Page 38 of One Step Behind
My bag is where I left it by the front door and I digout your phone, turning it over in my hands. The screen on the top right-hand side is covered with a thousand cracks like a network of blood vessels, and there’s a dent in the back. I didn’t mean to take it, but now that I have, the need to see what’s on it is fierce.
I plug your phone into my charger and two minutes later it lights up with the Apple symbol. I snatch it up and for a split second I falter. What the hell am I doing? A hot rage bursts out of somewhere inside me. This is nothing compared to everything you’ve done to me. I have a right to find out who you are and if there is evidence on this phone then I’m going to make damn sure the police get hold of it.
The lock screen loads. Your wallpaper is a grey tabby cat sat on a window ledge. The top of the cat’s head is distorted and stretched by the cracks in the screen. I stare at the photo for a long time. You have a cat. A cat you love enough to take photos of and keep as wallpaper on your phone. It’s a round-peg-square-hole piece of knowledge that I don’t know what to do with.
I hold my breath and press the Home button. The screen turns black and four rows of white dots appear, demanding a password or touch ID, neither of which I have. I connect the dots in a square just on the off chance, but your phone buzzes – an angry bee. I’ve got the code wrong.
The only person who can unlock your phone is you.
Then a thought hits me like an alarm chiming in my head. I sit up straighter. I don’t actually need you to unlock your phone. I just need your thumbprint.
Chapter 20
Sophie, aged eleven
Sophie flops on her bed, stares at the swirls of Artex on her ceiling and chews at the edge of a hangnail. She is so bored right now. She wishes her nan still cooked a big roast dinner on a Sunday and followed it with a Sara Lee chocolate cake and double cream. Even watching her nan’s old black-and-white films would be better than this.
Outside, the day is grey and there is a drizzle in the air. It’s too cold to play in the garden and all of her toys are babyish and dumb, like her mum thinks she’s still eight or something. Sophie keeps wanting to say to her, ‘You know I’m eleven now, right?’
Being grounded sucks. She’s not even allowed to watch TV and now she’s missing theDawson’s Creekomnibus. It’s Matthew’s fault she was grounded, not hers. He was the one who wanted to watchJaws. She wasn’t even bothered, but her mum and dad had been arguing in their bedroom again and Matthew had seen it in the TV guide and begged and begged. She only wanted to shut him up and make him happy.
But the film had been way scarier than Sophie thought it was going to be. And Matthew had freaked out and started screaming. Sophie turned off the TV as fast as she could and tried to cuddle him, but he kept screaming and doing that thing where he screws his eyes up really tight.
‘Matthew?’ her mum had called, rushing into the room and to Matthew’s side while her dad stayed in the doorway with his arms folded. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘We were watchingJaws. And we both got scared,’ Sophie tried to explain.
Her dad laughed and for a moment Sophie thought she wasn’t going to be in trouble after all.
But then her mum shouted at him. ‘For God’s sake. This isn’t funny.’
‘What? You never watched something you weren’t supposed to when you were their age?’
‘Of course I did, but not something this scary, and this situation is very different.’
Sophie stared at her feet, feeling really bad. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s not me you need to apologize to,’ her mum snapped, rubbing Matthew’s back.
Sophie wanted to tell her mum that Matthew had begged Sophie to let him watch it, but she knew it wouldn’t make a difference.
‘I’m sorry, Matthew,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know it was going to be so scary.’
‘It’s not good enough, young lady,’ her mum replied. ‘I want you to promise me you’ll never do anything like this again. You’re grounded. No TV. No going out. No friends. No phone calls.’
Hot tears dripped from her eyes.I only did it because you were arguing again, Sophie wanted to shout.
It’s only TV Sophie cares about. She doesn’t haveany friends to knock for her or call for a chat. The girls in her class are OK, apart from Laura Newman, but Sophie always feels like they’re talking about her whenever she leaves the room, and she knows they all have sleepovers at the weekends without her.
She doesn’t care though. In a few months she’ll be at secondary school and making new friends.
Sophie drags herself off the bed and wanders out of her bedroom looking for something to do. Her mum is in the bathroom on her hands and knees, scrubbing the floor with vigorous back-and-forth motions. Sophie stands in the doorway, wondering if her mum is still mad at her. If Sophie tells her mum she’s bored, she might stop cleaning and play a game. Then again, her mum might make her help.
‘Where’s Dad?’ Sophie asks instead, lifting a finger to her mouth, biting at the jagged nail.
‘Out.’ There’s an edge to her mum’s voice, but Sophie doesn’t know if it’s Sophie or her dad her mum is mad at. ‘And don’t bite your nails. I don’t know where this habit has come from. You used to have such lovely nails.’
‘Is Nan still poorly?’ Sophie asks.
