Off Target: The captivating, disturbing new thriller from the author of The Waiting Rooms E-Book
Eve Smith
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- Herausgeber: Orenda Books
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
When a one-night stand leads to a long-desired pregnancy, Susan will do anything to ensure her husband won't find out … including the unthinkable. But when something horrendous is unleashed around the globe, her secret isn't the only thing that is no longer safe… 'An astute, well-researched and convincing novel of ideas' The Times 'If you could create a "perfect" baby through genetic engineering, would you? A disturbing and interesting thriller, perfect for book club discussions' Nina Pottell, Prima 'Provocative, pacy and scarily all-too-possible' Philippa East ––––––––––––An unthinkable decision A deadly mistake In an all-too-possible near future, when genetic engineering has become the norm for humans, not just crops, parents are prepared to take incalculable risks to ensure that their babies are perfect … altering genes that may cause illness, and more… Susan has been trying for a baby for years, and when an impulsive one-night stand her dream come true, she'll do anything to keep her daughter and ensure her husband doesn't find out … including the unthinkable. She believes her secret is safe. For now. But as governments embark on a perilous genetic arms race and children around the globe start experiencing a host of distressing symptoms – even taking their own lives – something truly horrendous is unleashed. Because those children have only one thing in common, and people are starting to ask questions… Bestselling author of The Waiting Rooms, Eve Smith returns with an authentic, startlingly thought-provoking, disturbing blockbuster of a thriller that provides a chilling glimpse of a future that's just one modification away… _____________ 'An effective thriller that will keep you hooked to the very end … more than that, it's a nuanced, believable examination of how human genetic engineering might play out...' SFX Magazine 'A brilliantly chilling work of speculative fiction – a disturbing but all-too-possible vision of the near future, where each of us gets to play God. Superb!' Guy Morpuss 'Sharp, intelligent, frightening and original' NB Magazine 'An eerily prophetic near-future viewed through a compassionately anchoring lens ... As tempting and tantalising a read as the vision of the future it presents' SciFi Now 'This is what speculative fiction should be – plausible, pacy, and with a story that packs real emotional punch' Louise Mumford 'When a writer's work is compared to Michael Crichton's, there's reason to sit up and pay attention … a cautionary tale that's full of thrills' LoveReading 'Eve Smith has done it again! A brilliant read' J.M. Hewitt 'One of the most exciting writers around … master of the high-concept thriller' Chris McDonald Praise for The Waiting Rooms***** 'Combines the excitement of a medical thriller à la Michael Crichton with sensitive characterisation and social insight in a timely debut novel all the more remarkable for being conceived and written before the current pandemic' Guardian 'STUNNING and terrifying … The Waiting Rooms wrenches your heart in every way possible' Miranda Dickinson 'Chillingly close to reality, this gripping thriller brims with authenticity … a captivating, accomplished and timely debut from an author to watch' Adam Hamdy 'Engrossing and eye-opening, with heart-stopping plot twists … a stunning medical thriller set in a terrifying possible future' Foreword Reviews For fans of Emily St John Mandel, Robin Cook, Tess Gerritsen and Louise Doughty
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Seitenzahl: 408
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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In an all-too-possible near future, when genetic engineering has become the norm for humans, not just crops, parents are prepared to take incalculable risks to ensure that their babies are perfect … altering genes that may cause illness, and more…
Susan has been trying for a baby for years, and when an impulsive one-night stand makes her dream come true, she’ll do anything to keep her daughter and ensure her husband doesn’t find out … including the unthinkable. She believes her secret is safe. For now.
But as governments embark on a perilous genetic arms race and children around the globe start experiencing a host of distressing symptoms – even taking their own lives – something truly horrendous is unleashed. Because those children have only one thing in common, and people are starting to ask questions…
Bestselling author of The Waiting Rooms, Eve Smith returns with an authentic, startlingly thought-provoking, disturbing blockbuster of a thriller that provides a chilling glimpse of a future that’s just one modification away…
OFF-TARGET
EVE SMITH
For Nuala and Aaron
‘A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world.
It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.’
—Agatha Christie, The Last Séance
‘Don’t see the genetics revolution as abstract science.
This is the story of you and your family and your future, and it is unfolding in front of your eyes.’
—Jamie Metzl, author of Hacking Darwin
CONTENTS
I’m just taking my last swig when the doorbell rings.
My hand freezes, glass against lip.
Have they come back early?
Wine sours on my tongue as the early-evening sun dances leaf patterns across the room.
Idiot. I swallow. As if Steve would ring his own bell…
Now there’s a knock.
Two knocks.
‘Delivery!’
I lever myself up and squint at the security cam. A guy in a short-sleeved shirt and navy baseball cap is standing in my porch, clutching a small package. I think of those macabre leaflets in the bin, and my stomach tightens. But he looks legit.
Knowing Steve, it’s probably some enhanced wearable. I imagine hurling his new Smart Band against one of the empty squares on the wall.
Then again, it could be for Zurel.
I activate the mic: ‘Just a minute.’
I shuffle down the hall, wiping the mascara smears under my eyes.
I should fetch that box down from the spare room and hang all the photos back up. That would show him. As I turn the latch, the thought makes me smile.
The door slams into my face.
I stagger back, cupping my nose.
The man drops the package and barges past, his shirt straining against his chest, as if it can barely contain him. I glimpse a tattoo, the length of his forearm. He scans the lounge and marches upstairs.
Red petals spot the carpet.
I need to run, but my legs won’t move.
I hear him thudding around, opening all the doors. Adrenaline surges, and I rush to the SmartPod, hit the button and steady my voice to give the command.
Feet hurtle down the stairs.
I race for the back door, but a hand grips my shoulder and spins me against the wall.
Black eyes consume a sharp white face.
I point at my bag on the table. ‘Money, cards. Take them.’
His mouth twists. There’s a ferocity in those eyes: drugs? Booze?
Something else.
‘Where. Is. It?’
My phone starts to ring, its playful chirps now obscene.
‘I…’ I swallow. ‘I don’t know what you—’
He clamps my neck, stopping my breath like a valve.
‘The abomination.’ Each syllable, staccato. ‘Where is it?’
He leans closer, crushing my arteries. Black discs spin behind my eyes.
And that’s when I realise. He’s here for Zurel.
I claw at his face, scrabble at his fist, a primal strength eclipsing my fear. The choke releases as he grabs my wrists; breath and blood rush free. His arm wedges into my cheek; there’s an inked black cross tapered like a dagger, two words underneath:
Isaiah 64
‘Where … is … it?’
Fingers drill into my neck. The room begins to blur. I hear the ringtone again: faint, like an echo.
My lips make the shape of words. ‘Don’t … know.’
Pain explodes under my ribs. Instinct commands my body to double over, but I am pinned by the throat.
‘“Know that the Lord Himself is God; it is He who has made us, and not we ourselves.”’ His lip curls back in a snarl. ‘“We are the clay, and He is our potter, All of us are the work of His hand”…’
Pricks of light detonate in my eyes.
I think of that first scan, her twilight hand lifting in a wave.
He squeezes harder, spit foaming his chin, hot wafts of breath and sweat. ‘Children are begotten, not designed. We will purge the rot, and restore Adam’s line.’
Darkness swoops. I strain every nerve and muscle to hold on.
I’d give my life for hers, willingly.
But I cannot protect her if I’m dead.
Part One: The Wish
CHAPTER 1
A hand seizes me, deep inside. It twists and balls into a fist. The pain radiates up my spine; immobilises me sinew by sinew. I sag over a mustard-brown stain, veined, like a fingerprint. Blood? Vomit? Shit? All are possibilities. A remote fragment of my mind picks over them, before lurching back to safe mode.
A voice swims past.
Sweat streaks my face as the pressure mounts, no space for breath. The hand loosens its grip. I slump over my knees and gasp.
‘That’s it, love: keep breathing.’
Something cold and wet presses against my forehead. Muscles, ligaments regroup. I open my eyes and see Steve, mopping my cheeks with the gentle precision of a bomb-disposal unit. He kisses my clammy head.
‘Clever wife,’ he whispers. My heart swells.
Babies can save marriages. As well as wreck them.
He scans the purple peaks on the labour tracker. They arc higher and higher, the gaps narrowing in between.
He squeezes my hand. ‘You’re doing great.’
I used to be such a wimp, but these past months have cured me of that. No epidural. No opioids. I swore to myself the end of this pregnancy would be natural and pain was part of my dues. I guess you could say it’s a kind of penance.
A memory ambushes me – of another hospital in another country, where I was not so brave. Labour’s so much easier than all the hurt I endured before. At least this agony will end.
‘Everything OK, Susan?’ Clare, the midwife, looms over me.
I nod.
‘Can I take a little look?’
I grunt and manoeuvre myself round like a prize pig, fix my gaze on the vent in the ceiling. There’s a primal, metallic smell that must be coming from me.
‘Things are moving along nicely. Baby’s right in position.’
My body answers with a violent wrench. That one felt different. And, before Clare utters the words, I recognise it: a visceral quickening. Steve senses it too. His grip tightens.
A breeze whips my cheek as Clare darts past. There’s a clatter of trays, the glint of light on metal.
‘OK, Susan,’ chimes Clare. ‘Time to push!’
I screw the sheet tight around my fingers. So close, now, so very close.
‘Not too quick,’ says Clare. ‘Nice short breaths…’
I try to slow, but a storm within me is propelling her down. In this moment I can do anything: rip through buildings, smash alien ships.
‘Steady, Susan! Whoa … gently, now … OK … Stop pushing!’
‘A head!’ cries Steve. ‘I can see her head!’
An intense heat floods my cells.
‘I’ve got the mirror, Susan,’ says Clare. ‘Do you want to look?’
My throat constricts. Just a tiny prick of fear, like a spindle’s.
‘Here, let’s sit you up a bit.’
A pillow thumps into my back. Clare angles the mirror between my legs as I peer round my belly. At first, all I see is blood. But then I spot her russet coils of hair.
Steve’s breath fizzes. ‘Can you see her?’
Hot tears spill onto my gown. All those swollen stomachs I’ve coveted, the endless procedures and fights. And now, like a miracle, she’s here.
Clare snaps the mirror shut. ‘OK, Mum. I think it’s time to meet your daughter.’
My lungs inflate with a surge of air. I push, forcing my own gravity; imagine my blood rushing down my veins, to her.
‘Almost there, Susan. That’s it, one more should do it…’
And out she slips, like a seal pup.
Silence.
And then I hear it: a faltering, phlegmy mewl that builds to a cry.
A fumbling of hands and blanket, a blur of wriggling pink limbs. And she’s in my arms.
My eyes race over her. A bubble of saliva graces flawless lips. Two midnight-blue eyes squint at me, blinking back the light.
Clare runs the sensor over her. ‘Heart-rate spot on, and the reflexes of a prize-fighter.’ She beams at me. ‘Congratulations. You have a beautiful, healthy baby!’
Relief sweeps through me, more powerful than any drug. Everything is going to be fine. We will be happy, now, the three of us. It will all have been worth it.
‘Would Dad like to cut the cord?’ asks Clare, fixing the clamps.
Steve’s face has transformed, as if the years have been ironed out. He looks like he did in those photos he keeps in the loft. From before.
He takes the scissors and opens the blades. My breath stills. Some fathers in the animal kingdom kill and eat newborns: even their own. Grizzlies are renowned for it. That’s why mother bears are so fierce.
It takes Steve a good few cuts before he severs it. The scissors crash into the bowl. I exhale. Now, we are two.
‘I’ll just take some blood from the cord for the screening.’ Clare busies herself with the syringe. ‘We’ll get the placenta delivered shortly, but right now…’ She smiles. ‘You three have some cuddle time.’
I hold my baby close. She blindly mouths my nipple and latches on. As her tongue presses in, there’s a tingling, pulling sensation that I have never known. Milk flows from my breast, like ancient magic.
Steve glides his finger along the sole of her foot. He looks drunk. Giddy. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He shakes his head and grins. ‘How could we make something so perfect?’
I fix my gaze on her nose as she suckles. Her fidgeting pink toes.
‘You see those dimples?’ I stroke her cheek. ‘Just like yours.’
The secret snarls: baulking at such audacity. I smother it. Bury it deep in my bones where no one will hear it. Not even me.
Her lips make a smacking sound and we both laugh.
Steve is her daddy now. Any test will prove it.
But he wasn’t her father.
CHAPTER 2
10 months earlier
I pinch the foil pouch between my fingers and, with practised precision, prise it apart. According to the app, my period is twenty-eight hours, seventeen minutes late. That’s got to signify something. My heart manages a dull thump, like a half wag of a tail. I have come to loathe this stick. Like Gandalf’s staff, it can enthral or terrify; embrace life or obliterate it. My bladder throbs, desperate for release. Still, I hesitate. Because, however miniscule, the possibility exists that I might be. It shimmers in my mind like some distant, tropical island: utterly beguiling but impossible to reach.
I suck in a breath and thrust the wand between my legs. My bladder muscles get a touch of stage fright; Jesus, you’d think they’d know the routine by now. I summon some inspiration: pelting cascades at Folly Dolly Falls; waves crashing on Holkham beach. Just two of our abortive ‘baby-dancing’ weekends. But whatever dance Steve and I were doing wasn’t right. Because no baby arrived.
I hear a thud through the door: Steve, shuffling out of bed. Need to move things along.
I give the stick a gentle shake. The app beeps:
Sample valid
Now, the wait.
I used to think three minutes wasn’t very long, but pregnancy tests are like black holes: they dilate time, stretching minutes into eternity, hope and fear stringing you out like spaghetti. To counter this, my pregnancy app offers distraction tools. Music. Meditation. Podcasts. I’ve tried them all. Plus a few others of my own. Like digging my nails into my thighs until they bleed.
Today, I employ a different strategy: counting the seconds backwards, cradling the app in my palm. I get as far as fifty-five when my phone chirps. I take two breaths – I always take two – and enter my PIN.
The fan whirs behind me: the drum roll before the crash.
The results box flashes.
My throat makes a hissing sound, as if I’ve been punctured.
In some alternative universe, I have peed into life one fuck-off pink tick.
But not this one.
■ ■ ■
‘Susan? You alright in there?’
I flex my fingers, draw the skin tight around my eyes.
‘Yeah, out in a mo!’
I drag myself up and glimpse my reflection. Test Day face: not pretty. I splash water on my cheeks and take a couple of breaths.
Steve’s by the bed. He frowns as I hurry past. I shove my head in the wardrobe and start trawling through tops.
‘It’s today, isn’t it? Shit, Susan, I totally forgot—’
‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ I try for a smile but it’s more of a grimace.
I remember Steve and I ogling our first test stick, like kids in a sweetshop. Those were the early days, when that wand was the key to Wonderland; when everything lay ahead of us. Or so we thought.
Don’t cry.
‘It’ll happen, Susan. We just need to be patient.’
My fingers clench. I am so sick of these phrases:
Give it time.
Just keep trying.
Relax, it’ll happen.
He pads up behind me. ‘Really. It’s going to be OK.’
Nearly four years. Forty-seven cycles of Big Fat Negatives. In what messed-up world is that ‘OK’?
He pulls me to him, giving my back little pats. His gestures are well intended, but they’ve gone stale through sheer frequency.
‘I know it’s hard,’ he whispers. ‘But we’re doing all the right things.’
Genetically personalised supplements. Fish oil and folic acid. No pesticides, caffeine or booze.
‘Maybe you ought to … you know, give those apps a miss for a while. Stay off the forums.’
My lips tighten. My Trying to Conceive (TTC) forum is the only thing keeping me sane.
He swallows. ‘The doctor said it’s probably not a good idea to keep test—’
‘Can we not…? Can we just … not…?’ My voice cracks and I pull away.
‘Listen to me, Susan. You heard what she said. There’s nothing wrong with either of us.’
‘Well, I bloody well wish there was. Then at least we could fix it.’
They call it unexplained infertility. It’s like having some undiagnosed terminal disease. I have copious high quality eggs, my tubes are open and no growths in sight; Steve’s sperm are plentiful and positively flying.
He squeezes my shoulder. ‘We’ve got to try and stay positive.’
My breath snorts through my nose. ‘You know how long it took Christine? Three months. And she can barely look after herself, let alone a child.’
His hand recoils. I know how I sound; how bitter this green-eyed monster has become. It’s getting to the point he can hardly look at me, let alone make love.
‘Everyone’s different, Susan. Some get lucky.’
‘It’s the twenty-first century, Steve,’ I snap. ‘Luck has precious little to do with it.’
We must be the only couple I know who are still trying solo, without help, the old-fashioned way: just sex.
He sinks onto the bed and sighs. ‘We can’t keep doing this, Susan. It’s like history’s repeating itself.’
He means Katya: his ex. The ultimate insult. It’s not my fault, what happened. I’m the one being punished, and I wasn’t even there.
‘As if work isn’t stressful enough … I don’t want to live like this.’
‘And you think I do?’ I cuff away a tear. ‘All those pitying looks from mothers in the playground. The endless bulge of bellies in the staff room—’
‘You think you’re the only one?’ Steve cuts in. ‘Week in, week out, I have to listen to the same office banter about how lucky I am, how much fun I must be having: all those lie-ins and rampant sex…’ He turns to me and his face stills my heart. ‘Every day. Every single day I wake up seeing how unhappy you are. Because I haven’t given you the thing you want most…’
I smooth my palm over his cheek. ‘It’s not your fault, Steve. You’re right, though: this can’t carry on. We have to try something else.’ I swallow. ‘Look at Carmel. It worked out fine for them, in the end, didn’t it?’
He yanks away from me as if I’ve just bitten him. ‘Christ. Don’t you ever stop?’
I slam the mattress. ‘It’s my choice, too! How can IVF be any worse than this?’
He stands up and squints at me, as if from a great distance. ‘Oh, it gets much, much worse, believe me.’ There’s a gravelled edge to his words that makes me shiver. ‘We’ve barely even got started.’
He stomps to the bathroom and locks the door. Water smashes into the tiles.
I grab my phone and slide down the wall to the floor. I scroll through my history: relentless pink circles encasing straight blue lines, the word, ‘NO’, shouting in white capitals.
I hear my father’s voice:
You can’t do anything right…
These lines have become the story of my life.
Flat. Blue. And always negative.
CHAPTER 3
I pull my collar up around my ears and pace the playground, trying to avoid the parents’ eyes. I have no bandwidth this morning for the posse of petty plaintiffs: Greta’s mum whining about school lunches and how utterly exhausting the new baby is, or Harry’s dad laying in about phonics again.
A straggle of year twos darts past like startled fish, first one way, then the other. Did I ever run like that? It’s hard to imagine. My body is calcifying; with every failed conception it grows more inert. Sometimes, it feels as if I’ve been dropped down a very deep well, and I’m lying there, watching the clouds roll past, listening to the far-off lives of others.
I risk a glance at the idling pushchairs, the red-faced toddlers straining against their straps. Two girls fly up to a pram and wave at a swaddle of pink inside. My chest tightens. Other mums crowd round, poking their fingers under the hood. The mother bestows on them a sleepy, beatific smile, her hand cushioning her belly as if she’s already lining up number three.
I look away and spot Marty, his long legs striding across the playing field. I lift my arm and wave.
He nods at the babble of children, frolicking like puppies. ‘It’s as if they store it up over the weekend, ready for Mondays.’
I smile. ‘Good weekend?’
‘Loud.’ He takes a swig from his travel mug. ‘Grandparents are over, on Mamma’s side.’ Marty’s mother is Sicilian. He makes a yapping motion with his fingers. ‘Non-stop, I tell you. I had to send them into Oxford on one of those open-top-bus sightseeing tours. I’ve been craving silence for forty-eight hours.’
I remember Marty on his first day in the staff room: fancy shirt, olive skin and huge brown eyes. He looked like some tropical species that had inadvertently flown off course. After ten years in corporate law he joined an accelerated teacher-training scheme: I didn’t think he’d last the year. Then I watched him at break, coaxing shy Holly Chipson off the Friendship Bench. I couldn’t have been more wrong. The next thing, Holly was up playing football with Marty, and three other kids joined in.
‘Take it steady, Danny.’ Marty sidesteps two boys crashing past after a ball. The red-haired one whoops as he crosses in front, but then he teeters to a stop, as if his batteries have died.
He sways slightly. Marty rushes over. ‘Danny?’
Marty gets there just as the boy crumples, catching him under the shoulders. Marty lays him gently on the ground. Danny’s body is completely rigid, his eyes rolled back. Marty takes off the boy’s glasses and checks his watch.
I kneel next to him. ‘Shall I fetch another first aider?’
Marty wrestles out of his jumper and lays it under the boy’s head. ‘It’s alright: I’m trained.’
Danny’s back arches and his arms jerk out; his feet start pushing against the tarmac.
‘It’s OK, Danny,’ says Marty softly. ‘You’re OK.’
Tremors ripple up Danny’s body; his legs rhythmically thump the ground.
I glance at Marty. ‘Tell me what I can do.’
Marty shields the boy’s head with his hands, keeping the jumper close. ‘Get hold of his mother. Let her know what’s happened.’
‘What’s wrong?’ asks a small voice. Danny’s friend is staring at him, the ball clutched tight to his chest. ‘Is Danny OK?’
‘Yes, Ben: he’s having a seizure,’ says Marty. Danny’s back stiffens and he hisses through clenched teeth. ‘They usually pass pretty quickly.’
I give Ben a bright smile. ‘Actually, Ben, would you do me a favour and run over to reception? Let Miss Jenner know what’s happened and ask her to contact Danny’s mum. She may still be by the gates.’
Ben nods and sprints off.
Saliva bubbles out of Danny’s mouth as the spasms intensify. I notice a dribble of blood and someone squeals. Behind us, a circle of children has gathered. They’re gawping at the boy, eyes wide.
I stand up and clap my hands. ‘OK, everyone line up now, please: the bell’s about to go. Let’s give Danny some space. Nothing to worry about: he’s going to be fine.’
I usher them away and flag down Aaliyah, one of my teaching assistants. I ask her to cover for me and organise something for Marty’s class.
When I get back, Marty checks his watch again and scowls. ‘You may need to call an ambulance. We’re almost at four minutes. Five isn’t good.’
I swallow. ‘OK.’
Sweat is running down the boy’s freckled face; his fists are tightly clenched. I count the seconds, phone at the ready, but the spasms begin to slow. Eventually, his body slumps. Marty rolls him onto his side as Danny splutters and gasps for air.
‘That’s it, Danny. Cough it up.’ Marty wipes the boy’s mouth and smooths back his hair. ‘You’re OK: you’ve had a seizure. You’re at school and you’re safe. Just try to relax: your mum’s on her way.’
Danny’s eyes close. Gradually, his breathing calms.
I exhale. ‘Should we call his doctor?’
‘We’ll let his mum do that. He’s exhausted. He probably just needs to go home and sleep.’
‘Well, thank goodness you were here. I mean, I know the basics, but when you see it for real … You were so calm.’
He doesn’t take his eyes off Danny. ‘My sister had epilepsy. I’ve been doing this since I was six.’
We stay with Danny until he’s able to sit up. Marty virtually carries him to his mother’s car. I wait in reception while Marty speaks to her outside. She’s a small woman: pale face, dark rings under her eyes. At one point, Marty puts his hand on her shoulder. I think she’s crying.
‘Is she OK?’ I ask as Marty trudges back in. ‘Has this happened before?’
‘Once.’ He sighs. ‘There’s going to be an update at the staff meeting.’
‘Epilepsy?’
He shakes his head. ‘I wish…’ His jaw stiffens. ‘Danny has Batten disease. We were only told on Friday.’
‘What? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Neither had I. It’s a genetic disorder: very rare. The family got the diagnosis last week.’
‘Is it serious?’
He holds my gaze. ‘It’s devastating.’
Danny’s in Marty’s class: he’s only eight.
‘Sight goes first. Then the muscles. Dementia sets in.’ Marty’s fingers curl into a fist. ‘By the end, he won’t be able to see, or walk … Or even swallow.’
I think of what I said in the playground.
Nothing to worry about, Danny’s going to be fine…
I inhale. ‘But surely they must be able to treat him?’
‘It’s terminal: there is no cure.’
‘God … His poor mother…’
‘His parents were in pieces when they told us: they’d no idea. Danny had only been referred because his eyes had deteriorated so quickly.’ Marty stares out the window. ‘The consultant said he may not make it past his teens.’
My eyes veer to a wall display: lopsided paintings of cats and dogs, a little boy chasing a purple balloon.
‘There’s one hope. Some new gene therapy in the States. The hospital is trying to find out more, see if they can get Danny onto the trial.’ He sighs. ‘He’s been prescribed drugs, to help with the seizures. But that’s about it. All we can do is try to keep Danny safe and record any other symptoms.’
I shake my head. ‘I’m so sorry, Marty.’
‘Yeah. You know the worst thing? His parents blame themselves.’ His forehead furrows. ‘They found out they’re both carriers for the disease.’
‘It’s hardly their fault, what’s in their DNA.’
‘Right. It was a one-in-four chance. And Danny was the one. They weren’t tested, so how were they to know?’
I think of Danny’s mother. How cruel. To finally get pregnant, only to have your child stolen from you by some time bomb lurking in their genes. No wonder everyone’s getting themselves and their embryos tested.
‘Anyway…’ Marty exhales. ‘I’d better rescue whoever’s covering my class.’
I catch his arm. ‘You were brilliant with him, you know, Marty. Really brilliant.’ I meet his gaze. ‘Whatever happens, at least Danny’s got you looking out for him.’
Marty’s mouth twitches. ‘Thanks, Susan.’
As he walks off, my eyes return to the painting of the boy running after his balloon.
I know what legacy my genes have in store: I’ve been tested.
But Steve hasn’t.
CHAPTER 4
‘Here, babe. Get this down you.’
Carmel hands me a decaf latte and sinks into her myco-leather sofa, curling her feet underneath her like a pedigree cat. If you’d told me five years ago that Carmel would buy furniture made from the roots of fungi, I’d have laughed.
‘Thanks.’ I grip the handle, trying not to scald my fingers.
She nods at me. ‘This will blow your taste buds. New variety, only just designed. Vanilla and cocoa notes, all dialled up.’
She eyes me over the rim of the glass. ‘Look, this hang-up of Steve’s about IVF … I know only too well it’s no tea party, but, Jesus, practically everyone’s doing it: for the disease screening if nothing else. You shouldn’t let him bully you out of it.’
I think of Danny, and my gut churns.
‘Honestly, some men would rather die than ask for help.’ She deposits her glass and inspects her nails. ‘Steve should know better, particularly second time around.’
I recall Steve’s face and feel a stab of guilt. I’m not sure I subscribe to such a black-and-white view.
‘Of course, this not-having-a-reason only makes things worse. If you know who the enemy is, you can crack on with it, get things sorted. Like Barry and I did. But if you don’t, well…’ She plucks some fluff from a cushion. ‘I’ve seen it with couples before.’ She pulls a face. ‘Turns ugly.’
The coffee burns down my throat. I’m still waiting for the part where Carmel gives me hope.
‘Come to think of it, I don’t know any couples who are even trying to conceive naturally.’ She nods at me. ‘I’m telling you, Susan, conception through intercourse is becoming positively Neanderthal. What’s the saying? “Sex is for recreation and IVF is for procreation.”’
I shift in my seat. It was different for Carmel: there was never any question about intervention. Barry’s bank provides fertility insurance so they both got tested and discovered Barry carries a mutation in the Huntington’s gene. Fortunately, his faulty gene is in what they call ‘the grey area’, which means he’s highly unlikely to develop symptoms himself, but there was a one-in-two chance of him passing it on. So that was that. Barry and Carmel qualified for PGD – pre-implantation genetic diagnosis – to test their IVF embryos for disease, and got it all done through the company scheme.
Whereas the only intervention I’ve had is a few fertility pills that gave me hot flushes and bloating.
‘Has Steve actually considered the risks he’s taking, leaving it all to chance? He’s had his own profile done, right?’
I hesitate. ‘No.’
Carmel’s face drops. ‘But he works in biotech, for goodness’ sake! You’re telling me he’s prepared to ravage the genomes of mosquitoes and mice, but not even get his sequenced?’
‘He works in corporate affairs, Carmel, not the labs.’
It’s a sore point but I still feel the need to defend him. Steve’s dad died in his fifties. After a heart attack.
‘And?’
I pick at my skirt as the argument floods back.
‘He reckons it’s like unwrapping some kind of “disease fortune cookie”. He says, “What difference does it make? So you find out you’re going to get dementia or heart disease. It just gives you one more thing to worry about.”’
Secretly, I used to agree. For all the support programmes and genetic counselling they offer, it doesn’t necessarily change the end game. Like Dad’s Alzheimer’s or Mum’s cancer: it was a curse they couldn’t lift. Only the other day, I read about some guy who’d waded out into Farmoor Reservoir with a rucksack of bricks. His wife had bought him a DNA test kit for Christmas. Turned out he carried the mutation for Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease: a fatal brain disorder that has no cure.
Carmel puffs out a breath. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just … irresponsible. I mean, how can you prepare yourselves properly for a baby if you don’t get tested? It’s Russian roulette.’
I dig my nails into the chair. ‘I guess we’ll just have to cross that bridge when we come to it. If we ever come to it.’
She sucks in her lips. ‘You know what I think, Susie?’ I look up. ‘I reckon you should just go ahead and book it in yourself.’
I frown at her. ‘It takes two, remember?’
‘Tell him you’ll bloody-well use a donor if he doesn’t say yes.’
I expel something between a sigh and a laugh. ‘You know I could never do that. I can’t really blame him. With everything that happened, you know, with Katya, his ex.’
Carmel slams her saucer on the table. ‘Honey, that was nearly a decade ago. IVF has moved on. Back then only one in five made it: now it’s one in three. And you’re not Katya, you’re you. You need to get on with it before your egg quality falls off a cliff.’
I gaze at one of the photos of Leo, just after he was born. Carmel’s efforts sure paid off. Underneath the ludicrously large cotton cap is that cute little face, all crumpled and pink, as if he’d stayed in the bath too long.
‘It’s no use … He won’t discuss it.’ I sigh. ‘Even now, I don’t think I know the whole story…’ I clasp both hands around the glass. ‘But what I do know is that IVF broke his marriage and nearly bankrupted Steve in the process.’
I choose to omit the other detail: that it nearly broke Steve, too. Five rounds, they went through: a relentless boot camp of injections, tests and scans. And waiting. Always the waiting. He did tell me about that. How he began to dread her ringtone, hearing her voice: so brittle with hope, followed by the suck of breath that made him want to take a hammer to that phone. He said that’s what started him drinking: listening to her fall apart.
My head slumps into my hands. ‘It’s killing us, Carmel. Our lives are controlled by apps: what we eat or don’t eat, how much we exercise, when we have sex, if you can call it that. More like some kind of insemination Olympics. What if he leaves me, like he left her?’
Carmel plonks herself down next to me. ‘Steve’s not going to leave you, Susie. Not in a million years. He loves you: that much is obvious. Even if he is a little…’ she meets my eyes ‘…controlling.’
Through the blur of tears I notice a small fist curled round the edge of the door. Two round brown eyes peep at me.
I wipe my face. ‘Ah, hello, young man.’
Carmel glances round. ‘Leo! You little monster. You’re supposed to be having your nap!’
He barrels into the room, all feet and arms, and buries his head in Carmel’s bosom.
She ruffles his hair and tuts, unable to suppress a smile.
Leo peers out at me from under her arm. His brows knit together. ‘Why crying?’
‘Why are you crying?’ Carmel bites her lip and glances at me. ‘Sorry. Force of habit.’
‘It’s nothing, Leo.’ I sniff. ‘Grown-ups worry about things they shouldn’t. Sometimes, they forget to be happy.’
Carmel clamps a hand on each of his cheeks and kisses his nose. ‘Run and play with your Go-Go Track for just a few more minutes, and Mummy will find you a biscuit. Then you can show Susan your cars.’
He scrambles off her lap, eyes glittering. She waits until he’s gone and taps my knee. ‘Right, how long till you ovulate?’
‘A week or so.’ Carmel arches her eyebrows. ‘Six days.’
She inhales through her nose. ‘You need to plan something special. Remind yourselves that you’re lovers, not just breeders.’ She gives me the once-over. ‘You’re lucky, you’ve still got a fabulous figure. Buy something that makes you feel good. Black lace, thigh boots, whatever does it for you. Hell, I’ve got a bone-fide police uniform you can borrow—’
I groan. ‘We’ve been there, OK? Frankly, I’m beyond it.’
She scowls at me. ‘Look: I know how hard it is when you’re low. Leo didn’t appear overnight, you know. But unless you’re part of the Second Coming you’re not going to pull off an immaculate conception.’
I glower at the cushions.
‘And it’s no good going through the motions, Susie. You need to get those juices flowing.’ She throws her arms in the air. ‘Vodka. Wine. Jane Austen porn flicks. Whatever it takes.’ She grasps my hands. ‘Just. Do it.’
‘OK, Carmel, here’s the thing. You know what it is, next weekend? Mother’s Day. I’m going to be about as juicy as a post-menopausal nun.’
In houses all over the country, children will bounce into their parents’ bedrooms, clutching glittery cards with wonky hearts and pop-out flowers. I should know: I help make thirty of them every year.
Carmel grates a tooth over her lip, and I think she’s done. But a slow smile breaks out. She claps her hands. ‘Perfect. Just perfect!’
My frown deepens.
‘Don’t you see? Steve won’t deny you anything.’ She presses her mouth to my ear: ‘Forget all that bollocks about not drinking. You’ve total licence to get absolutely, filthy hammered. And then fuck like rabbits. Like you used to.’
She slaps me on the shoulder, delighted with her cunning.
‘And before you poo-poo it: by the time you pop out that egg, the booze will be well out of your system.’
I’m not convinced: Steve still has to be careful. But before I can muster a response, Leo pokes his head into the room. ‘Biscuit now?’
A blue hydrocar spins across the tiles and ricochets off my foot.
Carmel winks at me as my stomach sinks beneath her honed slate floor.
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CHAPTER 5
I wander through the Peace Garden, stopping to admire a clump of tulips: Mum’s favourite. Sumptuous pink petals cup a ring of scarlet stamens; at their centre glistens the seductive yellow stigma.
My phone pings.
Reminder: Your fertile window starts in four days.
I sit on the bench and sigh.
The spring equinox is upon us. Buds are sprouting, birds are nesting and pigeons are climbing on top of each other with a relentless flapping of wings. It’s reaching the point where I’m even resentful of wildlife, as if it’s these creatures’ choice to flaunt their breeding habits. Perhaps it’s because my own reproductive instincts are just as urgent but don’t get results.
Marty pokes his head round the pergola. ‘Staff room not good enough?’
‘Something like that…’ I make room for him. ‘How’s Danny?’
‘OK, for now.’ Marty shakes his head. ‘It kills me. We can wipe out malaria and get cars to drive themselves, but we can’t save an eight-year-old boy.’
We actually can’t wipe out malaria, but that’s not public knowledge yet. It’s one of the reasons why Steve’s so stressed. His firm engineered a gene drive that modified the disease-carrying female mosquitoes and effectively sterilised them. Just a few generations after they were introduced, wild populations crashed: it was hailed as a biotech triumph. But apparently mosquitoes can resist gene drives as well as insecticides, and now a new malaria strain is running rampant in Nigeria.
Marty takes a breath. ‘Anyway … Did you see Neesha brought her baby in?’
I yank a thread on my skirt. ‘Yup.’
Every goddamned year someone at this school gets pregnant. I opened the staffroom door, took one look at the coddling crowd and stepped straight out. These days I can’t even be subtle.
‘It was pretty cute. As babies go.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re getting broody, Marty?’
He puffs out his lips. ‘I’m sticking to the practice side of things.’
I chuckle and think, not for the first time, what incredible lashes Marty has. They encircle his eyes like the kohl of an Egyptian pharaoh.
‘So, who’s the current flavour of the month?’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘You make it sound like I’ve an army of them on the go.’
Every now and then Marty lets a name slip. Always a different one.
‘I can’t imagine what it must be like, going on a date,’ I say. ‘It’s been so long. I’d be terrified.’
‘It is terrifying. There’s this new dating app: Genedr. Have you heard of it?’ I shake my head. ‘Like a genetic Tinder. People post their DNA profiles. DNA-Ps are the new dick-pics.’
My sandwich drops in my lap. ‘Please tell me you’re kidding…’
‘It’s all about carrier status and compatibility. They call it “genetically optimised dating”.’
‘Oh my God. May I never be single again.’ I give him a sideways glance. ‘So, Marty, have you—?’
‘Hell, no!’ he says, horrified. ‘But when you tell people you’re not on it, some of them look at you as if you must have something to hide.’
I’m appalled but part of me can’t help wondering how he might score. I stiffen. Or Steve.
‘It gets worse. There’s this tool on it. Find someone you like then mash up their data with yours. Spits out your “maybe baby’s” profile. Which way their earlobes hang, what colour eyes. Whether you’re breeding the next marathon winner or some bloke who’ll pop his clogs before he hits forty.’
I gawp at him. ‘I’m sorry, that’s just wrong.’ But then I think of all the IVF couples doing exactly that.
Marty takes a swig of water. ‘Anyway … what plans for the weekend?’
Fertilisation against all odds…
‘Nothing special. What about you?’
‘There’s a music festival in Oxford. Mostly local bands, but a few names. You’ll never guess who they’ve dragged out of rehab to headline Saturday.’
‘Go on.’
‘The Nostalgists.’
I spin round. ‘I loved that band! I used to lie on my bedroom floor and imagine Curt was there, singing next to me.’
Marty nudges me. ‘Look at you. You’ve gone all misty-eyed.’ His face lights up. ‘Hey, why don’t you come?’ My smile fades. ‘It’ll be fun. And you can protect me from all those genetic predators out there…’
‘I’m not sure The Nostalgists are really Steve’s thing.’ I bite my lip. ‘Plus, I have to be on form for Sunday. We always take flowers to Mum’s grave. For Mother’s Day.’
‘I’m sorry. That must be rough for you.’
‘It’s not the best.’ The last time I saw Mum, her body was so emaciated it didn’t look like her, at all. ‘But it’s been fifteen years now. It gets easier. With time.’
‘Well,’ he says, ‘if, by some remote chance, you change your mind, just message me. I’ll be there, propping up the stage.’
I picture Curt Brown and feel a distant stir. A flash of a different Susan, storming the dance floor, no inkling of what was about to hit.
I force a smile. ‘Unlikely, but thanks, all the same.’
I contemplate my weekend plans with mounting dread. And then I remember Neesha’s baby.
I make a mental note to order some gin on the way home.
CHAPTER 6
I slide the silver hook through my ear and check the mirror. The pale-green stones have a leafy shimmer, like forest pools.
Steve sits back and nods. ‘They suit you. Bring out your eyes.’
I smile.
‘They’re real jade. Not some resin print job.’ He pauses. ‘Meant to be good luck.’
This is Steve’s way of trying to make up for Mother’s Day, tomorrow. He used to buy me little gifts all the time, when we first met. I couldn’t believe my luck: I’d been such a mess, for so long. I was paranoid something would happen to him, the way it did to everyone I cared about. My fretting didn’t seem to bother him, back then.
I loop my arms round his waist. ‘Thank you. I love them.’
He nuzzles my hair. ‘Thought we might watch a movie later.’
‘Sure.’ I swallow. ‘But first, I’ve knocked up a little treat of my own.’
I steal out of the room, heart thumping, as if I’m about to commit a robbery. Hidden behind two packs of chicken thighs, at the back of the fridge, are a six-pack of tonic waters and a bottle of D-Zine gin: personalised to my requirements. I slice the rind off a lemon, dunk a fistful of ice in two tumblers and slug it in.
The smell of juniper ambushes me: wicker chairs in the garden; sun on skin. I add some tonic, and take a swig for courage. And another. I totter back to the living room and casually hand Steve his drink. He takes one sniff and stares at me. Before he can say anything I raise my glass: ‘Cheers!’
The gin races to the back of my throat, making me cough.
He frowns. ‘Steady on.’
For a moment, I think he isn’t going to play along, but a smile creeps into his face.
‘What’s this, then? Some radical new fertility theory?’
I laugh, emboldened by the alcohol. ‘Thought it was time to let our hair down. Stop taking things so seriously, like you said. Particularly given tomorrow’s … Well, you know what tomorrow is.’
It’s taken me all week to drum up this lie. It doesn’t feel so dishonest now.
He takes a sip and rolls it round his mouth. ‘Damn, that tastes good.’
I drain my glass. ‘Fancy another?’
I see a flash of hesitation. He looks at his drink then at me. ‘Sure.’ He downs it. ‘Why not?’
I head back to the fridge, wondering why we didn’t do this before. Dull, depressed Susan is diluting with every sip: the old me is emerging like some glorious butterfly from its gin-soaked chrysalis. Even Steve seems more playful.
This may just work.
We finish the second. And the third. After the tonics have gone, I sway back to the kitchen and ferret out the contingency bottle of wine.
Steve lurches through the door. ‘Now what are you up to?’
‘Cab Sauv, darling?’ I say in my theatre voice, slopping it over the side of my glass. ‘Whoops.’ I grab a cloth. ‘Mustn’t waste it.’
He eyes the bottle. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean … we haven’t sunk this much in ages.’
‘We’re enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?’
His face darkens, like a cloud moving over the sun. But it passes.
‘Yeah … About bloody time we did.’
We steer our limbs back to the living room. I scroll to my favourite slowies list and activate the speakers.
Steve pulls my face towards his and kisses me: a proper kiss, long and slow.
‘Come on.’ I give his hand a tug and slide off the sofa. ‘We haven’t visited this rug for a while.’
■ ■ ■
It was all going so well.
For the first time since I can remember, I actually wanted to make love. Not functional coupling; but slow, lustful sex. It made me realise how … mechanical things had become. Instead, we were exploring each other. Taking our time, like we used to.
I’d gone on top. Riding rodeo, as the girls used to say. Before we started failing at trying, this was my favourite position: satisfaction guaranteed. But then I’d read another of those damned articles which said that gravity could work against you. Better to go missionary, flat on your back: help guide those boys home.
Whereas tonight, it was my body that was instructing me, not faceless fertility gurus. So I was happily cantering away when I noticed a change down below. Let’s just say my horse was going lame. I sped up to a gallop, thinking this would resolve matters. It didn’t. If anything, it made things worse.
‘Is everything OK?’ I panted, wiping my forehead. Boy, I was out of practice.
Steve was panting, too. ‘Yes, it’s just…’ His hands slid off my buttocks. ‘All this rocking…’ He swallowed. ‘It’s making me feel a little…’
His eyes bulged. He shoved me off and scrabbled across the hall to the loo. A few seconds later I heard the unmistakeable sounds. Like a dog with a stuck bone.
