The Exit (16 page)

And that was the funeral: efficient, gentle, appropriate, sad, loving.

Back at home, alone, I took off the sweet black dress Mum had bought for me and lay on my bed. What was I supposed to do now?

I got up, grabbed a suitcase from the hall cupboard, and began packing for Costa Rica. I was loaded now. I could change the flight and leave immediately. Perfect. I packed my bikinis, my summer dresses, summer shoes, sunglasses, bright, happy things, then looked in the mirror . . . Why had I wanted to go to Costa Rica? To dance on beaches and drink in bars. I couldn’t imagine wanting to dance again, or drink in bars with strange men who I’d seduce then chuck three weeks later. I shoved the packed suitcase back in the hall cupboard.

I needed Mum to tell me what to do next. I needed a meeting, with an agenda. I looked through all the envelopes she’d left – mortgage, car, funeral . . . none labelled ‘What you should do now.’

If she had, what would she have written? I thought about the way she described me to others – Catherine is very kind. She has always looked after me. She has always wanted to do good. She doesn’t care about money or status.

She’d tell me to do a postgrad in social work, and she’d be right. She was always right. Her mourners were spot on. She was the cleverest, and the least phony person I’ve ever known. Not an ounce of phony in her.

I took a piece of paper and began the first list I had ever written for myself. Before I knew it, the page was filled with my hopes and dreams, and I was filled with optimism that I would do five-fifths of them.

Phony . . . I hadn’t used this word ever. Now, it seemed to be coming up all the time. Phony.
Catcher in the Rye
.

I opened my laptop, the Enter Your Password box daring me with its flicker.

I typed catcherintherye.

No, I would not become obsessed again. I would get on with my life, my list. Do something that made sense, something that mattered. I would – after one more try:

catcherrye

Just one more.

ryecatcher

Registering wasn’t hard. Three questions altogether: Age, Sex, Location. I became a fifty-nine-year-old male from Aberdeenshire called tex59. After registering and choosing my own password, I turned my computer off, annoyed at myself for ignoring a very impressive and sensible list, one I now knew I wanted to work my way through. Okay, so Marcus had some super secure websitey type thing, and was a weirdo who lied about cars coming and going in the middle of the night, but what did I care? Mum had done her business with Dear Green and it had worked out almost as she planned. We’d had quiet time together there. I’d grown up. I’d learned how to care for her. She’d felt safe with me by her side. Job done. So walk away, Catherine. Walk away from meaningless online activities that encourage you to take gap years from living. Walk away, no need to read on . . .

I was taking a gamble, guessing this was how people found the site.

I didn’t, obviously. I didn’t even have raw chicken, only frozen.

Marcus was obviously caulfield. I had no idea who the others were. I also had no idea what kind of fucked-up picture they expected me to send, and if I could do it. But I had to know what else was on that site. I walked around the house looking for ideas. Would frozen chicken interest them? What if I lay down on my bed and looked dead? I could drive to a country road and set myself up to look like roadkill. Hmm . . . chicken too tame, the others too public.

The phone rang and I listened to Paul’s message. ‘Hey you, I don’t think you should be alone. I’m bringing you food at eight. You have no choice in the matter. See you then.’

Paul! His dad’s abattoir! I packed a few things and drove out of the city towards Fintry. It was ten to five when I stopped fifty metres from the driveway. The shed was in a beautiful setting, about half a mile from Paul’s family home. I watched the last of the workers leave, his dad locking the large doors, then got out of the car with my bag of props and scoured the building to find a way in. All the doors had been locked, but there was a small window at the back which was open. A few minutes later I was hanging upside down, knees curled over a metal pole attached to the ceiling. I only had pants and a sleeveless T-shirt on. The T-shirt fell just below my bra, so you could see tex59, La Petite Mort and the date written in red lip liner on one side of my stomach. My head was covered in a hessian bag, tied with a string. Beside me, hooves on hooks, was a dead pig, its stomach slit open, insides spilling. I let my head fall limp and took several selfies, hoping one of them would turn out okay.

I hesitated for ages before posting the picture. I looked as dead as the pig, and it felt so wildly wrong. Eventually I did, though, then sat on the sofa and stared at the screen, hoping a response would arrive before Paul did.

Holy shit, she understood, and it had made her sick on the carpet. Did it happen again last night? Oh dear oh dear, what had they done to her friend? She had to call Chris. No! Not Chris. The police. No! They never believed a thing she said, and no wonder. Catherine! She had her phone number somewhere. Catherine had given it to her before she left. Where was it? In the small silver book in her desk? No, that small book was all wrong. It had numbers in it, but not the right kind. Had she tapped it into her phone. No, her phone was long gone, taken.

She looked through all the books on the shelves: pictures and words, no numbers. She emptied her drawers – clothes, no numbers. She counted out loud in case she’d read or heard the number and it came back to her. 1-2-3, but the one after that didn’t even come to her. 1. Was her number 1? Of course not! She looked in the bathroom, under the bed. She tilted the bedside cabinet so it leant against the bed. Money and boxes of matches were taped to the bottom, and something else – what was that? – but no number. She looked under the mattress, under the pillows. There was no number and of course there was no number under the pillows! And why was she looking for numbers anyway? Remember, remember Rose. Sick on the floor. Something had made her vomit. She felt dizzy, sat at her desk, took some slow breaths. Before vomiting she’d written something, a red-biro scrawl.

Catherine! But where did she live? Was it in Glasgow? Was what in Glasgow?

Catherine! She had no time to dither in this dungeon. She had to hurry.

There was no one around. The only noises were coming from Nancy’s room. Rose picked her lock open, walked across the hall, and peeked in – Gavin was sitting in the armchair, pillow on lap, watching the television. All clear. Note in hand, she raced to the front door and across the field.

It was difficult to light a fire in the rain. The twigs were all damp, every single one. These northern twigs would probably always be wet. She scrunched the sheet of paper in her hand into a loose ball, covered it with the driest twigs she’d managed to find, carefully placed them in a teepee shape on top, and – bum! – she had no matches. She’d have to go back to the farmhouse and get matches. She ran as fast as she could, but she must have made a wrong turn, because the farmhouse wasn’t where it should be. Where was she? Oh God, where had she left Margie? By the tree. Where was the tree? By the river, by the bend in the river. What bend? Where was the river? There was no river, just fields to the left, fields to the right, fields everywhere. No river, no trees. Oh God, Margie, poor Margie, where had she left her? She was lost! She stamped her feet, stamped and stamped. ‘You’re a selfish girl, Rose Price! A selfish, selfish girl!’ She collapsed to the ground, and didn’t mind that the earth scratched at her face. She deserved it.

I’d heard nothing an hour later. The forum had gone quiet except for that grievingme9 person yapping on about his or her mother’s death in a very uncomfortable way. I closed my eyes, exhausted, and slept until my mobile rang.

‘Catherine?’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘It’s Rose’s grandson, Chris. I hope you don’t mind, I got your number from Marcus. I’m calling because Rose ran away a while ago and I wondered if she’d gone to yours. Her tag was found under her bed. She must have cut it off.’

‘No, she’s not here. I don’t think she knows where I live. Have you called the police?’

‘Of course. They’ll check the area but they’re busy so I don’t know how quickly they’ll get onto it. I’m on my way back from Aberdeen and can’t go out myself – just wanted to check with you.’

‘What about her old house, or Natalie’s?’

A long pause before: ‘Of course.’

‘I can go see.’

‘No, no. Leave it, it’s fine. I’m sure she’ll be okay. Thanks.’

‘Are you sure?’

He’d already hung up.

I rang Natalie straight away – left a message on her voicemail. I jumped in the car and drove to Natalie’s house. Cutting the tag had seemed the right thing to do at the time, but now . . . oh God, I hoped Rose hadn’t tried to get across the river again.

I tried Natalie’s back door when she didn’t answer the front. No luck. A prying neighbour poked her head over the hedge to scold me. ‘Should you be in there?’

‘Just wondering where Natalie is.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Sorry – I’m Catherine Mann. A friend of hers, a mutual friend of Rose Price. Is Natalie around?’

‘No, actually, Brian’s beside himself with worry because she didn’t come home last night. He dropped the boys with me so he could go look for her.’

There was a lot of noise coming from the neighbour’s garden. Natalie’s boys were kicking a football around, laughing.

‘Did he call the police?’

‘Not yet. She’d started doing some agency work. He thinks she might have just got caught up in an emergency.’

Before I drove home I tried Natalie’s number again. Voicemail. Tried Chris’s, switched off. Tried Dear Green. No answer.

As I drove to Dear Green, I wondered if someone there was grievingme9 and elvishasleft. I supposed sickos gravitated to each other, and what better place than a house full of dying people.

Harriet was flustered. ‘You can’t just barge in here now!’ But I already had. Rose’s room was empty, and she’d not drawn a new page since I left, or at least I couldn’t find one. If she had, they’d probably thrown it out like all the others.

Room 7 was locked, as ever. There were well over fifty used paper cups in the bin by the water cooler. Last night was a busy night, by the looks.

Harriet was following me around. ‘The police are looking for her. Catherine, you really can’t come in here like this.’

‘Did someone die last night?’

‘No. Catherine, and I know this is a hard time for you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.’

I tossed the cup back in the bin with the others. ‘Okay, I’m off.’ As I passed Room 3, Jimmy hollered.

‘Hey, lovely!’

Harriet was at my heels. ‘Is it all right if I say hi to Jim?’

‘Five minutes.’ She shrugged, and headed to the kitchen.

Jimmy was lying in bed in his pyjamas. I closed his door and kept my distance. ‘Did someone die last night?’

‘No. I’m still here!’

‘Have you seen Rose?’

‘No. Hey, don’t s’pose you got any more of that grass? It was nice! A giggly one. What was it, Hawaiian Snow? It was so good to giggle!’

He wasn’t comfortable with the pause, maybe knew what was coming. ‘I know about you, Jimmy.’

‘Ah, you know.’ I expected him to be mortified, embarrassed, remorseful, or at least full of excuses. Instead: ‘I did my time, Catherine.’

He held my stare. I think I felt more threatened by his than he did by mine. I left.

When I turned my head to avoid seeing Mum’s room I spotted Gavin reading to Nancy in their room. He looked like a very sweet old man. The nausea was rising. I raced out to the driveway, lowered my head to bring the blood back, and took several long slow breaths. Surrounding my feet were fresh tyre tracks, everywhere, loads of them.

I peeked into the window of Room 7 from the back of the house. I hadn’t noticed this when I found Mum lying in there, but the glass had been fixed since Rose smashed it, jail-like metal bars had been bolted to the outside, and new curtains had been installed. I couldn’t see inside at all.

Marcus didn’t answer his door, but it was open, so I let myself in. The place was a mess. Bottles and overflowing ashtrays everywhere. He was fully clothed, asleep on the sofa in the drawing room, mouth half open. He’d had a party last night. I didn’t try to wake him. He revolted me. This place scared me. I had to get away.

I ran to the tree by the river, but Rose wasn’t there. She had been recently, by the looks. A perfectly formed teepee-style fire had been set, ready for the matches she probably went hunting for afterwards. She must have wandered off from here, and got lost.

I dialled Mum’s old mobile, hoping Rose had remembered where she hid it, and how to use it. It rang out. I decided I should go home, in case she found out where I lived, and headed there.

When I got home, I rang Natalie and Chris again. Still no answer from Natalie, and no sign of Rose, Chris said. I was about to phone the police when a message popped up on the forum:

I braced myself, fully expecting to be shocked and disgusted by pictures like mine – of raw meat, dead animals, perhaps nakedness, I couldn’t imagine what else, but when I clicked
Explore
I journeyed far deeper than shock and disgust. Once there, it seemed impossible to return to the surface, where people worked as accountants and bus drivers, fell in and out of love, had missionary sex with their partners two to three times per week, grieved for their loved ones by crying and organising funerals and falling out over money and throwing out dead flowers. ‘There’s something for everyone online,’ Chris had said once.

And hello Marcus:

That’s a lovely story Gavin. How lucky, his catatonic wife.

Well, hey there, Jimmy.

Deeper, deeper, I went, all the way to the
Photo Gallery
. I clicked into a world of dead people – babies, toddlers, children, young adults, adults, middle-aged, the elderly. I clicked and saw the naked dead, the mutilated dead, the peaceful dead, the roadkill dead. I clicked and saw the living touching the dead, lying with the dead, having sex with the dead.

I threw up.

I rang Chris. He was out looking for Rose, sounded stressed. ‘I’ve stumbled on something here, Chris. I’m going to call the police. Marcus, Jimmy, Gavin, they’re all involved in a website called La Petite Mort.’

‘What? How did you find that? Holy shit. Let me park. Stay on . . . Okay, I’m in a lay-by. Are you okay?’

‘No! Chris, there’s a video section and I can’t bring myself to look at it.’

‘Don’t. Don’t look at it. You could be charged! I’ll call the police straight away. I know the ones who deal with this stuff. I’ll call now. La Petite Mort?’

‘Yeah.’ I was crying. ‘It’s . . . it’s beyond awful.’

‘I’ll call them now, get them to come straight over. You sure you’re okay?’

‘No, but . . . I will be. I’ll wait here for the police. Tell them to come quickly!’