by Jason Arnopp
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Jason Arnopp
Excerpt from The Last Days of Jack Sparks copyright © 2016 by Jason Arnopp
Excerpt from The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind copyright © 2019 by Jackson Ford
Cover design by Ellen Rockell – LBBG
Cover art by Shutterstock
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First Edition: October 2019
Simultaneously published in Great Britain by Orbit
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2019937526
ISBNs: 978-0-316-36228-3 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-36230-6 (ebook)
E3-20190925-JV-NF-ORI
CONTENTS
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Acknowledgements
Discover More
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of The Last Days of Jack Sparks
A Preview of The Girl Who Could Move Sh*t with Her Mind
By Jason Arnopp
To my mum Jennie Arnopp, for being excellent
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CHAPTER ONE
27 August
Thirty-five days before he disappears off the face of the Earth, Scott Palmer stops licking his ice cream cone and lays that look on me.
That hungry wolf look. The one that leaves me way too keen to be devoured.
The glass sheet of the sea reflects a high mid-afternoon sun as Scott says, “Well, why don’t you live here, then? I’m serious, baby. Why don’t you move down here and live with me?”
He broaches this idea so casually that it feels neither huge nor stupid, despite being both of these things.
My brain pulsates and pops.
The stones of Brighton’s beach shift beneath me. The air around us, so thick with salt and sun cream, carries an exotic shimmer. The West Pier wobbles.
The next time I even think about my own ice cream, it’s because the thing’s melted all over my hand, then down my wrist.
If I were the kind of person who believes in bad omens, I might notice how this cream is chilling the blood in my veins.
I might notice how the skeletal West Pier resembles a burnt-out carcass.
I might even notice how the growing wind has prompted a lifeguard to stride over and plant a huge red flag in a nearby patch of stones.
Not being that kind of person, I notice these things only subliminally, while transfixed by the kaleidoscopic beauty of Scott’s eyes.
Hello. My name’s Kate Collins and I’m balls-deep in love with a walking question mark whose smartphone will one day show me all of his deepest, darkest secrets.
My grin covers my entire face as I tell Scott, “You know what? I reckon I could just about do that, you lucky fucker.”
All I can think about is how I will never, ever, feel alone again.
CHAPTER TWO
2 October
Where the hell is Scott?
I pound my interlocked hands onto Roy’s sternum, pressing deep and hard to circulate blood. Each time I release, the suction effect allows his ribs to recoil and fills the heart again.
Too late. Roy’s light has already ebbed. Wide and blue, with that unmistakable cataract gleam, his eyes stare clean through me. It’s no surprise when there turns out to be no electrical activity in his heart.
Despite this flatline, I carry on for Pat’s benefit. I want her to know that we’ve done everything we can.
She wavers in the living room doorway with one liver-spotted hand cupped over her mouth. My colleague Trevor makes gentle but fruitless attempts to coax her onto the sofa, in case her legs give out.
When life becomes extinct, there’s always shock. Makes no difference whether people deny the facts of mortality, or contemplate death on a regular basis, or even actively plan for death, right down to the grim nitty-gritty of graves and urns. None of this makes any differen
ce at all. Because in the end, they never truly believed this day would come.
Hey, here’s an idea. What if Scott’s every bit as dead as Roy?
I pound on Roy some more. The grating of the ribs I’ve broken feels horrible, as it always does. But even worse, his face has become Scott’s face, because I’m a massive weirdo whose imagination is liable to run away with itself.
Scott goggles blindly up at me, his eyes two blown bulbs. A thick purple tongue lolls in his open mouth.
Pat finally plonks herself on the sofa. “He can’t do this, can he?” she says. “November’s our fiftieth. The pub’s booked. We paid the deposit in August.”
August. It’s been a little over four weeks since Scott asked me to move in. I told my landlord straight away, handed in my work notice and secured the transfer to Brighton. I’ve disposed of so many possessions that Marie Kondo herself would consider me hardcore.
Scott can’t be dead, can he? He’s only thirty-seven.
People die unexpectedly all the time, regardless of their age. If anyone knows this, it’s you.
That’s enough, brain. Any minute now Scott will text me back, so I must get my head back in the game. I have to maintain laser focus on Pat, whose husband really has died from a cardiac arrest in his late seventies.
Delivering one final compression to Roy’s chest, I feel yet another rib crack. Reality regains its grip on my sight, and Scott’s lifeless face becomes Roy’s once again.
Resting my backside against my heels, I swipe the back of one hand across my brow and claw at the collar of my shirt. This cheap polyester shit never gets any easier to work in.
Joining Pat on the sofa, I hold her parchment-paper hand, look her straight in the eye and say, “Pat, I’m afraid your husband has died. I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Pat studies Roy’s corpse, which lies in the middle of the cramped living room where they’ve laughed, cried, watched TV and bitched at each other for so many years.
“Pat, would you like Trevor and me to move Roy through to your bedroom and cover him up on the bed until the police arrive?”
Her weathered face holds this frozen disappointment, like Roy’s genuinely let her down by failing to last until the big anniversary. By having forfeit that piddling deposit.
Everyone handles this in their own way.
Hey, why not tell Pat she can hold the wake in that pub instead?
I squeeze her hand. “Your husband’s moved on to a good place, sweetheart.”
Pat turns cold, appraising eyes on me. She says, “You don’t believe that. I can tell,” then returns her attention to Roy.
She’s right, of course. Despite having seen countless people die, I’ve never once sensed their spectral essence coil out of them, destined for Heaven, Hell, Valhalla or anywhere else.
The sorry truth is, dead people resemble complex biological systems that have ground to a random and sometimes ugly halt. What we humans think of as our minds, it’s all electricity. All our thoughts, desires and funniest jokes, they’re just lightning bolts, bouncing around inside a bag of meat.
“I do believe,” I tell her. “I really do.”
When Pat does not respond, I abandon these lies and offer to make tea. There’s always time for a quick brew when someone’s died. Trevor takes my place beside her as I disappear into a kitchen that smells of cooked sausages and fried onions. What would have been Roy’s final meal cools and congeals in two pans on the hob.
Once the kettle’s on, I feel the burning urge to check my phone. If Scott had texted, I would have felt the vibration against my hip, but I want to check anyway. This kind of compulsive behaviour feels dangerously like my old, bad ways. I really should restrict myself to one check per hour, max, but this is no ordinary day. This is the end of my life here in Leeds and the start of my life with Scott down in Brighton, so I decide to consult my old Nokia once again.
The tiny screen glows into life, opening a restricted window onto the world. This antiquated device shows me calls, texts, low-res photos and little more. Bare bones.
Still no reply from Scott.
He’s probably had second thoughts about this whirlwind romance – and can you blame him? If you were Scott, would you honestly want to live with some tedious Miss Average who comes home every night smelling of blood and sick?
I remind myself yet again that it’s only been seventeen hours since his last text. This is by far the longest we’ve ever gone without comms in the four months since we met, but there’s got to be a perfectly good reason.
There had fucking better be. What a truly weird time for him to drop out of contact.
Don’t you dare ghost me on the day before I move in with you, Scott Palmer.
Don’t. You. Dare.
Steam gushes from the kettle spout. The urgent bubble of hot water makes me feel panicked, so I switch off the kettle before it hits the boil, and I make the widow her tea.
CHAPTER THREE
14 February
The first time I ever see Scott Palmer, he isn’t really there.
His face has been rendered by one zillion points of light. Untold zeroes and ones. A whole bunch of nothing, which nevertheless ignites chemicals in my brain.
Say what you will about the dating app being the death of romance, but there’s such a primal power to swiping left to reject a stranger, then being confronted with a new person who speaks to you. A potential new partner in crime, as the great Tinder bio cliché goes.
Half an hour into my tragic Valentine’s Day Tinder trawl, Scott Palmer’s face doesn’t so much speak to me as yell out of the screen.
Some Tinder fuck-boys pose with a big dead fish. Oh wow, dude, you killed a sentient being by ramming a hook through its mouth and watching it suffocate? Please allow me to cock-worship you forever.
Other guys present themselves among a group of their mates. I don’t know which one you are.
And then there are the blokes pictured at their own weddings. WTF is that trying to communicate – “Hey ladies, someone once liked me enough to marry me”?
Scott Palmer, meanwhile, has chosen a simple portrait that allows his face to fill the screen. My ovaries may be twitching. My inner filth-goddess may be imagining how those cheekbones and the wild-yet-somehow-curated stubble would feel against my bare thighs. My fingers may be judging how his thin-but-nice, sandy-blond hair would feel. But these eyes, they seal the deal. Apart from being divine pools of azure blue, blah blah blah, their open nature betrays something else deep inside them. Something entirely at odds with the wolfy smirk on his lips.
This guy, whose screen-name is simply Scott, has this real vulnerability about him – one that you only see when you spend more than a passing moment gazing into these peepers. Up until Scott’s face entered my life, I’d been swiping with vigour. Having buried the guilt of passing shallow split-second judgements on people based on the configuration and proportions of their facial features, I had allowed myself to enjoy the chemical brain-hits that accompany the anticipation of the new. But I’ve now become an anomaly in the online world, simply by examining one single image for more than ten seconds.
What is the nature of Scott’s secret vulnerability? Can’t tell whether it’s hurt, or fear, or self-loathing, or whatever, but it makes me want to mother and fuck him at the same time. Yeah, I want to mother-fuck him.
Having fully absorbed his face, I tap the info button to see what he has to say for himself. Turns out he’s written no words at all. Hardly unusual on Tinder, but a lack of text is always disappointing. Makes the whole thing feel all the more intensely superficial.
The only information on display is Scott’s age: thirty-six. His distance from me is not stated, and neither is his occupation.
How am I supposed to know if we might get along if he tells me nothing about his personality, lifestyle, hopes or dreams?
Ah, fuck him. He’s blown this.
So of course, I hit Super-Like. Simply can’t help myself, even though Super-Likes
on Tinder are a really bad move. Whereas regular Likes are kept secret from the person you’ve Liked, a Super-Like means the person actually gets notified. So when a woman gives a Super-Like, it’s the digital equivalent of doing a handstand and shrieking. While wearing a wedding dress.
See, part of me quite likes the fact that Scott has chosen to remain a man of mystery. An enigmatic array of pixels. Soon as I tap on that little blue Super-Like star, his face gets whisked off my screen, back into the labyrinthine servers of Tinder. Ridiculously, I feel a tad bereft. Why didn’t I take a screen grab of him?
Doesn’t matter, Kate. He’s out of your league anyway. He’ll take one look at your profile, with your crooked smile splayed across that weird mouth, your eyes that are too far apart, your short hair of no fixed stylistic abode and your paltry cleavage, and he’ll think, “Aw, how sweet, the plain girl loves me.” Then he’ll move on, hunting for women with perfect teeth, blow job lips and tits that look like they’re inflated by a hand-pump twice daily. That’s the way of the dating app: everyone’s forever holding out to see if someone better lurks one swipe around the corner.
Having dumped the phone beside me on the bed, I force myself to get ready for work. Somewhere out there, across the sprawl of the city, there are people whose lives will need saving. These people currently have no idea, but they’re about to have one of the worst days of their lives, often for some cruelly arbitrary reason.
I’m attacking my damp hair with a towel when the phone goes ping.
Wow, someone has Super-Liked me on Tinder.
Okay, okay, let’s not get excited. This person is highly likely to have tapped the blue Super-Like star by mistake. All too many times before, I’ve Liked a Super-Liker back, only for them to totally ghost me.
In fact, it’s happened every single time.
Still, I may as well enjoy this minor chest flutter for the minutes it’ll take me to dry my hair and take a proper look.
Oh God, wait…
Surely this can’t be… what was his name again? Scott?
As much as I try to resist, a new future rolls out before my mind’s eye. My mother, suddenly growing a soul and flying back from New Zealand for the wedding. Scott, standing before the altar, grinning back over his shoulder at me and my magnificent frock. That last vision is weird, seeing as I don’t particularly want to marry. I suppose I like the idea of someone being there, for good.
