The Rumor, page 8
A chill passes through me. The letters swim before my eyes. The other is somebody called Sally Mac (@rumormill7).
I try to swallow, but there’s no saliva in my mouth. I click on the photo, which isn’t a photo at all but a cartoon avatar of a woman holding a finger to her lips—the classic gesture to keep quiet. I force myself to read her one and only tweet:
Rumors can kill.
15
I STARE AT THE SCREEN in shock. Another tweet has just popped up: A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes—Mark Twain.
Okay. So there’s no way this can be the real Sally McGowan. If she’d gotten wind of the rumor and was worried her cover was about to be blown, the last thing she’d do is draw more attention to herself by setting up a Twitter account in the name of Sally Mac. That would be crazy.
Perhaps it’s Sonia Martins. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I think of how she looked at me earlier today. As if she blames me for what’s happened. But she doesn’t know my name. Oh God, maybe she does. Barbara said it out loud, didn’t she? Joanna, isn’t this what you were talking about at book club? Anyone could have heard that and passed it on to her. It wouldn’t take too much detective work on her part to discover my last name and find me on Twitter.
But then, she’d hardly start tweeting as the person she’s falsely accused of being. That wouldn’t make any sense. Unless she’s just trying to scare me.
Her face hovers behind my eyes. If someone did one of those aging techniques on that infamous mug shot of McGowan as a child, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Sonia Martins’s face was the result. Perhaps she really is McGowan and she’s waiting to see what happens, getting ready to pack up and try her luck in another state.
Either that, or by some amazing coincidence I just happen to have a new Twitter follower called Sally Mac who’s tweeting quotes about lies and rumors. I try to convince myself that this is possible. Lots of people share the same name. You’ve only got to google yourself to realize that. Perhaps this is simply one of those boring accounts that spews out stupid quotes and has an app that follows random people. Not personal at all.
I take a few deep breaths to calm myself down, to put things into perspective. There’s another possibility, of course. It could be one of the mothers playing some kind of joke. In fact, the more I think about this, the more likely it seems.
Uneasy, but not quite as freaked out as I was a few minutes ago, I tuck my phone into my back pocket and stand up. I need to move around. I can’t just sit here worrying.
Upstairs, Ruby is curled up in a little ball on her side, clutching her doll. Hamish is flat on his back, arms flung out like a starfish, his cheeks like rosy apples. I tiptoe along the corridor and pause outside Teri and Mark’s room. The door is ajar and they’ve left their bedside lamps on. I can’t resist having a quick peek. She must have wanted me to or she wouldn’t have left the lamps on and the door open. It’s as if it’s been staged for a showing.
The room is spacious. Pale-gray walls and dark, solid-wood flooring. Those white wooden shutters at the window that everyone seems to have these days. It’s a restful, warm-looking room with a master bath. I can just glimpse the chrome bars of a heated towel rack. So different from my own small bedroom with its squeaky floorboards and mismatched furniture.
I go downstairs again and turn on the TV. Only another half hour before Teri and Mark get back and I can go home. Mom’ll probably be dozing on the sofa by now. It’s well past her usual bedtime.
My phone buzzes. I brace myself for another tweet from Sally Mac, but then I remember. I haven’t followed her back, so I won’t get notified when she tweets again. I’ll have to click on her account and check for myself. Which I won’t. This must be something else, and it is. It’s a text message from Michael.
See you tomorrow. I’ll get to you about one. M xxx
* * *
—
I JUMP WHEN I hear the key in the door, even though I’ve been expecting it for the last few minutes. Teri promised they’d be back by eleven thirty and here they are, right on time. Teri sways a little as she quizzes me about the children.
“They were fine,” I tell her. “Very well behaved.”
“I hope you helped yourself to some chocolates and wine,” she says, slurring her words.
“No, just a cup of tea.”
Mark offers to drive me home, and for a second or two I’m tempted. But his eyes have a slightly glazed look about them. For all I know, he’s been drinking, too, and there’s something in his voice that gives me the impression he’d rather not, that Teri’s made him ask.
“It’s okay, thanks. I’m only around the corner. It won’t take me five minutes.”
But as soon as the front door has closed behind me and I’ve walked to the end of their driveway, I wish I’d said yes. There’s something eerie about walking along Waterfield Grove in the dark. The silence is so thick it’s almost claustrophobic, and all I can think of is that someone called Sally Mac is following me on Twitter.
I look over my shoulder, scan the street for signs of life, but it’s empty. Being followed on Twitter is not the same as being followed on the street. Of course it isn’t. And Flinstead has one of the lowest crime rates in the state. The odd bit of antisocial behavior by bored teenagers or mindless beach-cabana vandalism is about as bad as it gets.
Even so, I quicken my pace and, when I reach the oceanfront and see how empty it is, feel the brooding presence of the sea to my right, I’m glad I don’t have too much farther to go. As I pass the derelict house, I find myself breaking into a little run. I don’t slow down till I’ve turned onto Warwick Road and see my cottage up ahead.
By the time I put my key in the front door, I’ve made up my mind. I’m going to come clean with Michael tomorrow. Tell him the rumor’s escalated and I’m partly to blame. I’ll show him Sally Mac’s tweets and tell him to rethink this book idea. I mean, if by some miracle he tracks her down, and if she agrees to being interviewed—and those are two big ifs—it’s bound to create trouble. A backlash from the victim’s family. More sensationalist nonsense in the papers. Hateful comments online.
We’re so much less forgiving than we were back then. Or maybe not. Maybe the hatred was just as strong when Sally was released, but because there wasn’t any internet it wasn’t in the public domain so people didn’t get all riled up. The news caused a brief stir then faded away, got replaced by something else.
He won’t be happy, but he’ll get over it. And if he doesn’t…if he blames me for screwing everything up and we end up splitting up over it, well, then, maybe us living together isn’t such a good idea after all.
At least I’ll know what’s more important to him: resurrecting McGowan, or Alfie and me.
16
WHEN I GET HOME MOM’S asleep on the sofa, my throw draped over her like a blanket. The TV is gabbling away to itself and there’s a full mug of tea on the coffee table. I touch it, expecting it to be lukewarm, but it’s stone-cold.
I pat her gently on the arm. “Mom, I’m back.”
She opens her eyes and blinks at me. Then she sits up and yawns. “Hello, darling. I must have dropped off for a couple of seconds.”
She reaches for her tea, then frowns and puts it down again.
“Sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have dragged you out. Why don’t you sleep here tonight? I can make up the spare bed.”
She shakes her head. “Don’t be silly. Anyway, you know I prefer my own bed.”
I do know this. She’s told me often enough. When I lived in the city and she used to come and stay, she always complained about the mattress: too lumpy. Or the pillows: too flat. She was never an easy guest, which is why living so close to her is ideal. We can drop in for friendly visits and not have to inflict ourselves on each other for long periods of time.
But tonight is different. I don’t tell her that I want her to stay. That I need her to. Just this once. Because then she’ll ask why, and I’ll have to tell her. She can be infuriatingly obtuse about Twitter, in that way some people are. I’ve tried to explain it to her, just like I’ve tried to explain it to Dave, but she just can’t see the point of it: “Why do you want to talk to a bunch of strangers about nonsense?”
And if I tell her about the rumor, she’ll be even more scathing. I’ll end up explaining about Michael and his book and him asking me if he can move in, and though I’ll have to tell her soon, I really don’t think I’m up for that conversation tonight. She’ll only make some kind of barbed comment about what’s going to happen when the book is finished, and the implication will be clear.
“Shall I make you another cup of tea before you go?” I ask her.
“No, I’d rather get back, if you don’t mind.”
She kisses me on the cheek and I give her a hug.
“Are you okay, darling?” she says as we separate, her hands still resting on my shoulders. “You look a bit worried about something.”
She’s always been able to tell when something’s on my mind. But what can I say that won’t freak her out? I’m worried I’m being followed on Twitter by some woman who murdered a five-year-old boy when she was ten. I’m worried that I’m complicit in the false accusation of Sonia Martins and responsible, at least in part, for ruining her reputation.
And I’m also worried that Michael has suddenly announced he wants to move in with me and Alfie and be a family. I’m worried that he’s pinning all his hopes on tracking Sally McGowan down and she’s going to get wind of this rumor and disappear before he has a chance to meet her. I’m worried that, if that happens, he’ll change his mind about living here and we’ll go back to how we were before. And I’m worried that if he does change his mind, we won’t be able to go back to how we were before. That we will, in effect, be over.
“Not really,” I say. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
* * *
—
AT THREE FORTY-SEVEN a.m. something inside me snaps and I give up the effort to get to sleep. I sit up and switch the lamp on. My worries have mutated and multiplied like rogue cells and, though I don’t want to look at my phone, I find myself tapping it into life and swiping the screen till I see the Twitter icon. The little white bird, its beak open mid-tweet, its wings lifted in flight. Irrepressible.
I click on my followers. She’s still there. Right at the top of the list. Sally Mac (@rumormill7). My thumb hovers over her name, then presses it before I can change my mind. Judging by the new tweets, the last of which was posted just fifty-seven seconds ago, she, too, is finding it hard to sleep. I read them all, from top to bottom:
Rumors voiced by women come to nothing—Aeschylus
Rumor grows as it goes—Virgil
What some invent, the rest enlarge—Jonathan Swift
A lie can travel halfway around the world while the truth is putting on its shoes—Mark Twain
And then there it is, the very first one:
Rumors can kill.
* * *
—
SO THEY’RE ALL literary quotes, apart from “Rumors can kill,” which is a saying and impossible to attribute to anyone in particular, although of course someone, somewhere, must have said or written it down first. Should I read anything into that? That the very first tweet she sent is not a literary quote and that it’s shorter and more obviously threatening than the others?
Because I do. Clearly I do.
I get out of bed and put on my robe, pull some socks on before padding downstairs, trying not to make the stairs squeak.
* * *
—
THREE HOURS LATER, I’m standing at the kitchen window, watching the sun rise. The bones in my face ache from lack of sleep, and the headache that’s been hovering behind my eyes all night now flares out toward my temples and ebbs across the top of my skull. What would help, apart from the two Advil I’ve just swallowed, would be to walk on the beach. Let the sound of the surf lull my frayed nerves, the astringent smell of seawater scour my nostrils and clear my head.
It’s a tempting thought. Alfie never wakes till after seven. I could be back before he even starts to stir. I miss my solitary early-morning walks. Before Alfie was born, I used to walk along the river, buy a coffee before heading back. And when I was a teenager, living here, I’d sometimes get up early before school and head down to the beach, walk along the shoreline if the tide was out. On a good day, I might get to see a barge sailing by, or find something unusual that the tide had washed up: a pleasingly smooth pebble or a pretty shell for my collection, an unusually shaped piece of driftwood to hang from the picture rail in my bedroom.
But I’d never leave Alfie alone in the house. Too many bad things could happen. He could wake up early and panic when he can’t find me. Trip over something and hit his head. Fall down the stairs and land in a crumpled, broken heap at the bottom.
Or maybe he wouldn’t panic at all. Maybe he’d just get up and help himself to breakfast. But even then he might shovel too many cornflakes in his mouth and start choking.
Then of course there’s fire. My own worst nightmare. If a fire broke out, Alfie might not wake up at all. He’d be overcome by fumes as he slept in his bed. There are so many things that could go wrong. He could open the front door and go out on the street. Cross the street without looking and get run over. Or someone might see him, a beautiful little boy still in his Star Wars pajamas, and pluck him into their arms. Drive off with him. An opportunistic abduction. And all because his selfish mother craved an early-morning stroll on the beach.
No. There’s no way I’d do that. I’ll take the scenic route to work after I’ve dropped him off at school. Even five minutes on the beach is better than nothing.
I go into the living room and draw the curtains, settle down on the sofa with my iPad. Resisting the temptation to look at Twitter again, I find myself scrolling through more articles about Sally McGowan. Then I remember what Michael told me about her being helped by a former WITSEC officer, which sets me off on a whole new tangent. It isn’t long before I stumble across a piece in the Post.
WITNESS PROTECTION: A LIFE SENTENCE
By Martin Knight
WEDNESDAY, MARCH 12, 2014
THE POST
WITSEC (Witness Security Program) protects members of the public deemed to be at risk of serious harm—witnesses to organized crime who are often criminals themselves. Some states also have their own witness protection arrangements for crimes not covered by the federal program. Martin Knight, whose documentary In Identity Limbo will be aired on Friday, March 14, on PBS, explores the psychological impact of adopting a new identity.
The inner workings of witness protection have always been shrouded in secrecy, and rightly so. What little we think we know is largely the result of various myths and clichés that abound in popular culture. One of these myths is that people in witness protection are set up for life at the expense of the state, enjoying material trappings that many think they do not deserve. The tabloid press does little to prevent the proliferation of such views. In reality, protected persons are encouraged to become financially independent as soon as they are able.
Being in witness protection is nowhere near as glamorous as a Hollywood movie. It’s been likened to a life sentence and often causes lasting psychological damage.
Imagine having to leave your old life behind at an instant’s notice: your family and friends, your possessions, your home—everything that defines you. Imagine being taken somewhere new and strange and having to learn about someone else’s life—their personal history, their family, the places they’ve lived—because that’s what you must now become: an entirely new person. There may be only a handful of people who know who and where you are. It’s hard to make friends because you can never be your true self with them, and the closer you get to someone, the harder it is to keep on lying.
“Mommy? Mommy? Where are you?”
I rub my eyes and yawn. “Down here, darling. Come and have your breakfast.”
I heave myself off the couch. The documentary was aired almost four years ago, but it might still be available to watch. I’ll have a look later. Maybe Michael and I can watch it together. That’s if I manage to stay awake long enough.
17
THE SEA IS STILL, EERILY so. A vast gray millpond as far as the eye can see. Despite the chill in the air, I have the urge to strip off and swim naked. Slip below the glassy surface and push into a long, gliding breaststroke. Feel the cold water slip against my skin like a silk sheet. But though the beach is empty except for me and the seagulls, I’m far too timid to take my clothes off in broad daylight on an exposed stretch of sand. Someone might come down the cliff path, a jogger or dog-walker, or someone else like me, drawn to the water’s edge, as humans have been since time immemorial. And anyway, I have to be at work in twenty minutes.
I follow the tide line and watch my sneakers leave imprints on the hard-packed wet sand. There’s something dreamlike about this in-between space that straddles sea and land. Something magical. As I surrender to the two-beat rhythm of my steps, the muscles in my neck and shoulders unclench and the sensation of dread that’s been hanging over me since last night recedes like the tide. But it’s still there, lurking in the pit of my stomach. The tide always rises.
I’ve almost reached one of the groynes that divide the beach into sections—horizontal boards bolted into wooden uprights—when I spot a lone figure up ahead. A tall woman standing still and facing the water. Something about her is familiar. Her height and posture, perhaps. Her hair.
