Free Killing Cupid by Mark Edwards, Louise Voss

paranoid, I thought that he could sense something strange. Then I thought, yes of course he can: me, charging around like a maniac with a poker while listening to music loudly enough to make his fur stand on end.
    Naturally there was no-one here.
    I still don’t understand how I didn’t notice the keys the first time I looked, but it doesn’t really surprise me. I’m getting so scatty now that by the time I’m fifty I’ll probably be completely barking. It happened to that great-aunt of my mother’s. She died in an asylum. God, that kind of thing is hereditary, isn’t it?
    I suddenly really wanted to talk to someone. I rang Paula, but one of her flatmates – I never can tell the difference between them – said she’s not back from Thailand till Sunday.
    Then I tried Jess, but she wasn’t in either. I didn’t leave a message. Things have been a little strained between us since she had Tom. I know I’m a crap godmother, but really, you’d think she could cut me a little slack here. She lives miles away – how am I expected to go and coo at him on a regular basis? I think she just wants a free babysitter. Anyway, we haven’t spoken for a few weeks, and I didn’t want to leave a whingeing message.
    Probably just as well she’s out, on reflection. She’d only have banged on - about Tom’s chesty cough and his mustardy nappies – urgh, babies. A cat is more than enough for me.
    Eventually I rang Mum, and she was out too. Dad answered, but I didn’t feel like running through the whole rude card/hang-ups/dead flowers thing with him, so I just asked him to get her to ring me later. I’m sure if I talk about it out loud then we’ll come up with some logical explanation. Or at least it might help me figure out who it is and what’s going on.
    In the meantime I think I’ll do some work. Try and take my mind off it.
     
     

Chapter 8
    Alex
     
     
    Thursday
     
    I felt happy this morning. Really happy, endorphins fizzing and popping in my bloodstream. I could feel Siobhan’s key in my pocket; the metal warm where it touched my leg through the thin cloth. I kept stroking my pocket, a silly smile on my face, not caring what anyone thought of me, ignoring the looks I got on my way to work. I was so far over the moon I was about to collide with Venus.
    So why did they have to fuck it all up?
    I was just thinking maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, talking to customers today. I mean, sometimes I do have a laugh there. Although you only ever remember the bastards, 95% of the punters are alright. Of course, it isn’t my ideal job, but, I realised as I strolled from the Tube to the office, it would suffice until I wrote my novel and hit the big time.
    As soon as I got in, I knew something was wrong. Across the floor, I saw several people look at me then look away. As I walked towards my desk, the carpet tiles felt spongy and vast, and Jackie – mein call centre Kommandant, old Hitler-with-halitosis herself – stepped into my path.
    ‘Martin wants to see you.’
    ‘Is this about my sick leave?’ I said. ‘I was only off for two days. I was genuinely sick. I can get a doctor’s note.’
    The vicious expression on her face was replaced by something that looked very much like pity. She told me to just go and see Martin.
    So I did.
    Martin is only a year older than me, but he’s managed to become the biggest fish in this cramped tank. This is despite being dumber than the average football player. A triumph of ambition over talent, rather like Victoria Beckham’s career. He often treats us with jokes that he picked up at Sunday’s rugger game and we all pretend to be amused. I guess you could say I don’t have much professional respect for him. But he’s the boss, so I had to try to stay on his good side. Because of our similar ages and the fact that we’re both in possession of a penis – well, I assume he is – he often affects a fake bonhomie with me, asking me if I watched the footie at the weekend and