Cookies

By Matthew Hattersley

Fortune favours the bold...but what about the desperate?

 

A year after a tragic car crash claims his girlfriend, Miles's world is a labyrinth of unanswered questions. Yet, he thinks he may have found a secret weapon - the enigmatic messages inside fortune cookies.

 

Using these cryptic missives as a guide he navigates through a haze of grief, leading him to an unexpected romance with Georgie Evans, a dazzling popstar. But beneath the surface, something more complex and disturbing simmers.

 

Miles's friends watch with growing alarm as his behaviour becomes increasingly volatile and erratic. From impulsive tattoos to unsettling encounters, his actions paint a picture of a man on the edge.

 

And what begins as a quirky quest for redemption quickly descends into a maze of delusion and despair, where the final fortune cookie could lead to Miles's salvation or his ultimate undoing.

 

For fans of the twisted humour of Chuck Palahniuk and the psychological suspense of Gillian Flynn, 'Cookies' is a darkly comic ride.

"A twisty and darkly funny transgressive thriller with an ending you won't see coming"

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boom Boom Press
• Release date: Jan 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224326501

Book preview

I

The day you die will not be the end-of-season-finale you might be expecting. It’s unlikely there’ll be any sort of dramatic resolution in the box-set of your life. No fanfare or fireworks. It will, more than likely, be a normal day. Just between you and me it may even be duller than usual. For the main part any way. The actual dying part will be a surprise.

A total shock really.

If you’re lucky.

The rest of the day though, that’ll be pretty standard. You might get up and realise you’re out of milk. Imagine that, no morning coffee on your final day on earth. It might even rain that day.

On the flip-side you could wake up thinking it’ll be a good one. A day of wonder, filled with endless possibilities.

I’m not sure which is worse.

In sixth century Persia, the Zoroastrians believed the way you lived your life had a direct impact on the circumstance of your death. So, if you were gentle and caring in life, your final seconds were likely to be the same. Peaceful. Maybe in your sleep.

It’d be quick at least.

But flip that around and if your earthly existence was one of violence and anger, you aren’t getting away with anything less than a real bastard of a demise. Pain. Bloodshed. The works.

They also believed people were either good or evil. No grey area for those fun-loving Zoroastrians. And if you fell on the side of evil, that wasn’t only bad news for you. Your entire community suffered. They believed the corpses of wrong-uns caused impurity in the entire burial ground and meant everyone buried there had a crappy afterlife. Not sure why they didn’t just leave the shits of the family to rot next to the enemy settlement if that was the case, but I guess there’s no arguing with ingrained belief systems. So, the best advice, if you were an ancient Zoroastrian, was pretty much the same as it is today; live a good life where you can, fill it with laughter and excitement. Don’t be a dick.

Because you never know.

Helen was no doubt looking forward to a fun day ahead of her when she woke that morning. She was meeting him after all. Another illicit meeting away from the eyes of the world. People told me afterwards there was nothing I could have done, that she was already dead when I reached her. I’m sure they’re right, but it doesn’t help. You see, I was there. I saw the crash. I still see it when I close my eyes.

The sirens are getting closer

I let the knife fall to the floor at the exact second the thought hits: nothing will be the same again. I call out for help, my breath catching in my throat. Not again. Please. Not again. This isn’t what was supposed to happen.

This isn’t how they said it would go.

I had a friend at university whose family were from Portugal, where they believe it's bad luck to walk backwards. Apparently it lets the devil know where you are, but don’t ask me what the upshot of that is, not even my friend could answer that. But that’s the thing with beliefs, we blindly accept them. Cherry picking and indulging in those that best fit our needs, filtering them down through generations until they become a way of life. And this belief in not walking backwards was one that my Portuguese friend really ran with. Excuse the pun. He even took it so far he’d never retrace his path if he could help it. Meaning rather than walking the two minute journey from a particular bus stop back to our halls of residence, he’d get off at the stop earlier and walk the extra fifteen minutes. This way he was always going forward. It made perfect sense to him of course. It always does, doesn’t it?

The sirens are getting closer.

I stare at the broken body on the floor, wishing this was all happening to someone else. Maybe it is? Maybe I’m at home right now, watching the events unfold on my brand new 55 inch 4HD TV.

Real car-crash television.

In the Philippines they believe when you attend a funeral, the worst thing you can do is go straight home afterwards. Instead you’re supposed to do this thing called pag pag, which means you go anywhere else that isn’t your home. The word refers to that action of shaking out a rug or a bedsheet to remove the dust or whatever. So you go to a bar or the shops or anywhere that’s not home and you go in, walk out and go back home. That way you remove the bad energy and stop any evil spirits from following you. I’m thinking now I should have stopped off at Starbucks after laying Helen’s body to rest. Give myself a good pag pag-ing, let the evil spirits have their way those tax-dodgers instead.

The sirens are outside.

As the blood reaches my feet, I cradle her head, hoping I’ll wake from this nightmare. As the front door crashes open I begin to sob. Bitter tears falling into the coagulating pool of crimson. The press will have a field day with this.

It could have been so great.

It could have been so special.

It was.

In the end all things will be known.

CHAPTER 1

Susan is already in the office when I get in, fussing around as usual, picking up various bits of stationery from her desk and smelling them. I’ve no idea why. It’s best not to ask. I take off my coat and sit down. ‘Did you spill something on here?’ she says, shoving a stapler under her nose and snorting its length.

And a very good morning to you too Susan.

‘It’s sticky but I don’t know what it is,’ she says. ‘It came from over your side.’ She bends over the desk and sniffs at the veneer, following the scent of whatever she thinks this is with her piggy snout.

‘I only drink coffee,’ I say. ‘Does it smell like coffee?’ I reach over and switch on my PC. Wow, I really should have had a shower this morning. Susan stops mid-sniff as she gets nearer. ‘Heaven’s sake, Miles. You smell like death.’

‘Yeah, I noticed,’ I say. ‘I didn’t have time for a proper wash.’

‘Well for heaven’s sake spray yourself with something will you,’ she says. ‘I’m going to find the desk cleaner.’

She waddles off into the kitchen. ‘Dirty bastard,’ she says, still in earshot.

I risk another sniff. Can’t really argue with her. But what Susan doesn’t realise is the extra twenty minutes in bed was worth it. It was the only bit of real sleep I had last night.

As usual, my computer is taking forever to load up, so I walk over to the large window that takes up most of the far wall. Outside it’s one of those grey mornings that reminds you of every heartbreak you ever had.

Keep your face to the sunshine and you will never see the shadows

At the corner of the office where the window extends out a little way you can see right into the offices of Hopkirk Solicitors, where Helen used to work. If you put your head right up to the glass you can see her old desk. We thought it was so cute in the early days, being able to wave to each other at work. I still look over there sometimes, expecting to see her waving across at me.

I go back to my desk and sit down. The problem is, everywhere I look I’m reminded of her. Once a week I’ll pass our favourite restaurant, the bar where we met, the taxi rank where she held my head as I threw up on my twenty-fourth birthday. Memories follow me around like adverts on a search engine. But there’s no option here to turn off third-party cookies, no ad-blocker extension. It’s me versus the world and the ever-present reminders of what happened. Some days I can almost see the headlines floating above my head.

EXCLUSIVE! LOSER HACK IN TRAGIC LOVE-TRIANGLE CRASH

Susan returns with a bottle of desk cleaner and sprays it about, getting it over my mug and up my shirt sleeve. She says she’s sorry, but she did it on purpose.

‘Maybe it was the cleaner who spilt something,’ I say, as she scrubs at her desk.

‘Don’t be so stupid,’ she sneers. ‘Why would the cleaner make a mess on my desk?’

‘Perhaps someone told her it was you who complained about her.’ Before she can respond the old computer chimes into life. Finally.

Once my screen has settled, I click open the BBC News site, then Reuters, ProfNet, NewsBasis, Facebook. On twitter I see some guy in a Texan Indie band has died over the weekend. There’s no official verdict yet but from what I can gather its suicide. Another one. Hardly news. Not something I’ll be sharing with the readers of the Manchester Herald that’s for sure. The truth is most of our readership won’t have even heard of this guy, never mind give a shit about him. By next week no one will.

‘Morning Miles. You’re in early.’ Andrew appears at the side of my desk.

‘Well you know me mate,’ I say, not looking up. ‘I love this job sooo much. And I was missing Susan.’

Andrew laughs. He’s all right is Andrew. One of the good ones. He started here a few months before me and even now we share a certain outsider status. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ he asks.

‘Please,’ I tell him. ‘I need one.’

‘Oh dear, another bad night?’ he asks, then gestures at my screen. ‘Anything on the grapevine this morning?’

‘Not really, but there’s still time.’

He heads for the kitchen, leaving me to scan more tweets. A few people are saying it was a drug overdose that killed this guy. Others that he was forced into killing himself by a controlling ex. Maybe there’s a story here after all. I save the thread so I can show Stuart when he gets in.

‘Here we go, squire,’ Andrew says, handing me a mug. ‘The boss not in yet?’

I shake my head. ‘I’m sure we’d have heard him by now if he was.’

Andrew laughs. ‘True dat,’ he says, in an American accent.

I always cringe when Andrew does stuff like that. But he’s all right. One of the good ones. I sip my coffee and open the article I’ve been putting off since forever, some piece on a new boy band - sorry, vocal harmony group - which the world could do without. No doubt Stu will be breathing down my neck for it soon enough, but as I click the Word document open to reveal a few lines of bland text, I surrender to the knowledge he’ll have to wait.

Accept things the way they are and you will feel better.

It’s lunchtime before I realise I’ve drifted into a YouTube loop, uncertain how I got from the boy band’s music video to World’s Best Drunken Fails. Now Stu sits on the edge of my desk; chubby legs bracing at the seams of his chinos. As he bawls me out for lateness I tell him to piss off, to stick his stupid job up his sweaty arse.

Out loud it’s a different story. ‘Sorry Stuart,’ I say, ‘will get on and finish it right away.’

‘I’ve got a treat for you as well Miles,’ he grins. ‘An exclusive interview with the next big thing in pop. So they’re saying, anyway. Georgie Evans. Welsh lass. Lovely looking girl. Don’t say I’m not fucking good to you.’

You’re not fucking good to me.

‘So get this piece whipped up ASAP and we’ll have a chat later, okay?’

He slaps me on the back and waddles off, mumbling something about a Manchester United player who’s been sending dick pics to a schoolgirl. Something like that, anyway. I try not to listen if I can help it.

Accept things the way they are and you will feel better.

Flick to after work, the bar around the corner from the. Scott is regaling me with exploits from his weekend, in particular some girl whose inner workings he describes in too much detail. It seems even in the real world seedy gossip is my only mode of communication. Still, Scott is a good guy and fun to be around. He finishes his story and turns the spotlight on me.

How am I doing? Really.

How is everything?

I smile, shrug. The usual response. Even now it’s hard for me to even talk about what happened. Some days I’m certain I’ll never come to terms with it. Some days I have trouble even remembering what happened. I guess finding out the love of your life is cheating on you, moments before she dies in your arms, can really mess with your head.

‘Did you give any more thought to what I suggested,’ Scott says. ‘About seeing a grief counsellor?’

I can sense his question, his carefully worded question, boring into the side of my head. He waits, sips his orange juice. Two years dry from a drink and drug meltdown, yet it’s me who gets the concerned questions, the worried glances.

‘I’m just worried about you, mate. Everyone is. I know the last six months have been hell but you’ve got to try and move on. A little bit at least. You’re not the one who died.’

He stops. He knows that’s too far.

‘Listen, Miles, I didn’t mean anything…’

‘Its fine,’ I tell him. He might have no tact but he’s right.

‘Consider it at least will you?’ he says. ‘I know we still go out, but maybe it’s time you met some new people. Like, new female people.’

I nod. But mainly so he’ll shut up.

‘I don’t want to get on your case, mate. But the way you’ve been talking lately, it’s gone a bit dark.’

I tell Scott to leave it. Tell him I’m coping okay. Though mornings like today are hard, waking up and feeling for her presence beside me. That bites a little more each time. I couldn’t bring myself to wash the sheets for weeks after the crash. People said that wasn’t healthy in so many ways. But it helped. There was solace to be found in that sweet-smelling, head-shaped recess in her pillow. The Helen that lay there was innocent. She hadn’t hurt me. She was still alive.

‘I tell you what,’ Scott says. ‘Why don’t you let me set you up? Nothing serious. Just a bit of fun.’

I turn back to the bar. ‘Same again please,' I tell the barmaid who smiles and returns quickly with another Heineken for me and an orange juice for Scott. I can sense him watching the interaction, perhaps hoping for a glimpse of flirtation. If so he’s left wanting. I pay for the drinks and take a seat.

At this point Scott and I have been friends ten years, meeting in our first week at university and bonding over a shared disdain for the overly hip (him: media studies), or overly intense (me: journalism) students on our respective courses. He’s one of those guys you’d hate if he weren’t your friend; good looking, funny, clever. He’s also one of the few people around who truly loves his job. There’s the part-time Masters in Media and Branding, but who’s interested in that when most of Scott’s days are spent editing movies; or to be more accurate, editing adult movies. Pornos. It turns out the low-budget digital channel Scott works for show softcore films after eleven, yet the films they buy in from Europe and the US for such purposes are most definitely not soft. So, before these late night previews and skin flicks hit our screens, the films get sent to Scott, who edits out the good stuff. He says the constant onslaught of dead-eyed flesh and moist genitalia doesn’t affect him, but it’s hard to say. Still, the fact remains, there’d be considerable fewer notches on my bedpost if it wasn’t for my friendship with Scott.

As I say, you’d hate him if he wasn’t your friend.

So he’ll change the subject I tell Scott we’ll go out the following weekend. Yes. Properly out. To a club or somewhere. We’ll see. For now, it does the trick.

‘So how’s work?’ he asks. ‘Any exciting gossip for me?’

‘Nothing much,’ I tell him. ‘I’ve got a big interview coming up next week with this singer. Georgie-something. Going to be huge apparently.’

‘Cool,’ Scott says with a wink. ‘Is she hot?’

‘I’ve not taken much notice,’ I say. ‘Stu is being a real dick though. I need to get out of that place.’‘

Scott sighs. ‘You say that every time I see you. I mean, I agree, you’re wasted there but you need to do something to change that, rather than ranting at me.’

The Herald job was only supposed to be a stepping stone. A rung on the ladder to success. Eager young journalism graduate, fresh out of university; cuts his teeth on the showbiz pages for a year and moves onto more weighty, investigative stuff. That’s how it’s done isn’t it? Well that was nine years ago and here I am. Same press room, same column, same desk opposite Susan’s miserable face. The only difference now, it’s the only thing I have left.

‘What about a total change?’ Scott says. ‘You know what I think, you need to finish that book for Christ’s sake.’

Ah, yes: that book. My unfinished book. Working title: Bizarre Truths: A History of Beliefs From Around The World. The book I was writing before Helen died. The one that was going to skyrocket my journalism career and put me on the bestseller list. The one I haven’t even looked at since the crash. Scott is right. It’d be a good distraction if nothing else. Something else to put my focus on.

Though it was never the cheeriest of subject matters.

The Dutch believe if someone sings at your dinner table, it’s an announcement to the devil you’re ready to be the next course. Likewise don’t even think about giving a toast with water in Germany unless you want to wish death on every single person you're drinking with. And if you find yourself in India don’t cut your nails on a Tuesday or shave on a Thursday or wash your hair on a Saturday. Do any of those things and you’re wishing death on your whole family.

So the upshot is, no matter what you do, somebody somewhere believes you’re messing everything up for those you care about.

As I say, cheery stuff.

But for the record, I had been looking to expand my horizons before Helen died. I was fired up, motivated. I’d even got a few applications ready to go. But then the crash happened, and a silly book on superstitions and dreams of a new job flew out the window.

Keep your face to the sunshine and you’ll never see the shadows

It’s nearly midnight when we leave the bar and jump in a black cab. I get dropped off first, throwing a fiver into Scott’s lap for my part of the fare. He does the usual dance of protest but he takes it. He always does. I jump out and stand on the roadside a few moments, watching as the taxi lights fade into the distance.

It’s funny, there always seems to be something more to say once the music stops.

The stench hits me like a brick to the face as I enter my flat; ammonia and stale air. I open the lounge window and head for the kitchen, doing my best to ignore the sea of books and old newspapers covering the floor, the islands of dirty clothes and take-away cartons. It can wait. It can all wait.

I sit at the kitchen table and flip open my laptop, another ritual, another pointless dance, that has me lamenting the decision and wishing I had the resolve to read a book or go to bed.

I tell myself I won’t go on Facebook right until the point where I click on my bookmarks menu and log in.

Still, I tell myself tonight will be the first night I don’t go on her page, right until the point where I do anyway and see it’s been memorialised. Like before I read through the posts. Words of sympathy and regret. Like she was the wronged one in all of this. But if she hadn’t been cheating on her boyfriend maybe she’d still be alive. You ever think about that Mary Bates from school? Melissa Jones from the office?

I tell myself I won’t let this be a setback, right until the point where I go to the cupboard and grab a bottle of Jameson.

I guess it’s going to be one of those nights.

I pour myself a large glass of whiskey and knock it back.

And another.

And one more for luck.

And now I’m ready. I open a fresh Word document and crack my knuckles before beginning to bang away at the keyboard.

Time is precious but truth is more precious than time

To know oneself one should assert oneself

The drink spurs me on as I type, spewing out more sugary missives.

You will be blessed with longevity

You will bring happiness to others

To love yourself is to know yourself

Around 3 a.m. I finish off and read the words back, pleased with my efforts. I’ll send these latest offerings over to Mr Yung at I Ching Foods in the morning and soon they will be baked into fortune cookies and sent around the world. I’ll have made around forty pounds if all are accepted, which they usually are. Not a great amount, but I don’t do it for the money. I did once of course, when I was a poor student in need of extra cash and some way of passing the time when the insomnia hit. But now I’m driven by something much more noteworthy: power. The knowledge that something I’ve written might affect how someone acts or how they see the world.

I write these fortunes and I’m a modern day mystic, a soothsayer. Despite everything that has happened I still have some purpose. I give people hope. Because no matter how banal, how ridiculous the concept, there’s something in everyone that wants to believe these anodyne one liners.

We pride ourselves on freewill yet, deep down, most of us don’t even want to think for ourselves. We want to be dominated and controlled, told how to behave, whether it’s by our partners, our bosses or the media. You shine that spotlight close enough, we’re just frightened children, desperate for reassurance.

Your success will astonish everyone

The weather will be wonderful

The only free people in this world are those holding the puppet strings, the ones with their foot on fate’s neck. By writing these fortunes I’m one of these people.

Things don’t just happen they happen just

The only free ones in this world are those who can write their own destiny.

The harder you work the luckier you get

The only free ones are those prepared to lose everything for what they believe in.

Your love life will be happy and harmonious

The only free ones are those who’ve stopped giving a shit.

CHAPTER 2

I’m Googling Georgie Evans, popstar . New singing sensation. The idea is to get the lion’s share written before I meet her, take some pressure off. Then all I need do is shoehorn in a few quotes and I can relax.