How to Kill Your Family
HOW TO KILL YOUR FAMILY
Bella Mackie
Copyright
The Borough Press
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2021
Copyright © Bella Mackie 2021
Jacket design by Caroline Young © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2021
Jacket illustration © Anna Isabella Schmidt
Bella Mackie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008365912
Ebook Edition © July 2021 ISBN: 9780008365929
Version: 2021-05-28
Dedication
For my dad, who read me a hundred murderous bedtime stories.
For my mum, who read me a hundred uplifting ones.
I promise never to kill either of you.
Epigraph
Unsex me here, And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty. Make thick my blood.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Postscript
Acknowledgements
Also by Bella Mackie
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
Limehouse prison is, as you might imagine, horrible. Except maybe you can’t imagine it, not really. There are no games consoles and flat-screen TVs, as you have surely read about in the newspapers. There’s no friendly communal vibe, no sisterly tribe – the atmosphere is usually frantic, hideously loud, and it often feels as though a fight will break out at any moment. From the beginning, I’ve tried to keep my head down. I stay in my cell as much as possible, in between meals that could optimistically be described as occasionally digestible, and attempt to avoid my roommate, as she tiresomely likes to be called.
Kelly is a woman who likes to ‘chat’. On my first day here fourteen long months ago, she sat on my bunk, squeezed my knee with her horribly long fingernails and told me that she knew what I’d done, and thought it was fantastic. Such praise was a pleasant surprise, given that I expected an onslaught of violence as I approached the looming gates of this shabby place. Ah, the innocence of someone who only knows about prison from watching one fairly low-budget TV drama. From this initial introduction, Kelly decided that I was her new best friend, and worse, a trophy cellmate. At breakfast, she will bustle up to me, linking arms and whispering to me as if we are in the middle of a confidential discussion. I’ve heard her talking to other prisoners, her voice dropping to a stage whisper, as she intimates that I’ve confessed all the details of my crime to her. She wants leverage and respect from the other girls, and if anyone can provide her with it, the Morton murderer can. It is immensely tiresome.
I know I say that Kelly professes to know all about my crime, but perhaps that diminishes my deeds somewhat. To me, the word crime sounds shabby, inelegant and commonplace. Shoplifters commit crimes. When you go at 35 mph in a 20-mph zone in order to get a tepid latte before you start another dull day at the office, you’re committing a crime. I did something much more ambitious. I conceived and carried out a complex and careful plan, the origins of which were set in motion long before the unpleasant circumstances surrounding my birth. And given that I have so little to do in this ugly and uninspiring cage (one misguided therapist suggested I attend a spoken word class, and I was gratified when my mere expression ensured that she never made such an offer again), I have decided to tell my story. This is no easy task, given that I have no state-of-the-art laptop such as I am used to. When my lawyer recently presented me with some tentative light at the end of this tunnel, I felt like I should mark the time I’ve spent here and write down some of what I’ve done. A trip to the canteen provided me with a thin notepad and a tired biro – taking £5 off my weekly spend of £15.50. Forget magazine articles breezily suggesting you save money by scrimping on takeout coffee, if you really want to learn to budget properly, spend some time at Limehouse. The writing might be pointless, but I must do something to ease the stultifying boredom of this place, and I’m hopeful that Kelly and her interminable group of ‘ladies’, as she insists on calling them, will stop asking if I want to watch reality TV in the rec room with them if I seem intent on a task. ‘Sorry, Kelly,’ I will say, ‘I’m writing important case notes up for my appeal, let’s talk later.’ I am confident that the merest hint that I might tell her some juicy nugget about my story will have her tapping her nose like a ludicrous character in a Dick Francis novel and leave me to it.
Of course, my story is not for Kelly. I doubt she’d have the capacity to understand what motivated me to do as I did. My story is just that – mine – though I know readers would lap it up if I ever published it – not that I ever could. But it’s nice to know that people would pore over it nonetheless. It would be a bestseller, and the masses would rush to the shops, hoping to know more about the attractive and tragic young woman who could commit such a terrible act. The tabloids have been running pieces on me for months now, the public doesn’t seem to tire of the two-bit psychologists willing to diagnose me from a distance, or the occasional contrarian who will defend my actions to outrage on Twitter. The general public are so enthralled by my actions that they are even willing to watch a hastily cobbled together Channel 5 documentary about me, which included a fat astronomer explaining that my star sign predicted my case. He got my star sign wrong.
So I know that people would fall on my words. Without any attempt on my part at an accurate explanation, my case has already become a notorious one. And ironically, that is without anyone knowing about my real crimes. The justice system in this country is a joke, and there is nothing which illustrates that more than this one sentence: I have killed several people (some brutally, others calmly) and yet I currently languish in jail for a murder I did not commit.
The crimes I did orchestrate, if known about, would ensure that I was remembered for decades, perhaps even centuries – if the human race manages to hold on for that long. Dr Crippen, Fred West, Ted Bundy, Lizzie Borden and me, Grace Bernard. Actually that displeases me somewhat. I’m not an amateur or an imbecile. I’m someone who, if you saw me in the s
treet, you’d gaze at admiringly. Perhaps that’s why Kelly clings to me instead of punching the living daylights out of me as I expected. Even in here, I retain a certain elegance, and a froideur that those weaker than I desperately wish to break through. Despite my crimes, I’m told I’ve received letters by the sackful, professing love, admiration, asking me where I bought the dress I wore on the first day of my trial (Roksanda, if you’re interested. That terrible Prime Minister’s wife wore something very similar just a month later, unfortunately). Often hate mail. Sometimes mad shit, where the writer thinks I’ve been sending them messages through the air. People seem to really wish to know me, to impress me, to emulate me, if not in my actions then at least in my sartorial choices. It matters not, since I don’t ever read any of it. My lawyer scoops it all up and takes it away. I’ve no interest really in what I represent to strangers sad enough to put pen to paper and write to me.
Perhaps I’m being too kind to the general public, ascribing to them a more complex set of emotions than they deserve. Maybe the reason for such sustained and frenzied interest in my case is best ascribed to Occam’s Razor – the theory that the simplest answer is usually the correct one. In which case, my name will live on long after I am dead for the most prosaic reason of all – merely because the idea of a love triangle seems so dramatic and grubby. But when I think about what I actually did, I feel somewhat sad that nobody will ever know about the complex operation that I undertook. Getting away with it is highly preferable, of course, but perhaps when I’m long gone, someone will open an old safe and find this confession. The public would reel. After all, almost nobody else in the world can possibly understand how someone, by the tender age of 28, can have calmly killed six members of her family. And then happily carried on with the rest of her life, never to regret a thing.
CHAPTER ONE
I step off the plane and encounter that glorious blast of hot air that British people always dramatically exclaim at when they land somewhere hot and remember that much of the rest of the world enjoys a climate which doesn’t just veer between grey and cold. I’m adept at moving through airports quickly, and today that’s especially true, since I’m keen to avoid the man I had the misfortune of sitting next to during the flight. Amir introduced himself the moment I’d finished putting my seatbelt on. A guy in his mid-thirties, he was wearing a shirt which was stretched desperately over his almost comical pectoral muscles, and he’d inexplicably paired it with shiny tracksuit bottoms. The worst part of his outfit, the cherry on the whole mess, was the pair of sliders he had on instead of shoes. Gucci pool shoes, with matching socks. Jesus. I considered asking the hostess if I could sit somewhere else, but she was nowhere to be found and I was already trapped between the embellished he-man and the window as the plane started to taxi.
Amir was on his way to Puerto Banús, as was I, although I would never have told him so. He was 38, did something with nightclubs, and was fond of saying that he liked to ‘go large’. I closed my eyes as he bored on about the Marbella lifestyle, and told me about the challenges of having his favourite cars shipped over for the summer season. Despite my body language, my aisle mate didn’t let up, forcing me to finally engage. I was going to visit my best friend, I told him. No, she wasn’t in Puerto Banús, but further inland, and we were unlikely to venture into town to experience the delights of the ‘Glitter’ nightclub.
‘Do you need a car?’ the man-mountain asked me. ‘I could give you a sick one to ride around in, just let me know and I’ll sort you out with a nice Merc for your holidays.’ As politely as I could, I declined, before firmly announcing that I needed to get some work done before we landed.
As we started our descent, Amir saw his opportunity and reminded me to shut my laptop. Once again, I was drawn into conversation, remembering to be careful not to mention my name or give him any personal information. I was furious at this attention, having deliberately dressed in black trousers, a shirt, and no makeup for the flight so as to draw as little notice as possible. No jewellery, no personal touches, nothing that might stand out in a person’s mind were they to be questioned. Not that they would be, I’m just a young girl going on holiday in Marbella, like so many others this summer.
The flight was all Amir can have of me, and even that was taken not given. So now I’m squeezing past people, flashing smiles as I push to the front of the passport queue and head straight for baggage reclaim. I position myself behind a pillar as the room fills up, and look down at my phone. A few minutes later, I see my bag and grab it, before turning on my heels and walking purposefully towards the exit. And then I have a thought and stop in my tracks.
I’m leaning by the railings outside the airport when Amir emerges. His face brightens as he sucks his stomach in and puffs up his chest.
‘I was looking for you!’ he says, and I note the bright gold watch as he gesticulates.
‘Yeah, sorry, I’m in such a rush to get to my friend in time for lunch, but I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,’ I reply.
‘Well let’s have that night out, gimme your digits, and we’ll link.’ Absolutely not a chance, but I have to keep him sweet if I’m to get what I want from this.
‘I’ve got a new phone, Amir, can’t remember the number for the life of me. Tell you what, you give me yours and I’ll be in touch,’ I smile and touch his arm lightly. After I’ve stored it and declined his offer of a lift, I wave goodbye.
‘Amir,’ I call, as he walks away, ‘that offer of a car, is it still on?’
* * *
I arrive at my rented apartment just under two hours later, a fairly pain-free drive from the airport in my hire car. I found it on Airbnb and arranged to pay the landlady in cash so as not to have a record under my name. She was fine with a private booking when I said I’d pay double. It’s painfully expensive, especially in the high season, but I only have this week booked off work and I’m keen to get on with my plan, so I’m throwing money at the problem. The flat is tiny and stifling, the aesthetic is very much reminiscent of an Eighties cosmetic clinic but with added china dolls. I’m desperate to see the ocean and stretch my legs, but I have a limited time here, and there’s work to be done.
I’ve done my research, as much as you can do on two old bigots who have an inconsiderately minimal online presence, and I’ve got a good idea where they’ll be tonight. It seems, from the little I could glean from Kathleen’s Facebook page (the poor love has a public account, blessings be that old people do not understand privacy settings), that between feeling angry at the amount of Spanish people living in Spain, the Artemis seniors spend most of their time shuffling between a restaurant called Villa Bianca, which is right on the waterfront, and a casino called Dinero just outside of town. I’ve booked a table at the restaurant for dinner.
Let me be clear here. I have no idea what I am doing. I’m 24, I’ve been thinking about how to best avenge my mother for many years now, and this is the biggest step I’ve taken so far. Mostly, I’ve been working my way up the career ladder, saving money, researching the family and trying to get myself into a position where I can get closer to them. It’s been helpful, but mundane. Of course, I’m willing to make these sacrifices in order to get nearer to my end goals, but my God it’s hard to pretend I care about customer surveys and participate in the optional (read mandatory) team-bonding drinks on Fridays. If I’d known I’d have to drink Jägerbombs with people who willingly work in marketing, I’d have given myself more time to research trepanation first. Maybe that’s why I’m rushing this big move, desperate to prove to myself that I’ve made inroads and can do what I’ve been saying I will since I was 13. And yet, I am woefully underprepared. I envisaged that by the time I got to Marbella, I’d have a firm plan in place, carefully plotted my route, the timings, and have invested in an incredible disguise. Instead, I am holed up in a flat which smells like your family hamster died underneath a wardrobe and your mother didn’t know what the smell was and has been going mad with the bleach for six months. I have
a plan in my mind, but no idea whether I’ll be able to pull it off. I have a wig that I bought at a cosmetics shop in Finsbury Park, which looked convincing enough under the store strip lighting, but appears worryingly flammable in the Spanish sun. Despite this free-floating anxiety about my lack of preparation, excitement spreads through me. As I fix my wig and apply my makeup, I feel as though I’m getting ready for a brilliant date, and not at all like I’m on the way to kill my grandparents.
* * *
That was overly dramatic of course. I’m not going to kill them tonight, that would be foolish. I need to see them, listen to their conversation, see if they drop any hints about their plans this week. I need to drive the route to their villa a few times, and importantly, I need to pick up the promised car from Amir. That car is either a sign that I am stupidly chaotic and should postpone my plans, or it was a little gift from some unknown deity. Let’s see which!
I decided long ago that Kathleen and Jeremy Artemis would be the first to leave us. This was for several reasons really, the first being that they’re old so it doesn’t matter as much. Old people who do nothing but drain their pensions and stultify in their favourite armchairs isn’t a brilliant advertisement for humanity in my opinion. Great that we’ve worked out how to make people live longer with medical intervention and healthier lifestyles, unfortunately they will become useless bed blockers who get more and more mean-spirited until they are nothing more than bigoted beasts of burden living in the room you wanted to make a study.
Don’t be shocked, I know you think it too. Enjoy your life and shuffle off this coil around 70, only the very boring would want to live to be 100 – the only reward an impersonal and brief letter from the Queen. So really I’m doing everyone a favour. They are old and disposable, and they live staggeringly useless lives. Wine at lunch, naps, a trip to the boutiques in town to buy hideous jewellery and gaudy watches. He golfs, she spends a lot of her time getting things injected into her face, which has had the strange effect of making her look like a very old toddler. A waste of life, and that’s all before I tell you just how racist they are. Oh fuck it, you can imagine. They live in Marbella and yet they speak no Spanish, there you go. No more explanation needed.