S. Watson - Second Life

‘What…? A gun? What d’you mean?’

She begins speaking quickly. ‘When Kate died… a friend of mine… he said he could get me one. For protection. And I said no, but…’

‘But what?’

‘But then, this stuff with Ryan. I was scared. I…’

‘You said yes.’

She nods. I wonder how it came to this, and whether there’s anything she’s not telling me about Ryan. About what he might’ve done already.

‘But…’ I say. ‘A gun?’

She doesn’t answer. I see her look over her shoulder. There’s been a noise, and then it comes again. A thudding.

‘Listen…’ She’s speaking quickly, whispering. I struggle to make out what she’s saying. ‘There’s something else. Hugh made me promise not to tell you, but I have to—’

‘Hugh?’ His name is the last I expected to hear.

‘—it’s about Kate. The guy. The one they found with the earring. It wasn’t him.’

I shake my head. No. No, this can’t be.

‘What do you mean, it wasn’t him?’

‘He had an alibi.’

‘Hugh would’ve told me. He wouldn’t let me go on thinking…’

The sentence peters out. Maybe he would. For the sake of peace.

‘I’m sorry, but it’s true. He said—’ There’s a noise at her end, loud. It sounds like a door slamming, a voice, though I can’t make out what’s being said.

‘I’ve got to go. He’s back.’

‘Anna—!’ I begin. ‘Don’t—’

I never finish the sentence. Over her shoulder I see Lukas. He’s shouting, he looks furious. There’s a flash of something in his hand, but I can’t tell what it is. Anna stands, blocking my view. I hear him ask who she’s talking to, I hear the words ‘Who the fuck?’, and ‘kid’. She gasps, and the screen goes dark. I realize he’s pushed her into the table, she’s fallen against the laptop and blocked the camera. When the image returns the computer is on the floor and through its camera I can see the floorboards, a rug, the edge of one of the chairs.

Yet I can hear what’s going on. I can hear him saying he’s going to kill her, and her, gasping, crying, saying ‘No!’, over and over. I call out her name, but it’s no use. I hear a thud, a body against the wall, or the floor. I’m unable to take my eyes off the screen. Anna’s computer is knocked, the image changes. Her head appears, flung to the floor. She gasps, and then a moment later is jerked violently backwards. There’s a thud as his fist connects with her, a sickening crunch. I call out her name, but all I can do is watch as her head is jerked back again and again until, eventually, she’s silent.

I stare at the screen. The room is quiet. Empty. And still there’s no sign of Connor. Terror descends.

Desperate, I end the call. In terrible French I ask the driver how long we’re likely to be, and he says five minutes, possibly fifteen. I’m frantic, every nerve hums with energy that won’t be contained. I want to open the car door, to leap out into the traffic, to run to our destination, but I know even if I could it would be no quicker. And so I sit back and will the traffic to clear, the cars to go faster.

I dial Hugh. Still no answer.

‘Fuck!’ I say, but there’s nothing I can do. After a while I begin to recognize the streets. I remember walking here, back in April. Consumed by grief, burning in a fire that I’d fooled myself into thinking I had managed to avoid. How simple things had been back then – all I had to do was get through it, survive the pain – yet I hadn’t even seen it.

Finally we arrive in Anna’s street. I see the laundrette, still closed, and opposite there’s a boulangerie where, last time, we bought fresh bread for our breakfast. I need to be cautious.

I ask the driver to stop a few doors down from Anna’s building; it might be better if I surprise them. He does so, and I pay him. A moment after he pulls away my phone rings.

It’s Hugh. ‘I’ve just arrived in France. Where are you?’

‘At Anna’s,’ I say. ‘I think Connor’s here.’

I tell him what I’ve seen, ask him to call the police.

‘Anna was attacked,’ I say. ‘I’ll have to explain the rest later. And Hugh?’

‘Yes?’

I don’t want to ask him, but I know that I must.

‘The guy they arrested. What happened?’

‘What do you mean, what happened?’

Tell me the truth, I think. Tell me the truth, without me demanding it, and maybe we still have a chance.

‘You told me they charged him.’

He’s silent, and I know what Anna told me is right, and Hugh knows I know it, too.

I hear him cough. ‘I’m sorry.’

I don’t speak. I can hardly breathe, but I have to stay calm.

‘I thought I was doing the right thing. Julia?’

I tell myself everything will be fine. Hugh will call the police, they’ll be on their way soon. I try to tell myself that whatever he’s done, Lukas is Connor’s father. He might take him somewhere, but he won’t hurt him.

I should tell him. I should tell Hugh why we’re here. But I can’t. Not like this.

‘Just call the police and get here. Please.’

I run up to Anna’s building, then try the handle. I’m in luck. The digital entry lock is broken, as she told me it often is. The door opens and I step inside, closing it softly behind me.

I don’t turn on the light but climb the stairs. On the first landing I see Anna’s door, just as I remember it. A dull light shines through the glass panels, but when I stand beside it and listen I hear no sound. No voices, no shouting. Nothing. I go over to the writing bureau and, as softly as I can, pull out the drawer, praying that the key Anna stowed under it hasn’t been removed, and that she hasn’t changed her locks since I was last here.

My luck holds. It’s there, taped to the underside. I take it and stand once again outside Anna’s door. Still no sound. I let myself in. The light in the hallway is on, there’s a vase of dead flowers on the side table. I step forward; the creak of my shoes sounds improbably loud in the silence.

The apartment seems much larger in the dark. It takes all my willpower not to shout out, not to ask if anyone’s there. I realize I don’t know which I’m hoping for more; that someone is, or that the place is empty.

I search the apartment. One room at a time. The TV is on in the living room – some news channel, but muted – and in the kitchen I see that a chair is overturned and the sticky brown remains of a meal smear the walls. My foot crunches underfoot; when I look down I see the remains of the striped blue bowl that must have once contained it.

I carry on. I look in Kate’s bedroom then move on to Anna’s. I hesitate outside. I wonder what I might find in there. I picture Kate, with her head staved in, her hair matted with blood, her eyes open and limbs twisted.

I take a breath and swallow. I push open the door.

The bed glows blood red in the dim light, but when I flick on the light it’s just the duvet cover, slipped off the end of the bed. The room is as empty as the rest of the apartment.

I don’t understand. I take out my phone, switch on Find Friends. The purple dot still blinks, now superimposed on mine, right here, right where I’m standing. She should be here.

I press call. For a second I hear the international tone, and then there’s a buzzing, low and insistent, from somewhere near my feet. I bend down. A phone is rattling across the floor under the bed, flashing as it goes. It must’ve fallen to the floor, been kicked under there. I get on to my hands and knees and grab it, and at the same time see that there’s something else under there, too, something shiny and metallic. The gun.

I freeze. I don’t want to touch it. I wonder how it got here, under the bed. I imagine her and Lukas fighting, Anna going for the gun, trying to threaten him. Maybe it was kicked under here in the struggle. Or maybe she never got that far. Maybe she kept the gun here and didn’t even have the chance to go for it.