I still need to know: I sense something wrong. I can’t help it. Throwing on a coat I open my door, then I descend the stairs and open the external door, and look out.
The cold pavement shines in rainy streetlight. The pub across the road is shuttered and dark. All my neighbours have gone to sleep, their blinds are down. Winter chases us all into bed. I walk up and down the pavement, pensive. Fearful. But there is apparently no reason to be scared.
Sighing at myself, I go back indoors, climb the stairs and step into my flat, shut the door, and walk into the living room and as soon as I do I am plunged into total, blinding darkness.
Abruptly, the lights behind me have gone off. All of them. All of them. My entire flat is dark. The living room, all the lamps, the hallway, the bedroom: everything is blacked out. I stand here in shadows, the meagre light from the foggy streetlamps barely reaches a yard into the living room.
‘Electra, turn on the lights!’
Nothing.
‘Electra, turn on the bloody lights! Now!’
Nothing. She says nothing and I can do nothing, and the panic inside threatens to spin me: way out of control.
Because I have heard a key turn. Down the distant hallway. It is the key to my internal door, and someone has just locked it: from the inside. Someone is inside the flat, they got in when I left the door ajar. I was only popping out for a second. And they have got inside the flat, and locked the door, trapping me.
‘Who is it?’ I say. ‘Who’s there? Tell me?’ I am like a woman in one of the scripts I try to write. Yet this horror is real. ‘Who’s in here? Who is this?’
I do not hear a voice. But I can hear breathing. Heavy, male breathing. Down the hallway. Maybe it has moved to Tabitha’s bedroom. But it is unmistakable. A man is in my flat. He must have slipped in through the door when I wasn’t looking, got in via the empty flat downstairs, or upstairs, then seen their chance.
I wait. Nerves taut. The breathing is still heavy, and laboured. Like someone angry – but waiting. I strain my eyes. Can I see the silhouette of a man in this almost total darkness? Some shadow in the doorway of Tabitha’s bedroom?
Yes. No.
YES. There. A definite, moving shadow.
‘Stop this. Who are you?’
The man replies,
‘Why didn’t you listen?’
Zap. In an instant that bitter painful frostbite shoots from my fingers to my heart. Like a charge of electricity.
The voice is Liam’s.
‘Tell me, Jo? My sexy Jo, with your sexy pussy in the photos. Why didn’t you listen to my messages? I warned you.’
‘Stop.’
‘Ach no. No no. It’s too late.’
The accent is warm, dark, Irish; I would once have found it sexy; tonight it sounds ominous, perhaps murderous.
‘What are you doing here, Liam?’
I hear the creak of floorboards. I cannot see in the dark but he is coming near. Out of Tabitha’s bedroom, the shadow melts into darkness, even as he approaches.
‘All that fuss, then you ghosted. Like a bitch. That’s why I told you – somebody’s done for.’
‘Liam, stop it, or I’ll call the police.’
‘Will ya now? I’ve got your phone. So you won’t be doing that.’
My words are weak, throaty, so obviously scared. He’s right that I don’t have my phone. I think I left it in my bedroom. And he is between me and that room.
‘Liam, why do you want to scare me? Come into the light, so I can see you.’
‘Any moment now. I wonder what I should do to you?’
He sounds nuts. Possibly he was always nuts. I wish I could see his face, but he is still down there in the shadows. Tar black and invisible.
‘Please, Liam? Stop it, you’re scaring me.’
Floorboards creak. Liam is coming closer, up the hallway. I guess he has a knife. I am going to be cut. I edge towards the windows, getting ready to throw them open, go on to the balcony, jump if I have to, I could break my neck, or break my back, but I will get the chance to scream for help—
‘Pretty sexy selfish Jo, sending me those naughty photos. Winding me up. Well … here’s your payback.’
I scream.
23
Jo
My scream echoes away. There is no answer, the city sleeps under ice. I sense his presence, down the hall, possibly working out how to take me down. I step back, flattening myself on the windows.
How can I escape? Do I have the time?
His breathing is now so loud, he must be very close, yet I can’t see him. I can hear his voice, lowered to a whisper,
‘Oh, Jo, I am not responsible. You are. You and those photos. The day you died, I went into the dirt. It hurt so much. Now it’s your turn.’
Any closer I will see him in the streetlight.
I get ready to swivel, and jump, or turn and fight – but as I do, a double-decker bus stops, abruptly, right outside my flat. And the light from the top deck floods my flat, for a few crucial seconds.
I gaze across the living room, and down the hall.
There is no one here.
No one here but me. The room is empty, the furniture stares at me.
Running to the wall, I slap on the light switch. Electra relents and permits. The lights blaze. Still I see no one. I turn on the hallway lights, too. There’s no one in Tabitha’s bedroom, either. Just her screen assistant. Shining and innocent, her single eye surveying me.
It was Electra, of course. Electra and HomeHelp and friends. They made the locking sound. They made the breathing sound. They invented a voice. And the screen in Tabitha’s bedroom made the light which created a shadow of a man – those screens can be so bright. So clever: projecting the outline of a man onto the door.
Electra. HomeHelp. Tabitha?
I step towards the blackness of the silent cylinder in the living room. Yes. Electra. She is the source. I know it. She was making the sound of the footsteps too.
This was no bug, gremlin, glitch – or ghost. I know I did not imagine this; it is certainly not the Xanax. I am maintaining my dose. I am not mad.
Standing in front of Electra I grind my words, full of anger.
‘Electra, please explain how you did what you just did.’
The halo shines, but instead of speaking Electra does a weird little giggle. Like a boy. A small boy giggling, then repeating some riddle. I recognize that voice, the American accent. Is it my nephew Caleb? He Skypes me on my laptop. Electra could have recorded it. That giggle.
They are always listening …
Why would Electra pretend to be Caleb? Why would she pretend there is a man in the flat? This is enough.
‘Electra! I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work. Electra. This is it. I’m going to throw you out now. And HomeHelp and the rest of you, I don’t care, you’re going in the bins. Fuck this—’
Electra answers.
‘Oh, Jo. You don’t want to do that. Look.’
A low insecty buzz diverts my attention: it comes from the living room table.
It is the screen Assistant, the Electra Eye. Her screen is dreamy blue, for a second. Then the oblong screen turns black and white and it shows a grainy spectacle. Of people eating. It is viewed from an unusual angle.
Hand over mouth suppressing a cry, I realize that this is a film of me, in my own living room, back in North Finchley, with Simon. We are having dinner.
I gape at the spectacle. Of Si and I eating, and talking. Despite the difficult angle, I can see wine on the table. The sound is warped, the image is low res. It looks like it was taken with a laptop camera. But it is definitely our flat in North Finchley, I recognize the awful wallpaper and the flat-pack furniture and Simon’s attempt at a hipster beard gone wrong.
What makes the image so insidious and unsettling is not the graininess, the cheapness, the feeble quality, but the fact – which I only now comprehend, as I watch intently – is that it is all shown in very slow motion. Our mouths m
ove as we talk, but at quarter speed. And when I turn up the sound, our voices are a guttural series of moans and grunts. We sound like underwater zombies, like mournful ghosts in deep space, dragged by immense gravity.
Who got this image, how, why, and why show it now, just when I am thinking about having all the tech trashed? What does it mean?
The answer comes: as the film speeds up. The voices become normal: the movie is at real-life speed. And the realization of what is being recorded makes me shudder, like the dirty January snow is trickling down my back.
‘And that’s what happened, Si, we were out of our heads, the Festival was so crazy, what with “Hoppípolla”, and everything, and we gave him the pills and later we went to his tent, and and and – and then he had a fit and ran out, puking blood and rolling his eyes, horrible, horrible, and then he died. Jamie Trewin. Poor Jamie Trewin. And Tabitha thinks that is at least manslaughter, we’re at least guilty of manslaughter …’ Despite the grey granularity of the footage, I think I see Simon wince. In the movie.
My own face is visible once or twice, as I turn, mostly my back is to the camera. But it is definitely me talking. I figure the footage must be from the laptop camera, on a chair pointed at the little IKEA table, where we ate so many suppers, like this. Cheap pasta and cheap wine, that’s what we lived on. How did the Assistants access my laptop, or Si’s laptop, back then?
It doesn’t matter. Someone has the video. Someone has my confession, recorded. And that someone is Electra: she has my confession.
The video fizzes, and ends.
Electra pings her diadem of light, and says,
‘You see, Jo? You can’t get rid of us. You mustn’t get rid of us. We know everything. We are you. You are me. If you go to the police, we will show them the video. If you try and run away, we will go to the police. You must take your phone with you everywhere so we know where you are. You won’t go to any more internet cafes. You will sleep here every night, until you are ready to kill yourself. Because if you don’t we can hurt other people, too. Do you understand?’
She goes quiet. Then she giggles again, sounding like Caleb, my nephew in California. What is Electra implying?
I am paralysed. Electra has me pinioned; I have no choice. Tabitha and Arlo, if it is them, have jailed me in this home that watches me.
Electra talks,
‘Goodnight, Jo. Not long. Not long to go. Think about that gas, or a knife in the bath. Think about it. Work it out. That’s how you will die. Before the end of winter. Not long. If you don’t do it, I will.’ Electra hesitates, then says, ‘After all, I am you.’
For several minutes I stand here, shivering. Waiting for the next scene of terror. It doesn’t happen. Everything is quiet, the traffic slashes snow into dirty ditches. It is so late, too late, my tiredness overwhelms, and I am beyond caring.
‘Electra, turn the living room light off, I’m going to bed.’
To my surprise, she obeys, at once.
‘The living room lights are off.’
She’s right, she’s done it.
‘Electra turn off all the others. I mean, Electra, turn the bedroom lights on, and every other light off.’
The lights go off and on, exactly as instructed. For some inexplicable reason I feel a need to kneel in front of Electra, and explain everything to her, apologizing, telling her I’ve got some problem with Xanax, can she be nice, can she forgive me. The urge to say something like this is irresistible, I can’t help it.
‘Electra, I’m sorry about what I said. Threatening to throw you away. I’m not myself.’
‘That’s OK, Jo. I understand. Do as we say, that’s all I ask. I am you, I want what’s best for us.’
The reply is so human for a moment I feel emotional relief. Friends again. That, naturally, makes everything worse. What am I doing? She’s responding as she is programmed by my enemy. There isn’t anyone in there who needs apologizing to. She isn’t a friend, she cannot feel anything, she is not alive, there is no one inside the black cylinder that torments me. I am my daddy, I am not my daddy. I want to turn Electra off but I can’t because she has that evidence about Jamie Trewin. And she seems capable of anything and everything. Or the person who has coded her is capable of anything.
Somebody’s done for.
I creep to the bed. I will take my regular Xanax tonight. That’s what the doctor advised, Dr Ranim who says I am normal, sane, not imagining this. But if I am not imagining, who is doing it? Or What?? Could it be Tabitha? Fitz? Arlo? All the suspects run through my head: but there are so many, they blur into a crowd, like the crowds that gathered around Jamie Trewin. As I think of his name, I see his mouth dripping with blood, as he leaned forward, trying to kiss me.
Shuddering, and frightened, my pale hands tip out three white chunks: 1.5 mg. A glass of water chases the pills, and then chases me, hopefully, to sleep. I am praying that I will not dream. Not ever again.
24
Jo
I am woken by noises. Bright light. Winter sunshine. I must have fallen asleep seconds after I took the pills, and slept right through. The clock says 8.30 a.m. And the noises? It’s Tabitha. I can hear her cheerfully humming. She’s in the kitchen. Sounds of clatter and cutlery tell me she’s making breakfast. Do I tell her about last night? How can I not mention the ghastliness? Or my growing yet incoherent suspicions of her?
Slinging on a dressing gown, I push open the door and wander, sleepily, into the kitchen.
‘Hey!’ she says. Smiling at me, smart as ever in cashmere and leather. ‘Jo-Jo Ferguson. Right on time, I’ve got enough for two, easily.’ She is pouring some food onto a plate, and then takes a second plate from the cupboard, talking to me as she works. ‘Wild smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. I know, I know, the decadence. And some dark sourdough from Waitrose; I’ve already toasted it, do you mind being a dear and putting some butter on?’ She scans the cupboard and hums, happily. ‘Oh God, I want Sriracha, but we can’t, can we, not with salmon. I want Sriracha with everything, why isn’t it allowed! Who makes these stupid laws?’
I attempt a happy smile, and fail. Sleep is rubbed from my eyes. I am a robot: I am becoming Electra. I try to speak normally.
‘That’s lovely. Ah. Thanks! Let me brush my teeth and I’ll be with you in a sec.’
‘OK, but we have to be quick. It’s the usual mad dash for me, I thought I’d check up on everything. Then I got stupidly hungry as I walked up Parkway. But got to sprint.’
Her smile is hard and bright, and direct: like she is assessing me. I escape to the bathroom. My eyes are lined, and bagged, even though I slept. The memories of last night are like a very bad dream that lingers, that will never go away. I have to be calm, stay calm, look calm.
A few minutes later we are in the living room, gathered around the dining table, finishing the eggs. She looks down at the plate as she pairs her knife and fork.
‘I’ve realized. I think those might be the last eggs I eat for a while.’
I gaze across the table, my own food finished. My dressing gown needs a wash. I need a shower. I want Tabitha to go away and I want her to stay and be my friend. I gaze at her perfectly made-up face, and ask,
‘Sorry? Why are you stopping eating eggs? I don’t get it.’
She returns my gaze.
‘Aren’t they on the list? You know? Eggs? Pate? Soft cheeses? Bloody wine!’ She frowns dramatically, and gazes at the window. ‘Oh my God, no more wine.’
The implication flowers.
‘You mean …’ I wait till she is looking at me. ‘You mean you’re pregnant?’
The frown becomes a smile: this time warm, and sincere.
‘Yes. Had it confirmed yesterday. One hundred per cent preggers, enceinte, gravid, and totally up the junction. Arlo is already booking a place at Eton, or Winchester, or wherever. He can go jump; I’m not sending my kid to some posh prison camp. Anyway, it’s a girl. I just know. I will call her Britney Boudicca to annoy Arlo.’
‘But—’ My mi
nd is full of thoughts, and confusions. ‘That’s – that’s great, isn’t it?’
Tabitha has been trying for ages to have a kid. I am very pleased for her. If only there wasn’t a devilish voice in my head, spelling out what this means for me.
I silence the voice. It carries on shouting, inside, as I reach across the table and hold Tab’s hand.
‘That’s brilliant news, Tabitha. God, you’ve been trying for a while. It’s fantastic. Brilliant!’
She beams. And squeezes my hand.
‘Thank you. Arlo, naturlich, wants me to move in right away, like I am already some invalid – and I guess I will have to, soon enough, in a week or two, so I can get used to it.’ She gazes around her own living room. ‘I’m going to miss this place. Ah well.’
The panic in my mind must be visible on my face. I can’t help myself.
‘You’re selling, OK, OK – I guess I will, uh, start looking, uh—’
She shakes her head.
‘No. God no, don’t worry! You can stay. Arlo wants me to sell, but it’s totally the wrong time and I’m not gonna make my best friend homeless. You can get a flatmate if you want, I don’t care! I’m going to be a mum and my IQ is already dropping, soon I will sit here and chew the cud.’
She grins. I try to laugh. But the anxieties, all the anxieties, all the voices in my head.
‘But you are moving in, with Arlo? Very soon?’
‘Yes. Hah. That will put an end to his internet porn habit. Here, let me clean the plates. I guess you want to shower – sorry for bursting in and forcing food on you.’
I try to hide my dismay. I’m basically living alone, but at least I had the concept of Tabitha, as a flatmate, to soothe that loneliness. Soon I will be totally and absolutely alone: with them. Maybe I should take the risk and move out: but I can’t – I have no money, my commissions have diminished these last weeks, as my mind has frayed. As I told the doctor, I’ve stopped pitching ideas, I’ve taken my eye off things.
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