Fugly

by Claire Waller

  Indigo’s eyes harden. Patrick and Richard look confused.

  “You did what?” Indigo snarls.

  “Beth, why?” Patrick asks, a little hoarsely. At least he used my real name this time.

  “I can’t—”

  “Fuck off,” Indigo says. “Fuck off, and don’t come back. You are not welcome here anymore.”

  Judging by the way her hands are clenched into hard fists, I’m guessing she wants to hurt me. Behind me, Amy is sobbing. There’s nothing I can do but bolt out of the door.

  57: #dotherighthing

  I can’t think. My usual deal of catastrophizing to the point of panic doesn’t go far enough this time, because there is nothing to catastrophize about: the worst has literally happened. I have lost everything.

  I wander the streets, not even caring if anyone sees me. My usual tactics for remaining invisible are all but forgotten. I check Facebook on my phone; my “friends” are dropping like flies.

  Shame doing the right thing doesn’t cancel out all the other shitty stuff I’ve done.

  I try to call Amy. My phone rings once and then goes straight to voicemail. Looks like she’s already blocked me. I leave a message anyway.

  “Amy, it’s Beth. I’m sorry for all of this, but please—listen to me. Don’t let this Anthony fool you. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you. I understand if we can’t be friends anymore, I can accept that, I just want to keep you safe. Nothing else.”

  I’m surprised at how calm I sound. I’m beyond tears, beyond hysteria. There is nothing left for me to do but walk and pray and despair.

  I have no idea what time it is when I get home. Everything’s dark, so it must be late. I can’t hear the TV, so I’m guessing Mum’s gone to bed. I know I should check, but I don’t. I don’t even raid the fridge or check the biscuit tin. I just trudge upstairs and lie fully clothed on my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  Whatever happens next, it is totally out of my hands.

  But I still can’t help wondering why “Tori” would do this. What do they get out of it? I could kind of understand doing the public internet thing, because you can watch that play out—it’s there for everyone to see. But this? This feels pointless. Tori is not here to see this happen. Unless she is . . .

  I shake my head. No. Don’t want to even consider the possibility that Tori is someone I know. Although that would make sense . . .

  I curl myself up into a ball, or do as good a job as I can. No knee-hugging here; not with this stomach. Oh, Amy, I’ve really fucked this up, haven’t I? I should have left well enough alone. I thought I was being so clever. Dizzy was a bitch to you, and to me. All I wanted to do was to punish her for it. I actually lied when I told Tori I thought she was okay, because deep down, I still think she was nasty. It’s funny how everyone has forgotten how prickly she was, how judgmental she could be. No, she’s an angel now. All sins forgiven.

  I wonder if my sins would be forgiven if I hurt myself, too.

  It’s a seductive thought. It wouldn’t be hard. Lots of knives in the kitchen. You don’t even need a big one. Just a sharp one. Run a fruit knife through the sharpener a few times, then slice your skin like it’s a good, rare steak—easy-peasy. Instant sympathy. Instant forgiveness. A blood sacrifice to wash away all sins.

  I risk a peek at Facebook and instantly regret it.

  Two faced bitch.

  Ruin her life.

  Can’t believe I trusted you.

  Fat cow

  You’ll get yours, fat bitch.

  Turns out, Tori didn’t have to mention Dizzy to destroy me; I’ve managed to do that all by myself. What makes this even better is that I don’t even know who half these people are.

  Two Facebook pages in less than a month. Wow. Even MidnightBanshee would have been impressed with that turnover.

  ***

  I must have fallen asleep, because it’s morning now and I don’t remember dawn happening. My phone is out of charge, my laptop unplugged, and I think they’re going to remain that way.

  I don’t get up. Even dragging myself out to use the loo requires a conscious effort. Why not lie here in my own piss? It’s what I deserve.

  Nothing to do. Nothing to say. Nothing to live for.

  Funny, it wasn’t that long ago when every day was like this. But I didn’t know what I was missing then. I do now.

  I’m sorry, Mum. I get it now.

  58: #IWIN

  In the end, it’s hunger that gets the better of me, forcing me out to feed the beast. It’s been grumbling away for a while now, making me feel weak and weepy. I grab a packet of biscuits, a couple of bags of crisps, and some mini cheeses from the fridge, along with a couple of cans of Coke: all food I don’t have to worry about preparing. I go back upstairs and scarf down the lot without tasting any of it.

  Later, I plug in my laptop, simply so I can watch something. Maybe a movie will fill the yawning void inside me, or at least help me ignore it for a couple of hours. As I log into Netflix, in the corner of my screen, a notification pops up: an email.

  I almost don’t look. Why bother? It’s probably just more hate. But I do despise an untidy inbox. And can it really be worse than what I’ve already seen?

  I click on the notification. I don’t recognize the email address. The subject line is empty. Weird.

  I open the email. It contains two hyperlinked words.

  I WIN

  My stomach lurches. I know exactly who this is from.

  I hover the mouse cursor over the words, revealing a link to a video hosting site I don’t recognize. It could be anything. Well, whatever it is, it’s probably loaded with malware, so I’d better leave it be.

  Unless . . .

  No. Delete it. Don’t invite her back in. Get rid of it. Close the book. No more. Do what thou wilt, for I am done with thee.

  That works for about an hour. I start watching something suitably trashy, but even that can’t smother my curiosity. I win. Win at what? She already destroyed my life weeks ago. What else could she do?

  Oh God. Amy. I thought setting her up to get her heart broken by an online boyfriend was bad enough, but if there’s more—

  Screw malware; I have to know what’s going on. I click the hyperlink. It takes a couple of seconds for it to load, and even longer for me to work out what is going on, but when I do, my insides turn glacial.

  The footage is low res, exactly what you’d expect from a cheap, built-in webcam.

  It shows Amy. In her dorm.

  She’s not doing much, just sitting at her desk. I’ve got a fantastic shot of her cleavage, because she’s wearing a tank top and I am obviously watching her via her laptop webcam. I know she’s oblivious to the presence, because she spends a good fifteen seconds delicately excavating her nose with her little finger before wiping it on her knee.

  In the corner of the screen are two little red numbers. At first, I don’t know what they mean, but when they change, I realize they’re a countdown. That can’t be good. What is Tori going to do? Arrange a private floorshow? But how would she even do that?

  I sit, gnawing on my fingers. I have to tell Amy. Warn her. But she won’t listen to me. I reach out for my phone, fumbling it a couple of times, but before I can find Amy’s number, another email pops up. This one is from a different account and is also anonymous. This time, the link says:

  GAME OVER

  What the ever-living fuck?! Tori has obviously scheduled this to send when the other one was opened, which means she’s monitoring me. I glance up—the little bit of tape I’ve put over my webcam is still there, thank God. This time, I don’t hesitate clicking the link.

  This one is from an image hosting site. When it finally loads, I’m presented with a screenshot, showing a snippet of conversation between two people in a private chatroom.

  The man is called Pete.

  The woman . . . Amy.

  Pete: I’ll be in the carpark. U walk past, lookin at ur phone. U dont notice me. Im in the shadows, near
my van. I walk behind u and say ur name.

  Amy: Omg, this is so hot. I’ll answer “yeah” and then u grab me and drag me into the van.

  Pete: u gotta fight tho, or it won’t work. Won’t feel real.

  Amy: oh ill scream good. Ud better tape my mouth shut before someone calls the cops. ;)

  Pete: I’ll be ready, babe. U fight me, and I’ll give u the ride of ur life . . .

  It carries on like this. I want to say it’s just a fantasy, it’s okay, some people have those—but this isn’t just a conversation. This is two people arranging to live out that fantasy. And one of those people has got to be Tori, pretending to be Amy. Setting Amy up.

  It’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.

  I’ve also figured out what the red counter on her webcam is for.

  It’s counting down the hours before Amy meets “Anthony” on Saturday night.

  ***

  Amy’s still blocking my number, but I still ring her a million times, leaving increasingly desperate voicemails, begging her to ring me back. I even resort to stalking her on Facebook; she’s so naive that her settings are public, so it isn’t hard. I don’t even have to log in, so I can avoid the torrent of hate. #winning.

  She seems to have calmed down. She’s sharing a lot of stuff about her Saturday plans, tagging “Anthony” into every post, while he in turn expresses his excitement over finally meeting “his girl.” I can see why she’s fallen for him—he’s as adorable as she is. She deserves someone like him. Or would, if he were real.

  By Friday morning, I’m having major panic attacks. I didn’t sleep a wink the night before, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get Amy to pick up. So I do the only thing left at my disposal: I go to her halls.

  I know there’s a very good chance I’m going to get punched. If I had to lay money, I’d put it on Indigo, peace-loving vegan though she is (unless she’s drunk, of course). But a black eye is a very small price to pay when it comes to saving your best friend from an orchestrated assault.

  There’s a little part of me that’s still hoping all of this is a hoax. Surely, even Tori can’t be this evil. The webcam thing is bad enough, but setting up Amy to unsuspectingly meet someone with a very sick fantasy, who thinks she’s consented to acting that fantasy out? That’s way beyond anything I’d thought her capable of. Beyond criminal, beyond vile, beyond evil.

  I sit near the front of the bus, staring straight ahead. I twist my fingers together, over and over, practicing what I have to say in my head, because I know I’m only going to get one shot at this; no time for umming or ahhing, just straight up “You’re in danger. Look at this.”

  I’ve saved the screenshot as evidence on my phone, and I have the link to the video hosting already set up. All I have to do is get someone to look at it. It doesn’t even have to be Amy, it just has to be someone who knows her, who likes her, who cares.

  Amy’s stop. I march off despite my legs feeling weak, my chest feeling wobbly, my phone in hand just in case I bump into someone on the way.

  I don’t. No one is around. I check the time: four o’clock. She should be back from lectures. Unless she’s gone to the union. Oh, God, please don’t let her be there. It’s hard enough doing this here.

  Okay. Coming up to her halls now. I dart my head around, looking for any signs of life, but everything’s quiet. I reach up to press the buzzer with trembling hands, unsure if I have the strength.

  One second. Two. Three. Come on, someone has to be in. Someone’s always in. Dare I press again? Maybe I should. Just to be su—

  “Yep?”

  Oh, bollocks. It’s Indigo. If there’s one person I’m not going to convince, it’s her.

  “Hi Indigo, I know you don’t want to see me, but I really need to talk to Amy, or show something to you, this is not me fucking about, I mean it, she’s in real dang—”

  “Seriously? I thought we made it clear last time that you’re not welcome here, Beth. Fuck off.”

  “I know, but she’s in danger, just please let me up—”

  The line goes dead.

  Tears of frustration and dread sting the backs of my eyes. Well, screw her. I’m going to wait. They can’t stay up there forever. At some point, one of them has to go out, and then I’ll pounce.

  I don’t care what I have to do. I’m going to warn Amy.

  59: #PlanB

  I sit by the rubbish bins. It feels fitting. Plus, it’s a bit hidden and not too far away from the communal entrance, so if someone opens the door, I should be able to dart up and catch it before it closes.

  Yeah, stop snickering at the back. I can totally dart when I want to.

  I’ve been here for half an hour now. It’s cold, and my bum’s gone numb, but I’ll stay here all night if I have to.

  I hear the unmistakable chatter of other people heading this way. I risk a glance around the bins. No one I know, but they’re getting closer. And closer. And . . . yes! They’re punching in the code to the door! Wish Amy had given me that. Never thought to ask. If I was in a movie, I’d be squinting purposefully now, memorizing the sequence, but yeah—that ain’t gonna happen. Instead I scramble up to a crouch, ignoring the burst of fizzing agony in my buttocks as they come back to life.

  I have to time this right. The door is heavy, and so it takes a good few seconds to swing closed. They’re heaving the door open . . . and going through . . . and RUN! Or, you know, stagger over as quickly as I can and catch the door handle by my fingertips. Whatever works, right?

  I wait for the lift to take me to Amy’s floor, praying to every single god I can think of that the door to her floor is open. That would make things so much easier. Won’t have to deal with any gatekeepers then—just head directly to Amy’s room. Or maybe she’ll be in the kitchen.

  Up, up, up . . . and relax. The lift comes to a stop, and the door opens, and Prayer #1 is dashed: the door is shut. Bugger. Well, time to pull up my big girl pants and knock.

  Now, if I was clever, I might have thought about printing off some screenshots so I could write down what was going on, then slip it under Amy’s front door, and yes, I hate myself for not thinking of that a couple of hours ago when I was at home, but oh well, too late now.

  I wait. I can hear movement from behind the door, then a shout of “You answer it, you lazy bastard!” followed by some more muffled conversation, and finally a rattle and a click as someone unlocks the door.

  Thank the gods, it’s Amy.

  Her expression goes from benign to shocked in a split second. The clock is ticking.

  “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I need you to listen to me,” I manage to garble out. Amy is working her mouth, obviously trying to find her voice, but thankfully, her astonishment at my audacity is stopping her from telling me exactly where I can go. “Just five minutes, then I’ll be gone and you’ll never have to see me again—”

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” This comes from behind Amy. “What did I tell you before? Have you been hanging around, waiting to sneak in? Jesus, you’re fucking psycho.”

  “Indigo, I know, I’m sorry, but this is important—”

  “Like fuck it is. Amy, just walk away. Beth, I don’t know what you think you’re going to achieve by doing this, but I’ll lay it out as plainly as I can. I know you fancy her, but she does not fancy you. Whatever it is you have planned, it isn’t going to work, okay? Now leave, before I call the police.”

  Wait—what? My mouth gapes open. I don’t fancy Amy! Do I?

  I do think she’s pretty and sweet and OH MY GOD, this is so not the time to be worrying about these things!

  I fumble with my phone, trying to open it so I can show her the screenshot, the webcam footage, everything that proves she’s in real danger, but Patrick and Richard have joined Indigo now; Patrick looks a bit sheepish, and Richard just looks scared, but then again, Richard always looks vaguely scared. Amy, on the other hand, is giving me a look that might just, if you squint at it, contain a morsel of curiosity. I n
eed to seize that . . .

  I manage to get a “please” out before Indigo drags Amy back and slams the door in my face.

  “I mean it!” she yells through the door. “If we see you around here again, we’re calling the cops!”

  Amy didn’t get a word in edgewise. If she was less worried about what other people thought of her, she might have been able to tell Indigo to leave her alone and let her fight her own battles. But she isn’t, not that I’m in any position to judge her for that.

  I let out a long, furious sigh that wants to be a scream. If only I’d thought of printing off some screenshots!

  But that probably wouldn’t have worked either, because everyone knows Photoshop exists. They’d probably accuse me of staging it as just another example of how mental I am.

  I leave the building and trudge toward the bus stop. No point hanging around halls; it’s dark and it’s cold and I’m hungry and I really do think Indigo would call the cops if she found me there, and I don’t put it past her to check. I’d think she was being a good friend if it wasn’t for the fact that she’s also being a complete dumb bitch. Does she seriously think I’m only doing this because I fancy Amy?

  Of course I don’t fancy Amy! I just want to keep her safe.

  60: #PlanC

  So, on to Plan C.

  I know where Amy is going to be: in town, at the Christmas light switch-on, hoping to meet Anthony. But Anthony isn’t going to be there. Instead, a creepy dude who fantasizes about raping people will be.

  From what I saw, Rapey Pete thinks he is arranging to meet Amy in the car park. The main car park next to the square is an old multistory one, which is exactly the kind of place I’d expect to meet someone like Rapey Pete if I were writing a screenplay.

  I’d like to think that Amy’s sensible enough not to go meet someone in a multistory car park, or that if she does she’d take her friends with her. But Tori’s a master manipulator, and who knows what poison she’s been dripping into Amy’s ear to get her to do what she wants.