Claustrophobia by Tracy Ryan

to a source. Pen paid her three dollars,logged in to a PC, and went straight to Hotmail to set up an anonymous address.

7
    Having sent the message, of course, Pen was left with the problem of not knowing . She’d thought there would be satisfaction simply in saying it, in sending it off into the ether. But as days went by, it was like waiting for the other shoe to drop … Twice on her way home from work she called in to an internet kiosk, nowhere near the campus, to see if there was any reply.
    No reply.
    She couldn’t even really be sure if it had arrived. So she sent another message, a simple variation on the first:
    You may think people are disposable, but the past never goes away. You can’t get off scot-free. Who do you think you are?
    It was stilted, telegraphic, unsatisfying. But too much more would be a giveaway of some sort – she couldn’t write anything that would link the message to Derrick, to any specific event. And the strange thing was, as she sat there in the grip of her compulsion, the image of Kathleen insisted its way into her head, the real Kathleen, not this ugly chimera Pen raged at by email, but the warm, scented, friendly form of her, leaning back against the café bench, smiling and inviting her out into the sunshine.
    â€˜If I rang Kathleen and made a time to meet,’ Pen thought, shaking herself, ‘I could see for myself if the emails have made a dent in that – that calm exterior.’
    So on her very next night shift, during the evening break, she went to a payphone off campus, hanging up twice before finally letting the call connect.
    â€˜Why don’t you drop round here tonight?’ Kathleen said. ‘I could do with some company, and I don’t feel like going out anywhere.’
    It was all Pen could do not to gasp. ‘Um, okay. I’ll be finished at eight, I can come over then.’ Her brain was racing at this sudden turn. ‘Are you sure tonight is a good time? Is there anything I should bring?’
    â€˜Have you eaten already?’
    Pen had.
    â€˜Then just your good self. Let me give you directions …’
    When Pen rang Derrick, he was glum.
    â€˜What a shame – there’s a French movie on SBS tonight, I thought we could watch it together.’
    Pen winced. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but everyone’s going, andI can’t really get out of it without giving offence. I’ll only stay a little while, anyway, just to do the right thing. They’ll all be getting smashed – it’s not my cup of tea. Maybe you can tape the movie?’
    â€˜Of course.’ He paused. Pen could just see his expression resigning itself, ever accommodating. His mind a million miles from divining the truth. ‘You have fun, and drive carefully. Don’t be too late.’
    In fact, Kathleen’s house was only a short drive away, nestled low on a block a few streets back from the university. The front and carport were overhung with something like ivy or Virginia creeper, so that you couldn’t see much of the house from the road. Pen pulled the Volvo in neatly behind the familiar silver Corolla. Bizarre to think she had ever contemplated following that car, and now here she was, on the doorstep, invited.
    Why was the woman so keen? Was she a bit too keen? It hadn’t crossed Pen’s mind till now. After all, the affair with Derrick – why would she be interested in women? And she didn’t look like a lesbian. Not that you could really say what they looked like …
    It couldn’t be that she suspected Pen of anything – she had sounded relaxed and normal, and besides, there was no reason for her to link Pen to the stolen batch of essays, or the anonymous emails. Pen flushed a moment at the thought of them, then rallied. She had come this far, whatever else happened. She rang the doorbell.
    At first there was no answer, so she rang again. This time there came a yell.
    â€˜Come