The Warning

by Sophie Hannah

  I look at my watch. Adam will be home in about half an hour. If I don’t do it now, I won’t have another chance until tomorrow.

  Too long to wait.

  As I run upstairs to our spare room, which houses the family computer, I wonder how I’ve managed to resist doing this for so long. Three weeks and four days. Until I saw that policeman again today, I was finding it easy to be good. The shock of my first meeting with him was all the motivation I needed. I don’t understand why a second almost-encounter with him has driven me in the opposite direction.

  You can still do the right thing. Sending one quick explanatory email for politeness’s sake isn’t the same as starting it up again.

  It’s what I should have done all along, instead of my cowardly vanishing act.

  I close the spare-room door behind me, making sure I’ve shut it properly and not just pushed it to, and sit down at the desk. This will be the first time I’ve opened my secret Hushmail account since my first run-in with the policeman. I’ve been scared of discovering that Gavin’s emailed me, scared I wouldn’t have the strength to delete his message without reading it.

  I type in my password, my heart beating like the wings of a trapped bird in my ears and throat, and prepare to confront my greatest fear: an empty inbox. What if he hasn’t been in touch for the whole three weeks and four days that I haven’t contacted him? That would mean that he was never as keen as I thought he was.

  Good. It’s good if he’s not keen. It’s good because we’re over.

  Though we never agreed on it in so many words, we operated a strict ‘turns’ system throughout our correspondence, both of us always waiting for a reply before emailing again. No exceptions. Did Gavin stick to the pattern and take my lack of response to his last message as a sign that I was no longer interested? Would he give up on me so easily? Surely he’d have wondered, after I didn’t reply for a whole day—and then another and another—whether his last email went astray. I would have, in his position.

  My finger hovers above the “return” key. If I press it, I’ll know within seconds.

  I can’t do it.

  I push my chair back from the desk, afraid that I’ll press “return” by mistake, before I’m sure I want to.

  You don’t have to look. Ever. Turn off the computer, go downstairs. Forget about him.

  No. I won’t take the coward’s way out, not this time. I’ve done that already today, more than once. Despite vowing that I wouldn’t, I avoided Elmhirst Road when I went back to school to check on Sophie; I went via Upper Heckencott again, there and back. I did the same both ways when I went to collect Ethan and Sophie at the end of the day, though on each of the four journeys I lied to myself right up until the second before I chickened out.

  I slide the wheels of my chair closer to the computer. The eleven asterisks that represent the hidden letters of my password are still sitting there, in the box. My password is “11asterisks.” I’m still proud of myself for thinking of that: the password that in attempting to conceal itself does the opposite—reveals itself so brazenly that no one would ever guess.

  Wincing, I press the “return” key before I can change my mind.

  I gasp when I see my inbox. There are seven unread emails from Gavin. Seven.

  Thank you, thank you.

  No point pretending this surge of excitement is anything else. Even a talented self-deceiver like me wouldn’t swallow that one.

  I’d have given up before I wrote the seventh email, however distraught I was. Gavin didn’t.

  This is it: why I lie, and keep secrets, and take crazy risks—for this feeling. No chemical could give me the same buzz: the thrill of being so wanted, so sought after.

  I start to open the messages, one by one. They were all sent within four days of my decision to break off contact with Gavin: four on the first day of my silence and then one on each consecutive day after that.

  Hi Nicki, I’m writing to check that my last email to you didn’t go astray. Let me know. G.

  It’s pathetic, isn’t it, me worrying because you haven’t emailed me for a few hours? Don’t want you to think I can’t last a day or even several without hearing from you, but you know what it’s like—once a pattern’s been established, any disruption to said pattern causes concern. And did you realize that we’ve emailed each other **at least** twenty times a day since we started? G.

  PS—in case you’ve forgotten when our exchange started, it was 24 February. You made a reference once to deleting all your emails from me, for security. I deliberately kept shtum (not wanting you to think I’m careless about security, which I’m not) and I don’t know if you assumed that I delete all your emails after reading too, but I don’t. I keep them. I reread them. They mean a lot to me. I hope that’s OK with you. That’s why I wasn’t upset by the idea of you deleting your side of our conversation, because I’m keeping it safe at my end. Don’t worry. I promise you no one but me will ever see it. G.

  PPS—feelings, eh? They complicate things, don’t they? I hope I haven’t freaked you out by writing about what can only be described as non-carnal matters. I won’t make a habit of it, I promise. Let me know you’re OK and aren’t sick of me yet, and I’ll go back to talking mainly about your nipples, I promise. (Well, I might cover a few other parts of your body, to be fair. In my emails and, in due course, with my own body—I hope.) G.

  No, no, no. This is wrong.

  I feel dizzy, disorientated. I want and need words from Gavin, but not these words. This doesn’t sound like him. This sounds too much like a real person, someone I might know or be friends with. Gavin has always sounded like . . .

  What?

  Like something automated. Short toneless sentences, short paragraphs. Like an android giving erotic instructions. The kind of written voice that disembodied words on a screen might have if they had a voice.

  And that was exactly what you wanted, wasn’t it? What does that say about you?

  In due course with his own body? Did he really mean that? Do I want him to mean it?

  Gavin and I arranged to meet once, in May, after agreeing we were ready to take things to the next level. Then he had to cancel; he didn’t say why. After that, neither of us mentioned rearranging. I didn’t mind. Secretly, I was relieved. If we didn’t meet, that meant that what I was doing wasn’t as bad. If I thought of him as unreal, one-dimensional, a computer program generating words designed to elicit a specific physical response, then I could almost persuade myself that I didn’t really have another man in my life, one who wasn’t my husband.

  Still wrong.

  Not as grievously wrong as a physical affair, though. Maybe. And the emails were enough. God, they were so much more than enough: endless, detailed, graphically descriptive orders from a man I’d never met, whose face I’d never seen, not even in a photograph. None of my real-life lovers has ever been so uninhibited in the words he used or the things he asked and expected me to do—and nor was I ever so . . . pornographic, for want of a better word, with any of them. Gavin swept away all my inhibitions by ignoring them completely, refusing to acknowledge they existed and simply repeating his demands. Eventually, I stopped bothering to mention that I was too shy and simply did as I was told.

  And loved it. Craved more and more of it.

  All I know about Gavin is that he’s English, in his mid-forties, married with no children and works from home. That’s what he’s told me, anyway. I suppose any or all of it might not be true. I didn’t and don’t really care. All I cared about was the way he made me feel. On two occasions, his insistent explicit words alone were enough to push me over the edge—just the words and my imagination, and not even a brush of a fingertip. No other man has ever had that effect on me.

  Not even King Edward.

  Whom I swore I wouldn’t allow into my mind again. That’s why Gavin: to block out King Edward. Amazing, really, how we
ll it worked.

  Until now.

  I am gasping for breath, though I’ve done nothing physically strenuous. I grip the desk to steady myself.

  Think about Gavin. Not . . . anybody else. Gavin.

  The blank tonelessness of his words was an important part of the attraction. So different. And yet three of the four new messages from him that I’ve just read—all but the first one—don’t sound like him at all. Did my abandonment panic him so much that his online persona slipped?

  I promise you no one but me will ever see it . . .

  I won’t make a habit of it, I promise . . .

  I’ll go back to talking mainly about your nipples, I promise . . .

  Feelings, eh?

  A shudder rocks my body. I don’t want Gavin’s feelings or his promises. King Edward gave me feelings and promises, and they counted for nothing in the end. And I don’t want amusing banter and wordplay from Gavin either. Adam jokes around. So did King Edward. I love witty men, normally. I mean, I used to.

  You still do love Adam. Never forget that.

  Gavin has never been funny, warm or affectionate before. It’s the reason I felt safe in my dealings with him. I wanted and needed him to be avid but not caring, never emotional. I can’t stand to think of him as a vulnerable man whose heart I might have broken.

  I don’t want to think about him any more today—it’s already too much—but I can’t log out, not without reading everything.

  I open message number five:

  Nicki, seriously, are you OK? I’m starting to indulge in paranoid worst-case-scenario delusions here. Has your husband found out about us? Have you found out something about me? Are you in hospital, with no access to email? G.

  Nicki? Where are you? G.

  Do you want to hear my latest theory? You always sign your emails “N x.” I always sign mine “G.” You’ve decided I’m a cold, emotionless husk because I won’t sign off with a kiss. That’s why you’ve gone missing from my cyber-life. Right? For your information, I’ve never signed emails with an “x” and I don’t think I ever would, however I felt about someone. It’s fine when women do it, but from a man it would look somewhat effeminate, I think. Also, I can’t believe this would bother you suddenly when it never has before? Or maybe it has, and you’ve been waiting and hoping . . . ? Look, I’m a big boy. I can handle honesty. Will you tell me what I’ve done wrong? G x (just this once, for strategic effect, because . . . well, because I’m rather fond of you, Nicki. Perhaps I should have said so before.)

  No. No. This is unbearable.

  Kind, sincere, affectionate words. Of all the things to become phobic about. Fuck you, King Edward. You’re to blame for this.

  I’m glad there’s no mirror in this room. I would hate to see what I look like.

  A disaster area. There’s not a person on the planet who wouldn’t be better off without you in their lives, not even your children.

  Instead of shutting the computer down and running away, I force myself to read all seven of Gavin’s emails again—not once but several times. By the time I’ve finished, the words seem less threatening and my hands have stopped shaking.

  How can he care about me this much? He barely knows me. Correction: he doesn’t know me at all.

  And yet, not knowing him either, I care about him too. The way he rescued me from the brink . . .

  Far from objecting to it, I like the little dot he always puts after his initial. I like his vulgar email address, mr_jugs@hushmail.com, and his habit of putting two asterisks on either side of a word or group of words to convey insistence.

  Have you found out something about me? What did he mean by that?

  What should I do?

  No one to ask, or answer, apart from myself. At one time, I’d have told Melissa. I told her everything, before she resigned from her position as my confidante.

  There is no one I can think of—not one single person in my life—who would be interested in discussing the changeable writing style of a man who goes by the name of “Mr. Jugs” in order to seek anonymous physical gratification online.

  If I ever did muster the courage to tell anybody, I would get no useful analysis, and plenty of soul--destroying condemnation: from my female friends, my brother, my parents; from Adam, assuming he’d speak to me ever again if he knew the truth, and not simply throw me out on the street in horror. And—-though I hate to think about it—I would get shock and disgust from Sophie and Ethan too. They might only be ten and eight, but they understand what betrayal is even if they wouldn’t use the word.

  My children. Who are downstairs. Who believe I’m looking after them because all three of us are in the house at the same time and I’m the adult.

  Tears fill my eyes as a violent internal current sweeps my breath away. This used to happen a lot before I stopped emailing Gavin, often when I was sitting here, in front of the computer screen: a sudden flood of realization that something terrible is happening—something precious is being irrevocably destroyed—and, though it’s my fault, I can’t stop it. I have no control.

  Four or five seconds later, my eyes are dry, and I can breathe easily. I couldn’t recreate the doomed feeling if I tried; it’s as if it never happened.

  I press my eyes shut so that I can’t see the computer in front of me, and wish that the Internet had never been invented. I tell myself that I absolutely mustn’t—must not—email Gavin, for the sake of my family, but instead of hearing my own voice saying the words, I hear Melissa’s, which blend with the sand-haired policeman’s, though neither of them has ever said those words to me.

  Their judgment, though I’ve conjured it out of nowhere, is too heavy a burden to bear. I can only escape if I defy it outright.

  I should reread Gavin’s messages once more before writing to him—allow their significance to sink in. There might be something I’ve missed . . .

  No. No time. Adam will be home any minute. And Gavin has waited long enough to hear from me. I might still matter to him as much as I did when he sent those emails; by tomorrow, he might have stopped caring. I don’t want to leave it too late.

  I open his most recent message and press “reply.” My fingers are numb, unreliable. It takes me three attempts to manage “Hi Gavin” without typos. Then I delete it and write, “Dear Gavin,” instead. “Hi” is too casual.

  I’m so sorry I haven’t replied before now. Until today, I haven’t opened my hushmail account for more than three weeks. I decided I couldn’t do what we were doing any more. It was nothing you did wrong, so please don’t worry about that. I don’t want to go into detail, but I had a minor skirmish with the police that was kind of linked to my involvement with you. It shook me up and I lost what little courage I had. I decided we had to stop before something irreversible happened. In an ideal world, I would love for us to be in touch again. You saved my sanity and brought unexpected pleasure into the darkest patch of my life. But it’s just not possible. Once again, I’m so sorry. I wish you all the very best. N x

  I press “send,” wiping away my tears with my other hand. There. I’ve done the right thing for once. I’m glad the urge to behave honorably doesn’t seize me more often if this is how it feels: like hollowing out my heart and stuffing it full of grayness.

  The darkest patch of my life. Was that an over-the-top way to put it?

  In February, thanks to King Edward—King Edward VII, to give him his full alias—I considered taking my own life. For a few days I wasn’t sure that even the thought of Sophie and Ethan, motherless, would be enough to persuade me to stay in this world.

  I’m about to sign out of Hushmail when a new message appears in the inbox.

  Gavin. Oh God. Christ, God. Of course it’s him: no one else knows I have this email address. I used to hushmail King Edward from a Gmail account. I didn’t know email existed until I answered Gavin’s advertisement and he wrote back
from a Hushmail account.

  How has he managed to reply so quickly? Has he been sitting in front of his computer for three weeks and four days, waiting?

  I hope he hasn’t. Almost as much as I hope he has.

  I try to grasp the mouse, aim wrong and knock it off the table. Having restored it to its place on the mat, I take a deep breath and click to open the message.

  It’s one line long:

  More detail about your encounter with the police, please. G.

  I type an equally short response:

  No. It was horrendous. I want to forget it ever happened.

  I don’t sign off with my usual “N x.” I hope this is a tactful way of demonstrating that we are no longer an item, insofar as we ever were. My replying doesn’t mean I’ve entered back into a correspondence with him, and this exchange has nothing to do with sex. He’s just being nosey; as soon as he sees that it won’t work, he’ll give up.

  Another new Hushmail appears in my inbox. I open it.

  All right, so you had a brush with the police and decided you couldn’t write to me any more—fair enough (or I’m sure it would be, if I understood why). So what changed today? Did they only just let you out of jail? G.

  I smile in spite of myself.

  So, Gavin turns out to have a sense of humor. Is that so bad? Not all charming, funny men are evil. Adam, for example.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. I want to answer, but how can I justify responding a second time if I really want to break this off?

  Does Gavin think that if he puts nothing sexual in his messages, I’ll decide it’s OK to write to him?

  If we’re not going to do the cyber-sex thing, what’s in it for him? Or for me?

  I don’t want him as a platonic friend. That would be awful. If I have to choose between types of loss—and it appears that I do—I’d rather have the sudden dizzying kind, not a long-drawn-out diminishment.

  I type:

  No jail. I saw the same policeman again today. It reminded me that it was because of him that I’d stopped writing to you. I decided I owed you an explanation. That’s all. Please stop emailing me. I don’t want to be your pen pal. All or nothing for me, and it has to be nothing. Again, I’m so sorry. N x