Second Life (43 page)
‘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.
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.
The French landscape looks unreal, shrouded in a thin gauze. I see the desolate hypermarkets,
their huge car parks without a sign of the shoppers who’ve driven there. The train
seems to have a different rhythm now, as if the mere fact of travelling to a different
country has caused the world to shift, just slightly. I put my watch forward by an
hour; my phone has set itself automatically. A minute later I see three bars in the
display and a second after that my phone beeps with a waiting voicemail. It’s from
Anna.
I listen to it. ‘Julia!’ she begins. Already I’m searching for clues; in the background
I can hear what sounds like the bustle of the station, and she sounds excited. Good
news? Can it be? She goes on.
‘I’ve got him! He was just getting off the train as I got here.’ Her voice is muffled,
as if she’s holding her phone against her chest, then, ‘Sorry, but he won’t speak
to you.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He’s embarrassed, I think. Anyway, we’re just sitting
here having a milkshake, and when we’ve finished we’ll head back to my place. Ring
me, when you get this, and we’ll see you there.’
Relief mixes with anxiety. I wish she’d sit with him, where she is, or take him somewhere
else. Anywhere but back to
her flat, I want to say. She doesn’t understand the danger
she’s in.
I call her back; the phone rings out. Come on, I say to myself, over and over, but
she doesn’t answer. I try her again, then a third time. Still nothing. It’s no good.
I leave a message, it’s all I can do, and then I try Hugh.
No answer there either; his phone goes straight to voicemail. I guess he’s on a train
behind me, with no reception. I leave a message, asking him to call me. I’m on my
own.
I sit where I am. I concentrate on my breathing, on staying calm. I concentrate on
not wanting a drink.
I try to work out why he’s doing it. Why he’s pretending to be my son’s girlfriend,
why he’s luring him to Paris.
I think of the dogs. Largos86.
Finally my mind settles on the last truth it’s been avoiding.
Lukas is Connor’s father.
The elements begin to slot into place. He must’ve befriended Kate, first, maybe Anna
around the same time. It’s possible neither knew of the existence of him in the other’s
life; perhaps he was friends with Kate online only. He’d have been the one persuading
her to try to get Connor back, and then, just when it looked like it might be about
to succeed, she’d been killed.
And so he came after my son using the only other route open to him. Through me.
Why didn’t I see it? I think of all the times I’d suspected that there was more to
our relationship than I knew, all the things I’d glimpsed, and then avoided.
I wonder what Lukas thought would happen. I wonder if he’d hoped I’d end my marriage
to be with him, that we’d all become one big happy family.
I think back to those times. Kate, calling me.
I want him
back. He’s my son. You
can’t keep him. I wish I’d never let you take him from me.
Now I know it was him. Lukas, telling her what to say. Lukas, who’d come back for
his son. My son.
‘I want Connor,’ she’d said, over and over, night after night.
Deep down, I know she’d still be alive if I hadn’t said no.
We reach Gare du Nord and I step off the train and get a taxi. It’s dark now, rain
falls on the silvered streets of Paris as we glide towards the eleventh arrondissement.
I’ve called Hugh and given him Anna’s address; he said he’ll meet us there. Now I
try Anna again. I have to speak to my son.
The screen shows that she’s online, available for a video chat. I press call and
a few moments later a window opens on my screen. I can see Anna’s living room, the
same furniture I’m used to, the same pictures on the walls. A moment later she appears.
‘Thank God. Anna—’
I freeze. She looks distressed, her eyes are wide, tinged with red. She looks terrified.
‘What’s wrong? Where’s Connor?’
She leans in close to the screen. She’s been crying.
‘What’s happened? Where’s my son!’
‘He’s here,’ she says, but she’s shaking her head. ‘Ryan came back. He was angry—’
I interrupt. ‘But you had Connor with you!’
‘No, no. Connor was waiting outside. But . . . I couldn’t stop him. The pictures
on his computer . . . I think he’s going to send them to Hugh. And . . . and he hit
me.’
She looks numb, almost as if she’s been anaesthetized.
I think of the time with David, the incident in the car, the knife.
‘He was angry.’
‘That’s no excuse! Anna, you have to get out of there!’
She leans in, close to the machine. ‘I’m okay. Listen’ – she looks over her shoulder
– ‘I haven’t got long. I need to tell you something. I have a gun.’
At first I think I’ve misheard her, but her face is grave. I realize I haven’t, and
she’s serious.
‘What . . . ? A gun? What d’you mean?’
She begins speaking quickly. ‘When Kate died . . . a friend of mine . . . he said
he could get me one. For protection. And I said no, but . . .’
‘But what?’
‘But then, this stuff with Ryan. I was scared. I . . .’
‘You said yes.’
She nods. I wonder how it came to this, and whether there’s anything she’s not telling
me about Ryan. About what he might’ve done already.
‘But . . .’ I say. ‘A gun?’
She doesn’t answer. I see her look over her shoulder. There’s been a noise, and then
it comes again. A thudding.
‘Listen . . .’ She’s speaking quickly, whispering. I struggle to make out what she’s
saying. ‘There’s something else. Hugh made me promise not to tell you, but I have
to—’
‘Hugh?’ His name is the last I expected to hear.
‘—it’s about Kate. The guy. The one they found with the earring. It wasn’t him.’
I shake my head. No. No, this can’t be.
‘What do you mean, it wasn’t him?’
‘He had an alibi.’
‘Hugh would’ve told me. He wouldn’t let me go on thinking . . .’
The sentence peters out. Maybe he would. For the sake of peace.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. He said—’ There’s a noise at her end, loud. It sounds
like a door slamming, a voice, though I can’t make out what’s being said.
‘I’ve got to go. He’s back.’
‘Anna—!’ I begin. ‘Don’t—’
I never finish the sentence. Over her shoulder I see Lukas. He’s shouting, he looks
furious. There’s a flash of something in his hand, but I can’t tell what it is. Anna
stands, blocking my view. I hear him ask who she’s talking to, I hear the words ‘Who
the fuck?’, and ‘kid’. She gasps, and the screen goes dark. I realize he’s pushed
her into the table, she’s fallen against the laptop and blocked the camera. When
the image returns the computer is on the floor and through its camera I can see the
floorboards, a rug, the edge of one of the chairs.
Yet I can hear what’s going on. I can hear him saying he’s going to kill her, and
her, gasping, crying, saying ‘No!’, over and over. I call out her name, but it’s
no use. I hear a thud, a body against the wall, or the floor. I’m unable to take
my eyes off the screen. Anna’s computer is knocked, the image changes. Her head appears,
flung to the floor. She gasps, and then a moment later is jerked violently backwards.
There’s a thud as his fist connects with her, a sickening crunch. I call out her
name, but all I can do is watch as her head is jerked back again and again until,
eventually, she’s silent.
I stare at the screen. The room is quiet. Empty. And still there’s no sign of Connor.
Terror descends.
Desperate, I end the call. In terrible French I ask the driver how long we’re likely
to be, and he says five minutes, possibly fifteen. I’m frantic, every nerve hums
with energy that won’t be contained. I want to open the car door, to leap out into
the traffic, to run to our destination, but I know even if I could it would be no
quicker. And so I sit back and will the traffic to clear, the cars to go faster.