Exposure

by Aga Lesiewicz

  On an impulse I type her name into Google and get a handful of articles related to her online catering business. Good write-ups on TripAdvisor, the TimeOut page and a few foodie websites. An interview with Sophie Adler-Smith in the Hackney Gazette and the Metro. A nice photo and an article in the Evening Standard. All good stuff and nothing out of character. Phew.

  I type in Marcus Morton next. He’s on Facebook and LinkedIn, just like most of the people I know. No sign of the Lust Junction page, and I’m not surprised. If I really wanted to dig out some sordid stuff about him, I wouldn’t be going on Google. How does one dig out dirt about people? I’ll have to ask Fly next time I see him.

  A link at the bottom of the page catches my eye. It’s to today’s local news section on the BBC London Live website. Feeling a stab of apprehension, I click on it.

  HAMMERSMITH & CITY, DISTRICT AND CENTRAL LINES DELAYS: MAN HIT BY TRAIN AT MILE END TUBE STATION.

  I skim through the text, my anxiety growing.

  A man is fighting for his life after being hit by a train at an East London station. Mile End station in Tower Hamlets was temporarily shut following the incident, which also closed other Hammersmith & City, District and Central stations.

  One witness said: ‘I was in the first carriage when it happened. It was horrific. People were screaming. They had to walk us off the train, with London Underground staff blocking the view to the tracks. But we could see paramedics attending and there was a lot of blood.’

  Police confirmed that the man, Marcus Morton, 37 . . .

  Oh God. I grab my phone and dial Sophie’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. I look at the clock. A few minutes past midnight. I go back to the web page.

  Police confirmed that the man, Marcus Morton, 37, from Bow, East London, was taken by the London Air Ambulance to the Royal London Hospital. He is believed to be in a critical condition.

  A spokesman for British Transport Police said: ‘We are investigating the incident.

  We are studying the CCTV footage and interviewing witnesses to understand exactly what happened. The safety of our customers and staff is our top priority.’

  The Royal London in Whitechapel. I should go there. Be with them.

  I grab my bag and car keys and dash for the door, then stop, my hand on the door handle. Would Sophie be there, by his side? And would she want me there after what’s happened? What should I do? Call the hospital? I doubt they’d give me any information over the phone. No, I have to go there. Even if Sophie kicks me out, at least she’ll know I’m there for her if she needs me.

  It’s raining outside and the streets are shiny and deserted. It takes me less than ten minutes to get to Whitechapel. I try to find a parking space, then give up and leave my car on the double yellow line outside the hospital. I run into the bright reception. A young woman in a headscarf at the information desk stops me with a polite question. How can she help? Chaotically, I ask her about Marcus. Am I next of kin? No, but I’m a close friend and I’d really appreciate any information she can give me. Yes, he’s here, in the Adult Critical Care Unit, which is a restricted access ward. No, I can’t go up now. The visiting hours are between 2 p.m. and 8 p.m., but most patients in ACCU are not up to social visits anyway. Is he going to be OK? She doesn’t know, but I could try to get in touch with the next of kin who’s been nominated to receive information from the care team. But I need to know. Is he going to make it? Reluctantly, she picks up a receiver.

  Marcus Morton is critical, but stable. He’s out of surgery, but is still heavily sedated, so his brain function can’t be properly assessed. He isn’t out of the danger zone yet, but there hasn’t been any further deterioration.

  It’s clear I’m not going to get past this woman and I won’t get any more information out of her either. I thank her and leave. It’s stopped raining and the air outside is heavy with moisture. I walk slowly back to my car, which miraculously hasn’t been ticketed or clamped. I get in and suddenly a wave of extreme heaviness overwhelms me. I lean my forehead against the steering wheel, forcing myself to take a few deep breaths.

  Where is Sophie? I pull my mobile out and dial her number. It goes to voicemail again.

  ‘Hi Sophie, it’s Kristin. I’ve just found out about Marcus. I’m at the Royal London right now, but they haven’t let me into the ward. I just wanted to say that . . . I’m here if you need me . . . if Marcus needs me . . . if there’s anything I can do. Please call me.’ I disconnect, angry with myself for not being able to come up with something more eloquent.

  Was it an accident? Or was he trying to kill himself? The two questions keep spinning in my head as I drive back home. What really happened on that platform? The article said the police were ‘investigating the incident’. I don’t remember the usual line about it ‘not being treated as suspicious’. Which means there is some doubt, some uncertainty about what happened. Could someone have pushed him? Accidentally or on purpose? Was he standing too close to the edge? Perhaps he dropped something on the tracks and leaned forward to retrieve it? What was he doing at a tube station anyway? He prides himself on shunning public transport and getting everywhere on his bike.

  When I get home I go back online and google ‘man under train in Mile End’. I find news items on Metro’s website, as well as the Daily Mail’s page and London24.com. But they don’t add anything new to what I’ve found out from BBC London Live. I try Sophie’s phone again, but don’t leave a message when it goes to voicemail. Where is she? Why isn’t she answering? I look at the time. It’s half past one in the morning. That’s why she’s not answering. I suddenly realize I’m shaking with exhaustion. I should probably get some sleep as well. There is nothing I can do at this very moment to help Sophie and Marcus.

  I grab Pixel and climb into bed, snuggling next to him for warmth. But I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, unable to switch my brain off. Pixel graciously purrs for a while, then slithers out of my desperate embrace and disappears, probably looking for some peace and quiet. But I can’t find peace. After what seems like an eternity of sleepless torment, I get up, wrap myself in a blanket and sit down in front of the computer again.

  What is the significance of the emails from Marcus? Why did he choose to send them to me yesterday, just a few hours before his accident? Surely, he didn’t feel that guilty . . . What if he did? What if he tried to kill himself because of what happened between us? It was so insignificant. But once Sophie found out about Lust Junction, his shame may have pushed him over the edge. God, it’s all too awful.

  Bleary-eyed, I look at the four blue highlighted message headers. From: Marcus Morton. Subject: blank. Date received: yesterday. They are exact copies of each other, differing only by the time they were sent.

  08:02. 08:05. 08:13. 08:18.

  Why would he wait to send them at intervals of a few minutes each time? Why not send them all at once? And why four times? Deep in thought, I scroll down the mailbox. As if the answer is there . . .

  And there it is, staring me in the face.

  Subject: Exposure 4. Date received: 18 August.

  My heart pounding, I scroll down looking for the other ‘Exposure’ emails, then remember they’d all disappeared. When did I receive ‘Exposure 3’? The day I threw Anton out, hours before his death. The day I’ll never forget. The thirteenth of August. ‘Exposure 2’? The day I lost the Serpens job. I scroll down and find the last email from Zoe. The fifth of August. ‘Exposure 1’ is a no-brainer. I remember looking at it in the dark car park of the film studio with a vague sense of dread, as if subconsciously anticipating the nightmare that was just about to begin. It was the day of the shoot with Jason, the second of August, according to my Google calendar.

  I rummage through the mess on the table for pen and paper, the long-forgotten buzz of excitement I used to feel as a teenager about number puzzles making my hands shake. I write down the dates chronologically:

  02/08. 05/08. 13/08. 18/08.

  Underneath, I write down the times of Marcus�
�s emails:

  08:02. 08:05. 08:13. 08:18.

  My hand shakes so badly when I pick up the piece of paper that I can’t read my hasty scribbles. But there they are, giving me two sets of four pairs of exactly the same numbers.

  This cannot be a coincidence.

  I get up abruptly from the computer table and go to the kitchen. Without turning the light on, I fill the kettle and wait for it to boil. With a hot cup of tea warming my hands I go to the window and look out. The building opposite is dark, the street below empty. It seems peaceful and quiet. But in my mind it shouldn’t be. It should be collapsing around me, turning into clouds of dust.

  Because my world is collapsing.

  Everything I’ve taken for granted, everyone I’ve known, has been tarnished by disbelief and mistrust.

  Marcus as my ‘Exposure’ troll? I can’t believe it. And yet, the evidence is there, on my computer, his digital confession in the same twisted style of all the ‘Exposures’.

  I take a sip of my tea, trying to calm down.

  Is it really possible that he’s been behind the campaign of hatred directed at me? If so, why? Why would he hate me so much? I’ve known Sophie and Marcus for years, gone for holidays with them, had fun together . . . why would he turn against me? What have I done? The only thing I can think of is the fact that he’s always been on the margin, on the outer edge of my relationship with Sophie. But it was his personality, it was him, the nice, quiet guy pottering in the background. Soph had been my original bosom pal anyway. Marcus came into the equation later, when she started dating him and dropped out of college. He was different then, fifty pounds lighter, with a wild mass of black curls, a Daft Punk leather jacket and his own band.

  His band . . . Marcus did use to be a musician. He’d know what a violin bridge is. But he was a bass player, not a violinist! Surely there is no connection between him and a Czech serial killer? Why did he send me the crime-scene photo then? Just to spook me? What about the ‘In Bed With Anton’ photos? What was that about? Bigger penis envy? Perhaps he hated Anton? Enough to push him off a building? It doesn’t even bear thinking about. His connection to the final two ‘Exposures’ is tenuous at best. Marcus hacking into my computer or flying a drone? Nah . . . It simply doesn’t make any sense.

  But what if he wasn’t acting alone? What if Sophie was part of it?

  Sophie? My best friend?

  Well, yes, the same Sophie whose husband I let go down on me because I was feeling a bit under the weather . . . God, what a mess.

  I put the empty mug in the sink and go back to the computer.

  The four emails from Marcus still sit in the inbox, the proof of his guilty conscience. Why now? Why did he suddenly feel the need to apologize? I think I know the answer. It’s because Sophie’s found out his dirty little secret and his life started to fall apart, just like mine. It’s not much fun being on the receiving end of someone’s resentment, is it, Marcus? I shouldn’t be feeling like this, not when he’s fighting for his life in hospital. But I do. I’m not able to generate much compassion for him right now.

  The troll who’s been poisoning my life has come clean and apologized. No more ‘Exposures’. Why am I not happy, or at least relieved?

  I don’t know.

  32

  I’m a train driver, but the train I’m supposed to be in charge of is driverless. I desperately search for the controls as it hurtles along a track resembling an amusement park ride. But I can’t find the brake and it’s accelerating, its wheels screeching and the smell of hot metal filling the cab. I know I’m approaching a station and I need to stop to avoid a terrible disaster. I can already see the crowded platform, with people literally spilling onto the tracks, unaware of my train speeding towards them. I realize with horror I won’t be able to stop the train in time. I have to warn them. ‘Get out of my way!’ I scream. My voice is like the buzzing of a fly, trapped in the sealed capsule of the cab. ‘Get out!’ The front of the train ploughs into the mass of bodies, rises and seems to surf on something slippery and soft . . .

  My own scream wakes me up, a hair-raising gurgling howl. I’m curled up at the foot of the bed, hugging a pillow like a long-lost friend. My heart thumping in my chest, my T-shirt wet with cold sweat, I lie motionless, too scared to move. Gradually the feeling of panic subsides. I slowly push myself up and look around.

  It’s another sunny day outside. The loft is bathed in a soft light, warm, bright, peaceful. Distant sounds of a Sunday in the city seep in through the closed windows, the background music to urban life. I take a deep breath and put my feet down on the floor. The smooth, oiled wood feels solid and cool. Pixel trots towards me, his soundless, ballerina steps like a mute dance. He nudges me with his nose, purring.

  Life goes on. My nightmare is over.

  But another nightmare is just beginning. How do I deal with Marcus’s revelation? Part of me still doesn’t want to believe he is my ‘Exposure’ troll. But if he is, how am I supposed to react to it? Tell Sophie? That would be one hell of a conversation. But I can’t just ignore it. I can’t do nothing.

  His accident. Was it an accident? What if it wasn’t? Only Marcus knows that. What if he’s going to die? God, I really need to get hold of Sophie.

  Just as I’m reaching for it, my phone chimes with a new text message.

  It’s from Sophie.

  I need to see you. 1pm at St Pancras Old Church?

  I stare at the text incredulously. She wants to meet in a church? Whatever next? Sophie is the most non-religious, atheistic person I know. Going to a place of worship, any worship, would be for her as out of character as going to a cricket match or a snooker game for me. Why this church in particular? The one in St Pancras Gardens, adjacent to the mortuary I frequented in my crime-scene days?

  The mortuary . . . Oh no, Marcus . . . Is he dead? I sit motionlessly, trying to process the thought. He can’t be. She would’ve said something. She wouldn’t be so casual in her message. And the Royal London has its own mortuary with a post-mortem room, anyway. There wouldn’t be any reason to transport him all the way to St Pancras if he’d died. And it’s Sunday, anyway – the mortuary is closed. I breathe a sigh of relief, thankful for my old knowledge of London mortuaries.

  There must be another reason she’s picked the church as our meeting place. Does she want us to pray for Marcus? Sophie? I shake my head and text her back.

  OK. See you at 1pm.

  Just to make sure, I power up the Mac. There is nothing new in the local media about Marcus’s accident. This is surely good news. If he’d died, they would’ve said something about it. They always do. He isn’t dead.

  I can’t stop thinking about Sophie’s text and by 11.30 a.m. I’m ready to leave home. I won’t be cycling to King’s Cross, though. I’ll take a bus.

  The 205 comes along as soon as I get to the bus stop. The traffic in Pentonville Road makes me regret not taking my bike, but eventually I reach King’s Cross. It’s as busy and congested as ever, its usual commuting crowd replaced by weekend visitors. To escape the hustle and bustle of Euston Road I cut across the station concourse and head towards Granary Square. The memory of the weird encounter with the Budnitz biker gives me a shiver, but I relax as soon as I reach the Grand Union towpath. This could easily be my favourite stretch of water in London. I have enough time to walk by St Pancras Lock, flanked on the opposite side by a tangled mass of urban wilderness. It’s peaceful here, despite it being surrounded by the throbbing metropolis. The picturesque narrowboats at the Cruising Club basin rock gently as the Eurostar trains whoosh on the tracks above them. A couple of moorhens, or maybe coots, flap about against the backdrop of the ghostly white roof of St Pancras station.

  ‘Excuse me!’ a sweaty cyclist roars at me from under his racing helmet.

  ‘Sorry!’ I pack all the London passive-aggressiveness into my voice, begrudgingly moving out of his way. Pedestrians have priority on this path, so what’s his problem?

  I emerge from the tunnel
under the railway tracks, climb the steps to street level and turn right into Camley Street. It takes me straight to the gate of St Pancras Gardens, right by the entrance to the mortuary. I know these narrow steps well, but I ignore them this time and go through the wrought-iron gates to the gardens. It’s an amazing enclave of peace which I used to appreciate a lot in my forensic days. Flanked from one side by the old walls of St Pancras Hospital and shaded by mature trees, it has the hushed air of a sanctuary. It is a sanctuary. It used to be a graveyard, pushed out of existence by the nineteenth-century railway boom. Now the old headstones are stacked like slides in the drum of a projector around an old ash tree. It’s the Hardy Tree, as it was none other than a young Thomas Hardy who was given the unenviable task of overseeing the moving of tombs.

  Why would Sophie want to meet here, in this beautiful but eerie place? As I continue to stroll around the gardens, I’m drawn to the familiar pink building tucked away in the corner, a white sign above its entrance.

  ST PANCRAS PUBLIC MORTUARY

  I used to come here in my white Peugeot packed with forensic gear. I used to run up these steps, always rushed, always tired, numbed by the tragedies enclosed in these walls. And then I’d briefly step out into the sanctuary of the gardens for a quick cigarette, before going back to ugly reality.

  As I stare at the square windows, a sudden realization hits me. I stumble backwards, leaning against the park railings.