BEX
I’m sitting with Jen in the ground-floor café of Tate Modern. Through the line of silver birches I can see the dome of St Paul’s across the river, imprisoned by a square of brutal architecture. One of the baristas is talking loudly about how the coffee is roasted by hand in a Second World War Nissen Hut within the grounds of Tate Britain. A woman at the next table is telling her friends about how Brexit has ruined the property market in London – she hoped to sell this year, but instead she’s resigned herself to building a glass box on the back of her property. I’m hearing all of this as I pretend to listen to Jen, who is telling me in great detail about what Ayesha has just told her.
I’m trying to support Jen, I really am, but at times I have to acknowledge that sometimes it’s a pretence; all the details about the murder–suicide get a bit too much for me and, for the sake of my own sanity, occasionally I have to switch off and zone out. I take out my phone and check it.
She must notice my attention is drifting away from her because she says, with a note of irritation in her voice, ‘I’m sorry, you must be sick of this.’
‘That awful woman at the next table – she’s got such a loud voice,’ I say. ‘Shall we go on somewhere else so I can hear what you’re saying?’
‘Good idea,’ she says. Just as she stands up her phone pings. She takes it out of her pocket, and, as she presses her finger down on the home button, her face freezes.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
‘It’s him again,’ she says. Her eyes scan the café, darting from face to face with the desperation of a woman hunted.
‘What?’
‘I’ve just got another message – look.’
She passes her phone to me as she continues to look around her. It’s from @WatchingYouJenHunter.
Love the blue blouse. Sexy.
I know already what Jen is wearing, but still I find myself focusing on her blue blouse. I also know it’s from Zara, as we were together when she bought it. A moment later another message comes through.
What did the doc tell you?
‘There’s another one too,’ I say, as I pass the phone back to Jen.
‘Fuck,’ she says. ‘He’s here.’
‘I thought he’d stopped messaging you.’
She doesn’t reply. Instead, she storms out of the café, nearly knocking over her coffee in the process, and begins to run around the front of the building, weaving in and out of the silver birches, checking the faces of the people sitting on benches. She approaches one man who, from the back has something of the look of Laurence about him, and reaches out to touch him on the shoulder. He turns around, startled and appalled.
‘Sorry,’ mumbles Jen, holding her hands up as she backs away. ‘I know he’s here, somewhere. He’s watching me.’
‘Let’s go,’ I say, as I try to take hold of her arm.
‘No!’ she shouts, brushing me away. ‘I’m going to find that fucker and tell him to leave me alone.’
She starts to sprint along the front of the embankment, in the direction of the National Theatre, banging into tourists. I try to follow her and apologise in her wake.
‘Help me, Bex – help me find him,’ she says, between breaths. ‘He’s got to be here somewhere.’
‘I can’t see him,’ I say. ‘Perhaps if we wait in one place then—’
But she’s off again, changing direction as she runs along the embankment and up onto the wobbly bridge. There’s some maintenance work going on, and signs restricting the flow of pedestrians have narrowed the access. Everyone is walking in single file in both directions, but Jen runs through the lines, banging straight into a woman carrying a baby in a sling.
‘Sorry, so sorry,’ I say, as I try to pass through the crowds. I continue to apologise as I try to catch up with her.
Finally, I reach her and force her to stand still. ‘Jen, you’ve got to listen to me,’ I say. ‘Whoever sent these, they’ve gone now. You need to calm down. Take some deep breaths. You know, you nearly knocked over a woman with her baby back there.’
‘I … I don’t care, I need to find him.’
Her phone pings again. It’s another message.
You shouldn’t get so worked up. It doesn’t suit you.
Her head swivels from side to side as she studies the faces of the pedestrians on the bridge. She starts to run towards the St Paul’s side of the river, before she lurches back towards the South Bank. Again, she bumps into a pedestrian, this time an old woman with a walking stick.
Again I apologise for the behaviour of my friend. ‘Stop,’ I say, grabbing Jen’s shoulders in a desperate effort to make her keep still. I’m seriously thinking of having to slap her around the face again. ‘Jen, listen to me. If he’s here, we’ll find him together. I’ll help you. Honestly, I will. But you need to pull yourself together. Can’t you see he wants you to fall apart. He’s getting off on this.’
I don’t know what she’s thinking, but it seems as though the message is beginning to sink in. She stands by the railings of the bridge, the east side that looks down towards the skyscrapers of Canary Wharf. She takes a couple of deep breaths. Her head stops moving in such a manic fashion.
‘That’s right,’ I say. ‘A few more deep breaths.’
Her eyes begin to relax a little. I take hold of her shaking hand.
‘Don’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s upset you,’ I tell her. ‘You can get your own revenge.’
She turns to me, a glint in her eye. I can tell the idea intrigues her. Her phone beeps again. She holds it out to me.
You look hysterical. Deranged.
And then a moment later, there’s another.
No wonder nobody loves you. You drive everyone away.
Now she has the look not so much of the hunted as the hunter. I think of her surname. I’d never considered Jen as a predator before. In fact, for many years she had played the part of the victim. But now I realise she could be dangerous.