was making someone worry. Jo–or whatever her name was–had let herself become ‘missing, feared dead’, and there were people–or at least she guessed there were people–who were worrying about her, waiting, hoping.
Eventually, the woman’s stony face melted into a smile and even through the double-glazing Jo could hear a muffled cry as the two women threw their arms around one another. It was her daughter, thought Jo, watching as the younger woman emerged from the embrace and pointed gleefully at the red shiny parcel, her stylish white coat flapping in the breeze. It was her daughter who had been keeping her waiting.
The women moved off, laughing frivolously and making animated gestures with their hands. Jo felt a fresh wave of uncertainty wash over her. She couldn’t say why, but she felt quite sure that somewhere, right now, her mother was waiting for her, worrying.
She finished her drink and thought again of the police station down the road. That was the right thing to do. She had to turn herself in. She had to own up, for her mother’s sake. Whatever she’d done before, whatever the reasons for the paranoia, whatever the consequences, the only fair thing she could do was walk into that police station and come clean.
Jo stood up and took one final look out of the window, even though she knew the mother and daughter were long gone. In the spot where they had hugged, a man was sitting–or rather, lying. Jo peered down at the scene. Two people in uniforms were crouching over the man, who was dragging himself along the pavement like a slug.
A clearing had formed in the crowds as shoppers gave the crawling man a wide berth. It was only when Jo saw the dog–skinny, mangy and limping–that she realised. The man was a beggar. He was being ‘moved on’–only slowly, because he was drunk. Or disabled. Or ill. She didn’t know, and clearly the policemen didn’t care.
She watched as the man sloped off into the shadows and the crowds flowed back into the area. She picked up the pen and stared at her notebook. Yet again, she had convinced herself that coming clean was the right thing to do. She had gone right to the edge and looked over. And yet again, she was talking herself back down. She might have been right about her mum being out there, worrying. It was perfectly likely that she had family and friends who cared about her. But she’d been wrong to believe that their reunion would be like the one she’d witnessed outside.
Her role wasn’t that of the daughter in all this; she wasn’t an innocent latecomer. She was the tramp. She was the outsider, the one who didn’t belong. Maybe she did have friends and family, but so too did the homeless guy, presumably. For different reasons, they had left them behind. Jo didn’t even know what the reasons were, in her case, but she knew one thing for sure: she was on the run. And until she had worked out what exactly she was running from, she had to keep running.
Jo slipped the notebook into her bag and caught sight of the two words on the back that she’d copied from the scrap of paper. ‘SASKIA DAWSON.’ For the hundredth time, Jo strained to summon her memory. For the hundredth time, she drew a blank.
She bid her table companion farewell and walked out, having made her decision. It was time to put the only clue she had to good use.
Jo slipped into the wobbly swivel chair and logged on. The keyboard was coated in a grey sheen and the O key was jammed with something sticky, but eventually she punched in the password and pulled up an internet browser. With much stabbing, she managed to type the search engine URL into the address bar.
She stared at the screen while the website loaded. It was obviously a slow connection. Jo frowned. A slow connection. How did she know that? How was it, she wondered, that she knew about website loading times and keyboard shortcuts and the differences between Internet Explorer and Firefox, when she didn’t even know her own name?
The site finally loaded and Jo typed ‘Saskia Dawson’ into the box. Her hands were shaking–partly because she hadn’t drunk anything in two days but also because she was nervous about what she might find. It was possible that Saskia Dawson would lead her to discover something about herself–or that Saskia Dawson was her, although admittedly Jo couldn’t think of a sensible explanation for having her own name written on the back of her hand.
There were only six results, of which five related to the findings of a German professor on the subject of Endogenous N-acetylaspartylglutamate in the Journal of Neurochemistry. Jo clicked on the links in case they offered any clues, but everything was written in a mixture of German and gobbledegook. The sixth hit was a Facebook profile. Facebook. Yet another thing she was perfectly familiar with.
Eventually, the page opened: ‘Facebook helps you connect and share with the people in your life. Sign Up. It’s free and anyone can join.’
Jo thought for a second. Something told her she had a Facebook account, but she didn’t know her login, and the sign-up form required an email address. She opened up another browser, navigated to Google Mail–slowly and noisily, due to the letters involved–and registered for a new address. Then she returned to Facebook and set up Jo Simmons as a member.
Finally, she was in. Saskia Dawson winked back at her, all pouting and saucy and seductive. And blonde. Jo stared at the photo. It definitely wasn’t her face.
She looked at the image for a while, scouring it for something she recognised. Bleached, wavy hair, plump lips, alluring brown eyes…Saskia was gorgeous, in a cheap sort of way. She was probably in her early twenties, like Jo, but it was hard to glean much more from the photo. Her expression seemed to imply both naïve and sophisticated at once: flirtatious, yet coy. But anyone could look like that in a photo.
After a couple of minutes, Jo had to look away. She had stared at the face for too long. It was like saying a word over and over again; after a while, you weren’t even sure it was a word. Saskia Dawson could have been her sister, her friend or a complete stranger. She had no idea.
There were three options next to the profile picture: Add as Friend, Send a Message, View Friends. Jo clicked on the third link.
Saskia has 267 friends.
A long list of names appeared, each accompanied by a small photo. Jo ran an eye down the page, carefully scanning the smiles for one that resembled her own. Nobody looked familiar. Unless Jo had been one of the hilarious people who had used a picture of a washing machine or cartoon character instead of her face, then she wasn’t one of Saskia’s friends.
Some of the names had extra information too, like ‘London’ or ‘Brunel graduate’ or ‘Jake Dickson is off to Southend’ or ‘Kirsty Graham is soooooooo hungover’, but there was nothing useful. All Jo could glean was that Saskia Dawson had a lot of so-called friends who were all, like her, in their early twenties and that she probably lived in London. There seemed to be no link to the girl now masquerading as Jo Simmons.
Jo went back to the girl’s profile page and assessed her options. Add as Friend, or Send a Message. She could send a message, but what would it say? Hi, my names not actually Jo Simmons, but I had your name written on my hand. Any idea why? Jo didn’t fancy her chances of getting a reply.
She needed to know more about Saskia–needed to see her full profile. Perhaps the messages and postings and other photos would give her a clue as to where she lived, where she worked, which pubs she went to, that sort of thing. Jo stared at the face for a moment longer, then pressed Add as Friend.
‘Morning!’ squawked Trevor, the sound grating on her nerves as it did every day.
Jo responded with her usual mumbled greeting, going straight to the back of the teashop to dump her plastic bag. She wasn’t sure why he’d gone to the effort of getting a door key