by Louise Voss
KILLING CUPID
MARK EDWARDS & LOUISE VOSS
KILLING CUPID
Mark Edwards and Louise Voss
© Mark Edwards and Louise Voss 2011
Contact: [email protected]
All rights reserved. Without limiting the the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the copyright owners.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either a product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously.
Also by Mark Edwards and Louise Voss:
CATCH YOUR DEATH
A secret conspiracy. A killer virus. A race to save the world.
Imagine if Dan Brown and Michael Crichton sat down together to write a fast-paced medical conspiracy thriller set in the English countryside, featuring evil scientists, stone-cold killers, a deadly virus and a beautiful but vulnerable Harvard professor. That’s CATCH YOUR DEATH, the second novel by the authors of KILLING CUPID - available on Amazon Kindle now.
KILLING CUPID
PROLOGUE
Alex
It was the sound of Kathy’s body hitting the concrete that kept me awake at night afterwards. It was like a hard-boiled egg dropped from a great height onto a wooden floor. A muffled thud, something splintering, a crack. And then the great silence that followed.
From my position up on the fire escape, I couldn’t see her. The moon had slipped behind a cloud. I peered down at the black shapes, thought I saw something dart over the back wall – a cat, a small fox? – and that fleeing creature woke me from my stunned state and made me move. There was only one thing to do.
Panic.
The metal steps were slippery from the rain that had fallen that afternoon, and as I walked backwards down the fire escape I slipped and banged my knee, scraping skin, hissing a curse that seemed to echo around me. With tears in my eyes I stood upright and looked out across London, at the jumble of shapes silhouetted on the horizon. The city looked different now. More dangerous. Another secret – mine, my latest – crawled through the city and joined the millions that hid in London’s nooks and basements and hearts.
Back inside Kathy’s flat, I tried to gather my thoughts and work out what needed to be done. Had I left fingerprints? What had I touched? I’d come in from the pub, stood by the window, taken the beer that my temporary friend had handed me, chilled and cracked open, a wisp rising from its neck.
There was the bottle, standing on the table by the window. I picked it up and took it with me, tucking it into my jacket pocket. Had I touched anything else? Had I? My thoughts were drowned out by the rush of fear. I had to get out. Using my sleeve to cover my fingers, I opened the door of the flat and peered up and down the stairwell, leaving the light off. Surely the neighbours would hear my heart? I heard a noise through the wall and froze. Then, trying and failing to make myself weightless, I completed my journey down the steps, out into the night.
I stopped by the gate. Her body was just around the corner. If I took a few steps to the right, I might see it. I…shit, how did I know it was actually ‘a body’? She might have survived the fall. It was possible. She could be merely paralysed. Merely. I had to check. Looking around again to make sure no-one was coming, I dragged my heavy legs – I felt like I was wearing antique diving boots - to the corner of the house and peered around the corner. I could see her on the floor – a dark shape, unmoving, about twelve feet away. There were no sounds, no whimpering, no laboured breathing, sounds that would have told me she was still alive. Though she could be unconscious. I mean, Jesus, if she was still alive, of course she’d be unconscious.
I crept closer, and as I did, the security lights came on, lighting up the whole world, pointing a blazing finger at me. Here’s Alex, everyone. Over here.
I jumped backwards, banging into the wall, stumbling and almost falling. But as I spun away I saw all I needed to see: her head cast at an unnatural angle, neck broken – it was unmistakeable – and her eyes, open, staring. Right at me. My stomach lurched, and I fought it. That would be the worst thing I could do – splattering my dinner and DNA all over the yard. I turned and walked, head down, eyes half-closed, thinking if I can’t see anyone else they won’t see me, and made my way out onto the pavement and along the street. I forced myself not to run, though I was desperate to, wanting more than anything else to flee, to sprint, to put as much distance as possible between me and that dead woman. But I could imagine some curtain-twitcher spying this man running from the scene, a man that police wanted to help them with their enquiries. So I made myself walk, calmly, just a bloke on his way home from the pub. I walked all the way home.
When I got there, I shut my bedroom door behind me and tried to work out if I’d made any mistakes. And most importantly, I thought about how Siobhan would feel when she found out. Because that was what mattered to me most.
Siobhan. My love. The woman I’d die for.
The woman I’d kill for.
Chapter 1
Siobhan
Wednesday 10.30pm
I’ve got to take out my contact lenses, they’re sticking. I hate those moments between taking out my lenses and finding my glasses – I feel so myopic and helpless. I gave myself a real fright last night: I’d removed my lenses in the bathroom then realized my specs were beside the laptop in the living room. When I went out into the hall to get them, a figure loomed up at me. I jumped out of my skin and nearly screamed – before I realized I’d been scared by my own blurry reflection in the hall mirror.
‘Come on, Siobhan,’ I said under my breath. ‘Sort yourself out.’
Talking to myself again… But I guess I’m still not used to living alone. I get jittery at night, when the walls make strange sounds, or voices float in from outside. Or when Biggles suddenly thumps down on the duvet, mewing, as if he’s somehow fallen off the ceiling. It’s pathetic, I know, to be so afraid of nothing. The product of an overly fertile imagination and too many TV crime reconstructions, I fear. And that’s no excuse for my astounding ability to mislay my possessions, which is the other thing currently bugging me.
It was bad enough when I left my keys in the front door for hours the other week – Mum’s speciality: ringing me up nearly in tears, wailing that she’s torn the house apart and can’t find them anywhere, until I ask her if she’s checked the door. So for me to then go and do it too – oh help, I’m turning into my mother.
Found my glasses. They were in my coat pocket.
Anyway, the writing class… I didn’t think it would be so scary. I mean, I’ve done readings and things before, but somehow having the responsibility for your own students is much more terrifying, even if it is just an evening class at the local college. I wonder what they thought of me? I tried to project an air of authority and confidence, even though my fingernails were carving curves into my palms.
‘OK, I think it would be a good idea if we all introduced ourselves,’ I said, feeling sorry for them already. I know it’s necessary, but it’s always so excruciating. Somebody once described it as the Creeping Death. You sit there and wait, trying to mentally rehearse what to say, as your turn creeps closer…. At least as the teacher, I could go first.
I was about to begin, but I caught the eye of one of the two guys present. He was slouching right at the back, like a schoolboy, two rows behind everyone else. It made me want to laugh, the way he was half-grinning at me, sort of smug and ‘hey, look at me, aren’t I a rebel?’
What a prat, I thought, and made him come forward to join the group. He skulked a bit nearer, giving me what he obviously thought was a smouldering look, but which
actually just looked as if he was swallowing a belch. Although when I studied him more closely, I saw he wasn’t bad looking.
I gave them my carefully prepared spiel, trying to make it sound spontaneous:
‘Hi, I’m Siobhan, this is the first creative writing class I’ve taught, so please be gentle.’ They all laughed softly, which helped me relax into it a bit more. ‘I live locally, I’m thirty-five…’
‘Any children?’ asked an elderly woman at the front.
‘No kids, no husband, just a cat,’ I said, too willing to offer information. As if they cared about the cat! I’m amazed I didn’t volunteer to tell them about my chosen method of contraception and that I hate anchovies…
I couldn’t resist telling them that I’m a writer – although that is relevant, so I didn’t feel bad about it. Told them I’d had a novel published a few years ago. I suppose I was hoping at least one of them might have heard of me, but they all looked blank, so I ploughed on:
‘… and now I do bits and pieces of freelance journalism, mostly for women’s magazines. I play tennis and have a weakness for 80s music…’
‘Oh, this is hard!’ I simpered out loud, willing myself to shut up. ‘Someone else go now?’ Before I start telling you about that nasty yeast infection I had last month, or the flying ants nesting behind my kitchen units…
The others took their turns. There was Barbara, a retired dentist’s assistant; Jane, a city worker in an expensive suit; Mary, a middle-aged woman with two grown-up sons; Kathy, who told us straight away that she was a lesbian, mainly - I guessed - because she thought it would shock the more mainstream women who went before her. She had a glint in her eye that appealed to me - in a non-lesbian way, I hasten to add.
Then came Brian. He kept scratching his head, and colossal flakes of dandruff were frosting the shoulders of his leather jacket. The poor guy also had a slight stammer and the charming habit of rubbing his nose then wiping his hands on his trousers. He was really giving me the eye, too. Ugh. And he told us he writes fantasy novels. Uugh.
Then it was the Rebel’s turn. His name was Alex, and he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.
‘I work for Bookjungle.com,’ he said, ‘selling other people’s books and wishing I was writing my own. That’s it.’
So, only six of them. But it might be fine. Jane was great, really sparky – I bet her writing’s good. And the gay one, Kathy, seemed quite interesting. Alex acts like he’s allergic to all of the other students, sitting as far away from the rest of them as possible and wrinkling his nose whenever they speak.
No decent men, though. I must say I did have a small fantasy about some gorgeous late-thirties guy with devastatingly sharp prose and a wicked smile, whilst also being sensitive and modest… Alas, I fear that both my male students will be purveyors of the ‘aren’t I wonderful’ school of writing. The blokes so often are. Throw in some tepid one-liners – or in Brian’s case, six thousand headless Snark warriors – and they think they’ve got a bestseller on their hands.
Poor scrofulous Brian – he was probably christened ‘Poor Brian’, bless him. I’m sure he’s a sweetheart really, for all the ogling and acne. Not that Alex was much better. Thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks. He was ogling me too, but in that way men sometimes do when they don’t remotely fancy you, they just want you to fancy them.
Anyway, I told them they had to keep journals, and that I wanted them to start by writing up a recent, important conversation. Alex asked if I would look at what they’d written, so I said, ‘No, it’s private. You can write anything you like. You can even write about me, if you want.’
It was a joke, but Alex jotted something in his notepad, eyebrows raised. He’d better not, the little bastard.
By the time I’d talked them all through the wretched paperwork that the college requires – register, assessment forms, syllabus etc – it was nearly time to go. The class ended on a bit of a downer for me, with the question I’d been dreading ever since mentioning I was a writer: Mary asked me when the next book was coming out.
Like some kind of production line. I couldn’t bear to explain that I only got a one book deal, and they never renewed my contract. I know I’m going to have to admit it at some point, when we get to talking about submissions to agents and so on; but for now I just told her it was coming along slowly. ‘That difficult second novel…’ Cliched, but true.
Thursday
I feel so low this morning. I never realized it before, but the thing I hate most about being on my own is waking up alone. I miss Phil’s body in the bed with me. I miss him when I get up in the night for a drink of water, then go back to bed and he’s not there to wrap my cold legs around. I loved the solidity of his chest, heavy with sleep, almost burning hot. His skin always felt somehow softer when he was asleep, and his breathing was steady and comforting, in a way that Biggles’s fluttery little cat breaths never are.
Later. Went for a soya milk decaf at the Upper Street Starbucks – I just had the urge for one – and who do I bloody well bump into? Phil, of course. He was just passing the door as I came out.
‘I thought you were boycotting Starbucks,’ he said.
‘I am,’ I said, and we both stared at the coffee in my hand. He can still make me feel so inferior. ‘I am, on principle. And The Gap. It’s my own little anti-capitalist stand. It’s just that since I’m detoxing, I’m off dairy, and they don’t do soya cappuccinos at the Italian coffee shop.’
Phil just smiled in that rather patronising way of his, and I thought, no wonder I only miss him when he’s asleep. He’s far too smug when he’s awake. Asleep, snug; awake, smug.
To change the subject, I asked him how Lynn was. I guess I must have been desperate to change the subject.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We’re going away to Portugal next week.’
I had an instant flash of them on a beach with pale sand, Phil rubbing suntan lotion into Lynn’s back. Hopefully they’ll get so sunburned they won’t be able to have sex. Still, sunburn fades, doesn’t it? Unlike…oh, bugger it, Siobhan, stop. Be strong. Bring back that image of Phil with sunburn. That’s it. Now picture yourself slapping it.
Chapter 2
Alex
My day off. Simon and Natalie were at work, and being in the house on my own with nothing to do made me feel like a polar bear at the zoo. I roamed from room to room, unable to rest or concentrate on anything; spent hours flicking through photos of people I barely know on Facebook, stopping every now and then if an attractive friend of a friend caught my eye. I was so bored that I decided to do a bit of housework, put some washing on.
Checking my jeans pockets before shoving them in the machine, I found a folded-up tenner. A sign from God for me to get off my bored skinny arse and go and do something. Anything. I decided to get on a tube and see where I ended up.
On the way to the station, my thoughts returned to the writing class. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last few days. I’m glad I took the plunge and signed up. The hours at work pass quicker now I have something to look forward to. Okay, they don’t exactly skip by, but previously they moved like a wounded soldier dragging himself across a battlefield. Writing this journal makes me feel better too. Getting my thoughts onto paper – or, more accurately, onto the computer screen; paper is so old-fashioned – stops them festering in my head.
I wonder what my fellow students write about in their journals? It’s not hard to imagine. Brian writes his in the guise of a mythical character from one of his fantasy stories: Brian the Bloody Awful, roving the land and bewitching lusty maidens with his magic staff. Kathy details her lipstick-lesbian affairs in her journal: blow by blow, or lick by lick, accounts of sapphic escapades. I’d love to read it. Barbara sticks pictures of her grandchildren in hers, confusing it with a scrapbook, and writes long poems about Des Lynam. I can barely remember the names of the other students, so nondescript were they.
Unlike the teacher.
Siobhan. She came into the room with a knowi
ng smile on her face, unhooking her bag from her shoulder and studying her new students in turn. Her hair was cut in that short, boyish style that I like, and she had big, bright eyes, though I couldn’t quite work out their colour. They seemed to change as I looked at her – or maybe it was just my opinion about them changing: blue – no, grey – no, green – no, hazel. She said she was 35 – I’ve always thought I’d like an experienced older woman. She also said she had no husband, and I wondered if she was divorced. She was too attractive not to have been snapped up at some point. There was something in her eyes that betrayed pain, disappointment. But she looked confident, standing there in front of us, as if whatever trials she’d been through had made her stronger. I like that. I like women to be strong. Intelligent. The kind of woman who can put up a fight when she needs to. I couldn’t imagine ending up with a wimpy girl. I would have been shitting myself if you asked me to stand up – or sit on a desk – in front of a group of strangers, but Siobhan clearly took it in her stride.
I’m sure that her eyes lingered on me for an extra beat when she looked around the class. She touched the bridge of her nose, as if she was pushing back a pair of glasses. A part-time contact lens wearer, like me. The gesture made me think she wanted a better look at me, that she was evaluating me. When she spoke and introduced herself, her voice was musical, but quiet. I had to lean forward and concentrate to understand what she was saying. It was night music, a lullaby. I noticed Barbara fiddling with her hearing aid.
When my turn came to speak, my voice trembled with nerves and I only managed to get out one sentence before coming to a halt. I’m sure this didn’t make Siobhan think badly of me, though. She’s a writer: she’s almost certainly into sensitive men. I was sad when the class ended, because it meant I had to say goodbye to her for a week. Still, that week is almost up now. I’ll see her again in a few hours.
The tube train got stuck in a tunnel just outside Oxford Circus. The lights flickered and electricity hummed through the carriage. Nobody looked at anyone else; nobody said anything.
