Best Eaten Cold: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down.

by Tony Salter

  'I'm so sorry about that,' I said, putting my hand on her shoulder and turning her to face me. 'I'll sort it out. Whatever you need.'

  She pulled away roughly and carried on walking. 'Listen, Sam. I'm still pissed off with you and we need to have a proper talk, but I didn't get much sleep on the flight and I'm tired. This needs to wait until later.'

  'Of course. I understand,' I said, opening the car door for her. 'Whatever you need.'

  'I hope the flat isn't a tip. I can really do without coming home to a student house.'

  'Of course not,' I said, giving her my best and most charming smile.

  Meanwhile, my stomach was churning like an old-fashioned washing machine. Susie hadn't replied to my text and I had no idea what to expect when I walked through the door.

  As we stepped into the flat, I was so relieved I almost tripped over my own feet.

  Julie turned and stared at me. 'What's wrong with you today? You're acting like more of a plonker than usual. The flat looks nice though. The flowers are lovely.'

  I made a mental note to give Susie an extra fifty euros. She'd really delivered above and beyond.

  'I'm sorry. I'm nervous because I know I screwed up. I knew the Imperial dinner was important to you, but I let myself get carried away.' I was working hard to deliver enough puppy dog contrition while keeping the attractive, manly boyfriend element. I was tempted to dust it with a bit of cheeky-chappy humour but that might have been a stretch too far.

  'God, you're pathetic,' Julie said with a look of contempt. But was that a hint of a smile? 'I'll tell you what. I'm wiped out and I'm going to bed. If you can sort things out with Professor Bukowski and Imperial before I get up. I'll forgive you.'

  'Done,' I said. 'I'll make it happen.'

  'Oh.' Julie turned at the bedroom door. 'And I want supper on the table at seven o'clock. Deal?'

  'Deal,' I said, my words falling on a closed door.

  I was lucky and Dave was free for lunch. We met at Saki Saki, a new Japanese place on Sloane Street. The food was great; there was no menu and no choice which made it totally hassle-free. They brought out tiny tapas-like plates one after the other together with thimbles of saki or tiny shot glasses of craft beer.

  'I'm still really pissed off with Julie,' he said, as we tucked into a single marinated and grilled octopus tentacle. 'The things she said the other night were completely out of order and frankly embarrassing. We were only having a laugh. Maybe we had a bit too much to drink, but so what?'

  'I'm impressed you can remember what she said, to tell you the truth. My memories of the whole event are somewhat sketchy.'

  'It was right after you dropped the carafe of port. The old profs were giving us both the evil eye and Julie came over and gave us a real earful. You must remember.'

  'Mmmmh.' I was seeing flashes of a heavy cut-glass decanter falling silently in slow motion. As it hit the ground and shattered into ruby shards, my memory added the soundtrack and brought the playback up to normal speed. 'Ouch,' I said. 'I'd forgotten about the port.'

  'Worth remembering. It was spectacular. Bit of a shame though, as we were having fun until then. It was excellent grappa, given to me by the Sapienza University. We probably shouldn't have followed it with port.'

  'Maybe not.' I didn't want to think about grappa ever again. 'But going back to Julie, you can see her point, can't you? She's worked hard to build her relationships with Imperial and I'm sure she finds the academic bullshit as painful as you do.'

  'That's probably true, but do I want to commit to working with someone like her for the next ten years? I've got plenty of other options.'

  'Don't go there. You were happy enough before the dinner and you told me Pulsar is the most exciting partner by far. The thing is that it's all my fault ...'

  '... That's not true. It was as much my fault as yours.'

  'But it wouldn't have happened if I hadn't been there and I'm totally in the shit with Julie. I was hoping you could help me sort it out.'

  'Of course I will,' he said. 'I'm only winding you up. You're a good bloke. What do you need?'

  'Basically, I need everything to go back to how it was before, and we pretend Grappa-gate never happened. You tell the old profs to calm down and let Julie know everything is still on track. That's it.'

  'I can do that,' he said. 'Pulsar actually is the best partner anyway. But, if you ask me, you should consider your own options going forward. It wasn't what she said to me that pissed me off. It was the way she was talking to you. That's not right.'

  Dave wasn't telling me anything I didn't know, but I still wasn't quite ready. It was fine to think it through rationally, but I'd been surprised at the depth of my misery when I'd thought I was about to lose her. I told everyone - my dad, Daz, my mates, even myself - that I was only along for the ride and how I knew it wouldn't last. But was it true?

  The idea of being apart from Julie was enough to leach all of the colour out of my life. Leaving her would be like leaving Oz and going back to a grey, dreary Kansas where Technicolor was either a dream or a distant memory. That was a real worry. I'd never planned to fall in love with her. It changed everything.

  I spent the afternoon preparing supper. I'd done as much as I could to sort out the Imperial fiasco and I wanted to put together a special evening to complete my grovelling apology.

  The star was going to be crab ravioli in a lobster bisque. Home-made pasta and some beautiful fresh crab which I'd found at my local corner shop. At five stories and taking up over a hundred metres of Knightsbridge pavement, Harrods was quite a big corner shop, but it was all relative.

  When the table was laid and candles filled every corner of the room with warm, yellow flickering, I went to wake Julie. She was already up, sitting cross-legged on the bed, looking at her phone and smiling. She was so beautiful when she smiled. I needed to make her smile more. That would be a good plan.

  As she saw me come in, she leapt up from the bed and hugged me. 'Who's a clever boy, then?' she said as she held my face in her hands. 'I just got a message from Professor Bukowski. Everything is going ahead and he's sent the contracts off to his lawyer for a final review. We should be able to sign next week.'

  'Thank God for that,' I said, kissing her. I hadn't doubted Dave, but it was great that he'd come through so quickly.

  'I don't know what you did to calm him down, but whatever it was, it worked. You're forgiven. And if supper's good, you're double forgiven.'

  The half-wink she gave me as she said this made me very keen to find out what being double forgiven might entail and I ushered her through to the living room and the waiting champagne.

  'You've made it so beautiful,' she said, spinning around. 'Not bad for a man. Not bad at all.'

  That Doesn't Make Sense

  January 15th 2014

  I go back and forth and never know what to think. Deborah has convinced me that the mind is perfectly capable of playing these sorts of tricks, but I can't believe it. I know how idiotic it is to imagine someone is deliberately doing this to me. How could they be?

  It's stupid, but I'm not crazy, so I can't stop thinking it. Who has it in for me? Virginia? Jax? It's all so ridiculous. As I write it down, I realise I really am sounding like a mad person.

  Anyway, I persuaded Roop to buy me a new phone and I've changed all my passwords. If things still keep happening, I'll accept that everything is in my mind. I'll have to.

  'Are you sure? Definitely not?'

  Serge was nothing if not persistent. It must have been the tenth time he'd asked.

  'Yes. Really sure. Thanks again for the offer. How much do I owe you?'

  'It's ninety euros as agreed,' he said, handing over the phone and a tiny memory tab, stuck onto the corner of an A4 sheet of paper. 'I've listed the core contents by category and the chip is compatible with your vis screen ... And if you ever change your mind about selling the old phone ...'

  'Don't worry, you'll be top of the list.' I handed over the money, picked up t
he paper and my mum's phone and turned to leave.

  'Mr Blackwell?'

  'Yes,' I said, standing in the doorway, halfway in and halfway out.

  'Don't forget to check on those two forwarding numbers I've noted in the summary. It's unusual to have two bits of tracking software on the same phone. One is rare enough, but I've never seen two. I can do some tracing work if you want, but it's not cheap.'

  I smiled. Serge was a young man who would go far. 'Thank you. I'll make sure to remember,' I said, closing the door behind me.

  'Dad?'

  'Yes.'

  'Can you talk?'

  'Yup. I've got ten minutes or so. What's up.'

  'I've just picked Mum's phone up from the shop.'

  'Oh.'

  'Don't worry. I'm not going to share anything from the diaries or the phone unless you ask me to.'

  'Thanks. Let's keep it that way.'

  'But I do want to ask you about the tracking software.'

  'Oh that. I told you about it years ago.'

  'I know. And I can see the link to your phone number.'

  'So, what's the problem?'

  'Did you load up some other software before that?'

  'No.'

  'Well, someone did and it goes to different number. I've dialled it a few times but there's no reply.'

  'That's strange. Nothing to do with me. Maybe your mum got someone to put it on for her.'

  'Perhaps. But I'm not convinced.'

  'You're not letting this get to you are you?'

  'No, don't worry. I'm fine.'

  'Good. I'm worried I might have made a mistake giving you the diaries.'

  'You didn't. I needed this.'

  'OK. But you take care not to get stuck in the past. Sorry, I have to go. See you soon. Love you.'

  Julie was out at a conference until late, so I had the flat to myself. My plan was simple; I would go through the contents of Mum's phone looking for clues, and cross-reference everything I found. Then, and only then, I would read the letter. I couldn't put it off any longer.

  There was a huge station clock hanging above the living room fireplace. It was over two feet in diameter and used to hang at Paddington Station. It was apparently chosen by Brunel and had hung over the main platform when the station first opened in the eighteen fifties. Julie was obsessed with the passage of time and would do anything she could to either slow it down or get more out of each wasting second. She'd bought the clock years before and it was one of her favourite possessions.

  As I sat there with the diaries and my vis-screen in front of me, each swing of the gleaming brass pendulum ticked away the seconds until my moment of truth. I had no idea whether Mum's last words to me would make me feel better or worse and I would have loved an excuse to procrastinate a while longer.

  The emails and texts were generally boring. Functional daily communications which didn't say much more about who she actually was and, unsurprisingly, didn't discuss any of the traumas and the emotional decline which defined her last months. Email wasn't the place.

  There were some exchanges with my dad which were a bit more revealing, but mostly in a slightly uncomfortable, voyeuristic way. I actually didn't want to know anything about the pet names and euphemisms which made up their private world.

  Probably the only thing that stood out was the way the number and tone of the emails declined over the period. Mum was definitely becoming worried about everything and everybody and I could see it in her words. More formal, cautious and evasive as the days and weeks moved on. I could almost see her open, trusting nature lashed down cord by cord like a captured lioness, muzzled and bound tight.

  I knew from her diaries that she was starting to suspect that even those closest to her were potential traitors and threats. In her rational moments she realised she was imagining things, but in darker times, she saw betrayal after betrayal everywhere around.

  There was no mention of the second set of spy software in the emails or the diaries and I couldn't believe she'd arranged for it to be installed to check up on herself. She would have referred to it somewhere. I would have to find a way to trace the number and also to get someone to double-check Serge's work. Maybe he'd made a mistake.

  My Darling Sam,

  I don't know when, or if, you'll ever read this, but I hope your dad finds the right time to give it to you.

  Where do I begin?

  I don't expect you to forgive me for my decision – how could you? I will try to explain why I don't think I have a choice anyway. Maybe it will help you to think of me a little more kindly.

  I know Rupert will have told you what has been happening to me. He is too straight and honest to keep it from you. What he can't tell you is how I actually feel and how this is tearing me apart.

  I have been to counsellors and psychiatrists and have tried my hardest to play along with their assumptions and conclusions. However hard I try, it doesn't change what I feel inside, and have always felt. I still can't lose this certainty that I'm completely sane and that everything that has happened to me is the work of some malicious and evil conspiracy.

  I'm not unintelligent or ignorant and can see I am being ridiculous – I'm only an ordinary housewife and mother after all. But that's what terrifies me more than anything; the only other possibility is that I have another person living inside of me, but I can't feel their presence. Not at all. Can you imagine what that's like?

  And, if I can't accept I have an illness, how can I hope to get better?

  Which brings me to the reason why I've made this terrible choice. Why I've decided to abandon the two people I love most in the world. If I'm not even aware of my other self, how can I trust it with you? Can I be sure I won't have a car accident, or abandon you somewhere when I'm not in control?

  Even if nothing dramatic happens, I can't stand the thought of forcing you both to worry about me year in and year out, or the way your friends will tease you about me, or of the ways I will let you down again and again. I have thought about this so much and I truly believe you'll be better off without me.

  My greatest hope is that the man reading this is strong and happy, that he knows how to laugh and make others laugh. I look at you now, quietly sleeping in your cot, and have no doubt you'll grow into a beautiful man.

  I will always love you and watch over you. Please try to forgive me.

  All my love

  Mum

  I put the letter down on the table where it lay staring at me. Strange how a few dark squirls on cream paper could weigh so much and speak pain and loss across the years with such power.

  It had been years since I'd last cried. Maybe it was about time.

  I couldn't stay in one place and walked up and down through the flat. I moved from room to room to outpace my emotions but they were on my shoulder every step of the way. Eventually I ended up in the gym and switched on the treadmill.

  No warm-up, no long distance rhythm, I ramped up the speed until I was at a full sprint and pushed forward like I never had before. My lungs were burning and I felt my legs turn to jelly as I quickly took myself past any sort of aerobic pace. I still kept on, pounding forwards and not willing to concede, until my legs suddenly gave out and I was thrown backwards to land in a tangled mess against the far wall.

  The running machine continued to whine hysterically for a few seconds before the safety cut-outs kicked in and it gradually slowed to a safe speed before stopping completely and plunging the room into silence.

  I lay in a sweaty heap for a long time, sucking deep, raw breaths in through my mouth and feeling my body and mind piece themselves back together bit by bit. Running had helped and I was scoured clean inside.

  The outside needed some attention though and, as I stood under the shower feeling the heat of the jets pounding my back and neck, I felt relieved. That was it. The worst was over and I no longer had any new shocks in front of me. Having read the diaries, I wasn't surprised by what my mother had written in the letter. I was happy to have it and
would read it again many times. There was no rush to decide how much I would be able to forgive her, if at all. That could wait.

  The only remaining unknown was the mystery of the second phone number but I wasn't expecting any major new revelations. I would try it again a few times once I'd made myself a coffee and then go back and see Serge at the phone shop.

  I dialled the number while the coffee was brewing. It rang and rang as before but still wasn't picked up. There was a slight buzzing echo which was unusual but no-one at the other end.

  Coffee in hand, I hit redial and went back to the living room to read the letter one more time. No answer, but the echo was getting louder. Maybe it meant something?

  I hit redial for the last time and, after a couple of rings, I put my phone down on the table and picked up the letter. The echo was just as loud as before, even though I didn't have the phone to my ear. It made no sense. Three more phantom buzzes and it stopped.

  It took me a while to get my clumsy brain into gear. The echo wasn't an echo. It was a ringtone coming from inside the flat. My fingers were clumsier than my brain and I knocked my coffee flying as I grabbed for the phone to dial again. Hot acid coffee splattered the priceless, polished walnut and ebony gobbets of blackness sprayed out over the white carpets. I picked up the phone and left the coffee to do its worst.

  Redial. I was certain now. It was in the flat. I started walking around, holding the phone in front of me like a water diviner's hazel wand and letting it lead me to the source. The sound was coming from Julie's private office; it wasn't locked, but was definitely a no-go area. I barged in without hesitation and the buzzing stopped.