by S J Bolton
‘In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.’
The service was done and the caterwauling mother being led away. There’d be questions to face, now that the funeral was over, but he had it covered. They’d had time to sort out their stories and he’d been careful to cover his back from the start. There’d be no repercussions, he’d made sure of that. Just the guilt to be dealt with.
‘Come along, Iestyn.’ A warm hand was on his shoulder. Cartwright was touching him again, with the same hand he’d just used to wipe snot away from his dribbling nose. ‘Dreadful business, lad. We’re all feeling it.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’ The boy turned and stepped a little way to the side so that the teacher’s hand fell away.
‘Think we might be lucky with the weather after all,’ said Cartwright, as they walked across the short, grassed area to follow the other mourners back to the car park.
Overhead, there was a sudden break in the clouds and the summer’s day became warm again. Ahead of Iestyn and his teacher, sunshine was streaming down upon the small, black-clad procession that made its way up the hill. Iestyn watched and saw sadness and confusion drifting behind them like the smoke from a tar boiler.
I did this, he said to himself, as the warmth from the sun washed through him, making him feel alive, happy, even blessed. And he smiled.
Wednesday 16 January (six days earlier)
BY THE TIME Joesbury got back to the Cripps building, Lacey was being led back to her block by a group of young women. Her wet clothes clung to her body and her hair streamed down her back. She was gritting her teeth, he could tell from the way her jaw was set, and seemed determined not to make eye contact with anyone around her, keeping her gaze up and ahead.
Joesbury, on the edge of the crowd, was wearing dark, plain clothes. The collar of his jacket was pulled up and a black woollen cap covered most of his head. He was standing in the shadows, little more than a shadow himself. Wouldn’t make any difference. She’d know him. Joesbury stood still as stone, knowing that if she looked in his direction now, movement could give him away.
He’d seen the three masked figures slip away into the night minutes earlier and had given chase. He’d seen the vehicle they’d driven away in, memorized the make and registration number and already called it in. Not that he held out much hope. It would almost certainly be a stolen car they’d abandon after tonight. In ordinary circumstances he might have sprinted to his own car, taking a chance on the direction they’d take and finding them again. Ordinary circumstances when he didn’t have a damaged lung, and when Lacey wasn’t in the hands of irresponsible twats. Instead, he’d jogged back to the green.
Almost at the door of the building, she tottered and Joesbury took an involuntary step forward.
Biggest fucking mistake of his career, allowing himself to be talked into bringing her here. He simply could not function properly where she was concerned.
And now that the fun was over, several of the students still on the green were starting to notice him. A few long-legged strides and he was gone.
‘Hello?’
No background noise. She’d be in that tiny room, the one with the impossibly narrow bed pushed against the window wall.
‘Did I wake you up?’ He knew he hadn’t. There hadn’t been time for her to shower, drink tea, agree with the rest of the girls on the corridor what pillocks men could be, say goodnight and fall asleep.
‘No.’
Silence. He couldn’t ask her if she was OK. Couldn’t tell her what it had cost him to watch her go through that and not put someone in hospital for it. His scar was hurting again. He reached up, pressed fingers against the skin just below his right temple.
‘Thanks for the report,’ he said. ‘Very thorough.’
A moment passed, whilst she thought of something sarcastic to say back.
‘Pleasure,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
Joesbury took a step closer to the window. From the third floor of the hotel he could see the tower and some of the taller buildings of St John’s. He was looking in the exact direction of her room.
‘Thames Embankment,’ he said. ‘On my way home. Long day.’
The tiniest sigh that could almost have been a crackle on the line. Or, if he didn’t know her better, the start of a sob. ‘Pity,’ she said.
‘Why?’ he asked, before he could stop himself.
An intake of breath. Then a gulp. ‘Oh, nothing. I could just use a drink and some grown-up conversation right now.’
Joesbury turned back to his room, to the neatly made double bed with its dark-red throw, and saw Lacey’s head on the crimson silk, her arms outstretched, hair trailing to the carpet.
‘Are you OK?’ he asked.
‘Fine, just tired. I should let you go too. Thanks for checking in. Goodnight, Sir.’
‘Lacey, be careful.’ Idiot. Shouldn’t have said that.
‘Why? What’s up?’ Alert again.
‘Just do what you’re told for once,’ he said. ‘Keep your wits about you. I’ll see you soon.’
IT’S SURPRISING HOW a spot of medieval-style humiliation can give you an appetite. I woke early and went straight up to the Buttery, where I helped myself to scrambled eggs and bacon that were surprisingly good. As the hall filled I became increasingly aware of the sideways glances directed my way, and the muttered conversations that were just out of earshot.
Instinct told me to hold my head high and thump anyone who stepped out of line. Common sense made me keep my body language submissive, to avoid eye contact. I was Laura, nervous and needy. Laura would not fight back.
By the time I left, the room was largely full and a small queue had formed outside. I was about to leave the building when something made me stop. The crowd outside the entrance weren’t queuing, they were looking at something on the notice board. Something I was pretty certain hadn’t been there when I arrived. I walked over.
Two large pieces of white card covered most of the board. The card, in turn, was filled with photographs. Of me.
The pictures told the story. They started with the arrival of the three boys at the door of my block, then showed me being carried out and across the lawn. As I’d become increasingly drenched, the photographer had moved in closer. One shot was of little more than my breasts, all too visible beneath a soaking wet vest. Two shots from the end, I disappeared from view, ushered by Talaith and the girls back into my block. The last two were of the three boys, posing triumphantly for the camera. One was a pretty good close-up of their masked faces.
‘Oh, I think we can do without this crap,’ muttered a voice beside me.
I turned. The boy wasn’t much bigger than me, pale and flabby from too much time indoors. He reached up, slid his fingernails behind the drawing pins and began pulling them out. In seconds, the card and photographs fell to the floor.
‘Want me to get rid of them?’ he offered.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
He was leaving the building when I called him back. I found the picture of the three masked men and ripped it from the card. Thanking him again, I slipped the photograph in my pocket and went back to my block.
‘Thanks for seeing me so early.’
The two women made their way along the towpath. Most of the narrowboats moored along this stretch had been closed up for the winter months. Only the occasional one they passed showed signs of recent occupancy. The taller, thinner woman pushing the wheelchair looked down at the dark-haired one sitting in it. ‘You’ve never let me push you before,’ she said.
‘Not sure I have the energy,’ replied Evi in a dull voice.
‘I thought you looked tired,’ said Megan. ‘Didn’t you sleep? After they’d gone?’
‘Would you have done?’ asked Evi, without turning her head.
They slowed as they approached the lock, to allow three female students to wind their way round them on the path. When they’d moved out of earshot, Megan said, ‘I can
see you? It’s creepy, but does it have any special significance?’
Evi nodded. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘When I was working with that little boy last year, the thing that struck me most was his belief that the family were being watched all the time. Even before I knew he was telling the truth, it used to creep me out. Just the idea of someone always watching.’
‘Not pleasant,’ Megan agreed. ‘And the blood in the bath?’
Evi nodded again. ‘The woman I was treating, do you remember me telling you, the case I seriously screwed up? She was found in a bath full of blood.’
The women moved on, drawing level with a navy-blue narrowboat with a row of potted plants on its flat roof. An elderly man, huddled in oilskins against the cold, pulled weeds from a pot directly above the main cabin. As Evi watched, a duck landed on the bow of the boat.
‘Did John say who they think is doing it?’ asked Megan after a moment.
Me, thought Evi. They think I’m doing it. Out loud she said, ‘They have no idea. No sign of a break-in. The locks were changed recently. No fingerprints that they can find. Nothing.’
The chair’s wheels crunched over the rough path; from the river came the sound of waterfowl fighting over scraps and the soft plash, plash of a sculling boat passing by.
‘Evi,’ said Megan, ‘did you talk to Nick about increasing your medication?’
Evi nodded. ‘A couple of weeks ago,’ she admitted. ‘He put me on gabapentin and OxyContin. Amitriptyline to help me sleep. It helped for a few days but it’s just got steadily worse since.’
‘What does he say?’
A pile of blown leaves lay across the path. Some of them became caught on the chair’s wheels, altering the sound it made as it was pushed along.
‘He’s sympathetic,’ said Evi, ‘but we both know pain management is all he can do for me.’
‘Are you in much pain?’
Evi took a deep breath, her special way, since being a child, of fighting back tears. ‘It never goes,’ she said. ‘All day long, it hurts. When I wake in the night, the pain is the first thing I think about. But if I take anything stronger I’ll be like a zombie. I’m only thirty-four, Meg. How can I get through the next forty years?’
Megan stopped pushing and came round to crouch in front of Evi. She took her hands, forcing Evi to look directly at her. A couple approaching didn’t bother to hide their stares.
‘Evi, you need to take some time off,’ Megan said. ‘You’re not fit to be working.’
Megan’s face had become blurred. ‘I’m doing practically no clinical care at the moment,’ Evi said. ‘You don’t need to worry about my patients.’
She felt her hands being squeezed. ‘It’s you I’m worried about,’ Megan told her.
‘I know. But if I stop work now, I might never start again.’
Megan stood up and walked to the back of the chair.
‘I hear voices too, did I mention that?’ Evi went on, as Megan turned the chair on the spot and headed back towards St John’s. ‘Voices in the night when I’m half asleep, half awake.’
‘What do they say?’
‘They say, Evi fall.’
The chair slowed for a second then picked up pace again. ‘Evi fall?’ Megan repeated.
‘It’s what scares me the most. Falling. Falling is how I became like this in the first place. Then last year I had another fall that nearly killed me. It’s how I imagine my death, falling from a great height. Meg, what’s happening to me?’
The chair stopped in its tracks again and a deep sigh came from behind her. ‘Evi, I want your permission to talk to Nick about you. I can’t …’
‘Do you know what it feels like?’ said Evi, turning round in the chair to face Megan. ‘It feels as if someone’s been in my head, rummaging around there, finding all the things that I’m most scared of and using that knowledge to drive me nuts.’
No response. Just a sad, worried look on her psychiatrist’s face.
‘Except,’ said Evi, ‘the only person inside my head is me.’
THAT DAY I became a psychology student in earnest. I went to a lecture. I sat at the very back of a large theatre, listening to a man in red corduroy trousers talking about something called the Hawthorne Effect and pretending to type up notes on my laptop. In reality, I was surfing. Dr Oliver had talked about the destructive subculture that was manifest largely on the internet; a virtual world that legitimized and even glamorized the act of suicide. That’s what I was looking for.
It didn’t take me long. Type phrases like Suicide Websites, Online Suicide or Suicide Pacts into any search engine and you’ll be awash with results. I started reading through news coverage. I wanted to know a little more about the particular incidence of suicide among people new to the university environment, especially those considered to be the world’s top academic institutions. Most of the online sites of the national papers had something to say on the subject and I read accounts of students for whom years of planning, effort and achievement had brought them only to a place where the future was more than they could face. These bright young things talked of continual over-achievement as the pressure inside slowly and relentlessly built up. They talked about blind panic over-whelming them as they got ready to go away to Oxford or Cambridge for the first time.
I’d experienced something of that myself, I realized, even though my presence here was largely a sham. I’d felt something of the pressure of finding myself amongst an elite.
When I moved on to cyber suicide, though, the net widened way beyond academia. Anyone computer literate, it seemed, could find themselves drawn in.
A particularly disturbing case was that of the 42-year-old from Shropshire who’d hanged himself in front of a webcam, watched by dozens of cyber pals, after being goaded in a so-called ‘insult’ chat room. ‘Fucking do it. Get with it,’ one viewer was reported to have yelled down his microphone as the father of two slipped a noose over his neck and slowly choked to death.
Families of those who died had been scathing about the sites. ‘They tell them how to do it,’ said one grieving mother. ‘They tell them how many pills to take, how putting a plastic bag over your head will make the pills work faster. And they give them advice on trying to hide it from their families. They tell them to keep their room tidy, to keep washing their hair, to keep up the front. They help them maintain the façade.’
When I’d gone through the news coverage, I started on the websites themselves, moving from one to the next. There was something relentless about the pain I found that morning. ‘I feel so alone,’ said a woman on one site. ‘Is there nobody out there?’ ‘I don’t think I can go on much longer,’ said another. ‘I dream constantly about the failures of my life, I wake up drenched and stinking of sweat. Is there nowhere I can find peace?’
I learned of the existence of cults who believe the world is overpopulated, that suicide is a responsible and selfless act, and offer advice on the most effective ways of taking one’s own life. They cite the cruelty and distress of botched methods as their justification.
When I didn’t think it could get much worse, I discovered the trolls.
Wherever there is human misery, it seems to me, there are those who will feed on it. These so-called trolls are gatecrashers who access suicide sites to join and manipulate the online discussions for their own entertainment. Put bluntly, they’re getting off on other people’s despair. There were more cases than I wanted to think about of trolls actively goading people into acts of self-destruction, all the while keeping up a caring and helpful façade.
I sat back in my chair too suddenly and caught the lecturer’s eye. Not good. I looked down quickly. A boy in the same row as me glanced my way with what looked like a smirk on his face. He’d probably been in the crowd last night at my initiation ceremony. That made me remember the photograph of the three boys in my pocket. I wanted to know who those bozos were. Student prank or not, it went totally against every bone in my copper’s body that someone could do that t
o me and get away with it. Somehow, though, I didn’t think Joesbury was going to be too helpful with a personal vendetta. On this one I was on my own.
And it was hardly a priority. Twenty dead kids were my priority. Or was it nineteen? Bryony wasn’t exactly dead. Either way, it didn’t feel right that they were still just numbers for me. How could I investigate anything if I didn’t even know who my victims were? And I knew what Joesbury’s answer to that would be. You are not investigating anything, Flint. You are a pair of eyes and ears. Not a brain.
Well, they should have sent somebody else. Twenty dead kids, nineteen, strictly, was too many for me. Now there was a thought. Was my invisible list actually complete? What if there were other Bryonys out there? Other students who’d attempted suicide but failed? They belonged on this list too. I sent a quick email to Evi, asking her for details of failed suicide attempts over the last few years. That wasn’t giving me a good feeling. If I added failed attempts, my suicide list could get a whole lot bigger.
‘NICK, IT’S EVI.’
Nick Bell pushed his phone against his ear, held it in place with his shoulder and beeped open his car. ‘Hi, Evi,’ he said. ‘You OK?’
‘Fine, thanks. Is this a good time?’
‘I’m just getting into my car,’ said Nick, as he did exactly that. One dog on the rear seat looked up and waved its tail in greeting. The other didn’t even open its eyes. ‘I have to set off in five minutes so unless you want to be responsible for me committing an illegal act, that’s how long you’ve got.’
‘You can get hands-free systems now, you know,’ Evi told him.
