going to be thrilled that I’ve got a new girlfriend. And I can see that, yeah, a few people might have a pop at me on my wall... but this is...” He pushed his hand through his hair, found a tangle, and tugged away at it repeatedly. “Right. So some people I don’t even know have got an opinion about it all. That’s fine. Wrong, but fine. That’s what the web’s for—having the wrong opinion. Say what they like behind my back. ’S fine. But they’re yack yacking about Danielle turning in her grave, and me dancing on it and so on... and someone tags me in the post. So I log on, and I just have to read it. And every time that updates, I get more of it. And they’ve tagged Danielle as well. So it appears on her wall... I mean... why would you even do that?” He shrugged. “I’ve kept my privacy settings open, you know... after she... er... anyway. The point is, you know, I’m now having to lock my profile down. And I’m even getting flack for that. Mental. Just ’cause of Danielle.”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
“Why?” he shrugged. “It’s not as though you’ve done anything.”
For a moment, I felt really guilty. I probably shouldn’t have killed his girlfriend. Then again, I hadn’t actually planned to. And he was waaay better off with Amber. For an insane moment, I nearly told him what I’d done. That I’d killed Danielle, and you know, also the idiot fundraiser. But that was all. Just the two. And they’d made his life much better.
We sat there, looking at each other across our drinks, utterly at peace in Lloyd’s No1’s. If there was ever a moment to tell your oldest friend you’d slaughtered his girlfriend and it had all worked out for the best, this was it. And I did. I very nearly told him.
But I didn’t. I doubt he’d actually have thanked me. He should have done, but he wouldn’t.
“Anyway,” Guy said. “Just getting if off my chest. And telling you. In case you see anything. Just don’t tell me. Okay? I’m really better off not knowing. Really.”
I nodded. That’s me told.
“Right then.” Guy drained his pint. “Another?” He sauntered off to the bar. Well, sort of sauntered. Little bit of a drunken lurch. But he seemed more his normal self. And at least we’d had the worst of it.
We were wrong.
A MBER POINTED AT the screen.
“I can’t ignore that, can I?” For once, she looked helpless. Utterly so. I mean, she must have been, to ask me for help.
“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked.
She glanced up then, sharply. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I mean, there’s nothing you can do, Dave. There’s nothing anyone can do. And anyway...”
I finished the sentence for her. “...it’s not like people like me ever solve anything.”
“No.” Amber was quiet, not looking at me. “That’s not what I meant at all.”
E VERY TIME SHE logged into a multiplayer game, it happened. A team assembled: ‘TEAM DIE PAKI WHORE.’ And they blasted Amber’s character to pieces. And as she went down they shouted at her. The kind of stupid threats we used to do in improv sessions at drama school (“Now then, guys, imagine you’re football hooligans on your way home from a match, yes?”). Only these people were shouting these threats without any sense of middle-class guilt or any hang-ups. They just wanted Amber Dass dead.
I WAS GENUINELY angry. My instinct was to find these people, go round to their homes and...
I went home and slept on it. In the morning, hungover and reeling from the smell as I doled food out for the cat, I slowly realised that my first instinct was the right one.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.
I’d always thought that was wrong and stupid. Time to prove it.
I TRIED TALKING about it with Duster on MySpace:
DUSTER: Leave it.
ME: But... this is wrong. It’s unprovoked violence against women.
DUSTER: Woah!
ME: Surely that’s
“Sorry,” I said. “I’m really sorry.”
“Why?” he shrugged. “It’s not as though you’ve done anything.”
For a moment, I felt really guilty. I probably shouldn’t have killed his girlfriend. Then again, I hadn’t actually planned to. And he was waaay better off with Amber. For an insane moment, I nearly told him what I’d done. That I’d killed Danielle, and you know, also the idiot fundraiser. But that was all. Just the two. And they’d made his life much better.
We sat there, looking at each other across our drinks, utterly at peace in Lloyd’s No1’s. If there was ever a moment to tell your oldest friend you’d slaughtered his girlfriend and it had all worked out for the best, this was it. And I did. I very nearly told him.
But I didn’t. I doubt he’d actually have thanked me. He should have done, but he wouldn’t.
“Anyway,” Guy said. “Just getting if off my chest. And telling you. In case you see anything. Just don’t tell me. Okay? I’m really better off not knowing. Really.”
I nodded. That’s me told.
“Right then.” Guy drained his pint. “Another?” He sauntered off to the bar. Well, sort of sauntered. Little bit of a drunken lurch. But he seemed more his normal self. And at least we’d had the worst of it.
We were wrong.
A MBER POINTED AT the screen.
“I can’t ignore that, can I?” For once, she looked helpless. Utterly so. I mean, she must have been, to ask me for help.
“What do you want me to do about it?” I asked.
She glanced up then, sharply. “Nothing,” she said quickly. “I mean, there’s nothing you can do, Dave. There’s nothing anyone can do. And anyway...”
I finished the sentence for her. “...it’s not like people like me ever solve anything.”
“No.” Amber was quiet, not looking at me. “That’s not what I meant at all.”
E VERY TIME SHE logged into a multiplayer game, it happened. A team assembled: ‘TEAM DIE PAKI WHORE.’ And they blasted Amber’s character to pieces. And as she went down they shouted at her. The kind of stupid threats we used to do in improv sessions at drama school (“Now then, guys, imagine you’re football hooligans on your way home from a match, yes?”). Only these people were shouting these threats without any sense of middle-class guilt or any hang-ups. They just wanted Amber Dass dead.
I WAS GENUINELY angry. My instinct was to find these people, go round to their homes and...
I went home and slept on it. In the morning, hungover and reeling from the smell as I doled food out for the cat, I slowly realised that my first instinct was the right one.
Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never hurt me.
I’d always thought that was wrong and stupid. Time to prove it.
I TRIED TALKING about it with Duster on MySpace:
DUSTER: Leave it.
ME: But... this is wrong. It’s unprovoked violence against women.
DUSTER: Woah!
ME: Surely that’s
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