Perfect Kill

by Helen Fields

  ‘Wait until you hear the whole deal,’ Natasha said. ‘Because this is non-negotiable. I get everything I’m asking for or nothing at all. My doctor says selfishness is necessary at the moment, and that I’m to do whatever I need to get through this, so I’m taking that literally. I need you here, Ava. You’re more than my best friend. You’ve been a sister, a mother when I needed one, and occasionally like an irritating child to me, and I love you with all my heart. But I won’t let you be dragged down by this fucking disease. I can’t see you exhausted and scared by it, and I can’t impose all my worries on you, but I need to dump all the crap on someone else’s shoulders sometimes because I have days when I’m convinced the sheer weight of the sadness I feel will crush me long before the cancer decides my fate.’

  Callanach reached across and took hold of Natasha’s free hand. She squeezed his fingers hard.

  ‘So Luc, this is where you come in. I want you to move in, too. It’s a four-bedroom house. There’s plenty of space for everyone.’

  ‘You know I will,’ Callanach said. ‘Whatever I can do to help.’

  ‘This isn’t for me,’ Natasha said. ‘If Ava is going to move in and support me, she’ll wear herself down. She’ll worry, she’ll stop smiling, she’ll be no fun, and ultimately that’ll be no use to me at all. And yes, this is all about me. You’re just my minions for these purposes.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ Ava sniffed, smiling finally through the tears.

  ‘Swear as much as you like, Turner, but I know you, and you’ll forget yourself in a heartbeat. I need someone to fetch you takeaway, and to pour you a glass of wine when I’m not looking. Obviously you’re both banned from drinking in front of me while I’m not allowed it.’

  ‘Can we at least drink out of the house?’ Callanach laughed.

  ‘Only if you don’t come back drunk. That would be too unfair,’ Natasha smiled. ‘So that’s what I need from you, Luc. Someone to look after Ava while she looks after me, and an extra person to keep this house alive. If you can alternate your shifts, then Ava won’t worry about me when she’s at work. Three of us means no awkward silences, no one overwhelmed. Ava to help me up the stairs when I’m exhausted, and you to rub Ava’s shoulders when I’ve leaned on her too heavily, physically or metaphorically.’

  ‘Natasha, things between Luc and I have been strained. You know more about it than anyone else. I’m not sure this will work,’ Ava said gently.

  ‘You have to make it work,’ Natasha said. ‘Both of you. For me. Pretend nothing ever happened. Or work through it. Make peace, make friends, just find a way. You’ve both been miserable apart so I don’t see what either of you has to lose by being close to one another for a while and seeing how that works out.’

  ‘Ground rules?’ Callanach asked.

  ‘No dating anyone else while you’re both living under one roof. That would be too awkward. And no sex with each other either, even if you both come to your senses. It wouldn’t be fair while I’m incapacitated.’

  ‘I don’t think you need to worry about that.’

  ‘Ava, I love you, but know when to shut up,’ Natasha said, turning to look at her straight on. ‘You have one life. I’m telling you it’s time to start actually living it.’

  Ava reddened, glanced at Callanach, then looked away again.

  ‘That’s all,’ Natasha said. ‘It’s a big imposition but I figured if I don’t ask, I won’t get. Take your time and mull it over. You’ll be giving up a good six months of your life, maybe longer depending on how treatment goes. I won’t think any less of either of you if you decide it’s too much. I love you both. You’ve been a late addition, Luc, but you’re the only person who could possibly look after Ava the way she needs looking after. She needs someone who isn’t scared to tell her off, and who knows her better than she knows herself.’

  ‘Natasha—’ Ava said.

  ‘No, I want to finish,’ Natasha said. ‘Whatever you and Luc—’

  ‘I was just going to say yes,’ Ava said. ‘That was all. Yes to all of it. To living here and sharing this part of your life with you. And to having Luc here and letting him take care of me. All the drinking, dating, cooking rules – honestly I got a bit bored and lost track about halfway through; I’m not sure how your students stay awake in your lectures – but yes. We’ll be here, together, for as long as you need us, or want us, and probably refuse to leave at the end of it. That was all I wanted to say. Luc?’

  ‘There isn’t a Frenchman in history who’s turned down the opportunity of living with two women. I’m in charge though, right?’

  ‘No!’ they shouted together.

  ‘Well, it’s not ideal then, but I’m willing to compromise. I’ll need decent coffee in the house at all times and I’m not prepared to share a bathroom with Ava. There’s only so much chaos I can cope with.’

  ‘You mean you need so much time in front of the mirror that you’re not prepared to share one,’ Ava said.

  ‘This is exactly what I was talking about,’ Natasha grinned.

  She stood up, reaching an arm out to put around Ava’s shoulders as Callanach moved around the table to join them. They stood there together long enough for dinner to burn. No one cared.

  Acknowledgements

  Getting a book from concept to shelf is not unlike agreeing to host Christmas Day for your family, extended family, friends and neighbours (bear with me here). It’s all fine for the first half of the year, then as the months pass, you realise the magnitude of what you agreed to do. It’s still exciting and you have a warm glowy feeling when you think how nicely it’ll turn out, but still, the burden’s on you and it feels terrifying. Except that it’s not really all on you. Because along the way, different people will turn up to make all the tiny pieces come together.

  So as the dreaded but much anticipated day draws nearer, and you begin shopping for ingredients and researching recipes (or in the actual book writing world, that’s plain old writing, editing and polishing), the design team gets moving. They make everything look wonderful and shiny, with clever graphics, eye-catching roundels and raised print. So now – as if by magic – the tree is up, lights are twinkling, and there’s a holly, ivy and mistletoe wreath adorning the front door.

  But you haven’t invited anyone! Not a problem. You have a publicist, a marketing team and a sales squad to get in touch with all the right people, to persuade them that your Christmas will be better than any before, and that your house will be the place to be come December 25th. They’ll make sure people turn up on time, dressed in their ridiculous jumpers, ready to make merry.

  So things are still looking a bit messy and not quite ready for visitors … no problem. Editors will save the day. They’ll spot the dust left on the mantelpiece, the odd sock hidden behind the sofa, the unplumped cushions, and they’ll make it all perfect. There won’t be a bauble or a candlestick (or a typo or a comma) out of place. Gosh, it’s all starting to look great.

  But then the guests begin to turn up, and everyone’s still running around like crazy, you’ve forgotten to make the gravy, one group of people had no idea that they were supposed to bring mince pies, and communication has stopped. Luckily your commissioning editor is there to liaise with everyone. To cast a wise overseeing eye across the proceedings. To tell you when you’re about to overcook the turkey, or remind you to add more brandy to the sauce. She’ll get everyone around the table, take control, and suddenly it will all fall into place.

  And where are you? You’re still in the kitchen, stirring something, feeling pleased but exhausted. That’s when your agent will walk in quietly and slide a large glass of white/red/port/tea – whatever you need (she’ll just know what that is) and tell you it’s all going to be okay, just when you need to hear it most.

  As you’re finishing dinner, and you think it can’t get any better (the pudding was divine and there’s still plenty of silliness left to enjoy) the audio team turns up singing metaphorical carols at your door, and it’s perfect. Even the stuff y
ou never knew about or thought about. It just works.

  The analogy is flawed, I know, but the point is valid. Getting a book into readers’ hands is a monumental team effort. The best writing in the world is just a series of words put together until the work is done to make it a book. And for the record, my agent does a lot more than just hand me a soothing glass of something when necessary, but my goodness is she always there when I need her!

  This isn’t a jolly Christmas book (far from it) but I still have a team to thank for making it as good as it can be. Any failures are mine alone from this point forward. So with no more ado, my unending gratitude to Avon’s publicity superstar – Sabah Khan. Also Ellie Pilcher, Dom Rigby, Beth Wickington, the brilliant Oli Malcolm, Anna Derkacz, Hannah O’Brien, Kelly Webster and Catriona Beamish, not to mention the fabulous designers, Claire Ward, Ellie Game and Holly Macdonald. To my editor – my guiding light – Helen Huthwaite, there isn’t enough gratitude. To my agent Caroline Hardman, without whom not a single word I’ve written would have been read by anyone other than my friends, you are both the most patient and grounded person I’ve ever met. Never change. And to all at Hardman & Swainson Literary Agency working so very hard – Joanna Swainson, Thérèse Coen and Nicole Etherington. You all made this book, and those stories that came before it, and I never forget it, not for a second.

  But imaginary Christmas lunch wouldn’t be the same without bizarre relatives and too-drunk friends, so I’m also inviting Andrea Gibson and Ruth Chambers without whom I would have fallen apart years ago. To Neil Broadfoot, fellow author, fellow giggler, fellow twitterer, because I couldn’t have a virtual party without you. To the kids who tolerate their mother being distracted, unavailable and often weird when writing – Gabriel, Solomon, Evangeline – please don’t get any older/taller/more grown up while I’m not looking. It’s unfair. And lastly to a few new American friends who learned to put up with incessant book talk as they got to know me, and who’ve helped me transition to a new continent. Heidi & Rob Jessup, Jodi & Chris Queen, Marie Lewis & Matthew Sparks – thanks for reading/listening/supporting/musing and for the food & drink.

  I hope you enjoy Perfect Kill – it took a whole lot of people to get it to you.

  HF xx

  Read on for an exclusive extract from Helen Field’s new standalone novel.

  Coming February 2021.

  Chapter 1

  A sleeping woman watched over by the stranger who had hidden for hours in the shadowed bay of her bedroom curtains. That’s all there was to the scene. He was a spider, patient and unmoving, poised to drop and stun his prey. There was no malice to it. Only need. The white sheet covering her body rose and fell with each breath in the oblivion of slumber. Three steps forward and he could reach out and touch her, run his hands through her long, dark hair, press the half moon of his finger nail into the dimple that punctuated her right cheek as she smiled. His arms would wrap around her frame perfectly. In his mind he’d measured every part of her. Twice he’d passed by close enough to brush her body with his, once in the street, once in the school playground. The latter was a risk, but it had proved fruitful. In the beginning, he’d been concerned that the watching phase might be dull. How wrong. Familiarising himself with the lives of the ones he’d chosen had become his oxygen as the rest of his world had started to fade.

  He ran appreciative fingers over the top of the dresser at his side. No dust. No sticky fingerprints from the children. Angela was all wife, mother and homemaker. Her bedroom was the epitome of family. Photographs adorned the walls. A wedding, more than a decade ago, with a bride leaning into the arms of her groom, her dress demure, hair pinned up with just a few curls left hanging. A promise for later that night, Fergus thought. It had taken months of patience to find a time when her husband would be away, then he’d struck gold. The man of the house had treated the children – a boy of seven and a girl of five – to a camping trip for a night, enjoying Edinburgh’s idyllic August. The husband couldn’t have realised it, but the experience would be good practice. After tonight, he would be a single parent unless he married again. Fergus couldn’t imagine why anyone would try to replace Angela. She was everything.

  Each morning she walked her children to school, the boy racing ahead, sometimes on a scooter, while the girl held fast to her mother’s hand. He liked to watch them all together. Angela’s face wore an indelible smile when she was with her offspring. He’d never seen her looking tired or cross. In all the hours, all the journeys he’d witnessed, she hadn’t rolled her eyes, yawned or snapped at them. In the photos on the bedroom walls, she was not just a parent but utterly engaged in the act of parenting. He studied those pictures one last time, committing each to memory. There she was hugging her son as he clutched some sports trophy, and there she was laughing as she made cupcakes with her daughter, beaming with love. And there they were as a family on their bikes, pausing as a passerby took their photograph, defining togetherness.

  Fergus had been in that bedroom before, but never when Angela was in bed. He’d taken pieces of her home with him. A silky soft shirt from the laundry basket. A lipstick from her handbag. Nail clippings from her bathroom, still showing the colour of her toe nail varnish. There was a whole shelf of her in his own bedroom, and a file. Paper, not digital. He was ill, not stupid. Computers could be hacked. The information he’d gathered was from the real world. Her date of birth and marriage certificate had been obtained from official records. He knew where she shopped, which doctor’s surgery she attended, who her friends were. A timeline constructed from his labours provided an accurate structure of her week. Her kitchen bin was an endless source of intelligence. She rarely chose precooked meals or processed foods, preferring fresh fruits and vegetables. There were no magazines, but the odd newspaper was recycled. Angela liked hard soap bars rather than liquid soap dispensers. And she was on the pill. The discarded wrapper from the previous month was in his file, too. No more children planned, for now at least. She was content.

  Edging closer to the bed, he breathed in her scent. She’d bathed before slipping between the sheets. He’d been in the house long before that. Easier to allow her the reassurance of checking each window and door, believing that anything that might do her harm was safely beyond the boundaries of her home. As she’d soaked in the steaming water, lavender bubbles caressing her skin, he’d made sure her curtains were drawn and taken the keys from the lock in the back door. No point taking chances. If she got spooked or surprised him and ran, he couldn’t allow her to exit the property. When all was secure, he’d sat outside her bathroom door and listened to her humming. He’d imagined her running the pale green flannel up and down her arms, her legs, between her breasts and around the back of her neck. He’d waited as she’d read the book he’d noticed on her bed, resting on a freshly laundered towel and her dressing gown. When he’d heard the cascade of water that signalled her standing, he’d shifted position into the window alcove, behind her curtains, focusing on breathing silently and remaining still. There were windows open in the upstairs bedroom to allow some of the cooler night air in, and he’d planned to close those once she was sleeping soundly. If she screamed, the noise would travel out into the crescent and her neighbours would be alerted. Fergus couldn’t allow that to happen.

  Now she was right in front of him. So much hard work had brought him to that moment, he almost couldn’t bear for it to end. Until he looked in the mirror. Hung on the end wall of the bedroom, opposite the window, it reflected Angela’s pretty head on her pillow, and the man looming over her. While her hair was gleaming and vibrant, his was greying prematurely, thinning more than anyone in their late thirties should have to tolerate, dangling lank from his scalp, as if trying to slide away. His eyes were pale in the scant light that entered from a streetlamp beyond the curtains, but he could still make out their watery blue, surrounded by creases of red on white. But it was his skin that told the real story. A greener shade of white. Waxy, sallow, wanting.

  Fergus Ariss w
as dying.

  However long he had left, there was insufficient time to achieve everything. He’d dreamed of travelling. In his twenties, he’d had a world map on his wall. The idea was to scratch off a section of chalky paint every time he took a trip. A school visit to France had offered one country beyond the United Kingdom’s borders, then came a friend’s stag weekend in Amsterdam. He’d always wanted to go the USA. To explore Peru. The Great Wall of China was his ultimate goal. Now he had to fulfil all his dying wishes in Scotland. Even the borders were too far to cross at this stage. His body had betrayed him. There was nothing the doctors could do, in spite of their protestations that he should let them assist. He could smell the rot of his own body. No herb or spice could mask the taste of death in his mouth. There was pain and grief, then there were moments of clarity when he understood that death would be a release. Months of hospital treatment weren’t the answer. Prolonging life regardless of the quality of that time was nothing more than fading away. He didn’t want to fade any more than he already had. He wanted to blaze a trail into the next life. But there was so little time, and so much left to do. Starting with Angela. She was to be his first. But not his last.

  Creeping around the end of the bed and slipping off his shoes, he slid his body weight gently onto the mattress. A smile flitted across Angela’s face as his body joined hers. He fitted behind her like a puzzle piece, and she murmured as he slid his arm over her waist, pushing his face gently into her neck and breathing the scent of her shampoo. She was so warm in his arms. So soft. Destined for him.

  Then she woke. She took a breath sharp enough to push Fergus’s chest from her back, and every muscle in her body seized. She jolted but he’d been ready for it. He squeezed his arm around her, dragging her backwards into him, snaking his free hand under her neck and over her mouth.