to get a soggy piece of loo paper off my boot. My thinking being that if I am going to wear the ‘wrong’ thing, it should at least be something familiar, something I’m comfortable in and that everyone says looks great on me. I emerge from the cubicle and look at myself in the mirror. The top half looks OK. If the mirror could speak, Snow White-style, it would probably say, ‘Not sure about the purple tights and DMs, love,’ but fortunately we live in a world where mirrors can’t speak, so I am saved from the humiliation.

  I draw on heavier eyeliner, apply some shimmering copper tone eye shadows and top it off with two coats of mascara. A slick of lip balm and I’m done. Eyes or lips, Mum always used to say, there’s no need for both. I stick my hair behind my ear on one side and ruffle the rest of it. The good thing about doing the wild, unkempt look is that my hair seems to be very good at it.

  When I leave the loos, Adrian is walking towards me with the Henry vacuum cleaner.

  ‘You’re looking particularly gorgeous this evening, sweetie.’ He smiles. I smile back, but find it difficult to reply. All I can think of is what he wrote about me on Facebook.

  ‘Is tonight your hot date?’ he asks.

  ‘How do you know about that?’

  ‘The walls have ears in this place,’ he says. ‘And a few people have particularly large mouths as well.’

  I shake my head. Nina, no doubt.

  ‘Well, he’s a lucky guy, whoever he is.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d better not keep him waiting.’

  ‘Fashionably late, darling,’ says Adrian over his shoulder. ‘Always be fashionably late so that people notice your entrance.’

  I smile and walk off. Still unsure about the purple tights.

  I have resisted looking at my phone all day. I made a promise to myself not to. But as I stand on the escalator my hand reaches for it and, in what I swear is a completely involuntary movement, clicks on Facebook.

  It’s like stumbling into a wake by mistake. Everyone raw with grief, grasping each other for comfort and passing on condolences to their nearest and dearest. Which, in my case, appears to include the man I am about to go on a first date with. It’s like some weird time-slip movie where the main character knows she dies in the second part. I need to remember, if there is one of those awkward pauses in conversation, not to blurt out, ‘By the way, everyone sends their love to you after I die.’

  I arrive outside The Botanist. It’s all wrought iron and rustic-looking. I go down the steps. There are outside tables but no one is sitting on them tonight. A waitress who, unlike me, is dressed sophisticatedly and doesn’t smell of burgers, glides towards me, smiling. I quickly scan the room, spotting Lee at a table in the far corner. He’s wearing the same plum jacket but with a different coloured T-shirt underneath. I suspect he is one of those annoying people who looks good in anything.

  ‘Hi,’ the waitress says. She’s looking at me expectantly, but I have a complete mental block on Lee’s surname.

  ‘Hi, I’m, er, with him,’ I say, pointing in Lee’s direction. She nods, doing a very goo
d job of hiding her surprise that someone like me has a date with someone like him.

  ‘Great. Follow me.’

  I do as I’m told. Lee looks up. He grins at me and I swear half of Leeds is being plunged into darkness; that smile can only have been powered by the national grid.

  ‘Hi, Jess,’ he says, standing up and bending to kiss me on the cheek. ‘You look fantastic. I’m so glad you could make it.’ He is greeting me like I’m an old friend, not someone he picked up in a train station a couple of days ago. I sit down quickly, desperately trying to put the thought of him grieving for me out of my mind.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘It makes a change from grabbing something at the station and legging it for the train.’

  ‘And at least you don’t have to face the grubby commuters at close quarters.’ He smiles.

  ‘No, there is that.’

  ‘Do you get that often?’

  ‘Often enough.’

  ‘There are, as you said, a lot of complete jerks out there.’

  ‘Arseholes.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I said there were a lot of arseholes. Leeds appears to be full of them.’

  ‘Well, I’m honoured that you’ve deemed me an honorary non-arsehole.’

  He smiles at me as he says it. I’m about to say that I might change my mind by the end of the night, but then I think better of it. The waitress returns and asks what we’d like to drink. I glance at the menu on the table, all cocktails that I’ve never heard of. Lee is looking at me expectantly.

  ‘You choose,’ I say. ‘I’m up for anything.’

  He raises an eyebrow. I notice for the first time what amazing eyebrows he has: dark, thick and really rather shapely for a man.