Second Life by S. J. Watson Read Free Book Online Page B

was a desire that felt solid, had a shape, a
pull that felt physical. I’d never experienced it before, not like this. I wanted
to reach out, to touch his neck, his hair, his lips. Just to be sure he existed,
was real. ‘First time?’ I said, and he said yes, yes it was. We chatted for a while.
Somehow – I don’t remember how, or even whether he volunteered the information himself
– I learned that the girlfriend didn’t exist. He was single. When it was time to
go back to our seats he came and sat next to me, and after the meeting we went outside.
We paused to say goodbye, about to head off in different directions.
    ‘Are you here next week?’
    He shrugged, kicked the kerb. ‘Probably.’ He turned to leave, but then he pulled
a scrap of paper out of his wallet.
    ‘Got a pen?’ he said.
    Was that it? I wonder now. Was that the moment my life slipped out of one track –
recovery, stability, sobriety – and into another? Or did that come later?
    I open my eyes. I can’t think of him any more. He belongs in the past; my family
is here, now. My family is Hugh, and Connor.
    And Kate.
    I get up. This can’t go on, this waking up in the middle of the night. This avoiding of things. I’m haunted by the place she lost her life; I should’ve gone to see it
when I had the chance, but there are other ways.
    I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen table. I’m determined, I have to do this.
In Paris I was a coward, but now I can put it right. I open my laptop and log on
to the map programme. I type in the address.
    I press enter. A map appears on the screen, criss-crossed with roads, scattered with
points of interest. There’s an arrow dropped into it and when I click on Street View
the map disappears, replaced by a photo of the road. It looks broad, lined with trees,
with shops and banks and a stack of prefabs covered in graffiti. The photo has been
taken during the day and the place looks busy; passers-by frozen as they walk along
it, their faces blurred inexpertly by the software.
    I stare at the screen. It looks ordinary. How could my sister have lost her life
here? How could it have left no trace?
    I steel myself, then navigate along the road. I see the alleyway, cutting down between
a building and the raised railway line that crosses the road.
    I’m here, I think. The place she died.
    I zoom in. It seems anodyne, harmless. At one end there’s a kiosk, painted blue with
a sign advertising Cosmétiques Antilles , and there are two rows of bollards dotting
the pavement. The alleyway curves after what looks like four or five yards, and
I can’t see down it.
    I wonder where it leads, what’s at the other end. I wonder why there was no one there
to save her and, for the millionth time, what she was doing there.
    I need answers. I fetch the box that Anna gave me from under my bed and take it back
downstairs. I look at the picture on the front, the woman in the red dress. For two
months I’ve tried to ignore this, terrified of what I might find, but I can’t any
longer. How bad can it be? I ask myself. Didn’t Anna say it was just some paperwork?
That’s all.
    Yet still I’m afraid. But what of? Evidence of how far she’d come, perhaps. Proof
that she was right, that Connor would have been better back with her?
    I take out her passport and hold it for a moment before putting it to one side. Underneath
it there are some letters, and beneath them her birth certificate and driving licence, along with her medical card and a note with what I assume is her National Insurance
number.
    It calms me, somehow. I’m facing something that’s been waiting for me. I’m doing
well. I feel surprisingly okay.
    I dig further in. It’s more difficult; there are photos, taken at parties, one of
Connor that I’d sent her, another of some friends on a boat trip along the Seine.
I tell myself I’ll look at them properly later. Further down there’s a pink Filofax,
pocket-sized. This seems hardest of all, but when I flick through