by Amy Cross
“Are you thinking about it right now?” I ask, still trying to think of some way to be sexy. “Or are you thinking about something else? Would you -”
Suddenly I freeze, as I realize I can see something flashing on the screen, outside the window of his apartment. Leaning closer to the screen, I watch as the flashing continues, and slowly I feel a sense of dread creeping through my chest as I realize that it looks a lot like the sign outside the bar where Gemma works.
In fact, it more than looks like the sign.
It is the sign.
This guy's apartment must be right opposite. He's here. He's right here in this town.
“I have to go,” I stammer, putting my left arm across my chest as I grab the mouse and click to end the session. I open the page to check my account, and then I send a full refund to Touched.
Leaning back in the chair, I stare at the blank screen as I feel a rippling sense of nausea in the pit of my belly. Whoever Touched is, he clearly lives just ten minutes from here, and I must have walked past his apartment a hundred times in the last month alone. I guess the whole thing could be a coincidence, but I'm not a fan of coincidences and I hate the idea that there's even a chance of this guy having seen me in real life.
Oh God, I think I might actually be about to throw up.
Suddenly my phone buzzes. Looking over, I see that it's another offer from Touched. I don't even bother to look at the amount. Instead, I swipe to dismiss and then I set my profile so that I'm shown as being away.
“It's okay,” I stammer, trying to stay calm. “He doesn't know where you live. It's fine. It's all just one very big, very creepy coincidence.”
Still, I get dressed really fast, and then I go to sit at my desk, making sure that I can't even see my laptop.
Six
“Louise? Lou! Are you asleep?”
Opening my eyes, I suddenly realize that I must have nodded off. I sit up straight and find that Rick, one of the guys from my class, is standing next to me with a smile on his face.
“Burning the candle at both ends, huh?” he continues, stepping back around the table. “How's the revision going?”
“Fine,” I stammer, looking down at the books I laid out earlier on the library table. Having been unable to concentrate last night after the weird online encounter with Touched, I hoped that coming to the school's library might help me to focus.
Apparently not.
“I'm so screwed with some of these topics,” he mutters, sitting opposite me and starting to pull books from his backpack. “I mean, I thought I had it all figured out, but it's like I can't properly retain old information when I learn new stuff. Is that weird?”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. Worried that it might be Touched again, I check the screen, only to find that Gemma's trying to call. That's odd, considering she's usually asleep until at least noon.
“Hey,” I say as I answer. “What's up?”
***
“God damn it!” she hisses, wincing as the doctor slowly wraps some more tape around her bandaged right hand. “Can't I just have a big shot of morphine and be done with it?”
“Sorry,” the doctor replies with a faint smile. “I can write you a note for some other painkillers, though. I'll be back in a moment.”
With that, he heads out of the room, leaving us sitting alone.
“It's okay,” she whispers to me once he's gone. “I know a guy who can sell me some morphine.”
“I still don't quite get it,” I tell her. “So you were walking home after a shift and -”
“And that psycho weirdo pervert from the bar jumped me!” she mutters darkly. “Comb-over mustache guy! He tried to grab me and pull me into an alley! Can you believe that? I feel sick. I can still feel his clammy hands groping me, reaching up my skirt and under my shirt, squeezing and grabbing and poking. I had a can of mace spray in my bag, but I didn't manage to get it out, so I had to resort to something a little more physical.”
“Is that when you punched the wall?”
“That's when I punched him,” she continues. “Right in the face. Knocked him out cold. Then I punched the wall, 'cause I got spooked and I thought he had a buddy with him.”
“And you called the police?”
“Hell, yeah. Turns out the perv was know to them already. He was accused of grabbing another girl a few years ago. Let's just say that, compared to her, I got off pretty light. I mean, he's not a murderer, but apparently he's got a thing for touching unconscious girls. He likes touching.” She winces as she tries to move her fingers. “And now my goddamn hand is broken! Seriously! What the hell kind of karma is this?”
I watch as she examines her bandaged hand a little more closely. There's another big question preying on my mind, even though I know this probably isn't the right moment.
“Do you know that apartment right across from the bar?” I ask finally. “The one over the tea shop?”
“Huh?”
“Have you ever seen anyone going in or out of there?”
“I don't think so. Why?”
“I just...”
For a moment, I think back to the sight of the bar's flashing sign on the screen. I want to believe that I made a mistake, but I know I didn't. I know what I saw.
“The guy who jumped you,” I continue. “Do you know his address?”
“I overheard the cops talking. It was somewhere in Mersonfield.”
“So not the apartment opposite the bar, then?”
“No. Why are you suddenly so obsessed with that place?”
“I guess I was just wondering who lives there.”
“I almost got murdered last night,” she continues, “and my hand is broken, and you're worrying about local property? Seriously? I could do with a little more sympathy here, Lou!”
“Sorry. I guess I've just got something on my mind. That's all.”
“People are psychos,” she mutters. “Sorry, not you, but most people. I'm sick of the world. I'm sick of the way people grab each other like...” She lets out an angry grunt. “I mean, what if that asshole had managed to overpower me? What was he going to do to me? That alley is...”
Her voice trails off, and then suddenly – without any warning – she bursts into tears.
“It's okay!” I tell her, hurrying over and putting my arms around her, while taking care not to bump her damaged hand. “You got away. And it sounds like you gave the guy a fractured jaw in the process.”
“But if I hadn't,” she sobs, “and he'd done whatever he wanted to me...”
“He didn't,” I point out, hugging her tighter. “You're safe. You're okay.”
“I just keep thinking about it,” she whimpers. “About what would've happened, you know? Maybe he would've killed me. Even if he hadn't, maybe he would've...”
She breaks down, clutching me tight, and all I can do is hold her as her body shakes violently.
“You got away,” I tell her, as I find myself still thinking about Touched and the view of his apartment. “You made it. You're safe, Gemma. Someone tried to hurt you and you stopped them. End of story.”
“I don't want it anymore!” she sobs. “I don't want random drunks groping and touching me just because I work at the bar! I don't want anyone to ever touch me again!”
***
Sitting at my desk, back in my room, I stare at the dialog box on the screen. All I have to do is click one more time, and my entire webcam account will be gone. No more clients, no more sessions, no more filthy evenings doing awful things for money.
I don't know what I'll do instead, but I can figure something out.
Finally, I click the button and it's done. I'm out. Never again will I ever take my clothes off online and let some guy ogle me while he has fun on the other end of an internet connection. That part of my life is done with, and no-one will ever find out about it. Over time, maybe I'll forget I ever did that kind of stuff. Besides, I'm not that kind of girl. I needed money, I was desperate, but now I'm going to move on.
And even if they live in the same town, guys like Touched will never be able to find me.
Seven
Six months later
“I'm on my way right now,” I tell Gemma over the phone, as I make my way along the street. “My shift at the cafe ran over a little, but I'll be at the bar soon. Just hold your horses.”
“We have to be at the hall by seven,” she reminds me. “I don't want to be late. This karate club thing is the best move I ever made. Next time some guy tries to jump me, he's gonna get a surprise chop to the knackers.”
“Hopefully you won't have to use it,” I point out, “but we won't be late, I promise.”
Once I've cut the call, I hurry around the corner and make my way toward the bar. Before I reach the entrance, however, I spot two guys carrying a sofa out of a door on the other side of the road. Stopping, I'm surprised to see that a removals van is parked in front of the tea shop, and the guys seem to be taking furniture out of the apartment directly above. Whoever has been living in Touched's apartment, it seems they're moving out.
I should just go into the bar and see Gemma, but instead I glance both ways along the street before heading over and walking around the side of the van. Even though six months have passed since my encounters with Touched, I've still thought about him from time to time. Whenever I've walked along this street, I've glanced up at those windows, although I've never spotted anyone.
“Hey,” I say to one of the removal guys, as he finishes maneuvering the sofa. “Is all this stuff from the place over the tea shop?”
“Fifty quid,” he replies, sounding distinctly unimpressed.
“I'm sorry?”
“That's what I made the last journalist give me for information. Sorry, love, but I've got to be consistent.”
“I'm not a journalist,” I tell him, following as he heads toward the front door. “I was just wondering about the person who lived here.”
“Yeah, right. You could at least have the decency to be honest about it.” Stopping in the doorway, he turns to me. “Fifty quid and I'll let you have a snoop round. You can even take photos if you want, although I reckon the whole thing's morbid. Haven't you got something better to put on your front page?”
“I'm really not a -”
“Then again,” he adds with another sigh, “I suppose it's what your readers want, isn't it? Bunch of weirdos, if you ask me, but no-one ever went broke from underestimating that side of people.”
I hesitate for a moment, before reaching into my pocket and taking out my purse. I just about have fifty in cash, since I picked up my week's tips this afternoon at the cafe, so I count it out and hand it to him.
“Why are people so interested in this place?” I ask.
“I guess they're just sick,” he mutters, checking the money before stuffing it into his pocket.
“Who lived here?”
He stares at me for a moment. “Do you mean you seriously don't know?”
“Please, just tell me.”
“It's that Ed Grant story that's been all over the local news for the past week,” he explains. “You know, the chap who was found rotting in his flat.”
“I'm sorry?”
“He was in his early fifties,” the guy continues, checking his watch. “Turns out, he didn't have any family, he lived all alone and didn't really see anyone. He didn't even chat to his neighbors. So when he died, there wasn't anyone around who noticed. It's pretty sad, if you ask me. The poor bastard just lay on the carpet in his bedroom, rotting away for months and months until someone from the tea shop noticed some brown liquid dripping through from up there and landing on the scones. That was about a week ago. Turns out, the guy had been dead for about nine months.”
“Nine -”
I pause for a moment, trying to make sense of it all.
“Nine months?” I stammer. “But he can't have lived alone, right?”
“Completely alone. There was even dust all around the lock, and inside the door. Nobody'd been in for all that time.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he must be mistaken, to tell him that someone was in the apartment six months ago when I had the sessions with Touched. Somehow, we must have gotten our wires crossed.
“In you go, then,” he continues, stepping aside and gesturing for me to enter the apartment. “Get a move on, though. I don't want anyone finding out that I let you inside.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don't have to play dumb with me, love. You're a journo, and I respect that. You wanna snoop around. Just be careful if you go into the bedroom. There's still a stain, if you know what I mean.”
Figuring that I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to figure out the truth, I step into the hallway and then I wait as the other removal guy carries a table down. Once he's past, I make my way up the stairs until I'm on the landing, and then I walk over to the nearest doorway. There's a bed over by the far wall, and a moment later I spot a patch of brownish, rotten carpet that roughly forms the shape of a human figure on the floor.
Stepping back, I try the next door, which leans into the kitchen, and then the next. As soon as I look into the front room, I see that it's the exact same room I saw over the webcam six months ago. I can even see the pub's sign outside the window, and there's a computer on a table in the corner, waiting to be carried out. I step closer, convinced that there has to have been a mistake, but this is definitely the right apartment. This is where Touched lived.
Spotting a library card resting next to the laptop, I pick it up and see that it belonged to a man named Edward Grant. In the photo, he's a balding guy who looks to be in his early fifties, with large, sad eyes and rosy cheeks.
I look down at the computer's keyboard. There's a small light illuminated on one of the buttons, indicating that the caps lock is on.
“You know the creepiest thing?”
Turning, I find that the removal guy is watching me from the doorway.
“Everything kept going for the whole nine months,” he continues.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean all his bills and stuff. His bank accounts. Everything. He'd set them all up to be paid automatically, and he had enough in the bank to cover them all. Every month, right on the due dates, all his bills were paid, so everything stayed on. The water, the gas, the electricity, even the internet. The poor bastard was rotting on the floor of his bedroom, but it's like his life kept going without him.”
“That's...”
I want to say that it's impossible, but I guess there's no reason why a bunch of standing orders couldn't keep going out, especially if he had fixed contracts. If his whole life was automated, I guess it could have carried on even after he died.
“And they're sure that no-one else came into the flat during all that time?” I ask, feeling a flutter of concern in my chest. “No-one at all?”
“Not a soul. The place was just sealed up, completely empty apart from the body. Makes you think, doesn't it? All those people in the tea shop, and none of them realized they were sitting right underneath something like that.” He sniffs. “You can still smell him a bit. That slightly sweet stink in the air? That's from the body. They're gonna have to gut the apartment to get rid of that.”
“I have to go,” I stammer, hurrying past him and heading toward the door.
“Suicide,” he adds.
I turn to him. “What?”
“That's how he died. They found a note. He said he was tired of being all alone. No loved ones, no family, no human contact at all. It's no way to live a life, is it? I mean, my wife's a pain sometimes, but I'd much rather put up with her than end up like this sad-sack.”
He picks up a coffee table and carries it past me, heading down the stairs.
“Makes you wonder how many other people there are like this, eh?” he adds as he disappears from view. “Rotting away without anyone noticing. I blame the internet. Some folks live their whole lives on that thing.”
Onc
e he's gone, I turn and look back into the room. Most of the furniture has been taken out already, but there's still a desk in the corner, and there's still a computer on that desk. I can't help imagining my face on the screen, six months ago when someone was using that computer to buy sessions with me. For a moment, I stand in complete silence, listening to the stillness of the apartment, trying to come up with an explanation for everything the removal guy just told me.
And then I feel it.
The left sleeve of my shirt ruffles slightly, as if something is pressing against it gently. I tell myself that there's no reason to be concerned, but slowly the sensation becomes a little firmer, until I swear I can feel a hand starting to rest very cautiously against my arm. It's such a gentle, tentative feeling, I can almost believe that it's not real, that it's a figment of my imagination.
Almost.
Turning, I hurry out of the room and down the stairs, and then I almost bump straight into the removal guy as I head out of the building.
“You alright, love?” he calls after me, as I make my way across the street. “Get everything you need, did you?”
Just as I get to the door of the pub, Gemma comes out, and we almost collide.
“Watch it!” she says with a laugh, hauling her gym bag over her shoulder. “I thought you were gonna stand me up? Ready for a session at the karate club? Or are you gonna pull out and slink home to read your medical textbooks?”
“No,” I reply, horrified by the thought as we walk away from the pub, slipping through the crowd. “No, definitely not. I really don't want to be alone tonight.”
Black Pages
One
Notebook 350. Begun December 11th at 11.43am.
From the outside, it looks like a completely ordinary house. Two windows on the upstairs front, two on the downstairs, and a pretty red door. It looks like the kind of house a little kid might draw, if he or she was completely undamaged and somebody asked for a picture of a house. It looks like the kind of house that should be occupied by a completely normal, completely happy family who have no secrets to hide and nothing they need to keep from their neighbors.