The Exit

by Helen FitzGerald

  I’d paid £34.99 for the software at 4 a.m. Friday morning, now installed on my MacBook, and another page had opened asking me for Referral Code 2. I had no real reason to be obsessed. Once I started, it just took me over. Like making the decision to stay on hold to British Gas. You simply cannot back down.

  In desperation, I tried zKgy48r9fP2_9b again. Incorrect. Marcus had to be behind the website. The font, the title, the colour of the background. What would he choose as a code? I focused exclusively on him. Baird, Mbarid, mbaird, marcusb and every permutation of his name possible, writing down each and crossing it off if it didn’t work. This took all of Friday morning.

  I don’t recall much about Paul’s visit on Friday afternoon. Before letting him in, I must have hidden the dozens of pieces of printing paper covered in possible passwords. Soup was involved, and I assume he must have put a blanket over me, as I woke late that night to find it there; a glass of water, two Valium and a note on the coffee table: ‘You might want one of these at night, to calm you down. Please call me when you wake.’

  I spent Friday night typing in words relating to Dear Green. You’d be surprised how many there were, especially if you use capitals and lower case and numbers. Seven hours and I believed I’d exhausted that idea.

  Saturday and Sunday I moved on to what I knew about his book, The Little Death. I read the chapter he’d put online, using character and place names, playing around with the English title and the French translation.

  People knocked on my door a few times. I think, anyway. I heard the rustle of paper being posted through the door. Notes from Paul, Antonio, probably. Possibly Gina and Rebecca. I didn’t bother to look, too busy.

  When I woke Monday morning, I realised the living room was covered in pieces of paper which were covered in incorrect access codes. What on earth? Avoidance they’d call it, I suppose, or madness. I gathered the sheets of paper, tossed them in a bin bag, and had a shower. Looking through my wardrobe later, I noticed a sweet black dress on a hanger, tag still on. Mum had even bought my funeral outfit.

  *

  A fat woman in a trouser suit worked through Mum’s agenda:

  1. Welcome.

  2. Eulogy.

  3. Song. The one she used to sing to me, ‘Feelin’ Good’ by Nina Simone, played as the coffin disappeared behind the cheap curtain.

  4. Cocktails, sandwiches, cakes (at St Jude’s).

  All forty-three people there knew Mum well, and loved her. She chose her mourners wisely. Paul and Antonio didn’t budge from my side as colleagues and friends and two aunts and three uncles and five cousins and Rebecca and Gina expressed their sorrow for my loss, adding a more meaningful one-liner to the usual blurb – She was the kindest boss I ever had. She never stopped talking about how proud she was of you. She didn’t realise how beautiful she was. She was just so honest, the least phony person I’ve ever known. She never forgot a birthday. She was cool. Yeah, there was not an ounce of phony in her.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said, ‘thank you so much.’

  I felt heavy, that’s the only word I can think of. Heavy. Like the earth should crack underneath from the weight of my feet. Like my legs couldn’t hold my torso up, my neck couldn’t hold my head up. I wanted that earth to give way, so I could sink down into it. I remember the video screen at the foyer of the crematorium. Maureen Mann, it said. That’s my mum’s name, I thought. A lot of people wept during the service. But my tears were as heavy as the rest of me and stayed behind my eyes. I remember someone asking me if I wanted to see her before we went into the service and me saying, ‘No.’ I know I’d seen her as a body already, but only just after she died, and while she did look different, her expression set as a dead one, I hadn’t adjusted enough to the new state of things to be appalled by it, for her to be a stranger. I didn’t want to see her now. I wanted to forget ill Mum, dead Mum; to remember her well and alive. I sat at the front, knowing everyone behind was looking at me, thinking, Poor Catherine, all alone, and I didn’t cry and I didn’t turn around to smile and make them feel better about me.

  At St Jude’s I sat between Paul and Antonio and picked at a fairy cake, accepting hugs and sorries as they came, leaving as soon as it seemed appropriate. Paul dropped me off, begged to come in. ‘Thanks, Paul. But I want to be alone.’ He hugged me, said he’d check on me later.

  And that was the funeral: efficient, gentle, appropriate, sad, loving.

  *

  Back at home, alone, I took off the sweet black dress Mum had bought for me and lay on my bed. What was I supposed to do now?

  I got up, grabbed a suitcase from the hall cupboard, and began packing for Costa Rica. I was loaded now. I could change the flight and leave immediately. Perfect. I packed my bikinis, my summer dresses, summer shoes, sunglasses, bright, happy things, then looked in the mirror . . . Why had I wanted to go to Costa Rica? To dance on beaches and drink in bars. I couldn’t imagine wanting to dance again, or drink in bars with strange men who I’d seduce then chuck three weeks later. I shoved the packed suitcase back in the hall cupboard.

  I needed Mum to tell me what to do next. I needed a meeting, with an agenda. I looked through all the envelopes she’d left – mortgage, car, funeral . . . none labelled ‘What you should do now.’

  If she had, what would she have written? I thought about the way she described me to others – Catherine is very kind. She has always looked after me. She has always wanted to do good. She doesn’t care about money or status.

  She’d tell me to do a postgrad in social work, and she’d be right. She was always right. Her mourners were spot on. She was the cleverest, and the least phony person I’ve ever known. Not an ounce of phony in her.

  I took a piece of paper and began the first list I had ever written for myself. Before I knew it, the page was filled with my hopes and dreams, and I was filled with optimism that I would do five-fifths of them.

  1. Be with Paul.

  2. Get reference from Marcus.

  3. Apply for postgrad in social work.

  4. Read the Guardian online each morning.

  5. Watch the Channel Four News.

  6. Do an evening class in Spanish.

  7. Spend less time with Gina and Co/expand social circle.

  8. Read a book a week.

  9. Join the gym. Get fit.

  10. Be with Paul.

  11. Make Mum proud. Be like her. Don’t be phony.

  Phony . . . I hadn’t used this word ever. Now, it seemed to be coming up all the time. Phony. Catcher in the Rye.

  I opened my laptop, the Enter Your Password box daring me with its flicker.

  I typed catcherintherye.

  No, I would not become obsessed again. I would get on with my life, my list. Do something that made sense, something that mattered. I would – after one more try:

  catcherrye

  Just one more.

  ryecatcher

  LA PETITE MORT

  Hello, Guest!

  Welcome to La Petite Mort’s forum. Here, you can ask questions and share your experience with others. Join the conversation!

  New user? Register here.

  Registering wasn’t hard. Three questions altogether: Age, Sex, Location. I became a fifty-nine-year-old male from Aberdeenshire called tex59. After registering and choosing my own password, I turned my computer off, annoyed at myself for ignoring a very impressive and sensible list, one I now knew I wanted to work my way through. Okay, so Marcus had some super secure websitey type thing, and was a weirdo who lied about cars coming and going in the middle of the night, but what did I care? Mum had done her business with Dear Green and it had worked out almost as she planned. We’d had quiet time together there. I’d grown up. I’d learned how to care for her. She’d felt safe with me by her side. Job done. So walk away, Catherine. Walk away from meaningless online activities that encourage you to take gap years from living. Walk away, no need to read on . . .

  Subject: I lost my mom by grievingme9

  grievingme9:
On the 2nd of February 2012, Dad called to say Mum was very poorly and I should get to the hospital. She was 63 and fit as a fiddle. Turns out she’d had a heart attack. When I arrived at accident and emergency, she’d already had another one. Dad and I watched as they tried to resuscitate her for over fifteen minutes. All that thumping on her chest, it felt abusive, you know? I’ll never forget how she looked after. Never.

  elvishasleft: Think you’re on the wrong forum, love.

  caulfield: No, we can talk about anything here. Sorry about your mum, grievingme9. Welcome to the forum. I know how it feels. My girlfriend died when I was eighteen. I’ll never forget the feel of her skin when I kissed her goodbye.

  caulfield: And who’s this tex59? Can see you’re lurking. Who are you?

  elvishasleft: You undercover, tex59? You wanting to catch some pervs? Nothing here, mate, nothing here – just folk wanting to talk about their losses.

  tex59: Not undercover. I’m just someone who wants to talk too.

  elvishasleft: Like you wouldn’t say that! Hey, I’m not undercover!!

  tex59: Not sure how I can prove it. Want me to scan my passport?

  elvishasleft: Yeah.

  caulfield: No need, but want more info, tex59. Who gave you the codes?

  tex59: A like-minded friend who trusted me. Isn’t that how this works? Word of mouth?

  I was taking a gamble, guessing this was how people found the site.

  caulfield: We prefer to think of it as referrals from the like-minded, but fair enough. What’s your mind like?

  tex59: I’m someone who’d like to know what your girlfriend’s skin felt like.

  caulfield: Her skin felt like raw chicken. Go feel some.

  tex59: Going . . . Ah, see what you mean.

  I didn’t, obviously. I didn’t even have raw chicken, only frozen.

  grievingme9: I think we’re gonna have a lotta fun here.

  tex59: Is this all there is?

  caulfield: What you mean?

  tex59: Is this just for talking?

  grievingme9: Yeah, there more or what?

  elvishasleft: Maybe.

  caulfield: Maybe not.

  tex59: Tell.

  caulfield: Newbies have to post a pic before we tell.

  tex59: What like?

  caulfield: Something proves we’re like-minded.

  tex59: Where to?

  caulfield: Attach it to this thread. Do not send anything by email or post a link. And you can’t just grab something online. You must have something saying La petite mort, your username and the date in the shot.

  tex59: This like an initiation?

  caulfield: Aye. And don’t worry, I’ll delete the pic immediately after and put it somewhere even safer.

  grievingme9: Onto it.

  tex59: Back soon . . .

  *

  Marcus was obviously caulfield. I had no idea who the others were. I also had no idea what kind of fucked-up picture they expected me to send, and if I could do it. But I had to know what else was on that site. I walked around the house looking for ideas. Would frozen chicken interest them? What if I lay down on my bed and looked dead? I could drive to a country road and set myself up to look like roadkill. Hmm . . . chicken too tame, the others too public.

  The phone rang and I listened to Paul’s message. ‘Hey you, I don’t think you should be alone. I’m bringing you food at eight. You have no choice in the matter. See you then.’

  Paul! His dad’s abattoir! I packed a few things and drove out of the city towards Fintry. It was ten to five when I stopped fifty metres from the driveway. The shed was in a beautiful setting, about half a mile from Paul’s family home. I watched the last of the workers leave, his dad locking the large doors, then got out of the car with my bag of props and scoured the building to find a way in. All the doors had been locked, but there was a small window at the back which was open. A few minutes later I was hanging upside down, knees curled over a metal pole attached to the ceiling. I only had pants and a sleeveless T-shirt on. The T-shirt fell just below my bra, so you could see tex59, La Petite Mort and the date written in red lip liner on one side of my stomach. My head was covered in a hessian bag, tied with a string. Beside me, hooves on hooks, was a dead pig, its stomach slit open, insides spilling. I let my head fall limp and took several selfies, hoping one of them would turn out okay.

  *

  I hesitated for ages before posting the picture. I looked as dead as the pig, and it felt so wildly wrong. Eventually I did, though, then sat on the sofa and stared at the screen, hoping a response would arrive before Paul did.

  Chapter Eighteen

  AGE 82

  Holy shit, she understood, and it had made her sick on the carpet. Did it happen again last night? Oh dear oh dear, what had they done to her friend? She had to call Chris. No! Not Chris. The police. No! They never believed a thing she said, and no wonder. Catherine! She had her phone number somewhere. Catherine had given it to her before she left. Where was it? In the small silver book in her desk? No, that small book was all wrong. It had numbers in it, but not the right kind. Had she tapped it into her phone. No, her phone was long gone, taken.

  She looked through all the books on the shelves: pictures and words, no numbers. She emptied her drawers – clothes, no numbers. She counted out loud in case she’d read or heard the number and it came back to her. 1-2-3, but the one after that didn’t even come to her. 1. Was her number 1? Of course not! She looked in the bathroom, under the bed. She tilted the bedside cabinet so it leant against the bed. Money and boxes of matches were taped to the bottom, and something else – what was that? – but no number. She looked under the mattress, under the pillows. There was no number and of course there was no number under the pillows! And why was she looking for numbers anyway? Remember, remember Rose. Sick on the floor. Something had made her vomit. She felt dizzy, sat at her desk, took some slow breaths. Before vomiting she’d written something, a red-biro scrawl.

  ROSE – BELIEVE YOURSELF. It is sick and dangerous here. You’re not writing this down because of the maze. Ring Catherine! Tell her to get the police. They might believe her. They never believe you and they are wrong.

  Catherine! But where did she live? Was it in Glasgow? Was what in Glasgow?

  Catherine! She had no time to dither in this dungeon. She had to hurry.

  There was no one around. The only noises were coming from Nancy’s room. Rose picked her lock open, walked across the hall, and peeked in – Gavin was sitting in the armchair, pillow on lap, watching the television. All clear. Note in hand, she raced to the front door and across the field.

  *

  AGE 10

  It was difficult to light a fire in the rain. The twigs were all damp, every single one. These northern twigs would probably always be wet. She scrunched the sheet of paper in her hand into a loose ball, covered it with the driest twigs she’d managed to find, carefully placed them in a teepee shape on top, and – bum! – she had no matches. She’d have to go back to the farmhouse and get matches. She ran as fast as she could, but she must have made a wrong turn, because the farmhouse wasn’t where it should be. Where was she? Oh God, where had she left Margie? By the tree. Where was the tree? By the river, by the bend in the river. What bend? Where was the river? There was no river, just fields to the left, fields to the right, fields everywhere. No river, no trees. Oh God, Margie, poor Margie, where had she left her? She was lost! She stamped her feet, stamped and stamped. ‘You’re a selfish girl, Rose Price! A selfish, selfish girl!’ She collapsed to the ground, and didn’t mind that the earth scratched at her face. She deserved it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I’d heard nothing an hour later. The forum had gone quiet except for that grievingme9 person yapping on about his or her mother’s death in a very uncomfortable way. I closed my eyes, exhausted, and slept until my mobile rang.

  ‘Catherine?’

  ‘Yeah . . .’

  ‘It’s Rose’s grandson, Chris. I hope you do
n’t mind, I got your number from Marcus. I’m calling because Rose ran away a while ago and I wondered if she’d gone to yours. Her tag was found under her bed. She must have cut it off.’

  ‘No, she’s not here. I don’t think she knows where I live. Have you called the police?’

  ‘Of course. They’ll check the area but they’re busy so I don’t know how quickly they’ll get onto it. I’m on my way back from Aberdeen and can’t go out myself – just wanted to check with you.’

  ‘What about her old house, or Natalie’s?’

  A long pause before: ‘Of course.’

  ‘I can go see.’

  ‘No, no. Leave it, it’s fine. I’m sure she’ll be okay. Thanks.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  He’d already hung up.

  *

  I rang Natalie straight away – left a message on her voicemail. I jumped in the car and drove to Natalie’s house. Cutting the tag had seemed the right thing to do at the time, but now . . . oh God, I hoped Rose hadn’t tried to get across the river again.

  I tried Natalie’s back door when she didn’t answer the front. No luck. A prying neighbour poked her head over the hedge to scold me. ‘Should you be in there?’

  ‘Just wondering where Natalie is.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sorry – I’m Catherine Mann. A friend of hers, a mutual friend of Rose Price. Is Natalie around?’

  ‘No, actually, Brian’s beside himself with worry because she didn’t come home last night. He dropped the boys with me so he could go look for her.’

  There was a lot of noise coming from the neighbour’s garden. Natalie’s boys were kicking a football around, laughing.