The internet connection was even more sluggish than the one she’d used before. Jo waited for the Facebook login to appear, wondering whether perhaps, by some sort of administrative error, Radley had been left off the UK broadband rollout map.
She logged in and clicked on the Friends tab. Her face fell.
You have 0 friends.
Then she noticed the message. She clicked on her inbox.
Saskia Dawson
Today at 03.49
Who R U?
Do I know U Jo Simmons?! I don’t accept friends who ain’t got no profile pic…
Jo drummed her fingers against the makeshift desk, frustrated. Of course Saskia hadn’t clicked Accept. The request had come from an anonymous stranger. For all Saskia knew, Jo Simmons was a dirty old pervert looking for cheap online thrills.
‘Time’s up,’ called the guy from behind the counter.
‘I’ve hardly logged on!’ she yelled back, fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Jo Simmons
Today at 09.11
Re: Who R U?
Hi Saskia, sorry for the randomness–I’m using an alias…Long story. Haven’t got round to putting up a photo.
Here’s a clue–long, black hair with a red streak at the front. Know who I am? :-) xx
Jo logged off and ran through the door, the adrenalin still pumping from the brief correspondence. She was so busy devising an excuse for her boss that she slammed straight into somebody on the post office forecourt.
‘I’m so sorry!’
She squatted down to pick up the letters, which had scattered in the breeze.
‘No worries.’
With relief, Jo realised that the man she’d knocked flying had not been one of Radley’s aged inhabitants; in fact, the man seemed quite youthful–early thirties at most. He laughed as she handed over the gritty pile.
‘I’m used to being rugby-tackled.’
She smiled. It wasn’t that she was flirting, exactly, but…well, OK perhaps she was, just a little. The man was handsome: tall, with coiffed light brown hair and a tan. He could well have been a rugby player.
‘Hope they weren’t important.’ She nodded at the letters as he pushed them into the post box.
‘Oh, just replies to my fan mail. Standard responses, you know.’
She laughed uncertainly. Gosh, maybe he was a sportsman, like, maybe the captain of the England rugby team…
He shook his head, smiling and revealing a row of pearly teeth. ‘I’m kidding. It’s bills, mainly. Are you heading for Trev’s Teashop, by any chance? Want a lift?’
Jo was confused again. He must have been a customer at the café. She had probably served him coffee.
‘How did you know where I worked?’
He shook his head and smiled again, motioning for her to get into the passenger seat of a slick little BMW parked on the road. ‘Well I wasn’t deliberately looking at your chest, but…’
Jo groaned at her own stupidity. Of course. The aertex shirt.
She wasn’t sure whether getting into a complete stranger’s car was entirely sensible, but neither, probably, was accepting a job from a complete stranger, or a place to stay. And besides, he had an honest smile.
‘It wasn’t just the shirt, actually,’ he confessed, pulling out and accelerating to quite a speed.
‘No?’
‘No. I’ve seen you in there.’
‘What, you’re a customer?’
‘No. I’ve seen you through the window. I work from home quite a bit so I walk around town. Stops me getting cabin fever.’
‘Oh, right.’ Jo wanted to ask what he did for a living and where in Radley he was based and a whole load of other questions, but they were already at the teashop. ‘Well, thanks for the lift.’
He laughed. ‘Saved you all of thirty seconds.’
‘Well, yeah.’ She released her seatbelt and opened the door. Then, in a moment of boldness, she added, ‘Pop in for a coffee some time. I’ll give you a freebie.’
He raised an eyebrow.
‘Free, er, coffee, I mean.’
‘I look forward to it,’ he said, winking through the passenger window. She slammed the door, feeling the blood rush to her face.
She heard the whirr of his electric window behind her as she re-entered the café.
‘By the way, I’m Stu. What’s your name?’
She turned back and smiled.
‘Jo. See you around.’
Jo punched in her login and password and looked around the empty internet café as the page loaded up. A sign hung above her head, advertising ‘FAX–PRINTING–WEB @ CCESS’ in spiky handwriting. Appended to the last point was an additional explanation: ‘Check your email! Chat!’–presumably to entice the technophobic Radley residents online. Jo looked back at the screen. She had one new message.
Saskia Dawson
Today at 12.54
Re: Who R U?
Roxie?!?! Good to hear frm U hun! Bin textin U & no reply…Thought you was dead! Why the alias? U freaked me out xx
Jo’s heart pounded against her ribcage. Roxie. She was getting somewhere. Saskia Dawson had given her a name–such as it was. Roxie. She rolled the word around in her mouth a few times, trying it out. It seemed…odd, somehow. Not what she’d anticipated.
She read the message one more time. Thought you was dead. So presumably Saskia had known about Jo being caught up in the bomb blast. Which implied that Saskia had been there too…or maybe not. She would have to find out–but carefully. It was clear they were friends, but Jo couldn’t tell what sort of friends. She didn’t know how far back they went, how much they confided in one another, what she supposedly knew of the girl. She would have to trust Saskia, to some extent, but not more than she needed to. Opening up completely would leave her too vulnerable.
Jo Simmons
Today at 12.56
Re: Who R U?
Yep it’s me! Sorry I didn’t reply to your texts–I lost my phone. All been a bit mad these last few days…
Alias thing just a joke–I lost my fb login details (stored in my phone–duh!) so just set up a random account for now.
Jo clicked Send and looked again at the young blonde who continued to pout back from the mugshot. The face seemed more familiar now, but that was hardly surprising; Jo knew the streaks of blusher and locks of hair off by heart. She tried