Something in the Water(88)

Mark knows me so well, better than I know myself, and that is why he didn’t tell me. Because he knows I will definitely do something reckless.

What did they say in the message? “We are not interested in pursuing you; we require only the USB. Whether you choose to assist us in retrieving it or not, however, is up to you.” Is that a threat? Not exactly. A warning: they don’t want us; they just want their memory stick. But if we make that hard for them, then maybe it becomes a threat.

Wait, wait, wait. Two million euros? What the actual fuck is on that USB? And that is the question that propels me as I sprint out of Leicester Square and toward our attic back in North London.





I lift the insulation, pull out the warm envelope, and open it.

There is no USB. It’s not there. The stubby object I felt through the plastic earlier is just the long-empty casing. The USB itself is gone from inside it. Gone.

I stare, bewildered. What does it mean? I stand in the attic, winded by the run from the tube station, sweat rolling down my skin, gasping for breath. Where has it gone? Have they already come for it? No, they can’t have. They’d have taken the phone too. They’d have done something to us. I remind myself that no one else has been in the house but Mark and me. It must be Mark. What has he done? Has he thrown it out? Has he hidden it elsewhere? In case I listened to the message and tried to find it? What has he done with it? I turn on my own phone and check the time. He’ll be on his flight now. I can’t reach him. I feel another wave of nausea and slump down on one of the attic beams. I should take it easy. Less running.

I look down at the screen of my phone again. I’ll text him.


I heard the voicemails!

Why didn’t you tell me?

Where is it?

I stare down at the message, thumb posed over send. No—this isn’t right. Too furious. Too panicked. He must have a pretty serious reason why he hasn’t told me—and I haven’t told him a lot of things too. I delete the message. And type instead…


Mark call me when you land.

I love you xxx

I press send. That’s better. He can explain later. He’ll have hidden the USB in case I try to do something stupid. I think about where it could be. I wonder if he knows what’s on it. I want to know what’s on it. It’ll be in the house somewhere. It has to be.

I start in the bedroom. I try all his usual hiding places. We’ve lived together for four years now and I’m pretty sure I know them all. I check his bedside drawer, the small combination box inside it. The code is his birthday, but there’s nothing inside apart from some foreign currency. I peer under his side of the mattress—he once hid some Patti Smith concert tickets there for my birthday—nothing. I fish through the pockets of his grandfather’s overcoat in the wardrobe, old shoeboxes in the top cupboard.

Then I move to the bathroom, an aftershave box at the back of the bathroom cabinet, his desk, his old briefcase—nothing, nothing, nothing. He’s hidden it well. Or maybe he’s taken it with him. Maybe he doesn’t trust me at all. But I know he wouldn’t have taken the USB with him; if there’s a chance he might lose it, he wouldn’t take it. If he’s hidden it from me, it’ll be here—somewhere in this house.

And that’s when I get angry. I turn the house upside down. I search every inch. I pull out everything. I empty full bags of rice, I strip beds, I check the linings of curtains and bags.

Nothing.

I stand sweating and disheveled in a house torn apart. I’m dizzy and nauseous. This is not me taking it easy. I need to raise my blood sugar, right now, if not for me then for what’s trying to grow inside me. I plonk down where I am in the middle of the living room and drag a Liberty of London bag full of wedding gifts toward me. I fish down to the bottom and grab a tin of truffles. Rose champagne truffles. They’ll do. I prize off the lid and dig in. And then I find it. Just like that. Nestled on the bottom deck of the truffle box. Fuck, Mark. What are you playing at?

Exhausted, I eat my truffles in triumphant silence. The USB as company. The daylight fading around me.

At some point in the darkness my phone starts to bleat. I fumble it out from under the detritus of my search. It’s Mark. He must have landed.

“Hello?”

“Hi, honey? Is everything okay?” He sounds worried. Could he know I found it?

“Mark. Why did you hide it?” There’s no point beating around the bush. I’m drained. I’m hurt.

“Hide what? What are you talking about?” He sounds amused. I can hear bustle in the background behind him. He’s on the other side of the world.

“Mark, I found the USB. Why did you lie? Why did you hide it? Why didn’t you tell me about the messages?” I can feel my eyes welling. But I will not cry.

“Ah, right…I was wondering when this might come up. You found it? Have you looked at what’s on it?”

“Yes. No. I only just found it.” I stare at it in the half-light, sitting innocently in the palm of my hand: a mystery.

“I’m sorry, Erin, honey, but I know you too well. I listened to the message. I had to after what happened to the Sharpes. In the voicemail he said he wanted just the flash drive, nothing else. I needed to see what was on it, why it meant so much to him. So I looked and, Erin, what I saw really worried me. All of it scared me. I just wanted to protect you. But I knew that sooner or later you’d look too, and if you heard that voicemail you wouldn’t be able to not look at the USB. So I hid it.” He gives me a second to process what he’s said. “But obviously not well enough,” he jokes, and laughs. He’s struggling to lighten the mood.