Shame on You: The addictive psychological thriller that will make you question everything you read online

by Amy Heydenrych

  Frankie always says – said – that they saw each other for the first time outside the tube station, but that’s just not true. He saw her on the escalator. Something about her bright hair, and the way she was swaying to the song on her earphones, told him that this was a girl who knew how to live. It’s hard to believe that was just three years ago, when he was working double shifts at the hospital, trying to prove himself as a young doctor after decades of studying. His life revolved around grim hospital hours and a staple diet of Tesco ready-made pasta. His spare time was spent pounding punishing running routes along London’s streets – anything to numb his constant rage.

  How time can build things up. How time can break it down. Spotting Frankie in her long, red Indian-style dress that day was a startling vision. Fire was spun in her every gesture and in her orbit glowed the promise of new life. Lord knows that by that stage of his life he desperately needed to live. She could have been just a sweet dream that passed through his consciousness, only to be forgotten. Yet as he walked out of the station she was sitting on a bench waiting for a bus, chewing on a cheese straw and engrossed in her book. The surprising ordinariness of it almost made him laugh out loud. He could have just walked on, but the cover of her book was like a calling. His dream girl wasn’t reading just anything, she was reading Perfume by Patrick Süskind, the defining novel of his university days. Her choice of literature was like a siren song, affirming everything he wanted to believe about her. So he walked up to her.

  ‘Great book, that.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ She had the guarded mask women wear around strange men. Her hands reached in her bag, perhaps for a sharp key to defend herself with if necessary.

  He tried again, careful not to stand too close. ‘Sorry, I just couldn’t help but notice the book you’re reading. It’s one of my favourites.’ It sounded so stupid out loud, but judging from her half-smile, she was softening.

  ‘Really? It seems a bit slow-going right now.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I almost put it down a number of times, but I’m so glad I stuck with it. The ending, wow, I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like nothing you’ve ever read or will read again.’

  ‘That’s quite a review.’ Her eyes opened up like flowers, her fists uncurled.

  ‘I mean every word.’

  Her tongue flicked over her lips. He held her eyes.

  ‘Will it change my life?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not so sure about that. But listen’ – a strange impulse took hold of him – ‘why don’t you take my number, and if you love the ending as much as I do then you can let me take you for a drink?’

  ‘I must warn you: I take my alcohol seriously and in large quantities.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘It’s a “let me see how the book goes”. ’

  That was their beginning, at a bus stop on Warwick Avenue, and then a bar in Hoxton. Tyler, a striving young doctor and Frankie, a young investment banker blazing her way up the corporate ladder. They were so unmoulded then, all rough edges and untarnished gold. What a perfect pair they made, walking hand in hand through Camden Market, dancing in the rain at festivals, staying up all night at punk concerts held in deconsecrated churches, walking out of obscure Finnish vampire-movie screenings, running along the South Bank, dancing, drinking, smoking, learning. What a fresh, unbreakable, London love. What a disaster.

  Chapter 12

  Holly

  Holly shuffles to make herself coffee, eyes darting for anything irregular in the room. The past few days have been unnaturally quiet in her home, but he has made his presence known in other ways. Emails keep coming through saying someone is trying to hack into her YouTube, Instagram and Facebook accounts. It’s too frequent and persistent to be anyone but him. He doesn’t just want to end her physical life, but her digital life as well. Holly has to wonder which he finds more offensive.

  Despite her pounding heart, the beauty of her apartment still takes her breath away. The absence of her mother – now thankfully back home in Exeter – also allows the place to fill with a sense of peace. Morning light exhales on a bunch of fresh peonies. Her walls are decorated with magazine covers and articles about her blog. Her recipe books rest on the bookshelf next to Jamie Oliver’s and Nigella Lawson’s. It looks like the space of someone who knew what they were doing all along, someone worth the fame they have achieved.

  Most people who make their money from being loved on the Internet sidestep the question of what made everything change for them. Everyone wants access to that magic, that secret alchemy that turns an average human into a star. Most will say there was no big turning point, that they simply posted pictures every day and their fan base grew and grew. They want to believe that their destiny is down to more than sharing the right content at the right moment in history with a willing audience. It’s just luck, nothing more.

  Holly knows the exact picture responsible for everything. She has memorised its light, shade and composition by heart. It shouldn’t have been a success. The colours were brash. The angle seemed a bit off. It wasn’t that different from other haphazard pictures in her feed. At that stage, she had 250 followers, mostly acquaintances or spam accounts.

  The photograph was taken a month after she had been to the doctor. She’d got scared, and embraced a healthy new lifestyle. Amid all the hysteria of being ill, of being broken, she had found a reliable comfort in cooking. The antidote to sickness lay in the kitchen, in the crushing of spices, the dripping flesh of fresh fruit and the sharp tang of herbs. Like a nun in her restraint, yet like a witch in her gleeful communing with the earth.

  *

  The first recipe she was ever proud of was a green smoothie, which she posted on Instagram. Her lumpy, pasty face loomed above a glass with contents the colour of swamp water. The caption read: ‘It’s time to commit myself to good health. Food is medicine. It prevents; it heals; it cures. This smoothie looks vile, I know, but the combo of bananas, spinach, almond butter and spirulina powder does something special.’ She added some hashtags to show off her handiwork and inspire others. She typed #smoothie #healing #radiation #cancer #survivor and posted. The recipe was that good.

  She got a few likes, as well as a few comments from friends wishing her well. Nothing out of the ordinary. Back then, Instagram felt a bit new and awkward and wasn’t something she checked every few minutes. A bit later she’d racked up a few more likes and a comment from someone she didn’t know: ‘Just tried this after a shitty day at chemo. Was also the only thing I could keep down. Sharing your pic with all my mates now. Thanks doll! #fuckcancer.’ Holly checked her profile – it seemed to be one of those girls from the latest hit reality TV show, who’d gone public with her breast cancer struggle the previous year. That first surge of validation was sweeter than anything she has ever experienced since then.

  By the time she had turned on her phone the next morning, she had more than 5,000 likes and 1,500 new followers. Among them were other reality TV stars, women’s magazines and cancer support groups. It turned out the Daily Mail had published a story with the headline, ‘Reality star swears by girl next door’s all-natural smoothie during cancer treatment.’ In the body of the story was an embarrassing selfie that showed she needed to get her roots done.

  She had released one of a multitude of moments into the great, wide world and now people wanted more of one particular frame in her life. Just that. So she traded her phone for a better one and got a blender. She started reading more books on natural healing and how food affects the body. She could evangelise on the benefits of ginger and design the ultimate meal to cleanse the body of toxins. She did more squats and sit-ups and posted a few bikini pictures. She lightened her hair and went for treatments to make it shine. She got a YouTube channel, where she shared candid vlogs about what she ate in a day. She was surprised to find how much she enjoyed being in front of the camera and sharing her passion. Her natural sense of humour and caring nature – usually hidden by her shyness – started t
o shine through. Her followers grew, and soon she became a woman worthy of her hype. But if she was honest, it all started because of that one random moment, when somebody coated in the temporary glitter of fame chose to reach out, and some of that glitter rubbed off on her. Yes, it could have been anyone. But it was her, and she was going to hold on to it until her knuckles turn white.

  Holly is wrenched into the present as her door flings open. She’s screaming and screaming, hands over her face. The moment has finally arrived – he is here to finish what he started.

  ‘Oh fuck! Sorry! It’s just me – you gave me a key, remember?’ A familiar voice. Zanna, it’s just Zanna.

  She walks tentatively towards Holly, as if she’s different now, an injured animal that has grown unpredictable. She’s slightly flushed from one of her fad exercise classes. Judging by her black ballet shoes and satin wrap skirt, she’s now discovered Ballet Barre. Her hand rustles through one of the media drops and pulls out a raw cacao brownie, crinkling her nose at the sharp shock of unrefined sugar.

  ‘Should I ask how you are doing today?’

  ‘Oh, I’m OK.’ The light is too bright. The heat on her face feels angry. She cannot shake the feeling that he is nearby watching her, mocking her. Still, she is desperate to make things right and match her friend’s sunny disposition.

  ‘That greeting you just gave me tells another story. You sure everything is OK?’

  Her secret, just for a moment, unfolds on the tip of her tongue. It coats her mouth like acid, and she would do anything to spit it out. Zanna would have a plan, as she always does. How many times has she cried on her shoulder after a meeting with a cynical journalist or a comment from a bitter troll? She’s the only person Holly can really talk to in that raw, unmasked way that she imagines real friends do. She may even get her to laugh about it! But then as quickly as it came, the secret folds back on itself again. She says, ‘Well it’s not very comforting that the police have found nothing at all. Every potential suspect picture they have shown me looks like a thug. This guy was elegant in a way that nobody could fake.’

  ‘It gives me the absolute creeps. He sounds like one of those rich boys that avoid rape charges at Oxbridge because their daddy is a donor.’

  A chill spreads down Holly’s spine. Zanna pulls her silver tote onto her lap and rifles through it.

  ‘God. Zan! What do you keep in there? You’re like a monochrome Mary Poppins!’

  ‘When you’re in PR you have to be prepared for any eventuality. Anyway, this time it’s something you’ll be pretty happy about.’

  She dumps a pile of newspapers onto the coffee table with a loud thud, spreading them out with lean fingers. Holly’s name is on every single cover. Some have even printed a shot of her in a bikini, taken on a press trip to Hawaii at a time when she still had a six-pack.

  Zanna laughs, ‘I submitted your sexiest pic to the press. I hope you don’t mind. I always find it so unnerving that nobody has a choice in what picture represents them when tragedy strikes. I mean, not only have you been attacked or murdered, but now you have to cope with the whole world judging you from one random photograph a journalist managed to save from your Facebook page which is usually one of you wearing a pink sparkly cowboy hat and looking like an arsehole. It’s anti-feminist I know, but hey, being sexy makes the world want to save you.’

  ‘No, no, it’s great. I like it! Although it does make me wonder if I’ll ever be that beautiful again.’

  Saying it out aloud brings with it an urgent despair. A realisation. On Instagram, she is just a face and body, filtered until pure. Even the behind-the-scenes, ‘real’ snippets of her life in her Instagram stories are curated to show her best side. There are hundreds, thousands of women just like her. Some are thinner, more exotic, more put together, sexier, dirtier, funnier. There is always somebody newer who has the chance to be the next ‘It Girl’.

  A genuine sadness flashes across Zanna’s face. How many times has she stood witness to a young beauty burning to the ground? She clutches Holly’s hand.

  ‘You’re beautiful now, babe, you’re just a bit buggered up. It is what it is.’

  It is what it is.

  Zanna is on a mission now, arranging each paper side by side.

  ‘OK, now I bet you’re wondering why the press are going crazy over you again. There’s been a new development.’

  Her mind flits to the doctor’s shiny shoes walking into the police station. What does he have on her? It could easily be everything.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘When the police released a statement saying that they have no definitive leads, your fans went completely mental, crying that it’s a failure of justice and yet another way that women are not protected in the UK.’

  She crosses her legs in a neat little lotus position. She can’t hold back her brimming smile.

  ‘They won’t stand for it, so they’ve taken the matter into their own hands. Pass me your MacBook, babe?’ She types furiously. ‘Come look here. Everyone who was in the vicinity of that Starbucks in Islington that day has been sharing their photos, check-ins and Instagrams on this site. The result is a digital map of all the people moving through the area. They’re hoping that someone will have seen your attacker or, even better, that he crops up in the background of someone’s selfie. It’s a ground-breaking use of social media for good.’

  ‘I’m . . . I’m speechless. It’s remarkable.’

  ‘They have received far more data than they could have dreamed of. Starbucks have also submitted their security camera footage from the evening. The police are caving in under the pressure, saying that they are almost certain that whoever did this was a professional, as he kept his face hidden from the security cameras the entire time.’

  ‘Nice of them to let me know,’ Holly says bitterly. Something, anything would be a welcome validation at this point. All she wants is for them to definitively say they believe she was not to blame, that there was nothing she could have done to prevent her attack.

  Pictured next to the article is a selfie of a jubilant group of girls. They’re posing in front of a messily painted banner that says, ‘We love you, Holly!’ Grinning for the camera, teeth glinting white. Eyes aflame. Thin arms clutching each other, bone against bone.

  She doesn’t voice the other thought that pounds in her mind. If people can see so much of one moment, what has been inadvertently captured of other moments? Her hands shake as she remembers the way she moved up for him to sit next to her, and then leaned into the space between them, holding his eyes, laughing at his jokes. To an outsider, they could have been a new couple meeting after work. Any picture of her that evening would reek of her interest in him. Whoever captured those hours on camera would know how much she wanted it, and how she had walked willingly into the trap he set for her.

  Zanna continues, ‘Yeah, and the best part is that it’s growing bigger by the day. You have a whole squad of amateur detectives digging through your life, with much better tools than the cops. Someone’s bound to uncover something soon, I can feel it. Oh . . . my phone’s ringing.’

  Zanna squeezes Holly’s arm as she glides into the next room. While she should feel some sort of relief that so many people are on her side, there’s something unnerving about a swarm of strangers being so invested in her case. It feels less like kindness and more like an imminent threat.

  Chapter 13

  Holly

  Pots and cutlery clatter behind the pounding bass of this year’s summer hits. Any passer-by would smile at the sight of a flash of blonde hair swinging and arms waving in time with the beat. Look how much fun that girl is having while she cooks. Look how happy she is.

  Holly shakes her hips and gathers her ingredients for tonight’s dinner. Can anyone see her? She keeps up the performance just in case. There’s nobody on the street outside, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t watching.

  She twirls and sings into her makeshift microphone – a wooden salad server with
her name engraved on it. Besides, isn’t it about time she lightened up? Had a little dance to take her mind off her troubles?

  If he wants to watch her through her window, then he should be shocked by what he sees. He should see that she is not fazed at all. Of course, like everything in her cursed life, reality is different close-up.

  The wooden spoon shakes in her hand. The sunny music fails to drown out the looming sense of despair. It cannot calm the panic that has set in. Since she woke up this morning, Holly has noticed something both sweet and acrid in the kitchen. It claws at her nostrils and makes her dry heave in the basin. The mystery makes her feel frantic. The daily deliveries must have started to smell.

  This is no cloying earthy ripeness, however. It is a sharp, maddening scent she cannot place. Where the hell is it coming from? She tries holding her nose to each of the boxes. It reeks in the sodden packaging of some cashew nuts. It rises from the soil of potted herbs. Her breath grows ragged. The smell has branded the inside of her nostrils. Faster and wilder, she pulls each of the deliveries towards her, sniffs it again, and pushes it to the floor. The smell coats her tongue, constricts her throat – why can’t she place where it’s coming from? She tries to tell herself it’s a cat that’s jumped in, or maybe she knocked over her bottle of apple cider vinegar but she knows she’s fooling herself. It’s human urine. Pungent, invasive, unmistakable. Her worst fear made real. He’s been in here again, she’s sure of it, marking her house with the scent of his anger like a dog.

  Every bad thing is pushing its way into her consciousness, no matter how hard she tries to press it down. She stood in front of the mirror for the first time this morning. Naturally, her eyes gravitated to the new ripples of cellulite above her knees and her jutting belly. You turn your back for one second and your body betrays you by starting filling all the spaces. Only after this cold assessment did her eyes travel up to her face. Deep, purple scars, surrounded by hot angry skin, cut across her face. She tried to smile and the left-hand side of her mouth remained slack. Broken, broken, broken. She is dehumanised. She is a prey quivering until the predator picks up her scent. She needed to release the restlessness jumping in her legs; she needed to hold in her scream, which is why she started dancing.