The room is cold. Daylight has died outside. Evening is here. Good. The cold will keep my brain active. Sitting down, I stare at the screen Assistant on the living room table. The Assistant bought by Tabitha as a present.
I’ve never used it. I hate it. I hate the permanent camera in it, the unblinking eye that never stops watching. I used to think it was Arlo, inside that box, watching me. I also wondered if it was Simon, Gul, Anna, Tabitha, my own mind, but now I know it is Jenny. And I think I know how to use this same technology against her. Presumably she has been watching me, through the screen, by using Drop By. You say ‘Drop By’ and there you are, live, looking in someone’s home. If they have given permission. But she will have engineered that permission, so as to watch me.
This, however, means the tech will work both ways. It has to. It’s in the DNA and cannot be altered. Not even, I reckon, by Jenny Lansman.
This is the way to do it. Show her I know, that I have agency, that she cannot fuck with me, not any more. She can avoid me by blocking my texts, ignoring my calls, muting my messages. But this will work automatically. And she needs to SEE my evidence. And I will use her own tech against her to do it.
Leaning close to the screen, I say, ‘Drop by on Jenny Lansman.’
I wait. Tensed. Fingers trembling. Will it work?
The screen goes blurred, and then – ahhh – it unblurs. I am looking inside Jenny Lansman’s flat. I can see her, smoking a cigarette, sitting on a sofa, holding a book. Her eyes are fixed. As if she is in a trance. The cigarette ash tumbles to the floor and she doesn’t even notice, such is her concentration. I can’t quite make out the title of the book. It has a blue cover. I faintly recognize it. Could it be Plath? – have I actually caught her reading Plath?
‘Hi, Jenny,’ I say. ‘It’s Jo.’
Her shocked face turns to her screen Assistant. She drops the book on the floor. She stands and comes closer to the screen.
‘Yes, Jenny. I’m here. And I know everything. Somebody’s done for, but it won’t be me.’
I cannot work out the expression on her face. It is vividly distracted. She looks as if she is waking from a dream, as if I have interrupted some hypnosis. Then she shakes her head, and stubs the cigarette out, directly on to the surface of her table.
‘What do you want, Jo Ferguson?’
I lift the open book. And show it to her.
‘You always liked Plath, didn’t you, Jenny? That’s why you wrote the inscription in this book, which you gave to my mum. And I know it is you, because it is your handwriting.’
I lift up my second piece of evidence, as if I am in a courtroom. The note, with her name and number. And the big looping Y.
‘Nobody writes freehand any more, you said. Well, you wrote this, very helpfully. So I know it is you. Doing all this.’
Jenny is sneering. I rush on.
‘I’ve told Simon. He knows everything. Tabitha knows, everyone knows. But all I want to know is: why? Why, Jenny? Why destroy me? It’s finished now, so I want you to come over here, and tell me why, and I want you to undo whatever you did to these machines. Or I will go to the police.’
At last she speaks, her voice monotonous: ‘You can’t go to the police. Get a grip.’
I snap back, ‘I don’t fucking care any more. You killed my mother. I don’t care if I go to jail as long as you do too. And you will. You stole my money. You must have committed a hundred crimes, and the police will investigate, and they will find out why you did this.’
I see her shake her head, contemptuously. What possible motivation could she have? What is it? What drives her? I have to know.
‘Do it,’ I say. ‘Do it right now. Come over NOW. Come over and explain, and take your craziness out of my home.’
Her expression softens. I cannot work out why. Calmly, she replies, ‘All right, Jo Ferguson. All right. I’ll come over. And explain.’ She pauses, letting the silence weigh on me. Then she says, ‘I’ll fix your Assistants. And I’ll tell you the truth. Maybe it is time you knew. Finally.’