‘Last night I saw him again,’ he says. ‘You remember I went bowling? With Dylan and Molly and the others? Well, he was there. Over in the next alley.’ He picks up a handful of fries, dips them in the pink sauce. ‘I noticed him first of all ’cos it looked like he was there on his own. Y’know, no kids or anything. We thought he was waiting for someone, but nobody turned up. He just stood there bowling by himself. Then he left. Weird, eh? I mean, who does that? Molly thought he looked like a paedo.’
My head begins to spin. I flush, as if all the blood in my body were rushing to my head and neck, then a moment later everything – Connor, the rest of the restaurant – begins to recede, as if disappearing down a tunnel.
‘Mum?’ says Connor. ‘Are you okay?’
I reach for the glass of water in front of me. It’s cool to the touch; I bring it to my mouth. The movement is mechanical, I do it without thinking. I sip, and some spills from the overfull glass. I barely notice; it’s as if I’m watching myself from the other side of the room.
‘Mum?’ says Connor, more urgently. He looks worried, but I can do nothing to allay his fears.
My head spins with images of Lukas. I should’ve known. I should have protected my son. I’ve let him down, just like Kate and Anna. I force myself back to the present.
‘Yes?’ I realize water is dripping down my chin. I wipe it. ‘I’m fine. Sorry? Go on…’
‘Well, that’s it. He just turned up and bowled and—’
Another rush of panic hits. ‘How did you know it was him?’
‘Oh, y’know?’ He picks up another couple of fries. I grab his hand.
‘Connor. How did you… are you sure?’
He looks at my hand on his arm, then up to my face. ‘Yes, Mum. I recognized him. He was wearing the same cap. Remember? The Vans trucker? It was a classic patch—’
I don’t know what he’s talking about. I must look puzzled; he seems to be about to describe it to me when he changes his mind. ‘Anyway. He had the same cap on.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes!’
‘Did he say anything to you?’
‘Not really…’
Anger begins to displace the panic. Anger with myself, with Lukas, with Connor. ‘Not really? Is that not really yes, or not really no? Which is it, Connor?’
My voice has risen, in both pitch and volume. I fight to control it.
‘He just said sorry.’ Already he sounds resentful, sulky. He’s looking at me as if I’ve gone crazy. I can see he wishes he hadn’t mentioned it. ‘He spilled his beer over me. That’s all. It was an accident. Anyway…’
It’s clear he wants to change the subject, but I ignore him. ‘So what did this guy say?’
He sighs. ‘He said, “Hey, dude, I’m sorry.” That was it. That’s one of the ways I knew it was the same bloke, ’cos that’s what he’d called me in the cinema. Dude. No one says it any more.’ He sips his milkshake. ‘Can you let go of my arm?’
I hadn’t realized I was still clutching him.
I release him and sit back. Anger is burning within me now, a rage. Yet it has nowhere to go, nothing to burn, and so it sits, deep and poisonous. I’m trying to keep my face neutral, my features calm. I’m failing. I tense, I’m chewing my bottom lip.
A question comes to me, with an awful, sickening lurch: I now know Lukas has been following me on the iPhone app, but how did he know where my son would be? How did he get to Connor?
I sit forward. ‘Who knew you were going bowling?’ I say, trying to keep the panic out of my voice. ‘Who did you tell?’
‘No one. Why? Mum?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ I’m almost shouting. ‘You must’ve told someone!’
‘Mum—?’
‘Molly, and Dylan? They knew, for a start! Who else was there with you?’
He looks at me. His expression is odd; almost fearful. ‘Dylan’s dad took us.’
‘When?’ The questions come thick and fast. ‘When did you arrange it? Who did you tell, Connor? Who knew you were going?’
‘Jesus, Mum! Some of the guys. Y’know? We invited Sahil, and Rory, but they couldn’t come. Oh, and I guess Molly might’ve invited a few people. And I guess Dylan’s dad might’ve told Dylan’s mum. Just possibly…’
His voice has a new note, one I haven’t heard in him before. Sarcasm.
‘There’s no need for that attitude—’
He ignores me.
‘…and I probably told Evie, and I suppose I just might’ve posted it on Facebook, so there’s all the people who follow me there, and—’
I interrupt him. ‘Who follows you on Facebook?’
‘I dunno. Friends. Friends of my friends. People like that.’
Something begins to coalesce in my mind. All the way through, Lukas had always known more than I thought I’d let him know. I now know he was tracking my location, moment by moment, but I’ve never worked out how he knew the other details. The fact we were planning on going to a cinema at all, what film we were going to see. Hugh’s name, when I’d only ever called him Harvey.
And now I think I know. If he was following Connor’s posts, and Connor was posting everything…
An awful thought occurs. Could that be how he’d figured out Paddy’s last name, too? And where he lives? I can see how it might be. Connor might’ve mentioned our guests by name, and from there a quick search – Maria, Hugh, surgeon – would lead to a surname. He could then easily look at Paddy’s Facebook page, or LinkedIn, or whatever else he might use.
‘Give me your phone.’
‘Mum—!’ he begins, but I silence him.
‘Give me your phone, Connor. Now.’
He passes it over and I tell him to unlock the screen, to open his Facebook profile. I can see he wants to fight, to protest, but he knows he’s not old enough to stand against me, yet. I hold my hand out for him to give me the phone back, but he tosses it on to the table.
I pick it up. I scan through his updates. Most days he’s posted several; there are too many to check, and many of them I don’t understand. Messages to his friends, in-jokes, gossip, chat about the football or things he’s watched on TV. I go back, rewinding through the year, to the summer, and I see what I’m looking for. ‘Off to Islington Vue,’ says one. ‘With my MOTHER.’ I scroll back further, to older messages, realizing as I do how used I am to reading things in backwards chronology. A few messages later I see, ‘Family trip to the cinema tomorrow. Planet of the Apes!’
‘Who are you friends with?’ I hand the phone back to him. ‘Show me.’
He begins to protest, but I interrupt. ‘Connor! Show me, now!’ He hands back the phone. There are hundreds of people following his updates, some whose names I recognize, but many I don’t. I scan them quickly, and after a moment I see it. David Largos. Without warning I flash back on my first conversation with Lukas, back when things had felt simple, manageable. The surname is the same as his username back then. Whatever hope I’d had – that I was mistaken, that I was wrong – collapses.
I hold the phone out to him. ‘Who’s this?’ I shout. ‘Who’s David Largos?’
‘I don’t know, Mum.’ He raises his voice. ‘Just somebody. Okay? That’s the way it works. I don’t know everybody who follows me. Yeah?’
I select the username and a picture appears. It’s a picture of a dog, wearing a baseball cap with the word ‘Vans’ written on it. There’s no other information, but it’s him.