Find Me

by J. S. Monroe

  ‘Moscow mules,’ he said, gesturing at an array of full glasses laid out on the table. ‘Grab yourself one while you can.’ Then, to the room, and my embarrassment, he slung an arm around my shoulders and called out, ‘Everybody, this is Rosa, my date for the night.’

  A loud cheer went up and glasses were raised as I felt my skin prickle. There was only one thing for it. I knocked back mine in one and grabbed another.

  ‘So you’re Rosa Sandhoe,’ someone in a far more expensive gown than mine said. She’d come up to the table for a refill and looked like a rower: broad across the shoulders, strong chin, ruddy complexion. ‘Lucky girl.’ I sensed that Tim was more of a catch than I’d realised. Then her smile hardened. ‘Don’t forget to move your lips when you squeal.’

  Ten minutes later we were queuing at the porter’s lodge to be signed in. Ahead of us we could hear the hum of drunken revelry and music: sitar and tabla and, in the background, the throb of electronic dance music.

  First Court took my breath away. It had been transformed into a luxurious Rajasthani palace, mirror-work drapes glinting in the spotlights, incense burning, vast images of elephants with bejewelled howdahs projected on to the ivy-clad buildings.

  The sitar and tabla musicians played, sitting cross-legged on velvet cushions in the corner, as waiters opened bottles of champagne: rows and rows of them lined up on a table like an army of marionettes. Centre stage, though, was a magnificent champagne fountain, bubbling over three tiers. Waiters dipped glasses into it and handed them out to guests as they arrived, while others replenished the fountain by emptying bottles theatrically into the top.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind there’s no headline act,’ Tim said as we took our glasses and walked on into Second Court. ‘Trinity spent twenty grand on Pixie Lott. Personally, I’d rather drink decent champagne all night.’

  ‘I thought the Villagers were playing,’ I said.

  ‘Not exactly U2, are they?’

  It was a timely reminder of our differences. Jar introduced me to the new band from Dublin in his room that night and I’ve been listening to nothing else since. I was expecting their set to be the highlight of my evening.

  We decided to take a tour of what was on offer before meeting his friends back in the Scholars’ Orchard for a hog roast. The exotic theme continued into Second Court, which felt more Moroccan. In the dimly lit corners students were lying back on cushions, smoking hookahs as they watched belly dancers shake their stuff.

  Phoebe was there with Nick, who was sitting on a rug next to her. She wasn’t wearing a ball gown – too bourgeois for her. We’d seen each other a few times since that dinner in Formal Hall, but it hadn’t been the same. No confidences shared any more. That she was still going out with Nick made me think better of him. He could have gone with anyone in St Matthew’s but he’d chosen Phoebe, not for her looks but for who she was: a feisty politico. I gave her a friendly smile as we passed. She looked wasted, her eyes glazed as she puffed on a hookah, and didn’t seem to notice me. Nick raised a hand, like a tired Indian chief, his face shrouded in smoke.

  We met fire-breathers and magicians as we wandered on through the Fellows’ Garden, one side of which runs along the Cam. Hammocks, Moroccan lanterns and pea-lights, glowing softly like fireflies, had been strung in the trees, and coal braziers were burning in the shadows. There was a funfair down by the river, and a floating casino, which Tim said he was keen to visit later. He also wanted to go to the comedy tent. And the fortune teller. I liked the idea of the silent disco. Maybe the spa area, too.

  ‘The sign of a good May Ball is the shortness of the queues,’ Tim said as we passed a crêpe stand. (He went to three balls last year and is going to two this year.) We saw stalls offering hot dogs, waffles, burgers, oysters and candyfloss. Later, at dawn, there would be smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, full English breakfasts, kippers and kedgeree. No queues, no money required. It was all free (sort of).

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, putting my arm through Tim’s as we made our way back to the Scholars’ Orchard. I’ve made the right decision to come here, I thought. This is what Cambridge life’s all about, isn’t it? At least I’ve known it, if only briefly.

  The first person we met was the girl with the rowing shoulders who’d come up to me in Tim’s room. She was drunk and managed to peel me away from Tim while he talked to her partner.

  ‘How are you finding him?’ she asked, her arm linked firmly in mine.

  ‘Tim?’ I said, trying to stay near him, but she was strong and walked me off down the orchard. I didn’t want to make a fuss.

  ‘Just to warn you,’ she said. ‘He keeps his eyes open when he’s fucking you, likes to watch your mouth so he can hear you moan. It can be disconcerting the first time.’

  ‘I should be heading back,’ I said, glancing over my shoulder at Tim, who was still talking to her partner.

  ‘This is your first ball, isn’t it?’ she asked, her arm pressing harder against mine.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, loosening her grip a little. ‘There’s always a lull at these things. After dinner and before the headline band starts playing. That’s when he expects a return on his investment.’

  ‘It’s not like that,’ I said. I just need to get away from her, I thought, but she was much stronger than me.

  ‘And he likes it rough, lots of noise. There’s a quiet place at the far end of the Fellows’ Garden where he always goes. Beyond the casino boat. Make sure you’re ready. It might hurt less. And remember to move your lips when you squeal.’

  She exaggerated the movements of her mouth as she said those last words, her tongue licking against her top teeth as she spelt them out.

  ‘Everything all right?’ Tim said when we rejoined him. He put one arm lightly across my shoulders. ‘Hannah’s not been leading you astray?’

  I smiled weakly as he exchanged glances with the rower who’d just had me in an arm lock.

  After sharing wild sea bass in the candlelit dining pavilion, my head spinning with the earlier cocktails, Tim’s choice of wines and Hannah’s words, he suggested we walk over to the casino boat. My stomach lurched. Hannah, sitting diagonally opposite, raised her eyebrows as she sipped on her wine.

  In my mind I’d envisaged an innocent smooch on the dancefloor at dawn if I was drunk enough, nothing more. Tim had been a perfect gentleman up to this point and I’d have had no reason to suspect him of wanting anything else from me if it hadn’t been for Hannah.

  As we walked towards the Fellows’ Garden, Tim’s arm slipped from my shoulders to the small of my back. I told myself it was because I was less steady on my feet than I had been and he didn’t want me to slip.

  All around us, as we entered the garden, couples were lying on rugs beneath the trees, some awake, a few passed out. Hannah and her man had hung back, saying they were going for a moonlit punt.

  ‘Rosa, I need to clear my head a little before I gamble away my family inheritance at the roulette table,’ he said. ‘Shall we go for a walk? Down by the river?’

  I thought I was going to be sick. I’m just being a prig, I told myself. And Hannah’s a fantasist, has her own jealous agenda. I glanced at handsome Tim, his white tie still immaculate beneath his wing collar, the lights in the trees, the moon’s reflection on the river, Cambridge’s jeunesse dorée in all our privileged splendour.

  Dad would have loved the whole thing, for its ephemerality: a moment in time, full of youthful promise and naïve ambition, before we step out into the world and discover that none of it is real.

  Why can’t I just enjoy Cambridge like everyone else? Instead, I’ve chosen to turn my back on it all. I hope to God Dad would understand why.

  ‘Stay here,’ I said. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’

  15

  Jar googles ‘Kirsten Thomas’ again after he’s finished reading, to check that he didn’t miss anything when he looked her up earlier, before his introductory meeting with her this
morning.

  She’s a fully qualified Freudian shrink, certified by the American Board of Psychiatry and Neurology after completing a four-year residency at the University of South Carolina School of Medicine. To judge from the testimonials on its website, the Harley Street consulting rooms where she practises cater mainly to Americans in London. She arrived in the UK a year ago.

  Jar stands up to stretch, arms almost touching the walls of the lock-up, and wonders idly if Rosa’s counsellor still works at her old college. Rosa never mentioned that she was seeking help from anyone (that was the problem). Or that Dr Lance was in any way concerned about her happiness. It makes him feel less hostile towards St Matthew’s, which he has always accused of heartlessness, negligence.

  No counsellor is listed on the college website. Instead, students are encouraged to talk to their tutor, or the college chaplain, nurse or welfare officer. The university offers a counselling service, but Rosa specifically mentioned a college counsellor. A minor distinction, but Jar can’t help feeling it’s an important one.

  After shutting down his computer and bolting the door behind him, Jar walks back to his flat, glancing up and down the street before taking the lift. The sense of being watched has grown in the days since his return from Cromer, but he’s confident that no one has discovered the lock-up. It makes the burglary of his flat easier to deal with: they came looking for evidence of Rosa, his search for her, and found nothing, but he knows they will be back, keen to get their hands on the hard drive.

  He also knows that he should make an appearance in the office, not least because he’s run out of decent excuses and will soon be sacked. Normally, he likes to hang around his flat on a Monday morning, unpack book deliveries, do the cryptic crossword, check his Amazon rating, but since the burglary, the flat no longer feels safe, a place to linger.

  Carl’s pleased to see him when he finally pitches up just before lunch. (He’s so late that the up escalator is in sleep mode.) Even more pleased when he tells him about his early-morning visit to Kirsten.

  ‘No couch,’ Jar says, picking up a story about a shortlist for yet another literary prize. (Longlist stories are the worst to write, he thinks: all those hyperlinked titles.)

  ‘Bet you still charmed the pants off her,’ Carl says. ‘Turned on the blarney.’

  ‘It was a meeting of minds.’

  ‘Of course it was. I hope she’s helpful.’

  ‘Thanks, honestly now,’ Jar says, struggling with his computer. ‘Did you have a problem logging in today?’

  ‘No slower than usual.’

  Jar is used to the office computers acting up, but he’s never seen this message before: ‘This account is already in use.’ He reads it out to himself, but loud enough so Carl will hear. Carl knows about these things. He leans across from his desk to have a look.

  ‘Did you log in remotely from home and forget to log out?’ he asks.

  ‘I never log in outside office hours, Carl. On principle. I’m not even sure I know how.’

  Carl gets up and stands in front of Jar’s keyboard, his fingers moving fast. He logs out of the web-based system and logs in using the standard office work-experience username.

  ‘It’s definitely your ID,’ he says. ‘The computer’s working fine.’ Carl logs out again. ‘Try now,’ he says.

  Jar enters his username and password, but the same message flags up on his screen.

  ‘Are you sure—’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘Then I suggest you ring technical support. Because someone’s currently in your account.’

  ‘You serious now?’

  ‘It’s probably nothing. Then again, it might be senior management reading your emails. It has been known to happen.’

  Keith over on the technical support desk is more interested in crushing candy than sorting Jar’s problem, but after hearing him out (while still playing on his computer), he tells him to try logging in with the office work-experience account.

  ‘I’ve done that,’ Jar says, peering down at Keith. ‘I sit next to Carl.’

  Mention of Carl changes things. Carl knows more about IT than the IT department. ‘What’s your username?’ Keith asks, minimising Candy Crush and calling up the company log-in window.

  ‘JarlathC.’

  ‘Password?’

  ‘Is that normal? To just give it out like that?’

  ‘Do you want me to fix this or not?’

  ‘Rosa081192,’ he says quietly.

  Keith sits up in his seat, expressing interest in Jar’s case for the first time. Still looking at the screen, he reaches across to his phone and dials an extension.

  ‘I think the Syrians are back in town,’ he says.

  Jar is asked to follow Keith to a part of the office that he didn’t even know existed: down in the labyrinthine, dimly lit bowels of the building beside the post room, with no windows and stale air. So this is where everyone’s requests for technical help are ignored, Jar thinks, looking at the row of terminals and the sallow faces behind them.

  Jar watches as Keith and two others gather around a terminal.

  ‘JarlathC,’ Keith says to the man with the keyboard. Then, to Jar, ‘Password again?’

  Jar feels even more uneasy about sharing it. ‘I’ll type it,’ he says.

  The IT staff part reluctantly as he leans forward and enters ‘Rosa081192’. He knows everyone is watching which keys he presses, but it feels defiant in a small way.

  ‘Who’s “Rosa” when she’s at home?’ Keith asks.

  ‘Don’t forget her birthday,’ someone else says.

  Jar ignores them, looking at the screen. The same message flashes up: ‘This account is already in use.’

  ‘And you’re definitely not logged in anywhere else?’ Keith asks.

  Jar is about to answer when someone else at another screen to his left interjects. ‘He’s not. IP address is showing as US.’

  ‘The Syrians are good at spoofing,’ Keith says to Jar. And then, turning to one of his colleagues, he adds, ‘So much for your new packet filtering, Raj.’

  Jar wishes Carl was there to translate. Only last week his friend was telling him about a group of hackers called the Syrian Electronic Army, sympathetic to Bashar al-Assad, who’d been targeting the computer systems of various UK media organisations. This, though, seems to be personal. What happens next makes his mouth dry.

  ‘That’s my inbox,’ Jar says, looking at the screen, which is now showing his work email account. ‘How did you manage to log in?’

  ‘We didn’t,’ Keith says. ‘We can watch what they’re doing, but we can’t log them out. Not unless we shut down the entire company email account.’

  ‘And what are they doing?’ Jar asks.

  ‘Remotely accessing your email account to search through your messages, by the look of it.’

  ‘Is that legal?’

  Snorts all around. Maybe this is how they spend their days, Jar thinks: watching staff send emails to each other slagging off senior management. He must remember to be ruder to the IT department.

  ‘Should we send out a group-wide alert?’ Keith says.

  ‘This isn’t the Syrians,’ Raj says.

  Jar watches the screen as it switches to his sent mail: work messages to Carl, his editor, other colleagues and freelance contributors mixed in with hundreds of emails to Dr Lance, Amy, the Information Commissioner’s Office, the RNLI, the Cromer coastguard, the UK Missing Persons Bureau, the Foreign Office. He wonders if anyone in the room notices these messages, whether they care. Most people use their email for non-work business, don’t they? The cursor begins to scroll down the list before it moves rapidly to the top right-hand corner, logs out of the email, and exits Jar’s account.

  ‘The good ones figure out that we’re watching them,’ Keith says, as if he’s just singlehandedly seen off the enemy.

  ‘Do we know who it was?’ Jar asks.

  ‘National Security Agency?’ Keith suggests, playing to the crowd. ‘I sugg
est you get a new girlfriend.’

  16

  Cambridge, Summer Term, 2012 (continued)

  My plan was to head straight for the porter’s lodge, sign out of the ball and walk over to Jar’s rooms. I knew it wasn’t the right thing to do – by Tim, whose intentions were entirely honourable for all I knew, or by Jar, who didn’t need me arriving back in his life at two in the morning – but I’ve been trying to live truthfully while I can, no matter how little time I have left.

  The civility of earlier had disappeared from First Court, where a student was drinking from the champagne fountain, her body supported on either side by two boys as she arced her head backwards under the top tier, her breasts popping out of the top of her gown as she gagged on the fizz.

  As I reached the porter’s lodge, I bumped into Nick, who I’d last seen with Phoebe, smoking a hookah. He was distraught, his eyes wide with fear.

  ‘Rosa, it’s Phoebe. I can’t find her anywhere.’

  I’d never seen him so agitated, hadn’t realised just how much he cared for her. ‘Where did you last see her?’ I asked, glancing towards the porter’s lodge.

  ‘In Second Court. She wanted to go for a walk in the Fellows’ Garden. I told her to wait while I charged our glasses. When I got back she’d gone. That was half an hour ago.’

  ‘She did look a bit—’

  ‘She hasn’t been herself tonight, Rosa. Lost her mojo. Quite scary actually. Lots of odd remarks. Will you help me look for her?’

  I didn’t want to go back to the Fellows’ Garden, bump into Tim, but I couldn’t just walk away.

  ‘OK,’ I said, and found myself walking back through First and Second Courts.

  As soon as we entered the Fellows’ Garden, we both knew something was wrong. There was a commotion in the far corner, on the opposite side from the Cam, and two security staff with walkie-talkies ran past us.