He's After Me

Chapter FOUR



By Saturday night I’m totally pissed off.

I didn’t waste much time talking to Dad and Jude, needless to say. It was pretty obvious by the speed in which The Bitch had appeared back on the scene that her weekend away was a fabrication. Once she’d discovered the fledglings had flown the nest, the cuckoo was straight back in.

Mum’s out when I get home and there’s no sign of Livi, surprise, surprise. I bung a pizza in the oven, forgetting until I sit down to eat it that I’d had one last night. There’s nothing worth watching on television so I put on a DVD, but I’ve seen it before too many times.

I go on Facebook. Mistake. I trawl through pics of people off their heads and reply to messages from people having the best time of their lives.

Why is everyone else having a better life than me? I ask myself. And how come I have so many hundreds of friends online, but no one to spend Saturday night with?

Not quite true. Ben has asked me if I want to try again. He does this all the time. Tonight I’m almost tempted because I’m so fed up. But you can’t try to love someone. You either do or you don’t. And liking’s not enough.

Heaving a big, sad sigh, I go to switch the computer off. Then I pause. I have a new friend request.

It’s from Jem Smith.

Who’s Jem Smith?

Who cares? I need all the friends I can get.

Confirm.

His profile comes up. I click on the picture to make it bigger and my heart soars.

It’s him!

How did he know my name?

A new message has appeared.

The lounge door opens. It’s Mum. Both of us jump a mile.

‘Don’t do that!’

‘What?’

‘Sneak up on me like that!’

‘I thought you were at your father’s for the weekend. Where’s Livi?’

‘With her mates.’

She looks contrite. ‘I’m sorry, darling, I wouldn’t have gone out if I’d known you were here on your own.’

‘Mum, I’m fine.’

She comes and stands beside me.

God, she wants to talk.

‘Decided not to stay at the apartment then?’

‘No.’

Silence as she waits for more. She wants to know what it’s like there and why I decided to come home, but she doesn’t want to pry. After a while, she says, ‘Are you on Facebook?’

‘Yes.’

She looks at the screen. I minimize it.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘A friend.’

She gives up with a sigh. ‘Right then, I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up all night.’

‘I won’t.’

As soon as she’s out of the door, I open the screen and click on the message. It says:

Enjoy your chocolate fix!

What chocolate fix?

Suddenly I jump to my feet and grab my bag, pulling out the contents. Phone, wallet, door keys, make-up, hairbrush, tissues, chewing gum, couple of receipts.

And a champagne chocolate heart.

I log on to Facebook Chat and he’s logged in too. I start writing to him straight away.

Thanks. How did that get into my bag?

It’s a secret.

How did you know how to reach me?

That’s a secret too.

You shouldn’t have.

Why not?

You don’t know me.

I could get to know you.

Yes you could.

Want to meet up next week?

Yes.

I’ll be in touch.

I close down the computer and stare at the chocolate heart. It’s a tacky and overpriced cliché. But, apart from the occasional Valentine card over the years, it’s the first time anyone has ever declared their interest in me through a symbol.

My head sees the shiny paper disguising the inferior chocolate.

My heart sees a mysterious, dark-haired boy who’s worked out a way of getting in touch with me.

That is so romantic.





He felt restless now, bored. Time to get out for a while. He needed his fix.

He was almost out of the door before he remembered to change into dark clothes. You don’t want to be seen, he reminded himself. Stay out of sight, be invisible.

It was amazing what you could get up to when no one knew you were there.