Chapter 1: The problem of Katie

Tuesday, 7:27 AM. Brian sits at his desk in a repurposed guest bedroom, blinds slit to a geometry of predawn blue, the window sweating with condensation. The only illumination is a naked Edison bulb hanging from a tangled cord, its glow jaundiced, catching the floating dust motes like radio interference. The desk is a disaster: dog-eared invoices beneath a half-empty mug branded with the Lidl logo, laser-printed cult newsletters stapled at odd angles, and a family photo of Katie with the kids at Lake Balaton, everyone’s teeth too white in the Hungarian sun. The cold from the double-glazed window breathes down the back of his T-shirt. Brian’s spreadsheet basks on the laptop screen, green and black like an old CRT terminal: “Household Expenses.xlsx.” Tabs flicker across the bottom, each a shrine to some failure—Mortgage, School Fees, Utility Final Warnings. His cursor blinks over the cell: “Projected legal cost, April–June: £23,000.”

He glances at the family photo—Katie’s jawline sharpened in mock laughter, the boy’s fine blond hair wind-tossed, the girl’s arms wrapped around her mother in a way that makes his throat ache. For a moment, his vision doubles, the faces duplicating and then ghosting into negative space. He pushes the frame face-down, the clatter a small violence. His hand finds the battered black notebook beside the wireless mouse, the cover seamed with thumbprints and dried food. Brian flips to a blank page, pen trembling, and writes:

1) Divorce + custody

2) Break Katie’s resolve

He underlines the second point three times. The pen digs a furrow through the paper. A headache pulses above his left eye, tinnitus hissing faintly. He lets his fingers hover over the edge of the notebook, considering the next move. He writes, in block capitals:

NO MORE LOSSES

It feels performative, but the rule holds: if he doesn’t write it down, it isn’t real. The wall clock in the hallway ticks, then chimes, an echo from an older, quieter house.

He returns to the spreadsheet, but can’t focus. Katie’s voice loops in his head, that flawless London accent that made her cult presentations sound like BBC radio. “You will see, Brian, the mind is so much weaker than the flesh.” Smirk: the one that meant he was either being patronized or tested. Last autumn, at the playground, she’d confided that she was receiving “special teachings” in her faith—something about unlocking the power of “orgasmic devotion,” which sounded to him like a punchline on Channel 4.

He presses the heel of his hand to his sternum. Still tight. Still rising. He flips back in the notebook. Past pages: diagrams of their house, security-system specs, flowcharts on “Deprogramming Protocol.” On the final filled page, dated six weeks ago, a scrawled diagram of “Leverage—Emotional v. Physical” with a lopsided triangle and a single word circled at the base: PIGGY. His own handwriting disgusts him.

He forces himself to write again, bullets this time:

• Isolate her from support network

• Document all manipulation

• Prepare narrative for children

He chews the inside of his cheek until he tastes copper. The fridge in the kitchen clunks on, compressor rattling, and somewhere in the upstairs corridor, the children thud out of bed in a tangle. Brian waits, half-expecting Katie’s entrance—her slippers slap the hallway, her perfume bleeds into the room before she does—but she always ignores this space, calls it his “man cave” with curled lip. Safe, for now.

His phone vibrates. A push notification from the school’s ParentMail: “YEAR 7 SUMMER CAMP FORMS DUE.” He deletes it, then swipes open Telegram. The last chat is still pinned: an unread message from “@QueenNadia_UK.” He closes the app, heart hammering.