The Telling Error Read Online Free PDF

other people’s rules might be commendably independent-minded, but breaking your own, which you made willingly, to protect yourself and your family? What kind of fool does that?
    I want to continue to believe in the fantasy that I have a choice, but it doesn’t feel true. The decision has been made, in the shadowy part of me that logic never reaches, where a force far greater than my willpower is in charge.
    I look at my watch. Adam will be home in about half an hour. If I don’t do it now, I won’t have another chance until tomorrow.
    Too long to wait
.
    As I run upstairs to our box room, which houses the family computer, I wonder how I’ve managed to resist doing this for so long. Three weeks and four days. Until I saw that policeman again today, I was finding it easy to be good. The shock of my first meeting with him was all the motivation I needed. I don’t understand why a second almost-encounter with him has driven me in the opposite direction.
    You can still do the right thing. Sending one quick explanatory email for politeness’s sake isn’t the same as starting it up again.
    It’s what I should have done all along, instead of my cowardly vanishing act.
    I close the box-room door behind me, making sure I’ve shut it properly and not just pushed it to, and sit down at the desk. This will be the first time I’ve opened my secret Hushmail account since my first run-in with the policeman. I’ve been scared of discovering that Gavin’s emailed me, scared I wouldn’t have the strength to delete his message without reading it.
    I type in my password, my heart beating like the wings of a trapped bird in my ears and throat, and prepare to confront my greatest fear: an empty inbox. What if he hasn’t been in touch for the whole three weeks and four days that I haven’t contacted him? That would mean that he was never as keen as I thought he was.
    Good. It’s good if he’s not keen. It’s good because we’re over.
    Though we never agreed it in so many words, we operated a strict ‘turns’ system throughout our correspondence, both of us always waiting for a reply before emailing again. No exceptions. Did Gavin stick to the pattern and take my lack of response to his last message as a sign that I was no longer interested? Would he give up on me so easily? Surely he’d have wondered, after I didn’t reply for a whole day – and then another and another – whether his last email went astray. I would have, in his position.
    My finger hovers above the ‘return’ key. If I press it, I’ll know within seconds.
    I can’t do it.
    I push my chair back from the desk, afraid that I’ll press ‘return’ by mistake, before I’m sure I want to.
    You don’t have to look. Ever. Turn off the computer, go downstairs. Forget about him
.
    No. I won’t take the coward’s way out, not this time. I’ve done that already today, more than once. Despite vowing that I wouldn’t, I avoided Elmhirst Road when I went back to school to check on Sophie; I went via Upper Heckencott again, there and back. I did the same both ways when I went to collect Ethan and Sophie at the end of the day, though on each of the four journeys I lied to myself right up until the second before I chickened out.
    I slide the wheels of my chair closer to the computer. The eleven asterisks that represent the hidden letters of my password are still sitting there, in the box. My password is ‘11asterisks’. I’m still proud of myself for thinking of that: the password that in attempting to conceal itself does the opposite – reveals itself so brazenly that no one would ever guess.
    Wincing, I press the ‘return’ key before I can change my mind.
    I gasp when I see my inbox. There are seven unread emails from Gavin. Seven.
    Thank you, thank you
.
    No point pretending this surge of excitement is anything else. Even a talented self-deceiver like me wouldn’t swallow that one.
    I’d have given up before I wrote the seventh email, however