Composite Creatures by Caroline Hardaker (novel books to read .txt) 📕

came, regular as clockwork. Maybe Easton Grove’s development division put in a good word for me but I’m sure if it hadn’t been for my own good qualities I wouldn’t have got the new positions.

The problem was, by then I didn’t want any of it. My eyes had turned inward, and eventually Easton Grove gave up on me. I stopped hearing from them, and they stopped pushing. I was a disgrace, and if I couldn’t be the face that proved the programme was working then it was for the best that I stayed hidden. The press team could tell the world whatever they wanted about me and I wouldn’t disagree. I calculated my own little victories by telling the truth. By counting our ova organi, by reminding Art of how many we’ve consumed. In rituals. By touching myself in secret places every day to feel the parts which weren’t me and now are. By appreciating my ingredients. By reminding Art that we aren’t good or pure anymore, that we’re composite creatures.

A few weeks ago, I found an old magazine under the bed. It was nearly forty years old, from around the time when Easton Grove was in and out of the news for darker reasons. The magazine’s headline article accused staff of selecting members for shadier criteria than they made public. For vulnerability, impressionability, pliability. It made me laugh. Not Fia, Nathan, or any of them could’ve made me do something I didn’t want to do. I didn’t want to scale the world. It took me longer than it should’ve to work it out, but really what I wanted all along was to bury myself deep where it’s warm and never come out. I won, they didn’t.

You never hear about the other members of the programme on the news anymore. After the Grove started to fragment, always apologising without actually apologising, they stopped taking on new members. They stopped inviting us back to the clinic, kept us all at a distance. Phone calls, and then letters. No one lives forever, but where have they all gone?

I take a pair of scissors and snip expertly at four safety tabs at the front of the box, unfolding the cardboard sleeves like the petals of a flower. Slowly, slowly, no hurry. Waiting is fine, I have all the time in the world to wait. Has she been listening to me telling her how she came to be? Why her whole world is here? I’ll tell her again when she’s in my arms.

It’s night now, and the room is as dark as an underground warren. If I lower my head, in the back of the cave I can just about see a huddled ball of grey fuzz, curling in on itself like an ammonite. And looking over her shoulder, a little face with my brown eyes, my turned-up nose, and a nervous smile. This is my last ovum organi, and she looks like me.

There have been so many faces, and I outlive all my children.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Firstly (and this is a bit disturbing) I have to thank my cat, Juno, for being the most humanesque cat I could know, and for inspiring Nut’s movements and characteristics in everything she does. If it hadn’t been for Juno, Nut wouldn’t have been born, and this book would never have existed. I owe you a lot of tuna. A lot.

And then secondly, onto some deserving humanesque humans. A huge thank you to my agent, Ed Wilson, for bei`ng an endless ball of energy and taking on this weird story in his whirlwind of a world. Ed, thank you for not only guiding me to be a better storyteller, but for embracing the style and words that make me, me. I appreciate it more than you could know.

A thank you to the Angry Robot crew for helping me transform Composite Creatures into something that works. To Eleanor Teasdale, for believing in this story from the very beginning, for the expert advice, and for the kitten pictures. To Rohan Eason, for lending your pen to such a gorgeous and atmospheric cover illustration. And to Sam McQueen, Gemma Creffield, Rose Green, and Paul Simpson for all playing such an important part in bringing this book to life and keeping me on the straight and narrow. A huge warm hug and thank you to the whole Angry Robot author community too, for welcoming me into the fold.

A thank you to my readers and constant critics; Alistair Leadbetter for being the world’s speediest beta reader, to Anya Kiel for being a constant cheerleader and keeping my morale up when I questioned – oh – just about everything, and to Russell Jones for being the best writing and editing pal an author could have. Your endless feedback to my many projects has taught me so much over the years and I’ll always be so, so thankful for that.

And then a few of my favourite humans. Thank you to my friends and family for listening to me waffle on with my strange and twisted ideas.

And finally, to Ben. Without you, I wouldn’t have had the confidence to write anything like this. Every day, you’ve listened to me spin ideas or worry about tangled plot knots, and you’ve always listened and nodded sagely, even when I didn’t make sense. Your patience and love has helped me learn and grow, and with you by my side I know I’ll keep sprouting new buds and dark blooms. The biggest thanks go to you.

THE BATTLE OF THE TEACUP

It was a tiny place. A high street, a dozen or so houses on each side, a pub and a corner shop, a few other streets and lanes leading off the first but all in one direction only, and that was about it. A church at one end, a school at the other. Two street lamps. Nyquist stood at the head of the road, under one of