S. Watson - Second Life

– At the station, where we arranged! See you there!

I lean forward to type, but a moment later her final message arrives. Three kisses. And then she’s gone.

Fuck, I think. Fuck. Maybe I should have told her who I am, that I’m furious, that she’d better tell me right now where she plans to meet my son.

But now it’s too late. The green dot next to her name has disappeared. She’s offline, and there’s no way of contacting her. I’m stuck, with no idea where my son has gone. The station . It could be anywhere.

The whirring cogs of my mind engage, the engine catches. I can’t afford the descent into despair. I have to stay focussed. I have to find him. Which station, where? There has to be a clue. There’s a pile of papers and magazines on the desk and I riffle through these, then I open the drawer. Nothing. Just pens and pencils, a copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy that Hugh gave him for his birthday a few years ago, a hole-punch and a stapler, a pair of scissors, Post-it notes, the detritus of study.

I stand up, turn round. I take in the football poster above his bed, the scarf over the back of his door. No clue, nowhere obvious to look.

And then I have an idea. I turn back to his computer and a moment later have pulled up his browser history. The first thing I see is a new Twitter account he must have created. @helpmefindmydad. But before I can even absorb what this means, I see, at the top, the last website he looked at. This morning, before school. Eurostar.com.

When I click on the link it takes me to a map of Gare du Nord.

He’s on his way to Paris.

I try to tell myself it’s a coincidence, it has nothing to do with Lukas.

But I can’t believe it. Not today of all days. The day he’s due to return to Paris; it can’t be a coincidence that my son is going there, too.

Even if Hugh has spoken to Evie, even if he is sure she’s a girl.

Anna answers after the second ring. ‘Thank God,’ she says.

My mouth is dry, but I’m desperate.

‘Anna, listen—’

‘Thank God,’ she says again. I can hear relief in her voice, but there’s something else. She sounds awful. Out of breath, almost stricken with panic. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Her voice drops, almost to a whisper, I can barely hear what she’s saying. It’s as if she doesn’t want to be overheard. ‘I tried to tell him. I tried. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’

She sounds terrible, and her fear infects me. ‘Anna, what’s wrong? Where’s Lukas? Is he there?’

It’s as if she hasn’t heard me. ‘I couldn’t wait. I tried to tell him. Today. I tried to tell him it was over, that he had to go—’

‘Where is he? Anna!’

‘He’s stormed out. But he’ll be back any second. I went into his computer, Julia, like we agreed. To look at those files. I found something else.’

There’s a tremor in her voice. An uncertainty I haven’t heard before.

‘What? What did you find?’

‘There were these files. There was the one called “Julia”, but there was another.’

I know what she’s going to say.

‘It was called “Connor”…’

My world shrinks to nothing.

‘There were all these pictures.’

I’m frozen, a tiny point. I feel like I haven’t breathed for days. I force myself to speak. My voice is a whisper.

‘What sort of pictures?’

‘Just… you know. Pictures of him—’

‘What sort?’

‘Ordinary pictures. He’s just smiling at the camera.’

‘Jesus—’

‘Do you think he was using me, just to get to Connor—’

‘No. No, no.’

I wonder if my certainty is only because I can’t face the thought of it being true.

‘Connor’s run away.’

‘Run away?’

‘He’s gone to see Evie. His girlfriend. But he’s gone to Paris. They’re meeting Connor’s father.’

‘His father, but how—?’

‘I don’t know. Online, I think.’

‘Wait. What did you say his girlfriend’s name was?’

I close my eyes. Fear builds, infecting me. My skin is crawling. I force myself to speak.

‘Evie. Why?’

She sighs. ‘Julia, I found this list. On Ryan’s computer. All these usernames and passwords.’ She speaks hesitantly, as if she’s unsure, or is figuring something out as she goes. ‘At least that’s what I think they are.’ There’s a long pause. ‘One of them’s Lukas, but there are loads more. Argo-something-or-other, Crab, Baskerville, Jip. And there are all these names. Loads of them, God knows what he’s been doing.’

I know what she’s going to say, even before she says it.

‘One of them’s Evie.’

Something gives within me. I’m sure, now. ‘Oh God,’ I say. I’ve had weeks to understand. Months. I just haven’t wanted to.

‘How do you think he knows her? How does he know Connor’s girlfriend?’

‘Anna. He doesn’t know her. I think he is her.’

‘But—’

‘Is his computer there now?’

‘Yes…’

‘Go online. Look on Facebook.’

I listen as she goes into another room. I hear as she picks up a machine, there’s a swell of music as she wakes it from sleep. A few moments later she says, ‘I’m in. He’s left it logged on. What…?’

And then she stops.

‘What is it? Anna, tell me!’

‘You’re right. The photo he’s using is a young woman,’ she says. ‘And the name… it isn’t Ryan. You’re right, Julia. It’s Evie.’

It all hits me at once. All the things I’ve ignored, not wanted to see. All the things I’ve left unexamined. I go over to Connor’s bed. I sit on it; the mattress gives, the duvet smells of him. Of my boy. My boy, who I’ve put in danger.

‘Anna,’ I say. ‘You have to help me. Go to the station. Gare du Nord. Find my son.’

Downstairs, I call a taxi first and then Hugh. There’s no time to go round to his office, to explain face to face. I have to be on the next train to France.

He answers on the third ring. ‘Julia. Any news?’

I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him.

‘He’s on his way to Paris.’

‘Paris?’

He’s shocked. I want to tell him. I have to tell him.

Yet at the same time I don’t know how.

‘I can explain—’

‘Why Paris?’

‘He’s… he thinks he’s on his way to meet Evie.’

‘How d’you know?’

‘I spoke to her.’

‘Well, I hope you told her how ridiculous this is. He’s fourteen, for goodness’ sake. He shouldn’t be skipping school, taking off for Paris.’ He draws breath. ‘What did she say?’

I try to explain. ‘It’s not that simple. We were talking online. I logged on to Connor’s machine. She thought I was him. It’s how I know where he’s headed.’

I stop speaking. My cab is here, I can hear it idling on the street outside the front door.

‘I have to go,’ I say. I haven’t had time to pack a bag, but I have my passport, and the forty euros I brought back last time and left in a pot on one of the shelves in the kitchen is in my purse.

‘Where?’

‘To Paris. I’m going over there. I’ll get him back.’

‘Julia—’

‘I have to, Hugh.’

There’s a moment of silence as he decides what to do.

‘I’ll come, too. I’ll get the first train I can. I’ll meet you there.’

I sit on the train. I’m numb, I can’t focus on anything. I can’t read, or eat. I’ve left safety behind and don’t know what’s ahead of me.

I concentrate on being as still as possible. I look at the people around me. An American couple sitting across the aisle are discussing the meeting they’re obviously heading back from; they sound clipped and professional, I decide they’re not lovers, just workmates. Another couple, opposite, are sitting in silence, she wearing earbuds and nodding along to music, he with a tourist guide to Paris. I realize with sudden clarity that we’re wearing masks, all of us, all the time. We’re presenting a face, a version of ourselves, to the world, to each other. We show a different face depending on who we’re with and what they expect of us. Even when we’re alone it’s just another mask, the version of ourselves we’d prefer to be.