He will never figure out who it is. Or why. He will think it is obsession, or revenge, or the product of a sick and twisted mind.

It is none of those. It is something far greater.

Even if, by an odd fluke, it crosses his mind, he will dismiss it.

And if he doesn’t, I have my defences in place.

And in the meantime, I wait, and he waits.

But we are not the same.

He is waiting to find out what happens next. I am waiting to collect my prize.

Birmingham, October 2004

1

It had not worked out with Sammy and Annabelle, thank God. And Zeus. And Thor. And any other deity past, present or future. He had never been so relieved about anything in his life.

Not my type, Sammy said, after their first and only date. We had a laugh but that was it. No spark. She wants to be a writer. Nice dream, but no chance.

She wanted to be a writer. What Sammy saw as a naïve dream, Matt thought was thrilling. Why not try to be a writer? The worst that could happen would be you’d fail, which was no different from any other walk of life.

And now – both blissfully unattached – he and Annabelle were going out. That evening. He’d finally worked up the courage, two days earlier at the bar.

What are you doing Saturday?

Nothing.

Want to go somewhere?

Depends where.

I could surprise you.

She looked uncertain for a moment, then laughed. You could try. But I’m not sure any of the usual haunts would be that much of a surprise.

He nearly shouted in triumph, but he managed to keep it to a smile. I’ve got an idea, he said, hoping an idea would present itself in the next few days. So Saturday it is.

He’d said he would surprise her, and he was going to do exactly that. This wouldn’t be one more lame evening in the corner of a smoky pub, or watching a shitty mass-movie. No – he was going to come up with something different. Edgy. Cool.

What would she like? What would impress her? She wanted to be a writer, so she liked cultural things. Theatre. Galleries. Music.

He looked for pop concerts. There were none on. He walked around the student union, looking at the flyers. There was a debate about whether Tony Blair was really a Labour politician. A student performance of a Russian play. A sit-in for peace.

No, thanks.

And then he saw it. A poster for the Birmingham Touring Opera. They were doing something called The Two Widows at 7 p.m. that evening.

He had no idea what it was, but it was perfect. They could meet at four, go for a drink and an early meal, then head to the opera. Surprise me, she’d said. Well, she’d be surprised all right.