Now You Know

by Nora Valters

  I need to stop this malicious bitch before my reputation is well and truly left in tatters.

  My phone pings. It’s a message in my WhatsApp uni friends’ group, which is always pretty active. Apart from Kemi, the seven in this group are my closest mates. It’s from Farida, one of the first friends I made during freshers’ week.

  - Lauren, we’ve discussed, and we don’t agree with what you’re posting online. I’m the admin for this group, and we’ve all agreed to remove you.

  I immediately type a message, but it won’t let me send it, and I get the text: ‘Farida removed you’ and ‘You can’t send messages to this group because you’re no longer a participant’. I find the direct chat between Farida and me and type out a message to say I’ve been hacked. But it doesn’t deliver and only shows one tick. My heart sinks. She’s already blocked me.

  My landline phone trills, and I jump. It rarely rings and is usually junk calls or my aunt, who prefers to call people on their landlines for some inexplicable reason that makes sense only to her.

  I pick up the phone. “Auntie Joyce?” I ask, desperate to talk to her all of a sudden.

  “Yes. Hello, dear.”

  A rush of warmth floods through me. My aunt’s soothing, steady voice calms me. She sounds so much like Mum.

  She continues, “I don’t have long. We’re about to board a flight to Portugal, and my phone battery is almost at zero. Kelly’s told me that you seem to have put some funny stuff on Facebook. I don’t have it, as you know, but she wanted me to talk to you. Kelly says it’s not too nice what you’ve posted and is quite angry about it, saying you’ve brought shame on the family and whatnot. Now, I know you’re a wonderful person and grief affects us all in different ways, my dear, and can make some people go off the rails a little. So I think you should see a grief counsellor. That’ll help you get your head sorted. Your mum made it her mission in life to spread happiness and kindness, and I know it’s not like you to be unpleasant or impolite. Your mum would be ever so disappointed if she knew that.”

  Brought shame on my family? Disappointed Mum? That is the last thing I’d ever want to do. Of course my cousin Kelly has seen it and said something. All of my extended family has now probably heard about it one way or another.

  “Oh, Auntie Joyce, so much has happened—”

  But I get the dead tone and suspect her battery has gone flat. I replace the receiver and scroll in my mobile phone contacts for my uncle’s number, but before I can dial it, my mobile rings in my hand.

  15

  “Toby! OMG, have you seen my social media—”

  But my brother cuts me off abruptly.

  “You told Mum and Dad,” Toby yells.

  “What?” I reply, confused by his fury.

  “Don’t pretend not to know, Lauren. You’re the only person I told, and I told you not to tell them. And you did, didn’t you? Couldn’t keep your mouth shut for a few days. Had to blab.”

  “I haven’t said anything to them, I swear.”

  “You sent an email to Dad! He told me.”

  “I’d never do anything to hurt you, Toby. Someone has accessed my email account and must’ve sent that email—”

  “Did you do all this to keep hold of your favourite-child status? Did you think your shine was fading? Believe me, it wasn’t. Dad already favours you over me. And you clearly wanted to bring me down even further in his estimation. But I honestly didn’t think you’d have it in you to be so cruel.”

  “That’s not true, Toby!”

  “Bullshit.” He hangs up.

  The silence booms in my ear. I slowly lower my phone. I didn’t tell anyone about Toby, not even Akshay. It was my brother’s news to tell. Toby messaged me on WhatsApp when I was at work yesterday, just before the CozMoz Paints meeting…

  Aargh.

  My WhatsApp web app was open on my laptop. Imani must’ve read Toby’s messages. They would’ve been right at the top. And now she’s sent this email to Dad just to upset me further. My disgust and revulsion at the offensive content and panic at not being able to get onto my social media channels turns to anger at someone screwing with my family.

  I call Toby. It rings once and then goes to voicemail – I guess he’s cancelled my call. I don’t leave a voicemail, as I know he’ll never listen to it. Instead, I send him a text message reiterating that I’ve been hacked and that I didn’t tell Dad. I know he’s more likely to read that.

  I’ll go to his apartment. And if he’s not there, I’ll wait for him at his bar. I need to explain everything to him, to make him understand this wasn’t me.

  I gather up my handbag, but my laptop, which is sat on the coffee table, flashes. I look at the screen. It’s white with red blobs fading in and out. It looks like… blood splatters.

  I click on the mouse touchpad, but aggressive ear-splitting heavy metal music blares out. I jerk so violently that I almost leave my own skin. I cover my ears with my hands in an attempt to block out the shouty male vocals.

  The blood splatters shrink to nothing, and just as abruptly, the music stops. My desktop reappears with my folders and shortcuts. Was that some kind of tech meltdown? I lean towards my laptop, and the screen glitches. Imperceptibly at first. But then it gets wilder until it’s like a blizzard.

  A message pops up in red letters across my screen:

  ‘I KNOW WHAT YOU DID, LAUREN.’

  My pulse quickens. I haven’t done anything. I know I haven’t done anything. She’s just trying to scare me by messing with my laptop.

  Angry, I shout at the screen. “Stop playing games, Imani! You’ve seriously taken your little joke too far by involving my family. That’s it!” I jab the power button and watch as the screen fades to black. I slam down the laptop lid.

  My flash of fury dissolves as I realise I’m sat in darkness, and a shiver ripples down my spine. I look towards my sliding glass door and see my reflection and the gloom beyond. In the silence and darkness, I feel watched, as if there are eyes everywhere, observing my every move. I spring up and switch the outside light on.

  It illuminates the patio and most of the garden. I stare just past the edges of the light. I get the distinct feeling that I’ve locked onto eye contact, that someone is staring right back at me, but I can’t see them.

  Is Imani out there? Has she been watching me this entire time? I have to know. I grab the little just-in-case torch that Akshay keeps in a bowl by the back door and switch it on. I open the sliding glass door and step out into the night. I shine the torch to and fro along the back of my garden and stride purposely towards the fallen fence panel.

  I scan the beam in every dark corner. But there’s no one in my garden. I look past my garden boundary at the row of garages behind. I shine the torch, but it doesn’t reach that far and just creates deeper shadows.

  A gust of wind rattles me, and my whole body does one big shiver from top to toe. I realise my socks are getting damp, and every leaf rustle, every creak of a branch, every bang of the next-door neighbour’s loose shed door in the wind sends fear coursing through my veins. It’s creepy out here. I feel exposed. My bravado fades faster than a summer tan, and I need to get back inside. I whirl around and see the door into my house wide open. Oh shit, did someone creep in when my back was turned?

  I’m paralysed with indecision. Stay put or face whoever might be in the house? No, I would’ve heard someone stepping on my patio, wouldn’t I?

  There’s a crash from the garages, and I look over my shoulder to see a metal dustbin spilling its guts onto the concrete, the top rolling to a clattering stop.

  That’s it. I run back into the house, slam closed the door, make sure it’s locked and the windows are shut, and close the curtains and blind. I go to the front door and put the deadbolt across.

  It was a fox, I tell myself, only a fox looking for a meal. And there’s no one in the house. Don’t be ridiculous. Get a grip, girl.

  I’m so, so cold all of a sudden that I need a hot drink. In my kitchen, I
turn the kettle on. As I take a mug from the cupboard, my hands shake so much that I drop it, and it shatters on the tiled floor. The sight of the smashed pieces of my favourite mug overwhelms me. I grab hold of the counter before my legs buckle. I take long, deep breaths and try to process everything that’s just happened.

  My emotions, thoughts and feelings all swirl, and it takes me a while to pinpoint exactly how I’m feeling: under attack.

  First, infuriating issues at work that make me look incompetent, then my relationship ripped apart, my stable and comfortable home life pulled out from under my feet, my professional and personal reputation set on fire online, and now my family targeted and deliberately hurt. It’s like all the spinning plates of my life that I’ve worked so hard to keep in perfect harmony are crashing down around me, and I can only watch, desperate to save them, but my hands are tied. The vulnerability of my happy life has been laid bare, ripe for the picking by someone cruel enough to pluck it apart bit by bit.

  A spider runs out from under one of the cabinets and pauses next to a chunk of mug. I recoil, as I hate spiders, and Akshay’s name forms on my lips. But he’s not here. I’m on my own. I find a glass and a piece of paper without taking my eyes off the creature, then trap it and fling it out the window without completely freaking out. This small act gives me the boost of confidence I need.

  As I find the dustpan and brush and sweep up the pieces of my mug, I work out a game plan. I have to take charge of this situation. Imani might have the upper hand now, but the tables can turn.

  First things first, I find my phone and call Dad. I need to explain about Toby.

  He answers his mobile with an mmm hmm, indicating that he’s angry – too angry to even say hello to me.

  “Dad, I didn’t send that email to you about Toby. I think someone at work has got it in for me, and they must’ve read my texts. I would never have gone against Toby’s wishes by telling you.”

  But he’s not listening. “I wondered when you might call. That’s all part of your plan, isn’t it?”

  “Plan?”

  “What were you thinking? Posting all that homophobic crap about Toby on my Facebook page.”

  Dad has more friends than me on Facebook. He and Diane are social creatures, out all the time and with a huge group of acquaintances.

  “Dad, that wasn’t me. My social media accounts have been hacked, just like my email.”

  “Not only did you tell on your brother, blabbing about his sexuality before he could tell us, you’ve also told all our friends and family about it too.”

  “Dad—”

  But he’s got a bee in his bonnet, and there’s no getting through to him when he’s on one.

  “And that’s not what disappoints me the most. Your brother does not deserve to be treated with disrespect because of his sexuality. He is free to love whomever he pleases. And why would you think I’d agree with all this homophobic nonsense that you’ve covered my Facebook page with? Hmm? Because I’m in my sixties, you think I’d disapprove. Well, I’ll have you know that Bob and Andy at our bowls club are gay, and they are both decent, friendly, perfectly nice chaps. They’ve been over to ours for dinner many a time. Did you think you’d win my favour by letting the cat out of the bag about Toby before he got the chance to tell us? Hmm?”

  I raise my voice to try to get through to him. “Listen to me! I’m not doing these things. Someone else sent you that email. Someone else spammed your Facebook page. It was NOT me.”

  “You’ve lost the plot like your mother. Hurting people just to get attention.”

  “What are you going on about?”

  “Judy had a number of issues before you came along, let me tell you. I’m beginning to wonder if you’re that way inclined too.”

  I’m stunned at this revelation about my mother’s mental health and can’t form a reply.

  Dad continues, “You’re my daughter, and I love you. But this behaviour isn’t acceptable. Hurting your brother and then trying to hurt me by shaming him isn’t acceptable. Understood?”

  But before I can reply, Dad says, “Speak to you in a few days.” And – like his son before him – hangs up on me.

  Solid, dependable, practical Dad is incensed at something I haven’t done. He’s always been there for me, no matter what. Mum’s gone, and now I can’t turn to my father or brother. And what was he talking about with my mother’s mental issues? That’s never been mentioned before. Mum was always so happy, fun-loving, and bright.

  I look at Dad’s Facebook by googling it on my phone and see some of the homophobic comments on his profile. As I’m looking, one post is no longer available, then the next. Dad, obviously working his way through and deleting them all.

  How could anyone be so cruel? To deliberately destroy a happy relationship between parent and child, between siblings. I feel severed from my family, cast adrift. Like an untethered astronaut desperately floating away from the mothership with no hope of reconnection.

  But I’m a survivor. And there’s some fight left in me yet.

  16

  If Imani thinks I’m going to take this sitting down, she’s got another thing coming. Hurting my brother and now my father. And doing so in a way that they don’t believe me when I tell them it’s not me – by using my own email and social media accounts.

  Scrolling through my contacts app, I find Imani’s number, take a deep breath and press dial. It rings. And rings. And then goes through to voicemail. I hesitate but don’t leave a message. I need to talk to her and get her to stop this campaign against me and rectify the damage she’s wreaked so far. I’ll give it a few minutes and then try again.

  I stand up and put the coffee table upright again. I don’t know why I haven’t done it sooner. This simple act makes me feel a modicum of control and bolsters my spirit, as if fixing my life will be just as easy.

  As I’m putting everything back in its place on the coffee table, my phone rings. Imani calling me back. I sit on the sofa, back straight, poised for action. I pick up my phone and check the screen. Disappointment soars. It’s not Imani. It’s a local landline number that I don’t recognise and which isn’t saved in my contacts.

  I answer. A friendly voice explains she’s from the supermarket and that I was meant to have a food delivery that evening, but there’s something that she needs to check. The normality of the call and the friendliness of the voice is like a balm. Dealing with mundane everyday matters is manageable after all the drama of the past few hours. It reminds me that normal, regular life does still exist and that I’ll get back to it soon.

  “I’m afraid the card on account has been declined. Perhaps it’s out of date?” she asks helpfully.

  “No, it shouldn’t be,” I reply.

  I fish my wallet out of my handbag and find my debit card, the one I use for most things. I read out the details, and the supermarket employee confirms that’s the card they have on file, and that’s the card that isn’t working.

  “But it doesn’t go out of date for another two years,” I say.

  “Sorry,” she says. “It’s been declined. Do you have another we could use to take the payment?”

  That’s odd. Must be some glitch in the system. “Yeah, sure.” I find my credit card and read out the details.

  “Thanks, will just take a moment.”

  I’d completely forgotten about the food delivery. At the thought of food, my stomach gurgles. I haven’t eaten anything for lunch, and it’s now nearly dinner time.

  “Hmm, sorry about this, but that card has been declined too,” she says apologetically.

  The dread rises. Once is bad luck, twice is… something else. How can both cards not be working? “Can you try again?”

  “I have done, dearie, twice, and both times it’s not worked. Don’t suppose you have another card to try?”

  I pull out my second credit card, which I only use for big purchases like holidays and in emergencies. I read out the card information.

  “Thanks,” she sa
ys brightly, but then I hear her ‘hmmm’, and she says, “Sorry, dearie, my system’s not liking that one either.”

  All three not working… Has Imani messed with my bank cards somehow?

  “Shit,” I blurt, and the supermarket employee thinks I’m swearing at her.

  Her tone changes to defensive as she replies, “I can’t do anything about the system not accepting your cards.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s not you or the system. There’s an issue on my end.”

  “I see.”

  “I need to hang up now and go and sort it out.”

  “Certainly, but we won’t be able to deliver your food unless it’s paid for three hours in advance. I’ll get an email sent out now for you to reorganise the delivery time.”

  “Thank you. Bye.”

  I end the call and stare into space. My finances now too? She must’ve cancelled my cards through my online banking. The password of which was saved in PW-Protekt, along with all the other security information required to gain access.

  I attempt to log into my online banking account, keeping everything crossed – and hoping beyond hope – that the PW-Protekt autofill password and details will work.

  They don’t.

  I can’t access my money. I CAN’T ACCESS MY MONEY. The horror of this takes a while to sink in.

  When it does, I feel well and truly hobbled.

  I’ve had the same bank account since I opened it at fourteen. It was my first one. My savings account is with the same bank. And one of my credit cards. I trusted all the pieces of plastic, all the numbers on the screen. That’s how we live, isn’t it? That’s how we do anything. And now the cards – my direct line to my cash – are useless.

  What else has she done? Cancelled all my Direct Debits? My mortgage payments? My entire life will come to a grinding halt.