care. Sure, he was eighteen; he could leave home, struggle to establish a new life somewhere. But one thing was for certain: wherever he went, cyberspace would go with him.
He logged into his profile, his shoulders slumping forward as he realized what was going to happen. The little red alert showed he’d got fourteen new messages and twenty-seven other notifications. He suddenly felt sick. Whatever he’d mindlessly shoved down his throat for breakfast churned and curdled in his belly. He dashed into the bathroom across the landing and threw up.
“Hi, love,” his mum said when he went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.
He felt dizzy, dry-mouthed, not real. For a second, he stared at her, wondering if he could tell her.
No way, he thought.
“We saved you some lunch,” his Aunt Lorraine said. Her voice was crisper than his mum’s, more to the point.
He stared at her for a moment too, wondering if he could confide in her. But she was a cop and would just make it worse. Everything would get out of hand if he told her. He was coping OK, wasn’t he?
“Not hungry,” he replied, not meaning to sound so ungrateful. He saw Lorraine shrug as he walked out again, retreating to his room.
He passed Stella on the landing. She said something to him inan excited voice but he just slammed his bedroom door. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it.
Malc had given him the framed photograph years ago, the one he’d always kept on his bedside table. For the past few weeks it had been facedown in a drawer, but now he took it out, held it under the light. He’d thought it was silly at first, to have it on display, but then he’d grown to love staring at it, remembering all the good times they’d had. The three of them on holiday in Spain, the waiter snapping the picture of them at the table, the huge paella in the foreground.
Freddie stared at himself. He’d been about fourteen, he reckoned. He had a tan, too, just enough to highlight his hair, and he’d been excited about going back to school, to see if that girl Lana would notice him.
He traced his finger over his mum and Malc, joining them up with an invisible line. Surely he could get them back together again? How would he ever escape Radcote otherwise? How would he get away from all the crap? He could hardly leave his mum alone as things stood.
You have been tagged in two photos .
Shithead loser gonna die 2nite … was the caption beneath the latest picture. It was of a rack of pig carcasses hanging in an abattoir.
Why r u not dead yet? put yrself out of yr misery fuckhead . This one was linked to an actual picture of him getting on a bus. He was wearing his new sneakers, he noticed, so it had been taken after the term ended. His stomach churned again. Would they follow him to the university, if he ever got there, and through the rest of his life?
Freddie read a couple of the messages. Occasionally he laughed at them, to see if that helped. It didn’t. After enough time, he’d begun to believe what was written. He was a loser, useless; he was ugly and he stank; he shouldn’t even exist. They were right. Everyone in his year hated him; they all wished him dead. He was a waste of space.
The underlying message was always the same: why don’t you just kill yourself?
They’d set up a page for him, dedicated to him as if he’d already done the deed—already hanged himself, taken an overdose, slit his wrists in the bath. Sometimes they made suggestions about how he should do it, sent him links to suicide websites or pictures of corpses. There were fake messages of condolence put up every day, vile pictures either of him or something gory sent to his inbox. He was tagged in everything, just to make sure he knew.
And then there were the text messages. Day and night, anonymous, malicious … and they were getting worse.
Of course, he’d considered telling someone—a teacher, his mum, Malc, or the authorities, like you were supposed to—but
He logged into his profile, his shoulders slumping forward as he realized what was going to happen. The little red alert showed he’d got fourteen new messages and twenty-seven other notifications. He suddenly felt sick. Whatever he’d mindlessly shoved down his throat for breakfast churned and curdled in his belly. He dashed into the bathroom across the landing and threw up.
“Hi, love,” his mum said when he went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water.
He felt dizzy, dry-mouthed, not real. For a second, he stared at her, wondering if he could tell her.
No way, he thought.
“We saved you some lunch,” his Aunt Lorraine said. Her voice was crisper than his mum’s, more to the point.
He stared at her for a moment too, wondering if he could confide in her. But she was a cop and would just make it worse. Everything would get out of hand if he told her. He was coping OK, wasn’t he?
“Not hungry,” he replied, not meaning to sound so ungrateful. He saw Lorraine shrug as he walked out again, retreating to his room.
He passed Stella on the landing. She said something to him inan excited voice but he just slammed his bedroom door. Whatever it was, he didn’t want to hear it.
Malc had given him the framed photograph years ago, the one he’d always kept on his bedside table. For the past few weeks it had been facedown in a drawer, but now he took it out, held it under the light. He’d thought it was silly at first, to have it on display, but then he’d grown to love staring at it, remembering all the good times they’d had. The three of them on holiday in Spain, the waiter snapping the picture of them at the table, the huge paella in the foreground.
Freddie stared at himself. He’d been about fourteen, he reckoned. He had a tan, too, just enough to highlight his hair, and he’d been excited about going back to school, to see if that girl Lana would notice him.
He traced his finger over his mum and Malc, joining them up with an invisible line. Surely he could get them back together again? How would he ever escape Radcote otherwise? How would he get away from all the crap? He could hardly leave his mum alone as things stood.
You have been tagged in two photos .
Shithead loser gonna die 2nite … was the caption beneath the latest picture. It was of a rack of pig carcasses hanging in an abattoir.
Why r u not dead yet? put yrself out of yr misery fuckhead . This one was linked to an actual picture of him getting on a bus. He was wearing his new sneakers, he noticed, so it had been taken after the term ended. His stomach churned again. Would they follow him to the university, if he ever got there, and through the rest of his life?
Freddie read a couple of the messages. Occasionally he laughed at them, to see if that helped. It didn’t. After enough time, he’d begun to believe what was written. He was a loser, useless; he was ugly and he stank; he shouldn’t even exist. They were right. Everyone in his year hated him; they all wished him dead. He was a waste of space.
The underlying message was always the same: why don’t you just kill yourself?
They’d set up a page for him, dedicated to him as if he’d already done the deed—already hanged himself, taken an overdose, slit his wrists in the bath. Sometimes they made suggestions about how he should do it, sent him links to suicide websites or pictures of corpses. There were fake messages of condolence put up every day, vile pictures either of him or something gory sent to his inbox. He was tagged in everything, just to make sure he knew.
And then there were the text messages. Day and night, anonymous, malicious … and they were getting worse.
Of course, he’d considered telling someone—a teacher, his mum, Malc, or the authorities, like you were supposed to—but
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