‘His father, but how—?’
‘I don’t know. Online, I think.’
‘Wait. What did you say his girlfriend’s name was?’
I close my eyes. Fear builds, infecting me. My skin is crawling. I force myself to speak.
‘Evie. Why?’
She sighs. ‘Julia, I found this list. On Ryan’s computer. All these usernames and passwords.’ She speaks hesitantly, as if she’s unsure, or is figuring something out as she goes. ‘At least that’s what I think they are.’ There’s a long pause. ‘One of them’s Lukas, but there are loads more. Argo-something-or-other, Crab, Baskerville, Jip. And there are all these names. Loads of them, God knows what he’s been doing.’
I know what she’s going to say, even before she says it.
‘One of them’s Evie.’
Something gives within me. I’m sure, now. ‘Oh God,’ I say. I’ve had weeks to understand. Months. I just haven’t wanted to.
‘How do you think he knows her? How does he know Connor’s girlfriend?’
‘Anna. He doesn’t know her. I think he is her.’
‘But—’
‘Is his computer there now?’
‘Yes …’
‘Go online. Look on Facebook.’
I listen as she goes into another room. I hear as she picks up a machine, there’s a swell of music as she wakes it from sleep. A few moments later she says, ‘I’m in. He’s left it logged on. What …?’
And then she stops.
‘What is it? Anna, tell me!’
‘You’re right. The photo he’s using is a young woman,’ she says. ‘And the name … it isn’t Ryan. You’re right, Julia. It’s Evie.’
It all hits me at once. All the things I’ve ignored, not wanted to see. All the things I’ve left unexamined. I go over to Connor’s bed. I sit on it; the mattress gives, the duvet smells of him. Of my boy. My boy, who I’ve put in danger.
‘Anna,’ I say. ‘You have to help me. Go to the station. Gare du Nord. Find my son.’
Downstairs, I call a taxi first and then Hugh. There’s no time to go round to his office, to explain face to face. I have to be on the next train to France.
He answers on the third ring. ‘Julia. Any news?’
I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him.
‘He’s on his way to Paris.’
‘Paris?’
He’s shocked. I want to tell him. I have to tell him.
Yet at the same time I don’t know how.
‘I can explain—’
‘Why Paris?’
‘He’s … he thinks he’s on his way to meet Evie.’
‘How d’you know?’
‘I spoke to her.’
‘Well, I hope you told her how ridiculous this is. He’s fourteen, for goodness’ sake. He shouldn’t be skipping school, taking off for Paris.’ He draws breath. ‘What did she say?’
I try to explain. ‘It’s not that simple. We were talking online. I logged on to Connor’s machine. She thought I was him. It’s how I know where he’s headed.’
I stop speaking. My cab is here, I can hear it idling on the street outside the front door.
‘I have to go,’ I say. I haven’t had time to pack a bag, but I have my passport, and the forty euros I brought back last time and left in a pot on one of the shelves in the kitchen is in my purse.
‘Where?’
‘To Paris. I’m going over there. I’ll get him back.’
‘Julia—’
‘I have to, Hugh.’
There’s a moment of silence as he decides what to do.
‘I’ll come, too. I’ll get the first train I can. I’ll meet you there.’
I sit on the train. I’m numb, I can’t focus on anything. I can’t read, or eat. I’ve left safety behind and don’t know what’s ahead of me.
I concentrate on being as still as possible. I look at the people around me. An American couple sitting across the aisle are discussing the meeting they’re obviously heading back from; they sound clipped and professional, I decide they’re not lovers, just workmates. Another couple, opposite, are sitting in silence, she wearing earbuds and nodding along to music, he with a tourist guide to Paris. I realize with sudden clarity that we’re wearing masks, all of us, all the time. We’re presenting a face, a version of ourselves, to the world, to each other. We show a different face depending on who we’re with and what they expect of us. Even when we’re alone it’s just another mask, the version of ourselves we’d prefer to be.
I turn away and look out of the window as we tear through the city, the countryside. We seem to be building momentum; we hit the tunnel at speed. The noise we make is a dull thud, and for a moment everything goes black. I close my eyes, and then see Frosty, putting her drink down – red wine, and as usual she’s drinking it through a straw. She’s fully made-up, even though it’s the middle of the day and her wig is still upstairs.
‘Honeybunch,’ she’s saying. ‘Where’s Marky?’
I look up. She looks terrified, and I don’t know why. ‘Upstairs. Why?’
‘Come on,’ she says, then she’s running out of the kitchen, and even though I’m following as quickly as I can we still move in slow motion, and we’re going up the stairs, up those dark, carpetless stairs. When we get to the bedroom I shared with Marcus the door won’t open. He’s propped a chair against it, and Frosty has to shoulder it open.
I shake the vision away. I check my phone again. There’s supposed to be a signal down here now, but I have none. I lean over to the American couple, and ask if they’re picking anything up. ‘Not me,’ says the woman, shaking her head, and her colleague tells me he’s already asked a member of staff and no one is. ‘Some problem with the equipment, apparently.’ I force a smile and thank them, then turn away. I’m just going to have to wait.
My mind goes to what Anna told me. Lukas’s usernames. Argo-something-or-other, I know. Crab, Baskerville, Jip. They’re related, I’m sure of it, though I can’t work out how.
Baskerville is easy, I think. There’s the typeface, of course, but the only other reference I can think of is Sherlock Holmes, The Hound of. Slowly it comes: Jip is from David Copperfield, as well as The Story of Dr Dolittle, and Crab is from Shakespeare, though I don’t remember which play. And Argos is from The Odyssey.
They’re all dog’s names.
I see it all, then. A burst of realization. A few years ago, when Connor was nine or ten, the three of us went on holiday to Crete. We stayed in a hotel, near the beach. One night we were at dinner, discussing our names, where they’d come from, what they meant. Later Hugh had looked them all up online, and at breakfast he told us what he’d found. My name means ‘youthful’, his means ‘mind’ or ‘spirit’.
‘And mine?’ asked Connor.
‘Well, yours is Irish,’ said his father. ‘Apparently, it means “lover of hounds”.’
The truth I’ve been dodging is no longer avoidable. Right from the beginning, from the very first time Lukas had messaged me, calling himself Largos86, it’d been about Connor.
All along.
Chapter Thirty-Two
We emerge from the tunnel into dusk. I grab my phone but there’s still no signal, and as I wait I look out of the window.
The French landscape looks unreal, shrouded in a thin gauze. I see the desolate hypermarkets, their huge car parks without a sign of the shoppers who’ve driven there. The train seems to have a different rhythm now, as if the mere fact of travelling to a different country has caused the world to shift, just slightly. I put my watch forward by an hour; my phone has set itself automatically. A minute later I see three bars in the display and a second after that my phone beeps with a waiting voicemail. It’s from Anna.
I listen to it. ‘Julia!’ she begins. Already I’m searching for clues; in the background I can hear what sounds like the bustle of the station, and she sounds excited. Good news? Can it be? She goes on.
‘I’ve got him! He was just getting off the train as I got here.’ Her voice is muffled, as if she’s holding her phone against her chest, then, ‘Sorry, but he won’t speak to you.’ She lowers her voice. ‘He’s embarrassed, I think. Anyway, we’re just sitting here having a milkshake, and when we’ve finished we’ll head back to my place. Ring me, when you get this, and we’ll see you there.’