First Born(71)

He’s uploaded.

I take a long swig of hot chocolate and plug my earphones into my tablet. The café’s wifi is excellent. Anonymous IP address, anonymous YouTube identity linked to an anonymous Gmail account created in another anonymous café on an anonymous no-contract tablet.

It’s an apology video. Eight minutes long. Nine hundred thousand views and counting. Forty thousand likes and seven hundred dislikes. Over five hundred comments.

There he is, glassy-eyed, looking into the screen. The backdrop is a plain wall and the lighting is perfect, angled to highlight the line of his jaw and the sadness in his expression.

He’s sorry for what he’s done. He takes full responsibility. He says he owns it.

I roll my eyes and bite hard into my panini.

Shawn Bagby says he’s not the boy as portrayed in the other video – my video; he’s a man now, and he’ll accept full responsibility. He’s said that word twice already in the first ninety seconds. He says he’s grown as a person. Grown? He says he was under the influence of prescription painkillers, an addiction he’s beaten, a rehab process he’s shared or possibly overshared in earlier videos. He says the medication was responsible for souring his world view for a time and making him depressed and negative. He says he’s genuinely sorry for any hurt he has caused.

Well, Shawn Bagby, you’re rather good at this, aren’t you? You know exactly how to wrap your subscribers around your little finger.

He says life was tough when his father died ten years ago.

What’s this got to do with making fun of your fans and creating misogynistic content?

He says life can be cruel sometimes but you need to man up and face it head on, you need to alpha it out, you need to lead your pack even in the most trying of situations. Alpha it out? What does that even mean?

He finishes the video by suggesting that the anonymous person who made the attacks, who collated all the old deleted posts and sub-Reddits, is bitter and dangerous, and he would like to hold out a virtual olive branch and offer to pay for therapy, no strings attached.

My mouth falls open and a piece of tomato drops on to my plate.

How did he manage to do that? I mean, Professor Groot will get his comeuppance, Mrs Groot Esq. will surely see to that one way or the other. Scott paid dearly for his betrayal. And his demise means that Violet, though I haven’t spoken to her yet, will most likely be distraught. The wrongs I unearthed here in New York have been righted. Order has been restored. Yet somehow, through some mastery, some slippery sleight of hand, Shawn Bagby has survived his ordeal. Not only survived, he has gained an extra thirteen thousand subscribers in the past twenty-four hours.

I’m not angry, I’m just surprised.

He did a bad thing and yet he thrives.

This will take some more work.





Chapter 42


I walk south and my phone rings.

My screen tells me it’s Violet.

‘Hello,’ I say, ‘Molly Raven.’

She’s crying.

‘Hello,’ I say. ‘Who is this, please?’

‘It’s me,’ she says. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

I turn to get a better view of the intersection. There’s an armoured truck collecting money from a jeweller’s.

‘Yes, it’s so awful,’ I say. ‘I can’t believe it. I don’t feel safe here any more. Who’s doing this?’

‘Some sick bastard,’ she says, sniffing. ‘Some sick fuck. God, I can’t believe he’s dead. I can’t take it in, Molly.’

‘Martinez told me they might not be related incidents,’ I lie. ‘Because the attacks were so different. One quiet and one ultra-violent. I don’t know what to believe. This kind of thing doesn’t happen in London.’

‘Ultra-violent?’ she says. ‘He wouldn’t tell me how Scott died but there are rumours at school. What did they say?’

‘Nothing,’ I say, startled. ‘I just gleaned it from his demeanour. That it was violent. I don’t think Scott died a good death, Violet. But I don’t have any details.’

‘Where are you right now?’ she says.

I look at the street sign.

‘Corner of 55th and Lexington. Where are you?’

‘I’m in school. I don’t want to go home, Molly. I don’t want to go to work and I don’t want to go home. Nowhere is safe.’

‘You think you’re in danger, Violet?’

She sighs and I hear her blow her nose. ‘Maybe, I don’t know. Maybe not. Who knows what to believe? They killed Scott, that’s all I know. I heard it was some kind of BDSM thing gone wrong – guy at Columbia said he was found with his wrists tied to a bed. Some sicko.’

‘What’s BDSM?’

‘You know, sadomasochism. He was into erotic asphyxiation, you remember I told you? Never tried it with me, but . . .’

‘What did you say?’

‘Nothing. Can we meet?’

‘Sure. Somewhere near the library?’

‘The Butler Library?’

‘The Public Library,’ I say.

‘Oh, OK. Bryant Park? At four?’

‘OK. Take care, Violet.’

‘Yeah, you too.’

I haven’t had lunch yet. I walk into Zuma with a strut in my step, and get guided to a table in the corner. A handsome guy in black brings me a menu and then he brings me a bottle of sparkling water that costs more than my average London lunch budget. Twice as much.