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Chapter 16: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 19: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 20: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 21: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 22: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 23: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 24: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 25: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 26: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 27: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 28: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 29: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 30: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 31: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 32: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 33: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 34: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 35: Wednesday 16 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 36: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 37: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 38: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 39: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 40: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 41: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 42: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 43: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 44: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 45: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 46: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 47: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 48: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 49: Thursday 17 March (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 50 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 51 (#litres_trial_promo)
Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)
Q & A with Laura Higgins, Online Safety Operations Manager of the Revenge Porn Helpline (#litres_trial_promo)
Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Angela Clarke (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#ulink_b8185804-7a4c-5099-aeef-cd6598c47361)
She gets off the bus one stop early, opting to take the muddy back path over the busy main school gate. She could slip in unnoticed. A lie, but the greasy, stone-spiked, mouldering leaves and dog-wee-splashed track give her a few more seconds of cover. Mum doesn’t believe she’s sick. But she is. A heavy, squirming bacterium has multiplied inside her, thousands of poisonous sacs settling in weighty pockets of flesh. They could see it. They could sense it.She’d never be accepted. She knew that now. Adults say it’s because she’s clever: what a joke! It’s because she’s defective. Malformed. A broken pot which has bulged and cracked in the kiln. Her stomach is looped and low, her breasts sagging boulders pulling her down. The tops of her thighs burn through her straining tights. She can feel the welts forming: raw blisters on the skin. There’s a comfort in the pain: penance. Wincing, she thinks of the restraining hands. Pushing her down. She strokes the bruise on her arm, and tries to blot out what happened next.
In the schoolyard two girls, younger than her, patent record bags slung over their shoulders, giggle. Their voices drop as she nears them. Why would they be bothered with her? There’s a shout from a group of year seven boys, she looks at the asphalt when she sees they’re watching her too. What’s going on? Her heart drums a warning in her ears. Gripping the strap of her school bag tight, she walks faster, almost running by the time she reaches her locker. The hallway and stairs teem with students, her year, the years above and below, a hundred eyes greedily turned on her. Someone shouts: ‘Slut!’ Her cheeks burn. Sweat pools under her arms, her breasts, her back, choking wafts catching in her throat. What’s happened? Anxiety surges through her. Her fingers slip as she enters the pin code for her locker. They’re waiting; the air is tense with expectation, and the joke she’s not in on. She steps back as she opens her locker, fearful something’ll burst out. What she sees is worse. Photos have been slid into the locker through the sides. Her with her shirt unbuttoned. Gelatinous mountains of breasts. Her skirt round her waist. Knickers pulled down. With clumsy hands, she tries to stuff the pictures into her bag. To cover them. To cover herself. They skitter across the floor. Panic fizzes like sherbet through her, foaming into her eyes. Falling onto her knees, desperate to hide them, she scrabbles for the photos as they slip and scrape across the vinyl.
‘Nice minge!’ a boy shouts. They’re all laughing.
‘Whore!’ a girl calls. Another spits at her. Jerking back to avoid it, her bottom bangs into the locker behind. A fresh wave of laughter. There’s a tight, jeering knot of friends around the spitting girl. All she can see are leering, cackling faces. Vicious monkeys that flood the stairs, swarm through the hallway. Someone waves the photo in the air. Another boy pretends to lick it.They all have it. She’s pinned, skewed like a caught butterfly, displayed for all the world to see.
Inside, the sacs rupture, and she’s washed in a wave of black. Her heart breaks.
Chapter 1 (#ulink_fc9c5e84-52fd-5ceb-82ae-2852cec83fd8)
Friday 11 March (#ulink_fc9c5e84-52fd-5ceb-82ae-2852cec83fd8)
20:00
Melisha Khan stared at the message on her phone. An image. Words. A timer. You’ve got six seconds to view this. Her school uniform felt like it was tightening, her white shirt compressing, her striped tie snaking around her neck. Her mind scrabbled for normality. Five seconds. Her hand shook. Her fingers didn’t respond.
Four seconds. Her eyes spun off the words on the note and ricocheted round the room.
I can’t go on …
Pages of highlighted French GCSE notes fanned around her feet. Her laptop upended. Three seconds. A stain of red nail polish spread on the floor.
I can’t live in fear …
Melisha tried to form a sound. Her lips were lax, useless, dull. Inside her a voice screamed this is important. Do something. Anything. Two seconds.
This is the only way …
Melisha thought she was mature. Had it all sussed out. She felt the cold reality now. Cotton-wool wraps, safety, childhood, were stripped away. She was raw. Alert. Adult. This was the moment she grew up.Her eyes fixed on the words, the sentences. The note came into focus:
As I type this I feel calmer. I’m doing the right thing. It’s a relief. I can’t go on after people find out. It’s disgusting. I’ve let down my friends, family, teachers, everyone. Only those who’ve seen will know why. I can’t live in fear of it coming out. All the lies are finished. Mum, Dad, Freya, Gemma, I screwed up. I can’t hurt you more. I love you. It’s time I fixed the mess I made. This is the only way. I promise you all you’re better off without me. I know you’ll feel sad reading this, but I know that’ll be over soon. The pain will fade. Your tears will dry. You’ll live happy lives. I love you. Now it’s time to go. I’ll be dead within twenty-four hours of you receiving this note.
One second. From deep inside the command grew, forcing its way up and out of her, juddering her whole body. ‘Mum!’ she screamed. And the photo vanished.
Saturday 12 March
20:01
His bike sped through the wood, jumping the tree roots which pushed through the muddy ground like bony fingers. His brother’s bike light, lower and slower, turned birch trees into streaks of white in the dark. The wind whipped back from him. He was flying. Fifteen minutes till curfew.
A flash of orange caught his eye. Treasure. He skidded to a halt as the path gave way to a grass clearing, grey in the gloom.
His brother shouted behind him. ‘We’re late!’ Nose and cheeks pink from the cold, he didn’t want to get in trouble. ‘Whose bag is that?’
‘Dunno.’ He kicked at the handbag with his toe. ‘Looks like a girl’s.’ There were folders and books in the top. He laughed, teasing, ‘Maybe she’s shagging someone!’
‘Gross!’ His brother’s small face screwed up.
‘Let’s take it for Mum.’ He knew he’d freak. Stealing was naughty.
There was no squeal. His brother didn’t answer. He looked up at him, he was pale. Eyes wide saucers. Mouth like a goldfish.
‘What?’
He gulped as he pointed behind them. His arms shaking. Turning was like watching a replay on his computer game. Slow mo. Behind them, five, maybe six big steps away was a girl. Lying down. Curled up. His ears went weird. Like whistling. Her forehead was on the grass, face turned towards them. She had pretty yellow hair. It was cold out there. He stepped towards her.
His brother whimpered – ‘No!’ – his voice whiney. He made a sound like their cat did when it had a fur ball.
He took another step. Her eyes were open. They were black like a doll’s. He jumped. Thought he might pee himself. Gripped his trousers. ‘She’s dead.’
‘I want Mummy,’ his brother cried.
‘She’s dead.’ He stumbled back, treading on his toes. Fell over his bicycle. This was real. He had to protect his brother. He was the eldest. He grabbed for him and the bike. ‘Go. Get going!’ Tears burned his eyes. He wanted Mum. He wanted Dad. Scrambling, he pulled his own bike up. The metal was ice in his hands. ‘Go!’ he shouted as they pedalled. Faster. Faster. Looking back he saw her lying in the moonlight. Her dead black eyes watching them.
Monday 14 March
13:27
From: FreddieVenton@gmail.com
To: GStrofton@NHS.net
Subject: Hello
Hey Nurse Strofton!
Long time no hear! I saw Nasreen Cudmore a few months ago. We ended up working together. You might have seen it on the news? Bit crazy – hunting a serial killer!! She said you were a midwife. That she’d seen you a few years back. So I thought I’d look you up. I found you on the hospital website and had a guess at your address – there looks like there’s a standard format. Hope this doesn’t bounce back! Well, this is weird. After all this time. It’s taken me weeks to write this. And I call myself a journalist – ha! I’ve been taking some time off actually. I had to have an operation, needed a bit of time to recover. But that’s not really important. I’m writing because I wanted to say sorry. My therapist thinks it might help to go back and apologise to those I feel I’ve hurt. Can you imagine that? Me with a counsellor! What a London twat I am! But the truth is I am sorry for everything that happened back then. I was just a kid, and there was some stuff going on with my parents. Not that that’s an excuse. I’m sorry. I hope you’re okay. I want you to be happy.
If you ever fancy catching up for a drink or something, I’m staying back with my parents right now. They’re still in Pendrick. Your hospital’s only thirty minutes away according to Google Maps. Let me know … For old time’s sake?
Cheers,
Freddie x
From: GStrofton@NHS.net
To: FreddieVenton@gmail.com
Subject: Re: Hello
Never contact me again.
Chapter 2 (#ulink_0ad163ad-c7a2-5ced-bd5e-c0c2b691e5d9)
Wednesday 16 March (#ulink_0ad163ad-c7a2-5ced-bd5e-c0c2b691e5d9)
09:05
Sergeant Nasreen Cudmore had never been hungover before. A slight headache, sure. Nothing a paracetamol wouldn’t fix. But this morning her body was rebelling. Her mouth felt fur-lined, like the inside of an over-worn Ugg boot. The insipid March sunlight burned her eyes. She’d escaped the nauseous sway of the tube to pant along Victoria Tower Gardens, veering right and away from Millbank and the Thames, perspiration seeping into her collared shirt. Her long black hair, washed hurriedly, clung damp and freezing against her neck. She wasn’t a big drinker at the best of times, and this certainly wasn’t the best of times. Moments from last night ignited in her memory. Fingers ripping at shirt buttons. Loosening belts. Her hands on his warm skin.
The yellowing art deco chunks of the secure building that housed the Met’s Specialist Crime and Operations units came into view. Only the presence of concrete car-bomb barriers, dressed up as flowerbeds, distinguished it as anything other than a normal Westminster office block. DCI Jack Burgone had headhunted Nasreen to join his specialised cyber and e-crime Gremlin taskforce after her involvement in a high-profile murder investigation last year. Eight weeks into her new job, and the rest of the now four-man team still didn’t seem thrilled to have her on board. DI McCain, who preferred to go by the nickname Chips, had raised his salt-and-pepper eyebrows upon meeting her. After twenty-five years of exemplary service in the paedophile unit, eight of those under DCI Burgone, Chips had been looking to take a less active role. But Burgone had persuaded him to join the newly conceived Gremlin unit. They’d been joined by DI Pete Saunders – a vain, ambitious thirty-five year old who liked to remind people of his achievements both in and out of the job. Saunders took great delight in pointing out others’ shortcomings. Especially Nasreen’s. In the two years since it’d been formed, the triumvirate Gremlin unit had overseen a number of successful ops, including the apprehension of the founder of underground drugs website Lotus Road. DCI Burgone was the force’s golden boy: dedicated, focused and well connected from his days at Eton, he’d shunned a job at a government boardroom table in favour of real results on the frontline of the force. And Nasreen was the newbie who’d got drunk in the pub. Way to go, Cudmore.
At twenty-four, Nasreen had spring-boarded from the graduate fast-track scheme, and landed a promotion to Detective Sergeant. Fast. She’d worked hard, and sometimes at great personal cost, to get where she was, but her age, her skin tone, and what she’d been told were her good looks had left her dogged by accusations of favouritism, tokenism, or worse. Not being able to hold a drink in front of her colleagues was not going to help.
9.07 a.m. She was late for the morning meeting. She’d never been late before. Ever. It was the second thing she’d done for the first time in the last twenty-four hours. She was never going to have a one-night stand again, either. Licking her dry lips she caught a taste of him. Shame burst through her body in a fresh wave of sweat. They’d sense it straight away. Chips and Saunders knew she was out of her depth in the team, and she’d played right into their hands. Idiot. Could she call in sick?
People, officers and civilian support staff were streaming past now. Her feet felt as though they were moving of their own accord. Marching her forward. After the total fool she’d made of herself, and consumed by burning embarrassment, Nasreen’s need to people please still overrode everything else. Swiping her ID card, she hurried into the lift, pulling her hair into a ponytail and scraping under her eyes for stray mascara. The email she’d sent was seared onto her mind. Too little, too late.
This morning’s meeting was to cover the case they’d been discussing in the pub last night. Several glasses of red in, and after a busy day during which she hadn’t managed to grab lunch or dinner, the details were hazy. Did it involve going into a school to talk about e-safety? Saunders had suggested that might be a suitably non-challenging role for her. She’d laughed, but it hadn’t been a joke. It was something to do with social media; she scrolled through her phone. A little yellow square with a white ghost on it denoted the newly downloaded app. Snapchat – that was it. It was something about school kids sending messages via the app. Was it bullying?Used to always being prepared, Nasreen hated floundering for answers. It was one of the reasons she was good at her job: she liked to know why, liked to ask questions, put things, and people, where they belonged. Uncertainty was what life gave you; order was what you made with it.
Opening the Snapchat app, an unread message from yesterday appeared: a photo of Saunders’s chiselled face grimacing at her, his manicured stubble casting a five o’clock shadow over his skin. Cartoon dog ears and a tongue added to the surreal effect. A timer in the corner of the photo wound down from eight seconds, after which the image would disappear. If only she could do that with last night. Snapchat’s USP was that images or videos were only viewable for a time dictated by the sender. Then they vanished. You couldn’t see them again. Why? Some people – other people – sent sexy photos of themselves to lovers. A glimpse of her lacy peach knickers crashed through her head. And black boxer shorts. Hair flopping forwards into those penetrating blue eyes. Lips on lips. Skin on skin. The lift door opened onto the spotless, cream-walled, grey-carpeted corridor. Her floor.
