‘Fine, you win,’ he says.
‘I always do,’ Miri says.
‘He still looked like a creep,’ Safa says.
‘He did not look like a creep,’ Emily says. ‘He looked like a very nice young man.’
‘That’s what they said about Jack the Ripper,’ Safa says. ‘Very nice young man. Then look what happened. Hey, we should go back and find him.’
‘Who?’ Ben asks.
‘Jack the Ripper.’
‘Yeah, we can’t do that.’
‘Why not? Who says we haven’t already done it? Maybe we already do it and it’s done, so therefore we can do it . . .’
‘But . . .’ Ben says.
‘And they never found out who he was,’ Safa cuts in.
‘Yeah, but . . .’ Ben says.
‘So there,’ Safa says. ‘We’re gonna get Jack the Ripper.’
‘We’re not.’
‘We already did.’
‘We didn’t.’
‘Social networks,’ Miri says, handing the tablet to Emily.
‘Pardon?’ Emily says.
‘Mr Collins. Social networks. Check him.’
‘Oh, right,’ Emily says. ‘Er . . . so . . . we’re in 2010, so . . . Facebook? Christ, this is ancient . . . There’s no 3D or . . . What operating system is this? It’s so slow . . . and this screen is just awful. It’s not intuitive or . . . Where’s the catch-all program?’
‘There isn’t one,’ Miri says.
‘How do I do it then?’ Emily asks.
‘Still a Two,’ Safa coughs into her hand.
‘No,’ Emily protests. ‘This is, like, years behind my time.’
‘Want me to do it?’ Ben asks.
‘I was still a Two because all the Ones were taken.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Ben says, taking the tablet from her.
‘It takes years to be a One.’
‘I’ll log in with my old account,’ Ben says with a sudden jolt. ‘Oh shit, I remember this . . . I had to reset my password. They said someone in America logged in.’ He laughs at the thought, shaking his head. ‘This is fucked up.’ He double-taps the Facebook icon, then taps into the username field and starts to write his old email address. He tabs over to the password. StephMyers2015. It feels wrong to write her name. The application opens to his Facebook page as of 2010.
‘Is that Stephanie?’ Emily asks, glimpsing the profile picture of a smiling woman.
‘Er, yeah. Yeah, it is,’ Ben says. ‘I couldn’t have pictures of me . . . You know . . . the whole Calshott Ryder thing. I, er . . . I only put hers there to . . .’ He glances at Safa’s frozen face staring at the screen in his hands. ‘I only put it there so I had a picture . . . People ask questions otherwise . . .’
‘Ooh,’ Emily says, glancing at Safa’s face. ‘Not awkward at all.’
‘Whore,’ Safa mutters.
‘What?’ Emily asks.
‘Her, not you,’ Safa says, turning away from the screen with a look of utter distaste. ‘Can we just get the fuck on now?’
‘Er, Derek Collins,’ Ben says, typing the name in. ‘Common name . . . Loads of . . .’
‘That’s him,’ Emily says, leaning over and pointing.
‘Got him,’ Ben says, opening the profile to see the smiling young man from the bar. ‘Pictures . . . Parties, sports . . . family . . . He’s anti-drugs,’ Ben adds, seeing the shared posts. ‘Pro-police, pro-military . . . Tons of stuff on the Marines . . . Seems okay,’ he says with nod. ‘Nothing that bad here.’
Miri takes the tablet back, ends the current screen and opens a new program. She thumbs the screen, pursing her lips with focus. ‘Where did you put it?’
‘Collar, back of the neck,’ Emily says.
Miri presses the screen and waits while the connection is made. The speakers hiss, background noise, the sound of glasses or bottles clinking.
‘. . . rry? Er, yes, he is a soldier, but in England.’
‘Who was the other guy?’
‘Ben, but I don’t want to talk about them. Tell me about the Marines again . . . Do you want another beer?’
‘Y’all like beer a lot.’ Derek’s voice, laughing.
‘Do you have beer at your house?’
‘My house?’
‘The place you live. Your flat.’
‘Apartment. Sure, I got beer there.’
‘We should go. I’d love to see it.’
‘Ma’am, you said you wanted to have sex . . . I want you to know my momma raised me good and . . .’
‘Stop gabbling. I hate gabbling.’
They all look at Safa, who shrugs.
‘. . . go to your flat, apartment . . . Whatever, let’s go there.’
‘She’s throwing herself at him,’ Ben mutters.
‘. . . come on, do you want to? I want to.’
‘But, ma’am, Ria . . . listen . . . I . . .’
‘We’ll just go back for a beer, then I’ll go home.’
‘Christ,’ Ben tuts.
‘. . . sure, we can do that,’ Derek says, his voice showing a level of uncertainty.
‘Don’t worry,’ Emily says, seeing the look of worry on Ben’s and Harry’s faces. ‘This is quite normal for my time.’
‘You want another beer here?’ Derek asks.
‘Nope, we’ll have it at yours. Come on. How far is it?’
‘Not far.’
Ria and Derek walk from the bar to a deserted parking lot. Ria looks over to the van at the far edge and round with the sensation of being watched that she shrugs off as she reaches for his hand.
Derek leads the way. Hand in hand and feeling confused, flattered, horny, concerned and full of testosterone all at the same time.
‘You sure you wanna come back?’ he asks, his voice muted now they’re out of the bar. ‘We could meet up tomorrow, catch a movie . . . pizza . . .’
‘I want to come back,’ she says, squeezing his hand. She needs this. She needs this contact, this comfort, this warmth of another human being. She flits between needing to cry and needing to laugh. Between feeling warm inside from the beer and feeling homesick for the bunker and for her old house. She wants to take Derek to the island and sit on the rocks to stare out over the moonlit sea. She wants sex. She wants to be held, to be loved, to be at home and to see her mother. She wants everything and nothing and to be away from the perfection of Safa and Emily, and the worried looks Ben and Harry always have. ‘So,’ she says, snapping out of her sudden introspection. ‘Are you looking forward to it?’
‘Sex?’ Derek blurts.
‘No! The Marines,’ Ria chuckles. A sound behind them. Like a snort of laughter snapping off. She turns to look, but sees nothing, only empty sidewalks.
‘Drunks,’ Derek says, not seeing anything either.
‘I’M TWENTY-TWO . . .’ she shouts back at them.
‘Shush,’ Derek says quickly. ‘This ain’t the place to draw attention.’
Ria walks on. They wouldn’t follow her, would they? She glances behind again, but still sees nothing. No. No, they wouldn’t. That would be too much. What do they care anyway? They came to look for her, satisfied themselves and now they’ve gone back to eat popcorn and watch holos. They’re fit and clean and healthy and perfect, and they have each other. She doesn’t have anyone. They didn’t come for her anyway. They came for Bertie. Bloody Bertie. It’s always about Bertie. My son is a genius. My son got three Master’s degrees when he was bloody fourteen . . . thirteen . . . whatever. Bloody Bertie.
‘What?’ she asks, blinking at Derek.