Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  I can’t help but laugh with her.

  ‘But when it comes to your troll, honey,’ she sounds serious again, ‘I bet that sooner or later he’ll come out of the woodwork. He’ll get bored of having no response. And eventually he’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do. And in the meantime, since you have no work, why don’t you come and visit your old aunt so we can feast on some oysters? I have a jar of fresh honey for you.’

  ‘I will visit soon, I promise.’

  I put the phone down, feeling less anxious. Talking to Vero always helps. An email pings in my mailbox. It’s from the Fugitives Gallery.

  Good news. Sold two of Anton’s prints. His work is generating a lot of interest.

  Regards,

  Anna

  As if on cue, my Skype is chiming. It’s Anton.

  ‘What’s up, babe?’

  ‘I got another email. This time it’s a photo of us having sex. You remember the session we did . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I do. I’ve always known it was a bad idea, I told you.’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘It’s just asking for trouble. Once you have a photo like this, sooner or later it will crop up somewhere.’

  ‘But that picture has never left my computer. I didn’t even keep it on iCloud. I thought it was safe.’

  ‘Obviously it wasn’t.’ He sounds angry.

  ‘Babe, let’s not start an argument now. It’s really freaked me out. I need you here. When are you coming back?’

  He sighs and I can hear some weird Skype noises in the background.

  ‘Soon. I’ll be back soon. Tuesday or Wednesday if all goes well.’

  ‘That’s great! You have no idea how much I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Try to hang on in there, yeah? I’ll email you with my flight details once I have them.’

  He’s gone. I stare at the Skype screen. Call ended 2 minutes 14 seconds. So much for a chat with a supportive boyfriend. I forgot to tell him the good news from the gallery, but I don’t care. I’m welling up again. I make myself a cup of tea and force the hot liquid down my constricted throat. It burns.

  But I have to give it to Anton: he never wanted those pictures to be taken. He’d warned me from the start that documenting ‘the bare arse stuff’, as he called it, was asking for trouble. I talked him into it. No, actually, I didn’t talk him into it, I just grabbed his dick at the right moment, knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist it. He didn’t object in the end, even though he saw the lights and the cameras. But I can see why he’s pissed off with me now.

  OK, the damage’s been done. Let’s just hope ‘Exposure 2’ doesn’t end up on some dodgy porn site. So how do I protect myself against someone rooting around my computer? As usual, I try Google as my source of knowledge. Here we go. Regular software updates. Done. Antivirus software. Got it. Turn on Firewall. It’s turned on. Make regular backups. I’m quite obsessive about backing everything up and I use TimeMachine. Disable auto login and lock your screen when away from computer. Frankly, I never thought it was necessary, but I’ll think about it. Use your administrator password cautiously. I do. Never open files from unknown sources. Duh. Encrypt your files. Ah . . . that’s something I should definitely consider. But looking into the technical side of things doesn’t make me feel any better. Deep down I know the real question is not how my troll did it, but why. How did Vero put it? Ask yourself why you deserve to receive a pile of shit. And this is where I get stuck. I really don’t know. The ‘Exposure 2’ sender is most likely also responsible for swapping the KiddyKraze files for ‘In Bed With Anton’. Why is he doing this to me? What is the link between ‘Exposure 1’and ‘Exposure 2’? Was the Violinist just a ruse? What is it all about?

  Overwhelmed by questions, I get up from the computer and go to the window again. I look across the street at the building opposite and freeze. The Peeping Tom is back. And he’s looking straight at me. I turn round and grab the house keys from the kitchen counter, scaring Voxel who’s been sitting next to a pile of unwashed dishes licking his front paw. I rush down the stairs, buzz the front door open and run across the street. The building opposite is almost an exact mirror image of our house. I try their front door. It’s locked, of course. I look at the entryphone, which is identical to ours. Five floors, five apartments, five names. I push the top buzzer, next to the name ‘Ewer’. No answer. I keep the buzzer pressed in, banging on the door with my free hand. Nothing. I try all the other buzzers, swearing to myself. Come on, I know you’re in there! Silence. I kick the closed door and slide down onto its stone steps, sobbing.

  ‘You all right?’ A brightly dressed woman with turquoise hair is looking at me with concern.

  ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ I wave her away.

  ‘Kristin, isn’t it?’

  I look at her again.

  ‘It’s Heather, from Discreet.’

  Ah, the sex shop. I recognize Heather, the owner, who is smiling at me as if sobbing on your neighbour’s doorstep was the most natural thing in the world.

  ‘Oh, hi, Heather. I’m sorry, I’m just having a bit of a meltdown here . . .’

  ‘Do you want to come in?’ She points at the inconspicuous door to her shop. She looks friendly and calm.

  Actually, why not?

  ‘Thank you.’

  I follow her inside. She leads me through brightly lit displays of colourful sex toys to a small office at the back. She points to a red velvet armchair and goes to a small fridge that stands right by her desk.

  ‘Water? Or something stronger?’

  ‘Water’s fine, thank you.’

  I take a few long sips while she busies herself with some papers on the desk. I can feel my blood pressure dropping and my breathing gradually returns to normal.

  ‘Sorry I made a scene outside.’

  ‘That’s OK.’ She smiles at me. ‘Were you looking for someone in particular?’

  ‘The guy who lives on the top floor.’

  ‘That would be Mr Ewer, the composer. He’s hardly ever there. He travels a lot—’

  A pretty girl with pink hair pops her head through the door.

  ‘Heather, can I borrow you for a moment?’

  ‘Excuse me.’ She leaves and I can hear her casually telling someone about a bondage workshop, as if she was talking to them about a pottery class. She comes back a few minutes later.

  ‘So, what’s the story?’

  I’m thrown by her question, but then I take a deep breath.

  ‘Well, I have a cyber stalker. Someone’s broken into my computer and stolen some compromising pictures. And I have lost my job. That just about sums it up.’

  ‘Wow.’ She nods. ‘A triple whammy. You’re a photographer, aren’t you?’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Oh, a wild guess. Almost everyone in this street is a photographer.’ Seeing my raised eyebrows, she cracks a smile. ‘I’ve seen you loading your car with equipment. Nothing escapes our spycam.’ She points at a CCTV screen with a view of the street outside. ‘What kind of stuff do you do?’

  I blow air through my lips in a French mannerism I’ve picked up from Anton. ‘Anything, really . . . anything that pays the bills.’

  ‘I might have a job for you, if you’re interested. We’re rebranding our website and need a complete set of photos of our new range of toys. The photographer I had lined up for the shoot has just pulled out. She was a bit weird anyway. So, the job is yours if you want it. I’ll pay the going rate.’

  I resist the temptation to repeat the French pout, this time the impressed one.

  Half an hour later I leave Heather’s office with a new job, starting on Monday. Ta-ra KiddyKraze, welcome Discreet Playthingz.

  8

  My phone is vibrating somewhere under a pile of clothes on the floor and I try to ignore the sound until I can’t stand it any longer. What kind of a moron is ringing me at 8 a.m.?

  ‘Am I speaking to Miss Kristin Ryder?’ A woman’s
voice, sounding uptight.

  ‘Ms, yeah.’

  ‘I’m calling from Queen Elizabeth the Queen Mother Hospital in Margate.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your name and number have been given to us as the next of kin of Mrs Veronica Diaz.’

  ‘Aunt Vero! Has something happened to Aunt Vero?’

  ‘She’s had a nasty fall.’ The woman sounds less uptight and more human now. ‘She’s quite shaken, but stable.’

  ‘Can I come and see her?’ I’m already out of bed, looking for some clothes.

  ‘I think you should.’

  The woman gives me her name and a contact number, then proceeds to explain how to get there. I interrupt her, telling her I’m on my way.

  I boom along the M2 as fast as my old banger can take me. I arrive in Margate in just over an hour. The Waze application on my phone chooses a scenic route round the town avoiding all the traffic jams and gets me to St Peter’s Road in good time. I find Nurse Benedict, the woman who rang me, in A&E and she takes me to Aunt Vero’s bed. The ward is hushed, filled only with regular beeps and swooshes of medical equipment. Aunt Vero is in the bed by the door, a tiny figure almost invisible under a blue hospital blanket. A multitude of tubes connects her to two monitors and various machines. Her head is bandaged and there is a shocking red bruise on her face, her right eye practically hidden under the swelling.

  ‘She’s conscious, but we had to give her a strong painkiller and a mild sedative. She might be a bit woozy,’ Nurse Benedict whispers to me.

  ‘Aunt Vero!’ I touch her frail hand with a drip attached to it.

  Her left eye opens, bloodshot, but alert.

  ‘Lily Liver.’

  Tears instantly blur my vision.

  ‘You’ve had a nasty fall.’

  Her eye stares at me with defiance.

  ‘I don’t do falls,’ she croaks. ‘I was pushed.’

  ‘Neighbours found her unconscious in the driveway this morning,’ whispers Nurse Benedict.

  ‘Bridget and Midget,’ Aunt Vero butts in. ‘What fusspots.’

  Nurse Benedict and I exchange glances.

  ‘I’ll leave you alone for a few minutes.’

  I nod at the nurse and take a chair by the bed.

  ‘Damn, I’ll miss a bell-ringing competition in Devon next week.’ Vero grumbles about being a ‘useless old cripple’ for a while, then closes her eye. She’s asleep.

  I stay with Vero till lunch, holding her hand. I think of the day I officially moved in with Stella and Vero, a gangly and rebellious sixteen-year-old with an axe to grind on almost any subject. They gradually taught me patience and tolerance, respect for the opinions and behaviour of others. They taught me love. Please don’t leave me, I think, squeezing her hand gently, don’t leave me now.

  ‘Hey, Lily Liver.’ I can feel her hand squeezing mine back. ‘Don’t you worry. Remember that saying about worrying and a rocking horse? It keeps you busy, but it gets you nowhere.’

  This makes me want to cry even more. Sweet, sweet Vero. She tells me to go and get on with my life and eventually I relent, promising her I’ll be back tomorrow. Having seen her suddenly frail but still full of spirit puts all my little dramas into perspective.

  On the way back I get stuck in a traffic jam on the approach to Blackwall Tunnel and by the time I reach home it’s nearly four o’clock. A small group of neighbours has gathered outside our building. I recognize Ben the DJ from the flat below and Susan from the ground floor, a florist, who insists on keeping her stock inside her flat, making our hallway smell like a funeral parlour.

  ‘Gas leak,’ she informs me reproachfully. ‘In your flat. You could’ve blown us up.’

  I run upstairs, taking two steps at a time, until I reach my landing. There is, indeed, a Gas Board engineer in a blue uniform pushing a thin tube attached to a portable box through the keyhole in my front door. The red light in the box begins to flash madly.

  ‘High concentration of gas inside,’ he says. ‘Are you the owner?’

  When I nod, he asks me to unlock the door. The sulphuric smell hits me instantly. He swiftly goes to the cooker and turns one of the knobs off.

  ‘My boys!’ I shout and the guy looks at me, startled. ‘My cats,’ I explain.

  ‘Please open all the windows,’ he instructs me, not in the slightest bit concerned about the cats.

  Holding my breath, I rush to open the windows, calling the boys. There’s no reply.

  Searching Pixel and Voxel’s usual hiding places, I barely listen to the engineer as he gives me a short lecture about the dangers of leaving your appliances on unattended.

  ‘. . . an emergency in Enfield Cloisters, you know, off Fanshaw Street, where a cat jumped on a gas stove and managed to turn all the knobs on—’

  ‘Vox!’ I interrupt the engineer’s monologue, seeing Voxel’s white and ginger paw sticking out from his favourite nook on the kitchen shelf. ‘Voxie!’

  I touch him, but he doesn’t move.

  ‘Voxel?’

  I tug at his paw, but there’s no response. I slide my hands into his hiding place and gently pull him out. He feels heavy and limp. His head is lolling about and his eyes are half closed, showing the white third eyelid.

  ‘Oh God, Voxie . . .’

  I lay him down on the kitchen table and blow into his face. Still nothing. I massage his hairy tummy, desperately searching for a sign of life.

  ‘Voxie, wake up!’

  I lift him up again and put my ear against his chest, listening for his heartbeat. Nothing.

  ‘I need to call the vet,’ I whisper to the engineer, who’s staring at me in silence.

  He clears his throat. ‘I’m no paramedic, ma’am, but if you don’t mind me saying so, I think your cat is dead.’

  I hug Voxel’s lifeless body as the engineer’s monotonous voice seeps through my daze.

  ‘. . . severe exposure . . . natural gas . . . carbon monoxide . . . preventing oxygen from being absorbed . . . damage to internal organs . . . report the incident . . .’

  I bury my nose in Voxel’s fur and rock backwards and forwards, tears rolling down my cheeks. My sweet little kitten, what has happened to you . . .

  ‘Ma’am?’ I recoil when the engineer touches my arm. ‘The gas levels have gone down to neutral.’ He shows me the reading on his machine. ‘We’ll need to follow up the incident, but your flat is safe now. I’ll be off then . . .’

  He leaves without closing the door behind him.

  ‘Sorry about the cat . . .’ I notice Sarah the florist hovering in the doorway. ‘If you leave him outside in the street, the council should clean it up. You know, like road kill. I can give them a call if you like . . .’

  Without a word I put Voxel’s body down on the table, go to the front door and shut it in her face.

  ‘Didn’t you have two cats?’ Her shrill voice penetrates the closed door.

  Oh my God, Pixel! Where are you? I call out his name, frantically dashing around the loft.

  A faint sound at the back of the loft makes me stop. Pixel! Yes, I can hear meowing again and it’s coming from the bathroom. I open the door.

  ‘Kitty, kitty . . .’

  The litter box is empty. He’s not hiding among the towels either.

  ‘Pixie, where are you?’

  Meow

  ‘There you are.’

  For once I’m grateful that Anton hasn’t kept his promise of installing a new ventilation fan above the shower cubicle. In a hole in the exposed brick wall, high up by the ceiling, I see Pixel’s ginger ears.

  ‘Pixie, how did you get up there?’

  I put a chair inside the shower cubicle, climb it and grab him. He starts purring instantly, rubbing his nose against my neck.

  ‘Oh, Pixie . . . thank goodness you’re OK . . .’

  I carry him out of the bathroom and sit down on the bed, holding him tightly in my arms.

  What has happened here? Why was the gas on? I don’t remember using the stove this
morning – in fact, I’m positive I didn’t touch it. I rushed out, grabbing a latte from a cafe on the way to the car. I look around the loft. Is it possible one of the cats had accidentally turned the gas on? Or has someone been here when I was gone? A shiver runs through me. What is going on in my life?

  I wake up the following morning with a throbbing headache and a mouthful of Pixel’s fur. I cried myself to sleep last night, making his fur wet with my tears. He is sitting by the Mac now, licking himself ferociously. He seems to be ignoring Voxel’s body, still lying on the kitchen table, just as I left it. I remember leaving tearful messages for Anton, Sophie and Vero and then being too tired to answer when my phone started ringing later in the evening. Anton calls again when I’m forcing down a coffee, more concerned about Pixel than Voxel and myself. Hurt by his lack of empathy, I cut our conversation short. I feel battered and weepy, but I know I’ll have to deal with Voxel today. I’m not going to dump him in the street for the council to pick him up. Just thinking about Susan’s suggestion makes my blood boil. Heartless cow. And to think she sells flowers . . . I’m not going to take him to the vet to be cremated, either.

  Stifling the tears, I put Voxel’s stiff little body into a blue IKEA bag. I pile a double portion of Pixel’s favourite Meowing Heads Purr-Nickety cat nibbles into his bowl and make sure he has no access to the kitchen stove. I check and double-check the gas is off and leave the loft, locking the door carefully behind me.

  The traffic on the M2 is moving smoothly. I get to Margate just for the start of the hospital visiting time. Aunt Vero has improved and has been moved to a different ward. When I arrive she’s busy lecturing the other patients in her room about the importance of keeping your body and mind agile in your ‘golden years’, but stops mid-sentence when she sees me.

  ‘Kristin! Are you all right?’

  I shake my head and tearfully tell her about Voxel. She holds my hand and listens in silence.

  ‘He was the most egotistical and manipulative cat I’ve ever known. Actually, I think he was a sociopath, but I loved him. He had that wonderful skill of making me feel generous and forgiving, much better than I really am.’