Click, Click, Click, Click. The locks rattle like muffled gunfire. We have smart locks now? Too late, I remember the builders I saw; too late, I recall Tabitha telling me about the locks. Too late, too late, too late.
My desperation must be written on my face, because Jenny grins and says, ‘You didn’t even realize you had smart locks? They’re very clever. Same keys. You’d never know. But I knew. Because your Assistants tell me everything. They tell me your neighbours are out. I checked. They’re all out. We’re alone.’
No. This mustn’t be. I cannot be trapped in here. I yell at the screen,
‘Electra, unlock the doors.’
Nothing.
‘Electra, UNLOCK THE DOORS!’
Nothing.
Jenny speaks, with a hint of anger, stepping closer. ‘They will only listen to me, if I am in the room. That’s how I coded them. You know all this, Jo the Go. You worked it out. Well done. But now you want to know the rest, don’t you? Don’t you?’
Her voice is raised. I think about the knife in my pocket, the phone in the bathroom. But not yet, not yet. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I want to know.’
Jenny tuts. She glances at the TV, and it flicks on. The screen shows a little home-movie. Of Simon fucking me from behind.
Yet again I ask, ‘Why?’
Jenny is still looking at the TV. Electra makes a baby noise. The porn on my laptop is replaced by a different home video. It is one of Mum’s, in colour but very faded. It shows Daddy chasing me around the garden. The image is grainy, the camera focused on my father, who turns and smiles. He looks at me, then his eyes slide sideways, but the camera does not follow. Is there someone else with me? He looks faintly menacing, the beginning of the madness perhaps.
The movie snaps dead. The Assistant in the bathroom takes over, playing the noise of a child screaming, over and over, which segues into all of them, every single Assistant, chanting in turn, Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children, Perfection is terrible, it cannot have children—
‘JENNY!’
She barely blinks, but she gives me her gaze.
‘Jenny, you did this. You made this code. You put it in the Assistants, you gave the Assistants to Simon and me, now you have to make it stop. People have died.’
My old friend shakes her head. I glance at the open door right behind her. The second bathroom beckons, down the hall. Then I look back. Mustn’t let her know I have a plan of escape.
Jenny speaks. ‘Funny thing is, this obsession with Plath? – I actually didn’t code that into them.’ She gestures at Electra on the shelf. ‘They just picked it up, from me. Same with the voice mimicry, from Simon. And they’ve clearly picked up stuff from you. They are like seven- or eight-year-old kids, they have the same amorality. The same playful cruelty.’
As she says this, the entire flat is plunged into darkness. Just one lamp is left on, making everything shadowy, and theatrically gloomy. Jenny is now a shape across the silent room. A silhouette between me and the darkness of the door behind.
‘Jenny,’ I say into the gloom, ‘tell me why you chose me as your victim. And why you sent that evil, weird email to yourself. Or – or—’
‘Or what?’ says Jenny, with a vivid anger in her voice. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you do. Don’t you see? It’s too late. It’s far too late. I came over to do one last job, to fix your Assistants, and there’s only one way to do that.’
‘Just tell me why?’
I am interrupted by Electra, who speaks from the shelf in an American woman’s accent. ‘Because Jenny had no choice. Because Jenny had to let the old man do it, didn’t you, Jenny? Sometimes you would come out of the bedroom, in your unicorn pyjamas, and drop them for him, wouldn’t you? Because Daddy told you to.’
Jenny comes towards me. I cannot tell if she is smiling or frowning, or something else entirely.
She is silent. Electra goes on: ‘It’s not your fault, Jenny, it happens to kids, it’s not your fault, he was scary, he was scary, he was scary.’
‘Electra,’ says Jenny sharply. ‘Wait.’
The blue light shines, spirals, and dims. Jenny comes close. I realize, as I have not realized before, that she is quite a bit taller than me. Is she planning to assault me? I flinch as she moves – but she is only unbuttoning a cuff of her shirt. Then she slowly rolls up the sleeve of her cardigan, and after that the shirt.
Ah.
A ladder of vicious scars. All the way to her elbow. Some of them look fresh.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘Look, Jo. That’s what he does. That’s what he still does to me. Even now, years later. The abuse. All these years later. I can make another one. Watch!’
From her pocket she pulls out a little knife, and unfolds it. I feel the prickles of fight or flight down my back: the blade in my pocket or the phone in the bathroom? I will have to choose very soon. But Jenny is not making any move on me, not yet: instead she strokes the knife across the pale flesh of her own arm. I see a line of blood ooze. I see the knife tremble in her hand, the strange smile on her face, as if she is in a trance again. And now I know which book she was reading, when I caught her at home a couple of hours ago. The book with that distinctive pale blue cover. It was the Peaceful Pill Handbook. The one the Assistants sent to me. Jenny was reading a guide to suicide.
More than reading it: she was transfixed, entranced, determined. I think Jenny was about to kill herself. My call interrupted her.
And now she’s come over here. To do it in front of me? Or to take me with her?
The fear shoots to my heart. I must keep her talking till I can think of a way out. All the doors are locked. I have to run into the bathroom. But Jenny is in the way. And she has a knife.
‘Jenny, whatever you’re planning, just stop. You were a victim. It isn’t your fault!’
Ignoring me, Jenny casually picks up one of Tabitha’s modern steel sculptures, small, elegant, and abstract. Then she looks at the TV, which is showing yet another home movie: I am dancing around the apple tree. Abruptly, Jenny hurls the steel into the TV screen, which flashes, sparkles, and shatters. As the glass explodes, her eyes widen, with a mad satisfaction.
There is clearly no reasoning to be done. I have to get out. And this is my moment to escape – grab the phone – but Jenny is still in the way. She could floor me too easily. Or lash out with her knife.
Turning from the shattered TV screen, she yells at me. Very angry now.
‘Why did I fucking do it? Isn’t it fucking obvious? I wanted to hurt you. Badly. You stupid bitch! That’s why I invented Liam. And it was SO bloody easy, you were sending nude photos to him within a week. And at the right moment, I made sure Simon discovered. Because I wanted to destroy your marriage, because I wanted to damage you.’
I am drowning in fear, here, but I need to keep her distracted until I can guarantee a route to the bathroom. ‘Please explain it to me, Jenny. So I can understand. I can see you’re hurt, you’re unhappy. But why me?’
What will she smash next? She is silent: looking left, right. The blood runs down her arm; in the silvery light from the streetlamps outside, the knife glints in her other hand. We are otherwise immersed in gloom.
One of the Assistants in the bedrooms is playing the gentle sound of a baby whimpering. At last Jenny looks back at me, and continues, her voice level, though her eyes are on fire. ‘Then I heard your confession about Jamie Trewin, and I knew you could be blackmailed. That was SO fucking huge. Exhilarating. And all the coding designed to hurt you, I made sure it followed you here, to Delancey, with the Assistants.’
The fake baby grizzles and weeps.
‘But that’s when I stopped,’ Jenny goes on. ‘Because I didn’t want to get caught. That was the only reason. It wasn’t because I felt any sympathy for you.’ Her sneer is pure hate. ‘I ordered the machines to stop it all, and send me a horrible email, to rule me out as a suspect. So you would never guess it was me. But I never expected that email. With those details. Those …’ She looks a
t her arm, the blood that runs to her fingers, she looks back at me. ‘Those terrible details. At first I thought it was you, Jo, taking revenge, but then I realized it was the Assistants. My coding was too good, or not good enough. I’d created something, but it was out of control. There’s only way to stop all this.’
Jenny’s eyes, unblinking, meet mine. Am I seriously going to fight for my life, with a knife, in the dark?
Walking a step closer, she says, ‘So there, you have it. The explanation. More than you deserve. I did it because I hate you.’
‘But that’s not an explanation. We were friends! Why didn’t you tell me your dad was hurting you? You could have told me.’
‘Were we? Were we friends, really? How well do you know me?’
Another foot closer. I can see the wetness of tears in her eyes.
The final lamp switches off. We are in almost total darkness. All the Assistants are quiet, apart from the one on the shelf. It’s the only one talking. And what it says, in its female, American accent, slices me clean open.
‘Ticklemonster. That was his name, wasn’t it? Jenny, big fat Jenny and the Ticklemonster. You went round to his house all the time, always seeing Jo’s funny old dad. And he used to tickle you, didn’t he? And then the tickling went too far. Jo’s funny old dad, in the little study. Ha ha ha. Tickle tickle tickle. Fingers deep inside you. He used to wait for you after school, didn’t he, didn’t he, and you were too scared to tell. You in his car, him inside you. Tickle tickle tickle! Raping you once a week. The same car in which he gassed himself. Because he felt so guilty. For the suffering little children.’
The ice, out there, on Delancey, has found its way inside me.
My daddy. It wasn’t her daddy. It was my daddy.
That’s why she wrote that inscription. That’s why she was obsessed with Plath, and her Daddy poems. Because of MY daddy.
Now I think back: I remember the times Jenny would sleep over at our place, and that sometimes I had a sense of something strange going on, Dad hugging her so much, more than he hugged me, watching us put on pyjamas. And Jenny started getting fat. And then they moved away, so suddenly.
My own father, oh God. My own father. Going slowly mad. As he did it to Jenny.
Jenny speaks into the dark. Her words are weighted with sadness. Floating to the seabed. ‘You see? He never touched you. Never destroyed your life, your ability to love. He didn’t abuse his own daughter, he did it to me.’
‘Oh Jesus, Jenny, I had no idea. None.’
‘Well now you know. Maybe now you understand. Why I did what I did, to Jo the Go. You were so happy, but you didn’t deserve to be happy. Your father should have done it to you. Instead he did it to me. The fucking Ticklemonster. The fucking monster. That’s why I hate you. You and your family.’ Her voice drops even lower. ‘And you want to know something else? All that stuff about sex, all those anecdotes? They were lies. I’m a virgin. If you ignore what your beloved daddy did to me, I am a virgin, at thirty-three, a stupid, frigid freak. I’ve never done it since him. Because sex scares me too much, gives me nightmares. I’ve tried and I can’t. So I will never have kids, with a man, like a normal person. And unlike you, I wanted kids. I will die as the childless woman. Tonight.’
Abruptly, she steps so close that I can feel her hot breath. She is a round white face in the clutching blackness. I put my hand in my back pocket. The knife is there. This is it. I have to do it. Now.
But I can’t. I just can’t. I’m not capable. I am paralysed.
‘That’s your answer,’ she says, her voice quavering. ‘Now you want me to fix the Assistants? There’s only one way.’
Abruptly, she turns, and steps away. She is walking to her bag, on the chair. My route is unblocked. This really is it. Instantly, I sprint past her, through the darkness to the door, down the hall, knocking hard against a bookcase, but throwing myself the other way – into the bathroom. I am doing all of this blind, in the pitch-dark, but I know the shape of the flat. Heart yammering, I swivel and slam the bathroom door shut, push the bolt. Locking myself in. Come on, Jo, come on, Jo: HURRY UP.
I fumble, desperately, in the total darkness, I am searching the cupboard for the secret phone. My hand touches something hard and plastic. My phone. But when I press the home button, and the screen lights up, I think shit shit SHIT. I left it running. Such a crappy old phone. I’m down to 2 per cent battery. But that should still be enough.
Simon.
54
Simon
Simon gunned his engine, revving madly as he wove his way through the slower traffic on sleety, dirty, slushy Euston Road, down to Angel.
He’d called Polly, before the meeting, during, after. He’d kept tabs. She’d reassured him Grace was fine. But he was rushing home from the office, and as he did he was shouting at Jenny, down the line. Bluetooth blazing. He had Jenny on Voicemail. He was leaving endless messages.
‘Whatever the fuck you were doing, it has to stop. Make it stop!’
Whoa! He’d nearly crashed. In the nick of time he slammed on the accelerator, and veered around a tootling little Fiat 500.
Jenny’s voicemail beeped. He’d run out of time. Simon’s hands tightened angrily on the wheel. He would obey Jo, and not get physically involved; but there was nothing to stop him making calls. Find out what was going on. And intervene if necessary.
As he shot a light, he shouted at the Bluetooth: Call Jenny. The thought of Jo in danger, of Jo’s mother dying, of all the hurt Jenny had caused: it was all too much. It made him too angry That heartless bitch!
Again he barked his questions into the handless phone: ‘Tell me? Why? Why the campaign, why did you go so far?’
The voicemail was silent. He was talking into space. He didn’t care. The anger boiled. And now his phone rang. Someone was ringing him.
JO?
Vigorously he thumbed the button, taking the call. ‘Jo? Jesus, Jo! What is it? What’s happening?’
‘She’s here.’
Jo was whispering, her voice low and hoarse.
‘Where are you, Jo? Are you safe?’
‘No. I’m not safe. My battery’s about to die, please come over – help me – she’s locked the doors. She’s smashing stuff up.’
Simon was already screeching to halt. Doing a three-point turn, making a taxi driver shout at him, angrily. Fuck it.
‘Jo, where are you in the flat? Exactly?’
‘In the little bathroom. Locked in. But she’s got a knife, Si, she’s really mental – the lights are out, it’s so scary – I think she’s going to kill herself, and maybe me, as well—’
‘Jesus. I’m coming!’
Simon looked at his speedo: 50, 60, 70. Hurtling past buses, nearly killing a Deliveroo guy, he was at the corner. He slowed, turning a hectic right, onto Eversholt Street. Camden half a mile away. Snow turned to crappy slush, he skidded on the wet. Speeding up again. Fast fast fast. Get there now, get there before.
‘Jo, just stay calm, I’ll be there in ten, maybe five – I’m on my way—’
‘Please, Si. Please be quick. This phone’s about to go. Call the police. I may not have juice.’
‘What is she doing now?’
‘I dunno. I can hear her moving around. There’s some—’
The signal cut out. Simon overtook a Prius, the signal returned.
‘—some weird smell in here. What is she doing? Si – please—’
The steering wheel jerked in his hands. The phone call died.
‘Jo,’ he shouted. ‘JO!’
No answer. He ordered Siri to return the call. The line clicked through.
‘Jo! Answer me! JO!’
Nothing. Dead. Simon swore. The car jerked again, bizarrely. He shouted at his Bluetooth.
‘Dial 999. Call the police.’
Bluetooth did not respond. The car veered again, without him steering. Weird. No. No. But it happened again. The wheel was not his. He was no longer in control. The car was doing 80, 90, maybe more, a
nd he was not pressing the accelerator. Someone else, the computer probably, was driving now.
‘Jesus, stop!’ he shouted. At his own car. Skidding wildly, left and right, in the sleety dark. ‘No,’ he said, trying to force the wheel right. ‘Stop, just stop—’
A lorry hooted urgently. He had nearly crashed. Head on. His tyres squealed. Car-lights spun in his eyes. The car jerked left, taking a shadowed corner way too fast, screeching into Barnby Street, and even now it was accelerating.
Simon knew this corner well, this little street. He knew it ended in a vast metal gate. A cul-de-sac. The car was speeding, the brakes lifeless, he was being hurtled towards the gates, faster, ever faster. Simon shut his eyes, he opened his eyes, he tore desperately, finally, at the steering wheel. But it would not budge. He could see pedestrians staring at him in horror, hands over mouths. He was seconds away. The gate seemed to be flying towards him.
Three seconds, two. The car engine roared. He was strapped in. But at this speed? Two seconds, one.
The car rammed into the heavy steel barrier. Simon’s final conscious thoughts took in the scene, as if he was a mere bystander: the glittery noise of shattering glass, a modest fireball billowing out of the engine, the sense of somebody crushing his ribs. And then there was smoke. And silence.
And blood, which slowly dripped onto metal.
55
Jo
What is that strange smell? Sweet, yet not sweet. Fruity yet heady, different, memorable, distinctive. Is Jenny pouring some exotic perfume all over the flat? I can hear her walking the hallway, opening doors, running back and forth. The madwoman rattling around my house, my old friend on the cusp of killing herself.
I sit here in the sadness and the blackness of the little bathroom. Crouched on the edge of the loo. My phone is dead. The darkness is intense. There isn’t even a window to let in that ghostly, wintry streetlight.
But Simon is coming, he will call the police, I just have to wait.
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