Ghoster Page 10

  “Guess you already know the procedure for signing out drugs, then,” he mutters. “But maybe I can show you how to… log into the intranet, right?”

  Now that a grudging respect has infiltrated his manner, I decide to go easier on him. Only a little.

  “You guys might have slightly different drug protocols,” I point out, “so it’s probably worth us going over them together.”

  Tyler nods, looking relieved that he may still have things to show me. As I let him lead the way, the smirk falls off my face. Seriously, what the hell is going on in all those bizarre images on Scott’s phone? What else might I find, if I can even revive the handset?

  Argh, I’ll just have to wait until tonight. Got to stay strong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  4 October

  Dice fall, land and scatter all around me, while I enter the passcode into Scott’s phone. Thank God, the handset boots back up on this first attempt.

  Since Scott’s flat has no electricity…

  … and creeps you out…

  … I decided not to go back there after work. Instead, I bought a phone charger and stumbled upon this fun seafront café-bar, Loading, where a surprising number of young enthusiasts huddle around board games and wrestle with stand-up arcade machines.

  Something about how grounded these people are, as they focus so intently on actual physical dice, cards and joysticks, makes me feel all the more uneasy when I blank out all of this activity and delve inside the phone. Time to feed the sick hunger I’ve fought all day.

  I also crave beer, but instead I go for a pot of tea. Alcohol really didn’t help during The Great Rudolpho Trauma, so abstinence feels like the safest path for now. Without Dutch courage, I can’t see myself venturing inside the most potentially hellish apps like Tinder or WhatsApp, but that’s okay. Best to treat this phone like an agonisingly cold pool and wade in slow.

  Can’t get into either of Scott’s banking apps, because they’re fingerprint-locked. All I find among his texts are appointment reminders, takeaway delivery notifications and messages from me.

  Disappointed again, aren’t you? Almost as if you feel you deserve the punishment of discovering some outrageous affair. Still, early days…

  As I suspected, the list of Scott’s calls also offers zero kompromat. His countless contacts tell me little in themselves, mostly showing only first names or nicknames. Several incoming calls, for instance, have been made to Scott by an individual labelled only Idiot. For one disturbing moment, I check the number to make sure this person isn’t me.

  “What a complete idiot,” hoots a girl across the room. She’s good-humouredly abusing one of her fellow board game players, but the synchronicity puts me on edge. Here’s that feeling of being watched, yet again. Maybe even heard.

  Oh, you know what? All this paranoia I’ve been feeling can most likely be explained by fatigue.

  Yeah, wouldn’t that be nice and neat.

  My own contact name in this phone is not Idiot. As I’d already seen when the phone first rang on the balcony, I’m down as the hideously formal Kate Collins. Scott must have needed to differentiate between me and all the other Kates he was boffing. Beckinsale, Winslet, Moss.

  Ah! Scott’s email and browser history finally get me somewhere. Feels like I’m only scratching the surface, seeing as most people hide their tracks with private browsers, but nevertheless I make three discoveries in the time it takes me to finish my tea.

  Discovery 1: Scott really is in the shit with loan sharks.

  Emails tell me he’s been chased by the Hazelcrest Group and MMX Inc, two shady-looking outfits whose websites don’t even pretend to be friendly and reassuring. Only someone with a lousy credit history would need to darken their doorsteps.

  So, it could well be that Scott ran from these companies and felt I wouldn’t understand or accept his situation. Who knows, perhaps the mocking face he drew on the balcony window was intended for their bailiffs.

  Nah. You know very well the face was intended for you.

  Discovery 2: Scott isn’t really vegetarian.

  I found this out while scanning over a supermarket delivery confirmation email. I’d been looking out for condoms, because if Scotty Boy had bought himself a box of latex friends, they wouldn’t have been for use with me, seeing as I’m on the pill. Instead, I find sirloin steak. Unsmoked bacon. Veal cutlets.

  Wow. Of all the things Scott could have lied about, I somehow did not see this one coming. Must’ve been me who mentioned being veggie first, at the detox retreat. Handsome Laser-Wolf obviously decided to lie his face off in response. Which only confirms that he never intended to live with me. Because otherwise, what was his plan: sneaking meat into the flat to devour when I was at work?

  Discovery 3: Scott’s favourite film is not True Romance.

  Looks like he only saw the film for the first time in the days leading up to our first proper date in Leeds.

  My Spidey-senses tingled when I saw he’d Googled for the film’s Wikipedia page, one week before our River’s Edge Bar evening, then ordered the Blu-ray via Amazon Prime and downloaded the Hans Zimmer ringtone. Why would he do these things, shortly before we just so happened to discuss the movie he supposedly knew so well?

  Wait a second… I’d previously gushed all over social media about True Romance being my favourite film. What if Scott checked out those posts before our date? This does seem feasible. Creepy, but feasible.

  Pretending to be veggie, pretending we loved the same movie, lying about his age… all bullshit to suggest we were two peas in a pod, so he could reel me in. But why did Scott even want to do that? I still have no idea.

  So far, the contents of Scott’s phone support only two things he told me: his name really is Scott Palmer and he really does work in IT. This latter point I glean from endless email conversations about AD passwords, DHCP servers and a serious case of PBCAK. He’s been under real pressure, it seems, with countless people chasing him on deadlines and even cancelling contracts altogether. In one particularly heated email thread, he protests to a disgruntled client that his mum’s in hospital, having her left leg amputated below the knee. Since this is the first time I’ve seen him mention his mother anywhere, this just looks like an excuse. In reality, is she even still alive?

  I see you, Scott Palmer, and I’m closing in.

  Unlocking his phone was the correct decision, because this process will show me the reality of the man I fell in love with. This process will diminish him and ultimately disperse the smokescreen.

  I daren’t return to the Videos folder in case the phone dies again…

  … and in case you see more of the disturbing stuff you glimpsed there…

  … but those thumbnails are bothering me, and so are the bizarre horror-porn photos. I should at least research where Scott got the latter. A hive-mind would really help right now, so I summon Facebook in his browser. Takes me a while to remember my email address, let alone the password, but finally I reactivate my account. Facebook’s welcome-home message carries more than a hint of We knew you’d be back, ya big sap.

  “Hello, everyone!” I type in my first FB post since March. “Yes, yes, I’m back. Only for a short while, but it’s nice to see you all. And in the meantime, I need my horror-fan pals to identify which film these stills came from. Please don’t report them to FB for indecency. Ha! Cheers.”

  I attach a few of the less sexually explicit stills, then fire my post off into The Zuckerberg Machine. If the algorithm’s in a particularly good mood tonight, it will be seen by all 324 of my FB friends.

  Rudolpho springs to mind. I wonder what that arsehole’s been up to…

  Nope, nope, no. Back away from the Facebook, Miss Collins.

  The thought of opening Tinder still makes me feel sick, as does the prospect of tomorrow’s super-early first shift in the new ambulance.

  Coward.

  Uh-uh, brain, you just mispronounced the word professional. Time to whip my charger out of the wa
ll, leave all these rolling dice behind me and slope across the road to the Van Spencer building. Anxiety dictates that I check all my boxes are okay. Anything could have happened in the flat while I spent hours barely enduring Tyler’s chest-beating mansplainery. If Scott really is messing with me on some hardcore level, then why wouldn’t he go the whole hog and steal my boxes, then dump them in the sea?

  Slowly, oh so slowly, I twist the handle of the door to the flat.

  Locked. Even so, Scott could still be inside.

  Behind me, another door bursts open and I almost wet myself.

  An old guy in a flat cap is leaving Flat Twenty-Two. He looks me over, trying to work out who I am. When I grin and say hi, he smiles, nods and heads towards the lift. No doubt he’s used to seeing strange women coming in and out of here…

  I twist my key in the lock so very carefully that the final clunk makes me flinch.

  Scott’s dark hallway greets me with a stony silence, as if trying to say, You shouldn’t be here. Please leave for your safety. Just inside the door sit three of my boxes in a pile – the ones I used to barricade the door last night. But did I leave them stacked like this?

  Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t.

  What if Scott’s in here, waiting for me?

  Clutching a bunch of flowers, no doubt, desperate to explain everything. Yeah, right.

  I creep along the hall. Peering through the archway into the living room lit only by street lamps, I glimpse the man standing there and jolt back into the hall with my heart thumping.

  My brain soon catches up with my highly strung reflexes. What I’ve done here is mistake the highest tower of my boxes for a person. Well done, Kate. Still, at least the boxes are still here.

  Further along the hall, I can’t help listening out for the whir of tiny, hidden camera lenses.

  Using Scott’s phone as a torch, I check the bathroom, then enter the bedroom.

  The closed walk-in wardrobe door gives me pause. Can’t help picturing Scott in there, waiting with a grin, confident that I won’t check inside.

  If he is, then I’m about to prove him wrong.

  When I tug open the door, my breath stays held until torchlight demystifies every single corner of the space.

  Okay, no one’s home except me. If I really can call this place home.

  I light all six of the taper candles I bought, position them around the living room, then sit on the garden chair to take another look around Scott’s home screen. One unfamiliar app speaks to me: TrooSelf. Could any phrase sum up my mission more succinctly than wanting to discover Scott’s true self?

  The app’s start-up screen runs a twee animation of a human heart being placed inside a heavy-duty safe. Above the safe, in some kind of Courier font, materialise the words TrooSelf: the private diary that stays private. Further down, it adds: Document the real you, 100% secure. Then, at the bottom of the screen, a progress bar says Loading…

  Could this diary document the inner workings of the real Scott Palmer? If so, I’ve hit the motherlode early, but here’s that fear again. Who knows what I’m about to see? I should probably shut down the app, shut down the phone, chuck it off the pier and get on with my life.

  Transfixed, I watch the progress bar fill. The front screen gives way to a list of what I presume are the titles of diary entries.

  The first title, for an entry dated 9 February this year, sends my imagination shooting off in all directions:

  I Am Possessed

  All righty, then. What in the name of God’s fat balls is that supposed to mean?

  And damn, here’s an aggressive pop-up window. TrooSelf requires two passwords before it will show me the diary entries? I really hope Scott told his phone to save these passwords. Most people never really expect their handsets to get broken into, do they?

  While I wait in vain for the empty password fields to auto-populate, a candle dies for no apparent reason. Big deal, there are five more. But here I am again, with no clue as to what either password might be. Where is Scott’s amazing pamphlet full of passwords when I need it? If this app really does live up to its security claims, I can expect it to lock up after three attempts. Five at the very most. So I stop trying.

  Still, at least the titles of the other six diary entries remain visible. These are:

  Out, Demon, Out

  My Sweet Saviour

  I Am In Love With V

  Burning New Pathways Into The Brain

  Joining The Death Grip Cult

  The End

  Fucking hell, this is one big barrel of WTF.

  Out, Demon, Out? No idea.

  Burning New Pathways Into The Brain? What. Does. That. Even. Mean.

  Joining The Death Grip Cult? Very worrying indeed. When I Google for death grip cult, the results include an article from 2010 about an update issue with the iPhone 4, the Wiki-page for a 2012 martial arts movie called Death Grip (about a Satanic cult, apparently) and a Merriam-Webster dictionary definition. The latter offers an example of the term death grip in a sentence: the cult leader had such a death grip on his followers that all orders were carried out without the slightest objection. Thanks, Merriam-Webster: that hasn’t freaked me out at all…

  Another candle dies. Must be a draught getting through those windows.

  Or the death grip cult might be messing with you.

  Oh God, pipe down.

  I Am In Love With V? Since my name doesn’t begin with “V”, this particular missive must be about some other woman. How delightful. Especially as this particular entry is dated 7 June, which fell between the detox retreat and our Leeds date. Will keep an eye out for names beginning with V when I finally wade through Tinder and the like. Forewarned is forearmed, or something.

  Wow, though: Scott was in love with somebody else, back in June? Having assumed him to be a serial shagger, I didn’t even consider this possibility. As soon as he realised he was in love with someone else, why would he carry on dating Kate Collins? Am I really that good in bed?

  I am pretty good in bed.

  Hmm. Could Scott have been referring to the 1980s sci-fi series V? Doubtful.

  This final entry, The End, feels ominous. Particularly as this one comes straight after Joining The Death Grip Cult and was written a mere three days ago on 1 October. Jesus, what if Scott killed himself? The thought makes me feel ill. Why would he do that? Who knows? Over the years at work, I’ve consoled so many friends and relatives of people who decided to leave this planet without having displayed a single warning sign.

  Frustrating that I can’t get inside this thing. So frustrating. What now?

  Bed, that’s what. Time to clean my teeth.

  The air in the bathroom tastes stale and stagnant. There’s no external window, only a small, ineffectual air-con grate up by the ceiling. The glossy shower curtain’s gone, but there’s a delightful mildew scent that I’d never noticed before. Because love.

  Here’s something handy that Scott showed me: when you flick a tiny switch at one side of the sink mirror, it frames the glass with battery-powered light. I jam my electric toothbrush into my mouth and press the button that treats my gums to the car-wash experience.

  I need to sleep, but surely I can just take one more quick look at Scott’s phone once I’m settled down on the living room floor? What possible harm could—

  BZZZZZZ.

  That crazy entryphone buzzer rocks the whole flat.

  Fucking hell, who’s this? How I hate being so back-footed, with no clue where I stand in this place. Someone might be coming to kick me out at any time, and I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Where would I go, especially with all these boxes?

  Standing in the bathroom doorway with the toothbrush still buzzing my gums, I gaze along the moon-spattered corridor to that handset on the wall beside the front door.

  I positively will the entryphone not to make that godawful noise again.

  BZZZZZZ.

  What I hate even more than being back-footed is the fear. The fact th
at someone wants in. Some faceless, invisible person, whose identity I won’t know until I tug the entryphone off its cradle.

  What if this visitor isn’t even human?

  WTF, brain? That’s ludicrous and far from helpful.

  You feel it, though, don’t you? You feel that something’s wrong here.

  Stepping out of the bathroom, I await the third demand for entry.

  Seriously, what is wrong with me? I am a coward. All that’s happening is some human being or other is standing a few floors down, pressing the buttons marked two, three and call.

  This is only a human being.

  But what if it ain’t, coward?

  I’m walking now. Closing in on the front door, closing in…

  I fully expect the entryphone to blare in my face, but somehow the silence screams louder.

  Only a human being, I tell myself, feeling so silly as I reach for the handset. This is some flesh-and-blood person who eats and shits and brushes their teeth, just like me.

  Oh God, I’m still brushing my teeth. How am I supposed to speak?

  I snatch the handset from the cradle and jam it against my ear.

  There’s nothing. No sound at all.

  Hopefully, whoever it was has given up. While I’m here, I feel around on the entryphone wall-cradle for a mute switch, but no, that would be way too conv—

  Knock-knock-knock from the other side of the door.

  I swallow the toothpaste. Totally swallow the lot.

  My head spins. I’m wondering why this visitor has refused to take no for an answer while I simultaneously recall online scare-stories about swallowing toothpaste.

  Way back along the dark hall, the bathroom’s mirror light flickers and makes the front door’s spyhole glisten, as if inviting me to take a look outside.

  Mint, mint, so much mint. The paste burns my gullet, like radioactive gloop.

  Knock-knock-knock-knock-KNOCK.

  Only a human being. An infuriatingly impatient human being…

  Stepping up against the door, I carefully plant my right eye against the spyhole.