The Girl With No Past (7 page)

Opening my front door, my eyes dropped to the pile of envelopes scattered on the doormat. I was about to step over them and head upstairs, when my desire for routine took over. Sweeping them up, I took them upstairs to examine.

I inhaled deeply when I checked through the letters, but they were only bills and a bank statement. I’d had no emails either so perhaps it really was over; whoever was trying to torment me had become bored and moved on.

Convincing myself things were getting back to normal, I whistled as I cooked macaroni cheese and heated up some frozen garlic bread. I thought about Julian and tried to imagine what he was doing at that moment. Probably heading home from work or meeting friends for a pint. Or he could be out with some woman from the website. I pushed away the twinge of jealousy I felt. He wasn’t mine, so I had no right to care who he was out with.

I’d forgotten to set the oven timer, so the garlic bread was burnt around the edges, but I tucked in anyway, starving after missing lunch.

I was still eating when the phone rang so I ignored it. It had to be a computerised call, a robotic voice telling me I was owed Payment Protection Insurance or something similar that I’d never taken out. It wouldn’t be Mum; we’d only spoken yesterday so there was no reason for her to call again today, even if she was always worrying about me. Anyway, if there was an emergency she would leave a message. I waited for the beep but the caller hung up. Not Mum then. She would never miss an opportunity to make me feel bad for not answering.

I washed up – there was no room for a dishwasher in my tiny kitchen – and left the plates to drain by the sink. Looking around, I decided it was a good thing Julian would only ever be in my flat on the laptop. He would never have to wonder how I could live like this, with books taking up space where there should be furniture, and hardly any modern appliances. But I made do with what I had, and preferred to spend money on my reading habit rather than flashy gadgets.

At least I had my laptop; a link to the outside world that I could control. With it I could decide whom to let into my life, and right at that moment I wanted to let Julian in. Just to get a message from him and know that he was still around in some way, would have made me feel better.

Luck seemed to be with me that evening because, as soon as I logged on, a message appeared inviting me to a chat room. I was both scared and excited; I hadn’t thought through what I would say to him. Everything was blank and no words came to me. But my desperation – for what? A man I barely knew? – won in the end and I started typing.

LeahH: Hi stranger…

I bit my lip and waited, the seconds it took him to reply feeling like hours.

Moderator34: hey, Leah, how r things?

With anyone else it would have irritated me the way he shortened his words, but with Julian it didn’t seem important. Not when someone as seemingly great as him was talking to me. And not when, for the first time in years, I had dared to take a chance and started to let someone in.

Leah H: Good thanks. With you?

Moderator34: not great. work stuff. boring. but glad you’re online.

I felt the usual excitement at Julian’s compliment and wondered if I should return it, say something, anything to cheer him up.

LeahH: Anything I can do?

I cringed at my own words, but it was too late to take them back. How was I coming across to him? He really would know I didn’t have a clue now, that I was naïve and inexperienced with men.

Moderator34: Just talking to you is enough

For an hour and a half our messages flew back and forth, and I soon began to feel comfortable, typing without worrying, Julian continuing the conversation each time I thought it was about to end. It was true that sometimes we became like the people we surrounded ourselves with, because the more messages that passed between us, the more a sense of humour that had long been buried in me started to resurface. I liked how Julian made me feel. I couldn’t explain it, but I definitely liked it. Needed it.

During our conversation, I told him everything I could let myself reveal about my life. I played down the part about being a loner, of course, and anything that had happened prior to leaving Watford, so as far as he knew, I was London born and bred.

It was nearly ten o’clock when we finally said goodbye. Although we’d talked all this time, nothing had been said by either of us about meeting up or even talking again online. But whatever had passed between us was enough for me. I couldn’t think beyond talking. I would let things be as they were.

Feeling at peace, I made a cup of tea to take to bed. Today had been okay. There had been no surprise mail and I’d just spent hours talking to Julian. These things might seem too insignificant to bring happiness to most people, but to me they were huge deals.

And then I made a big mistake and checked my emails on my phone. Most were junk mail but then I saw one from
[email protected]
, the subject line once again blank.

Knowing it was from my tormenter – that’s what I’d resorted to calling him or her, for want of a better word – I should have deleted it, but something compelled me to click on it, and then it was too late. There were a few lines in the body of the message this time, but that only made this correspondence worse than the others. Much worse.

Do you really think any man could be interested in you after what you’ve done?

I reread the email. The words weren’t going to change, but maybe reading it again would help me make sense of it. The problem, though, was that it made too much sense. I knew exactly what these words meant and I also knew that this was not going away.

And then it hit me that whoever this was knew about the website. They must do. Those words could only be about me talking to Julian.

I hadn’t felt helpless in a long time. I’d made sure I was never put in a position where I would be, and up until then it had worked. So I was unprepared to feel as if the ground had been knocked away from me. I considered replying to the email, telling whomever it was exactly where to go, but that would only encourage them. They would see they were affecting me, and that was the last thing I needed. No, that was not an option.

Could I call Mum? I’d kept her out of it so far, not wanting to drag her back into my mess, but at least she might understand. I scrolled down to her name on my mobile, and was about to press call but something stopped me. I could hear her words in my ear: the panic, the fervent plea for me to stay with her for a while, the resignation in her voice when I refused. I couldn’t put her through that. One thing she would never understand was why I needed to live here, away from her home. It was possible to commute to work from Watford, so she would never have accepted that as an excuse.

I carried on scrolling until I reached Dr Redfield’s name. She had given me her mobile number years ago but I’d never used it. I wasn’t even sure it was still her number, but I was out of options. After only a couple of rings, her voicemail kicked in. I hurriedly explained what had happened, not knowing what I expected her to do, only that I couldn’t deal with it alone.

My mind was empty of Julian as I paced up and down my living room in the dark, trying not to trip over books, waiting for the phone to ring. Half an hour ticked by but Dr Redfield didn’t return my call. I couldn’t blame her; she had a life of her own, and didn’t have to be at my beck and call. Especially when I didn’t even bother to keep my appointments.

Eventually I gave up waiting and headed to bed, knowing I wouldn’t sleep. I felt a lot of things as I lay there with my eyes closed. Fear, sadness, anxiety. But most of all I was angry that the life I had carefully constructed for myself was falling down around me, forcing me back to a time I couldn’t let myself remember.

SEVEN

I was not one for clichés or platitudes, but the one about never knowing how you will react in a certain situation is one I knew to be true. I thought I could handle anything, after all I’d been through, but the email knocked the wind out of me. In a way I had been violated, someone had shown me they were watching what I was doing, keeping tabs on me somehow. I shuddered at the thought of this.

And the next morning I did something I’d never done before. I called Sam and told her I was sick.

She was silent as I listed all my symptoms. Fever, nausea, shakes. It seemed like flu, I told her. I was only glad our conversation was being conducted over the phone, otherwise she would surely have seen through my feeble lie.

As it was, after the shock, I think Sam believed me. She offered her sympathy and told me not to hurry back. It felt despicable to accept her kindness, but I was used to lying by then. I was an expert at bending the truth and keeping things hidden, and my small lie about sickness was nothing compared to the lie that I myself was.

With work dealt with for the time being, I left the house and walked to the care home, a carrier bag full of books swinging from my arm. I was immediately greeted by Mick and Elsie, both of them sitting in the foyer coffee shop, their eyes lighting up when they spotted me. For at least a few hours I would be able to focus on them and forget all that waited for me at home.

Back in my flat that evening I had no clue what to do, how to deal with my tormentor. It was possible my computer had been hacked, but I would wait to see what happened next. My instincts screamed at me to ignore it all, surely whoever it was would give up eventually? But I was uneasy about doing this; someone had gone to a lot of trouble to dig up my past so I doubted they would give up easily.

Maria texted to ask if she could call and I welcomed the distraction. Hearing her news might take the edge off, and maybe she’d need help with something.

‘You poor thing,’ she said, when I answered. ‘It was weird you not being at work today, but sounds like you’ve caught something nasty. Where do you think you picked it up from? I don’t think anyone at work’s got it. Not yet anyway.’

I tried to make my voice sound weak, riddled with cold. Thankfully, Maria didn’t dwell on my illness too long, and in no time she was filling me in on work. I hadn’t missed much, but then what did I expect? It was rare that anything exciting happened at the library. That was exactly why I liked it there.

Maria asked if I’d eaten and when I said no she tutted, insisting I needed to have something, even just soup.

‘I’ll be fine. I’ll probably get my appetite back tomorrow.’

She tutted again. ‘Do you think you’ll be in tomorrow? Because you know you should probably just rest. If it is flu, you’ll be knocked out for ages.’ There was something in her tone. Disbelief? I told myself I was just being paranoid.

I agreed that it was doubtful I’d be better, and she fell silent for a moment. But it wasn’t long before she was launching into a story about a man she had spotted in the library that morning. ‘I’m going to give him my number next time he comes in,’ she said, and I laughed, once again admiring her confidence, her resilience.

‘Anyway, I better go,’ she said, and I felt a wave of disappointment. It surprised me how good it had felt to talk to her, even if that feeling was alien to me now. ‘Get better soon.’

Maria’s talk of food reminded me I was hungry, but I didn’t want to move from the sofa, even just to travel the short distance to the kitchen. My mind was firm; I would not budge until I’d thought of a way out of this mess.

It was already dark outside, so I had no way to judge how much time had passed, but eventually a seed of an idea came to me. Although I had initially dismissed the idea of replying to the email, if I chose my words carefully, perhaps there was a way I could get through to the person behind it. Try to find out what they wanted, without letting them think I was worried.

The laptop sat on the kitchen table, but before I had a chance to move, the doorbell chimed. I froze. It rang so rarely that I always forgot how piercing the sound was, how incongruous in my usually silent flat. Sighing, I headed for the stairs, convinced whoever was out there had got the wrong door and that it was my neighbour they were after.

Maria was the last person I expected to see standing on my doorstep. But there she was, shuffling her feet and rubbing her hands together. I blinked, sure I was hallucinating from lack of food, and that when I opened my eyes she’d be gone, in her place the familiar scene of the empty concrete garden and the road beyond. But then she spoke.

‘Oh, Leah, you sounded so ill on the phone I would hate myself if I didn’t come over to check on you.’ She held up a Tesco carrier bag. ‘And I’ve bought some ingredients so I can make you some soup. You’ve got to eat, haven’t you? Well, come on, are you going to let me in? You don’t look right, you know.’

I was overwhelmed by her kindness. Until it dawned on me that I had never given her my address. I opened my mouth to ask but she beat me to it. ‘Sam had the pay slips in the lunch room and I saw your address on yours. Sorry, but I really wanted to come and see you.’

I stepped aside and she sauntered in, as if she had been there many times before. Following behind her, my mind a jumble of thoughts about the email, Julian, having someone other than Mum in my flat and everything else that was not as it should be.