by Nicci Cloke
My face stings as Marnie dabs at it, water trickling down the neck of my top.
‘We need to go to the police,’ I say, her hair brushing across my collarbone.
‘I know,’ she says, her face close to mine, and before I know what I’m doing, I kiss her.
Her lips are full and soft, and as soon as mine touch them, I realise what I’ve done. I pull away, but she’s faster.
‘What are you doing?’ She takes a few steps back, her face furious.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, panicking. ‘I wasn’t thinking, I didn’t mean to – everything’s just… I just…’
‘Jesus, Aiden.’ She turns on her heel.
My head’s spinning. What the hell did I just do? ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, as she pulls on her coat and stuffs her feet in her shoes. ‘You were just – and I was thinking of –’
She spins round. ‘Don’t finish that sentence.’
‘Marnie –’
She wrenches the door open.
‘Marnie, Cheska’s email… the police…’
She glances back over her shoulder. ‘Forget it. I’ll take care of it, okay?’
And just like that, she’s gone.
I SIT ALONE in the kitchen, my phone in front of me. In those ten minutes with Marnie, I’d forgotten about Autumn Thomas and the photo. The photo of baby clothes. I know what really happened. My heart bangs against my chest like a trapped bird, and I can’t quite catch my breath. Everything’s falling apart. My hands shake as I type.
Autumn
please
The reply is fast, almost instant.
oh come on
haven’t you figured it out yet?
my name isn’t Autumn
and neither is the girl’s from your English class
(she was OCTOBER, genius)
Oh my god. She was. Of course she was. I can hear Gerber now, calling her name out. And I’ve forgotten, or I haven’t bothered remembering, just because Autumn was nice to me, because I wanted someone to be nice to me.
The panic in my chest becomes something more like rage again.
Who the hell is this?
someone who knows you
The real you
maybe it’s time everyone did?
It’s like someone’s dropped a bucket of icy water over me.
what do you want?
Why don’t you come and find out?
My heart’s hammering so hard I’m sure I can hear it. It echoes through the empty house like a drumbeat.
where?
get on the train to London
I’ll tell you where when you get here
And then, the last instruction:
TELL NO ONE
THE NEWSPAPER ARTICLE spreads over two pages and is written by someone called Jennifer Liao.
I read it carefully, desperate for anything that will keep me in some way distracted on the forty-five minute train journey to London from King’s Lyme.
(continued from page 1) Experts were called in from the Met’s Computer Science Division in London, and spent three days analysing Lizzie’s laptop and the family computer in the Summersall house. They found that Lizzie spent a ‘disproportionate’ amount of time online, often late at night, on popular social networking sites such as Facebook and Instagram, as well as the site AskMe.com, which attracted attention last year after accusations that it encouraged cyber-bullying. DCI Hunter said that Lizzie’s friends list on Facebook had increased ‘exponentially’ in the last three months, and that ‘rather than being individuals from circles she already inhabited, such as school, many of these new friends seem to have been total strangers’.
These findings have led those in charge of the investigation to believe that this is not the first time Lizzie, a talented drama student, has left her home to meet someone she had met online. The investigation has focused on one particular online ‘friend’, who Hunter said he was ‘99.9 per cent’ sure was the one Lizzie had set out to meet on the evening of the 8th October. All traces of the account have since been deleted, and the experts were called in largely to try and track its creator down. Hunter stated at a press conference a week ago that the main concern of those involved was that ‘the person behind this account is not the person depicted in the profile’s pictures. They are not the person Lizzie believed they were.’
In light of this, local MP Graham Denton warned of the need for parents to be vigilant of their children’s use of the internet. ‘People have this idea that only younger children are at risk of grooming,’ he said at a party conference on Thursday, ‘but that is not the case. We need to allocate more funds into the education of parents and teenagers on the safety measures that should be taken when using social media.’
His comments were echoed in the House of Commons, where the Prime Minister announced that government funding would be allocated to technology companies working on security add-ons for social networks. One, an app called TrueFace, which verifies Facebook users’ identities, will launch in the coming days. The Prime Minister confirmed that TrueFace is the first project to receive funding, and said that there would be a ‘huge’ campaign surrounding it.
Francesca Summersall, older sister of Lizzie, has also been trying to raise awareness of the issues around social networking. Summersall, 20, is one of the stars of locally-filmed reality show Spoilt in the Suburbs and a spokesperson for the show said, ‘We are dedicated to helping Cheska and her family through this difficult time, and to helping Cheska raise awareness of the potential dangers of online relationships, a cause which is of course now very close to her heart.’
Meanwhile, DCI Hunter stated that police are still following ‘several’ new leads, and that Lizzie’s was ‘still very much an open case’.
I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes as the train rocks through one of the little villages south of King’s Lyme. All I can picture is Lizzie, on this train, heading to meet someone who is not the person she thinks they are.
And here I am, doing the same.
The thought doesn’t come to me straight away; it isn’t a lightbulb moment, not like you see in films. I’m staring out of the window, wondering who Lizzie might have trusted with the truth about us, and then I glance down at the paper again and the first thing to catch my eye is, as usual, Lizzie. My eyes flick over the photograph and its caption.
But then I look again.
Summersall.
Summer.
Autumn.
A new name for a new season – for a new Lizzie? Instantly, a part of me tries to reject it. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. But the rest of me keeps thinking. The rest of me keeps seeing.
She’d want to hurt me. I can’t blame her for that.
Then I think of Evie, and Lizzie’s parents. Could she do this to them? Put them through this? The Lizzie I know wouldn’t do that.
But then she’s not the Lizzie I know, is she? That’s what I keep hearing, that’s what I’ve seen for myself on her Instagram, on her AskMe.
Her AskMe. That’s the thing that’s been bugging me about the article, too, the mention of that site. Every time it comes up, it doesn’t sit right with me. I just don’t understand why Lizzie would use it, why she would continue to let people abuse her through it. There’s got to be something there. Something I’m missing. I get out my phone and look at the page again, look at Lizzie’s answers.
And this time, they don’t seem random. They seem deliberate, specific.
Maybe I’m crazy, but they seem like messages.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players
I am not what I am
I don’t want realism. I want magic! Yes, yes, magic! I try to give that to people. I misrepresent things to them. I don’t tell the truth, I tell what ought to be truth. And if that is sinful, then let me be damned for it! – don’t turn the light on!
After all, a woman’s charm is fifty per cent illusion
Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it feels a
s if they’re taunting me. Lizzie telling the world that she is other people, that she can play a part, can mislead. Right here, where anyone could see if they only knew where to look. I think of that lesson in Gerber’s classroom, the lesson about An Inspector Calls. Lizzie, so serious. He made her love him. And that’s where it all went wrong. There’s a quote from the play here, too, the second question down, after someone’s asked her ‘Why are you even on here? Are you like 12?’:
She kept a rough sort of diary. And she said there that she had to go away and be quiet and remember “just to make it last longer.” She felt there’d never be anything as good again for her – so she had to make it last longer.
She had to go away and be quiet. That sounds horribly like a confession. My stomach twists as I remember that in An Inspector Calls the dead girl uses two names: she’s Daisy Renton and she’s Eva Smith. Lizzie Summersall. Autumn Thomas.
Is it going to be Lizzie who meets me? Am I going to get off this train and see her, finally?
The train announcer’s voice, soft and gentle. ‘We will shortly be arriving at London King’s Cross, where this train terminates.’
I guess I’m about to find out.
LIZZIE. I SEE her in the crowd, I see her everywhere. Hats pulled down low over blonde hair, faces in shadow. But each time I get closer, she disappears like smoke, the faces instantly not hers. I make my way out of the station and nobody stops me, nobody is waiting for me, stationary in the stream of passengers.
When I’m outside, I fish out my phone and I send ‘Autumn’ – and already it’s hard not think Lizzie – a message. I take a photo looking back at the station, and I type:
Now what?
I look up after I’ve sent it, because it’s too tense watching and waiting for a reply. From where I am, I can see the pretty red brick buildings of St Pancras and I remember a late-night conversation with Lizzie about it, and about Harry Potter.
you know that’s not King’s Cross in Chamber of Secrets, right?
it is!
nope! St Pancras
whaaaaat
aren’t they the same?
sort of but not really
crazy
why’d they do that?
looks nicer I guess!
surprises all the tourists when they show up
i didn’t even notice!
I take pictures of it every time we go
haha
they *are* next to each other
exactly :p
I wish I’d sent a picture of it instead of the actual King’s Cross. Little in-joke for her.
Stop. You don’t know that it’s Lizzie.
I watch the people waiting for buses along the edge of the square, and the people walking through the square, around it, heads down. It’s only now, coming back, that I fully realise how easy it is to lose yourself in London, how easy it is to disappear into a crowd and never come out again. And the thought doesn’t scare me or intimidate me.
It makes me jealous.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look back down at it.
Go into the Underground, she types.
Catch the Piccadilly line to Covent Garden. I’ll tell you where to go from there.
I get up and head for the entrance to the Tube. It’s almost three, so not yet as crazily busy as rush hour, but there’s still plenty of people, a lot of them dragging suitcases and bags. I hurry down the steps, already planning ahead, remembering Covent Garden station and wondering where ‘Autumn’ – Lizzie – will want to meet.
I’ve still got my old Oyster card, in the battered old case Millie, one of my friends here, gave me when we were eleven. It used to have logos all over it – sports stuff, Adidas, Nike – but it’s got so faded from being put in and out of pockets that it’s just white smudges against the red plastic now. I go to a top-up point and press it against the sensor. Still £4.17 on there, from god knows how long ago, so I turn back round and head for the gates that lead to the Piccadilly line.
On the escalator, I can’t help the feeling that I’m on my way somewhere I can’t turn back from, like I’m walking to my doom, a prisoner shuffling down Death Row. But I’m not afraid. I feel solid, settled. For the first time in a week, I don’t feel like my heart’s about to burst out of my chest. Because at least I’m doing something, at least there’s a chance I’m about to find some answers.
The platform is starting to fill up; three minutes to go until the next westbound train. I head for an emptyish space near the middle and take my place behind the yellow line next to an old man hunched over a paper and a mum with a baby in one of those carriers on her chest. Baby. I think of the tiny clothes in the photo. What if Lizzie lied? What if she didn’t make a mistake? My stomach churns at the thought.
Two minutes on the screen now, and the baby starts to cry. It’s a tiny sound, almost lost in the hum of the Underground, more of a mew than a cry, but it cuts through me in a way it never has before. I watch the mum jiggle it back and forth, fanning herself with a magazine.
One minute on the screen now, and Lizzie’s quotes start filling my head again.
fifty per cent illusion
all the men and women merely players
The platform is almost full now, people filling the gaps between us, drawing in behind me. Sweat beads on my back. I can’t stop a crawling feeling that travels through me, the baby’s crying getting louder. But at least the train’s coming now; two circles of bright, blueish light appearing around a bend in the blackness of the tunnel, the tracks vibrating.
I am not what I am
My hair lifts away from my face in the manmade breeze, the train roaring down the tunnel, its brakes screeching.
That’s when two hands find the centre of my back.
And push.
‘AUTUMN THOMAS’
IT’S AMAZING HOW easy it is; how quickly it happens. One minute I’m behind him, the next my hands are on his back and then he’s falling, tumbling over the edge of the platform, and my hands are touching nothing but air. The train’s thundering up to us, its lights the only thing I see. All I can think – a conscious, clear thought as time around us goes soupy slow – is that this is exactly, this is all, I wanted: to see Aiden fall.
And then time snaps back and my hand closes around the thinnest sliver of his jacket and I pull him back, just as the train smacks past us.
AIDEN
THE TRACKS LURCH up at me. Maybe this is the point when I’m supposed to see my life flash in front of my eyes but in reality, when it happens, all I see are the dirty tracks, the dusty concrete and the huge red front of the train, its glaring lights, as it roars towards me. And then someone is pulling me back, the world tipping upright again, and I stumble, my head bobbing back and the ceiling swimming above me. The train pulls in to a stop and the doors open, people pushing past to get off, people pushing past to get on, my heart stamping against my ribs, my lungs heaving.
I can’t believe that just happened, I think, and at the same time, I realise that that just happened. I wheel around, ready to lay into whoever pushed me.
I wheel around and I see. I finally see who’s been tormenting me all along; who ‘Autumn Thomas’ really is. And the weird thing is that the first thing I think of is Ladlow. I hear his voice in my head, just a couple of days ago, and it all makes sense.
Excellent work, dear Thomas.
Scobie.
Scobie is standing in front of me, panting like he’s run a marathon, his glasses slipping down his face.
We stare at each other, neither of us caring about the people passing; only a few of them slowing, wondering if they’re about to see a fight.
‘You?’ I say, and though I mean it like an insult, it comes out as a question.
‘Me,’ he spits.
I stagger back a little. ‘But… why? Why would you do that to me?’
‘Why?! Don’t you think you deserve it, Aiden? After what you did to her?’
The train slides away. The platform is
almost empty now; just the last few people straggling towards the exit, the first few new passengers making their way along it.
‘You have no idea, do you?’ Scobie says, and I notice that his hands are shaking. ‘She was so sweet, so kind… And then you came along. And you broke her heart.’
Suddenly I realise I’m close to tears. ‘Scobie, I –’
‘Don’t tell me you didn’t mean it, Aiden, don’t you dare. I saw her that night, at the prom. I found her outside the Rec, in bits, because of what you said to her. What you did. She told me everything.’
‘Everything alright, lads?’ One of the station staff has come along the platform to us, a hand on her walkie-talkie.
‘Yeah.’ My mouth feels dry, my legs like they might give way. ‘Yeah, we’re fine.’
She looks at us doubtfully. ‘You getting on the next train?’
‘No,’ Scobie says firmly. ‘We’re going. Come on, Aiden.’
He heads for the stairwell and I follow, dazed, my mind trying to catch up with my legs. ‘You saw her that night?’
He gives me a disgusted look. ‘You’d abandoned her. You pushed her down the stairs!’
I grab his wrist. ‘No. I didn’t. It was an accident, Scobie. You must know that. She must’ve known that.’
He pulls his hand away. ‘You hurt her so much, Aiden. And you’ve spent this whole time denying any responsibility.’
The woman with the walkie-talkie follows us to the bottom of the steps and so we keep moving, heading for the escalator. But my senses are returning, and with them, anger.
‘Me? What about you? Did you do it to her as well? Did you set up another profile, make friends with Lizzie too? Found a photo you thought she’d like?’
‘What?’ He takes a step back, looking genuinely disturbed. ‘No. No way. I would never do that to Lizzie.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
He looks away in disgust. ‘Why would I help you figure out Hal Paterson was a fake if I was the one behind it all?’