Something in the Water(86)

Oh God, I totally forgot. He told me this last week. He mentioned it. I feel awful. As if I didn’t feel awful enough already. He’s flying to New York this afternoon, an overnight stay. I wasn’t listening properly when he said it, obviously. I wonder what else I’ve totally missed. I am the worst wife. He’s meeting new clients in New York City all day tomorrow and then traveling straight back that evening on the overnight flight. A literal flying visit.

I’ll be here alone. I can’t help, all of a sudden, feeling frightened that Mark’s moving forward with his life without me. It’s my fault, of course. I should have shown more interest in his new business instead of spending all my time thinking about the documentary, the money, the diamonds. I should have been present more; I should have been with him. Self-recrimination washes over me. I will have to do better. I will have to be better. It’ll all be fine. We can go away the following weekend together. It’s not a big deal; it just feels like one now.

I lie on the bed while he packs, watching. He tells me all about the new office spaces he’s considering. His big plans.

“Will you come and see them with me next week?” he asks. He’s so excited.

“Of course! I can’t wait,” I assure him. I’m glad he’s letting me back in. I’m glad he’s this happy again. Maybe the rift is finally starting to close up. “I’m sorry, Mark, if I’ve been absent. If I haven’t been here for you…I’m so sorry.” I look up at him.

“It’s all okay, Erin.” His face is alive with the future and everything that’s laid out ahead. “You’ve had a lot on your plate. It’s fine. I love you.” He holds my gaze and I feel forgiven. I’m a very lucky person. I think again about telling him everything. About the pregnancy. But I don’t want to tip the balance. I’ll tell him once he’s back. When we’re alone together next weekend.

“I love you, Mark,” I tell him instead, scrambling off the bed and wrapping myself around him. And I mean it with all that I am. My hormones must be doing something crazy inside me right now, because it physically hurts later as his airport taxi pulls away from the curb outside our house. My whole body keens for him. The ghost of his arms around me, the scent of his cologne still clinging to my skin.



* * *



—

After he’s gone I make my way up to the loft. To inspect the last remaining evidence.

It’s hot in the attic. Under the insulation the phone is toasty warm. The separate envelope containing the USB drive lies next to it. Is the heat of the loft bad for the memory of the phone or drive? I finger the USB through the plastic of the envelope.

It’s warm to the touch.

I stare at the phone’s inert screen, and remember the text message from two weeks ago. The way it made me feel in my stomach. Those three gray dots, pulsing.


WHO IS THIS?

Again, I wonder who they are. The dead people on the plane, the person on the other end of the phone, the plane people. I’ve tried to ignore this question, to listen to Mark’s advice, but here on my own, in the hot, dusty loft, the thought grows stronger. Who are they? I’ve searched Russian websites, news sites—nothing. Is Patrick one of them? Or is Mark right? Could he be an undercover SO15 officer? Is it him who is calling me and leaving silent messages? The sickening thought flashed through my mind the other day that the calls might be from Holli. Silent, desperate phone messages, from somewhere out there; maybe she’s back in England. But then I remember the low mumbled reply to the waiter in the message. And besides, Holli’s never even had my phone number, so it can’t be her.

My mind gravitates back to the plane people. Could it be them? Mark was certain it wasn’t. But maybe they found the hotel’s IP address? Maybe they went there? Maybe they killed the Sharpes—but would they have stopped looking after that?

For how long would they have kept looking? What were the bag and its contents worth to them? And then it hits me with stunning clarity. They’re still looking. And I’m alone now. I think of Mark’s face as he drove away in the taxi. They might still be out there, searching for us. Maybe they realized they killed the wrong couple. And now here I am, alone in the house. I’ve been so concerned with keeping ahead of the police, of converting what we found into real money, that I’ve completely forgotten about the reality of being found by the people we stole from. The reality of a knock at the door, a shot to the head.

I think of the open back door, six days ago. It’s just me here now, alone. And I don’t want to die. I need to find out what I’m dealing with. I need to find out who might be coming for me. And with that I take their phone downstairs, slip on my coat, and leave the house.

It’s time to turn it on again. Somewhere safe. Somewhere busy.



* * *



—

When I get to Leicester Square I weave through and around the crowds and head for the garden at its center. I find a group of foreign exchange students talking on and playing with their phones while they eat their lunches on the grass. I stand as close as acceptable and only then do I turn the phone on. It struggles back to life, slowly. The screen flashes white. The Apple symbol. Then the home screen. I don’t even attempt to put it on airplane mode. I let it find signal. And it does. The signal bars fill to five.

You see, my thinking is this: Leicester Square is the busiest pedestrianized thoroughfare in Europe. I Googled it on my own phone, before I turned it off, outside our underground station. More people move through Leicester Square in a day than anywhere else in Europe. On average 250,000 a day. As I enter the garden area it’s full of people on their phones, weaving past one another deep in conversation or heads down, tapping away and surfing. There are 109 CCTV cameras in Leicester Square, but I challenge anyone to guess which person is on which phone. There are fuckloads of us. I’m hiding in plain sight. Let them find the signal; it won’t help them.