‘This is his wife June, a fellow firefighter who also spent her career in the emergency services. They were married for forty-nine years, two of which under the Act, before she died suddenly in her sleep. So deep was his love for his wife that he chose to live with her body rather than have authorities take it away. Later, when she was discovered by a Relationship Responder, instead of being offered counselling, Arthur was punished for refusing to commit to finding another relationship. His marriage was completely disregarded by authorities.’
Cosby paused to take a sip from a bottle then he continued, recounting Arthur’s court case. Without warning, an image of Arthur’s dead body, slumped behind the wheel of his campervan, appeared on the screen. His eyes were closed, face grey, his head tilted to one side and the neck of his shirt stained by vomit. It drew gasps from the previously hushed crowd.
Anthony paled. He recalled identifying his mother’s body at the mortuary, specifically the post-mortem bruising from where she had gone through the car windscreen after deliberately driving her car into a motorway bridge. For years he had blamed himself and how his need to break from his environment and enrol in university had come at the cost of his mother’s already fragile mental health. Jada had come close to convincing him that he was blameless, but he had never completely believed her.
But now, glaring at this stranger’s body, he knew there was no doubt about it. The voice in the back of his mind was to be believed. Anthony’s work was killing people. His mother was his first victim, Jem Jones his next, followed by the arson victims and now Arthur Foley. Where would it end?
‘Five days ago, Arthur chose to die rather than lose his home or be pressured into marrying someone he didn’t love,’ Cosby continued. ‘It is your Government that is making this happen. For every couple that benefits from low stamp duty, NHS+ or all the other ways they have tried to bribe us, there is an Arthur Foley. Please, make your voice heard.’
A ripple of applause began around the auditorium as the main lights returned and a break for refreshments was announced. But while others moved from the seats, Anthony remained in his. Tears poured from his eyes, ran down his face and seeped through the neckline of his jacket. He felt a gentle tap on his arm. He turned to find a woman in the aisle offering him a packet of paper tissues. He accepted them without shame and dabbed at his eyes.
‘Stories like this upset me too,’ she began. ‘I only wish they were a rarity but they’re becoming the norm. And they never get any easier to hear. Is it your first time here?’
Anthony nodded.
‘What made you come?’
‘Curiosity,’ he said vaguely. ‘And you?’
‘To bring fairness back to our society. For us and our children’s sake.’
Anthony thought of Matthew. Did he really want to raise his son in a country where its people would rather die than be pressured into remarrying? Suddenly, Anthony had a pressing urge to feel fresh air against his face. This was all too much; he shouldn’t have come. He thanked the woman again for the tissue as he rose from his seat.
She held out her hand to shake his, pressing her palm against his for longer than necessary. ‘I hope to see you again, Anthony,’ she said. And before he could ask her how she was aware of his name, she ascended the stairs, leaving something in his hand.
48
Roxi
Juices from the cooked chicken hissed and spat like angryfireworks as they sloshed around the tray in Roxi’s hands. She walked around the poky kitchen three times before propping open the door to ensure the aroma spread throughout the house before Owen returned.
And, as hoped, the smell was the first thing to reach her husband’s nostrils the moment he opened the front door. He made his way into the kitchen, puzzled to find Roxi clad in an apron and loading the dishwasher. This wasn’t her natural habitat.
‘Oh hi.’ She smiled, pretending she hadn’t been tracking his car to pinpoint exactly when he’d arrive home. She poured from a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc into two stemmed glasses. ‘I’ve made dinner.’
She watched as he dropped his sports bag and hockey stick on the floor in the corner of the room and regarded the chicken, his wife, and the chicken again.
‘Is that . . .’
She nodded and a smile spread across his face. Chicken was his favourite meat and he swore blind he could tell the difference between the real thing and lab-grown food. So using some of her TV appearance earnings, she had located one of only a handful of chicken farms left in the country and ordered a plucked, refrigerated bird to be couriered to her that afternoon.
‘I thought I’d treat us,’ Roxi continued and kissed his cheek. Anything more passionate might arouse more suspicion than the sight of her cooking. ‘Could you pass me the carving knife?’ she asked and he removed it from its charger.
‘Where are the kids?’
‘They’re staying over with friends. I thought we could spend some quality time together.’
Roxi clocked the Audite, ensuring that, if it was recording, it was catching her every word. Then she recalled one of the seemingly endless list of quotes it had voiced earlier. ‘“You can’t pay attention to what matters most if you’re always in a hurry”,’ she recounted.
She interpreted Owen’s facial response as wondering who the hell this imposter was and what had she done with his wife.
‘I’ve been thinking about what you were saying about finding a common purpose,’ Roxi continued. ‘Would tonight be a good time to run through a few of my ideas?’
‘Um, well, yes, of course,’ he said.
Roxi took his jacket and, as she reached the coat hooks, she surreptitiously sniffed the collar, searching for the trace of another woman’s scent. She only recognized his cologne.
‘Sit, sit,’ she encouraged and beckoned him towards a chair in the adjoining dining room. She handed him his wine as an album they’d listened to back in their dating days hummed in the background. ‘Dinner shouldn’t be long.’
