Catherine Steadman - Something in the Water - A Novel

“We will reimburse you. A finder’s fee for your troubles.”

I glance around the square, heart pounding through my chest. It’s crazy, I know, but all at once I’m certain that someone is watching me again. I scan the faces in the crowd, but no one seems interested in me, no one is looking. I suddenly feel utterly alone, alone in a sea of strangers. I snap back to the voice.

“If you have the flash drive, contact me. On this number. The offer is two million euros.”

Euros. That means he’s in Europe, right? Or he knows we are. Does he know we’re in the UK? He’ll have traced this phone’s signal whenever Mark last accessed it. He’ll know we’re in London by now.

“The amount is nonnegotiable. If you can supply this, we will make the exchange. We are not interested in pursuing you; we require only the USB. Whether you choose to assist us in retrieving it or not, however, is up to you. Contact me.”

The message ends.

The flash drive? I had completely forgotten about the USB. No mention of the bag money? No mention of the diamonds. They just want the USB? More than the diamonds, more than the money. What the fuck is on the USB? I can’t catch my breath. Do I even want to know? Holy shit.

I turn off the phone. Just in case. You never know.

Why didn’t Mark tell me about this? Why did he turn the phone on in the first place? And where did he turn it on? Of course, he’s far more cautious than I am. He’d have gone to a crowded area too. He’s a clever guy. But why? Why look? And then I realize. He too was worried about them coming for us. Of course he was worried. After the Sharpes’ accident, he felt responsible, in a way, for what happened to them. He knew that it was deliberate and it scared him. So he pretended, for me. Mark’s very convincing when he wants to be. So he checked the phone. He checked to see if they were still looking for us. And they were and he kept it to himself. To protect me. To keep me from being terrified. The guilt makes my chest ache. I can’t believe Mark’s been going through all of this alone. And with me running around so recklessly.

But then I realize that’s probably why he didn’t tell me, isn’t it? He wanted to stop me finding out about this offer. He knew I’d want to do it, to make the exchange, and now that I think about it, yes, yes, I do want to do it. Because if we can play it right, if we can just play this last situation right, we’ll win it all. We can’t stop now anyway; it’s not safe to stop. If we don’t give them back what they want, they’ll never stop looking for us.

And I know Mark didn’t tell me about the voicemail because it’s clearly a stupid idea. And I know it’s stupid because they don’t really know where we are or they’d have just taken the USB already. And it’s stupid because we don’t need any more money. And I’m stupid because I have been driving this whole thing from the very beginning, and now that I’ve heard this voice message all I want in the whole world is to make that deal. They might not know where we are now, but they will keep looking and I want them to stop. And I want that extra two million euros.

Mark knows me so well, better than I know myself, and that is why he didn’t tell me. Because he knows I will definitely do something reckless.

What did they say in the message ? “We are not interested in pursuing you; we require only the USB. Whether you choose to assist us in retrieving it or not, however, is up to you.” Is that a threat? Not exactly. A warning: they don’t want us; they just want their memory stick. But if we make that hard for them, then maybe it becomes a threat.

Wait, wait, wait. Two million euros? What the actual fuck is on that USB? And that is the question that propels me as I sprint out of Leicester Square and toward our attic back in North London.

I lift the insulation, pull out the warm envelope, and open it.

There is no USB. It’s not there. The stubby object I felt through the plastic earlier is just the long-empty casing. The USB itself is gone from inside it. Gone.

I stare, bewildered. What does it mean? I stand in the attic, winded by the run from the tube station, sweat rolling down my skin, gasping for breath. Where has it gone? Have they already come for it? No, they can’t have. They’d have taken the phone too. They’d have done something to us. I remind myself that no one else has been in the house but Mark and me. It must be Mark. What has he done? Has he thrown it out? Has he hidden it elsewhere? In case I listened to the message and tried to find it? What has he done with it? I turn on my own phone and check the time. He’ll be on his flight now. I can’t reach him. I feel another wave of nausea and slump down on one of the attic beams. I should take it easy. Less running.

I look down at the screen of my phone again. I’ll text him.

I heard the voicemails!

Why didn’t you tell me?

Where is it?

I stare down at the message, thumb posed over send. No—this isn’t right. Too furious. Too panicked. He must have a pretty serious reason why he hasn’t told me—and I haven’t told him a lot of things too. I delete the message. And type instead…

Mark call me when you land.

I love you xxx

I press send. That’s better. He can explain later. He’ll have hidden the USB in case I try to do something stupid. I think about where it could be. I wonder if he knows what’s on it. I want to know what’s on it. It’ll be in the house somewhere. It has to be.

I start in the bedroom. I try all his usual hiding places. We’ve lived together for four years now and I’m pretty sure I know them all. I check his bedside drawer, the small combination box inside it. The code is his birthday, but there’s nothing inside apart from some foreign currency. I peer under his side of the mattress—he once hid some Patti Smith concert tickets there for my birthday—nothing. I fish through the pockets of his grandfather’s overcoat in the wardrobe, old shoeboxes in the top cupboard.

Then I move to the bathroom, an aftershave box at the back of the bathroom cabinet, his desk, his old briefcase—nothing, nothing, nothing. He’s hidden it well. Or maybe he’s taken it with him. Maybe he doesn’t trust me at all. But I know he wouldn’t have taken the USB with him; if there’s a chance he might lose it, he wouldn’t take it. If he’s hidden it from me, it’ll be here—somewhere in this house.

And that’s when I get angry. I turn the house upside down. I search every inch. I pull out everything. I empty full bags of rice, I strip beds, I check the linings of curtains and bags.

Nothing.

I stand sweating and disheveled in a house torn apart. I’m dizzy and nauseous. This is not me taking it easy. I need to raise my blood sugar, right now, if not for me then for what’s trying to grow inside me. I plonk down where I am in the middle of the living room and drag a Liberty of London bag full of wedding gifts toward me. I fish down to the bottom and grab a tin of truffles. Rose champagne truffles. They’ll do. I prize off the lid and dig in. And then I find it. Just like that. Nestled on the bottom deck of the truffle box. Fuck, Mark. What are you playing at?

Exhausted, I eat my truffles in triumphant silence. The USB as company. The daylight fading around me.

At some point in the darkness my phone starts to bleat. I fumble it out from under the detritus of my search. It’s Mark. He must have landed.

“Hello?”

“Hi, honey? Is everything okay?” He sounds worried. Could he know I found it?