One Click

by Andrea Mara

  Delphine sits up straighter at the mention of Marcus, her mouth set in a tight line.

  “Okay, Mom, what is it?”

  “I got this,” Delphine says, holding up a piece of paper.

  Cleo’s squinting but can’t see what’s written on it, so Delphine holds it closer to the camera on her tablet.

  “That’s too close now, Mom – just tell me instead – what is it?”

  “It’s an email from that guy Chris. I printed it out.”

  Damn. “What does it say?”

  “He says ‘As soon as your daughter took Marcus, she killed Shannon. She’s an entitled narcissist, a –’” She stops reading and looks up at Cleo.

  “Go on, Mom, it’s okay.”

  “He says ‘She’s an entitled narcissist, a whore who thinks she can take what she wants and stamp all over anyone who gets in her way. You tell her I will find her one way or another, and then she’ll face up to what’s she’s done’.”

  Cleo realises she’s rocking back and forth with the laptop on her knees, nodding at Delphine – perhaps to reassure her that she’s fine with this. But inside she’s reeling. Does he really hold her responsible? It’s ludicrous. What Shannon did was tragic but she was an adult, in charge of her own actions. And thinking about what Marcus did that last night, who knows what he did to Shannon over the years?

  “Honey, are you okay?” Delphine has crumpled the print-out into a ball and is moving it from one hand to the other, crushing it smaller and smaller.

  “I’m fine. The people responsible for everything that happened are Shannon and Marcus. But they’re both dead, so Chris is looking for the next best thing, and that’s me. It’s understandable, but I’m not letting it get to me. I’m just sorry you’re caught in the middle.”

  She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about me, I can handle an email, and he’s not allowed to come near my house.”

  “Mom, can you forward me the email? I’ll send it on to Detective Murphy. We need to report it – Chris shouldn’t be contacting you at all after what happened on your porch that night. Also Detective Murphy is investigating some messages that a friend here is getting about me, and he might be able to see if they’re from the same IP address or whatever.”

  “Wait, what messages?”

  “Just some social media stuff, a troll.”

  “A what?”

  “It means someone who’s deliberately nasty to someone else online, but anonymously.”

  She puts the ball of paper down on the table. “Do you think it’s Chris?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe. That’s why I need you to send me the email. Can you do that?”

  She promises she will. As Cleo says goodbye and starts thinking about work, she realises she forgot to put on the water for a shower. She smiles, thinking about trying to explain an immersion to her mother.

  As the water slowly heats, she takes her bowl of soup to the window and pulls aside the yellowing net curtain. Outside, Saturday-night partygoers weave up and down Aungier Street. Taxis snake along the road, busy already at six-thirty. There’s an atmosphere that’s palpable even through the glass, a buzz she hasn’t felt anywhere else. Immersions and crappy tips aside, Ireland’s not such a bad place to be.

  LAUREN

  Chapter 23

  It’s twenty minutes since I pulled out of the clinic and I’m still less than a mile along the road. It’s like this every year in September – somehow back-to-school congestion seems to cascade into the rest of the day, and Monday is always the worst.

  My eyes are itchy with tiredness, and Jonathan’s appearance at the supermarket on Saturday is still jabbing at me, nudging a knot in my stomach.

  My phone rings and I see “Mum” flashing up on screen – I think about not answering but she’ll just keep trying every five minutes until I do.

  “Hi, Mum, I’m driving, but I have you on Bluetooth. How’re you?”

  “Lauren, I saw something very strange today. And it has to do with you.”

  Oh God, this could be anything. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well my neighbour showed me a picture on her phone, and I’m nearly sure it was you. But how could she have a picture of you?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t me, just someone who looked like me? Where did she get the photo?”

  “That was the strange thing – she said it was a website. Someone is putting pictures of you on their website.”

  My hands clench the steering wheel and a shiver runs down both arms. “What was the site, Mum? Did she tell you the name?”

  “Yes, she said it’s called LePhoto. Maybe a French website or something? Could it be pornography?” She whispers the last word.

  I burst out laughing and my hands relax on the steering wheel, but just as quickly I stop – much as I’m relieved that my photo isn’t on some porn site, I’m now faced with explaining my blog to my mother.

  “Lauren, what’s so funny? This could be quite serious.”

  “Sorry, Mum. LePhoto is my website. I write about photography and bits and pieces of my life, and I take photos and put them online.”

  “I’m sorry, you do what?”

  “It’s a blog – remember the scrapbooks I had as a kid? It’s just a grown-up, digital version of a scrapbook.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I like taking photos and I like writing, and people like reading.”

  Silence.

  “But doesn’t your boss mind? Surely it’s at odds with your professional work?”

  “My boss doesn’t know. It’s anonymous – my surname isn’t on it and I don’t give much away. That photo your neighbour found is unusual, I don’t share many pictures of myself. So chances of someone at work recognising it are low.” Even as I speak, I wonder if I’m fooling myself. If my mother’s neighbour spotted me, it’s not a huge leap to assume that Jonathan or anyone else has found me too. Maybe I need to take a further step back. My mother is talking again and I realise she’s asked me a question.

  “Sorry, Mum, what was that?”

  “I said, even if it’s anonymous, I still don’t get it. Why would you want to share personal thoughts on the internet for everyone to see? If you’ve something on your mind, talk to me or to one of your friends. Don’t be letting everyone know what’s going on with you – surely you can see that’s a bad idea?”

  “Mum, don’t worry. I don’t share personal stuff, it’s not like I’m blogging about my marriage break-up.”

  She lowers her voice, as though afraid someone can hear our conversation. “Well, that’s it exactly – you don’t want the world knowing your business.”

  I want to laugh again – she’s in her hallway in West Cork, and I’m in my car, and nobody can hear us at all, but still she’s worried we’re being overheard. Heaven forbid anyone would ever know what’s really going on with either of us.

  “How are the girls and Dave anyway?” she asks, and I grit my teeth.

  “The girls are fine. I don’t know how Dave is, I’m sure he’s grand.”

  That’s not strictly true. He called me earlier, bored while he was waiting for the garage to fix the wing mirror on his car. He launched into a long-winded story about being ripped off for what was clearly a tiny job, and I made sympathetic noises while scrolling through my work email. My attention snapped back when I realised he’d changed the subject – he’d reached the real purpose of the call. Apparently Rebecca was rude to Nadine when the girls had dinner there yesterday; she’d made some pointed comments about the roast potatoes, suggesting that if Nadine made them herself instead of buying from an expensive deli, they’d taste better. Apparently she’d even mentioned mycooking in a complimentary way – not something I’ve heard from her before. I told Dave I’d bring it up with her, trying to keep the smile out of my voice.

  My mum has gone quiet and I know she’s about to launch into something about us getting back together. I tell her traffic has started moving and I need to go, though even after I hang up it takes anot
her forty minutes to get to Monkstown. The girls are home from school ahead of me, and already doing homework in their rooms, but Rebecca comes down when she hears the front door, and drops into a kitchen chair without saying hello.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I ask, ruffling her curls.

  She swipes my hand away. “Don’t touch my hair. It’s bad enough as it is.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about but pull my hand away and sit beside her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Dad was on the phone about dinner yesterday – did you say something about Nadine’s cooking?”

  Faux-innocent eyes meet mine. “Me? I was just trying to save her some money – I told her it’s easy to make roast potatoes herself and they cost less too.”

  “Hmm. Right. Would you like a cup of tea?”

  She nods and looks away, going quiet again.

  When the tea is ready, I sit beside her again and wait. Eventually it comes.

  “I hate my hair.”

  This is new. Ever since she was small, strangers have been stopping to tell her how beautiful her red curls are.

  “Your hair is lovely – where is this coming from?”

  “Nowhere. I just hate it. I look horrible. I wish I could chop it all off. I look crap compared to the other girls in school.”

  “You don’t, you look beautiful, but that’s not even the point. It’s not about appearance, it’s about what’s inside.”

  “Oh Mum, stop! You’re one to talk. Colouring your hair and going out running – if appearance doesn’t matter, why do you pay so much attention to it? You’re such a phony!”

  It feels like a slap, and at first I can’t think of a single thing to say. Then she puts her head in her arms and her shoulders start to shake. When I reach out to rub her back, she jerks away.

  “Rebecca, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” is the muffled reply. Then she looks up. “I’m dying my hair, and you can’t stop me.”

  With just the briefest pause, Lauren-the-psychologist jumps in to save Lauren-the-mother from saying the wrong thing.

  “That’s fine, love. If you want to dye your hair, you can. Just check with the school first to make sure they don’t have any rules about certain colours, will you?”

  Her eyes widen and her mouth opens to say something but she changes her mind and runs back upstairs. Maybe she won’t dye her hair, or maybe she’ll dye it blue and get us all in trouble but, either way, her step sounds lighter on the stairs.

  It’s quiet now that the girls are in bed, and I should be reading notes to prepare for clinic tomorrow, but I’m online. Ironically, I had a client today who is worried about his social-media addiction – he’d be surprised if he knew his therapist is unable to go ten minutes without checking her phone.

  On Twitter, Catherine and Lill want to know how I’m doing and if there’s been any progress with VIN. Nothing so far I tell them, making a mental note to check with Cleo.

  Lill joins and makes a suggestion. I know you weren’t sure, but would you consider talking to that journalist? Get it out of your system?

  Catherine replies before I have a chance to.

  Yeah but you have to be careful. Everyone says don’t feed the trolls, she says, always more cautious than Lill.

  Her avatar is a picture of Lisa Simpson and I’ve never seen a picture of Lill herself, though I’ve known her online for four years now.

  I know, I reply. I’ll think about it.

  Your hubby would go mad too if you talked to a journalist, wouldn’t he? Catherine says.

  Dave would indeed be apoplectic. I type a question.

  @LillGalwayGirl What was the name of the journalist again? Don’t tag her, am still just thinking.

  She’s CarolineMcGahernJournalist. She might have found people by now though. I’ll check her tweets, says Lill.

  She’s back a minute later. No, she’s still looking. You could ask her if you can do it anonymously?

  I tell her I need to think about it. I try Cleo then, to see if there’s any update, and she replies to say she’ll call me, as it’s too long to type out.

  “So my mom got an email from Chris,” she says, as soon as I answer. “I passed it on to Detective Murphy, and he asked Chris about it. He admits sending the email – well, he signed it so that’s not much of an admission – but claims to know nothing about the VIN messages.”

  “Can the police check if the messages came from the same computer?” I ask her. Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.

  “They’d have to get a court order for the IP address and that takes time, so no quick fix unfortunately.”

  “Really? They can’t just like, I don’t know, look it up on a database or something?”

  “No, I thought so too, it’s not that simple unfortunately. But if Chris knows they’re on his back now, it might curtail him, right?”

  I’m not convinced. “I’m still not sure Chris is VIN. Why is he bothering to troll me?”

  “I don’t think trolls care who they go after – they just like getting at people,” Cleo says. “He’s getting his kicks picking on you while he’s waiting for you to confirm it’s me in the photo.”

  “Okay, but why would he give his name in an email to your mother but message me anonymously?”

  “I guess because being anonymous gives him leeway to be nasty,” she says. “Hey – I wonder could we get him to say something he could only know if he’s really Chris? I take it VIN has never mentioned my name?”

  “No, never. When he’s not telling me I’m a useless waste of space, he’s asking for details about you. Though I get the feeling he’s accepted that I only met you briefly in Italy and he has no idea you’re here in Dublin and we’re in touch. So that’s something.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the phone for a moment.

  “Well, how about you try to draw VIN into saying something about me – something that he would know if it’s Chris? Like my name, or where I’m from, or about contacting my mother?”

  I’m not sure about this at all. Writing about trolling is one thing, but engaging directly with VIN is a much bigger step. It’s my turn to go quiet.

  “Lauren? Are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m just not sure it’s wise. It’s toxic enough reading – if I reply I’m going to get even more hate.”

  “Hey, I’m conscious you’re getting the brunt of this, so it’s totally up to you.”

  For the second time tonight, I say I’ll think about it, and end the call.

  An email has come in while we were talking.

  Dear Lauren,

  Isn’t it cosy when it’s just the two of us? You on your big couch, me never too far away.

  See you very soon,

  VIN

  My head snaps up and my eyes go to the window. There’s nobody here, there’s nobody outside looking in. Of course there isn’t. He knows I’m on my couch because that’s where I am every night at this time. It’s a lucky guess. Nothing more.

  Chapter 24

  The sitting room windows rattle with pelting rain, and everything feels half-hearted and dreary. I pull a throw off the back of the couch and wrap it around me, staring at my glass of sparkling water and wondering how I’m going to fill the next five hours. On the coffee table a stack of notes from the clinic beckons. Depressing though it may be to work on a Saturday night, it will kill a few hours, and take the pressure off next week. Sighing, I pick up the first file. Jonathan’s name is at the top, in my handwriting. Jonathan H. Oliver. I’d forgotten about the H. Could it have something to do with the Vin_H_O_Rus username? It wouldn’t explain the Rus part or the Vin part . . . now I’m seeing things where there’s nothing to see. Suddenly I don’t want his file in the house anymore and, knowing it’s ridiculous, I get up and go outside to put it in the car. It’s lashing rain and the file gets wet but I don’t care – I don’t want any part of Jonathan in my home.

&nb
sp; On my way back in, I glance over to Nadine’s and wonder what the girls are doing. The lights are on, casting a glow on the garden outside, and faint strains of music drift out – something poppy I’ve heard on the radio recently. I go up the steps to my own house and shut the door, blocking out the music, and feeling once more the heavy silence of an empty house.

  Back on the couch, I open the next file, but my mind is still on Dave and Nadine and the girls, wondering what they’re doing. Picking up my phone, I ignore the little voice that tells me nothing good comes of spying, and click into Snapchat. I search for Ava first, but she hasn’t posted anything. Rebecca next, and she hasn’t let me down. There’s a photo of a frozen pizza, across which she’s typed “Yuck”, then a picture of Dave and Nadine standing together at the sitting-room window. They’re facing away from the camera, and have their hands in one another’s back pockets, like something out of an 80s teen movie. “Ugh!!” is what Rebecca has typed on this one, and I nod in quiet agreement. I shouldn’t be spying, and she shouldn’t be sharing photos of her dad and his girlfriend, and I definitely shouldn’t be enjoying Rebecca’s disdain, but as I put down the phone and pick up the file from work, I feel better.