by Amy Cross
“Maybe I'm old-fashioned,” I reply, “but to me, romance means dinner and a movie. Not rummaging through someone's search history. Besides, all anyone would find in my search history is a bunch of stuff about warehouses and distribution centers.”
“You keep the personal stuff for home, huh?” he mutters.
“I'm sorry?”
“Smart. I do that now, too. HR told me that even if stuff's not illegal, I shouldn't be looking at it on my work computer. I guess I can understand that. Trust me, Jess, you do not want to end up in a position where you have to take a bottle of good whiskey down to an office in the IT department, just so that certain trolls down there keep their promise to not email your search history to your wife. That's called blackmail, my friend, and it's not pretty. It's not pretty at all.”
I stare at him, and after a moment he seems to realize that perhaps he's said too much.
“Well, that's your camera taped up, anyway,” he adds, forcing a smile. “Now you're a regular Mark Zuckerberg. Catch you later.”
With that, he rolls his chair back into his cubicle, leaving me sitting at my desk and staring at the strip of black tape. I'm already starting to feel as if I let myself get a little paranoid, and I've got half a mind to tear that strip of tape away and just get on with things. At the same time, I can just about see the red glow of the light at one edge of the tape, which I guess means that the camera is still on.
Stay calm, Jess.
You can't afford to have another episode.
Chapter Seven
“Don't look now, but I think we're being watched.”
I turn to look, but Chrissie quickly nudges my leg under the table.
“I said don't look!”
“Then how -”
“Just be subtle!”
I furrow my brow.
“More subtle,” she continues. “Slightly more. Just a little.”
Sighing, I turn more slowly, and this time there's no nudge. When I look back across the restaurant's terraced area, however, I see no sign of anyone looking this way. All I see are other people like us: workers from nearby offices, venturing out into dull mid-April lunchtime, grabbing something to eat before it's time to scuttle back into one of the nearby tower blocks, where our desks await. We all look so pale, almost anemic, but I guess that's the price you pay for being an office drone in twenty-first century London.
“See?” Chrissie hisses.
“I don't see any -”
And then I spot him.
About thirty feet away, there's a man standing on the street corner, and he does indeed have a handheld camera pointed right this way. My eyesight isn't great at the best of times, and the passing crowd blocks and unblocks the view every couple of seconds, but I can just about make out what looks like a man in the distance, holding up a camera that's obscuring his face. And the dark, round little lens is glinting slightly in the sunlight as it's aimed this way. In fact, if I didn't know better, I'd think it was pointed right at me.
It's him.
It's the man I saw from the bus.
“You see him now, right?”
Turning back to Chrissie, I struggle for a moment to figure out how she wants me to respond. Half of me expects this to be some big misunderstanding, but the other half feels as if the world is starting to close in on me. I force a smile, but my head is spinning.
“Yeah,” I manage finally, “but -”
“It's creepy,” she adds, interrupting me. She's looking past me, toward the man, and after a moment her eyes narrow slightly. “I mean, what gives him the right? Some people act like they can do whatever the hell they want, and the rest of us are just supposed to suck it up.”
I wait for her to continue, but now it's almost as if she's trying to use the power of her mind to make the man go away. Her eyes narrow even further, and now her scorn is unmissable. Chrissie's usually a laid-back kind of person, but there are times when she really gets the bit between her teeth. In fact, I'm pretty sure I can see her seething right now.
“You do realize where you are, right?” I ask after a moment, hoping to play this off as nothing and convince both of us that this is just a coincidence.
A huge, insane coincidence.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, come on,” I continue, “this is London. 2017. Do you realize how many cameras there are everywhere you go? I read a thing in the paper once that said there were, like, half a million CCTV cameras alone. That's something crazy like one camera for every ten people.”
“Yeah, but those are different.”
“How are those different?”
“They're not pointed right at my face while I'm trying to eat.” She's still staring at the man. “Some people have no social skills. Maybe he's autistic or something.”
Sighing, I glance toward the restaurant's entrance, and I quickly count three black-domed cameras that for all I know are probably focused on us right now. And sure, when I stare straight at them and imagine some guy sitting in a control room, potentially zooming in on any of the people sitting here on the terrace, the idea is mildly creepy. It's not something I really want to think about too much, however, and when I turn back to Chrissie I can't help sighing again as I see that she's still staring at the man.
Glancing over my shoulder, I look through the crowd. At first I don't see him and I wonder whether he's left, but then a gaggle of tourists passes and finally I spot the man still standing on the corner, still aiming his camera this way. I feel a shudder pass through my chest as I realize that he's definitely the man I saw earlier from the bus, but I'm not ready to mention that to Chrissie. Not yet.
If I keep quiet, maybe this will all pass over and I can go back to having a normal lunch.
“Right!” Chrissie says suddenly. The table shudders and I hear chair legs scraping against concrete, and I turn just in time to see her getting to her feet. “This has gone on for long enough. I'm gonna tell that goddamn creepy asshole to get the hell out of here.”
“You're not serious...”
“Watch me!”
With that, she slips around the table and heads across the terrace, tottering unsteadily on the red heels she insists on wearing to work every day. I open my mouth to call out to her, to tell her that she's getting a little carried away, but she's probably out of earshot by now so all I can do is watch as she makes her way out onto the street and then along to the crossing.
The man, meanwhile, is still standing on the far corner, still filming us. Or rather, filming the restaurant. I'm sure that's all he's doing. He's filming random places in London, and it's simply a coincidence that I've seen him twice today.
And he can't be the same man I saw in the park when I was a little girl. That's just my brain making some extra, unwarranted connections.
“Pasta with salmon?”
Turning, I find that the waiter has brought our food. I tell him which is mine and which is Chrissie's, and then I sit politely as he sets everything down. This takes twenty seconds or so, and then once I've told him we don't need any sauces, I glance over my shoulder again and watch the crowd. It takes a moment before I'm able to pick out Chrissie, and I see that she's reached the street corner, but I can't quite spot the man with the camera. I look around, figuring that he must have moved to a different spot, or even that Chrissie has already chased him away, but there's no sign of him at all. I keep looking, and I roll my eyes as I look back down at my plate of food.
I'm starving, but I guess I should wait for Chrissie to come back.
Five minutes later, however, I'm starting to wonder whether she's ditched me.
Looking toward the busy street, I try to spot her. I guess she must have found the guy, and knowing Chrissie she's engaged in some kind of discussion-cum-argument, and it's not hard to imagine her holding forth and pontificating, lecturing some poor random tourist about camera etiquette. I don't get quite why it's taking her so long, of course, but sometimes when Chrissie really gets on a roll, she can be dif
ficult to stop. Still scanning the crowd, still hoping she'll get back soon so we can eat, I just hope she's not scaring the man.
Chrissie can be a little intense and confrontational when she gets the bit between her teeth.
And yet, after another five minutes have passed, I've got to admit that I'm starting to get a little worried. I mean, I know nothing can have happened to her, not out there on a busy London street at lunchtime with hundreds of people milling about, but it's still odd that she's dumped me here. Well, it's maybe not that odd. After all, she's left me at nightclubs and bars plenty of times over the years, heading home with some random guy she's met, but that's different. That's when she's drunk. Sober Chrissie is more reliable, and besides, I hardly think she's struck up a rapport with the camera guy and that she's gone off to get a drink with him.
Finally I turn and start picking at my pasta, figuring that Chrissie would understand, but there's a gnawing knot of worry in my belly now and my appetite has really faded. I manage a couple of half-mouthfuls before setting my fork down and grabbing my phone. Bringing up Chrissie's number, I try to give her a call.
Voicemail
Straight away, I'm put through to her voicemail.
That never happens. Not with Chrissie. She's the one who always lectures me on cellphone etiquette, and on the importance of being contactable twenty-four hours a day. I guess she might have strayed into a signal dead-spot, which is possible but unlikely right here slap-bang in the heart of the city, but I still don't understand what's taking her so long. Cutting the call without leaving a message, I crane my neck in an attempt to get a better view of the corner where the man was standing, but he's definitely gone now.
The problem is, Chrissie seems to be gone too.
Chapter Eight
“So I've got your bag and your jacket,” I add, sitting at my desk and finally leaving a voicemail for Chrissie two hours after she abandoned me at the restaurant. “Call me, okay? I'm serious. Just to let me know you're okay. If I haven't heard from you by five, what am I supposed to do? I'll have to...”
My voice trails off. Frankly, I already want to call the police, but so far I've managed to stop myself. I keep focusing on all the times Chrissie has proven herself to be flighty and unreliable, and I'm trying to remain confident that she'll show up soon and act like I'm worrying over nothing. I mean, she's done things that are similar to this in the past, albeit she's never quite run off in the middle of the day before. My instinct is to contact the police, but I guess I have to fight that instinct, at least for a few more hours.
“Just let me know you're okay. Okay? And soon, or I'll... I'll have to do something!”
Cutting the call, I set my phone down and lean back in my chair. The cursor is blinking on the computer screen, waiting for me to get back to this vitally important email about one of the company's warehouses, but for a moment I can't help worrying that maybe this is one time when I should overreact a little. What if something bad happened to Chrissie? What if somehow, in the middle of the street in broad daylight, she somehow managed to get herself into trouble? As much as I keep telling myself that she just got a better offer and went off on some crazy adventure, I'm starting to think that maybe I should report her missing and -
“Miss me?”
Startled, I turn just in time to find that Doug has wheeled himself over to my desk again.
“Did you pick a dress?” he asks.
“Huh?”
“A dress.” He looks past me, toward my monitor, although all I've got open now is a set of spreadsheets. “I wasn't peeking, honest, but earlier I noticed you were looking for a dress. Did you narrow it down?”
“Uh, no,” I reply, feeling a little troubled by the fact that he was watching. “Not yet.”
“Have you got a fancy occasion coming up,” he continues, “or are you just treating yourself?”
“A wedding,” I tell him. “I'm going to a friend's wedding at the weekend.”
“Nice. Got a date?”
“I'm going alone.”
“Ow. Painful.”
“Painful?”
“Going to a wedding alone. It's not good, Jess. It's not good at all.”
“I'm sure it'll be fine.”
“You know,” he says with a sigh, “I'm busy this weekend but I could maybe move some things around.”
“I just -”
“You don't have to thank me. I can totally come along with you, keep you company, that sort of deal. Don't worry, I wouldn't expect anything in return. It's just that I know how people see single girls at weddings, and you really don't want that. The repercussions alone could extend throughout your personal life for years to come. The gossip would spread, you'd get labeled as a loser, there'd be hidden messages on Facebook where people'd pity you and wonder if they could set you up with some loser guy they know. That kind of thing really snowballs, Jess. Single girls at weddings are never able to recover.”
“I'm sure I...”
My voice trails off for a moment as I process what he just said.
“Single girls at weddings?” I add cautiously.
He nudges my arm.
“You'll be seen as fresh meat by all the single guys. And, frankly, by some of the married men as well. You'll spend your entire weekend fending off undesirables, whereas with me on your arm, you at least have a chance of making it away with your dignity intact.”
“I'm not sure what you mean,” I tell him.
“I can deflect them.”
“You can?”
He nods. “It'd be my way of being a friend. Seriously, I don't need to be thanked. It's enough just to know that I'm helping.”
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out a post-it note and pen, both of which he sets on my desk.
“Write down the details, and I'll be there on the dot.”
“I don't -”
“You're not putting me out. Honest. I'm glad to help a friend, and I consider you to be a friend, Jessica. You're a nice, sweet girl. We get along pretty well, don't we?”
“I guess so...”
“And you'd help me out of I was in a tough situation, wouldn't you?”
“Well...”
“So jot down the time and location of this wedding, just in case you need me to come along as your anti-wing-man. Trust me, you'll never regret it. You don't want to spend the entire wedding feeling like a carcass, do you?”
“A carcass?”
“Like a whale carcass, rotting on the shore of life, good for nothing more than getting picked clean by vultures.”
“Um...”
“Or do you? Is that your kink?”
“No!” I stammer. “I don't want that. I mean, I don't know what I do want, but...”
I pause for a moment, before writing the details of the wedding on the post-it note. To be honest, I don't even know why I'm doing this, except that I'd feel terribly rude otherwise. Plus, giving him the details seems like the quickest way to get him to stop talking. The last thing I want is to have Doug coming along with me on Saturday, but at the same time I suppose he has a point about the way single girls are treated at weddings. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to have him around. Just in case.
“Excellent!” he says, pulling the note away before I have a chance to change my mind. “Don't worry, Jessica. I'll be discreet and I won't let you down. I'll barely even drink.”
“That's really very kind of you,” I reply, trying to get out of this without hurting his feelings, “but -”
“It's good that you feel ready to stand up to people,” he adds.
“I'm sorry?”
“To show some backbone, by not letting them walk all over you. Not an easy thing for a young woman to do in twenty-first century Britain.”
“Um...”
“I'll get my suit dry-cleaned,” he adds, patting my shoulder before starting to wheel himself back toward his desk. “After all, I wouldn't want to show you up, would I?”
I open my mouth to tell him that I really don't ne
ed him tagging along, but he's already over at his desk and I feel as if maybe I missed my chance. If Chrissie could see me now, she'd be screaming at me and telling me that I just let the guy walk all over me, but I guess I just didn't want to be rude. Besides, he might have a point; it might be better for me to have someone at the wedding, if only so I don't look like some boring, single girl who doesn't really have any friends.
Sighing, I grab my phone and call Chrissie's number again.
“It's me,” I say as soon as I'm put through to voicemail. “Listen, I'm really starting to get worried about you.”
As I finish leaving the message, I can't help noticing that the red light is still activated on my monitor. The piece of paper might still be in place, but it seems the camera is still running.
Chapter Nine
“Hello, is anyone here?” I call out as I knock tentatively on the IT office door, down in the building's basement. “Is anyone on duty right now?”
I wait, and then – since the door had already been left ajar anyway – I push it a little further open before peering through into what turns out to be a small, cramped, slightly untidy office.
“Hello?” I say after a moment, looking around but not seeing any sign of life. “I just wondered whether I could have a word with someone? It's about my computer up on the third floor.”
Again I wait, but the only sound comes from the hum of the air-conditioning units on the far wall.
Figuring that the guys from IT must have headed off early for the day, I head over to the nearest desk and take a post-it note from a pad next to the computer. I feel like maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, but at the same time I've spent all afternoon glancing at the duct tape on my monitor, and I still don't like the idea of that camera being on. I know I'll sound like some kind of paranoid weirdo, but I jot down a quick note explaining the problem, and then I stick the little square of paper on the keyboard. If that -
Suddenly I hear a bumping sound out in the corridor.
Turning, I look toward the door, expecting to spot a shadow and then for someone to come into the office, but now there's silence again and I don't hear anyone.
