‘It wasn’t a video, it was a picture. On his Facebook page.’
‘Kit’s not allowed a Facebook page.’ I no longer care if I come across as a shrew.
‘Well, he’s got one,’ says Beth, apologetically. ‘So, online, you basically don’t exist,’ she says as she flicks through apps on her phone. ‘Neither of you does, or not in the normal ways, anyway. So I had to think outside the box. I thought, there are so many eclipse fan sites on the web, there’s no way he’d be able to leave those internet forums alone.’ Screens are loading and moving beneath her fingers as she speaks. ‘I went through all of them, looking for him. And eventually . . .’ She has landed on a Facebook page called Eclipse Addicts, and she slides the phone across the table to me. ‘I knew it was him because of the top.’
She’s highlighted someone calling himself Shadowboy; no portrait, just a ragged burgundy T-shirt with Chile ’91 emblazoned across the breast and I know that if you zoom in you’ll see a tiny black rock burn on the neckline. ‘That’s how I knew it was him. I slept in that T-shirt, remember, the night after we played pool that time? That little burn itched me all night long.’ I remember stuffing the T-shirt back in the wardrobe before he could see. Kit doesn’t know that Beth knows it exists. But the fact of him having a Facebook account at all; my anger at him bubbles and builds.
‘We promised each other, no online footprint, nothing that let us get found . . .’
‘For what it’s worth, he’s done a very good job. His privacy settings are pretty impenetrable, and he never posts anything personal, just stuff about lenses and weather updates and a load of numbers that don’t mean anything to me. But then, like, three months ago he put this up.’
She enlarges the photograph. It’s Kit’s equipment, laid out on his desk, the camera, every single lens, single-use lens wipes in their sterile packaging, a spare camera strap, two extra memory cards. Everything is at right angles. In the background, his map is on the wall; if you’d seen it before, if you’d destroyed it in a fire, you’d know it was him. The caption reads,
‘All prepped for boys’ trip to Faroes 2015. Not OCD at all.’
‘You got our co-ordinates from his photo,’ I say quietly. I’m going to kill him. I re-read the caption. Boys’ trip. That’s how she knew he’d left me behind.
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘He must have disabled the location settings on his phone.’ She zooms in closer on the photograph. On the very edge of his desk, so far to the left that it’s only just in shot, there’s a paper cup in a brown sleeve. The picture is of such high resolution that it’s easy to zoom in and read the logo: Bean/Bone, N7. And then, she zooms in to something else; if you’re attentive, Alexandra Palace, the very tip of it, is reflected in the black mirror of his computer screen. She’s analysed this picture forensically. It’s the same dogged determination with which she tracked down his camera lens, my favourite candles. I shift back in the hard chair.
‘You found the house from that?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘The house was harder. I’ve walked quite a long way today, trying to narrow it down.’
‘Go on,’ I say, even though the tension is starting to weary me. ‘Enlighten me.’
‘You’re sure?’ Everything about her screams reluctance as she swipes and slides to another page. Shadowboy has contributed to part of a discussion about stargazing in an urban environment.
Bastard neighbours and their building work – left their sodding floodlight on all night. Stars invisible. Furious about missing Pluto’s alignment.
‘I walked all the streets for about three miles around the shop and looked at all the houses with scaffolding.’
‘That must have taken you all day.’
‘It did,’ she says wearily. ‘There’s only one with a floodlight on it. And then I waited till I saw you in the window.’
I picture Beth, footsore and determined, waiting outside my house for the street to clear, Kit’s carelessness painting an arrow over the roof, a black cross on the door. ‘How could he?’
‘It’s only a Facebook account,’ says Beth. ‘Everyone’s got one.’ I shake my head; she can’t understand. Kit swore to me that he would never do this. Betrayal is subjective; proportionate to trust.
‘Don’t be too hard on him. I wouldn’t have been able to find you otherwise!’
‘That was kind of the point,’ I say. The silence throbs between us. ‘I’ve lived in fear for fifteen years, you know. I went to a psychotherapist. I had this disorder where I . . .’ I pull my sleeve up so she can see the lacerations where my scratching broke the skin. ‘Whenever we go on holiday I have to make the hotel staff do a full fire drill with me before I can close the door behind me.’
‘God, Laura, that’s awful. You poor thing.’
She tries to put her hand over mine; I snatch it away. ‘Are you taking the piss?’
‘Laura, don’t be like this.’ Her voice is smooth but her right eyelid flickers. ‘I’m trying to help you.’
I’ve forgotten about Jamie; he could be behind me with a machete and I’d be too lost in furious memory. ‘Seriously, what were you expecting? Oh hi, Beth, you tried to burn me alive, but it’s all water under the bridge now! Let’s have a nice bottle of wine and a chat, shall we?’
Her pupils splash wide, black ink from a dropper. ‘Hang on, what? I . . . I couldn’t – how could you even think that?’ Now her hand is on my wrist. My skin flames at her touch; scar tissue, like muscle, has memory. ‘If this is your idea of a joke, it’s pretty fucked-up.’
‘Oh, Beth, don’t do this,’ I say. ‘It’s embarrassing for both of us.’