Fugly

by Claire Waller

  “Oh.” I don’t know what else to say.

  Amy flourishes her phone at me. And there he is, in a scruffy Evil Dead shirt, giving the camera the ol’ devil horns sign. He has floppy hair and bright blue eyes, with a little pixie nose and only a hint of stubble—exactly the kind of guy you’d expect Amy to fall head over heels for. My stomach drops a notch. A little too much like the kind of guy Amy would go for.

  “So you met him on a horror site, and now you’re talking off-grid?” I ask, just to clarify the situation.

  Amy nods, cappuccino foam clinging to her upper lip. “We’ve messaged each other quite a bit. We’re friends on Facebook, but we keep it on the down low. You know, after what happened to you.”

  “Yeah. I know,” I say, a little more curtly than I intended. “So, what does he want?”

  “Want? Nothing. We just chat. Started off about movies, and books, and music, and then, you know. Other stuff . . .” She blushes a bit at that.

  “Oh, please don’t tell me you’re sending him dodgy photos?”

  “They’re not dodgy! I’ve got clothes on. Bikinis count as clothes, right?” She giggles at this, like she can’t help it, and if it wasn’t for a nasty little doubt wriggling around in my guts, I’d be happy for her, because I know how this feels. There is no way I want to rain on her parade, but all of this seems too convenient.

  She keeps nattering on about him, showing me a few more photos, including a shirtless one that really has my spidey-senses tingling, because although he is on the skinny side, he’s still pretty ripped for a supposedly normal nerd on the street. And then I hate myself, because Amy is a total nerd and is completely, gobsmackingly beautiful, so of course she is going to attract another Oblivious Beautiful Person. Why wouldn’t she? His mates are probably sitting there thinking she’s too good to be true, that she’s going to end up breaking his heart, that she simply can’t be who she says she is.

  “And the best thing is, he’s looking at coming down for the weekend so he can go to the Christmas lights being switched on, like he did when he was a kid, and he’s suggested we could meet up and go together!” Amy’s voice has gone all breathy.

  “He’s coming down here?” Okay, spidey-senses not so much tingling now as screaming at the top of their lungs. “You’re not going to meet him on your own, are you?”

  Amy rolls her eyes. “No, Mum. Of course not. I’m not a complete idiot. That’s why I said we should meet at the switch-on, where there are lots of people, and you’ll be there, and Indy, and Patrick, and lots of other people.”

  “I’ll be there?”

  “Of course you will! Everyone goes to see the Christmas lights being switched on. Even if Tony wasn’t coming down, I’d be going. You’re from round here, I thought you’d go every year?”

  I used to go when I was small, sitting up on my Dad’s shoulders. They light up the town square, complete with a massive Christmas tree. I haven’t bothered with it since I’ve been old enough to stay home alone, and I hadn’t considered going this year, but if this is where Amy is going to meet “Anthony,” then I don’t really have a choice.

  “I haven’t been for a few years, actually,” I say, managing to feign a pretty good facsimile of enthusiasm. “Sure, that sounds cool!”

  Amy beams, a big proper Amy Grin. “That’s so awesome! Then you can meet Anthony and see if he meets your approval. Oh, I am so excited now. I can’t wait to tell him!” She does a shuffly little dance in her seat. My fake-enthusiastic smile turns into a grimace, and I bury it into the remains of my coffee, hoping she doesn’t notice.

  55: #catfishedparttwo

  Okay, Evil Dead Anthony, your ass is mine. In a manner of speaking, of course.

  What, you thought I’d just wait until Saturday night to see if he turned up? No way, Jose. I’m not going to troll him, but a little bit of cyber-stalking? That’s okay. It’s just research, after all. It’s all for Amy’s benefit, even if it does make me feel a little bit grubby.

  I only have his first name and the memory of his pictures to go on as I trawl Amy’s contact list, which turns out to be a rather laborious undertaking given how many “friends” she has. I finally narrow it down to the four Anthonys on her list.

  One looks about fifty. An uncle or a friend of the family, I’m thinking.

  Another: childhood friend, going by the photos.

  Haven’t a clue who the third one is. Random friending, probably.

  Fourth one—bingo. There he is, with his floppy hair and his pixie nose and his too-good-to-be-true bright blue eyes.

  Anthony Helston.

  I hold my breath as I click on his name. I don’t want to be right. I want him to be as lovely and as innocent as Amy thinks he is. Please don’t be creepy. Please don’t be creepy . . .

  So far, so good. Normal Facebook stuff. Some photos. Some cat memes. Likes horror films, so lots of links to—

  Wait a minute. This page is only a few weeks old. There are hardly any posts before the middle of November. Hmm. He’s posted loads, like multiple times a day, to make it look like he’s been here for ages, but if you look at the actual dates, it’s clear this page is new. He also doesn’t have that many friends in the grand scheme of things, and they don’t interact with him much beyond liking stuff and giving generic “cool, bro!” comments.

  My hackles rise, and something else tugs at my attention. Anthony Helston.

  His “friends” call him Tony.

  Tony Helston.

  That would make his initials T.H.

  I feel sick. Surely that’s a coincidence. Didn’t Amy say she’d been talking to him for a while on the horror site? There are links to one all over his profile, so I click one. I wonder if I can work out who he is.

  By the looks of it, he’s Freekydeeky. I think Amy is, unsurprisingly, HorrorSparkle02, because they’ve been interacting a lot over the last month, and I don’t think anyone else would choose a username like that unless they were being horribly ironic. They do indeed talk a lot about Evil Dead films. It says he’s been a member since September this year.

  Okay, take a deep breath. Don’t call her just yet. You’ve got one last test.

  I download “Anthony’s” photos. Run them through a reverse image search.

  I sigh wearily.

  World, say hello to Rafael Martinez. He’s Argentinian. He has a girlfriend who, rather ironically, looks a little bit like Amy. I’m not sure of his overall interests, given he writes all his posts in Spanish, but he wears a lot of Evil Dead T-shirts and has a life-size cutout of Bruce Campbell. He likes to pose with it.

  A horrible, twitchy sense of déjà vu washes over me. I have absolutely no evidence that “Tori” is behind this, but I know in my gut that she must be. She never liked Amy. Always insulted her. She also knew that I do like Amy, and hurting her would hurt me.

  But this began well before our argument. By the looks of it, she set up this account within a week or so of her first contacting me, even before we shared Facebook details. Since I keep my Facebook profile under wraps, that’s worrying, to say the least. It means she knew about Amy long before I told her about her.

  And how the fuck did she know Amy likes horror films? I didn’t know until a couple of weeks ago.

  Was she planning this all along?

  This is so twisted. If I weren’t sickened by it, I’d probably feel some grudging admiration for its deviousness.

  I can’t tell Amy about this yet. I have to gather as much evidence as I can and show her. Because I’m about to break her heart.

  56: #honest

  I know Amy will be in lectures for most of the day, so I have to risk an evening visit. Amy is pretty excited about this. I might have been, too, if I weren’t planning to trash what she thinks is the love of her life.

  I gather up all my evidence. I’ve got my phone, and I pack my laptop, which has a folder on it with everything I can find. It’s dark when I get the bus; I hug my bag close to me, as if it’s some kind of shield. />
  Amy’s stop is next. I wonder if the driver would let me off early so I can throw up in the bushes?

  From the bus stop, it’s only a short walk to Amy’s halls. I set off way too fast, and before I know it, I’m a panting, sweating mess. Although that might be the anxiety attack that’s threatening to take over me. I take in a huge breath, but rather than ease the tightness in my chest, it makes it worse.

  Now at the communal door to her halls. The button is just there. Come on, Beth. You’ve got loads of evidence that “Anthony” isn’t who he says he is—you don’t even have to mention your suspicions about Tori. You’re just looking out for a friend. You care about her and don’t want her to get hurt. For once in your miserable life, you’re doing the right thing. Okay, so it’s making you feel like you’ve been shot in the stomach, but sometimes the right thing isn’t the easy thing. Etc. etc. etc., yadda yadda yadda.

  I press the bell. For a moment, I kind of hope no one answers. But before I can kid myself that I’ve waited for a socially acceptable amount of time and leave, the intercom crackles.

  “Yep?”

  It’s Patrick. Oh joy.

  “Hi Patrick, it’s Beth—”

  “Big Bird! Wow, it’s been ages since you’ve been here. Hang on, buzzing you up . . .”

  The door indeed buzzes and unclicks.

  No excuses now.

  In the lift, I’m not sure my legs can actually hold me up. How come doing something right feels so fucking wrong? I don’t think life will ever make sense to me.

  Amy’s floor. The door’s already open.

  “H-hello?” I call out.

  A head pokes out from around the corner of the communal kitchen area. “Hey BB! She’s in!”

  I nod at Patrick as Amy’s bedroom door opens. She runs out, all smiles and glitter, and gives me a hug.

  “Hey, hun!” She’s beaming. Oh, why does she have to be beaming? “Wanna drink?”

  “Yes,” I say, a little too quickly.

  “Voddie and Coke? I would offer something better, but someone”—she yells it out—“nicked all the tequila and margarita mix.”

  Patrick’s head pokes back out. “Whoopsie!”

  Amy pokes her tongue out at him, and he roars with laughter. “Anyway,” she says as she turns back to me, “I took your advice and keep it all in my room now. Means it’s room temperature, but at least I get to drink it.”

  She wanders back into her room. I follow her, stiff and nervy. She gets two plastic tumblers out and pours generous measures. I down mine in one.

  “Wow, you really needed that. You okay? You seem . . . weird.”

  That’s an understatement.

  I sit on her bed and pull my bag onto my lap. Now that I’m here, I have no idea how to start this, despite having gone over it about a million times in my head. Amy, you know that guy Anthony you told me about? Well, he isn’t who he says he is. I’m sorry, Amy, but Anthony isn’t real. Amy, hun, you won’t want to hear this, but you have to—

  “Uh, I, uh, I have something to show you.” I pull out my laptop and turn it on. Oh, God, why did I turn it off? It’s going to take an age to reboot now, and Amy’s going to ask questions—

  “What’s that? Why have you brought your laptop with you?” Bingo . . . “You could have used mine.” She gestures with one hand to her far more expensive model. “What’s going on?”

  I tap in my password. Hurry up, come on come on come on . . .

  “Beth, what is it?”

  She sets her drink down and sits next to me. I can feel how tense she is. There’s a little crease between her eyes as she frowns. God, she’s adorable. Am I really going to do this to her?

  Finally, my laptop springs to life. “What’s your Wi-Fi password?” I ask.

  “Uh, hang on.” She gets back up and squints at a sticker stuck to her noticeboard. “47245KLF.”

  I nod and finally bring up my Facebook. I also find the little folder I’ve stored all my evidence in, and start selecting images.

  “What have you got there? Hey, that’s Anthony. Why have you saved his pictures?” There’s a hint of annoyance there now. Maybe I should start explaining.

  “Because—he’s not Anthony,” I say. I bring up Raphael Martinez’s Instagram page. “He is.”

  Amy grabs my laptop and starts clicking on pictures. The little crease between her eyes deepens. “What is this?”

  “You’ve been catfished, Amy,” I say, as gently as I can. “I looked because it happened to me, and I don’t want you to go through the same thing—”

  “Wait a minute! I told you about Anthony, and the first thing you do is go and authenticate him? Bloody hell, Beth!”

  She’s angry, and she has every right to be. Now, if I can just get her to look at the other evidence, then she can turn that anger onto “Anthony.”

  “I know, it’s shitty, and if he had been authentic I would never, ever have brought this to you, but he isn’t. Look. He’s using this guy’s image to lure you in. Didn’t it strike you as weird that his Facebook account is so new? And that he made it shortly after he met you on the horror site?”

  “He was hacked! Like you! He had to make a new account!”

  “I guessed he might tell you something like that, but Amy, this could be really bad. Really, really bad. You see, the dates—his name—I think it’s the same person who hacked my account—”

  “Jesus Christ, now you just sound paranoid.”

  And I do, I know I do. But I also know I’m right.

  “I know how all this sounds, but please, listen to me. It all adds up. I met ‘Tori’ online. She pretended to like all the things I did, and I thought I loved her and that she loved me. She stole another woman’s identity to lure me in, and then burned everything I had to the ground. And now I think she’s trying to do the same thing to you.”

  “And why the hell would she do that?” Amy drains her drink and slams the cup down so hard the plastic cracks. “I don’t see the connection.”

  I take in a deep breath. Here goes nothing. “I think she’s doing this to hurt me. She knows that by humiliating you, I’ll be upset—”

  “Are you kidding me? You think this is about you? I meet a guy online, and all of a sudden, it’s about you?” Amy stands up slowly, her face hardening. “Fucking hell, Beth. I guessed the whole student thing might have been a cry for help. It upset me at first, but Christ, we’ve all been there, so I was willing to give you another chance. But this? This is sick!”

  “But the photos—”

  “All that proves is he nicked some good-looking guy’s photos. Doesn’t mean he isn’t real.”

  “Amy, look at it! This is classic! Whoever this is, they’re playing us like fools. You have no idea how dangerous this person is, what they are capable of. It goes beyond just hacking your account and posting vile pictures. They will try to take control of every single aspect of your life, to break you down, to destroy you—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Listen to yourself. No one gives enough of a fuck about anyone to do that—”

  “Amy, stop being so naive all the time! I know what they’re capable of, because I used to do it myself!”

  She’s now giving me a “cute bird is confused” look, with her head cocked to one side and a whole new frown in place. “Do what yourself?”

  I close my eyes, because the time has come. I’d hoped to put it off as much as I could, but there was no way I was going to be able to keep this to myself forever. Wish me luck.

  “I was a troll. That’s how I know this person. She said her name was Tori. I mean, I dunno if it’s a she, but let’s assume that for now. She complimented me a lot, and I fell for it. We used to go trolling together. We targeted the pretty girls—you know, the yoga-doing, vegan-eating skinny bitches who everyone adores. It was only when Dizzy hurt herself that I realized it was wrong, and I stopped . . .”

  “Hold on, what does this have to do with Dizzy?”

  Oh shit. Had kind of meant to h
old that bit back.

  “I—seeing what happened with Dizzy made me realize I had to stop, because I’d done that to other people and . . .”

  The frown clears as the light dawns. “Oh my God. Did you troll Dizzy?” she whispers.

  “I didn’t mean for anything bad to happen! It only started because she was so mean to you, so stuck up, and so I thought we might teach her a lesson—”

  “Jesus Christ, Beth,” Amy whispers.

  “I know, but then Tori took it to a whole other level, beyond anything I intended, and that’s what I’m trying to tell you. If this is the same person, they’ll prey on your weaknesses, and before you know it, it’s all gone to shit.” My throat closes over. I can’t say anything else.

  Amy’s eyes are bright, both with anger and unshed tears. “So there’s us, thinking you were a real hero, helping us sort out Dizzy, when in fact—you were responsible for tormenting her in the first place?”

  No point in making excuses now. All I can do is nod.

  “Get the fuck out,” she whispers.

  “Amy—”

  “No! Get the fuck out of my room. You’re fucking toxic, Bethany. I’ve given you so many chances, and every single time, you let me down. Fuck you. I am done with you. So get out. Now!”

  She’s yelling, and I’m cringing. I deserve this.

  I grab my laptop and stumble to Amy’s door as she continues to shriek at me. In the corridor, Indigo, Richard, and Patrick are staring at me, eyes owl-wide.

  “What’s going on?” Indigo asks.

  I can’t answer her, but Amy can. From her room, she calls out: “Beth trolled Dizzy. She’s responsible for what happened. I can’t fucking believe it!”