by John Marrs
She threw herself back onto the sofa, aware that everything Theo had said was correct, with the exception of her finding love again. That much she assumed to be impossible; her opportunity had been torn from her. She would have done anything to return to the days when she’d wake up each morning wondering if the email would arrive announcing that her Match had been found. Because back then, there was hope. Now there was none.
Flick tapped away the burned strands of tobacco and relit her cigarette, then turned over the TV station to a rolling news channel. “An exhibition by an anonymous artist is already causing controversy ahead of its premiere tonight,” the newsreader began. “The installation has been inspired by the murder of twenty-nine women by a serial killer in London three years ago which led to one of the biggest manhunts the country has ever seen.”
“Pause TV,” she shouted, her heartbeat amplified. She needed a moment to steel herself. There had been no avoiding the story of the killer who had plagued the capital, murdering random women before their campaign of terror came to a sudden halt.
“Play TV,” she said, and the news channel cut from the studio to an art gallery containing painted portraits of every corpse, some gruesomely bloodied. The detail turned her stomach.
“The artist, who has not been named, claims the portraits are a tribute to the victims and that they are not exploiting the murders. However, victims’ relatives disagree and have hit out at the exhibition, claiming it is in ‘poor taste’ and calling for it to be banned.”
“TV off,” Flick said, and the room fell silent. She made her way to the Juliet balcony and opened the double doors. It had been days since she had last set foot outside and the rush of air against her skin almost took her breath away.
All she wanted was to forget about that whole dreadful period of her life. But it was easier said than done. Only last night, it had been victim number thirteen who’d revisited her: Kelly, a young waitress with a nose piercing who she’d employed at the restaurant a month before her death.
It was only weeks later that Flick Kennedy learned that the man responsible for the killings was Christopher Bailey, the man who her DNA dictated was the love of her life.
CHAPTER 2
CHARLIE, PORTSMOUTH
Charlie made his way through the pub’s beer garden, one hand clutching his pint glass and the other carrying bags of kale crisps and nuts. He eased his way through the expanding crowd, careful not to spill his drink until he reached the wooden table with benches and a Reserved sign in the centre of it.
England’s World Cup qualifying football match against archrivals Germany meant the outdoor space was much busier than usual for a regular weeknight. A loss for England would result in failure to qualify for next year’s tournament, so the game was make-or-break. His surroundings were familiar. Since reaching the legal drinking age, Charlie and his friends had chosen the Wig & Pen as their haunt for all important fixtures, and the custom was to continue tonight.
He took a seat and the first sip of his lager, then glanced at his watch. There were fifteen minutes left before kickoff. His eyes switched to the giant wall projection. Celebrity football pundits were offering their predictions but it was hard to hear them against the chatter of the pub crowd.
“Are these seats taken?” a voice asked sharply. The clearly irritated man was standing with a group of friends. Charlie’s face reddened at their attention.
“Yes, sorry,” he muttered apologetically. The man looked as if he was ready to argue but changed his mind, turned his back on Charlie, and mumbled something incomprehensible.
Charlie conceded he too would’ve been irritated had he been on his feet while somebody else hogged seven empty seats. That he had paid to reserve them weeks ago did little to prevent him from feeling awkward.
Tonight meant more to Charlie than anyone in the pub could know. It had been two and a half years since the seven friends had last been in one place together. He thought back to Terry Stelfox’s wedding and how it had marked the beginning of the end of friendships formed at infants’ school. Charlie had naively assumed that when attending different universities hadn’t come between them, nothing would. But he hadn’t considered Match Your DNA. One by one, his friends found the women—and for one, the man—who they were biologically designed for. However, Charlie was the exception. His Match had yet to make themselves known. And he had never envisaged feeling so alone by his midtwenties.
He glanced towards the wall projection again. It was now four minutes until kickoff. He had been chewing his fingernails and had bitten too deeply, causing an intermittent throb. So he removed from his pocket an antianxiety transdermal patch, no larger than a pea. He attached the adhesive side to his forearm.
Charlie took his mind off waiting for the chemicals to absorb and make their way towards his brain by inserting an earbud and listening to the recorded messages on his phone.
The first was from Travis. “Sorry, mate, not going to be able to make it. The twins were being little buggers today and Lisa’s frazzled so she’s gone to bed. See you soon, yeah?”
The next was from Stelfox. “Is that tonight? Shit, sorry, Charlie, I’ve got dinner with the in-laws.” The excuses from the others followed a similar path.
Charlie remained in his seat as a cheer rang out around the garden when the England squad appeared onscreen and a chorus of “God Save the King” rang out across the pub. The teams assumed their positions and the referee’s whistle signalled the start of play. But after only a few minutes, Charlie knew he wouldn’t enjoy the game on his own. He downed his pint, left the snacks behind, and made his way to the exit.
“Those seats free now, Billy no-mates?” sneered the man who’d confronted him earlier. A humiliated Charlie wanted to retaliate, but the empty seats didn’t lie. The stranger had summed him up with brutal accuracy.
Outside in the street, Charlie used an app to choose the delivery of a random dish from his favourite Chinese takeaway. Then he removed his bike lock and cycled the fifteen-minute journey home. The drone that had delivered the meal-for-one to his doorstep was already returning to the restaurant by the time he arrived.
Inside, he removed the lids from the foil cartons and placed the food on a table without plating it up first. Then he loosened his belt by a couple of notches. His weight gain had been slow and steady since they’d all stopped playing Sunday morning league football. He missed the camaraderie, of heading out into town the night before, waking up with a hangover from hell early the next morning, before playing a match and then sharing a Sunday roast at a pub afterwards. It made him feel as if he belonged.
As Charlie tucked into his meal, he recalled a conversation in which he’d learned of a shift in their relationships. Stelfox had let slip that some of the group came together with their wives and girlfriends for dinner parties and for kids’ play dates. Charlie hadn’t been invited because they assumed “family stuff isn’t your cup of tea.” He nodded his agreement but quietly; “family stuff” was everything he craved.
Tonight, those feelings of rejection were returning in earnest. He wondered what might have happened had he taken the lead and removed himself from their group and simply stopped contacting them. When would they have noticed they hadn’t seen him around for a while? Would it have taken days, weeks, or months? Or would he have simply faded into their backgrounds until they’d forgotten about him completely?
More than anything else in the world, Charlie wished he had done just that and not desperately clung on to old times like he had with the two-year-old recorded messages he’d listened to in the pub. His friends were never going to join him because his behaviour had destroyed everything. He stuck another anxiety patch to his arm, and then a third.
He picked up his tablet and directed his attention towards the conspiracy-theory websites and message board that he’d grown obsessed with. Previously, he’d never given credence to wild theories about
anything to do with UFOs, assassinated leaders, or missing weapons of mass destruction. He’d assumed they were the madcap notions of crackpots with little better to do than formulate outlandish theories using flimsy evidence to support their arguments.
But once he’d immersed himself amongst them searching for an explanation for the day that changed his life, he understood that he shared a common goal with those “crackpots.” They were all searching for the truth in a world where authenticity lay buried under a constant stream of misinformation and deception. Soon, Charlie was visiting the websites multiple times daily, continuing the narrative with opinions of his own.
He refused to accept the government’s official version of events and the hushed-up investigation that followed. Meanwhile, his own guilt for the role he played continued to wrap itself around him like wild ivy, its roots constantly threatening to choke him. It was responsible for his constant anxiety, his estrangement from his family, and the dark cloud forever hovering above him.
Before he clicked on a link to another familiar forum, an advertisement caught his eye.
Click here to start your life again. Less than one percent of the British population can solve this puzzle. Can you?
Almost immediately, he recognised a shape and words hidden amongst the random letters, shadows, and silhouettes. Perhaps it was his basic knowledge of computer coding or his number-form synaesthesia that allowed digits to appear in his mind like mental maps. “It can’t be as easy as that,” he muttered, but set to work anyway, using his finger to move shapes and objects around the screen until it all made sense.
It was a brief distraction from dwelling upon the faces of the people he had helped to kill.
CHAPTER 3
SINÉAD, BRISTOL
Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” asked Daniel. His voice startled her; Sinéad was lost in thought as she attached a second band of false eyelashes onto the first. She hadn’t noticed him in the reflection of the bedroom mirror.
“Yes,” she replied, and patted out a minor crease in the sleeve of her yellow dress. “Why?”
Her husband was standing by the doorway in his fitted dinner jacket, white shirt, and black bow tie. Light bounced from the tips of his polished oxford shoes. He was every bit as handsome as the day she first saw him in his online profile. Yet the sight of him made her skin prickle.
“I thought we agreed you were going to wear the purple one?” he continued. There was disappointment in his tone.
“Did we?”
Sinéad had spent days trying to settle on the best outfit for Daniel’s company party and thought she had chosen something they both liked. Back when she purchased clothes without first seeking his approval, this dress wouldn’t have reached her online shopping basket. The hem was within touching distance of her ankles and the sleeves covered her wrists, making her feel shapeless and frumpy. But Daniel was so enthusiastic about his gift when he’d given it to her that she didn’t want to upset him by admitting she didn’t like it.
“Don’t you think this yellow one’s more suitable for an Easter party?” Sinéad asked.
“Perhaps when you first bought it, but not so much now.”
She turned to face him. “Why?”
“Well, it’s a bit, you know . . .”
“You know?”
“Babe, don’t back me into a corner. It’s unfair.”
“Go on.”
Daniel sighed. “Clingy. It’s a bit clingy in the wrong places.”
“Do you think I’ve put on weight?”
“No, no, no, of course not. But I know what you’re like, you’ll start comparing yourself to the other wives and girlfriends tonight.”
“You think I’ve let myself go,” she said flatly.
Daniel rolled his eyes. “No, now you’re putting words in my mouth. I’m just saying . . . I don’t know . . . well, how many times have you been to the gym recently? I bought you a twelve-month membership and personal training sessions but you’ve only been twice.”
“Have you been checking up on me?”
“I ran into Miguel in the changing rooms and he said he hadn’t heard from you after the second session.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“So why did you ask me to hire him then?”
“I . . . I didn’t,” Sinéad stuttered. “You suggested I needed toning.”
“No, you asked if you could do with firming up. Think about it, why would you ask me a question about your appearance if you didn’t want me to help with your weight problem? You know that I’m a fixer, I’ll do anything for you. When you tell me you’re feeling unattractive, of course I’m going to read between the lines and help.” He shook his head. “Sometimes it worries me how much you misremember our conversations.”
Sinéad didn’t recall telling him that she’d felt unattractive. But Daniel was correct when he said he was a fixer. He solved her problems, even ones she didn’t know that she had.
“Now why don’t you slip out of that dress and put on something that fits you better, like the purple one? Do you want me to pick your accessories too?”
“Okay,” Sinéad replied, defeated. She turned to look at her reflection again in the mirror. Perhaps Daniel was right. As he’d told her many times before, she was a work in progress and he always had her best interests at heart.
He kissed the back of her neck as she checked that her false eyelashes were attached properly. I’m lucky to have him, she reminded herself. Plenty of men would have left me after what happened.
But something snagged in the back of Sinéad’s throat. She barely felt it, but it was there.
* * *
—
STRINGS OF WHITE fairy lights hung from exposed wooden beams inside the converted barn. Cascades of white roses covered a wall, mirrored by flowers inside metre-tall vases on circular tables.
An army of coordinated waiters and waitresses carried desserts on trays to each of the two dozen tables surrounding the dance floor. Sinéad glanced at the brightly coloured dish about to be placed in front of her, then at Daniel, and politely declined. The four courses preceding it had been delicious, and had he been absent, she’d have happily devoured every morsel. Tonight, she made sure to leave a third of each plateful untouched, in case Daniel was calorie counting on her behalf.
She’d been subdued for much of the car journey from their apartment to the country hotel. It wasn’t until Daniel suggested it that she’d worried just how glamorous the partners of his digital media colleagues were going to look. After a previous function Daniel had casually suggested she might benefit from facial fillers, pointing out that the only thing her once-expressive face was now conveying was tiredness. He even made the clinic appointments on her behalf.
Each table contained an electronic device that enabled guests to pick songs from an expansive list to play through the automated DJ system. Joanna, the wife of one of Daniel’s team, who she’d met several times before, was sitting next to Sinéad and passed her the gadget.
“Do you want my help?” asked Daniel.
“Why?” Sinéad replied. She interpreted his look to mean You know why. “I was going to choose something by Ed Sheeran,” she continued. “I loved his songs when I was at college.”
“Really?” Daniel chuckled. “I don’t think anyone else wants to hear him—”
“He was quite popular in his day,” interrupted Joanna.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife,” Daniel said apologetically. “She’s not very good when it comes to judging the mood of a room.” Sinéad’s eyes sank to the table like a scolded dog. “She only listens to songs past their sell-by date. And nobody wants to keep something that’s past its sell-by date, do they?”
He draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer for a hug. Sinéad rarely enjoyed the guitar-heavy songs Daniel favoured, but he had an encyclopaedic
knowledge of music and therefore, he assured her, a better taste. But his music brought with it dark colours and she’d been surrounded by enough of those to last a lifetime.
She’d attempted to explain to him several times what she saw when she heard music, how notes unintentionally evoked colours in her mind’s eye. She told him it was no different to him listening to a familiar song and it reminding him of a special moment in time. “Back in the day, you’d have been put in an institution for admitting things like that,” he sniffed. She hadn’t mentioned it again.
“How’s your apartment coming along?” asked Joanna. “You were renovating it when I last saw you.”
“Just cosmetic things like painting and wallpapering,” said Sinéad. Her mind flashed to one room in particular. One that she couldn’t bring herself to enter no matter what the decor.
“I love moving house and starting afresh,” Joanna continued. “It drives Tim mad but I’m never happier than when I’m in the middle of a redesign.”
“Daniel makes our decorating decisions. He’s quite specific with his taste.”
“You surprise me.” Joanna curled her top lip as if a sour taste had crept up her throat and into her mouth. That and the tone in which she said it took Sinéad by surprise. Everyone who knew Daniel seemed to adore him. They were drawn to his enthusiasm and determination. He possessed an ability to talk people around to his way of thinking. It had been part of his appeal in their early days together. It was rare to find someone who didn’t like him.
A waiter appeared and Daniel signalled for his attention. “I’ll have a rum and Coke. Joanna?”
“A red wine, please.”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” said Sinéad.
“Perhaps it’s best if you stick with the soft drinks, now?”
“It’s my song,” said Joanna as the opening bars of an Amy Winehouse track played. “Do you remember her?” Sinéad nodded—Amy had been a favourite of her late mum’s. “Come on, then,” continued Joanna. “Let’s relive our youth.” She grabbed at Sinéad’s arm, and as they stood up, Sinéad caught a glimpse of her husband. His disapproving expression marred her enjoyment of the moment. She felt self-conscious with each twist of her arm or move of her foot. She couldn’t wait for the song to finish, but as she hurried back to Daniel, he blanked her and walked towards the bathroom. Sinéad felt Joanna’s hand on her arm again as she reached the table.
