‘You could’ve been one of those couples whose results were tampered with. That happened to thousands, didn’t it?’
‘We Matched after that happened,’ she said again, her tone firmer. Theo had no recourse.
Flick recalled with clarity the day an email informed her of her successful Match Your DNA pairing. Years earlier, scientists had discovered a gene that all humans possessed and was shared with just one other person. They could be of any sex, religion, age or location, but they were the one your DNA was genetically programmed to be with. Your soulmate. In the space of a few short years, it had become the most popular means by which couples came together, with 1.7 billion people registering their DNA through a simple mouth swab.
Flick’s email confirmation had arrived months after a malicious security breach in which thousands of couples had been falsely Matched, but it was already too late for Flick to meet him. He had been murdered.
She had only just started coming to terms with his death when she learned who he really was and it had left her hollow.
Theo flitted around the lounge, tidying up papers, throwing away empty crisp packets and sweet wrappers and collecting castaway clothes. ‘I’m trying to help you, sis,’ he continued. ‘It’s not just me who’s worried about you, it’s Mum and Dad and the rest of the family. You didn’t even come to Gran and Grandad’s sixtieth anniversary party.’
Flick spat out a laugh. ‘Yes, that’s just what I need, isn’t it? To be surrounded by people reminding me that no one is ever going to love me enough to be by my side sixty years from now.’
Theo muttered something under his breath and began throwing clothes into the washing machine. ‘Hey,’ Flick protested, ‘leave them. They need to be colour separated.’
‘Right, because separating colours is a priority for you in this pigsty, isn’t it?’
‘I said leave them,’ she snapped, but Theo ignored her and opened up the machine’s drawer, pulling out an empty washing cartridge.
‘Where do you keep the spares?’
‘Theo, I’m telling you, leave my stuff alone.’
When he began rifling through her kitchen cupboards, Flick stopped holding back. She marched over to him, grabbing his arm. Despite being slighter and smaller than her brother, she twisted it behind his back and frogmarched him towards the door.
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Theo yelled. ‘I want to help you.’
‘I didn’t ask for it, and I don’t want it,’ she barked and opened the door, only releasing her grip once he was across the threshold.
‘I’m telling you this as your brother and as your friend,’ he continued, shaking the ache from his limb. ‘Match or no Match, he’s not worth throwing it all away for.’
Flick wiped her brimming eyes with the cuffs of her jumper. And with the saddest smile she had ever mustered, she closed the door on him.
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 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 and 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 his 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 themurders. 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 arch-rivals 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 kick-off. 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.
