On top of the list of new emails sits ‘Exposure 4’.
Compelled by a mixture of apprehension and curiosity, I touch the phone screen again to open it. It’s an MPEG and it starts playing immediately. Chaotic, jerky images fill the screen, but then the footage stabilizes enough for me to realize what I’m seeing.
A woman wrapped in a stained white sheet is staring straight into the lens. Her face is pale, her hair a mess, her eyes bloodshot and swollen. Swaying slightly, she takes a step forward, then another one. In a self-conscious gesture, she pulls the dirty sheet tighter around herself. There is something distracted, almost deranged in the way she glares at the camera.
I look away from the screen with a groan. I don’t want to watch myself wriggling on the floor like a lunatic, trying to catch my breath. What I’ve seen so far is bad enough.
But the movie keeps playing and I’m drawn to it, despite myself. It’s a wider shot, a mass of red lines filling the screen. The camera moves away in a mechanical, jerky way, characteristic of drone footage. I can see the whole expanse of my windows, sprayed with red paint. And what I see makes me gasp in surprise. It’s not the random jumble of criss-crossing lines I’d thought it was. It’s a precise and intricate design that forms two words:
I drop the phone and it clatters on the kitchen floor. I turn towards the window, trying to decipher the words in the red labyrinth of lines. And yes, there they are, clearly visible if you know what you’re looking for.
It isn’t a street-art tribute for Anton. It’s not about him. It’s about me.
But what am I supposed to wake up from?
What does it mean?
Suddenly the loft feels hot and stuffy, with the smell of paint still lingering in the air. Well, of course, all the windows are shut. But the thought of having to struggle with the thick layer of red paint in order to crack them open makes me go weak at the knees.
I have to leave this place, right now. I quickly throw a T-shirt and a pair of old jeans on, stuff my wallet, my phone and my car keys into my bag, grab Pixel and head for the door.
24
Taking the cat with me was a mistake. He hates being in the car on a good day, and today he’s picking up on my anxiety, meowing and scratching the upholstery. He should be in a cage but, well, he isn’t. At one point, just as I’m negotiating a busy junction, he jumps onto the headrest behind me and bites the top of my head. I swat him with the back of my hand and he hides under the passenger seat, growling. At least he doesn’t try to climb under my feet.
Soon I leave the congested streets of East London and find myself cruising along the A13. The traffic isn’t bad. The sun is streaming into my eyes, making everything look bleached out. Pixel has fallen silent in his hideaway and Vanessa Feltz is discussing dementia with the Lovely Listeners. I’m driving fast, without a purpose or a map. The speed helps to clear my head and gives me a sense of freedom. I can go anywhere I like. Yes, I should do just that, disappear from my world. Wouldn’t that be nice . . . A large truck overtaking me on the inside blasts its horn and I instinctively hit the brakes. The seat belt digs into my sore ribcage. The car behind me flashes its headlights as it hovers dangerously close to my rear bumper. It’s a white Ford Focus. I cling to the steering wheel with clammy hands and swerve sharply to the left, taking the exit. The white Ford Focus stays on the A13 and disappears into the distance. I take a few cautious deep breaths. Was it following me? In my panic I didn’t notice whether the driver was male or female. But seriously, was I really expecting Mindy/Sandy behind the wheel?
I don’t know exactly where I am, but I’m hoping that if I drive along the smaller country roads for long enough, I’ll eventually reach the coastline. That’s the beauty of living on an island: if you keep driving in more or less one direction, you’re bound to hit the water sooner or later. Unless you’re going round in circles, which is exactly what my life feels like at the moment.
But I’m evidently in luck and after a while the little villages I drive through become quainter and the pubs I pass gain vaguely nautical names. I know I’ve arrived when I see the Plough and Sail. I leave the car off the road by the pub, stuff Pixel into my bag and follow the sign for the boatyard.
The boatyard is a ramshackle collection of dilapidated workshops, rusting shipping containers and geriatric boats. The boat shed along the slipway probably saw its better days a century ago. The whole place smells of neglect and is completely deserted. I decide to skip the crumbling jetty and turn right to follow the edge of the water along a sea wall overgrown with grass. From here I get a clear view of the mudflats and salt marshes. The nagging pain in my side reminds me of my bruised ribcage. I don’t think I’ll be able to walk far, not with Pixel’s weight in my bag. In the distance I see a small hut resembling a tepee. A tepee in Essex? Whatever it is, I’m hoping it’ll offer some respite for my aching body.
It turns out to be a boat, or rather the top half of one, perched upright, its bow pointing at the sky. Its truncated hull forms a cosy shelter, complete with a wide wooden bench. It’s equipped with an old sleeping bag and a rusty kettle resting on two bricks. Just what I’ve been looking for. I sit down with a sigh and release Pixel from the bag. He takes a couple of steps, his body low to the ground, sniffing the air suspiciously. No need to worry he’ll run away. A typical urban cat, out of his element in the countryside, he’ll stick to me like glue. I shake the sleeping bag and check it for unwelcome beasties. It looks remarkably clean. I make a cushion out of it and lie down on the bench. There, perfect. They say the best way to find oneself is to get lost in the wilderness. In the absence of the wilderness, Essex will do nicely.
I stare at the scattered white clouds rolling above me, enjoying the distant cries of shore birds. I realize that for the first time in ages I feel safe. It’s time to reassess the situation in the clear light of day. I force myself to go through recent events. Anton’s death. The ‘Exposure’ emails. Professor Stein’s sudden interest in me. The screw-up with Marcus. Oh God . . .
And the weird wake up message . . . What was that about?
It’s dark and I’m stumbling through mudflats, my feet sinking into black, smelly silt. Each step is a gigantic effort, my shoes making disgusting, smacking sounds in the mud. There is a black bird hovering right above me, its huge wings almost touching me. It shrieks and cackles, flexing its talons like a demented witch. I can’t breathe and I’m running out of steam, I know I won’t be able to fend it off for much longer. It senses my weakness. It lands in the mud in front of me and opens its beak, letting out a bright plume of fire. I brace myself for the scorching heat, but the mud suddenly turns into water and I plunge down. I try to find the bottom with my feet, but it’s deeper than I thought. The water floods my mouth, runs up my nostrils, enveloping me in complete darkness. No, the darkness isn’t complete, there’s a wedge of light somewhere high above me and it scares me even more than the murkiness around me. I know it’s the bird, hovering above the surface of the water, searching for me with its fiery eyes. Except it’s not a bird, it’s a drone sweeping the area with its powerful laser beams. The light shines straight onto me and I know it has found me. There is no point in hiding any more.
‘Wake up!’ I hear a voice.
I choke and open my eyes. It takes me a while to figure out where I am. The smell of sea breeze. The sound of shore birds. The blue sky above my head. I shade my eyes with my forearm and look around. I must’ve slept for quite a while because the sun has moved and the colours are not as bleached out as before. Pixel is sitting at my feet, licking his paw. Right behind him, leaning against the side of the boat that forms one of the walls of the shelter, stands a man. I sit up with a stifled scream, scaring Pixel, who dives off the bench into the bushes. The man stares at me in silence, one of his eyes wandering to the side. I slide along the bench as far as I can away from him, trying to look in control.
‘Can I help you?’ My voice seems tiny and scared.
The man keeps looking at m
e without a word, scratching his thick, greasy hair. I jump up, hastily gathering my belongings.
‘What do you want?’ I’m hoping to sound in control, but it comes out as a whimper.
He nods and screws up his ruddy face, revealing pink gums flanked by two rotting canines. He stretches his hand out towards me, his fingers gnarled and his nails black.
‘Mine,’ he says and licks his lips.
‘No!’ I move back, pressing the bag against my chest. ‘Leave me alone!’
He nods his head again and takes a step forward.
Out of the corner of my eye I see Pixel’s tail twitching in the bush not far from the boat. I lunge in his direction, grab him and run. I reach the end of the sea wall at full speed and turn towards the boatyard. It’s deserted. I cast a quick glance back and am relieved the man isn’t following me. I slow down, trying to catch my breath. My bruised ribcage is on fire again. I manage a few tiny, shallow breaths as I trot towards civilization. After a while I have to stop. I look back but the man has gone.
It takes me ages to reach the Plough and Sail. But I’m in luck, it’s open, and I rush in, winded and sweaty. There is a woman behind the bar unloading a dishwasher and she throws me a curious glance.
‘You all right, love?’
‘Yes . . . No . . . Actually – I’ve just had a bad experience at the boatyard . . .’
‘You one of them then?’ Her friendliness is gone.
‘Sorry?’
‘Developers,’ she hisses.
‘No, I’m not.’ I look at her with wounded innocence.
‘Is that right?’ She eyes me suspiciously.
‘Positive. Why do you ask?’
No one has ever accused me of being an estate agent.
‘The place’s been crawling with them iffy types since they put it up for sale.’
‘The boatyard’s for sale?’
‘Yep.’ She inspects a glass she’s taken out of the dishwasher and begins to polish it fiercely with a tea towel.
‘Oh.’ I sit down on one of the bar stools, unsure whether I should react with outrage or approval.
‘You can say that again.’ She puts the glass on the shelf decisively. ‘So what happened to you down there?’
‘This weird man came up to me . . .’
‘Weird how?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘A bit scary . . .’
‘Lazy eye, missing front choppers, a thatch on top of his head?’
‘Yes! Do you know him?’
‘It’s Boatyard John. He’s always there. Totally harmless. He’s built himself a shelter out of an old boat turned on its stern. A cosy place, with a proper sleeping bag and all. I gave him me old kettle, so he can make a cuppa for himself there. I don’t know what’ll happen to him once they sell the place.’ She shakes her head sadly.
I say nothing, trying to hide my embarrassment. I appropriated the poor man’s shelter and screamed at him when all he was doing was trying to claim it back.
‘He gave you a proper fright, didn’t he?’ She doesn’t try to hide her amusement.
‘Nah,’ I wave dismissively. ‘It was just a bit . . . unexpected.’
‘So you’re not a developer?’
‘I wasn’t last time I checked.’
I feel movement in my bag sitting on the floor by my feet. Pixel is trying to get out. It’s time to go.
I get in the car, release Pixel and watch him in the rear-view mirror as he sets out making a nest for himself on the back seat. So much for my road movie experience. Instead of beginning to get a grip on my life I feel even more shaken and lost. There’s only one safe place left, one person I can turn to.
Thank goodness for Waze on my phone. The brilliant app circumvents all the bottlenecks and gets me to Whitstable in record time. I haven’t announced my visit, but I know Aunt Vero will be home at this hour and she’ll be pleased to see me.
And yes, she’s in. She opens her arms and I fold into them, relishing the warmth of her embrace.
‘So sorry about Anton,’ she whispers into my hair and I let my tears flow freely into her linen top. ‘You’ve been through the wars, Lily Liver . . .’
We stand still for a long time.
Eventually she leads me into her kitchen. It turns out I’m not her only visitor. At the kitchen table, eating her coffee and walnut cake, sits a young man. The fact that she’s baked her pièce de résistance cake for him is significant. As far as I know she’s only ever baked it for three people in her life: her mother, Estefania, her lover Stella and her honorary niece – me. As I see him I have a spoilt-brat moment of feeling jealous and disappointed that she’s made the effort for someone other than me. It’s quickly replaced by the joy of seeing her and the thrill of having a slice of C&W, as she calls it, on my plate.
The young man is Aunt Vero’s first ever lodger. His name is Fly, he comes from Shanghai and is doing a post-grad course at Canterbury. He moved to Aunt Vero’s spare room only five days ago but I can tell they are already very fond of each other. I sense a deep bond between them and it doesn’t take me long to discover what it’s about. Star Trek. Or to be precise, Star Trek: Voyager, all 172 episodes of it. Aunt Vero has never hidden her addiction to the adventures of Captain Janeway and her crew. She even got me on board for a while, until I discovered other pastimes. It turns out that Fly (at least he doesn’t call himself Paris or Tuvok) is equally passionate about the series. I suspect they’ll be spending many hours in the Delta Quadrant together.
We gorge ourselves on the cake, chatting amiably, while Pixel makes himself at home in Vero’s lap. I’m grateful she hasn’t mentioned Anton again. After a while Fly excuses himself and disappears into his room.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ I turn to Aunt Vero with gentle reproach.
‘Tell you what?’
‘That you need money!’
‘Oh, you mean the lodger.’ Aunt Vero chuckles with relief. ‘It’s not about money. I have plenty, no need to worry about me.’
‘What is it about then?’
‘Company. Connection with the modern world. I realized I was becoming a bit of a fuddy-duddy lately. There’s only so much you can talk about with Bridget and Midget. I wanted some young energy in my life. You know, a fellow geek. Someone to swap new apps with, to check out what’s trending. I have you’ – she reaches out and pats my hand – ‘but I know you’re busy and London is a bit far. So I got myself Fly.’
‘Is that his real name?’
‘Of course not. But he was fed up with us butchering his Chinese name. You know Chinese is tonal and each syllable can have four different vocalizations. Not to mention all the different meanings. So he decided to go for something easy for our tone-deaf European ears.’
‘You like him.’
‘I do, he is an absolute darling. And what a breath of fresh air in my life. And he helps me with my bees.’ She pauses, looking at me with her bright, sparkling eyes. ‘You’re not upset, are you?’
‘About Fly? No. I’m glad you’ve found him.’
I try to sound cheerful but I’m suddenly overwhelmed by tears. She fishes a beautifully starched handkerchief out of her pocket and puts it on the table in front of me. And then she waits patiently for me to blow my nose and compose myself.
‘Do you want to talk about it?’
‘No.’ I weave the wet handkerchief in between my fingers. ‘I can’t . . . I can’t keep thinking about Anton . . . it’s been destroying me. I have to find a way of moving forward. Living . . . without him . . . But it’s so painful.’
She nods.
‘The pain. I wish I could tell you it’ll go away. But it never really does. It sits inside you and every time you touch it, it stings. Every time you try to remove it, it burrows itself deeper. But with time you’ll learn how to handle it, gently, on its terms. You’ll learn how to live with it. I promise you that, Lily Liver.’
She gently pushes Pixel off her lap, gets up and leaves the kitchen. She comes back with
two generous glasses of Macallan with a splash of water. She places one in front of me and sits down with a sigh.
‘To Anton. To Stella. And to life.’ She raises her glass.
I take a few sips, the strong whisky burning my throat. But as it starts warming up my stomach, I find myself relaxing. My mind leaves Anton and wanders off in other directions. I tell Vero about my wild-goose chase for Professor Stein’s gallery, the collision at Bunhill Fields, the drone attack and the ‘Exposure 4’ email. But I’m too ashamed to tell her about the episode with Marcus.
When I eventually fall silent, she nods. ‘We need to do something about it.’
I’m grateful she said ‘we’. It implies shared responsibility and it makes me feel less alone.
‘Not sure we can help you with who, but we can certainly have a go at how.’
I look at her, uncomprehending. She winks at me and points at the door. I see Fly hovering in the doorway, a glass of whisky in his hand. She gestures at him to sit down at the table.
‘Fly is doing an MSc in Forensic Computing,’ she announces triumphantly.
He nods and smiles at me. ‘Vero tells me you have a small problem.’
‘Well . . .’
‘I was just telling Fly about your “Exposure” pest before you turned up. I hope you don’t mind.’
Knowing that Vero discussed my private hell with a stranger makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. But I’ve always trusted her judgement.
‘Well . . . I could use all the help I can get.’
‘That’s exactly what I thought.’ Vero makes her voice deeper for effect. ‘Fly used to be a hacker.’
Exposure Page 17