I punch in numerous words that I think David might use. I try birthdays and anniversaries. I’m close to tears of frustration when nothing is successful. Finally, I try combinations of words. His favourite food followed by the name of his favourite football team, and I laugh out loud when the ridiculously simple combination works.
His desktop looks normal. The beautiful white sandy beach of Barbados with its turquoise sea is his home screen wallpaper. I remember taking the photo on our honeymoon. I had to squeeze between two large palm trees to get the perfect shot and seeing the image now brings back a flood of happy memories. There are minimal icons on the screen, all stacked vertically on the left. Nothing suspicious jumps out at me.
I don’t have a moment where I pause and think I shouldn’t snoop through my husband’s stuff. I feel I have every right to find out if he’s hiding something from me. Maybe he’s still sleeping with Amber. He tells me she hasn’t been to the office in weeks, but how do I know that’s true? He could be shagging her ten ways until Sunday on their lunch break for all I know. I feel sick that this uncertainty hangs over me every day. The minute David is out of my sight, a cloud of anxiety descends, and it doesn’t lift until he comes home again and I know where he is. As if I’m a worrisome parent trying to keep tabs on a teenager.
My fingers shake as I click to open his email. There are a tonne of work-related stuff. Some online purchase confirmations and a hotel reservation that he cancelled. My heart races as I read the email from the hotel. But I relax when I realise the booking was made two months ago and the dates coincide with my birthday in three weeks. Then my relief is matched by the bitter sting of disappointment. David isn’t planning a sneaky weekend away with Amber, but he doesn’t want a romantic getaway with me anymore, either.
Amber’s name isn’t showing anywhere in his recent emails. I search for her, but all that pops up are some work emails where she’s been cc’d. I exhale sharply, and the guilt of snooping that was absent moments ago begins to niggle at the pit of my stomach. I’m about to shut the browser when I spot an email dated last week from Andrew Flynn. Andy? Kim‘s Andy? I open it and practically gag on my own spit when I discover it’s a chain, and David and Andy have been chatting back and forth quite a bit.
From: Andrew Flynn
To: David Lyons
Date: 24 November 13.42
Subject: Number check
Hi David,
Kim told me you are worried about the messages Emma has been getting. Not sure how much help I can be, but I’d be happy to look into it for you. Do you still have Emma’s old SIM? Can you drop it in to me at the station?
Best,
Andy
____________
My hand covers my mouth as I re-read the date. The email was sent almost three weeks ago. David pleaded with me not to get worked up over the stalker thing, but he’s clearly concerned about it himself. I thought changing my number had sorted it all out, so I don’t understand why David would be asking Andy to look into it. My cheeks burn as I realise I never asked David for my SIM back. There’s personal stuff on it. Text to friends, photos from our honeymoon, screenshots of David and I sexting, for Christ’s sake. I’m mortified. I read the next email, cringing.
From: Andrew Flynn
To: David Lyons
Date: 24 November 16.15
Subject: Number check
Hey,
Thanks for dropping in the SIM earlier. I’m pretty crappy at the techie stuff myself, but I’ve got someone looking into it. Should have some answers for you really soon. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.
Cheers,
Andy
_____________
Oh God. Oh God. I rack my brain and try to remember if I have any naked photos on my phone. I know David and I took some when we were goofing around in Barbados, but I’m almost certain I deleted them. I really hope I did. I read the third and final email.
From: Andrew Flynn
To: David Lyons
Date: 26 November 10.37
Subject: Number check
Hi David,
My guy in IT got back to me. Unfortunately, we didn’t get as much info as we were hoping for. There was little to nothing saved on Emma’s SIM. She must use the storage on her phone, not her SIM card. I looked into the Facebook accounts, but whoever this stalker is knows their stuff. They used a proxy server so we couldn’t trace the IP addresses for any of the Facebook accounts. We’ve no idea what PC set them up. But it does seem to confirm your hunch that all the messages are coming from the same person. We had a little more luck tracing the WhatsApp messages. We ran the phone number. It’s an old account belonging to a loyal customer. They first signed up about seven years ago. A Jane Burke. Does that name ring any bells? We got an address too, but when we checked it out, it’s rented accommodation. The landlord remembered the girl from about five years ago, but he doesn’t have any forwarding address. I’ll keep digging, but to be honest, stuff like this on the internet is a nightmare. It’s why cyberbullying is rife. It’s almost impossible to get to the bottom of.
Kim tells me you’re playing football tonight? Is it on the pitch around the corner from the station? I could meet you there around 9 p.m. to talk more. Let me know if that suits you.
Andy
_____________
My back teeth lock. David was late home after football two weeks ago. He told me he went for a couple of drinks with the lads from the team. He keeps lying to me, especially about this internet stuff. He’s changed so much I barely recognise him anymore.
I shut down David’s laptop and slide it back under the bed. I need to leave soon if I want to be on time for my appointment at the solicitor’s office. I’m no longer concerned about Googling anything about inheritance. All I can think about is my husband constantly going behind my back, and my paramount concern, who the hell is Jane Burke?
I rush down the stairs, almost stumbling over my handbag lying on the last step. I grab two paracetamol from the cupboard above the fridge and swallow them without even water to wash them down. I stuff the almost full box into my back pocket, as if just having them there acts as some sort of pacifier for my shaky mood. I pick up my coat and handbag from the stairs and hurry out the front door.
Today is my first time at the train station in longer than I can remember, and I repeatedly pat my back pocket every few seconds as I wait behind the yellow line on the platform for the train. I don’t face a long wait. The overhead sign, glowing amber, states the next train is due in three minutes. But for me, three minutes stretches on to eternity. I’m overly aware of my own presence. Every sharp inhale sounds as loud inside my head as a stampede of charging rhino. Only three other people are on the platform, and despite not a single head turned towards me, I feel they’re judging me, watching me. When the train arrives, surprisingly on time, every step toward the open doors is a challenge. My legs are shaky, and my feet twist in clumsy, awkward angles. I’m sure I’m going to fall flat on my face, and everyone will see. Or even worse, I’ll catch my legs in the gap, and the train will take off, dragging me down the track. The hairs on my arms stiffen and spike against my jumper. I want to drop my handbag and run back to my house. But I beg my legs to keep moving forward.
The train doors close behind me with a whooshing sound, and I flop on the nearest seat and drop my head. The train is busy but not overcrowded. I’m getting off at the last stop, so I’m relieved I don’t have to look up and accidentally make eye contact with anyone while watching for my stop. I pull my bag onto my lap and hug it into my chest. I close my eyes and count backwards, slowly and evenly, from twenty. I make it to seven when my phone beeps. The distraction is fortunate, and I instantly feel my chest loosen as I root in my bag for my phone. I’m disappointed I didn’t think of calling someone sooner. Dr Brady always advised me that when self-soothing fai
led, a familiar voice could really help. I used to call David or Kim just to listen to them drone on about their day. I never told them how much the sound of their voice helped me. But I haven’t made a call like that in years.
A number I don’t recognise waits on my screen, and I balk and crane my neck to look around, suddenly feeling the familiar sense that someone is watching me. The other passengers are busy with Kindles or phones in their hands or listening to music, and no one even glances my way. I calm, remembering that I have a new number, and it might be a friend whose name I haven’t yet committed to my contacts. I hold my breath and drop my eyes back onto my screen.
Emma, I’m so sorry to contact you out of the blue.
Can we please talk?
It’s important.
Extremely important.
Amber xx
My lips part and blast of hot air bursts out of me like I’ve just been slapped forcefully across my shoulders. What could we possible have to talk about? I desperately want to text back and tell the husband-stealing bitch to go screw herself, but I remember she’s still David’s boss, which gives her a power that crushes my soul. I keep my response short.
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
Her reply arrives within seconds.
Emma, please?
There is something you should know.
I turn my sound off, and with my hands shaking in temper, I stuff my phone into my bag. Does she think I don’t know about her sordid night with my husband? It was just over a month ago, and her conscience is only kicking in now?
The rest of the train journey is a blur. My mind is racing, and I’m consumed by resentment and confusion. How dare David’s fling reach out to me? How bloody dare she? And how did she get my number? Did David give it to her? Oh, my God.
I hop off the train and march ridiculously fast down the platform towards the gate. I flinch as I approach the turnstile because a familiar figure catches my eye. A slim girl lurks in the distance. She’s slouched with the hood of her jumper pulled up, covering most of her face. I’m certain she’s the girl from Danny’s funeral. The logical part of me believes it’s just a coincidence, but the irrational, more consuming part tells me it’s a sign. Maybe it’s Danny letting me know he’s watching. Maybe he wants us to meet. To talk. To talk about him. I spin around and pace towards her, but as soon as I do, she races to the end of the platform and hops on the train just before it takes off again. I come to a sudden stop and watch with overwhelming regret as the train picks up speed and trundles away. I know she saw me, and I’m confident she recognised me. But I don’t understand why she ran away. I stand, alone, on the platform for a few pensive seconds. Foolishly wasting time, I’m willing the train to reverse back up the tracks.
Chapter Twenty-Three
EMMA
‘Mrs Lyons,’ a pretty, petite woman addresses me as I come through the front door of Mullins and Company.
I’d practiced an introduction in my head, so it catches me off guard to be expected.
‘Umm, yes. I’m Emma,’ I say awkwardly.
‘I’m Sandy,’ the woman says, standing up and walking around to my side of reception. ‘Mr Mullins is slightly delayed this morning, but he should be with you in ten minutes or so.’
‘Okay.’ I nod sheepishly.
‘Can I get you a coffee or something while you wait?’ Sandy points towards a couple of freestanding chairs pushed up against the opposite wall, and I guess that’s the extent of the waiting area.
I stare blankly. My heart is racing. I spent so long standing on the platform at the train station that I had to run most of the kilometre and a half here to stand any chance of being on time. It’s painfully warm inside. I suspect I have a noticeable sweat patch on the back of my light grey jumper, so I can’t take off my coat. I eye up the watercooler.
‘Help yourself,’ Sandy suggests, smiling and taking herself back around to her side of the reception desk.
A ten-minute wait turns into an hour and fifteen minutes as I sit and guzzle countless glasses of water in an attempt to keep from further overheating. The water doesn’t help. I’m close to passing out, and I’m bursting to pee.
‘Mrs Lyons,’ a deep, male voice eventually says.
I look up and find a man, much younger than I was expecting, towering over me.
‘Bradly Mullins,’ he confirms, extending his hand.
I glance around awkwardly and notice magazines are scattered haphazardly on a low table next to my seat. I find a space among them and set down the plastic cup of water I’ve been holding for far too long. I slide my clammy hand along the outside of my coat as I stand up.
‘Emma,’ I reply, shaking Bradly’s hand.
‘This way, please, Emma.’ Bradly steps to one side and allows me to pass by. ‘My office is down the corridor, second on the left.’
Minutes later, Bradly and I are sitting on opposite sides of his huge, almost intimidating, oak desk. We chat about Danny, and for the first time in days, I catch myself smiling brightly.
‘I wanted to drop out of college, and Danny wouldn’t hear of it,’ I explain, happily filling in gaps in the story of friendship that Danny has shared with Bradly.
‘Ah, I see,’ Bradly says.
Bradly’s kind eyes are sincere, and I really believe he regrets that we are both sitting here, having this conversation, so many years sooner than we should be.
‘Danny spoke very highly of you, Emma. And now that I’ve met you, I completely understand his admiration.’
I blush.
‘He was like a father to me,’ I explain; the heat invading the edges of my face is uncomfortable.
‘No doubt,’ Bradly soothes, as he crouches behind his desk and roots in a drawer. ‘This is for you. From Danny,’ he says, sitting back up straight and reaching across the desk to pass me a slender cream envelope.
Bradly’s name and address are scrawled messily on the front. I look at Bradly with uncertainty, but he smiles and nods.
‘It’s okay. It’s not for me. It’s for you.’
‘But it’s addressed to you?’ I say, pointing at the sloppy handwriting on the envelope.
‘I received it in the post just a few days after Danny’s death. The sender is anonymous.’ He shakes his head and disappointment is scribbled in the tired lines around his eyes. ‘I’d seen the coverage on the news, but I didn’t put two and two together and realise that the deceased man was Daniel Connelly until this letter arrived. Someone must have found it among his possessions and posted it. A colleague, probably. But it’s definitely not for me. It’s for you. You can open it now. Or wait until you’re in private. Whichever you’d prefer.’
‘Um …’ I swallow. ‘I … I … I’ll open it now, if that’s okay?’
‘Of course.’ Bradly pushes his chair back and stands up. ‘I’ll give you a few moments.’
Tears are forming in the corners of my eyes, and I don’t chance words. I just bob my head up and down and wait for Bradly to close the door behind him before I rip the envelope open.
My Darling Emma,
I hope you are reading this with a cup of tea in one hand and a chocolate digestive in the other. For old time’s sake, eh?
Oh, Emma, I’m sorry. I know if this letter finds you then I am no longer with you. And for that, I am truly heartbroken. Life is a funny old thing, isn’t it? You and I understand that better than most. One day, you can be on top of the world, and the next, the weight of the world is crushing you with no way back up.
I’m a lonely old man. I have no one to blame but myself. I had a family once, but my selfishness drove them away. Days are long and nights even longer. Sometimes, I go days, maybe weeks, without speaking to another person.
I’m almost seventy. I’ve had a long run, and there were good times. Just not so much anymore. In the years to come, my body will fail me and my mind will follow. I will lose my independence, and without a family to care for me, I will become a burden on the state. A miserable old
man with paid help to watch over me until I take my last breath. I can’t be that man.
Emma, please understand? I know you will be angry and sad, and I am so sorry that you feel that way. I am sorry that it’s my fault, but you have David, and maybe you will have a family soon too. You have lots of people who love and care about you. And even though I am no longer here, I will always love you. You put a smile on this old man’s face on his darkest of days. You always thought I saved you, but it was the other way around, Emma. You kept me sane. You kept me company and kept me from leaving this world many years ago.
Don’t hate me for what I’ve done. Love me, miss me, but please, forgive me?
My love to you always,
Danny x
Warm, salty tears stream down my cheeks. My shoulders don’t shake, and my body doesn’t heave as I hold the thin white paper between my hands. I’m frozen. The only parts of me that move are my eyes as they twist from left to right across the page, reading Danny’s words over and over. I can’t believe it. The rumours are true. Danny really did take his own life. I wonder how long Danny has carried this letter around with him. Weeks. Months. Years? My temper burns inside me. Bubbling up from my tummy, rising into my chest, and finally reaching a scalding point as it burst out the top of my head. How could he? How could he leave me? I’ve descended into a quivering mess when Bradly knocks on his own office door and walks back in.
‘I thought you could use this,’ he says, carrying two paper cups. ‘You do drink coffee, yeah?’
I nod, and he passes me one of the cups. It’s hot but not too hot to hold, and I calm as I stare into the tar-like liquid.
See Me Not: A gripping psychological thriller with a heartbreaking twist. Page 15
