Off-Target Read online

  In an all-too-possible near future, when genetic engineering has become the norm for humans, not just crops, parents are prepared to take incalculable risks to ensure that their babies are perfect … altering genes that may cause illness, and more…

  Susan has been trying for a baby for years, and when an impulsive one-night stand makes her dream come true, she’ll do anything to keep her daughter and ensure her husband doesn’t find out … including the unthinkable. She believes her secret is safe. For now.

  But as governments embark on a perilous genetic arms race and children around the globe start experiencing a host of distressing symptoms – even taking their own lives – something truly horrendous is unleashed. Because those children have only one thing in common, and people are starting to ask questions…

  Bestselling author of The Waiting Rooms, Eve Smith returns with an authentic, startlingly thought-provoking, disturbing blockbuster of a thriller that provides a chilling glimpse of a future that’s just one modification away…

  OFF-TARGET

  EVE SMITH

  For Nuala and Aaron

  ‘A mother’s love for her child is like nothing else in the world.

  It knows no law, no pity, it dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.’

  —Agatha Christie, The Last Séance

  ‘Don’t see the genetics revolution as abstract science.

  This is the story of you and your family and your future, and it is unfolding in front of your eyes.’

  —Jamie Metzl, author of Hacking Darwin

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part One: The Wish

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Part Two: The Consequence

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  I’m just taking my last swig when the doorbell rings.

  My hand freezes, glass against lip.

  Have they come back early?

  Wine sours on my tongue as the early-evening sun dances leaf patterns across the room.

  Idiot. I swallow. As if Steve would ring his own bell…

  Now there’s a knock.

  Two knocks.

  ‘Delivery!’

  I lever myself up and squint at the security cam. A guy in a short-sleeved shirt and navy baseball cap is standing in my porch, clutching a small package. I think of those macabre leaflets in the bin, and my stomach tightens. But he looks legit.

  Knowing Steve, it’s probably some enhanced wearable. I imagine hurling his new Smart Band against one of the empty squares on the wall.

  Then again, it could be for Zurel.

  I activate the mic: ‘Just a minute.’

  I shuffle down the hall, wiping the mascara smears under my eyes.

  I should fetch that box down from the spare room and hang all the photos back up. That would show him. As I turn the latch, the thought makes me smile.

  The door slams into my face.

  I stagger back, cupping my nose.

  The man drops the package and barges past, his shirt straining against his chest, as if it can barely contain him. I glimpse a tattoo, the length of his forearm. He scans the lounge and marches upstairs.

  Red petals spot the carpet.

  I need to run, but my legs won’t move.

  I hear him thudding around, opening all the doors. Adrenaline surges, and I rush to the SmartPod, hit the button and steady my voice to give the command.

  Feet hurtle down the stairs.

  I race for the back door, but a hand grips my shoulder and spins me against the wall.

  Black eyes consume a sharp white face.

  I point at my bag on the table. ‘Money, cards. Take them.’

  His mouth twists. There’s a ferocity in those eyes: drugs? Booze?

  Something else.

  ‘Where. Is. It?’

  My phone starts to ring, its playful chirps now obscene.

  ‘I…’ I swallow. ‘I don’t know what you—’

  He clamps my neck, stopping my breath like a valve.

  ‘The abomination.’ Each syllable, staccato. ‘Where is it?’

  He leans closer, crushing my arteries. Black discs spin behind my eyes.

  And that’s when I realise. He’s here for Zurel.

  I claw at his face, scrabble at his fist, a primal strength eclipsing my fear. The choke releases as he grabs my wrists; breath and blood rush free. His arm wedges into my cheek; there’s an inked black cross tapered like a dagger, two words underneath:

  Isaiah 64

  ‘Where … is … it?’

  Fingers drill into my neck. The room begins to blur. I hear the ringtone again: faint, like an echo.

  My lips make the shape of words. ‘Don’t … know.’

  Pain explodes under my ribs. Instinct commands my body to double over, but I am pinned by the throat.

  ‘“Know that the Lord Himself is God; it is He who has made us, and not we ourselves.”’ His lip curls back in a snarl. ‘“We are the clay, and He is our potter, All of us are the work of His hand”…’

  Pricks of light detonate in my eyes.

  I think of that first scan, her twilight hand lifting in a wave.

  He squeezes harder, spit foaming his chin, hot wafts of breath and sweat. ‘Children are begotten, not designed. We will purge the rot, and restore Adam’s line.’

  Darkness swoops. I strain every nerve and muscle to hold on.

  I’d give my life for hers, willingly.

  But I cannot protect her if I’m dead.

  Part One: The Wish

  CHAPTER 1

  A hand seizes me, deep inside. It twists and balls into a fist. The pain radiates up my spine; immobilises me sinew by sinew. I sag over a mustard-brown stain, veined, like a fingerprint. Blood? Vomit? Shit? All are possibilities. A remote fragment of my mind picks over them,
before lurching back to safe mode.

  A voice swims past.

  Sweat streaks my face as the pressure mounts, no space for breath. The hand loosens its grip. I slump over my knees and gasp.

  ‘That’s it, love: keep breathing.’

  Something cold and wet presses against my forehead. Muscles, ligaments regroup. I open my eyes and see Steve, mopping my cheeks with the gentle precision of a bomb-disposal unit. He kisses my clammy head.

  ‘Clever wife,’ he whispers. My heart swells.

  Babies can save marriages. As well as wreck them.

  He scans the purple peaks on the labour tracker. They arc higher and higher, the gaps narrowing in between.

  He squeezes my hand. ‘You’re doing great.’

  I used to be such a wimp, but these past months have cured me of that. No epidural. No opioids. I swore to myself the end of this pregnancy would be natural and pain was part of my dues. I guess you could say it’s a kind of penance.

  A memory ambushes me – of another hospital in another country, where I was not so brave. Labour’s so much easier than all the hurt I endured before. At least this agony will end.

  ‘Everything OK, Susan?’ Clare, the midwife, looms over me.

  I nod.

  ‘Can I take a little look?’

  I grunt and manoeuvre myself round like a prize pig, fix my gaze on the vent in the ceiling. There’s a primal, metallic smell that must be coming from me.

  ‘Things are moving along nicely. Baby’s right in position.’

  My body answers with a violent wrench. That one felt different. And, before Clare utters the words, I recognise it: a visceral quickening. Steve senses it too. His grip tightens.

  A breeze whips my cheek as Clare darts past. There’s a clatter of trays, the glint of light on metal.

  ‘OK, Susan,’ chimes Clare. ‘Time to push!’

  I screw the sheet tight around my fingers. So close, now, so very close.

  ‘Not too quick,’ says Clare. ‘Nice short breaths…’

  I try to slow, but a storm within me is propelling her down. In this moment I can do anything: rip through buildings, smash alien ships.

  ‘Steady, Susan! Whoa … gently, now … OK … Stop pushing!’

  ‘A head!’ cries Steve. ‘I can see her head!’

  An intense heat floods my cells.

  ‘I’ve got the mirror, Susan,’ says Clare. ‘Do you want to look?’

  My throat constricts. Just a tiny prick of fear, like a spindle’s.

  ‘Here, let’s sit you up a bit.’

  A pillow thumps into my back. Clare angles the mirror between my legs as I peer round my belly. At first, all I see is blood. But then I spot her russet coils of hair.

  Steve’s breath fizzes. ‘Can you see her?’

  Hot tears spill onto my gown. All those swollen stomachs I’ve coveted, the endless procedures and fights. And now, like a miracle, she’s here.

  Clare snaps the mirror shut. ‘OK, Mum. I think it’s time to meet your daughter.’

  My lungs inflate with a surge of air. I push, forcing my own gravity; imagine my blood rushing down my veins, to her.

  ‘Almost there, Susan. That’s it, one more should do it…’

  And out she slips, like a seal pup.

  Silence.

  And then I hear it: a faltering, phlegmy mewl that builds to a cry.

  A fumbling of hands and blanket, a blur of wriggling pink limbs. And she’s in my arms.

  My eyes race over her. A bubble of saliva graces flawless lips. Two midnight-blue eyes squint at me, blinking back the light.

  Clare runs the sensor over her. ‘Heart-rate spot on, and the reflexes of a prize-fighter.’ She beams at me. ‘Congratulations. You have a beautiful, healthy baby!’

  Relief sweeps through me, more powerful than any drug. Everything is going to be fine. We will be happy, now, the three of us. It will all have been worth it.

  ‘Would Dad like to cut the cord?’ asks Clare, fixing the clamps.

  Steve’s face has transformed, as if the years have been ironed out. He looks like he did in those photos he keeps in the loft. From before.

  He takes the scissors and opens the blades. My breath stills. Some fathers in the animal kingdom kill and eat newborns: even their own. Grizzlies are renowned for it. That’s why mother bears are so fierce.

  It takes Steve a good few cuts before he severs it. The scissors crash into the bowl. I exhale. Now, we are two.

  ‘I’ll just take some blood from the cord for the screening.’ Clare busies herself with the syringe. ‘We’ll get the placenta delivered shortly, but right now…’ She smiles. ‘You three have some cuddle time.’

  I hold my baby close. She blindly mouths my nipple and latches on. As her tongue presses in, there’s a tingling, pulling sensation that I have never known. Milk flows from my breast, like ancient magic.

  Steve glides his finger along the sole of her foot. He looks drunk. Giddy. ‘I can’t believe it.’ He shakes his head and grins. ‘How could we make something so perfect?’

  I fix my gaze on her nose as she suckles. Her fidgeting pink toes.

  ‘You see those dimples?’ I stroke her cheek. ‘Just like yours.’

  The secret snarls: baulking at such audacity. I smother it. Bury it deep in my bones where no one will hear it. Not even me.

  Her lips make a smacking sound and we both laugh.

  Steve is her daddy now. Any test will prove it.

  But he wasn’t her father.

  CHAPTER 2

  10 months earlier

  I pinch the foil pouch between my fingers and, with practised precision, prise it apart. According to the app, my period is twenty-eight hours, seventeen minutes late. That’s got to signify something. My heart manages a dull thump, like a half wag of a tail. I have come to loathe this stick. Like Gandalf’s staff, it can enthral or terrify; embrace life or obliterate it. My bladder throbs, desperate for release. Still, I hesitate. Because, however miniscule, the possibility exists that I might be. It shimmers in my mind like some distant, tropical island: utterly beguiling but impossible to reach.

  I suck in a breath and thrust the wand between my legs. My bladder muscles get a touch of stage fright; Jesus, you’d think they’d know the routine by now. I summon some inspiration: pelting cascades at Folly Dolly Falls; waves crashing on Holkham beach. Just two of our abortive ‘baby-dancing’ weekends. But whatever dance Steve and I were doing wasn’t right. Because no baby arrived.

  I hear a thud through the door: Steve, shuffling out of bed. Need to move things along.

  I give the stick a gentle shake. The app beeps:

  Sample valid

  Now, the wait.

  I used to think three minutes wasn’t very long, but pregnancy tests are like black holes: they dilate time, stretching minutes into eternity, hope and fear stringing you out like spaghetti. To counter this, my pregnancy app offers distraction tools. Music. Meditation. Podcasts. I’ve tried them all. Plus a few others of my own. Like digging my nails into my thighs until they bleed.

  Today, I employ a different strategy: counting the seconds backwards, cradling the app in my palm. I get as far as fifty-five when my phone chirps. I take two breaths – I always take two – and enter my PIN.

  The fan whirs behind me: the drum roll before the crash.

  The results box flashes.

  My throat makes a hissing sound, as if I’ve been punctured.

  In some alternative universe, I have peed into life one fuck-off pink tick.

  But not this one.

  ■ ■ ■

  ‘Susan? You alright in there?’

  I flex my fingers, draw the skin tight around my eyes.

  ‘Yeah, out in a mo!’

  I drag myself up and glimpse my reflection. Test Day face: not pretty. I splash water on my cheeks and take a couple of breaths.

  Steve’s by the bed. He frowns as I hurry past. I shove my head in the wardrobe and start trawling through tops.


  ‘It’s today, isn’t it? Shit, Susan, I totally forgot—’

  ‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine.’ I try for a smile but it’s more of a grimace.

  I remember Steve and I ogling our first test stick, like kids in a sweetshop. Those were the early days, when that wand was the key to Wonderland; when everything lay ahead of us. Or so we thought.

  Don’t cry.

  ‘It’ll happen, Susan. We just need to be patient.’

  My fingers clench. I am so sick of these phrases:

  Give it time.

  Just keep trying.

  Relax, it’ll happen.

  He pads up behind me. ‘Really. It’s going to be OK.’

  Nearly four years. Forty-seven cycles of Big Fat Negatives. In what messed-up world is that ‘OK’?

  He pulls me to him, giving my back little pats. His gestures are well intended, but they’ve gone stale through sheer frequency.

  ‘I know it’s hard,’ he whispers. ‘But we’re doing all the right things.’

  Genetically personalised supplements. Fish oil and folic acid. No pesticides, caffeine or booze.

  ‘Maybe you ought to … you know, give those apps a miss for a while. Stay off the forums.’

  My lips tighten. My Trying to Conceive (TTC) forum is the only thing keeping me sane.

  He swallows. ‘The doctor said it’s probably not a good idea to keep test—’

  ‘Can we not…? Can we just … not…?’ My voice cracks and I pull away.

  ‘Listen to me, Susan. You heard what she said. There’s nothing wrong with either of us.’

  ‘Well, I bloody well wish there was. Then at least we could fix it.’

  They call it unexplained infertility. It’s like having some undiagnosed terminal disease. I have copious high quality eggs, my tubes are open and no growths in sight; Steve’s sperm are plentiful and positively flying.

  He squeezes my shoulder. ‘We’ve got to try and stay positive.’

  My breath snorts through my nose. ‘You know how long it took Christine? Three months. And she can barely look after herself, let alone a child.’

  His hand recoils. I know how I sound; how bitter this green-eyed monster has become. It’s getting to the point he can hardly look at me, let alone make love.

  ‘Everyone’s different, Susan. Some get lucky.’