by S. J. Watson
I take a step in, and then stop. I call him again, but this time his phone is switched off. I try a third time, and a fourth, and this time I leave a message: ‘Darling, please call me.’ I try to keep my voice even, to keep everything from it but my concern. I don’t want him to hear anything he might mistake for anger, even for a moment. ‘Just let me know you’re all right?’
I go further into his room. I know why he’s doing this. I’d stopped him from running to Evie that day; now he’s showing me that if he wants to do something he will. There’s nothing I can do about it.
I look in his wardrobe first, then under his bed. Piles of clothes, old trainers, CDs and video games, but the bag isn’t there. He must have taken it to school, already packed. ‘Fuck!’ I say to myself. I stand in the middle of the room in the fading light of the afternoon. I’m drowning, helpless.
I open his computer and navigate first to his emails. There are hundreds, from Molly and Dylan and Sahil and lots of others, yet none from his girlfriend. I try Skype next, and then Facebook. He’s back online, of course. In the search box at the top of the screen I type ‘Evie’.
Her name appears, next to her photograph. It’s a different picture to the one he’s shown me; she looks a little older and is smiling happily. It’s not the girl at Carla’s party, I realize, though they don’t look dissimilar.
But in the background is the Sacré-Coeur.
I feel another tug downwards, another sickening plunge.
It’s nothing, nothing at all. I hear myself talking out loud. Lots of kids have been to Paris. The Sacré-Coeur is somewhere to visit, absolutely on the tourist trail, something to have your photograph taken in front of. It’s just coincidence that it’s also where Lukas proposed to Anna. It has to be.
A moment later the machine pings and a box appears in the bottom of the screen. It’s a new message. From Evie.
– You’re online! it says. Immediately, I’m back in the middle of my affair with Lukas. So many conversations that started with those words, or similar. So many times I let myself be drawn in.
Yet I’d wanted it, at the time. Hadn’t I? I’d wanted it all.
I push the thoughts away. I have to focus. I have to answer Evie’s message.
I remind myself she thinks she’s talking to my son. I could tell her she’s wrong, or I could find out what’s going on.
– Yes! I type.
– On your phone?
For a moment I don’t understand the relevance of her question, but then I realize. She’s assuming he’s not at his computer, not at home.
– Yes.
– I love you.
I don’t know what to say. Again I’m being slammed backwards, into the past, with a ferocity that leaves me breathless.
– Tell me you love me, too.
I have to focus on Connor. This girl thinks she loves him, or tells him so at least.
– I love you, I say.
– You got out of school okay? Are you on your way?
So it’s true. He’s bunking off, he’s gone to meet this girl. I’m about to reply when my phone rings. It sounds way too loud and I startle before snatching it up. ‘Connor?’ I say, but it’s not him. It’s Anna.
‘Julia,’ she says. She sounds hurried, breathless with anxiety, but I can’t deal with her right now. Next to Connor she seems utterly unimportant.
‘I can’t talk now. I’m sorry.’
‘But—’
‘Connor’s missing. It’s complicated. I’ll call you right back, I promise. I’m sorry.’
I end the call before she can reply, then type again.
– Yes. I’m on my way.
– I can’t believe I’m finally going to get to meet you! I can’t believe we’ve found him!
I feel myself contract, my skin pulls tight. Found who?
– Just imagine! After all this time! Your dad!
The trapdoor opens. I plunge.
So this is what he’s been doing? Trying to find his father.
Succeeding.
But how?
I force myself to stay in the present. I have to. I force myself to imagine what my son might write.
– I know! It’s going to be amazing! Where shall I meet you again?
I press send. A moment later she replies.
– At the station, where we arranged! See you there!
I lean forward to type, but a moment later her final message arrives. Three kisses. And then she’s gone.
Fuck, I think. Fuck. Maybe I should have told her who I am, that I’m furious, that she’d better tell me right now where she plans to meet my son.
But now it’s too late. The green dot next to her name has disappeared. She’s offline, and there’s no way of contacting her. I’m stuck, with no idea where my son has gone. The station. It could be anywhere.
The whirring cogs of my mind engage, the engine catches. I can’t afford the descent into despair. I have to stay focussed. I have to find him. Which station, where? There has to be a clue. There’s a pile of papers and magazines on the desk and I riffle through these, then I open the drawer. Nothing. Just pens and pencils, a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy that Hugh gave him for his birthday a few years ago, a hole-punch and a stapler, a pair of scissors, Post-it notes, the detritus of study.
I stand up, turn round. I take in the football poster above his bed, the scarf over the back of his door. No clue, nowhere obvious to look.
And then I have an idea. I turn back to his computer and a moment later have pulled up his browser history. The first thing I see is a new Twitter account he must have created. @helpmefindmydad. But before I can even absorb what this means, I see, at the top, the last website he looked at. This morning, before school. Eurostar.com.
When I click on the link it takes me to a map of Gare du Nord.
He’s on his way to Paris.
Chapter Thirty-One
I try to tell myself it’s a coincidence, it has nothing to do with Lukas.
But I can’t believe it. Not today of all days. The day he’s due to return to Paris; it can’t be a coincidence that my son is going there, too.
Even if Hugh has spoken to Evie, even if he is sure she’s a girl.
Anna answers after the second ring. ‘Thank God,’ she says.
My mouth is dry, but I’m desperate.
‘Anna, listen—’
‘Thank God,’ she says again. I can hear relief in her voice, but there’s something else. She sounds awful. Out of breath, almost stricken with panic. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice drops, almost to a whisper, I can barely hear what she’s saying. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. ‘I tried to tell him. I tried. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’
She sounds terrible, and her fear infects me. ‘Anna, what’s wrong? Where’s Lukas? Is he there?’
It’s as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘I couldn’t wait. I tried to tell him. Today. I tried to tell him it was over, that he had to go—’
‘Where is he? Anna!’
‘He’s stormed out. But he’ll be back any second. I went into his computer, Julia, like we agreed. To look at those files. I found something else.’
There’s a tremor in her voice. An uncertainty I haven’t heard before.
‘What? What did you find?’
‘There were these files. There was the one called “Julia”, but there was another.’
I know what she’s going to say.
‘It was called “Connor” . . .’
My world shrinks to nothing.
‘There were all these pictures.’
I’m frozen, a tiny point. I feel like I haven’t breathed for days. I force myself to speak. My voice is a whisper.
‘What sort of pictures?’
‘Just . . . you know. Pictures of him—’
‘What sort?’
‘Ordinary pictures. He’s just smiling at the camera.’
‘Jesus—’
‘Do you think he was using me, just to get to Connor—’
‘No. No, no.’
I wonder if my certainty is only because I can’t face the thought of it being true.
‘Connor’s run away.’
‘Run away?’
‘He’s gone to see Evie. His girlfriend. But he’s gone to Paris. They’re meeting Connor’s father.’
‘His father, but how—?’
‘I don’t know. Online, I think.’
‘Wait. What did you say his girlfriend’s name was?’
I close my eyes. Fear builds, infecting me. My skin is crawling. I force myself to speak.
‘Evie. Why?’
She sighs. ‘Julia, I found this list. On Ryan’s computer. All these usernames and passwords.’ She speaks hesitantly, as if she’s unsure, or is figuring something out as she goes. ‘At least that’s what I think they are.’ There’s a long pause. ‘One of them’s Lukas, but there are loads more. Argo-something- or-other, Crab, Baskerville, Jip. And there are all these names. Loads of them, God knows what he’s been doing.’
I know what she’s going to say, even before she says it.
‘One of them’s Evie.’
Something gives within me. I’m sure, now. ‘Oh God,’ I say. I’ve had weeks to understand. Months. I just haven’t wanted to.
‘How do you think he knows her? How does he know Connor’s girlfriend?’
‘Anna. He doesn’t know her. I think he is her.’
‘But—’
‘Is his computer there now?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘Go online. Look on Facebook.’
I listen as she goes into another room. I hear as she picks up a machine, there’s a swell of music as she wakes it from sleep. A few moments later she says, ‘I’m in. He’s left it logged on. What . . . ?’
And then she stops.
‘What is it? Anna, tell me!’
‘You’re right. The photo he’s using is a young woman,’ she says. ‘And the name . . . it isn’t Ryan. You’re right, Julia. It’s Evie.’
It all hits me at once. All the things I’ve ignored, not wanted to see. All the things I’ve left unexamined. I go over to Connor’s bed. I sit on it; the mattress gives, the duvet smells of him. Of my boy. My boy, who I’ve put in danger.
‘Anna,’ I say. ‘You have to help me. Go to the station. Gare du Nord. Find my son.’
Downstairs, I call a taxi first and then Hugh. There’s no time to go round to his office, to explain face to face. I have to be on the next train to France.
He answers on the third ring. ‘Julia. Any news?’
I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him.
‘He’s on his way to Paris.’
‘Paris?’
He’s shocked. I want to tell him. I have to tell him.
Yet at the same time I don’t know how.
‘I can explain—’
‘Why Paris?’
‘He’s . . . he thinks he’s on his way to meet Evie.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I spoke to her.’
‘Well, I hope you told her how ridiculous this is. He’s fourteen, for goodness’ sake. He shouldn’t be skipping school, taking off for Paris.’ He draws breath. ‘What did she say?’
I try to explain. ‘It’s not that simple. We were talking online. I logged on to Connor’s machine. She thought I was him. It’s how I know where he’s headed.’
I stop speaking. My cab is here, I can hear it idling on the street outside the front door.
‘I have to go,’ I say. I haven’t had time to pack a bag, but I have my passport, and the forty euros I brought back last time and left in a pot on one of the shelves in the kitchen is in my purse.
‘Where?’
‘To Paris. I’m going over there. I’ll get him back.’
‘Julia—’
‘I have to, Hugh.’
There’s a moment of silence as he decides what to do.
‘I’ll come, too. I’ll get the first train I can. I’ll meet you there.’
I sit on the train. I’m numb, I can’t focus on anything. I can’t read, or eat. I’ve left safety behind and don’t know what’s ahead of me.
I concentrate on being as still as possible. I look at the people around me. An American couple sitting across the aisle are discussing the meeting they’re obviously heading back from; they sound clipped and professional, I decide they’re not lovers, just workmates. Another couple, opposite, are sitting in silence, she wearing earbuds and nodding along to music, he with a tourist guide to Paris. I realize with sudden clarity that we’re wearing masks, all of us, all the time. We’re presenting a face, a version of ourselves, to the world, to each other. We show a different face depending on who we’re with and what they expect of us. Even when we’re alone it’s just another mask, the version of ourselves we’d prefer to be.
I turn away and look out of the window as we tear through the city, the countryside. We seem to be building momentum; we hit the tunnel at speed. The noise we make is a dull thud, and for a moment everything goes black. I close my eyes, and then see Frosty, putting her drink down – red wine, and as usual she’s drinking it through a straw. She’s fully made-up, even though it’s the middle of the day and her wig is still upstairs.
‘Honeybunch,’ she’s saying. ‘Where’s Marky?’
I look up. She looks terrified, and I don’t know why. ‘Upstairs. Why?’
‘Come on,’ she says, then she’s running out of the kitchen, and even though I’m following as quickly as I can we still move in slow motion, and we’re going up the stairs, up those dark, carpetless stairs. When we get to the bedroom I shared with Marcus the door won’t open. He’s propped a chair against it, and Frosty has to shoulder it open.
I shake the vision away. I check my phone again. There’s supposed to be a signal down here now, but I have none. I lean over to the
American couple, and ask if they’re picking anything up. ‘Not me,’ says the woman, shaking her head, and her colleague tells me he’s already asked a member of staff and no one is. ‘Some problem with the equipment, apparently.’ I force a smile and thank them, then turn away. I’m just going to have to wait.
My mind goes to what Anna told me. Lukas’s usernames. Argo-something-or-other, I know. Crab, Baskerville, Jip. They’re related, I’m sure of it, though I can’t work out how.
Baskerville is easy, I think. There’s the typeface, of course, but the only other reference I can think of is Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of. Slowly it comes: Jip is from David Copperfield, as well as The Story of Dr Dolittle, and Crab is from Shakespeare, though I don’t remember which play. And Argos is from The Odyssey.
They’re all dog’s names.
I see it all, then. A burst of realization. A few years ago, when Connor was nine or ten, the three of us went on holiday to Crete. We stayed in a hotel, near the beach. One night we were at dinner, discussing our names, where they’d come from, what they meant. Later Hugh had looked them all up online, and at breakfast he told us what he’d found. My name means ‘youthful’, his means ‘mind’ or ‘spirit’.
‘And mine?’ asked Connor.
‘Well, yours is Irish,’ said his father. ‘Apparently, it means “lover of hounds”.’
The truth I’ve been dodging is no longer avoidable. Right from the beginning, from the very first time Lukas had messaged me, calling himself Largos86, it’d been about Connor.
All along.
Chapter Thirty-Two
We emerge from the tunnel into dusk. I grab my phone but there’s still no signal, and as I wait I look out of the window.