‘I thought you did.’
‘No.’
‘How did she know where we’d be?’
‘I don’t know.’
Clearly, Carmen is telling the truth because she’s not the sort to embellish stories or exaggerate to make them more interesting.
‘How did I seem when you last saw me?’ I ask.
‘A little emotional. You were telling us how much you loved us. We decided to take you home.’
‘Why didn’t you take me?’
‘Tempe offered. She lives the closest. Georgia had hooked up with some guy, who said he would take her to Madrid for the weekend. I had to rescue her. Brianna bailed early because of work.’
My voice breaks. ‘Why can’t I remember?’
Carmen realises something is wrong. ‘Did something happen?’
‘I think someone spiked my drink.’
‘No. When?’
‘At the last club. I remember Tempe showing up. A guy came over and asked us to dance. Tempe went to the bar. I spoke to Georgia. That’s it.’
Carmen’s face is a picture of concern. ‘But nothing happened, did it? I mean, you were always safe.’
My phone chirrups. Tempe has sent another message, asking if I want to have a final fitting for my wedding dress. I’m only five minutes from the bridal shop. It’s almost as though she knows where I am.
In that instant the machinery of the world seems to fall silent and I hear only the sound of my breath escaping. Tempe didn’t accidentally bump into me at the Chinese restaurant in Wandsworth, or at Brixton Markets, or when I was training at the Chestnut Grove Academy. Each time we had laughed it off. We were so simpatico that we ran errands at the same time. Pretty soon our cycles would synchronise, or we’d be finishing each other’s sentences.
My mind skips through other examples, which had seemed so random at first, with no method or reason. Gradually a pattern emerges. No, nothing as definite as a pattern – a faint, almost-meaning that grows clearer as I put the pieces together. It was never a coincidence. It was always by design.
51
The young guy in the computer shop is cultivating a beard that is sprouting in patches across the lower half of his face. He seems quite proud of it, stroking his chin as he studies the screen.
I put my phone on the counter and ask, ‘How do I find out if someone is tracking me?’
He looks up. Straightens. Adjusts his crotch. ‘A jealous boyfriend?’
‘Something like that.’
The nametag on his shirt pocket says Symon, spelled with a ‘y’。
‘I can run an anti-virus program,’ he says.
After attaching my phone to a computer, he taps at the keyboard. On the screen, I watch the red bar slowly filling, indicating progress. For all I know he’s downloading all my images, but I don’t think I need worry. I don’t have embarrassing photographs. Naked ones, I mean.
‘What are you looking for?’ I ask.
‘Viruses. Malware. It shouldn’t take long.’
The computer makes a pinging sound. ‘OK, that looks all right. Let’s see what apps you’re using.’
He scrolls through my phone. ‘You don’t have any obvious tracking apps. A lot of parents use them to keep tabs on their children. Some are pretty sophisticated. They send out alerts if a handset hasn’t been used for a period of time. It stops kids leaving their phones at a mate’s place and going to a party.’
Still talking, he plugs the phone into a different computer and runs another program. This time a screed of script appears, looking like a foreign alphabet.
‘Fuck!’ he yells, quickly unplugging the phone.
‘What is it?’
‘Malware. I must have triggered it when I went looking for the app.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Your phone has a virus. And whoever wrote the coding doesn’t want me interfering.’
‘Can you get rid of it?’
‘Not without doing a factory reset. Do you have it backed up anywhere? The cloud? A computer at home?’
‘I don’t know.’ Henry does that for me.
Symon plugs my phone into a new computer and holds down the volume key, opening a recovery mode screen. ‘You sure you want me to do this? You’ll lose everything. Passwords. Emails. Contacts. Photographs.’
‘I don’t care.’
‘You should also wipe any computers and tablets you have at home, which share the same network.’
‘OK. Make it safe. What does the malware do?’
‘Hard to say without seeing the coding, but it could give someone access to your data and location. Some can also control your phone – turning on the camera and microphone without you knowing.’
‘Eavesdropping.’
‘Yeah.’
‘How did I get infected?’
‘You could have opened an attachment, or someone had access to your phone.’
My mind is skipping ahead. Tempe is always sending me photographs and attachments, information about the wedding. And when she visits, my phone is always lying around.
Symon returns the handset. My contact list is purged. My emails, my messages, my photographs. I want to call Henry, but I only remember a few digits of his number.
I’m outside on the pavement, being jostled by passing pedestrians because I’m unsure of where I’m going and what I should do. What Tempe did is illegal – phone hacking, reading my messages … She could be watching me now. She could have followed me to the bookshop and the computer store. I scan the street and the churchyard over the road, looking into the shadows beneath the trees.
What does Tempe want from me? I befriended her. I found her accommodation when she was homeless. I introduced her to my friends. I treated her like a sister. But it was never enough. I don’t care if she has a history of mental health issues, or thinks I need rescuing. This has to stop.
At the bridal shop, I wait outside, still deciding what to do. The owner spies me through the window and joins me on the footpath.
‘Is everything OK? You can come inside. I’ll put the kettle on.’
Martina is in her mid-forties, dressed in a smart skirt and jacket that matches her eye colour. She is one of those women who gushes over every bride-to-be and makes each of us feel like her most important customer.
‘What have you done to yourself?’ she asks, concerned. ‘You have bags under your eyes. That won’t do. You need cold teabags. Hydration.’
‘I didn’t sleep well.’
She takes me into the fitting room, which has a lounge set up for viewing and mirrors on three walls. Tea is poured. Chocolate biscuits arranged on a plate. I haven’t eaten since yesterday. The chocolate gives me a momentary sugar hit, but I know it won’t last.
A sing-song chime announces Tempe’s arrival. She’s in jeans and a light cashmere cardigan over a white T-shirt. My cardigan. My style. She smiles and leans towards me, expecting a kiss on the cheek, but at the last moment, I pull away.
‘I have a sore throat. I don’t want to give you anything.’
Martina lets out a squeak of alarm. ‘You can’t be getting a cold. Not this close to the wedding. I know just the thing – you need a saltwater gargle and honey in your tea.’