by Andrea Mara
My mother doesn’t believe in displays of emotion, even in mourning.
“It’s a sign that she’s upset, Mum, that’s what I need to focus on. She’s a good kid, acting out because of everything that’s going on. Which if you think about it, is a positive thing, because now I know there’s something up.”
“Parents today are too soft. You never did anything like that as a child, and you’d have been in trouble if you did.”
“Oh, don’t I know it!” I roll my eyes, but it hurts my head. I need to end this conversation. “Listen, my headache is getting worse – I think I need to sleep it off,” I tell her, disconnecting the call while she’s still saying goodbye.
The pain is screaming at me now, and I lie down flat on the couch. There’s paracetamol in the cabinet in the bathroom but I don’t have it in me to walk up to get it, and now my eyes are closed.
When I open my eyes, everything is dark. A tiny shard of fear flicks through my stomach in those first seconds when I don’t know where I am or why I’m asleep. Then it comes back. Sitting up, I put my hand to my head, bracing myself for pain, but it’s gone. How long have I been asleep? And where are the girls? I pick up my phone to check the time. After six. Jesus, I’ve been asleep for two hours. There’s a noise upstairs, then a laugh. Ava, on the phone I think. I flop back on the couch, still disoriented after the unexpected sleep, and click into my email to find a message from VIN.
Hello, Sleeping Beauty. Did you have a nice nap? Shall I send a handsome prince to wake you? Or perhaps, for you, a Huntsman.
I sit up, shaking, blood pounding in my ears. How could he have known I was asleep?
Suddenly the room is far too dark, suffocating. I pull myself off the couch and run to the light switch, half afraid of what I might see, but desperate for brightness to fill the corners. The curtains are open – was someone looking in while I was asleep? Has he worked out where I live? Even if he’s figured out that LePhoto is Lauren Elliot, surely there’s no way to find out my address. Could he have he pieced it together from pictures I’ve taken in and around the house, like a digital jigsaw puzzle? My mind races ahead of my hands as I fumble to close the curtains.
Upstairs I can still hear Ava’s laugh, but I haven’t heard Rebecca yet. Something prickles across my skin.
“Rebecca?” I call, walking to the kitchen, but it’s in darkness.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I check her room. It’s empty, and she’s not in the bathroom either. In Ava’s room, I signal at her to hang up the phone. She covers it and asks what’s up.
“Where’s your sister?”
“In her room, I guess – Mum, I’m on the phone!” she says in a loud whisper.
“Can you tell whoever it is you’ll call back. She’s not in her room – didn’t you come home from school together?”
“Yes, of course we did,” she says, after disconnecting her call. “She was just behind me, I left the door open for her.”
“Well, she’s not here now – did she say she was going back out anywhere? Did she go up to your dad’s?”
“No, Nadine’s there this afternoon, so she wouldn’t. But what’s the panic? She’s thirteen, not three!”
With the Huntsman email still ringing in my ears, I lower my voice and try to sound calmer.
“I know. But I’d feel better if I knew where she was.”
“Well, I heard the front door open and close about ten minutes after we came home, but I thought it was you.”
“No, I was home before you, I fell asleep on the couch. Are you sure she didn’t say anything?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Here, try her on the phone,” she says, handing me her mobile.
I call Rebecca’s number and wait, willing her to pick up, but it rings out. Could she be gone to a friend’s house – maybe she asked me and I forgot? I go back down to get my own phone to search for numbers, trying to work out where to start. Shit, shit, shit. What if it has something to do with the message from VIN – was he outside our house while I was sleeping? Could he have convinced Rebecca to go with him? Jesus Christ. I need to think clearly but everything is blurring now, dizzy and hot, and I’m spiralling, staring at the useless phone in my hand.
The doorbell rings, and my head snaps up. It only takes a fraction of a second to register the dark hat and high-vis jacket through the glass. I yank open the door. My stomach flops and my knees loosen and I have to lean against the door-jamb. Oh please God, no.
“Are you Rebecca Elliot’s mother?”
My eyes go past his face and out to the road outside where I can see a Garda car, with a second Guard inside. I look back at the man standing in front of me.
“Yes. Please, just tell me Rebecca’s okay.”
“She will be. We found her down on the rocks below the East Pier in Dún Laoghaire. I’m afraid she’s been drinking. A passerby saw her stumbling close to the water’s edge, and thought she looked intoxicated, so gave us a call. We went down and picked her up. Obviously, as she’s a minor we needed to make sure we got her home safely. Did you know where she was, Mrs Elliot? Or where she got the drink?” The guard holds up a Lucozade bottle. “It’s gin or vodka inside, I can’t tell which,” he says. “Is it from your house? It’s a good idea to keep drink under lock and key.”
I nod but I’m hardly listening. Rebecca is okay.
“Is she in the car? Can I go out to her?”
He steps aside and I run out. The guard follows and opens the back door of the car for me. Rebecca is lying back against the seat, with her eyes closed.
“Rebecca!”
Her eyes open but it takes her a moment to focus. Then she smiles.
“Hi, Mum, I’m so tired. Can you take me to my bed?”
Reaching in, I help her out of the car and into the house. Behind me, I hear the Guard follow, but he stays on the doorstep.
“Best to keep a close eye on them at that age. No harm done this time, but it could have ended badly if she’d slipped in. On a dark evening like this, nobody would notice at all.”
Nodding my thanks, I close the door, and let out a deep breath. Rebecca is sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, with her head against the wall, muttering something about neighbours and Doctor Who.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
She looks blankly at me, then her eyes open wide. “Mum, I feel a bit sick,” she says, and before I can do anything, she vomits all over the floor.
Distracting though it is to manhandle a drunken teen to bed, I can’t get the Huntsman message out of my mind. Everything he’s said to date could be gathered from what I’ve posted online, but even I didn’t know I was going to nap until it happened. I’m sitting in bed mulling it over when a text comes through from my mum, asking me if the sleep helped clear my headache. A tingling feeling takes hold in the pit of my stomach. I’d told her on the phone I was going to sleep it off – was somebody listening? Could he have somehow hacked into my phone to eavesdrop on to my calls? Wondering if I’m losing it and glad nobody can see me, I type ‘Can hackers tap mobile phones and listen to calls?’ into Google. And the answer, according to a full page of search results, is an overwhelming yes. The tingling sensation grows as I click through the links, one after another. If the articles are to be believed, all any hacker needs is a mobile-phone number in order to listen to calls and read texts.
But how could VIN have my mobile number? I know it’s not on any of my social-media accounts, but I check anyway, going through all my profiles. It’s not on my website either. So how could he have it? Then it dawns on me. It’s in my email signature. I click in to check and there it is, along with my social-media contact details – when I replied to tell him Cleo’s name was Giulia, my signature was automatically attached to the email. VIN has my phone number – I handed it to him on a plate.
Chapter 37
It’s Friday night and the girls are getting ready to go for an overnight in Dave’s. He insisted on calling down to get them – I suspect it has som
ething to do with rubbing salt in the Rebecca-on-the-rocks wound. Sure enough, as soon as he arrives on the doorstep, he starts.
“Do you think we should search her bag?” he stage-whispers when I beckon him into the hall.
“What?”
“For drink, I mean. We’ve locked everything away in our house – well, Nadine doesn’t keep much drink in the house anyway – but she might have taken some from here again? Or have you got rid of it now? Or at least hidden it?”
There it is. The blame. As though the house is teeming with bottles of vodka, tempting curious teens.
“No, Dave, we don’t need to search her bag. She was so sick on Wednesday night, and again yesterday morning, I don’t think she’ll drink again for a long time.”
He glances up the stairs. Music wafts down – the girls are packing, and can’t hear us. He whispers anyway. “Still, you never know. Maybe best to just get rid of whatever’s in the house so she isn’t tempted again? I know you like a drink at night but this is about what’s best for the kids. We need to think of them now.”
“Oh now, come on! You know she didn’t steal vodka and go drinking down by the sea on a Wednesday afternoon because there was vodka in the house – she did it because she’s desperately upset that her parents have split up, and she’s crying for help in any way she can.”
His face turns a wonderful shade of red and his hands are on his hips, and it takes everything in my power not to go one step further and point out that the split is on him. I change the subject instead.
“But listen, on another note entirely, I heard the rumours about the hospital board and the guy that got fired – is it true?”
His colour subsides and his hands slip into his pockets, and I spend ten minutes feigning interest and nodding in all the right places.
The girls are still upstairs when Dave gets to the end of his saga, and we stand in silence for a moment. I can see my breath, smoky in the half-light – the old floor tiles don’t retain any heat. Half-heartedly I suggest tea. Dave says he was just about to say the same, and strides on through to the kitchen to boil the kettle.
“Girls, hurry up, your dad is here!” I yell up the stairs, and follow him.
He’s searching through cupboards for teabags, confused because I rearranged everything last week.
“By the way, I got a new phone today and a new number,” I tell him, pulling out the sleek device that made my eyes water when I heard how much it cost.
“A new number?”
“Yeah, just a precaution really, but I think the person stalking me online might have managed to tap my phone too.”
“Surely they can’t do that – it’s illegal, isn’t it?” Dave says, finally locating the teabags.
“Sure, but I don’t imagine internet trolls are all that worried about legalities. My old phone was in bits anyway after one too many falls – it needed replacing. The new number is a bit of a pain, but it won’t take long to give it to people who need it. Maybe I won’t tell my mum.”
He smiles at that, and for a moment it’s like old times.
A stack of work files clutters the table and I move it over to the counter.
“How are things going in work for you – with that guy who was being difficult?” Dave asks, glancing at the files. “Do you think he’s the one sending you the internet messages?”
“I don’t know. He’s definitely interested in creeping me out, but the VIN messages don’t sound like him.”
Dave carries the teapot to the table, remembering for the first time ever to put a stand underneath it. Nothing like stable doors and horses bolting, I think, running my finger over one of the countless rings burnt into the surface.
“But surely it’s a reasonable conclusion – he’s fixated on you, and he knows how to find you on the internet. Who else could it be?”
I really don’t want to get into the Cleo story with him, so I say nothing about Chris.
“I suppose it could be Leon – that’s probably the most logical explanation, since he did it before.”
Dave is shaking his head. “Ah, it couldn’t be. Sure he’s long gone. I really don’t think it is. Tea?”
I look up at him. Something in his tone transports me to another Friday evening, when we were sitting right where we’re sitting now. It was bright, with May sunshine streaming in the window – I remember Dave was about to make tea and I suggested a glass of wine in the garden instead. He got up to get a bottle of white from the fridge, while I filled him in on the gossip I’d got from Clare. She’d heard that Nadine was cheating on Ollie, her fiancé – the neighbour on the far side had heard a screaming match the night before. Ollie had walked out in the end, yelling something about searching nursing homes for her next affair.
I remember it so clearly now, Dave sitting back down with the bottle and the glasses, shaking his head.
“Nah, I can’t see it happening. They seem solid. I doubt she’d cheat on him. Wine?”
At the time I was surprised he wasn’t interested in my gossip, but nothing more. Jesus, that seems like another world now.
“Any word from your friend in IT?” I ask.
He stops mid-pour, his forehead creased.
“Yeah, he doesn’t work in IT anymore so it’s tricky.”
“Is it not something he could do at home on his own PC?”
“I don’t know. I can ask him . . .”
“Thanks,” I say, despite his distinct lack of enthusiasm. “Look, I might see if Clare can help in case your friend can’t.”
Dave shakes his head. “I doubt there’s anything she can do – you can’t trace an IP address just like that. Don’t ask her yet – leave it with me for now.” He pushes his chair back, forehead still creased. “Right, I’ll go check on the girls – I don’t know how much packing they could need for a one-night stay.”
“Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”
“I better leave it. Nadine’s trying a Moroccan Tagine recipe and she told me not to be long.”
“Homemade?” I ask, holding back a grin.
“Well yes, mostly. Grace put something together earlier to get her started but she’s doing the rest of it herself tonight. Why do you ask?”
“No reason. God, she sounds like a great cook.” I smile at his retreating back, and tonight it’s not even fake.
By ten o’clock, the house is deathly quiet, and my good humour has slipped away. My mind keeps wandering up the street to Nadine’s house, where she’s filling my daughters with Moroccan Tagine and notions about Botox. Curiosity beats common sense, and I click into Snapchat. Rebecca hasn’t let me down – there’s a photo of Dave and Nadine sitting side by side on the couch, arms folded, both gazing at the TV.
Living the dream on Friday night, it’s like being in a not-funny Gogglebox episode, is what Rebecca’s chosen as a caption, and it makes me smile. On my own TV screen, a red-haired actress is being interviewed and, as she pushes a strand out of her eyes, it reminds me that Cleo never replied to my last messages. My fingers hover over WhatsApp, but in the end I opt for an old-school phone-call – a little bit because it’s easier than typing and a lot because the house is too quiet.
She picks up after three rings, sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, and I remember then that she doesn’t have my new number. As I explain who it is, I can hear the TV in the background – we’re all living the Friday-night dream.
When I remind her of the messages I sent last week, she says she’d prefer not to contribute to Caroline’s article, and the second blog post didn’t really illuminate anything for her.
“No voodoo dolls lying around when you went to Chris’s apartment that time then?” I ask.
She laughs at that, or maybe she’s laughing at something on the TV.
“Speaking of Chris,” she says, “I’m flying out to New York on Monday night. It’s mostly to visit my mom, but I’m going to call to Chris’s apartment and have it out with him.”
“What? Are you crazy?”
<
br /> “We want to know if he’s VIN, and the police are taking too long. If I go there and talk to him, we’ll know for sure. I imagine people who hide behind keyboards are taken aback when challenged in real life. So that’s what I’m going to do.”
I’m shaking my head into the phone, trying to find the right words to talk her out of it.
“But he could be dangerous – I really think this is a bad idea.”
“We each have our ways of dealing with it, Lauren. For you, talking to the journalist is the solution. For me, I need to face Chris head on. Whether he’s VIN or not.”
And as I hang up, I wonder how often I get her wrong – this complicated but curiously straightforward woman I’ve inadvertently let into my life.
CLEO
Chapter 38
Nothing has changed. The sidewalk is slithery with rain and the sky is gunmetal grey and the footfall is just as it always was, multi-coloured ants marching the New York streets to start the day at work. Ruth’s apartment is only two blocks from the subway, but to Cleo it feels like ten – pushing against the early-morning crowd, dragging her suitcase behind. Ruth’s left a key in her mailbox and when she lets herself in Cleo flops on the sofa and lies there, inhaling the familiarity.