Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards

clicked the button then had a tremulous little daydream about how long it would be before I saw the words ‘In a relationship with Alex Parkinson’ appear on her page.

      Then I hovered over the ‘Poke’ button, but thought on reflection that was taking things a bit too far.

      For the next two hours I refreshed the page repeatedly. I learned that one of my ‘friends’ was bored, that another had a cold, and that one of them had just finished watching the second series of Prison Break on box set. But Siobhan hadn’t yet confirmed me as a friend. I checked Twitter but all I found was an account in the name Siobhan MacGowan with a single tweet that had been made six months ago: ‘So this is Twitter, eh? Wonder what all the fuss is about. Am going to tweet every day.’ Couldn’t be her, unless she’d accidentally added an extra ‘a’ into her surname – unlikely, I’d say.

      Monday

      I decided this morning it was time to stop moping around. Stop being pathetic and passive. Do something, Alex. I went into work with a plan, albeit a dangerous one. I was going to commit one of the few sackable offences.

      I sat down at my desk and put my headset on. My supervisor, Jackie, looked over at me, making sure I wasn’t wasting time before logging on. As we’re consistently being told, Bookjungle is the biggest online retailer in the world – not that you’d know it from our wages – and we have to keep our customers happy by letting them talk to us like we’re shit and not keeping them waiting when they want to tell us this.

      I took a couple of calls from people moaning about delays in receiving their books, then did what I’m not supposed to do.

      Checking that nobody was watching, I went into what we call the ‘back office’; the part of the computer system that the public can’t see. It’s the database where we keep all our customers’ details. We need to be able to access it in order to answer their queries: we can see their address and all the books and CDs they’ve ordered. But we’re only allowed to look up the details of customers we speak to, and only if we need the information to deal with their enquiry, to prevent you looking up the details of your friends and enemies. To deter us, the system generates random reports, which mean that you have to be able to show the supervisor that you spoke to the customer you were looking up. These reports only capture one in fifty of the customers we look up, but it’s not usually worth taking that chance.

      Today, it was worth that chance.

      I was quietly confident that Siobhan would be a customer of ours. After all, we are the biggest of our kind, and anyone who reads a lot, like Siobhan must, was more than likely to have ordered a book from us.

      I typed her name.

      There were 13 Siobhan McGowans on the database. Most were in Ireland, but three were in London, one more than on Facebook. Two of them had North London postcodes. I wasn’t sure which one it would be so I looked at them both. I felt jumpy and sweaty as I hurried to look up the details. The first Siobhan McGowan had bought a few CDs (Norah Jones, Gareth Gates – Jesus wept) and one Delia Smith cookbook. Surely that wasn’t my Siobhan? I’d be very disappointed if it was. I clicked on the second Siobhan and looked at her list of purchases. It was huge. I quickly scanned the list: Ryan Adams, The Cure, Belle and Sebastian, Sting… well, nobody’s perfect. And among the many books was one about teaching creative writing – and Tara Lies Awake by Siobhan McGowan! In fact, she’d ordered her own book several times. I clicked another icon and there were her personal details. Her home and mobile numbers and email address. I copied them, pasted them into an email, then sent it to myself at home, deleting the message from my sent items folder.

      I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the day.

      All I could think was, I know where she lives.

      Victoria Gardens was a pleasant little street: nice and quiet, curving off the main road, a small Victorian terrace, aptly enough. Close enough to Camden to be hip, and close enough to Hampstead to be respectable and safe. Siobhan lived at number 54. I walked down the odd-numbered side of the street, trying to act casual, trying not to look like I was reading the numbers on the doors. I was having a job in the dim light anyway, but luckily number 54 had a big brass sign on the front door. Siobhan’s house. Just a few feet away.

      Close enough to sense her.

      After this initial recce, I came home to check there were no phone messages. There weren’t. Then I went on to Google Maps and found the location of her house. It was only a thirty minute walk from my place, if I took the short cuts I carefully worked out.

      I couldn’t phone her because she’d want to know where I’d got her number from. Oh, I was snooping on the computers at work, breaking the Data Protection Act, Siobhan. No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t email her either, for the same reason. But I could walk by her house again, and maybe, just maybe, I’d get lucky. She’d come outside and look surprised and I’d say, ‘How strange, I’ve got a friend who lives down here. I’ve just been to see him. Yes, I’d love a cup of coffee. You lost the card with my number? No, don’t worry, I knew it would be something like that. And I do have a mobile, by the way, it’s just been nicked. Ha ha.’

      I had a bath and downed a couple of glasses of Absolut. Not enough to get me pissed; just a bit of Dutch courage. Or Swedish courage, I should say.

      It was nearly nine by the time I had enough Swedish courage to return to Siobhan’s house. It was dark, the sodium orange streetlights illuminating the alleys I cut through. There weren’t many people around: a few dog walkers, a bunch of teenage boys and girls hanging out by the Lock, buckling under the weight of their facial jewellery. I walked past them and on towards Hampstead.

      When I got to number 54, I didn’t stop – just walked straight by, glancing to my right. The lights were off downstairs, but there was a light on in the first floor front room which I assumed was the bedroom: not a bright light, maybe a lamp, or candles. It was just before ten – too early for her to be in bed, surely?

      I walked to the end of the road then back, again sticking to the odd-numbered side. I lit a cigarette. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t keep walking up and down, could I? I felt sick. Should I go and knock on the door? No, of course not. What excuse would I give? There were none.

      I thought it would be okay to walk by one more time. I felt like there were hundreds of little butterflies going crazy inside me; a thousand newborn spiders wriggling in my stomach.

      I was about five houses down from Siobhan’s when her downstairs light came on. Very quickly afterwards, the front door opened.

      I ducked behind a car before anyone emerged. My breathing seemed so loud to me I was worried she might be able to hear it from across the road. But when I risked a glimpse around the car’s bonnet, I saw that the person who emerged wasn’t her. It was a bloke, a big, dark-haired rugger-bugger type. My heart sank.

      Then I heard the door shut, and the next thing I knew footsteps were coming straight towards me.

      I held my breath, wondering what the hell I should do. But then the footsteps ceased, and a car door opened and closed. The engine revved up and I peered through the window of the car I was crouching behind. I could see him in his car; a huge exhausted-looking man. He gripped the steering wheel and drove off.

      I memorised his licence plate number.

      And after all the lights had gone off in Siobhan’s house, I came home.

      Chapter 5

      Siobhan

      Monday

      As soon as he was through my front door, Phil told me that he and Lynn had split up.

      ‘Why?’ I asked, trying not to gloat visibly.

      ‘We want different things,’ he said. I nearly laughed out loud. That easy, catch-all, convenience excuse, like bands breaking up because of ‘musical differences’. In my opinion, couples should want different things. Life would be pretty excruciating if couples wore matching clothes, ordered the same things off menus, went