Please Don't Share

At half past two, a video of Rowan began moving through the college group chats.

I was at work when I saw it. Lou had put me on the self-service tills because the customer-service desk involved too many people asking questions they pretended were about shopping. A machine was accusing an elderly man of putting an unexpected item in the bagging area. The unexpected item was the bag.

I reset it, helped him scan a packet of soup and looked at my phone when it vibrated in my pocket.

The thumbnail was my frame.

Rowan on the bench by the bus stop. Grey hoodie, damp hair. His face turned slightly away because I had asked him to look towards the road instead of into the lens.

Someone had added piano music.

I did not need to press play to know which answer they had chosen. I did anyway.

The clip began halfway through his sentence about forgetting his father's voice. It cut to the bit about the bus. Then a still photograph of the centre at sunset, taken from somebody's social account. Across it, white letters said that nobody knew what another person was going through.

Underneath, the caption asked people to share it for Rowan.

A comment said he had clearly wanted to get away.

Another asked why his friends had not noticed.

“Bea.”

Lou was standing beside a customer whose till needed an age check. I had not heard it beep.

“Sorry.”

I did the check. My hand shook enough that I missed the first button.

“Can you manage this?” Lou asked quietly.

“Yes.”

She glanced at the phone I had put face down beside the receipt printer.

“Not with that there, you can't.”

“I need to—”

“No. You need to tell me whether you can stay on the floor. There's no wrong answer, but there has to be an answer.”

I looked at the row of machines. One needed paper. Another was asking a woman to wait for assistance while her toddler tried to climb into the basket.

“I need five minutes,” I said.

“I can give you ten. Then we'll decide.”

In the staff corridor I called the account that had posted it. It belonged to Ethan Marsh, who had helped with lighting at the fundraiser and once borrowed a charger from me for so long that it returned with a different plug.

He answered after the third ring.

“I was going to tag you,” he said. “I couldn't find your film account.”

“Take it down.”

“What?”

“The video. Please take it down.”

There was a pause. I could hear a television in the background.

“It's a tribute.”

“I know what you meant it to be. Rowan didn't want that part of the interview shown.”

“It was online already.”

“Yes. I put it there. I shouldn't have.”

Another pause.

“I got it off the college archive link. I didn't nick anything private.”

“I'm not saying you did. I'm asking you to take it down because his family don't want it passed around.”

“Have they said that?”

Alice's voice came back to me: Don't put them in a film.

“I haven't asked them about this particular post,” I said. “I'm trying to get it removed before they have to deal with it. Rowan asked me not to use the original section. That should have been enough then. It should be enough now.”

Ethan breathed into the phone.

“People have already shared it.”

“I know.”

“So taking mine down won't—”

“It will stop people sharing yours.”

He was quiet for several seconds.

“All right.”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn't trying to do something bad.”

“I know.”

I did know. It made no difference to what I needed him to do, but it mattered to how I spoke to him. I had run out of room to pretend that harm was only done by people who intended it.

I messaged the college media address and Ms Delaney, asking them to disable the archived public link. I had already removed the version under my control, but I had forgotten the college copy from November. Another place my decision had continued without me watching it.

Then I called Denise.

I did not send the clip. I told her what had happened, what I had asked to be removed and what I could not undo.

She was silent long enough that I thought the call had dropped.

“Is Alice in it?” she asked.

“No.”

“Is there anything about the police?”

“Not facts. Some people are making guesses in the comments.”

“Right.”

“I'm sorry.”

“I know you are, Bea.”

The sentence did not forgive me. It simply acknowledged that I had said it before.

“What do you want me to do if people send it?” she asked.

“Nothing, unless you want to. You can tell them to contact me about the original.”

“I don't want people contacting you either.”

I leaned against the cold wall. A staff notice above my head reminded us to date opened milk.

“I made it,” I said.

“Yes. You did. That doesn't mean I want a crowd of people having a go at you.”

Her generosity made me feel worse for a moment, then steadier.

“I'll ask Mum to help me handle the messages,” I said.

“Good.”

When I returned to the shop floor, Lou was helping the toddler's mother collect apples from under a checkout. She looked up.

“Ten minutes?” I asked.

“Twelve. You'll survive.”

“I can finish the shift.”

“Phone in your locker.”

I put it there.

For the next three hours I dealt with reduced-price labels, a split bag of rice and a man who believed the self-service machines were deliberately making him look foolish. I was grateful to him for being angry about something with a barcode.

At six, I found a message from Imani. She had seen the clip and the removal request. She asked whether I still wanted to come to the depot.

Yes, I wrote. Unless you'd rather I didn't.

She replied: I asked what you wanted, not what you think I want.

I sat on the locker-room bench and smiled despite everything.

Before leaving, I opened my notes. There was enough material in my head to make a devastating little video about Finn: his speech about the centre, the public profile, his photograph beside Tarrant, the gold wristband under black. I could put my questions over it in clean white type. I could make uncertainty look like an answer with three cuts and a change in music.

For a few seconds I imagined how it would feel to have everyone look at him instead.

Then I closed the notes without making a sequence.

At home, Mum helped me write a short statement about the documentary. We did not mention Finn. We did not tell anyone what Rowan's last days meant.

I wrote that I had used an interview section against his expressed wishes. I asked people not to circulate it and not to build explanations of his death from it. I said the available public copies were being removed where possible.

Mum read it twice.

“Are you trying to make yourself look brave?” she asked.

I looked at the last sentence, where I had written something about learning to do better.

“Yes,” I said.

I deleted that sentence.

The statement ended with the request. It looked unfinished to me, which was probably why it was ready.