‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Let’s put both. Own house, own car?’

  Arthur shrugged.

  ‘We’ll tick both boxes for that too. Good health, I assume? I mean, you don’t want to be a widow again in a hurry, do you?!’ Jax laughed, Arthur did not.

  ‘What about hair colour, buddy? Are you into blondes or brunettes? Or maybe dark or a natural grey?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Do you like the collar and cuffs to match?’

  Arthur came close to spitting out his tea.

  ‘I’m just pulling your leg here, buddy.’ Jax laughed again.

  The more the questions continued, the more frequently Arthur flushed. Jax wanted to know everything from his preferred breast size to the acceptable number of past lovers a date might have. And Arthur didn’t escape the intimate questioning. He had to put on record any moles or skin tags, medical ailments and if he was capable of maintaining an erection without the use of medication.

  ‘Is this really necessary?’ Arthur asked, exasperated. He knew all the medication in the world couldn’t help him to be intimate with another woman.

  ‘Sorry, matey, but it’s my job to help find you Ms Right,’ Jax replied. ‘There’s no point in scrimping on the detail and wasting everyone’s time.’

  When the survey was eventually complete, Arthur was as exhausted as he was relieved.

  ‘All righty,’ Jax said. ‘In the next five minutes, you should receive an email from me containing a selection of ladies who fit your criteria and vice versa. How does that sound, buddy?’

  Arthur wanted to say it sounded like hell but he knew that he couldn’t. His lawyer had also warned that Arthur was being assessed on the openness of his answers and keenness to participate. A rating from a boy half a century younger than him could be the difference between freedom and prison.

  ‘Is there anything else I can help you with today, Artie?’ Jax continued.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Good to know, bruv. And the best of luck, I hope you find the woman of your dreams.’

  I already had her, thought Arthur.

  By the time he had returned from the kitchen with a fresh mug of tea, the envelope icon on his television was flashing. The first email was from Mr Warner, informing him that the court had accepted his guilty pleas for both fraudulent pension claims and failing to report June’s death, but with diminished responsibility. However, because he was making an effort to find a new partner, his lawyer was confident that, along with no criminal record and an exemplary career, a custodial sentence was unlikely.

  Arthur turned to the spot on the sofa June had favoured and stared at it. He had been too bound by grief to bring himself to sit on that couch since her death.

  ‘How has it come to this, June?’ he asked aloud, but there was no response. He badly missed hearing her voice, even if it was only in his head.

  But if she wasn’t going to respond after her body had been removed from their house, she was unlikely to return now he was planning to meet other women, whether he wanted to or not.

  36

  Anthony

  Anthony closed his eyes and rested his head against the tiled wall of the shower. The four hours he had slept had been good, solid sleep, the kind he resented waking from when his alarm sounded. Despite the heat of the water bouncing off his shoulder blades, a shiver ran down his spine when his watch began to vibrate in varying lengths of frenetic bursts. The message spelled ‘priority’. He couldn’t ignore it.

  ‘Have you seen the news?’ the next one said.

  ‘No,’ he dictated quietly, hoping Jada was still asleep in the bedroom.

  A moment later a video clip appeared. ‘Shower off,’ he said and ordered his watch to play. It was footage taken from a news channel.

  ‘Up to a dozen members of opposition party Freedom for All were killed last night in three separate arson attacks,’ a broadcaster began. ‘The properties in Old Brighton, Old Dorset and Old Nottingham were all set ablaze in what police believe to have been reprisal attacks following the death of Jem Jones. While three people escaped from an address in Old Coventry, an adult and two children are thought to have died as a result of smoke inhalation.’

  The clip stopped and Anthony’s watch pulsed again.

  ‘The spirit of Jem Jones lives on,’ read the message. ‘Good work again.’

  He didn’t move. A cold brush of air made every hair on his naked body stand upright. He may not have killed those people with his own hands, but he might as well have.

  *

  Anthony stared at his son Matthew across the kitchen table. The boy’s leg was twitching and he had been unable to focus his attention on any one thing for more than a few minutes at a time.

  ‘What’s this, Daddy?’ Matthew asked. He was holding a small, fabric-covered speaker he’d unearthed in a cupboard.

  ‘It’s an Echo,’ he replied. ‘Like an early version of the Audite. They stopped making them a long time ago.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘Playing music, mostly, or reading books, weather forecasts, turning on light bulbs.’

  Matthew laughed. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Pretty much, yes.’

  ‘Was it yours?’

  ‘No, it belonged to my mum.’

  ‘Why’ve you kept it?’

  ‘I don’t know, I just have.’

  It was the only object he possessed that contained recordings of his mother’s voice. Sometimes, when he was alone, he plugged it in to listen to her reciting a shopping list into its memos or leaving him a message to play when he arrived home from school and she was elsewhere. And each morning it reminded her to divide their medication, a Ritalin for him and two anti-psychotics for herself.

  The table shook as his son’s leg and foot picked up the pace, moving back and forth. Anthony’s often did the same when he struggled to centre himself. And, like Matthew, that morning, Anthony was also finding it increasingly difficult to tether himself to a stationary frame of mind.

  ‘Can you put the Echo down while you’re eating breakfast please?’ he asked.

  ‘But I want to play with it.’ Matthew threw it up in the air and caught it.

  ‘Put it down please, Matthew,’ Anthony repeated.

  His son threw it up in the air once again, but this time, it slipped out of his hands and fell to the floor.

  ‘Matthew!’ he yelled. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

  His cursing halted his son’s behaviour, just as Jada entered the room. As she dried her damp hair with a towel, she glowered at her husband then guided Matthew out of the room.

  Anthony closed his eyes and cursed again, this time under his breath. The burden of knowledge was a heavy weight to carry and he was struggling. At his last London meeting, he’d not only been made privy to plans for children like his son, but he had also been tasked with implementing them. He knew that, in the not-so-distant future, Matthew’s ADHD was going to bring the whole family added complications.

  ‘Did you have to swear at him?’ asked Jada on her return.

  ‘He wasn’t listening to me,’ Anthony replied. Her folded arms warned him it was a poor excuse. ‘I’m sorry,’ he conceded. ‘Where is he? I’ll apologize.’

  ‘Leave him; he’s in his room. Couldn’t you have made a little time to show him how the Echo worked? You know he’s got a curious mind.’

  ‘I think we should try medication,’ Anthony offered without warning.

  Jada frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Take him back to the specialist and find a treatment that works for him.’

  Jada eyed him suspiciously. ‘Why the one-eighty?’

  ‘Because you were right. If his school is telling us that he’s being disruptive then we need to do something about it while we still have time.’

  ‘He’s only seven. His behaviour now isn’t going to determine the rest of his life.’

  Anthony shifted awkwardly and Jada caught it. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Anthony shrugged.

  ‘What are you not telling me?’

  ‘I’m not not telling you anything.’

  Jada sucked in her cheeks. ‘After two years of opposing meds, you’re expecting me to believe you’ve suddenly had a change of heart with no prompting?’

  Anthony hesitated before he nodded. He couldn’t tell her the truth about what he knew.

  ‘There it is again!’ she persisted. ‘You’re hiding something.’

  Anthony looked towards the Audite. ‘You are lying,’ Jada mouthed silently instead.

  ‘Then that’s wonderful,’ she continued in a tone that didn’t match her expression. ‘I’ll make an appointment with the specialist later in the week.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, you’ll probably have work to do. We’ll be okay on our own. We always are.’

  Jada left him alone knowing he had no riposte.

  37

  Roxi

  Adrenaline was coursing through Roxi’s body even before she opened the front door and spotted the dozen new, unopened boxes stacked up against the wall. All were addressed to her. As someone who’d grown up in the care system, she could only watch with envy as children in TV shows had opened heaps of brightly wrapped boxes on a Christmas morning. Now every day was like the Christmas Day she’d longed for. And she wondered if the novelty of receiving gifts as an adult would ever wear off.

  Two hours had passed since her appearance on ITV’s early evening magazine show. Millions had watched her argue that people living in Old Towns should require visitor’s passports to go to New Towns. She had put across her point concisely and with passion, and, if she continued to perform like this, she was convinced it would once again boost her social media following. The road to Instafame was littered with the deactivated profiles of Influencers whose stars burned too brightly too quickly. Roxi would not be like them. She had worked too hard to shine to simply fizzle out.

  She cocked her ear to listen to the music coming from the other side of the kitchen door. Owen, Darcy and Josh’s voices were singing along to music playing from the Audite. She opened the door quietly and watched as Darcy diced vegetables, Josh perched on the worktop peeling potatoes and Owen searched the pan drawer. They don’t need you to be a family, a voice in the back of her head whispered. And, for a moment, her light dimmed. She had wasted many an hour trying to share the joy they found in small things, but she never quite managed it. She wondered if she might ever be truly fulfilled by those around her.

  She removed her phone, took a quick photo, placed graphics of hearts across it and added a song about family love before posting it on Instagram. It might prompt sponsorship from a recipe delivery box service. Roxi waited until followers began to praise her ‘beautiful family’ and comment on how fortunate she was. Her light returned.

  She offered an enthusiastic ‘hello’ as she entered the kitchen. The singing tapered off and the temperature cooled as she shrugged off her coat and placed her phone on the island.

  Owen and Darcy muttered their greetings while Josh flashed a brief smile. She waited unsuccessfully for something more.

  ‘Well?’ she eventually asked. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Is what it?’ asked Darcy without looking up.

  ‘You watched it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Watched what?’

  Roxi turned to her husband. ‘Owen?’

  ‘I’ve been at work,’ he said. Neither asked to what she was referring.

  Roxi folded her arms and locked them tight like magnets. ‘ITV Tonight?’

  ‘Nope, sorry,’ said Owen.

  ‘Not even on catch-up? I included a link on my socials.’

  ‘I don’t follow you,’ said Darcy with a hint of satisfaction.

  ‘We could watch it now if you like?’ Roxi asked.

  ‘Maybe after dinner,’ Owen replied.

  Roxi’s shoulders slumped. Her family might not have cared, but she was sure that, if her best friend Phoebe was still alive, she’d be proud of her. A buried memory reappeared, one of a silent version of herself, a child ignored by classmates at each new school she was parachuted into. Friendship groups had already been formed by the time she’d arrived and there was rarely an opening for latecomers – least of all one who was unlikely to remain in the same school for long.

  She pulled herself back to the present.

  ‘Well, thanks so much for your support,’ Roxi continued. ‘You’re quick to forget all the hours I’ve spent making costumes for school plays or the nights I’ve spent at parents’ evenings and sports days.’

  ‘Dad did most of that,’ said Darcy.

  ‘Not all of it! Now I’ve found my niche and you’re pretending it’s not happening. I’m being gaslighted by my own family.’

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ said Josh. At least he sounded as if he meant it.

  ‘Guys, can you give your mum and me a minute, please?’ asked Owen.

  Roxi recognized the glance that passed between them. She’d witnessed it before. It suggested a conversation about her that she’d been excluded from. Her arms remained folded until they were alone.

  ‘What am I about to be blamed for tonight?’ she began defensively. ‘What a terrible wife I am or how I’m using my kids to progress my career?’

  ‘Neither. Look, Rox, I’m sorry for saying I didn’t want to be married. I didn’t mean it; I was angry. But we need to find a way to adjust our relationship and make it work, especially now that we’re being monitored. You can’t say either of us are happy at the moment, right?’

  ‘I was until I got home,’ Roxi huffed. ‘It was a huge day for me and I wanted to share it with my family. But none of you could care less.’

  ‘Of course we could,’ Owen replied calmly. ‘But it cuts both ways. When did you last ask us about our days? And I support you by working all hours so that you can fulfil your dreams. But I won’t give you my backing when you exploit us to push your career forward.’

  ‘Is this still about the Darcy bullying post?’ Roxi protested. ‘I was showing my support for my daughter . . .’

  ‘No, you weren’t and if you take a step back you’ll see that. We are a month into Level One and we have no idea how often the Audite’s listening or what it’s learning. We need to reach a level of understanding, Rox, to prove that our problems are surmountable before they send someone in to repair us. We need to be more of a family, do more things together, show that we actually all get along.’

  Roxi had assumed that’s what she had been doing, by involving her children in content creation and sharing with Owen that she had her sights set on Jem Jones’ vacant throne. Apparently she was wrong.

  One of Roxi’s biggest fears was that this was as good as their lives were going to get. A husband with limited aspirations, a daughter who resented her, a son she barely knew and all of them cooped up together in a three-bedroom suburban identikit home on the edge of New Northampton’s boundaries with a rear garden you could barely swing a cat in. She knew the latter as a fact, she had tried once with one of Josh’s stuffed toys. Its tail brushed each fence as she spun it in a circular motion. Her family was destined to take holidays abroad in coastal tourist traps, own a car three models behind the latest release and purchase clothing in the sales. The list of what they would never achieve was endless.

  And Roxi craved more. Much, much more. A larger house in a better part of New Northampton, five-star luxury holidays, sponsorships . . . and they were so tantalizingly close that she could taste them. However, the stigma attached to a failed marriage might risk all of that.

  ‘Did you hear the Push notification a couple of days ago?’ Owen continued.

  ‘Which one? There are so many.’

  ‘The one about remembering what we were like before we got married. How all couples change who they are when they’re carried along on a tidal wave of love – their description, not mine. Then, after you marry, you slip back into the person you were before. And that’s when you must start working and growing in the same direction. Somewhere along the line, you and I went off course separately, so we need to find common ground.’ As he spoke, an image of a younger Owen returned to Roxi, the one who’d make frequent visits to the HR department of the recruitment company where they’d worked. On sight alone she’d been able to tell he was a decent type but her attraction hadn’t been instant. Back then, she was accustomed to dating men who treated her poorly but were exciting to be around. She could fall in love at the drop of a hat with men like that because that’s all she’d thought she was worth. She’d readily dilute herself for another.

  But Owen had made it clear he didn’t want that from her. He wanted an equal partnership. And when he’d showed Roxi love, she’d been at a loss as to know what to do with it. The more tenderness he’d offered, the more awkward she’d felt. Likewise, three years later, when Darcy was born, she’d found loving her child easy, but only until her daughter had begun to return that affection. Then, Roxi had pulled away. She’d known why Owen loved her – he’d told her frequently – but she hadn’t been able to understand why a baby would show her such devotion.

  She’d clung on to the hope the pieces might fit together when Josh had come along. But the pattern had repeated itself. The distance she’d created between herself and her family continued to this day. She was doomed to remain in the hallway listening to the fun of others behind closed doors.

  Roxi had never admitted to her husband that she had taken a Match Your DNA test four years earlier. Her soulmate turned out to be an elderly widower living in the town of Blagoveshchensk, on Russia’s border with China. In her desperation to find belonging she had used a translation App to communicate with her Match and they had talked via email for a month. But then, after a brief silence, his daughter had contacted Roxi one day to inform her that her father had died of a stroke earlier in the week. Roxi had grieved quietly for a man she would never meet and a love she would never experience.

  Her phone illuminated on the island. It was likely to be an updated summary of her collated insights. She held back from grabbing it.

 

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