Perfect Match

by D. B. Thorne

  Hey. You there?

  It was Kay. Careful, Solomon thought. You mustn’t let her get too close. Too close and she’ll end up seeing you, and then she’ll disappear forever.

  I am.

  Tonight was … fun.

  Did Phil make it home okay?

  No idea. Probably. He’s a force.

  He is.

  You didn’t tell me. About Rebecca. What did the police say?

  Solomon wondered how to answer. It was Kay who had done the work, who had spoken to Rebecca’s family, shouldered that emotional burden. He wasn’t being fair. He should have told her immediately.

  They didn’t want to know.

  Why?

  Rebecca Harrington had a history of drug abuse. She’d overdosed before.

  Oh no.

  There was a note found on her.

  God. Her poor parents.

  Solomon waited, feeling culpable, humiliated, with no idea what to add. This had been his idea. Within the Brain Pool, he was infallible. But this was different, more complex and nuanced than the binary question/answer yes/no right/wrong that they usually dealt with. He’d tried something in the outside world, with all of its random events and statistical unruliness. And he’d come up short.

  So … there’s nothing in it?

  Don’t think so.

  Hmm.

  Hmm?

  The photo. You saw something in it.

  My imagination.

  Maybe. But maybe not. I’ve never known you to be wrong about anything before.

  Thanks.

  God, I almost added a smiley face.

  Don’t.

  No.

  Well. Thanks for your help.

  No problem.

  Night.

  Night, you.

  Night, you. Like the kind of thing somebody would say to somebody else they loved, say it while looking at them, looking at their face.

  Solomon folded down the screen of his laptop so that he could see no more. He closed his eyes. The truth was that, like Fox or Robbie White, Kay was another person Solomon could not fully comprehend. But when he thought of her, what he pictured in his mind was a bird in a gilded cage, an elaborately scrolled and wrought cage, the bird inside splendid and singing happily, but utterly impossible to get to.

  eleven

  IT WAS INTERESTING, THOUGHT SOLOMON, HOW QUICKLY THE human brain could adapt to new realities. He was sitting next to his sister, who was still intubated, still unconscious, and her sleeping face in the middle of this hospital room had already lost its power to shock or unsettle. This was now where she lived. Just as long as she kept living, he thought, that would be okay. That was something he would be able to cope with.

  ‘You made it out again,’ said Dr Mistry, the same doctor Solomon had spoken with a couple of days ago. ‘It’s becoming a habit.’

  Solomon nodded. ‘And the sooner you get her conscious, the sooner I can stop.’

  Dr Mistry took a torch from his pocket and leant over Tiffany, lifting one eyelid and shining the light into her eye, then the other. ‘Well, I’d say we’re not there yet.’

  ‘No change?’

  ‘Wouldn’t expect one. We’re keeping her nicely under for now. She’s due an MRI tomorrow, so we’ll know more.’ He took a wrist, felt for her pulse. ‘I think I mentioned, we don’t want to take any risks with her. She was in the water a while.’

  ‘So what’s the prognosis?’ said Solomon.

  ‘Well, she’s healthy,’ the doctor said. ‘Excellent muscle tone. What is it she does?’

  ‘She’s a stripper,’ said Solomon.

  ‘Is that so?’ said the doctor, smoothly, barely a hesitation; Solomon had to give him credit for that. He let go of her wrist. ‘Well, I’ll need to revise my opinion of that profession. Here,’ he said, taking a card from his back pocket. ‘I meant to give you this.’ He handed it to Solomon. On it was a name, Marija Andersen, and a title, Cosmetics. Below was a mobile number.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Someone I know. She does, how would I describe it?’ He looked at Solomon, appraising him, said, ‘Weaponized make-up.’

  Solomon frowned. ‘That being?’

  ‘Does a lot of work for film. Turning people into zombies, that kind of thing.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Solomon. ‘So maybe she can try some reverse engineering.’

  Dr Mistry didn’t smile at this. ‘It’s up to you. But she’s helped people before. I don’t mean to intrude.’

  Solomon stood and put the card into his pocket. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘There’s no shame in it,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re entitled to a normal life. Anyway, I’ve got my rounds.’ He nodded towards Solomon’s sister. ‘We’ll look after her.’

  Once Dr Mistry was safely gone, Solomon took the card he’d been given back out of his pocket and sat down again, turning it over in his hands for a long time.

  Solomon stayed until Luke got to the hospital and took over from him. That was how it worked, how it always had done. The two of them looked after Tiffany, made sure she had what she needed. Food, clothes, anything, it didn’t matter what, they’d do their best to take care of her Maslovian hierarchy of needs. And they also protected her from the outside world, already knowing, from a young age, that it was dangerous and that people in authority frequently meant them harm. They’d learnt that from their days in care, and it was a lesson they never forgot. Was perhaps, though Solomon didn’t like to think about it, why he valued precision and elegance, and why the disorderliness of life outside his apartment frightened him so much. Control. Control was everything.

  Solomon thought about Dr Mistry. He could have been a doctor himself, he figured. If he’d had the chance. If he hadn’t followed his brother in school, hadn’t always lived in the shadow of Luke Mullan, the antithesis of the model pupil. School was hard, he’d quickly realized, when teachers were more interested in making you pay for your older brother’s misdemeanours than teaching you. So he’d dropped out, done it his own way. Learnt about the subjects that interested him, acquired qualifications when it suited him, enrolling in colleges just to get the exam entrances and collecting A levels like they were stamps. Facts and knowledge flowed into his mind and transformed into elaborate patterns, coalescing into brightly coloured landscapes or entire intricate images, or rendering down into unique sequences, information as a code that he could forever access. He didn’t question it, only enjoyed it, this glorious mystery of his own mind. And it hadn’t seemed that long before he’d been sitting in a cold room in Cambridge on a sullen April morning, breezing his way through the entrance exam. The thing was, learning wasn’t hard, was a lot easier than life, and he’d read the letter offering him a place at Corpus Christi with little more than quiet satisfaction. It hadn’t seemed such a big deal at the time.

  He jammed the card Dr Mistry had given him back into his pocket and looked over at his sleeping sister. Stop thinking about yourself, he thought. It’s done, it’s over, so forget about it. What’s important is Tiffany, and what was done to her, and that’s not over. Far from it.

  The hospital’s burns unit was in a separate building two streets away from the Royal London, and not part of Dr Mistry’s rounds. The woman who had been brought in the day before with severe burns to her mouth and throat was sedated, but nobody in the unit felt positive about her chances of recovery. Her mouth was hidden by an oxygen mask, but beneath that, they knew, was a frightening mess of scorched organs and ruined flesh.

  She’d been found walking in Victoria Park, heavily drugged and horribly injured, without any ID on her. They had written Beatrice on the whiteboard at the end of her bed because they used a descending alphabetical system for unidentified patients – yes, they’d explain, the same system that’s used for hurricanes.

  The police had come, taken her fingerprints, taken photographs, asked about dental records but been told that it was way too early, they wouldn’t be poking around there for some time, if ever. And so they’d gon
e away, and Beatrice was lying there, under sedation, and the question that they were all thinking but nobody was saying was not Will she wake up? but Would she even want to?

  twelve

  IT WASN’T THAT KAY DIDN’T RESPECT SOLOMON’S DECISION TO keep himself to himself. She didn’t know what was different about him, what his exact disfigurement was, and she did, she really did imagine that it was probably quite bad, something that would give your average person pause. But you had to factor her into this situation, and she wasn’t your average person, not in an arrogant way, in fact in a totally-not-arrogant way, i.e. she thought she was exceptional in a variety of strange and not especially socially compatible ways, but still. She wasn’t your average person. And Solomon probably didn’t realize that, and it might perhaps be in both their interests if he did. Maybe.

  Plus, and this was true too, she’d been happy when he’d asked her to help with his investigation. Solomon was, after all, the genius of the Brain Pool, the rock star, with his quiet but always assured way of talking, like he just knew. Just knew. And never being seen just added to the legend. She alone knew that it was because he had a physical reason to keep hidden. The speculation within the Brain Pool was that he was a, a spy (that’d be Phil, he had some kind of thing about the security forces, probably because he was a commie), b, a super-famous crossword setter (which was a contradiction in terms), or c, just famous. Okay, there was also d, e, f, g, you name it, like he was actually one of the quiz show’s presenters, or he did something shady for GCHQ, or he was only five years old and speaking via voice-altering-tech, and doing it all when his parents were asleep, or he was actually dead and beaming it all in from another planet (that one wasn’t a real theory). Anyway, the point was, Solomon was a living legend, and helping him investigate his sister’s assault was interesting. And she really did want to meet him, whatever he actually looked like. So.

  So what?

  So she’d call him. He might be a legend, a rock star, a faceless genius. But she was a pioneer in getting organic matter to almost interact with an artificial neurological framework. Almost. Not quite, okay, not nearly, but she was getting closer. So she’d call him. Kay took a deep breath and opened her laptop, sitting at her kitchen counter, a still-half-full glass of wine next to her. Why shouldn’t she?

  As much as Solomon wanted to talk to Kay, he had an incoming call on his mobile that he couldn’t miss. He declined her call on the laptop with one hand, held his mobile in the other and said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Solomon.’

  ‘Robbie.’

  ‘Dude.’ Silence for a second, then, ‘You got to hear me, man.’

  Drunk, Solomon thought. He picked up a pen, clicked it a couple of times. ‘What do you want, Robbie?’

  ‘I need your help, Solomon. I’ve been getting, everyone’s telling me, calling me, telling me Luke’s out looking for me.’

  Solomon took a second to unravel that sentence. ‘Luke’s looking for you.’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying to you, and I’m scared, so you’ve got to talk to him. You’ve got to tell him to chill, just like chill the fuck out, you know?’

  Solomon didn’t, really, and his sympathy for Robbie didn’t extend very far past zero. ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘I didn’t have nothing to do with it, swear to God, Solomon, I swear to God. It wasn’t me.’

  ‘To do with what?’

  ‘Oh come on, man, with Tiffany, what the fuck d’you think I mean? I didn’t, just, tell Luke, tell him that he’s after the wrong person.’

  ‘And why would either Luke or I believe you?’ said Solomon.

  ‘Look, listen,’ said Robbie, Solomon shaking his head at Robbie’s incoherence, his shoddy use of verbs. ‘I’ve got knowledge, man, you understand? I know shit.’

  ‘And what is it you know?’ said Solomon. On the other end, Robbie took a deep breath as if he was about to jump off something high.

  ‘I know what happened. And I’ll tell you.’

  This was interesting, thought Solomon, but he didn’t allow himself to get too excited. This was Robbie White, and Solomon knew him. Knew that he was about as trustworthy as quicksand. ‘Go on.’

  ‘No, man, you’ve got to tell him. Get him off me, do that, then I’ll talk to you.’

  ‘Please,’ said Solomon. ‘You’ll tell Luke what you know when he finds you anyway. Just tell me where you are.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Robbie, a desperate expletive, followed by the sound of an impact, and he was gone, nothing on the end of the line. Solomon sat back in his chair and wondered how better he could have handled that call, better handled Robbie. Had he let his own feelings get in the way, enjoying hearing Robbie scared and out of his depth? Possibly he had, although he shouldn’t have. It was hardly a rational way to behave. But at the same time, he didn’t believe for a second that Robbie knew anything. He was just trying to save his own skin. The most important person in Robbie White’s life was himself, always had been. Solomon had often wondered if he suffered from narcissistic personality disorder. He’d suggested it to Luke, but Luke had just laughed and told him that the only thing Robbie White suffered from was being an arsehole.

  Solomon’s phone rang again. Robbie, again.

  ‘Made me throw my phone,’ he said, typical Robbie, finding other people to blame his own failures on. ‘Look, oh shit, look, Solomon, I’m sorry, man. Seriously, I’m sorry.’ He sounded even drunker now, maybe stoned, definitely out of control.

  ‘What is it you want from me?’ said Solomon.

  ‘Want? I just wanted to say, you know. I’m sorry. Just wanted to say that.’

  ‘For what?’ said Solomon. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it,’ Robbie said. ‘Swear. It was an accident. It was, I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.’

  ‘What did you do?’ said Solomon again, his voice louder. ‘Robbie? Robbie, what did you do?’ But Robbie was gone again, and when Solomon tried to call him back, it rang through to voicemail. Leaving Solomon with the question: what exactly was Robbie sorry for?

  ‘I told you,’ said Luke. ‘Told you he did it.’

  ‘He wasn’t making much sense. He was intoxicated.’

  ‘In vino whatever,’ said Luke. ‘We need to find him.’

  ‘Veritas,’ said Solomon.

  ‘He give you any idea where he was?’ said Luke, ignoring Solomon. ‘Any clue?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay.’ Luke sighed. ‘Listen, Solly, are you with me on this?’

  ‘I guess,’ Solomon said.

  ‘I’ll be around in the morning,’ said Luke. ‘We’ll find him. And when we do, Solly, we’ll make him pay for what he did to Tiffany. Yes?’

  Solomon stared at the wall opposite him, bare, like all the other walls in his apartment. He wanted nothing to do with this. But Tiffany was their sister. They were meant to protect her. And they hadn’t.

  ‘Sure,’ said Solomon. ‘Whatever you say.’

  To speak to three separate individuals in one evening was a social feat Solomon hadn’t achieved in over two years, and if he was honest, he didn’t feel up to it right now. But Kay had called and he couldn’t ignore her, or at least, he didn’t want to. So he took the easy way out, and messaged her instead.

  Hey. I’m sorry. I missed your call.

  No problem. You okay? How’s your sister?

  No change.

  I’m sorry.

  Did you need anything? When you called?

  No. Yes. Yes, I did.

  Kay didn’t add anything, and Solomon waited, then wrote:

  What was it?

  Do you want to go out? Sometime?

  Solomon didn’t reply, couldn’t. He looked at the words, words so genuine, so normal, yet so loaded with threat and humiliation and unhappiness. After a moment, Kay added:

  With me, I mean. What do you say?

  Say? thought Solomon. What do I say? I say I would love to but the moment you see my face you will smile and pretend that
it’s fine but underneath you’ll be horrified, disgusted, and you’ll wish you hadn’t suggested it and try to think of ways to extract yourself, to get away without hurting my feelings, to get away and never see me again. I say please, please don’t ask me this ever again, because it opens a ray of light, a glimmer of opportunity, and it’s better to live without hope, because the reality is that there is none. I say, I like you, Kay, I do, but your life will be infinitely better without me in it, because you are young and pretty and clever and funny, and I am strange and awkward and genuinely monstrous.

  Solomon thought for a moment, then typed:

  No.

  thirteen

  LUKE CAME TO SEE SOLOMON TO DISCUSS A PLAN, THE ONLY drawback being, as far as Solomon could tell, that he didn’t have one, didn’t even have the beginnings. ‘Find Robbie White’ didn’t count, he felt like pointing out, but didn’t. ‘Find Robbie White’ was an outcome, not a strategy. But then he guessed that’s what he was there for. What he was always there for. To do the thinking, then point Luke in the right general direction and wait for him to get it done. Which, in fairness, he usually did. Once he had instructions, his older brother proved an unstoppable force.

  Solomon was thinking about this while he made coffee in the kitchen and Luke poked around at his hardware in the living room, pretending that he wasn’t baffled by it all, the wires, the screens, his brother and the insular life he led. From the living room Solomon heard his mobile, his brother calling out, ‘Phone.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  A pause, while Luke looked at the screen. ‘Fox.’

  ‘Hold on.’

  Solomon hurried through, picking it up before it rang through to voicemail. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Solomon?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you be able to tell me the current whereabouts of your brother?’