As she walked down the side street, past Georgian windows, Nas caught glimpses of others’ lives as the warm glow of electric light overpowered the growing dusk. It was cold. But she couldn’t turn back now. The church was at the end of the road, a green spire rose up into the night sky. It was one of those old buildings in London that made you feel like you were insignificant, only passing, history. She wondered how many feet had trodden this path before, and for how many hundreds of years. At the gate, she turned right, down the pathway away from the front archway and into the graves. Stones rose up. The old, moss-covered and mottled. The new, shiny like slabs of kitchen granite. There was one that was more subtle. New, but made of traditional stone. Cheaper. Its white lettering growing increasingly unclear in the fading light. Nas swallowed the lump in her throat: for what might have been. Opposite the new grave was a bench. She sat on the damp wood. ‘Why on earth would you want to meet here?’
‘I find it peaceful,’ said Freddie.
Nas turned and looked at her friend. Stitches grew as if from a bruised plum on her forehead. The gash on her cheek had been sewn into a Y shape. Permanent, but she’d get reconstructive surgery on the NHS. Eventually. Freddie’s left arm in a cast, the bone crushed from the blows of Jamie’s iPad. Freddie had spent days in hospital, undergone emergency surgery to relieve bleeding on the brain, but she’d been lucky. The doctors had said if Nasreen had got there just a few minutes later Jamie would’ve finished the job. The thought punched a hole in Nasreen’s chest. ‘How you feeling?’
‘Fucking dreadful.’ Freddie exhaled smoke rings into the evening air. ‘My head’s still buzzing. They say it’s like tinnitus. The shock from the operation. It’ll go. But I can’t use any screens. No fucking phone. Nothing. Brings on headaches. They make me feel sick just sitting up.’
‘Should you be smoking?’ Nas asked.
Freddie rolled her eyes at her. ‘What the hell else am I supposed to do with my fingers if I can’t use my phone.’
Nasreen laughed gently.
‘And did you see that fucker did a kiss-and-tell on me?’ Freddie drew sharply on the cigarette.
Nasreen thought of the newspaper article: My Night With Hashtag Murderer Hunter. A lurid exposé from an undercover journalist who’d met Freddie in a bar and slept with her. Her mum had brought it over. ‘I’d hoped you wouldn’t see that. Who was he?’
‘Brian,’ Freddie said. ‘He wasn’t even that good. I knew something was off with him. He said something about me working with the police. I knew I never told him that. I actually thought for a while that he might be Apollyon.’
‘I guess some people will do anything for a story,’ Nasreen said.
Freddie laughed. ‘And don’t I know it.’
Nasreen smiled. In some ways Freddie seemed the same: the aggressive statements, the swearing. But there was a new frailty that clung to her edges, Nasreen could sense it. As if every word she spoke had been crafted into a delicate paper doily. If you handled her too hard she might break. They sat for a moment. Quiet. Listening to the hum of the traffic in the distance. One last bird song: a desperate goodbye to the sun. Nasreen looked up into the trees, dark leaves cut against the deep blue sky.
‘It’s why I like it here,’ Freddie said, following her gaze. ‘It’s quiet. Peaceful. Not many people staring at you.’
‘It’ll get better,’ said Nas. She didn’t know what to say.
‘Ha!’ scoffed Freddie. ‘You sound like the bloody doctors.’
‘Well, maybe they’re right,’ said Nas.
‘Can’t work though, can I?’ Freddie stubbed her cigarette out on the metal arm of the bench. Tiny orange ashes flared in the darkening sky.
‘Are you okay, do you need money?’ Nas thought about her promotion. The pay increase that was coming her way. Freddie’s lounge bedroom. ‘Or a place to stay?’
Freddie laughed, and then winced. ‘It isn’t about that, Nas. Money. None of this was about that. Don’t get me wrong, I’d love a place of my own, you know? Stop sleeping on a bloody couch.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve just never been any good at anything else. Writing was always it.’
Nas sat for a moment, looked at the interlaced fingers of her hands. Then spoke. ‘When I was nine there was a domestic incident on my road. Mr Frans dragged his wife kicking and screaming out onto the front garden. Their kid was naked, wet, just out the bath, I guess, crying in the doorway. Another neighbour, I can’t remember his name, dad of one of the kids at our school, went out with a baseball bat. Threatened Mr Frans. Mr Frans got in his car and drove straight at him. Then backed into the lamp post in front of our house. Knocked it over. I watched the whole thing. It must have been summer. It was light. I was up. The dads all took their cars and blocked the ends of the road so he couldn’t drive back in. Couldn’t hit one of us riding round on our bikes.’
‘Hard core,’ said Freddie.
‘Next day it all went back to normal. Mr Frans was back at home. With his wife. With his kid.’
‘That’s fucked up.’ Freddie lit another cigarette.
Nasreen swatted the smoke away. ‘It’s why I did it. Why I joined the police force. To try and help Mrs Frans. Or people like her.’
Freddie exhaled. ‘I wondered if it was something to do with Gemma. With the suicide bid.’
‘I guess that too,’ said Nasreen. ‘I want to help people. I’m good at it.’ There was so much Nasreen wanted to say. So many apologies. So many thank yous.
‘I do it – writing, or at least I did it – because I want to make a difference. To bear witness. I should’ve been a war correspondent,’ Freddie said.
‘You’d have been killed within two seconds!’ Nas laughed.
Freddie turned the end of her fag round, twisting it into a glowing point. ‘Thanks, Nas.’
‘I’m only kidding.’ She didn’t want to upset her. Every time it felt like they were back on the same page, in the same place, they’d judder apart again.
‘No, I mean for…you know…saving me.’ Freddie sounded awkward.
‘It was nothing.’ The image of Freddie broken in Tibbsy’s arms flashed across Nasreen’s vision. She tucked her hair behind her ear. Blinked it away. ‘What’ll you do?’
‘I got some money from selling my story. Enough to take a few months off. I might wait till this heals and go travelling. I quite fancy South America. Columbia’s got to be safer than here.’
Nas smiled. ‘Sounds good.’
‘What about you?’ Freddie said.
‘I’m getting promoted. Sorry,’ she said with a wry smile.
‘Course you are! I knew you’d make it in the institutionalised bureaucracy that’s the police. Congrats!’ Freddie held her hand up to high-five. Like they used to.
Nasreen smiled, bringing her hand against Freddie’s. They laughed. She looked up at the spire above as it merged into the dark sky. ‘I better be getting on. Got to pick up a few bits. Do some paperwork and stuff.’
‘Got to keep working, hey Nas? Make sure you keep Moast and Tibbsy on their toes.’ Freddie looked up at the sky too.
Nasreen watched their frosted breath drift up and intertwine. ‘Let’s catch up again soon, yeah?’ she said.
Freddie looked at Nas in her smart suit and her black coat and felt jealous for a moment of her anonymity. Of her ability to blend in. ‘Definitely. It’s a date.’
Nas turned and leant in, giving her half a hug. A gentle pat on the back. Freddie could smell her Coco Chanel perfume. Feel her warmth. They pulled apart. ‘See you later.’
‘See you soon.’ Nas stood and walked away from her.
Freddie watched as Nas reached the gate and turned, giving a quick wave into the dark. Too much had changed. They were from different worlds that had briefly and catastrophically collided. But she knew they were different. She’d always be fond of Nas. Always have a place for her in her heart. But she needed to retreat. Recover. Freddie held her hand up in response to Nas. She suspected deep inside herself that they’d pr
obably never see each other again.
Keys are pressed and code unfurls; filling the screen, multiplying, travelling through wires, air, light; reaching out in invisible waves of orange, blue, yellow from one computer to another. From one phone to another. Spreading the millions of words, the millions of images that fill up the Internet, that fill us all up. An email address is entered. A password. A date of birth. A phone number. A new account is created. Across Twitter, Facebook, Google+, Vine, Snapchat, WhatsApp, Instagram, the same message appears:
Apollyon’s Revenge: Who wants to play?
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the red lipstick wearing goddess that is my agent Diana Beaumont. I’m endlessly grateful for your faith, patience, advice, encouragement, and friendship. Plus, you crack me up when you call anyone a silly arse. I’d also like to extend my thanks to Juliet Mushens and all those at United Talent, especially Sarah Manning for her unerring behind-the-scenes hard work. Next time I come to the office I’ll bring a cake with no nuts in it. Promise.
To Eleanor Dryden, in whom I’ve found a fellow late night lover, an expert and talented editor, and someone who gets Freddie even more than I do. Eli, the support, commitment and energy you’ve put into Follow Me is tremendous, and the story is so much the better for it. I hope very much that this is the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship. And to Victoria Jackson, Oliver Malcolm, Kate Ellis, Helena Sheffield, Jennifer Rothwell, and all the lovely, dynamic team at Avon: thank you for welcoming me into the family. And for the chocolate biscuits. Especially the biscuits. And to Jo Marino and Sabah Khan from Light Brigade PR for spinning my mad ideas into publicity pitches.
Various people gave their expert knowledge and time to explain aspects I researched for this book. And they usually had to do it twice, as I’m a bit slow on the uptake and/or I wanted a different answer to fit with the plot. Dr Hayley King for her medical opinion, continued emotional support, and a fascinating conversation about the effect of tasering. Dr Matthew Jones, Sarah Jones, and their esteemed dinner party guests, for their pharmaceutical advice on how best to sedate someone with a cup of tea. Matt Cook for coding, and software hacks. To Rhiannon Lucy Cosslett and Holly Baxter for telling me how truly awful (and great) being a millennial is. To Deb and Bob at Retreats For You for a safe haven. Thank you to Clare Mackintosh, and Amy Jones’ other half for insider police information. And I will never again mock the television idea of the stunning female cop, with the perfect hair and killer heels; I’ve met the real deal, and she’s even more impressive: thank you to the awe-inspiring, cocktail drinking, wonder woman Amy Jones, who gave so much of her time, memories, and knowledge of the UK police force. Nas totally wants to be you when she grows up.
To Wendy, Paul, Miranda, Julie and all at Orchard Physiotherapy St Albans, who keep me ticking over, working and walking: thank you.
Thank you to Lucy Shaw, Lauren Bravo and Fleur Sinclair for bringing light, joy, writing advice, and winning outfit game into my life. You all hold a special place in my heart. And to Li Wania, Jenny Jarvis and Kate McNaughton for continued support and cheerleading. I owe you all a million drinks, and possibly some babysitting (where applicable). And to my wonderful, incomparable limes; Claire McGowan and Sarah Day, who bring it all from encouraging thumbs up, to reassuring hugs, speed reading, writerly words of wisdom, love, laughs, Taylor Swift sing-a-longs and much, much wine (not necessarily in that order). Without you guys I’d never write a word, though I would probably get up earlier.
To my mum and dad, I may be a writer, but I struggle to put into words just how much you have done and continue to do for me, and just how grateful I am. I love you. And to Chris for being an excellent brother, and very handy for reaching things off high shelves. To Hannah, Guy, Ani and Bertie, and all my family both here, in Ewyas Harold, and in America, for your love and support. And to my wonderful Sammy, thank you for everything you’ve done for me: for every pep talk, plot planning session, beta reading, spell checking, and emergency chocolate bar you’ve bought. It would take more than all the emojis in the world to convey how much I love you.
And finally thank you to all those dedicated, brave police officers who risk their lives daily to uphold justice and protect us: you guys are the real superheroes.
Author Q&A
Want to know what inspired Angela Clarke to write
Follow Me?
Read on to find out more…
Q: What inspired you to write Follow Me?
A: Like many people, I use Twitter (and Facebook and Instagram!), and I love the interesting articles, books, films, songs, and glorious creative projects social media platforms have introduced me to. I’ve been part of online social movements and charity campaigns I feel passionate about. I’ve made great friends, and if I didn’t have one already, I’m quite confident I’d find a husband on Twitter too. It’s a source of constant joy, which is why it’s so distressing when someone does behave badly, aggressively, or offensively towards you on there. I’ve written a number of feminist articles in the past, and the trolls really aren’t keen on that. I’m fascinated by what drives people to troll. I watched documentaries, read up on case studies, including about those who were convicted for harassing feminist activist Caroline Criado-Perez, and observed friends I know in real life say dreadful things to others online.
The reason people troll is probably varied; mental health issues, disillusionment with their own lives, they get a kick from it etc. But the motivation I kept coming back to, was those who seem to simply forget there is a real person at the other end of the Internet. Would these people say the same vile threats to your face? Apparently not, I experience much less hate in real life than I do online. I thought, what would be an extreme way to illustrate people getting whipped up by online buzz, and make them forget that there’s a human being on the other end of the Internet? Showing social media users retweeting, liking, and sharing a killer’s clues of who would be their next victim. And so Follow Me was born.
Q: Are the characters based on real people?
A: I was fortunate enough to interview an ex-policewoman who had been in some pretty hairy situations, as part of my research. Her spirit and determination definitely found their way into Nas. It was important to me that Freddie and Nas were articulate, convincing, driven, compassionate, and brave (and sometimes foolhardy) women. Because those are the women who fill my life. Those are my work colleagues. Those are my friends. Those are the women who inspire me. Those are real women. Some people have said they can see bits of me in Freddie, which makes me laugh; Freddie’s way cooler than I am. I wish I was Freddie, but I am much more like the goody-two-shoes people pleaser Nas!
Q: Do you think your discussion of social media will affect what people write about in public forums?
A: If just one person thinks twice before they post something mean or cruel, then I’d take that as a win. Technology is developing so quickly, we’re all having to learn what social etiquette, norms, and even laws are needed as we use each new tool. But yeah, perhaps disabling your geolocation services on your phone might not be a bad idea.
Q: How did you find writing your debut novel? What is the hardest thing about writing?
A: Writing a story is fantastic fun. I could write all day, every day and I’d be happy. It’s the editing that gets to me. The moment I have to turn my tale into something that is spellchecked, drafted, and readable by someone else, is the moment the hard work starts.
Q: Where are you most comfortable writing?
A: I have a degenerative connective tissue disorder called EDS III, which means that though my mind could write anywhere, my body is best in the memory-foam-pimped chair in front of my physio approved desk at home.
Q: Have you got a writing desk, if so can you describe it?
A: I have a reclaimed teachers’ school desk. It’s wooden, over a metre long, and parked in front of a pin board that covers my study wall. On the notice board are things I find stimulating, or heartening. Photos of
family and friends, postcards of artists’ work I love, cards and notes, and a sprinkling of Moomins. Yup, you read that right. Gotta love the Moomins. I also pin up motivating quotes. My favourite is from Hilary Mantel (New Statesman April 2014); ‘The inner process, the writing life, it doesn’t change at all. Every day is like the first day, it’s like being a beginner. There’s no time for complacency. You need to be extending your range all the time.’ I try to write with that in mind.
Q: Finally, what can we expect from your next novel?
A: Are You Awake? is part of the Social Media Murder series. So expect to see some favourite characters, and more techy twists, turns and tension. I’ll give you one hint: You have six seconds to view this suicide note and twenty-four hours to save the girl. Snapchat, I’m coming for you!
Are You Awake
Freddie and Nas are back.
You’ve got six seconds to view this suicide note and twenty four hours to save the girl’s life.
Are You Awake?
By Angela Clarke
Coming soon
Little Girl Gone
Love Follow Me? Then you’ll LOVE other books by Avon.
Turn the page for an exclusive look at the first chapter of Sunday Times bestseller Little Girl Gone by Alexandra Burt.
Available now in all good bookshops!
Chapter 1
‘Mrs Paradise?’
Follow Me: A chilling, thrilling, addictive crime novel Page 32
