by S. J. Watson
‘Exactly. And now it’s time your father started doing his bit. Besides, she’s nearly a teenager now. You have your own life to live.’
I told him I’d need to think about it, but really I already knew. Kate was nearly thirteen, older than I’d been when I started looking after her. She’d had enough years of my life. Kate would be fine.
Except she wasn’t. I open my eyes. I reach for my laptop.
Anna’s online. I message her.
‘Any luck?’ she asks.
I think of the few people who have messaged me. There’s been nothing interesting.
‘Not yet,’ I reply.
Hugh comes back from his conference. He takes the train from the airport, then a cab, and arrives carrying a huge bunch of flowers. He kisses me then hands them over. ‘What have I done to deserve this?’ I say, and he shrugs. ‘Nothing. I love you, that’s all. I missed you.’ I find a vase. ‘I missed you, too,’ I say, a little too automatically.
I take the scissors out of the kitchen drawer and begin to trim the stems.
‘How’s Connor?’
‘Good, I think.’
‘And you?’
I tell him I’m fine. ‘I had a job,’ I say, thinking back to the day before. ‘A friend of Fatima’s. Her daughter wants to be a model and needed some pictures for her portfolio.’
‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Have you seen Adrienne?’
‘No. But she called. She’s in York, with work. But we’ve arranged dinner.’
He smiles and says he thinks that will do me good. I didn’t tell him Adrienne has asked if I’d decided about going online and I’d said no, not yet.
Another lie. I’ve logged on a few times, and now it’s Friday night. Hugh’s upstairs, catching up with admin, and Connor is at a friend’s house working on a homework project. I’ve already edited the pictures I took on Wednesday, and now I’m half watching the television. It’s a drama. Undercover cops, a series of brutal murders, duct tape, revenge and rape. Every victim beautiful, of course, as if we wouldn’t care otherwise; plus, we’re supposed to envy them their lives right until the moment the blade slices into their flesh.
It’s no use, I can’t focus. I switch it off. I can’t help thinking of Kate. She was pretty, but not beautiful, and she wasn’t raped. Kate was killed because she happened to be walking down the wrong alleyway in the wrong part of town at the wrong time, or so Hugh and everybody else tells me. It’s as simple as that.
Except it isn’t. It can’t be.
I log back on to encountrz. I know I should leave it alone, do something else instead, but I can’t. My message to Harenglish is now a week old and he still hasn’t responded.
He isn’t online, but there is something in my inbox, something new.
Largos86. I click on his profile and see that he’s younger than me – he claims to be thirty-one, though if anything he doesn’t even look as old as that – and is attractive, with curly hair, cut short. I imagine he could be a model, or an actor, though I remind myself he’ll have chosen one of the more flattering photos of himself. If he were in the drama I’ve just switched off he’d be playing a kindly doctor, or a lover. He’s too attractive to be the husband. I open his message.
‘Hi,’ it says. ‘I’d love to talk. You remind me of someone.’
I flinch; it’s like being punched. I remind you of someone. For an instant there’s only one thing, one person, he can mean. I’d deliberately chosen my profile photo to be one that looks like Kate, after all.
I have to know. Beneath his message is a link, an invitation to a private chat. Largos86 knows I’m online. I click on accept, then type.
– Hi. Who do I remind you of?
His reply comes almost instantaneously.
– Someone I liked a lot.
Liked, I think. Past tense. Someone who isn’t around any more, one way or another.
– But let’s not talk about her. How’re you?
No! It’s her I want to talk about.
– Good, I say.
A moment later he replies:
– I’m Lukas. Fancy a chat?
I stop. Since I’ve been going online I’ve learned it’s unusual for someone to give away their name so quickly. I wonder if he’s lying.
– I’m Jayne.
I pause.
– Where are you?
– In Milan. How about you?
I think of his first message. You remind me of someone.
I want to find out if he might’ve talked to Kate. I decide to tell a lie of my own.
– I’m in Paris.
– A beautiful place!
– How do you know the city?
– I work there. Occasionally.
My skin prickles with sweat. I try to take a breath but there’s no oxygen in the room.
Could he have chatted to my sister, even met her? Could it be him who killed her? It seems unlikely; he looks too innocent, too trustworthy. Yet I know I’m basing that impression on nothing, just a feeling, and feelings can be misleading.
What to do? I’m shaking, I can’t take in any air. I want to end the chat, but then I’ll never know.
– Really? I say. How often?
– Oh, not that often. A couple of times a year.
I want to ask if he was there in February, but I can’t risk it. I have to be careful. If he did know Kate and has something to hide then he might work out I’m on to him.
I have to keep this light, breezy. If things become sexual there’ll be no way of finding anything out, nothing I can do but end the conversation as quickly as possible. I want to look for clues, but I can’t let things tip over.
– Where do you stay when you’re over here?
I wait. A message flashes. I can’t decide whether I want him to tell me he has a flat in the nineteenth, or that his office put him up in a hotel near Ourcq Métro, or not. If they do and he does, then it’s him. I’m sure of it. Hugh and I can tell the police what I’ve found. I can move on.
But if he doesn’t? What then? I still won’t know.
His message arrives.
– I’m not there often. I tend to stay in hotels.
– Where?
– It varies. Usually pretty central. Or else I stay near Gare du Nord.
I don’t need to pull up a map of Paris to know that Gare du Nord is nowhere near the area Kate’s body was found. I’m curiously relieved.
– Why do you ask?
– No reason.
– You think maybe it’s near you?
He’s added a smiley face. I wonder if the flirting has moved to the next level. Part of me wants to end it, but another part of me doesn’t. He might be lying.
I hesitate for a moment, then type:
– I’m in the north-east. The nearest Métro is Ourcq.
It’s a risk. If it’s him he’ll know I’m linked to Kate. It can’t be a coincidence.
But what will he do? Ju
st end the conversation, log off? Or would he stick around to try and find out exactly what I know? It occurs to me he might already have guessed who I am and why I’m chatting to him. He might’ve worked it out from the start.
I press send, then wait. Largos86 is typing. Time stretches; it seems to take for ever.
– Is it a nice area?
– It’s okay. You don’t know it?
– No. Should I?
– Not necessarily.
– So are you up to much? Have you had a good day today?
I hesitate. Last time, at this point, I was being asked what I was wearing, or whether I’d like fantasy role play or straight cyber. It’s a relief that this conversation is unthreatening.
– Not bad, I say.
I wonder why I’m relieved. Is it that in these few brief moments I’m not in mourning?
– Tell me what you’ve been up to.
– You don’t want to hear about me.
– I do. Tell me everything!
– Why don’t you tell me something about you, first?
– Okay, let me think.
He’s added a cartoon, another face. This one looks puzzled. A few moments later his next message arrives.
– Okay. You ready?
– Yes.
– I really adore dogs. And cheesy love songs. The cheesier the better. And I’m really scared of spiders.
I smile. I can’t help it. I look back at his photo. I try to imagine what Kate might’ve thought, looking at him. He’s certainly attractive, and around her age.
His next message arrives.
– Your turn. You owe me two facts.
I run through a list of what I might tell him. I’m looking for something that will draw him out, some fact that might lead him to tell me whether he was in Paris in February, or might have chatted to Kate.
I lean forward and begin to type.
– Okay. My favourite season is winter. I love Paris, in February especially.
I press send and a moment later he replies.
– That’s fact number one.
– And – I begin, but then I freeze. There’s a sound, a key in the lock. The real world is intruding, too loud. It’s Connor, coming home. As he opens the door I’m still adjusting, to the living room in which I’m sitting, to my own home. I switch on the television and the credits roll silently. Connor comes in.
‘Oh, I didn’t know you were in here.’
I close my machine and put it to one side. My heart thuds, as if I’ve been caught taking drugs. He’s wearing a baseball cap I haven’t seen before and a black sweatshirt; he’s chewing gum.
‘What’ve you been up to?’
‘Just studying.’
I force a smile. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Okay. What’re you up to?’
I feel dizzy. It’s as if domesticity is crashing in around me in an inrush of banality, of making meals, of ferrying to school and back, of worrying about what to cook for dinner and whether the surfaces in the kitchen are clean.
I adjust my necklace. ‘Just reading emails.’
He asks for a snack. I make one for him, then he goes upstairs and I go back to my machine. Largos86 is no longer online, so I message Anna.
– He says he’s called Lukas.
– And?
What to say? I have a feeling, a suspicion. Based on what?
– I don’t know. There’s something about him. He seems really keen.
I hesitate, but continue.
– I just wonder if he knew Kate.
– It’s unlikely, don’t you think?
I agree.
– But yes, it is possible he talked to her.
– You think?
– Well, there aren’t that many people who use that site.
– So you think it might be worth talking to him some more?
– Well, don’t get your hopes up. But maybe. We might be able to find out who else Kate was talking to. Or at least prove one way or the other whether he knew her.
The next day I take my laptop into my studio. The same guy is online. Largos86.
– You disappeared, he says. I wondered what I’d done.
It’s his fourth or fifth message. At first I wasn’t sure I’d reply, but they keep coming.
I can’t forget what he’d said. You remind me of someone. Someone I liked a lot.
– I’m sorry, I say.
I resist the urge to make an excuse. I can’t tell him about Connor coming home. It wouldn’t be right. It would take the conversation in the wrong direction. I wonder who’s watching whom. I wonder who’s the cat, and who’s the mouse?
– Are you alone?
I hesitate. Connor’s in the house, doing his homework, he said, and Hugh’s out at a concert with a friend, so I might as well be. I certainly feel alone.
Plus, I’ve realized I’m going to have to give something if I’m going to get something back.
– Yes. Yes I am.
A moment later his message appears:
– I enjoyed chatting to you yesterday . . .
I wonder if there’s going to be a but . . .
– Thanks.
– But we never really got on to talking about you.
– What d’you want to know?
– Everything! But maybe start by telling me what it is you do.
I decide I don’t want to tell the truth.
– I’m in the arts. I curate exhibitions.
– Wow! Sounds interesting.
– It can be. So how about you? I know you travel.
– Oh, let’s not talk about me. It’s boring.
Maybe it is, but I’m trying to find out why he’s so keen to chat to me again tonight.
– No. I’m sure it’s not. Go on.
– I’m in the media. I buy advertising space for big campaigns.
– So what are you doing in Milan? Are you on holiday?
– No, he says. I’m living out here, temporarily. Doing some work. Staying in a hotel. I’m thinking about going out for dinner, then maybe to a bar. But it’s no fun on your own . . .
The ellipsis suggests he’s inviting a compliment. I remind myself I still need to find out if he meets people he chats to, and what he does with them if so.
I try to imagine how Jayne might reply. At the very least she’d have to make a reference to what he’d said.
– I bet you wouldn’t be lonely for long, I say.
– Thanks, he replies, and then another message comes through.
– Can I ask what you’re wearing?
So polite, I think. It’s not what I might’ve expected.
But then what did I expect? This is the way it goes, apparently. What are you wearing? Describe it to me. I want to take it off, tell me how
it feels. But much sooner, within a few messages, not over a couple of days.
– Why do you want to know?
I wonder if I ought to add a winking face. Is that what Kate would’ve done?
– I just want to be able to picture you.
I feel myself tense. I’m not sure I want him to picture me. It leaves an unpleasant taste. I remind myself I’m doing this for Kate’s sake, and for Connor’s. For all of us.
– If you must know, I type, I’m wearing jeans. And a shirt. Your turn.
– Well, I’m just lying here on the bed.
I look again at his photo and picture him. I see the hotel room, bland and corporate. I wonder if he’s taken his clothes off. I imagine he has a good body, strong and muscular. He’ll have got himself a drink; for some reason I picture him with a beer, drinking straight from the bottle. Something within me begins to open up, but I don’t know what it is. Is it because finally I might be getting somewhere, unlocking the riddle of my sister’s murder? Or because a good-looking man has chosen to send a message to me?
– If you’re busy that’s cool. I’ll leave you alone.
– No. I’m not busy.
– Okay. So I’m here, and you’re there. What’re you up for? What’re you into?
I try to imagine what Kate would’ve said.
I can’t.
– I’m not sure.
– Are you okay?
I decide it’s easier to tell the truth.
– I’ve never done this before.
– No problem. We can chat another time, if you’re uncomfortable?
– No. I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to disappoint you.
– You’re beautiful. How could you disappoint me?
Deep down, but unmistakably there, there’s a weak throb of excitement. A distant signal from the remotest star.
– Thank you.
A moment, then he replies:
– It’s a pleasure. You are beautiful. I’m enjoying talking to you.
– I’m enjoying talking to you, too.