Текст книги "Second Life"

Автор книги: S. J. Watson

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Chapter Eight

I sit on the edge of the bed for a while. I stroke the duvet cover. Egyptian cotton, duck-egg blue. Our bed, I think. What happened?

We bought it when we moved in here four years ago and it’s nothing particularly special. It’s a place we sleep, talk, read. Occasionally we make love, and when we do it’s still tender, slow. Enjoyable, usually, if not exciting.

Was it ever exciting? I think so, for a while, but the frenzy of a relationship’s early days is unsustainable; it has to burn out, become something else. It’s not his fault, or mine. It happens to everyone.

Maybe it happened sooner, with us. Hugh is the son of my father’s best friend; he’s known me since I was at school. Though he was older than me, we always got on, and as his father tried to look after mine, Hugh looked after me, and helped me to look after Kate. Our passion, when it eventually came, was muted. It was already accompanied by a history. Sometimes I think it’s as if we missed out a stage, as if we went from being friends straight to being companions.

I hear Hugh come back home. He goes into the living room. I stand up. I have to go downstairs, to talk to him, to sort things out. If I don’t he’ll sleep on the couch in his office and I’ll spend another night lying in bed, alone, trying to sleep while my brain fizzes with images, with thoughts that won’t subside. I’ll turn the events of the evening over and over, and always at the centre will be Kate. Walking down the alleyway, looking up to see a figure in the shadows in front of her, smiling a greeting but then, as she steps forward, he raises his hand and her smile turns to terror as she realizes that things have gone wrong, this time she’s made a mistake. The man she’s come to meet isn’t who she thought he was.

I know that if I were to close my eyes I’d see it, as clearly as if it were happening in front of me. A fist in the face, a booted foot. Why didn’t I know, somehow? That psychic connection I always thought we had; why did it let us down, when it really mattered? Was it severed when we took Connor? I’d see her blood, spilled on to the concrete. I’d see her nose, broken. I’d hear her cry out. I’d wonder if she knew, if she sensed this was it. I’d wonder how much pain there was. I’d wonder if she thought about me, and if so whether it was with love. I’d wonder if, at the end, she forgave me.

I go downstairs. ‘Hugh?’

He’s sitting in the living room with a glass of whisky. I sit down opposite him.

‘You should go to bed.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He looks at me, for the first time since I came into the room. He sighs, sips his whisky.

‘It hurts.’

‘I know.’

There’s nothing else to say. We go to bed.

In the morning I talk to Connor.

‘I don’t know what you heard last night,’ I say. ‘But your father and I love you very much.’

He’s sloshing milk into his cereal bowl and some spills on the table. I resist the urge to dab it dry. ‘I just heard you arguing.’

It feels like a slap. It’s the very opposite of what I want for my son, of what I promised Kate. Stability. Loving parents. A home free of conflict.

‘All couples argue. It’s normal.’

‘Are you going to split up?’

‘No! No, of course not.’

He goes back to his cereal. ‘What were you arguing about?’

I don’t want to tell him.

‘It’s difficult. The last few months have been tough. On all of us. With Auntie Kate, and everything.’ I know I’m stating the obvious, but it feels true, and necessary. A shadow crosses his face and for an instant I see how he’ll look when he’s much older, but then it passes, leaving a kind of sadness. I think he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t.

‘Do you miss her?’

He freezes, his spoon midway between the bowl and his mouth. He puts it back. Again he looks thoughtful, much older. For some reason he reminds me of Marcus – it’s the same expression he had when on those rare occasions he was worried or pensive – but then he speaks and becomes a teenager once again.

‘I don’t know.’ His face collapses, tears come. It’s unexpected and I’m swept to my feet in an urge to soothe and comfort.

‘It’s okay. Whatever you feel, or even if you don’t know, it’s okay.’

He hesitates. ‘I suppose I do miss her. A bit. Do you?’

‘Yes. Every day.’

‘I mean,’ he goes on, ‘we didn’t see her that often, but still …’

‘It’s different, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. When someone is alive you might not see them very much, but you know you can. If you want.’

‘Yes.’

‘And now I can’t.’

I remain silent. I want to give him the time to speak, but also I’m wondering whether he really had felt that he could see his mother. Hugh and I may have given him permission if he’d asked – to do that, to go and stay with her – but we had never really encouraged it. Maybe I was too frightened that she wouldn’t let him come back.

‘You know,’ I say eventually, ‘whatever you’re feeling, you can ask me about anything. Anything at all.’

Even though I mean it, my words sound hollow. Because the truth is, there are secrets, things I won’t tell him, even if he asks.

There’s a long pause, then he asks, ‘Do you think they’ll get them? The people who killed Kate.’

It stops me in my tracks. He hasn’t called her Auntie. I wonder if it’s the first step on the path to calling her Mum. The air between us crackles.

‘I hope so, darling. But it’s difficult.’

There’s a silence between us.

‘Dad says she was a nice person who fell in with a bad crowd.’

I press some bread down into the toaster and look up. I smile. That’s exactly what Hugh used to think of me. A nice person, over-influenced by those around me. He would tell me, while I was in Berlin, ‘Look after yourself,’ he’d say, ‘We all miss you …’, and I knew he meant, Those people aren’t your friends. He was trying to save me, even then; I just wasn’t ready to be saved.

‘She was a really lovely person. Full stop.’

He hesitates.

‘So, why didn’t she want me?’

‘Connor,’ I begin. ‘It’s complicated—’

‘Dad says I shouldn’t worry about it. He says that Auntie Kate loved me very much but she wasn’t coping, that she couldn’t afford a baby, but you could, so it made sense.’

‘Well, that’s really a very simplistic way of looking at it …’

I wonder when Hugh’s been telling Connor all this. I didn’t even know they’d talked. I tell myself we need to make more of an effort, to be upfront with Connor, to be united. Like we’d decided years ago.

‘If you wanted children, why didn’t you have one?’

‘We couldn’t.’ I’m trying to keep my voice even; I don’t want it to crack, to betray how much loss I contain. ‘We’d been trying. For several years. But one of us …’ I stop. He doesn’t need the details. ‘We just couldn’t.’ It comes to me, then. The clinic: white walls and rubber floors, boxes spilling blue gloves, posters advertising helplines and charities that I knew I’d never call. I remember the stirrups, the cold metal between my legs. It felt like a punishment.

I realize I’ve still never told anyone about that, certainly not Hugh. He doesn’t know anything about that baby I could have had but didn’t.

‘Who couldn’t?’

I look at my son. At Kate’s son. ‘I don’t know.’ The familiar sense of shame comes, then. I thought I’d conquered it, years ago. I was mistaken. ‘We don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. It makes no difference. We love you, Connor. You’re our son.’

The toaster pings, the bread pops up. I’m startled, briefly, then I begin to butter his toast.

‘Thanks, Mum,’ he says, and I’m not sure what he’s thanking me for.

I take the key from my bag and unlock the padlock. The shed door swings inwards with a creak and I wait for a few moments to let some of the heat out before stepping in. Even though the walls are lined and painted and I light scented candles in here when I work, it still smells vaguely of wood. Yet it’s comforting; my own space, a refuge.

I close the door behind me and sit at the desk. I put the biscuit tin in front of me, the one Anna gave me. I feel calmer, now. I know what I have to do.

I take Kate’s Filofax out of the tin and put it on the desk, next to my laptop. The light that streams into my studio through the window behind me reflects off its surface and I adjust my chair and change the angle of the screen. Finally I press a key.

My background picture is an old photo of me, sitting on a bench on the Heath with Connor on my lap. In the photo he’s four, maybe five. A decade ago, and I look so happy, so excited finally to be a parent, yet now it feels as if it belongs to a different time completely. I realize once again how Kate’s death has sliced my life in two.

I press another key and the picture of Connor disappears, replaced by the last window I’d had open. It’s a video.

I press play. It’s a film of the two of us, me and Connor, on a beach. Hugh took it, years ago, back when he still used his camcorder. Connor is about five, dressed in red trunks and slathered in sunblock, and the two of us are running away from the camera, into the sea, laughing as we do.

It was a glorious summer; we’d hired a villa in Portugal. We spent the days by the pool, or on the beach. We had lunch in a restaurant in the village, or we’d take a drive into the hills. We sat on the terrace and watched the sun go down after we’d put Connor to bed. We’d sit, and talk, and then we’d go to bed ourselves, where, quietly, carefully, we made love. We were happy. So very, very happy.

The video is almost over when I get a call; it’s Anna, on Skype. I don’t want to talk to her now. I click ignore. I’ll call her back later. What I have to do won’t take long.

The video finishes; Connor is frozen in the distance.

I’m ready.

I open my browser and begin to type the web address: encountrz. I only have to type the first few letters; the rest autofills from the night before last, the time I hadn’t got as far as pressing enter.

I press it now. I have a sense of weightlessness; it’s inexplicable, but real. My body has become unmoored. I’m floating. The window loads. A photo appears, a couple, walking along a beach, laughing. It looks somehow banal, but what had I expected?

At the top of the screen is a box marked ‘Username’, and another headed ‘Password’. I type in ‘KatieB’, then ‘Jasper1234’. I select enter.

I’m not sure what will happen. The machine seems to hang, to take an age, but then the screen changes and a message appears across its centre.

‘Welcome back, Katie. It’s been a while!’

It feels as if something has struck me, slammed me back to earth. I’m winded, I can’t breathe, but then I realize the message is automated. I breathe deeply, try to calm down. Next to it there’s a button marked ‘Enter’. I press it.

I’m not ready for what I see; there’s a picture of my sister, in the top-left corner of the screen beneath the website’s logo. It jolts me again. It’s like she’s there, sitting at her computer. It’s as if all I have to do is type a message and press send – just like I can with Anna, and Adrienne, and Dee and Fatima – and then I’ll be able to talk to her again, tell her I’m sorry, that Connor is safe. That I miss her.

But I can’t. She’s gone. I focus on why I’ve logged on here, I make myself look at the photo she used. It looks like it was taken on a holiday. It’s a close-up. She’s lying on a beach towel, on her front, reading a book. Her sunglasses are pushed back on her head, her skin is tanned. She’s wearing a bikini and has hoisted herself up on her elbows. Her breasts push up against the fabric of the towel, yet it looks unposed, natural.

She’s smiling. Happy. I stare at the picture. I wonder when it was taken, and by whom. She looks so relaxed. I can’t believe the little girl I’d once held, once bathed, once read to, is gone. I can’t believe I’ll never speak to her again.

I begin to cry. I’m sliding, backwards, towards pain. I can’t do this, I think. Not alone.

I call Anna back.

‘There should be a tab at the top for recent activity. You could look there. It lists the last few people who have looked at her profile.’

She’s already asked me if I’m all right, what I’m up to. She’s already questioned whether this is a good idea and I told her the half-lie that Adrienne had suggested it. ‘I just want to see if there’s anything the police might’ve missed.’

‘Right. Got it.’

‘Then you should see the rooms. On the right?’

I minimize the chat window and Anna’s face disappears. Behind it is the dating site, the list of chatrooms. Looking for Love? Something Extra. A Bit on the Side. Couples and Groups. I wonder which one Kate would have gravitated towards.

‘Okay.’

‘Kate and I used to go to Casual Chat,’ says Anna. ‘But there should be a tab, at the top. Friends and Favourites.’

‘I see it.’

‘They’re the people Kate was chatting to. The ones she’s connected with, linked her profile to.’

I click on the tab and the page changes. A list of names appears, with thumbnail photographs. I freeze. My right hand begins to shake. Robbie676, Lutture, SteveXXX … this list goes on.

I scroll down; there are about fifteen names in total.

‘Anything?’ says Anna.

My hope floods away and I’m suddenly empty. Hollowed out. This is futile, and I’m an idiot. What did I think I’d see? A message from one of her friends, telling me he killed my sister? A message to her: ‘I got you in the end’?

‘I don’t know. Just a list of names. They could be anyone.’

She says nothing.

I realize for the first time that she might be scared. She’s been on the same site, possibly even talking to the same people. She must be thinking how easily it might have been her in that alleyway instead of Kate.

For a moment I wish it had been, but then I push that thought away. I don’t wish that, not on her, not on anyone.

‘Maybe you should look at some of them?’ she says. ‘Their profiles? Find out if any live nearby.’

I’m surprised. ‘Won’t they all?’

‘Not necessarily. Don’t forget, Kate wasn’t only interested in meeting up with people in the real world. With some of them it was all virtual. They might be anywhere, on the other side of the planet.’

She’s right, of course. I select a couple of the profiles to look at in detail. SexyLG, whose profile picture is of a sunset, lives in Connecticut; CRM1976, it turns out, is a woman. I click on a few more and find that most seem to live abroad – in Europe, the States, Australia. Some are much older than Kate, a couple younger. None looks like the kind of person I imagine Kate being interested in, sexually or otherwise.

‘Anyone?’

‘Not yet. I need to look in more detail.’

I scan through the rest. I can see only one who fits the bill. Harenglish.

‘Here’s one. Male, lives in Paris.’ I click on his profile. He’s used a head-and-shoulders photo, and is bald. He wears glasses and a leather motorcycle jacket. He’s hidden his age but looks as though he’s in his mid– to late thirties. He’s a Pisces, he says, single, looking for love or ‘fun along the way’.

‘What’s he called?’ says Anna. I tell her, and then hear her typing. I guess she’s logging on to the same site, searching for his profile.

I stare at his picture as if it’s a puzzle I need to solve. He looks nice enough, sort of innocent, but then what does that even mean? Anyone can find a decent picture of themselves, anyone can present themselves in the best light. Isn’t that what we’re all trying to do, on some level? Show our best face to the world, leave the darkness within? The screen of the internet just makes it easier.

If only there were some way I could find out how well he’d known my sister. If they’d been close enough that she’d listed him as a friend, why hasn’t he messaged her, why hasn’t he expressed shock, or at least surprise, when she disappeared?

‘I don’t recognize him.’

I imagine doing what Adrienne suggested. Taking down his name, along with any more that look as if they might be people Kate had met, then handing the information over to the police. But maybe they’ll have looked at these names already.

‘I’m going to message him.’

‘Wait!’ There’s an edge in her voice; it’s alarming, surprising. I open her Skype window; her eyes are narrowed as if she’s concentrating, she looks anxious.

‘What is it?’

‘That might be dangerous. I mean, think about it. You’re logged on with Kate’s profile. If it is him who killed her he’ll know you must be someone else, pretending to be her. It’ll just drive him underground. We have to be clever about this.’ She hesitates. ‘Maybe I should send him a message? Say hi. See if I can find anything out.’

I hear her begin to type. ‘Sent,’ she says after a few seconds, and as she does my machine pings with a message. It’s not from her, though, and neither is it from Harenglish. Someone else has messaged Kate. Eastdude.

There’s a peculiar rush of excitement, one I wasn’t expecting.

‘I’ve got a message!’

‘Who from?’

I tell her. The name’s familiar. I open the list of usernames Kate had tucked into her Filofax and see that I’m right. It’s there.

‘This guy’s on Kate’s list. It’s him.’

‘Julia, we don’t know that.’

She’s right. Even as I begin to argue, I realize my logic is flawed. If he’s killed my sister, why would he be messaging her now?

I stare at the message as if it’s dangerous, poisonous.

‘Maybe he just wonders why Kate’s been so quiet.’

‘I’m going to read it.’

I click on Eastdude’s message and it opens in a new window. It looks as though it’s been typed hurriedly. ‘Hey katie. You’re back! Missed u! If u fancy another hook up – I’m still up 4 it!’

I try to imagine what Kate would’ve done. Would she have just sent a reply, a yes? And after that? They’d arrange a date, I suppose, they’d meet up. Drinks and dinner? Or would she have just gone to his place, or had him round to hers? Would it be simpler just to cut out the preliminaries?

‘He wants to know if she wants to hook up.’

‘Hook up where?’

‘He doesn’t say.’ I click on his profile. He’s in his early thirties, he says, though the photo suggests an extra ten years at least. Under ‘Location’ he’s written ‘New York’.

‘New York.’

‘But that doesn’t make sense.’

I read it again. ‘“Another hook up”. I don’t remember Kate ever going to New York. Did she?’

‘No. He must mean cybersex.’

Cybersex. Just endless descriptions of who’s doing what to who. What they’re wearing, how it’s making them feel. Adrienne has always joked that the reality is lots of people sitting around in jogging bottoms, covered in baby puke.

‘But would they call that a hook up?’ I say.

‘I guess they might.’

‘There’s no message history.’

‘Then you should forget it, Julia.’

‘I could answer his message. He thinks I’m Kate.’

‘And achieve what?’

‘Just to find out what he knows …’

I look at the picture again. This Eastdude. He looks innocent, harmless. His hair is receding, and in the picture he’s chosen he has his arms around a woman who’s been inexpertly cropped out of the shot. Just as I’d removed myself from the picture of Marcus.

I wonder what he and Kate had talked about. I wonder how well he knew her, if at all.

Isn’t that why I came on here? To find out?

‘I’m not sure it’s going to help,’ says Anna.

‘Trust me,’ I say. ‘I’ll talk to you later.’

Our messages scroll up the screen. Eastdude thinks he’s talking to Kate.

– You don’t remember how hot it was? I’m upset.

On the next line is a symbol, a round face, yellow, winking. He’s joking.

I feel uncomfortable. Is this how a sex chat begins? A reference to hotness?

– I’ve had a lot on, lately.

His reply is almost instantaneous.

– Work?

I’m not sure what he means. Kate had had only temporary jobs, I thought; bar work, waitressing, office admin. Again I wonder what she’s told him.

I need to keep it vague.

– Sort of.

– Too bad. Anyway, would love to carry on where we left off. Are you okay? I thought something had happened to you.

– Why’s that?

– You went quiet. Then I had a visit from the police. Asking me what we’d been talking about. If I’d been to Paris recently. I guessed it might be something to do with you.

I freeze.

– Did you tell them?

His reply takes a moment.

– What do you think?

What does he mean? Yes, he has, or no, he hasn’t?

I remind myself he can’t have killed my sister. He thinks he’s talking to her.

Unless he’s lying.

– Nothing’s happened to me, I say. I’m fine.

– Better than fine if you ask me!

There’s another icon; this one a red face with horns.

– Thanks, I say. I realize I need to be careful if I’m going to draw him out. So, you said you wanted to carry on where we left off.

– Tell me what you’re wearing, first.

I hesitate. This is wrong, and I feel awful. I’m impersonating my sister – my dead sister – and for what end?

I try to persuade myself. I want to find out who killed her. I’m doing this for the right reasons, for the sake of Kate and her son.

So why do I want to throw up?

– What was I wearing last time? I type.

– You don’t remember?

– No, I say. Why don’t you tell me?

– Not much, by the end.

There’s another smiling face, this one with its tongue hanging out.

I hesitate. The cursor blinks, waiting for me to decide what to type, how far to take this. It feels surreal; me in London, him in New York, separated simultaneously by thousands of miles and nothing at all.

– I’m imagining that’s what you’re wearing now.

I don’t reply.

– I’m thinking of you wearing nothing at all …

Still I don’t say anything. This isn’t what I wanted to happen.

– I’m getting hard here.

I close my eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m a voyeur, I am sampling my sister’s virtual life, my dead sister’s private life. I’m a tourist.

I should stop, but I can’t. Not now. Not until I know for certain that it isn’t him.

Another message arrives.

– How about you? You want me?

I hesitate. Kate would forgive me, wouldn’t she? I type:

– I do.

– Good, he says. Tell me you remember. Tell me you remember how hot it was. The way you described your body. The things you did.

– I remember.

– Tell me what you want, right now.

– You.

– I’m kissing you. All over. Your lips, your face. I’m going down. Your breasts, your stomach.

Again something within me tells me this is wrong. He thinks he’s talking to Kate. He’s imagining having sex with my dead sister.

– You like that?

My hands hover over the keyboard. I wish I knew what to say.

– You like feeling my tongue on your body? You taste so good …

What would Kate have said?

– You want me to go lower?

What can I say? Yes? Yes, I do? I can tell him I want him to go lower, I don’t want him to stop, or I can ask him what he’s told the police, where he was in February on the night of Kate’s death, whether he murdered my sister. Even as I say it in my head it sounds ridiculous.

I grab my machine and stand up. I don’t know what to do.

– Are you ready for me?

The ground beneath me opens. I begin to sink. My heart is beating too hard, and I can’t breathe. I want to stop my mind from spinning, but I keep thinking about what Kate might’ve said, what she might’ve done.

I look at the machine in my hand. For a moment I hate it; it’s as if it contains all the answers and I want to shake them loose, to demand the truth.

Yet it won’t. It can’t. It’s just a tool, it can tell me nothing.

I slam it closed.

Hugh comes home from work and we eat dinner, the three of us, at the table. Afterwards he packs his suitcase, occasionally asking me where a shirt is, or if I’ve seen his aftershave, then goes upstairs to finish off his speech while Connor and I sit in the living room with a DVD. The Bourne Identity. I can’t really concentrate; I’m thinking about this afternoon, wondering whether the guy Anna messaged – Harenglish – had got back to her. I’m thinking about cybersex, too, which I guess is really no different to phone sex. It makes me think of Marcus; there were no texts back then, no emails, no instant messaging services, unless you include pagers, which almost no one had. Just the voice.

Connor leans forward and grabs a handful of the popcorn I’ve made for him. My mind drifts.

I remember the first time Marcus and I had sex. We’d known each other a few weeks, we spoke on the phone, we hung around after the meetings drinking coffee. He’d started to tell me his story. He came from a good family, his parents were alive, he had a sister who was nice, normal, stable. Yet there was always alcohol in the house, forbidden to him, and he was drawn to it. The first time he got drunk was on whisky; he didn’t remember anything about it, other than the fact that he felt some part of himself open up, then, and that one day he would want to do it again.

‘How old were you?’ I’d asked.

He’d shrugged. ‘Dunno. Ten?’

I’d thought he was exaggerating, but he told me he wasn’t. He started drinking. He’d always been good at art, he said, but the drink made him feel he was better. His painting improved. The two became intertwined. He painted, he drank, he painted. He dropped out of college, his parents kicked him out of their home. Only his sister stood by him, but she was much younger, she didn’t understand.

‘And after that I was on my own. I tried to cope, but …’

‘What happened?’

He made light of it. ‘One too many times waking up with no idea where I was or how I got there. One too many times wondering why I was bleeding. I rang my mother. I said I needed help. She got a friend to take me to my first meeting in the fellowship.’

‘And here we are.’

‘Yes. Here we are.’ He paused. ‘I’m glad I met you.’

It was a couple of weeks later that he called me. Kate was watching television with a friend and I took the call on the extension in the kitchen. He sounded upset.

‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

‘I’ve had a drink.’

I sighed, closed my eyes. ‘Have you called Keith?’

‘I don’t want to speak to Keith. I don’t want to see him. I want to see you.’

I felt both awful and thrilled at the same time. He’d had a drink, but it was me he’d turned to. He asked me round to his flat, and I said of course I’d go. When I arrived he was sitting on his threadbare sofa, a bottle at his feet. I sat next to him and took his hand. Had I known we were going to kiss? Probably. Did I know it was almost certainly a mistake?

Probably not.

The film ends and Connor goes upstairs, then a little while later so do I. I listen at his door on the way up, but I hear nothing except the rhythmic tap of his fingers on the keyboard. I run myself a bath and lie in the water for a long time, my eyes closed, drifting in and out of an exhausted sleep, occasionally topping up with hot water. When I get out Hugh’s in bed already.

‘Come,’ he says. He pats the bed next to him, and I smile. ‘In a minute.’ I’ve wrapped a towel round my chest and I tuck it tighter, then sit at the dressing table and apply my moisturizer. By the time I’ve finished Hugh is snoring and I turn off the light. It’s hot, but there’s a light breeze and I go over to the window to adjust the curtains. Outside, there’s a figure, barely visible in the shadows, an image as thin as smoke. It looks like a man, and I turn to wake Hugh, to ask him if he can see it, or whether he thinks it’s my imagination. But he’s fast asleep, and when I look back the man has gone, and I wonder whether he’d ever been there at all.