One Click

by Andrea Mara

  Three curious faces wait for my answer.

  “Not at all – he believes that everything discussed during a session is confidential – that the relationship between psychologist and client is protected under law in the same way as that of a solicitor and a client. Lots of people think that, mostly from watching US TV shows. But of course, as you yourselves know,” I nodded at all three, “psychologists are required by law to disclose information relating to crimes.”

  Sitting in my kitchen, I wonder if on some level Jonathan also knows that, or does he truly think I can’t tell anyone, and that he’ll be back for another session next Wednesday? I swish the ice cubes in my glass and take another gulp. The gin starts to work, a numbing settles in. The Guards promised they’d let me know as soon as they’d spoken to Jonathan, and he has no reason to believe I’m here rather than at work, but I can’t help walking through to the sitting-room window to watch for cars. Friday afternoon traffic is heavy on the road outside, but nobody stops, and nobody looks like Jonathan.

  “What if you speak to him but don’t arrest him today – I’ll be at risk, won’t I?” I had asked as I was leaving the interview room.

  “You don’t need to worry,” the Detective Sergeant said. “I can’t say too much, but I don’t think he’ll be going anywhere near you for a long time, Dr Elliot.”

  Still. What if they’re wrong? What if he’s not there when they go to his office or his home, or what if they make a mistake and can’t arrest him for some reason? My hands are shaking as I pour a second gin. That’ll be the last. I need to think about what to tell the girls, if anything, and I still need to talk to Dave about Leon. As I take a first swallow of the fresh drink, I hear a car pull up outside. My legs feel suddenly sluggish, but I make it to the sitting-room window to look out. A taxi, and it’s stopped outside my house. I can’t see who’s in the back but as I watch it starts to move again, then stops outside Nadine’s – Dave, coming home from his conference in Bristol. Without thinking, I race outside and get to him just as he finishes paying the fare. His eyes widen.

  “Lauren. Shit. Why aren’t you at work?”

  “I think we need to talk, don’t we, Dave?”

  He opens his mouth to protest, to make an excuse, but then his shoulders slump and his head goes down.

  “Fine. In our house though, Nadine doesn’t need to be involved.”

  Our house. I don’t say anything. Pick your battles.

  In the kitchen, he looks at the gin bottle in surprise.

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a long story, but I want to talk about Leon. Sit down.”

  He does, and I stay standing.

  “Well?”

  I wait for him to tell me some story about trying to trap Leon or to deny any knowledge of the account, but he just looks down at his hands. Somewhere, there’s a tiny shred of relief that at least this part is out in the open.

  “Oh my God, Dave.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “But why?”

  “I really am sorry, I wish I could take it back. It was a shitty thing to do. And when I realised how much it was upsetting you, I stopped. But at first you made light of it, and it felt like a game. I didn’t think there was any harm.”

  “But I still don’t understand why?”

  “Because you were never off the damn phone. I was sick of competing with your online world and losing. Leon got your attention.” His mouth sets in petulant line, and the small shard of sympathy that had nudged its way in trickles away.

  “Jesus Christ, Dave. I don’t even know where to start with this. How could you do that to someone you’re supposed to care about?”

  He shakes his head, still looking down at his hands. “I know.” It’s so low I can hardly hear.

  “And now the Guards are investigating – how’s that going to look if they find out it was you? The good doctor preying on his own wife, getting his kicks out of scaring her?”

  “It wasn’t like that! I never meant to scare you!” he shouts, and it’s better than whispered apologies I can’t forgive.

  I want to fight.

  “You’re not an imbecile! Don’t play dumb!” I’m shouting too. “You knew fucking well it scared me and you kept going anyway. Did it give you a thrill, that power to hurt me?”

  He flinches and it feels good.

  “No! When I saw it was getting to you, I stopped.”

  “Sure, then you started again.”

  “What?”

  “You were Leon, and now you’re VIN.”

  “What? Jesus Christ, Lauren, that’s a whole different ball game.” His face is flushed. “I’m not VIN – you know I’m not.”

  “How can you expect me to believe that? I had a troll, and it turned out to be you. Now I have another one – of course it’s you. And that’s the conclusion the Guards are going to come to as well.”

  Until now, he’s been like the child caught with his hand in the biscuit tin, but for the first time I see fear.

  “It wasn’t me, I swear to you. I don’t know anything about this VIN person. And we’re not even together any more – why would I bother?”

  His words are like a slap. I slip down onto a chair, and suddenly, the air is gone, I have no fight.

  “Lauren,” he says, his voice quieter now, “I swear to you on our daughters’ lives, I’m not VIN. Please tell me what I can do to prove it to you.”

  I look over at him, anxious eyes pleading to be believed. Something slides inside me and I can’t do this anymore.

  “You’re off the hook. I know it wasn’t you. The Guards are arresting a client from work for something much more serious than cyber-stalking, but it looks like he’s VIN.”

  He lets out a long breath, like an untied balloon. “Is it the guy who was bothering you,” he asks in a small voice, “the one who knew you were in Italy?”

  “Yes, it seems so. But the point is, it’s not so different – what you did to me last year is just as bad. You could easily have been VIN. Don’t you ever do something like that again to anyone! Okay?”

  He nods and his high colour slips away in a tide of relief.

  “How did you find out?” he asks eventually.

  “I figured out how to trace an IP address online, and it led back to my own house,” I tell him. “Can you imagine how I felt?” If he pushes me on how exactly I did it, I’m in trouble.

  He looks away. “Do the girls know?” he asks.

  “No. Only you, me, and Clare.”

  “Oh for goodness sake, why did you tell Clare?”

  “Dave, I’d tread carefully if I were you. You’re not in any position to lecture me. I told Clare because I needed to talk to someone, and I will continue to tell Clare or anyone else I choose if I need to talk. So maybe the onus is on you to not be the talking point. Understand?”

  He nods again and this time I think maybe he does.

  By the time the girls get in from school, the gin is back on the shelf, the glass is washed, and Dave is gone. As soon as the key turns in the front door, I come out to the hall and pull both of them into a hug at the same time. Rebecca pulls away first, heading for the stairs, phone in hand.

  “Will you stay down for a few minutes, Rebecca?”

  “Why?”

  “Ah, nothing really, I just feel like chatting with my girls. Come on.”

  Ava follows me into the kitchen, but Rebecca stays where she is and moments later I hear her go up the stairs.

  “What’s up?” Ava asks, pulling open a cupboard door and stretching up to the top shelf.

  “Nothing much. I wasn’t feeling great and left work early, and it’s been a long day here on my own. I just felt like sitting down to chat.”

  She gives me a look now too, and I wonder when I last asked them something like this. She sits down with a biscuit and her phone, glancing at me one last time before clicking into something online.

  “Hey, I’m right here. Can we not talk for two minutes without your phone
between us?” I sit down beside her. “What’s so interesting on there?”

  “Nothing, sorry, Mum. Just wanted to see something . . .” she trails off, lost in another world. Then she claps her hand over her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  She looks up at me, her hand still covering her mouth.

  “Ava, what is it – just show me.”

  She doesn’t move, so I take the phone from her, and then I’m looking at a Snapchat photo of Rebecca. She’s in her school uniform, in her bedroom, and she has a quarter bottle of red wine in her hand. Friday Afternoon Tipple is captioned across the photo.

  I look up at Ava.

  “Is this from just now?”

  A tiny nod. “I think so.”

  I take the stairs two at a time and burst into Rebecca’s room. She’s lying on her back on the bed, propped up with pillows, looking at her phone. The wine bottle on her locker is half-full. Defiant eyes meet mine.

  “Mum, you’re supposed to knock.”

  “Are you seriously going to speak to me like that when I’ve just found you drinking in your room?”

  She shrugs. “Who cares?”

  “I care! And you should too. What has got into you?”

  She rolls her eyes at me, and looks back down at her phone.

  Red mist descends and I grab it out of her hand.

  “Look at me when I’m bloody talking to you!” I roar at her, and I know it’s not going to help but I can’t stop now. “What were you thinking? And posting it on Snapchat, and in your uniform!”

  “Oh, because that’s what’s important, Mum – not the drinking, but the fact that I’m in uniform. God forbid the nuns would find out we’re not perfect. Somehow I don’t think the nuns are on Snapchat.”

  “That’s not what I meant. Give me that bottle now!”

  With an exaggerated sigh, she hands it to me.

  “Where did you get it?”

  “In the cupboard with all the spices.”

  “Rebecca, that’s been there about four years –” I sniff the bottle and wrinkle my nose. I can’t tell if it’s age or just bad wine. “Right, we need to talk about this, but first of all let’s delete it from Snapchat.” I click into her account and start to scroll through the pictures she’s posted in the last twenty-four hours.

  There’s one of me sitting on the couch, head down, engrossed in my laptop. She’s captioned it The Silent Mummy and something uncomfortable simmers inside me as I stare at it. Is that what she thinks of me?

  Then there’s a close-up of our kitchen calendar – she’s drawn a circle around my few appointments and written Exciting times – work, coffee, dentist, repeat.

  The next one shows me putting on lipstick at the hall mirror. Across it she’s stamped All dressed up and nowhere to go.

  “Rebecca, why are you putting photos of me online?”

  She shrugs but the defiance doesn’t quite reach her eyes. There’s a hint of nervousness now.

  “Why not? It’s not about you, it’s just whatever I come across. That’s how it works, Mum. Jesus, not everything is about you, you know! Now can I have my phone back?”

  I sit on the bed. Something is flitting in the corner of my mind.

  “Have you posted other photos of our kitchen calendar?”

  She shrugs again. “I guess. It’s just a calendar.”

  “Yes, with all my private appointments, letting anyone who wants to know see where I am at any given time – what were you thinking?”

  No answer.

  “Rebecca, I need you think carefully about this – have you ever posted a photo of me asleep on the couch – in the afternoon, I mean?”

  Another shrug. I grit my teeth and keep my voice even.

  “Come on, Rebecca, it’s a simple question. Maybe the day the police brought you home – before you went out? I had a headache and fell asleep on the couch after work – did you take a photo and put it on Snapchat?”

  “Maybe. Yeah, I think so. So what?”

  “And what about on holidays, on our last night in the mobile home – did you put a photo of me on Snapchat that night?”

  “Oh come on, that was ages ago!”

  “Please, Rebecca, you’re not in trouble – I just want to know.”

  She pulls at a curl, winding it around her fingers. “Yeah, I think so.” She looks up again. “But what’s the big deal? The account is private, it’s not like anyone other than friends can see.”

  I click into her profile to see her friends. She has 476. The back of my neck tingles as I scroll through them, a sea of names and avatars that mean everything and nothing.

  “Rebecca, who are all these people?”

  “Friends.”

  “Over four hundred friends? Do you even know four hundred people? Rebecca, most of these are surely complete strangers!”

  I choose one name – OrangeBoy94 and point at it. “Who is that?”

  “Just a guy.” Her voice is smaller now.

  “Who? Where is he from? What’s his real name?”

  She mumbles something.

  “What?”

  “I said I don’t know. Look, I don’t know all these people in real life, but that’s how it works. Isn’t it the same for you?”

  I have a million things in my head right now about why it’s not the same and why it’s not okay but I can’t verbalise any of them. Instead I’m running through the list, looking for a name that might be VIN or Jonathan Oliver. I scroll and scroll but there are so many, and I don’t know if he’d use the same name everywhere.

  Then I find it. VIN HO Rus.

  “Look,” I tell her, pointing at the screen. “That person has been stalking me for the last two months. Ever since Italy. Messaging me, telling me he could see me and knew what I was doing. And this is where he got it from – all from you. My God, I thought some creep was watching while I slept on the couch, or hacking my phone, and it was you on bloody Snapchat!”

  She sits up now. “You’re just saying that to make me feel bad, to teach me a lesson.”

  I pull my own phone out of my back pocket and show her the Huntsman email.

  “That still doesn’t make sense. I didn’t put your name on it – there’s no way anyone could have known it was you.”

  “Of course they could, Rebecca! Anyone looking at my Instagram account would find you in a heartbeat through your comments on my photos. It’s simple then to trace you through to Snapchat. But, look, that’s not the point – the point is you posted pictures of me without permission and I’ve spent two months thinking someone was watching me.”

  I watch as comprehension sets in, then guilt. And I know I need to stop now, before it goes too far. I take her hand and, for the first time in a long time, she doesn’t pull away.

  “Okay, you didn’t know, and you didn’t mean for any of it to happen. But you can’t share photos of me online, or any photos you wouldn’t be happy for me to see. Understand? And you must stick to connecting with people you know in real life. Can we go through this list together and delete the people you don’t know?”

  To my surprise, she nods.

  “And the drinking . . . Rebecca, I know this is all down to me and your dad separating but this isn’t how to deal with it, love.”

  She snaps her hand back.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Mum!” There are angry tears in her voice. “It’s not about that. Jesus, people split up all the time, I get that. It’s bloody Kayleigh in my class.”

  “Who?”

  “Kayleigh. Ollie’s sister?”

  I feel like we’ve switched TV channel and I have no idea what we’re watching. “Who is Ollie?”

  “Mum, you know this – Nadine’s ex-fiancé. His sister is in my class – I told you that months ago.”

  Did she? I have no memory of it whatsoever.

  “She’s been a complete bitch to me ever since Dad shacked up with Nadine, and she’s got three other girls in the class at it too – snarky whispers in the corridor, screen-g
rabbing and doctoring my snaps, bitchy comments on Instagram about my clothes and my hair . . .” She trails off and tears spill down her face.

  I look at her anxious eyes and her dyed brown curls and I think about the top in the bathroom bin and the backpack she hated and mostly I think about what an idiot I’ve been, missing every single red flag.

  I reach for her hand again. “You’re being bullied?”

  Her eyes close as a sob escapes and I can almost see the relief running through her body.

  “Rebecca, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Her eyes open again and I can see all of it – hurt and pain and loneliness – and it’s so blatant now. I slide my hands under her shoulders, one on each side, and scrape her up towards me, pulling her into a hug. She doesn’t resist, and after a moment, she lets herself sink into me, her body shaking. I close my eyes, rocking her back and forth, wondering about all the things I thought I knew, all the things I tell my clients, and all the things that are right in front of me but too close to see for what they are.