The Truth

by Naomi Joy

  On the floor are ripped black jeans and a fake leather jacket. Mine.

  ‘Want some?’ he says, thick Geordie, noticing that I’m awake. He holds out the white and tan tube towards me. ‘A doctor would probably tell me it’s a problem that I can’t sleep for more than six hours without needing a break.’

  I look at him, try to hide my contempt.

  ‘Doctors don’t know everything,’ I say. Then: ‘I need the loo.’

  I fold back the covers in one fluid movement, sending air waves across the room, fanning the flame of my would-be lover’s cigarette. I am in my underwear and I feel overly aware of myself as I sit here like this, in an unfamiliar bed, under this stranger’s gaze. I take a moment to allow my head to stop spinning before I try to stand up. I shuffle my backpack with my feet under the mound of clothes before me, then I bend down to pick up the whole pile when his attention is diverted. I slip out of the bedroom and into the bathroom in a series of quick, embarrassed steps.

  The bathroom is revolting and unclean. There is mould around the bath and thick patches of black on the ceiling. It’s worse than my studio in London, which is saying something. The sink is stained with toothpaste and the toilet is covered in splashes of sticky yellow resin. I fling down the lid. Sit. I pull out my phone, a notification loud across my screen.

  Have you seen Emelia Thompson? Police concerned for welfare of missing blogger following online suicide plan.

  My heart thunders as a giant photograph of Emelia’s face lights up the screen beneath. Though I’d used fake names for Adam (Anthony) and Mishita (Mishti) I hadn’t for her. Not Emelia. Why not? Fuck. What have I done? I thought they’d go after Adam, not pool all their resources into finding Emelia. She’s dead, she committed suicide – leave her alone! I use the toilet with my eyes shut and my fingers pinched over my nose. I dress at supersonic speed. I wrap my bag round my shoulders. I don’t pull on the flush. I want to leave quietly.

  I open the bathroom door and pad out across the landing. The floor groans beneath me and the dank, dark hallway seems to close in as I continue towards the exit. I pull at the simple lock on the front door, twist it back, but it doesn’t budge. Fuck. I look further down: a deadbolt. The metal howls reluctantly against itself as I unlock it. There’s one at the top too. I stand on my tiptoes, slide it, but it’s rusty, it’s noisy. Double fuck. Was he trying to lock me in here? I hear footsteps. Then his voice.

  ‘Emelia?’ he calls, addressing me. Her name sends shivers down my spine. Clearly, I’m struggling to let go of my doppelganger.

  I hurl the door open as he races down the corridor, the smell of his smoke-stained breath reaching me first. ‘Where are you going?’

  His hand thumps against the doorframe, blocking my exit.

  Isn’t it obvious, dickhead?

  I take a step towards him. It is then I get a glimmer of memory: his hands round my neck, his tongue in my mouth, his trousers round his ankles.

  ‘What is this? You’re just gonna disappear? Without saying goodbye?’

  I look right at him. His eyes are sleepy. His face is jaundiced. Deep grooves line the space between his lips and his nose.

  I don’t answer, instead I pull the door against him with all my might and he is forced to take a step backwards, opening a space for me to disappear through.

  ‘Emelia, wait,’ he calls as I hurry out into the morning haze and noisy birdsong.

  ‘My name’s not Emelia,’ I shout behind me.

  Then I turn the corner and disappear.

  I have to run.

  4

  Liverpool

  I am lying low at a grubby hostel in central Liverpool, a glimpse of the river Mersey visible out of the window at the end of the room, covered with metal blinds that clang like an off-key dreamcatcher with the slightest breeze.

  I am trying not to draw attention to myself, though my southern accent isn’t helping.

  I flick through a fresh round of alerts on my new pay-as-you-go phone – I’ve been on high alert since Emelia’s story started making the national news agenda. I sit on the synthetic fibres of my bottom bunk scrolling through the headlines, the mattress springs above me creaking as my bunkmate stirs in hers. Part of me is fearful – this story isn’t mine to control any more, it belongs to the public. Another part of me is elated. Finally – what happened to Emelia is going to be heard and there’s a chance Adam is going to face justice.

  CONCERNS FOR MISSING BLOGGER MOUNT AS SEARCH ENTERS ITS FIFTH DAY WITHOUT A BREAKTHROUGH

  ON TONIGHT’S PROGRAMME WE’LL BE INVESTIGATING THE SURGE IN SOCIAL MEDIA SUICIDE NOTES FOLLOWING THE DISAPPEARANCE OF EMELIA THOMPSON AND THE PROBLEMS THESE TYPES OF CASES POSE FOR POLICE

  AN ARMY OF FELLOW CANCER SUFFERERS JOIN THE FRAY AS THE SEARCH FOR EMELIA THOMPSON GOES VIRAL #FINDEMELIA

  I search the hashtag on twitter and read the most recent comments:

  There is no record of a woman committing suicide off any London bridge in the last week that would fit Emelia’s description.

  She’s lying!

  She can’t just disappear – we have to find her. We have to give her the benefit of the doubt! What if she’s in trouble?

  I flinch at the sound of the woman in the bunk above me spinning in her sheets. I angle my phone downwards in case she’s somehow able to look at what I’m doing. What if someone asks me about the case? What if I’m somehow linked to it? What would I do? No, really, what would I do? This isn’t a joke, like, I really cannot be recognised. I would be lynched. I flick through a few more tweets, my heart racing.

  Let’s start a petition!

  We need to find Anthony – if we find Anthony we’ll find Emelia.

  She will have left some clues about him. He won’t be too hard to find.

  She’s lying!

  She deserved to die. I hope she jumped. Fucking bitch.

  Emelia is following me wherever I go, her story in every newspaper. Everyone’s desperate to find her, but no one’s talking about arresting Adam. I begin to realise that killing the fictional Emelia had been the wrong decision; it has created far too much noise. I’d, naïvely perhaps, dreamt up a scenario in which my followers would simply accept Emelia’s story as being over, would understand that even if she hadn’t jumped, that she just didn’t want to write any more, that it was her way of poetically ending the blog and that they’d instead go after Anthony – Adam – have him pay, and that would be that. If Emelia wanted to tell her side of it in the future then so be it, but I’d given her a chance to stay anonymous by killing her character.

  It’s becoming clear that I miscalculated the reaction. A planned suicide is not an acceptable ending for the hungry gannets online. No, they want to follow Emelia to the bitter end, work out if she’s been telling the truth. They want to pluck the last of the meat from her bones, inspect her death certificate with eagle eyes, then her coffin. Turns out her followers feel they somehow own part of her, that they deserve to know if she really jumped or not. Especially those who sent money.

  I mean, I was prepared for there to be some interest in what had become of Emelia. I just hadn’t expected it to focus so intently on her rather than him – and I hadn’t accounted for how quickly and keenly the media would latch onto her story. They are obsessed with finding her. It’s flattering, in a way, and kind of amazing how much everyone cares about Emelia, about where she is and if she’s OK. It almost makes me feel jealous. It almost makes me feel bad about stealing from them but, having said that, I really did, I really do, need the money.

  Up until now, I’ve been living on the savings I’d withdrawn from a bank account that Adam set up for me when we were together. He’d put gross amounts of cash in it every month – hundreds, sometimes even thousands of pounds – to fund a lifestyle I could never enjoy. It was deliberate, an added torture, he enjoyed tempting me with the luxury I could have, dangling the means before my eyes but rendering me completely incapable of enjoying them. When I worked out he was trying to kill me, I
started withdrawing that money in cash, I kept it hidden in old Tupperwares under the sink, inside books, dotted round my hospital room. I used a chunk of it to pay the rent on my studio but, before I knew it, I was running out of cash. I could have got a job, but my followers were getting in touch every day asking if there was a way they could help Emelia’s cause. My cause. So, I decided to give them what they wanted. First, I went to the flat, as I often did, to get what I needed to set up a bank account in Emelia’s name. It couldn’t be my name, for obvious reasons. I’d taken copies of two forms of ID, I’d filled in the online forms, sent off proof of address and details of previous addresses that I knew about from her diaries, had opted for electronic bank statements so she wouldn’t twig anything was amiss with the morning mail and, once that was done, I was able to open a donations platform linked to Emelia’s new account. I intercepted the postwoman the morning her card was delivered. It was perfect.

  And I didn’t take all of it. Emelia herself got the money for the necklace, that wasn’t anything to do with me, that was really her. I just took what was sent directly to my site – not much – only about ten thousand pounds.

  5

  Emelia

  Do you ever get the feeling you’re being followed?

  That creeping awareness that a shadow is moving in. Closer. Nearly there. About to grab you.

  I have it all the time at the moment, since Adam and I broke up and I’ve been forced back in with my parents.

  I carry on, walking to the shop, my bald head making me shiver with the gusts of wind that whip the branches surrounding me in a frightening dance. A middle aged woman eyeballs my head as I pass and I push my chin deeper into my coat. I wish I’d brought a hat with me, not just for the warmth, but so I could hide.

  Why does everyone keep looking at me like that? Don’t they have any compassion?

  Towards the end of the street, just before the shop, a group of teenage girls hang in a conspiratorial clump, shrieking. I duck my head, not wanting to meet their eyes, but one of them calls.

  ‘Wait, lady!’

  I spin, from the shock mainly, thick make-up staring back at me, cheap perfume wafting on the wind.

  ‘You’re that woman, aren’t you? The one everyone’s looking for?’ Her eyes straighten as she adjusts her focus, analysing my features.

  ‘That’s her!’ cries a girl with split ends from over-straightened hair.

  ‘Emelia, right?’ says another, big front teeth, small lips.

  ‘Can I have a photo?’

  That’s when I start to run, my chest wheezing almost immediately. How do they know who I am?

  6

  Holly

  I pull my running leggings up over my ankles and slide them onto my tired legs, pulling them up to my waist. I throw on a navy blue jumper and force my increasingly matted hair into a messy bun.

  I check Facebook before I head out, swiping through my updates with an impatient thumb. Mum and Dad, retired teachers who’ve relocated to the Sydney coast, beam at me from across the world with sun kissed smiles; my older sister and her fiancé grinning at me with jubilant smiles following a half marathon they ran this morning totally by accident! Thirteen miles isn’t so bad when you’re running with your best friend. I almost puke. I put my phone away, zip it tight in my pocket. Checking in with my distant family always makes me feel nauseous.

  I think that I’ll run through the park this morning. First though, I must pass through inner city Liverpool and it’s then, when I’m jogging past a crumbling bar, screens alight in every corner, that I see him.

  Anthony. Adam.

  He is surrounded by a throng of media outside our former north London flat. He is holding a piece of paper between elegant hands and, even though he’s one of the most self-assured men I’ve ever met, I think I can see the edge of the paper shaking slightly in his grip, betraying his bluster. He is about to give a statement. I have no doubt that it will be about Emelia. The noose I have made for him swings into view. He won’t take kindly to being suspected of foul play, his secrets laid bare; he’ll come out swinging. I dive inside, into the stench of beer and bodies to listen to him speak.

  He looks smaller on screen and in two dimensions he is less statuesque than I’d described in the blog. Even so, his dark eyes speak to me and my heart twinges and flutters in my chest as I connect with his face through the ether.

  ‘Hello, everyone,’ he begins, looking at the camera with steel eyes.

  Something about him doesn’t appear quite right and, as I squint to try and figure it out, I notice he’s shaved off his facial hair and is wearing a light blue T-shirt and dark-wash jeans. Usually, he’s in an over-starched Oxford polo and chinos, his moustache thick and curled. I think immediately that he’s been styled to look like a ‘normal’ version of himself. My mind races. Has he hired someone to cultivate his image? To PR him through this? Has he been media trained? Is he trying to snake his way out of justice already?

  ‘Hey, are you watching this?’ asks a woman’s voice from behind me. I’m about to turn and flee, terrified she’s addressing me with her question, when another female voice answers.

  ‘Yeah, quite the scandal it’s turning out to be. Do you think she’s alive?’

  That’s the question on everyone’s lips, not, Anthony tried to kill her, is he guilty? but Where’s Emelia?

  It baffles me.

  Anthony – Adam – clears his throat as he prepares to give his statement and the women behind me fall silent.

  ‘In the last few days it has emerged that I have been portrayed as the unwitting villain of my former girlfriend’s secret blog. But Emelia has been less than honest with you, and today I’d like to give a brief statement.’

  Relief washes over me when he says Emelia’s name – at least he doesn’t suspect it’s me behind it yet, he thinks it’s Emelia. I did such a good job of bringing her world to life.

  He looks up from his paper and death stares the media before him. His brow is slightly clammy and damp patches have appeared under each of his armpits. The women behind me exchange their initial reactions.

  ‘He’s not quite what I imagined.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought he’d look different, taller.’

  ‘He does look creepy, though. Like he’s trying too hard to be normal.’

  Anthony bends his head to the bunch of microphones thrusting towards him like a bouquet of grey flowers.

  ‘My name is Adam Long. I can confirm I was married to a woman called Emelia Thompson for about a year.’ He lifts his head momentarily. ‘To describe her blogs as the deranged ramblings of a pathological liar would be an understatement.’ He pauses to gauge the reaction to the first of his bombshells. He seems pleased with the excited chatter and murmurs of anticipation that follow.

  ‘To be honest, I do not recognise the woman I lived with, married, in these entries. It’s like I knew a completely different person. I had nothing to do with her so-called suicide and the police have my full support in getting to the bottom of this mess. In the blog she admits that she tried to poison me. I’ve released my medical records to the press so you can see for yourself – high levels of rodenticide found in my blood. I didn’t realise she was doing this until this week and I can only surmise that her impaired mental state caused her to act so viciously.’

  ‘Did she have cancer?’

  Anthony shifts his weight. ‘Yes.’ He coughs. ‘I wish her the best with her treatment.’

  He looks back down at his notes, down at the false scribbles and earth shattering truths that denigrate his relationship with Emelia, that paint her as suffering some sort of psychosis.

  ‘Do you think Emelia is still alive?’ calls a journalist.

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ he replies.

  Camera shutters fire and I shake under the table. Poor Emelia. I wonder if she knows that everyone’s looking for her yet. I should have changed her name in the blog too. I don’t know why I didn’t. At least it would have slowed them dow
n. They’ll have tracked the donations platform back to the bank account I made for her by now. It’s a shame that the noose I made for Adam so perfectly fits Emelia’s neck, too.

  Adam continues. ‘I’d like to take this opportunity to address the accusations that I was trying to make Emelia sick, that I stopped her from getting treatment, and that I intentionally made her ill. Emelia is a very troubled woman and I believe she was resentful of my health. All I did was look after her the best I could—’

  ‘Didn’t you cheat on her with her best friend?’ shouts a different journalist, one nearer the back.

  Anthony stutters then, tries to remember his training.

  ‘Mishita and I are in a relationship, yes.’

  The chatter fires up again. You can’t pick and choose what you want to be true, Adam. The media want it in black and white. Either you lied, or Emelia did.

  ‘But,’ he continues, soldiering on, ‘I haven’t done anything illegal and, though I regret cheating on my wife, it’s hardly the crime of the century.’ I sense that he’s going off script given the twitching face of the woman behind him, clearly someone he’s paying to help get him out of this.

  ‘You’d think I’d killed her given the hate I’m having to withstand online and in person. My family are getting death threats!’

  He pauses for a moment and takes a deep breath. ‘As I said, Emelia is a liar, and she has woven a wicked web in which you are all currently caught.’

  He looks straight down the camera, right at me.

  ‘I will of course assist the police investigation into her whereabouts in any way I can. Until then, I’d like to ask the media to respect my privacy, and my family’s, at this time. Thank you.’

  His jaw tightens as he finishes his announcement and cameras flash as questions are thrown at him. Why should we trust you? Why did you cheat on Emelia? Why didn’t you just end it? She has cancer! How could you do that? Is she alive? Did you kill her? What about the other women before her? Are they still alive?