She goes on to Google Street View and stares at her old house in Islington. She takes a virtual walk down the high street that she loved so much, past the crêpe place she always intended to go to but never quite managed. Past the Starbucks and the bus stops. Past the huge sofa warehouse and the posh estate agents with the double-storey glass frontages. Down into the alleyways where the markets were. She and Zara would laugh at the ridiculous costume jewellery for sale. God, when did Lauren last laugh? The early morning summer sun was warm on their forearms, back in Islington, on the tops of their heads. She can’t stand it. She can’t stand it.
The taxi takes a corner too fast and Lauren braces herself on the seats. ‘Sorry,’ the driver calls.
She opens Google Maps again. There she is. That tiny blue dot. She zooms out and out and out, trying to get some perspective. York. England. The UK. Europe. The world. There are seven billion people on this planet. What does it matter that she is in witness protection? That she is missing Aidan?
But she can’t get it. It doesn’t come. She is solipsistic. The world revolves around her. Her blue dot is at the centre of it, like everyone’s.
‘Alright, love?’ the taxi driver tries again. ‘Just up here on the left, is it?’
‘Yeah,’ Lauren says, though she doesn’t know. She ignores him. She slides the burner phone out of her bag.
I wish you were here, she sends to Aidan.
It’s a relief, like a blood-letting. The tension in her back and shoulders dissipates. That sentence – I wish you were here – is the first truthful thing she has said all day. And she is glad she has said it. To him, to the man that she loves.
She sends a selfie. She is grey and pixellated in the cab, eyes blurry, eyeliner smudged. And she is not alone any more, trying to make boilers work, trying to make new friends, exercising her own judgement over Zara having a boyfriend, over Zara being rude, after a decade of co-parenting.
And that is a life. That is an identity. It isn’t paperwork and names and passports. It is other people. Being loved. Being understood. Being witnessed, like every single person needs to be.
She lets herself into the house and she waits and waits and waits in bed for a reply, eating the cake, her eyes closing afterwards for longer and longer periods, but one doesn’t come. Aidan is being good, but she isn’t able to.
She falls asleep, with the phone in her palm, in the space where his hand ought to be.
58
Poppy
Central London
Eight days to go
Her dad gives a listless yes when Poppy asks if she can bring Emily over. He has no idea, of course, that they plan to use the night to spy on him.
He meets them in a café in central London after school. Poppy knows why: he is her chaperone, since the attack, and he is also taking them on increasingly diverted routes home. He thinks they’re being followed, that much is obvious. It’s a cold day. Less than five degrees, feels like three, according to her weather app. Her cheeks ache in the freezing air.
Poppy orders a Coke, with a straw: this lipstick was expensive enough (it’s the Dior Lip Glow – goes on like a balm and makes her lips look like she’s just been kissed). Emily orders a strawberry milkshake, of course.
‘We have a little camp bed for you,’ Aidan says over his shoulder, to Emily, as they leave.
It’s especially impossible, here in Covent Garden, with the ornate balconies and the melodies of the buskers intertwining, to imagine danger. It seems ludicrous that men in balaclavas lurk around the corner when – look – freezing December blue skies. The hotel across the square is covered in a russet jacket of leaves. There are Christmas lights up on some of the flats nearby. It can’t happen here, it just can’t.
‘Oh, good,’ Emily says easily.
Poppy’s grateful, but embarrassed, too. She can feel it creeping up her body like warm bathwater. Emily’s concerns are the latest ColourPop collection and growing out of her New Balance trainers before she’s got a ‘season’s wear’ out of them. Poppy’s embarrassed. By everything. By her mother’s incontinence pads that arrive in the Tesco online shop. By the camp bed at her father’s, his cramped flat, weird routes home to avoid criminals. She’s so tired of it. So tired of feeling other.
Their lives seem suddenly seedy in the vibrancy of Covent Garden. Her dad strides ahead of them to the Tube, his tread assertively heavy, like he is policeman or bouncer, but Emily hangs back with her.
It won’t always be this way, she tells herself. They won’t always be frightened they’re being followed. She won’t always be missing her stepfamily. It won’t always be December, be winter. Soon, the spring will come.
The camp bed is set up in the living room. Poppy has said she will take the sofa, to be near Emily, and her dad is too distracted to argue.
It’s after eleven. Her dad is in bed, and it’s just the two of them in the living room. Poppy likes the strangeness of it. Being able to hear the thrum of the dishwasher, see the blinking light of the Sky Box, being next to the curtains that touch the floor. Like they’re in a hotel room, or something.
Emily found some old IKEA candles underneath the sink and has lit four of them along the TV cabinet.
They’re drinking the only thing they could find in the cupboard – green tea with mint. The flat still doesn’t feel like a home. There are so many things they haven’t got. No salt. No sponges to wipe up with. No hand towels. Emily grimaces each time she sips the tea.
Poppy sits on a patch of floor warmed by two pipes crossing, cradling her tea in her hands. Emily’s skin looks amazing in the candlelight: nature’s highlighter.
‘How are we going to do this, then?’ Poppy says.
‘Where is it?’ Emily says in a low voice.
Poppy gives a small, sad shrug. ‘In his room, I’d guess,’ she says. She doesn’t want to be spying on her father. She wants to trust him. But he might be lying to her. And, if he is, someone needs to stop him contacting Lauren, before the group finds them.
Emily fiddles with the string on her tea bag, whirling it around in her drink. ‘There’s no mint in this,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘He won’t be doing it on his normal phone,’ Emily says, and this is why Poppy loves her so much: she actually, genuinely thinks about Poppy’s problems, doesn’t just pretend she is considering them while waiting to speak herself, or believe that her advice won’t be followed, that it isn’t her problem.
‘Have you noticed anything? A second phone? Weird behaviour?’
Poppy stretches her legs out in front of her and absent-mindedly pulls her socks off. ‘I might paint my toenails,’ she says. She only did them three days ago, but whatever.
Emily tosses her the nail polish remover and cotton wool.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she says honestly. ‘Maybe I’m totally wrong.’ Poppy scrubs at her toenail polish with the cotton balls, thinking. ‘Let’s just look,’ she says eventually.
Emily gets to her feet. Poppy stands up and starts searching. The kitchen table is already scattered with their things. Her purse, a set of keys, a few junk flyers for pizzas and political parties. She roots through everything, but she knows it’ll be in with him.
‘Okay, go for it. Into the bedroom,’ Emily says.
Poppy feels suddenly vulnerable, standing there, thinking about the Find Girl A group, the balaclava man, the man’s face in the window outside her school.
‘Get his bag,’ Emily says. ‘First. Don’t get his iPhone.’
‘Okay,’ Poppy says.
She walks down the hallway and pauses outside her dad’s door. His breathing is even and regular. Poppy inches the door open. Emily hovers in the hallway, saying nothing. Poppy is grateful for the deep carpets that mask the sound of her footsteps. The bag is just a foot or so into the room, right next to the end of his bed. She hooks one finger through the loop at the top and fishes it out.
Together, in the living room, they open the rucksack, the zip sounding li
ke an earthquake in the night.
Her dad is naturally neat. There are no rogue receipts or stale crumbs. Just his wallet, loose in the main section, and his keys in the front pouch. Poppy tips it upside down, but there’s nothing else there.
‘His iPhone will be on charge by the bed,’ Poppy says.
‘Yeah. I just don’t think he’d use that. He’s not an idiot.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Balaclava man was probably full of shit …’ Emily says.
Poppy smiles as Emily seamlessly adopts her parlance. Poppy called her attacker balaclava man, and so, too, does Emily.
‘… and the train ticket was probably nothing. Work, or something. The Truro attack thing could have been a coincidence.’ Emily roots around carefully in the bag, even though Poppy is sure it is empty.
Until it vibrates.
Emily starts, staring at Poppy. ‘There’s a fucking phone in the lining,’ she whispers.
Poppy reaches her hand into the rucksack, feeling around.
‘It’s at the back, there’s a rip in the lining,’ Emily says. She slides her arm in further, and emerges with a flip phone.
It’s glowing: 23.26.
Poppy should be tired, but isn’t remotely. It’s otherwise nondescript, except there is a message showing on the front screen.
In Case of Emergency – message.
‘It’s a burner phone,’ Emily says.
The sad sleeping snake is back in Poppy’s stomach. She thought he wouldn’t be in touch with Lauren. She hoped he wouldn’t be. That it would be based on nothing, misunderstandings. But here she is, having found a tiny compartment in her father’s weird rucksack, containing the exact thing she was so sure she wouldn’t find. And here she is, understanding why he took the phone call on her behalf: because he had things to say. God knows what. He’s playing with fire.
Sometimes, it feels to Poppy, there is nobody in her life who has not let her down. She knows that isn’t fair to think, but she thinks it anyway. The phone trembles in her hand. Fuck it. Fuck them all.
She holds the phone. The message won’t preview, and the phone is locked.
She opens and closes the phone, pressing buttons.
Fingerprint not recognized. Passcode needed, it says.
‘Crap,’ Emily says, looking over her shoulder.
‘I could try my birthdate?’ Poppy says, glancing at Emily.
‘It’ll be unguessable,’ she says. ‘I mean, what he’s doing is basically illegal.’
She’s so smart. Poppy is so glad she’s here.
‘He’s not going to use information anybody could guess,’ Emily says.
‘Shit.’
‘Does it say it has fingerprint recognition?’ Emily asks.
‘Yeah. That’s what it says. Fingerprint not recognized – passcode needed.’
It’s made to look like an old phone, untraceable, but it is advanced. It is the kind of phone you use for things that need to be kept secret. Illegal things. Affairs. And things Poppy can’t even imagine.
‘Well …’ Emily looks to the bedroom. ‘I mean … how heavy a sleeper is he?’
‘Quite, though not at the moment,’ Poppy says thoughtfully.
‘You could try it and if he wakes up just say … I don’t know. That it was ringing? You were bringing it to him? God, I mean, he’s the one in the wrong here, isn’t he? Someone is threatening you because of him. And whatever he told them … it isn’t working.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Poppy says, feeling bolstered by her friend’s kindness and belief.
She rises and goes to the door of her dad’s bedroom. He has one arm flung above his hand, the other dangling. Bill is sharing the bed with him, and he wakes, looking at Poppy with one eye open. She ignores him.
It is easy to get a fingerprint. So easy, Poppy is amazed this sort of thing doesn’t happen more often.
He stirs, but that’s all, and the phone unlocks by magic.
She rushes back into the living room. ‘Success,’ she says. ‘Now, we can’t let it lock!’
She sits back down and looks at it. It’s defaulted to the home page, the (1) symbol by the text messages glowing red. She leaves it, not knowing what to do about that, and scrolls to the contacts, instead.
There’s only one. In Case of Emergency.
She looks up at Emily. ‘I think we should read the text,’ Emily says. ‘Any and all of them.’
Sometimes, Poppy thinks that if she does something late at night, it doesn’t really count. It is something that Lauren has told her in that laughing way of hers. ‘Calories don’t count after ten o’clock,’ she once said, inching half a Black Forest gateau out of the fridge, licking a splodge of cream off her finger.
The glow of the screen illuminates a cube of air in front of her face. The rest of the flat is in darkness.
‘Can you mark a text unread on this thing?’ Poppy says.
Emily googles it and sets the instructions out in front of them on her own phone.
Poppy braces herself, and opens the text.
As she does so, a second comes through. A photograph. A selfie. Poppy stares at it. It’s Lauren. Her stepmother. Strong jaw. Slightly crooked nose. Beautiful, happy, sunny Lauren. She zooms in on her features. Streaked eyeliner – she’s been crying. It’s formed little clear rivulets into her blusher. Poppy can tell a crying selfie from miles away. She scrolls across – is she in a taxi? She can see a driver behind her. And that’s where she sees it.
On the taxi driver’s satnav: 2 Sunshine Drive, YO5 6GH.
‘Fuck,’ she says. She shows it wordlessly to Emily.
‘Jesus,’ Emily says.
Poppy scrolls up through In Case of Emergency right to the beginning. The tentative beginning. Then the banter. Their confessionals. Their love letters.
‘Fuck,’ she whispers. Emily says nothing, just staring at the texts, then up at her, so Poppy adds, ‘We should tell someone.’
Emily reaches for the phone and scrolls down, reading quickly.
‘He’s protecting her,’ Emily says softly. She scrolls to just a few weeks ago, evidently double-checking something, then nods, passing it to Poppy.
She reads it. It’s her father all over.
No, don’t take the phone out.
Make sure you’re with Zara so she doesn’t make friends with somebody and disclose.
Remember: no website photos.
Caution, always caution. Poppy closes her eyes. It makes complete sense. Open, social, indiscreet Lauren. The worst person to go into witness protection. Her careful, brave, smart dad. Always doing the right thing. Even when it might seem misguided. He hasn’t been reckless. He’s been careful.
Poppy looks at the rest of the phone. It’s anonymous. A blank background image of space. One page of apps. Not much in the photos.
Emily peers over her shoulder and points to a folder. ‘Evidence’, it is called. It’s blurred photos of something, tucked away within the gallery. They’re of some sort of messenger Poppy doesn’t recognize. Find Girl A – Underground is written at the top. In the same folder, a screenshot note made by him: Meet up 20th December 7.00 p.m. Then there are screenshots of emails with the police dated throughout November, seemingly arranging for them to meet, though it’s not clear why. Another screenshot of another note: They want to see evidence of conspiracy to murder: forward planning and evidence of weapons.
‘Look,’ Emily says. ‘Look what he’s doing.’ She goes back to the photos of the Find Girl A group. There are hundreds of them. ‘He’s gathering evidence of their plans. And look … he’s been telling the police.’
Poppy nods slowly. ‘I see.’
‘He suggested a meeting. Look, Pops. He’s going to bust them.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘In just a few days.’ Emily excitedly takes the phone off her. ‘The group messages are on a weird app,’ she says. ‘Telegram.’ She finds the app in the folder. As always, Emily is a few steps ahead of her. ‘He’s joined the group under a
fake name. Look at the messages on the right – from this phone. It’s James Thomas.’
‘Man,’ Poppy says, staring at them. ‘They’re meeting in four days. And the police will be there.’
‘Yes.’
‘Wow.’ And, despite the scary night, the sinister burner phone, Poppy is relieved.
He is the man she thought he is. Her father. He isn’t being reckless: he’s problem solving, the way he always has. Thank God. Thank God she hasn’t lost him.
Emily leans back on her hands. ‘What a hero. He’s keeping an eye on them, and trying to get them arrested. He’s being, like … proactive, isn’t he? Rather than hiding, like the police suggested.’
Emily gestures for Poppy to uncross her legs, then opens a bottle of nail varnish. ‘Purple?’ she says.
‘Sure.’
Emily begins buffing her toenails as she thinks. ‘You can’t tell the police. They already know. It’s legit.’
‘Yeah.’
‘All you need to do is wait. And maybe next week … maybe it’ll all be over.’
‘Yeah.’ Poppy can’t imagine. She feels light as air.
Emily slicks on the first cool stroke of polish. Poppy closes her eyes and leans back against the sofa. Emily paints away in silence. Poppy enjoys the cathartic strokes on her toes. The feeling of a problem shared. Of good advice having been given. Of optimism.
She hears a noise in the bedroom. The creak of the bed. He’s just turning over, she tells herself, as she sits completely still, listening.
Emily stops painting and looks up. ‘Fuck,’ she mouths.
They freeze.
A longer creak, and two feet, landing on the wooden floor slightly out of time with each other. Poppy moves as quickly as she can, stuffing the phone down the side of the sofa. She turns it off with her finger so it doesn’t make any noise.
Hopefully, he won’t notice the rucksack.
‘Pops?’ her dad says, arriving in the living room.
‘We’re doing toenails,’ Poppy says, gesturing to Emily holding the bottle.
‘Right,’ he says.
Emily excuses herself to go to the bathroom.
How to Disappear Page 29
