S. Watson - Second Life

He sighs. ‘He said, “Hey, dude, I’m sorry.” That was it. That’s one of the ways I knew it was the same bloke, ’cos that’s what he’d called me in the cinema. Dude. No one says it any more.’ He sips his milkshake. ‘Can you let go of my arm?’

I hadn’t realized I was still clutching him.

I release him and sit back. Anger is burning within me now, a rage. Yet it has nowhere to go, nothing to burn, and so it sits, deep and poisonous. I’m trying to keep my face neutral, my features calm. I’m failing. I tense, I’m chewing my bottom lip.

A question comes to me, with an awful, sickening lurch: I now know Lukas has been following me on the iPhone app, but how did he know where my son would be? How did he get to Connor?

I sit forward. ‘Who knew you were going bowling?’ I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Who did you tell?’

‘No one. Why? Mum?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I’m almost shouting. ‘You must’ve told someone!’

‘Mum—?’

‘Molly, and Dylan? They knew, for a start! Who else was there with you?’

He looks at me. His expression is odd; almost fearful. ‘Dylan’s dad took us.’

‘When?’ The questions come thick and fast. ‘When did you arrange it? Who did you tell, Connor? Who knew you were going?’

‘Jesus, Mum! Some of the guys. Y’know? We invited Sahil, and Rory, but they couldn’t come. Oh, and I guess Molly might’ve invited a few people. And I guess Dylan’s dad might’ve told Dylan’s mum. Just possibly…’

His voice has a new note, one I haven’t heard in him before. Sarcasm.

‘There’s no need for that attitude—’

He ignores me.

‘…and I probably told Evie, and I suppose I just might’ve posted it on Facebook, so there’s all the people who follow me there, and—’

I interrupt him. ‘Who follows you on Facebook?’

‘I dunno. Friends. Friends of my friends. People like that.’

Something begins to coalesce in my mind. All the way through, Lukas had always known more than I thought I’d let him know. I now know he was tracking my location, moment by moment, but I’ve never worked out how he knew the other details. The fact we were planning on going to a cinema at all, what film we were going to see. Hugh’s name, when I’d only ever called him Harvey.

And now I think I know. If he was following Connor’s posts, and Connor was posting everything…

An awful thought occurs. Could that be how he’d figured out Paddy’s last name, too? And where he lives? I can see how it might be. Connor might’ve mentioned our guests by name, and from there a quick search – Maria, Hugh, surgeon – would lead to a surname. He could then easily look at Paddy’s Facebook page, or LinkedIn, or whatever else he might use.

‘Give me your phone.’

‘Mum—!’ he begins, but I silence him.

‘Give me your phone, Connor. Now.’

He passes it over and I tell him to unlock the screen, to open his Facebook profile. I can see he wants to fight, to protest, but he knows he’s not old enough to stand against me, yet. I hold my hand out for him to give me the phone back, but he tosses it on to the table.

I pick it up. I scan through his updates. Most days he’s posted several; there are too many to check, and many of them I don’t understand. Messages to his friends, in-jokes, gossip, chat about the football or things he’s watched on TV. I go back, rewinding through the year, to the summer, and I see what I’m looking for. ‘Off to Islington Vue,’ says one. ‘With my MOTHER.’ I scroll back further, to older messages, realizing as I do how used I am to reading things in backwards chronology. A few messages later I see, ‘Family trip to the cinema tomorrow. Planet of the Apes!’

‘Who are you friends with?’ I hand the phone back to him. ‘Show me.’

He begins to protest, but I interrupt. ‘Connor! Show me, now!’ He hands back the phone. There are hundreds of people following his updates, some whose names I recognize, but many I don’t. I scan them quickly, and after a moment I see it. David Largos. Without warning I flash back on my first conversation with Lukas, back when things had felt simple, manageable. The surname is the same as his username back then. Whatever hope I’d had – that I was mistaken, that I was wrong – collapses.

I hold the phone out to him. ‘Who’s this?’ I shout. ‘Who’s David Largos?’

‘I don’t know, Mum.’ He raises his voice. ‘Just somebody. Okay? That’s the way it works. I don’t know everybody who follows me. Yeah?’

I select the username and a picture appears. It’s a picture of a dog, wearing a baseball cap with the word ‘Vans’ written on it. There’s no other information, but it’s him.

That’s it, I think. That’s how he knew. That’s how he knew everything.

First Anna, then me. And now I know it. Connor is involved as well.

‘Delete it.’ I give him his phone back. ‘Delete your profile.’ I’m shaking, but he doesn’t move.

‘No!’ He looks horrified, as if what I’ve asked him to do is utterly unreasonable. I wish I could tell him why it’s so important, but I can’t. I wish I could tell him how much his ridiculous and almost constant sense of being hard done by infuriates me, but I don’t.

‘I’m not joking, Connor. You have to delete your profile.’ He begins to argue, a barrage of buts and can’ts and won’ts.

I ignore him. ‘Connor!’ I’ve shouted. There’s a momentary hush – a stillness – in the restaurant and I know that if I were to look around I’d see people staring at us. There’s a young couple on the table next to us, he, wearing tracksuit trousers and a hooded top, she, in a mini-dress, and on the other side a woman with someone I imagine is her daughter, a pram parked between them. I don’t want to be their entertainment for the evening, but neither do I want them to know I’m embarrassed. I lower my voice but keep my eyes fixed on my son.

‘This isn’t a game. I’m telling you. Delete your profile. Now. Or else I’ll take your phone off you and you can go back to using your old one…’

‘You wouldn’t!’

‘Watch me.’

His jaw drops. He’s incredulous, it’s outrageous, he doesn’t believe I’d even consider such a thing. He stares at me, and I stare back.

I hold out my hand.

‘Your phone, Connor. Give it to me. Now.’

He snatches his phone out of my reach and stands up. At first I think he’s going to say sorry, or make some other plea to my better nature, but he looks furious and, sure enough, does no such thing. Instead he hisses at me, ‘Fuck you.’ A moment later he’s turned and is heading for the exit, leaving me open-mouthed with shock.

I stand up, too; my napkin slides to the floor. ‘Connor!’ I say, as firmly as I can, but he ignores me. ‘Get back here!’ People stare, there’s a hush. I’m losing control, everything’s receding. It’s as if I’m hurtling down a tunnel, trying to get back to a reality that’s slipping away from me as quickly as I am from it. I try to follow Connor as he shoulders past people at the door and goes outside. I have to catch up with him, and I force myself back to reality.

‘I’ll come back,’ I say to the waiter, who looks as though he’s seen this sort of thing before. I squeeze past the tables – people move their chairs out of the way, turning their faces away from me as they do, as if I’m best avoided – but by the time I get outside Connor has gone. I glimpse him in the distance, running along Upper Street in the opposite direction from home, and without thinking any further I begin to give chase.

Hugh’s waiting for me when I get in. He comes to the door as I open it. I’m flustered, fumbling with my keys. I drop them as I take them out of the door. He bends over and picks them up, then gives them to me.