Knowing

  About the Author

  Rachel Moore has been a storyteller since before she could write (her poor mother had to put pen to paper as a young Rachel expertly dictated stories). She is surrounded by a wonderful and loving support system of family and friends. Rachel lives in Saint Louis, Missouri, with her incredible boyfriend, Matt. They have two sweet dogs and a shit-disturbing cat. This is her second novel. Your comments are welcome at rachelmoorewrites@gmail.com

  Knowing

  Rachel Moore

  Knowing

  Olympia Publishers

  London

  www.olympiapublishers.com

  OLYMPIA EBOOK EDITION

  Copyright © Rachel Moore 2020

  The right of Rachel Moore to be identified as author of

  this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved

  No reproduction, copy or transmission of this publication

  may be made without written permission.

  No paragraph of this publication may be reproduced,

  copied or transmitted save with the written permission of the publisher, or in accordance with the provisions

  of the Copyright Act 1956 (as amended).

  Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to

  this publication may be liable to criminal

  prosecution and civil claims for damage.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is

  available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-78830-781-9

  This is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places and incidents originate from the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  First Published in 2020

  Olympia Publishers

  Tallis House

  2 Tallis Street

  London

  EC4Y 0AB

  Dedication

  For Matt, the love of my life… I may not know how many days I have left on this earth, but I know that I will spend each and every one of them falling more in love with you.

  Acknowledgements

  The premise of this book is that everyone knows what day they are going to die, and that knowledge shapes the way they choose to live. On the very day I signed my contract to have this novel published with Olympia, my beautiful grandma, Viola Swederska, passed away. She lived life to the fullest, and I believe that even if she knew she was going to be on this earth for an extraordinary 102 years, she wouldn’t have chosen to live any other way. Grandma, those of us lucky enough to have known you will cherish every moment we had with you. You are missed, and you are loved.

  I’d like to thank my family and friends for their support during the writing of this book, especially my mom (Debbie Travis), my dad (Jim Swederska) and my brother (Brad Swederska). Thank you to my incredibly patient boyfriend, Matt Swafford, who listened to me talk about this book for hours on end, and never once grew weary. (Or at least, he managed to hide his weariness well.)

  I want to give a big thank you to my amazing nieces and nephew, because they like to see their names in print and I am striving to be the coolest aunt ever. Grayson Swederska, thank you for sharing your unique outlook on the world. Everly Swederska, thank you for always making me laugh. And Reagan Swederska, thank you for your constant affection and kindness. I love you all tremendously!

  I’d like to thank my mom, boyfriend, and my dear friend Melanie Carter for helping to proofread my work.

  And finally, thank you to the staff at Olympia, who have once again been a pleasure to work with.

  Author photo credit: Sarah Ranney

  CHAPTER ONE

  February 4th, 2020

  Cork, Ireland

  “Well?” asked Maggie O’Connell, expectantly, hopeful, her voice unsteady after her physical ordeal.

  The doctor averted his eyes, suddenly having found something else of great import. The nurse sighed, as she was used to the doctor leaving the true work for her. Nurse Kelly met Maggie’s eyes, dared herself to hold her gaze, and said quietly, “I’m so very sorry.”

  “What? What do you mean? What’s the TL?” Maggie asked, her voice becoming a shout, attempting to sit up in her bed.

  Nurse Kelly bit her lip and silently cursed the doctor as she began, “It’s not good…”

  “But it was a healthy pregnancy!” Maggie spat out, determined to show them that they had gotten it wrong. “There weren’t any problems. Dr. Walsh said everything looked fine!” She glared accusingly at Dr. Walsh, who was now busying himself doodling something on a chart, hidden behind a clipboard with the words “Mercy Medical Birthing Center” stamped on the back.

  Nurse Kelly reached a hand out to smooth back Maggie’s hair, as it was damp with sweat and had fallen forward into her face. The sudden intimate gesture seemed to surprise Maggie, and she quickly turned her attention back to the kindly nurse with the tears in her eyes.

  “Well?” Maggie demanded, her eyes pleading, begging for the answer she wanted. “What’s the TL?” as she asked it again her eyes widened, her pupils dilating, daring the nurse to give her bad news. More sweat beaded her brow, giving her face an eerie incandescent glow.

  Nurse Kelly moved her hand from Maggie’s forehead until she was clasping the patient’s hand in her own before answering softly, “The TL is five days.”

  “Oh, God, NO!” Maggie screamed, angry tears pouring down her cheeks.

  Nurse Kelly felt the lump in her throat thicken as she reached out to hold her arms around that poor woman whose body racked with sobs, her shrieks echoing throughout the entire third floor of the hospital. Maggie squeezed the nurse in the embrace, then immediately threw herself back onto the pillows as a new wave of despair slammed into her like a freight train.

  Another nurse finished cleaning up the newborn, his tiny fingers balled into fists, his face red and angry as if he, too, was baffled by the news. She looked toward Nurse Kelly, a question in her eyes. The head nurse nodded her answer, so the younger woman expertly swaddled the baby, slowly walked over to the bed, and gently lowered him into his mother’s waiting arms.

  As if she needed proof, which she did, Maggie tugged at the blanket wrapped around her son until she had a clear view of his tiny chest. And there it was, just as the nurse had warned her.

  Above the tiny beating heart, there was a date scrawled onto his pale skin. In small, fine black print, it was there, as much a part of this tiny new person as his fingers and toes, his kidneys and lungs.

  Maggie wept as she pulled the blanket back up and tucked it in around the baby’s neck. She didn’t want to see it anymore. She couldn’t look at it. Those black numbers, as permanent as a tattoo, were disgusting, making her feel physically ill.

  The tiny little body wriggled against Maggie’s chest, his heart beating near her own, and Maggie closed her eyes. That didn’t help, though, for even with her eyes squeezed shut, she still saw that date, and she knew she would see it for the rest of her life. 02-09-2020, five days from now.

  She took a deep breath, thinking of the date that was on her own chest. 11-14-2074. And just how on earth was she supposed to survive the next 54 years without her baby? Maggie wept, the baby cried softly, and everyone else left the room under the pretense of giving privacy, but really because no one could bear to be there any longer. Nurse Kelly pulled the heavy door closed behind her.

  February 6th, 2020

  London, England

  Neil Ludwig had decided. He was going to be the first. He would not be a victim to the date on his chest. He would be the first. Others had tried, sure, so many others, and all of them unsuccessful. But Neil had taken precautions.

  Neil was lying in be
d, with every pillow he owned carefully placed on the floor around him, so that his bed had become an island in a sea of pillows. There was plenty of food and water to last him the entire day, all resting on the nightstand. What remained of the food had been pre-cut into bite size pieces and rested on a paper plate, which wobbled a bit since Neil had wrapped his entire nightstand in bubble wrap the night before. A plastic spoon sat next to the plate, and two jugs perched next to that, one full of water, one with a few inches or so of urine in it. Since the room was darkened, as Neil had removed the light bulbs yesterday, he very much hoped that he did not reach for the wrong jug at the wrong moment.

  His bedroom was eerily still, as he was afraid to even turn on the television. Instead he simply lay there, staring up at the pock-marked ceiling of his apartment which was barely visible in the low light. Neil sighed and let his mind wander to yesterday.

  All his family and friends had been there, of course, so jam-packed into his tiny little flat that people had spilled out onto his porch. Everyone had been there, full of hugs and tears and sad smiles.

  Neil’s sister Veronica had been so distraught that she had left earlier than intended, not wanting to make a giant scene. Right before she had left, she’d wrapped her arms around him and whispered, “I love you, brother. End well.” Then, without a glance backward, she ran out of the house, and Neil could hear the squeal of his truck’s tires as she drove away.

  He had given her the keys to his vehicle when she’d first arrived for the Final, since he supposedly wouldn’t be needing it anymore. His brother-in-law stammered his goodbyes and hurried out to follow his wife home in the car they’d arrived in.

  Neil himself hadn’t cried. A lot of people did, during their Final. Most people, probably, but Neil hadn’t felt the need. Instead, he tried to hurry people along, since he had so much work ahead of him that evening.

  “You’ve been a good friend, buddy. End well,” Morris, an old schoolmate, said to him as he walked out.

  “You’ll be missed, Neil. End well,” said his Aunt Molly, giving him a hug as she delicately dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

  “Yes, yes, thank you, yes…” Neil said, attempting to coax people out the door, having to stop himself from outright pushing people out of his home. He appreciated the well-wishers, of course. Ever since he was young, he had wondered, as did everyone, exactly who would turn up for his Final. He had to admit, the attendance had been higher than he’d expected.

  Now, as he lay in his bed, he looked around him with satisfaction. Yes, all those preparations he had made last night were working.

  Every surface near him had been filed, wrapped, or otherwise softened, and a sharp edge was nowhere to be found. He looked at his watch and saw with delight that it was 11:46 pm. He was almost there!!

  Neil stretched, moving his ankles around in circles and wiggling his toes. He had been laying in this bed the entire day, refusing to leave for even a moment. It would be worth it, though. He thought of how famous he would become. Why, tomorrow he would be all over the news, and people around the globe would be saying the name “Neil Ludwig,” to one another in astonished, reverent tones.

  Neil moved his head back and forth, trying to loosen the knots in his neck, and checked his watch again. 11:49. His heart beat faster, and his adrenaline was making it hard for him not to jump up and dance around the room. He couldn’t risk it though, not yet. Eleven more minutes.

  There were noises outside, which Neil noticed right away, since his room was so quiet. No, not noises, but conversation, and it was getting louder. He strained his ears, trying to make out the words.

  “Are you sure he’s not in there?” a deep voice asked.

  “Yeah, I’ve been across the street since this morning, there’s no one there. The place has been dark all day,” another voice answered. “And the driveway is empty.”

  This made Neil think about the truck he had given his sister. He was sure she would be thrilled to return the keys to him tomorrow. Maybe the news crews would come by and film that moment; that would make Veronica happy. She’d always liked attention.

  “Okay, then,” the man with the deeper voice answered back. “Let’s make it quick.”

  There was a scuffling sound, then silence.

  Neil stretched his arms above his head, and wondered if the Prime Minister would be contacting him personally. He checked his watch. 11:52. It was so close, he could taste it.

  Suddenly, there was a magnificently loud crash, and Neil jerked in surprise.

  Then came what sounded like footsteps walking over shattered glass. “Grab it already,” the deep voice shouted.

  “I’m trying. It’s heavier than it looks,” the other voice answered, sounding strained.

  Neil sat straight up in his bed; his heart pounding so loudly he worried the intruders would be able to hear it.

  “Just hurry up and get it out of here,” the deep voice barked. More crunching of glass.

  “All right, I’ve got it, now let’s get the hell out!”

  Neil felt himself relax a bit. Let them take the TV, the stereo, whatever the hell it was that they wanted from his living room. He checked his watch. It didn’t matter anyway, because in five short minutes, he would be famous… and probably rich, as well. He could afford to replace anything. He could have a whole room full of televisions and stereos, if he so desired.

  “Just one sec, I want to see if there’s anything else worth taking,” the deep voice said. Suddenly Neil could hear footsteps hurrying down his hallway, growing nearer to his bedroom.

  Terrified, his body trembling, he sunk down and pulled his blanket up over his head, wishing the mattress would swallow him up. The room is dark, he told himself, maybe they won’t notice me.

  “Nah, I don’t see anything here,” the voice called to his companion, and Neil felt his shoulders slump with relief.

  “But… wait a minute… FUCK! The guy’s fucking home!” screamed the deep voice.

  “Wait, say what?!” More footsteps, running this time. A sharp bile worked its way up Neil’s throat. Soundlessly, he squeezed his fingers into fists, feeling the finger nails cutting into his flesh.

  Suddenly the blanket was pulled away from Neil’s face, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a surprised and angry looking man. Behind him stood another man, of smaller stature… there was something familiar about him… wait, was that his neighbor? Jake, Josh, something like that…

  “God damn it, John, I asked you if he was home!” The deep voice, which belonged to the larger man, shouted in frustration. He peered at Neil, as if he were a puzzle to be solved. “Well, I guess we can –”

  And that was the last thing Neil heard, and would ever hear again.

  The sound of the gun going off was deafening, and the large man spun around to glare at the younger man, who was still holding the weapon. His expression was impassive, a thin trail of smoke seeping from the gun at his side.

  “Aw, John, for fuck’s sake, you didn’t have to kill him,” the first man moaned. He shook his head, then scratched at his scalp thoughtfully and said, “Well, whatever, let’s see if he has a wallet or anything on him.”

  The man stepped over a mound of pillows and peered over Neil’s lifeless body, glancing at his left hand to see if there was a wedding ring. There wasn’t. A simple wristwatch, oddly entombed in bubble wrap, was the only thing that adorned his hand. Blurry through the plastic, the digital numbers 11:59 could be read, glowing a soft shade of green.

  Pursing his lips, the man pulled the blanket down lower to see if this unfortunate man had anything of value in his pockets.

  Neil was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants with an elastic waistband; only the string to tie them appeared to have been cut out. There were no pockets.

  “C’mon, we’d better leave, someone is bound to call this in, you moron,” the man said, casually tossing the cover back over the body. Both men strode back down the hallway, carefully picking their way over the shattered
glass of what had until recently been the living room window, and hurried off into the night.

  But no one called the police that night, and Neil Ludwig’s body would remain safe in his bed until the morning, when the authorities already had his body scheduled for pickup anyway. The blood from the hole in his chest continued to seep out, staining the white sheets crimson, until you could barely make out the date written across his chest – 02-06-20.

  February 9th, 2020

  Florence, Italy

  Little Emma Ricci gently poked the tip of her pencil into the soft padding of her left index finger. She watched as the lead sank partway into the skin, causing the tiniest prick of pain, then she quickly jerked the pencil back. She watched with interest as the little indent that was made on her finger reshaped itself, like her finger was puffing up again as though someone were blowing it up like a balloon. Then it was gone, like the pencil had never touched her skin. Fascinated, she took the pencil and dug it into her finger once more.

  “Miss Ricci, care to join us?”

  Startled, Emma dropped the pencil she had been clutching and sat up straighter in her chair, mumbling, “Sorry, Mrs. Bianchi.”

  The pencil rolled across the floor, coming to a stop when it came into contact with Tomas Romano’s shoe. He glanced down, (how had he even felt that through the thick sole of his sneaker?) and spun around in his chair. He crossed his eyes and stuck out his tongue at Emma, and she followed suit.

  “Mr. Romano, please turn back around and stop bothering your neighbor. Miss Ricci, please pick up your pencil.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Bianchi,” Emma said, stooping over to make a grab for the pencil that Tomas politely kicked in her direction. She wondered how Mrs. Bianchi had even noticed the pencil at all. It should be a fairly discreet object, and yet now two people had seen it.