Once dried and dressed I returned to the living room and got my laptop out. As I powered it up, I could hear scratching above me in the loft. It had been going on for a few days now. I needed to call out pest control; I added it to my list of things to do. It was probably rats but didn’t help at all with my state of mind – it sounded like my conscience itching.
I had enough time to go through some emails before I needed to set out for the offices of Mercurial for an appointment with Maggie.
I padded round my flat, cooking up a strong coffee and installing myself in the living room. Despite its modest dimensions, I did love the place. Tucked under the eaves of a 1970s purpose-built block, I had a smallish bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, and a very spacious living room that doubled as a dining room and study. It was sparsely furnished. I’d not taken much with me when I split up with Christopher, my last long-term boyfriend. Just the high quality stereo, a very comfy leather armchair and this gorgeous antique mirror he bought me from Camden Lock market. I knew the ornate rococo decoration and black stains on the bevelled plate were at odds with the modern minimal interiors he admired, so it was a kind of testament to his initial affection. He made no effort to keep it when we were divvying up our joint goods so I’d kept it in storage until I got this flat, then hung it in pride of place over the mantelpiece, where I gazed at it from my writing desk. This was an old glass dining table, which I had shoved towards the floor-to-ceiling windows that led out onto my balcony.
Our block had a particularly glorious vista – looking over the railway station to the beach, yacht club and tidal plains of the estuary. Chalkwell was a good location. I’d chosen it for its transport links to London. My relocation didn’t happen overnight as I still had a lot of work in London and had to make the trip into town at least two or three times a week. But it was only a forty-five-minute journey from here and I’d always liked the place; mostly populated by elderly couples and families, it felt safe and as a newly single young woman, that was a primary concern. When I first saw the flat, it was the view that got me. Sunny mornings would see the front room filled with the unimpeded honey rays that crept up over Southend’s pier (the longest pleasure pier in the world, don’t you know). And, if you were lucky in the evenings you’d get a front seat view of Mother Nature’s chosen sunset, framed lovingly by the tops of the oaks in the front garden.
That morning’s clouds, however, were wearing the same dark grey shroud they had done since the funeral. It seemed everything had muted itself in respect.
I took a look at the incoming tide and sat down at the desk, ready to click on the internet icon.
The big life stuff, the events that change your life – the births, the deaths, the crises, always start in a small way, I’ve found, with a twinge or a rumble or blip. And that’s more or less how this story began. In a very ordinary, mundane manner.
I ignored the strong pull of my guilt trip and went straight into email. There was a message from one of my local news contacts asking me if I could interview a couple about a fundraising effort. I replied that I could fit it in within the next two days, noted the address and then scrolled down past the offers of Viagra to an email from someone called Felix Knight at Portillion Publishing. The Felix guy was introducing himself ahead of tomorrow’s meeting. My editor Emma, he explained, had been promoted into another division and he had been handed responsibility for my book. He was extremely excited about it, looking forward to meeting me and suggested that, after a formal introduction in the office, we have lunch at a nearby restaurant.
I liked the sound of Felix but, to be frank, I was happy to work with anyone who was happy to work with me. I replied that that would be ‘fantastic’ and I was very much looking forward to meeting him too.
My next email was an old friend expressing condolences. I clicked on the link and went through to Facebook. Then I did the standard reply: ‘Thank you. Yes, it’s been crap, but I’m getting on with life.’ I had to deal with it this way – if I went into detail I was worried that I’d unleash a torrent of real grief that might wash me away. I was about to shut down, when a message box popped up on the screen.
Unusually, it had no name attached. There was still the regular green dot in the top left-hand corner and the other function symbols across the toolbar. But no name. I looked down at the message.
‘Are you there?’ It read.
Of course I bloody am, I thought. But I simply wrote, ‘Yes.’ Then I waited, curious to see who it was.
Nothing happened for a few seconds then the words ‘Where are you?’ appeared.
What did that mean? Most of my Facebook friends knew I had moved out of the Smoke eighteen months ago.
A little irritated by the stupidity of the question, I chucked it back at the unknown messenger. ‘Where are you?’ and sat back to see the response.
There was a bit of a time delay. I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t spend long on this joker as I should be getting my stuff together to leave fairly soon.
Then the words popped up on the screen, ‘I can hear you but I can’t see you.’
Mmm. Weird. I regarded the screen for a moment then retyped: ‘Where are you?’
A breeze outside nudged the oak leaves against the window. They sounded like little metallic fingertips on the panes.
The reply came up: ‘I do not know. Everything is dark here.’
Okay, this was getting creepy. What to do? Coming up with no good reply, I sat still and contemplated the screen.
My correspondent was typing. ‘There is only blackness,’ they wrote.
Then underneath that, ‘I am scared.’
That stopped me.
Was this a joke? An inappropriate friend trying to freak me out? Some random viral marketing ploy? I tried to think of a way to respond without looking stupid if it was a prank. Though, at the back of my mind, I was wondering about what to do if it wasn’t.
‘Who are you?’ I tapped out on the keys and hit enter.
‘I’m sorry,’ they replied.
I stopped and looked at it. Then I swallowed. The words had been on my lips just an hour ago.
Then another line of text: ‘Hush.’
Hush? That was an odd choice of word.
Quickly, more text appeared. ‘He may come back.’
Now cynicism was overruled by a more concerning impulse.
‘Who might?’ I wrote. ‘Who might be coming back?’
The screen was still for a moment, then the words ‘Oh God’ tapped out on the screen.
Without letting my head intervene in my now more emotional response, I wrote ‘Where are you? Are you okay?’ But when I hit enter this time my screen died and turned to black.
I cursed and looked down at the on button. My battery had run out.
I hastily reached for the power cable and plugged it in. The computer took several frustrating seconds to reboot and when I returned to the site there was nothing there. No box. No evidence of our conversation. I scrolled down my list of online friends. There was no one I didn’t recognise.
I could have left it alone, but a part of me felt responsible. After all, this hadn’t been a chat room – it had been a dialogue with one other person. A private communication sent only to me. I was troubled but not yet scared. Just worried that I hadn’t stepped up to my civic duty if indeed, this was a genuine message. Crap. This had to be the last thing I needed right now – more guilt.
I bit my lip then made