Inside my flat, everything is as it was, even though life changes, decays, unravels by the minute. Exploding in slow motion, fireballs beautiful in orange and black, flaming shrapnel floating and descending. From the outside, the demolition of my life must be quite the spectacle, even as you know a real person is somewhere in the middle of it all.
Burning alive.
There.
The book. Still lying in the hallway, sweetly advising me on the best pills to take, to ensure the gentlest, kindest suicide. No. Go on … NO. Picking up this hateful blue covered thing, I pace into the kitchen, flip the bin-lid, making a big shocked steel mouth, and hurl the book into the rubbish. I drop the lid. Then I open it again. Then I shut the lid once more. Then I lift it yet again, and stare down.
The wretched book is still there, still readable, still full of kind and sage advice on how to end your life with as little pain as possible.
‘Read it,’ says Electra, from the living room. ‘Read it, Jo. Take the advice.’
‘Shut up.’
She falls silent, I can imagine her affronted yellow light-circle.
Reaching into the bin, I lift the damn book out and grab a lighter from the kitchen shelf, then I go to the sink and start burning the book over the sink, ripping out pages, setting fire to them, fistfuls of pages, burn burn burn. It takes several long, panting, angry minutes: until almost every page is charred and sodden, and the tap water rinses the greasy ashes down the plughole.
The book is now unreadable. A stump of blackened wet paper, stitching, and glue. Satisfied with this pathetic victory, I chuck the remains in the bin, and look at the Electra Mini on the microwave.
Hell with them. Hell with him. Or her. Whoever is doing this. I might have some mad delusions about Jamie but I know I didn’t order this horrible suicide kit. The knife, the bleach, I didn’t do it. They did. They did. Someone Else Is Doing This. I feel a furious hatred rising inside me. Good. I must use this, harness my anger.
Stepping into my priest hole – the airlock, the escape pod, the second bathroom – I fish out my phone and decide I have no choice. All the friends I have alienated. I need their help. So I can find out which one of them is trying to destroy me. Who else would know all these details? I thought it was Simon but it seems less likely.
Yet it certainly has to be someone.
I call Fitz. At his office. He is at work. I kind of expect the reaction I will get from his PA. She says hello, very calmly, and says she will check if he is in.
‘I’m so sorry, he is in a meeting. Shall I get him to call you back when he is available?’
‘Yes, please.’
I know he won’t call back. He hates me, these days. I destroyed his relationship. Even though I didn’t. Someone else did.
Anna. I must try Anna. I call Anna.
Straight to voicemail. I suspect she has me blocked. Everyone is blocking me. It’s time I blocked myself.
No.
Scrolling swiftly to J, I find Jenny’s number.
As expected, I am rebuffed:
‘Hey, I’m sorry, she’s in California on business, maybe drop her an email or a tweet?’
‘All right, I will.’
I won’t. It’s pointless. Jenny REALLY hates me. Child abuse.
But how did I know that? I didn’t know that. Again, it proves that I am sane. Despite it all. Sane but imprisoned.
Who else? Simon. I don’t care if he is blocking my texts and calls. I will try. And I want to know if I had that confessional conversation with him: about Jamie Trewin. Because it would show how long I have been labouring under this drugged-up delusion, this druggy denial. IF I am deluded.
I ring. I expect to go to voicemail. I don’t. Someone has answered.
‘Hi, Simon?’
A pause. He’s answered, but he is not talking.
‘Simon? Are you there, Simon, I— we need to talk—’
‘This is Polly.’
Oh. Shit. Polly has answered the phone. How, has he left his phone at home? I don’t understand.
‘Ah, uh,’ I hesitate, nonplussed, the tap washes water into waste, to drown my voice, to hide me from the Assistants. I am reduced to living in the second bathroom. Frightened of furniture.
‘Never ever call this number again, Jo Ferguson. I saw that video you sent me, you and him doing it. Well done you. Very nice of you. How very sweet. How very very sweet.’
I sent a video to Polly? No I didn’t. Someone else did. Does that finally rule out Simon? He would surely never do that? So it isn’t him. Then who is manipulating me? Tabitha? Jenny? Gul?
Polly?
‘I didn’t send anything, Polly, someone has hacked my computers and sent all these horrid things and I am so sorry I don’t know what to say, if you could just—’
She interrupts. Her words are curdled with anger:
‘Our iPhones are now linked, Jo. I get his calls, I see his messages, everything is transparent, I can read all of his emails. I know you were trying to reach him a while back, but I blocked all his emails and texts, he didn’t even see them. You can’t get through to him, and you won’t in the future. Because I see everything. I will know if he ever contacts you, and he won’t because he doesn’t want to lose his baby and me, and I will totally walk away if you and he have any contact. You are shameless. Shameless and cruel. For God’s sake, we have a little baby.’ Her voice cracks quietly, my heart cracks just as quietly, inside, I know she has a baby and I would never want to hurt that family, that little baby.
‘Polly, please. Please understand, this isn’t me, I would never, no no, this isn’t me doing this.’
‘Enough. We never want to hear from you. Goodbye.’