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‘Jack Shurlock?’
The sound of his name makes me want to cry. I have never seen him so resigned, as last night. The ‘this is not me’ comment keeps swirling around my head.
‘Yes. He said I need to make a formal complaint, and if that’s what I need to do, fine, but I don’t want to cause drama, and I know you can’t go around telling me things because it’s private and all of that, but .?.?. I just want to know what I can.’
He sighs. A big, humph of a sigh that smells like instant coffee. ‘OK .?.?.’ Steve stands up, brushing a hand down his chest. ‘Look,’ he says. ‘We don’t have a definitive answer for you, Millie. And by that, I mean, nobody has walked in here, hands held high, and said, yep, it was me. So, until you complain, we, as a company, as an IT department, are just to assume you did it – and before you say anything, I know you didn’t. But on paper. Shitty emails get sent. Perpetrator denies it. But doesn’t want to complain .?.?.’
‘I know.’
‘And to be honest, we had no evidence of you signing out of the office either .?.?.’
‘I always forget to scan, if someone is going out in front of me,’ I say.
‘I know. We all do.’
‘What .?.?. what about CCTV?’ I ask.
‘Deleted after thirty days.’ Steve sighs. ‘Only certain staff members have access, and I am not one of them.’
‘What, so .?.?. that’s it?’ I deflate. Now what?
Steve shrugs. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘We can only find what we can find in these situations. Which computer, what time, who signed out.’ He walks out from behind his desk, and fixes me with a stare, unblinking. ‘When the servers came back on.’ Then he circles the desks. ‘I’m going to make a coffee.’
‘N-now?’
He whisks past me and through the door.
I glance around. Ah.AH.
He’s left his computer on purposely, to help me. At least, Ihopethat’s what it is.
I scoot around to his desk, all the while looking over my shoulder, being careful not to be seen. Although, it’s early, most people aren’t taking any notice, they’re still half asleep, finishing coffee and cereal and messy, crumby breakfasts at their desks.
I glance at his screen. It’s a mess of open windows. But there is one window, in the corner, that looks like a log of some sort. And on the screen is a list of names that signed out after the servers came back on. The people who were in the office when my emails were sent at 10:07. And three lines down, the only name showing next to reception, is:
Signed out via reception: 22:14 – Jack Shurlock
*
Jack said he wasn’t at work that night. He definitely, definitely did. Why would he lie? He said he left at six. He made a point of saying he left at six that night, I remember it. I feel sick. I feel genuinelysick.But no – come on. This is Jack. Why would Jack .?.?. what am I even saying? Thathesent my emails? God, I don’t know. It sounds ridiculous, but – well, look at Mum. I’d have thought Mum lying to Dad, and having a total secret history was ridiculous not so long ago. Nobody is safe.
I don’t wait for Steve to return. I just pick up a random Post-it note and walk out of the office, so it looks like I’ve been in for something banal. Not that I’d notice people looking at me anyway. I’m dazed, my eyes tunnel-visioned, everything sounding loud and quiet all at once.
I head straight for the bathroom, sit on the toilet seat, where I did all those months ago, when my emails were sent, my chest rising and falling. OK, so, what? Jack.Jack sent the emails?Is this what I’ve been missing? Why would he do that? Especially given we weren’t even really friends at that time, weren’t reallyanything.And I close my eyes, and all I can see, all I can feel is his lips on mine. All the times he told me not to press, not to go looking for the answers. Why? This is why. Because he sent them. Really? Would he really do that? He has no reason to want to do that.
Then why did he lie and say he wasn’t here?
I saw it. Saw his name with my own eyes. I stand up and feel red hot with anger. Why do people feel they can take me for a ride? Alexis. Owen. My own mother even. And now .?.?. Jack? Jack who I feel safe with. Jack who I have grown to care so much about. Jack who I .?.?. trust. Trust. Was I wrong to trust him? Before I have even decided, it’s like my feet have already made the decision. I am storming out of the bathroom, the cubicle door slamming against the wall as I leave, the bathroom door causing my hair to feather out, like some sort of angry dinosaur. I storm across the office floor, all fluster and heavy footsteps.
‘Ah, Millie, I was wondering—Millie?’
I whisk by Chatty Martin, my eyes fixed on Jack’s office door. He’s in there. I can see him through the glass, on the phone, his mouth in a huge smile, that mouth I kissed, over and over. It’s his last day today. His final day working here. And then he’s off. Going. Good.Good.
And I don’t knock, just burst in there, and his face drops when he sees me, his mouth for a moment freezing in an O shape.
‘Can I .?.?. can I call you back, Carrie? Yep. Yep, no, that’s fine. Thank you.’ He places the phone down and holds his arms out at his side. ‘What’s up, are you OK?’ He eyes the Post-it in my hand for a second. Why am I still holding the decoy Post-it?
‘Did you lie to me?’ And my words blurt out, almost hysterically, and echo. It’s bare in Jack’s office now, in the way bedrooms are the night before moving house.
