by Bella Mackie
I had just turned 13 when it became obvious that her aches weren’t just a sign of endless work and constant worry. Helene picked me up from school early one day, and took me to the hospital. Marie had collapsed at work, and before I could see her, my mother’s only friend sat me down in a visitors’ room and told me that my mother had cancer. She’d held off going to the doctor and, like so many women who care for others, she’d neglected her own needs entirely. She didn’t want me to know, Helene explained, but I deserved to. I gazed at the strip lighting overhead, and felt my ears hum as Helene asked if I could keep calm and be brave in front of my mother. I felt something switch off in my brain at that moment, as though I were suddenly on standby, not able to function at full capacity. I later learnt that this is called disassociation, when your brain disconnects to protect you from stress or trauma. It’s a horrendous feeling but it has served me well in times when, well, I’ve had to do some pretty unpleasant things. Frankly, when you’re surrounded by blood and the sound of someone screaming for their life, it’s actually a relief to switch off.
Marie never came home, and six weeks later, my lovely, tired mother was dead. In the brief window between her diagnosis and her death, my mother and Helene had agreed that I should live with her from now on – as if there was anywhere else I could go. My grandparents didn’t even come over for the funeral, which was a small affair made up of some former models from my mother’s early years in London, a few of her work colleagues and Jimmy’s parents John and Sophie. We toasted her at the local café where we used to go for hot chocolate on Saturday mornings when we needed to escape the damp and cold of our flat. And with that, my childhood was pretty much done. I moved to Helene’s flat in Kensal Rise, and had my own bedroom for the first time – a small space which used to house her clothes and long since abandoned old exercise equipment. The fish came with me, its bowl dumped on a dressing table. Helene never envisaged a teenager in her life, but to her credit, she did as well as she could by me. There was always food, and she gave me money for travel and clothes. I never said it out loud, in case I was struck down by some vengeful deity, but it was a much better standard of living than the one we had in our depressing bedsit. I moved to a school nearer her flat, and became pretty independent almost immediately. Helene worked at a modelling agency, and was out a lot, so I would walk around the local park for hours after school to pass the time, or go and sit in the local Costa and nurse a tea. Anything rather than go back to the empty flat and think about all that I had lost.
Helene had cleaned out my mother’s flat, and although there was nothing of much value to give me, she did make sure to pass on Marie’s favourite opal ring, which fitted my thumb perfectly, and which I would rub constantly throughout the day. She also gave me a box of letters, documents, and photos from Marie’s younger days, including her prized Kookai poster. I never opened them. Apart from the ring, I’m not hugely one for sentimental relics (of course, I was never immune to keeping a few prized tokens after a murder, but that could hardly be called sentimental). But one day, while foraging around under Helene’s bed for her hair straighteners, I found another box. This was unlike the one I had in my room, which was decorated with flowers and hearts. This one was like those I was used to seeing in my head teacher’s office – sturdy and formal. And it had something written carefully on the spine in red ink: ‘Grace/Simon’.
Obviously I was going to look inside. I didn’t even hesitate. I still pay no heed to the supposed privacy of others – if you leave something around me, I will look at it, soak it in, commit it to memory. I expect growing up relying on just one person means that I need more information than a normal person when it comes to trust. Or maybe I just want to get inside your head and gain an advantage over you. It doesn’t always work, I’ve been looking through Kelly’s diary since I landed in this prison, but it’s hard to gain an insight into someone’s innermost thoughts when they’re so completely devoid of any original ones.
I slid myself down Helene’s door and wedged myself there, just in case she came home. My mother’s friend witnessed the whole of my parent’s brief relationship, but she’d never given me any information on it, even when Marie died. I know she felt it wouldn’t help, that she was protecting me, so I didn’t push it. But this box might tell me more than she could anyway. Helene was kind, but she was hardly a great intellect, and had a fairly basic level of insight. Her favourite shows were all on ITV, if that makes it at all clearer.
Inside was a bundle of papers in no discernible order. I saw various newspaper clippings, letters, and photographs all jumbled up, and began sifting them into corresponding piles. Once done, I started looking at the photos properly. A few were of my mother and her girlfriends on nights out at dark clubs around London. Marie and Helene in minidresses, both smoking, mid-dance. Girls I didn’t know holding bottles of champagne and spraying it around. As I flicked through them, the girls slowly vanished, moving blurrily to the edges of the pictures, as Simon stepped onto the stage. There were photos of Simon with other men, all in white shirts and expensively distressed jeans, big gold buckles on their belts. They had their arms round each other’s shoulders, just like the boys at school, but chomping on cigars, holding shot glasses, leering at the camera. Then there were photos of just my mum and Simon, him twirling her around, her polka-dot skirt blurring but her expression perfectly clear. She was rapt, twisting her head around to maintain a direct look at my father. He wasn’t looking at her though – he was smirking at the camera. He wasn’t looking at her in any of the pictures, instead he was grinning at his mates, who all seemed to desperately gaze up at him like Marie had, or mugging for the camera, slamming shots, dancing on a table while people cheered, and putting a harassed-looking waiter in a jokey headlock as the crowd around him creased their faces and applauded.
It’s strange to realise that you loathe your father before you ever have a chance to meet him. Of course I knew that he had treated my mother badly, but there was more to it. Just from a few photos, he made my skin crawl. His tanned, shiny face spoke to a vanity I’d not encountered before. His obvious need to grab all attention available was pathetic. He took up other people’s space – women were pushed out to the margins, only featured as beautiful props for Simon Artemis. His gang of friends looked about as shifty as you can imagine – certainly the kind who would be wise to keep their heads down in a post #MeToo era. Everything I saw made me feel slightly ill. This man, with his horrible flashy clothes and his clear need to advertise his testosterone levels with every pose, this man shared and contributed to my DNA, my character, my existence. Again, I wondered whether Marie had successfully hidden some major personality defect from me – how else to explain this man, this choice. How could she have made such a huge mistake?
I was 13 when I first saw these photos. I didn’t know much about the relationships between men and women, the concept of patriarchy, the idea of emotional manipulation or even just the facts about basic sexual attraction. I just saw this disgusting man openly displaying all his worst qualities for the camera, as my beloved mother stared at him. And I hated her in that moment too.
As I shoved the pictures back in the box, I noticed that my fist was curled into a ball, and that the muscles in my neck were beginning to burn slightly, always the precursor to a headache, but I knew that if I didn’t plough on, I might not have the chance again for a while. Who knows what Helene planned to do with the files?
Next up were the newspaper clippings, musty and fading. The headlines were a mixture of business and personal news. ‘Simon Artemis buys teen fashion chain Sassy Girl’, ‘Artemis criticised for “sweatshop” conditions’, ‘Simon and Janine show off their perfect new daughter’, ‘Simon Artemis, OBE? Rumours of an honour for the CEO of Artemis Holdings’. The last one was from a glossy magazine and had photos of Simon and his wife (who I now knew to be Janine), surrounded by fluffy dogs, fluffy carpet, and flanked by an enormous Christmas tree, the height of the room. In his arms, he hel
d their daughter, who I noted was called Bryony. She looked to be about three. I checked the date on the article. The neck muscles were getting hotter. I was 13 months younger than her. My sister was a baby when Simon was in those clubs, wooing my mother, promising her who knows what. The photos showed the same house my mother had walked me past that wet day in Hampstead. It looked, even to my young eyes, fucking hideous. Janine (I assume it was Janine, given that men so often still assume it’s the job of women to keep the house nice), clearly had an overwhelming passion for grey and silver. Have you ever seen a silver mantelpiece? I’m not talking metal, or paint, I mean real silver. Imported from Vienna, I learnt many years later, when I was very briefly allowed into their house for a staff party. Janine was a gracious hostess, speaking to everyone for a few moments as though she were the queen, and I asked many questions about her, let’s say, unique take on interior design. She probably wouldn’t have been so nice had she known my plans for her and her nearest and dearest, but she was so proud of that appalling fireplace it’s actually hard to be sure.
The clippings showed me a little of what Simon did. He owned, amongst other things, Sassy Girl, the budget airline Sportus, and about 1,800 properties across the South East, the state of which had earned him the mildly amusing moniker ‘The scum landlord’. He also owned a few hotels, and a couple of yachts which could be rented out by the week if you felt a five-star hotel was a little too downmarket for your holidays. In what was the very definition of a vanity project in 1998, Simon and Janine also had a vineyard, and produced wine which I assume was only bought by their friends and cronies. It was bottled under the name ‘Chic Chablis’. As if anything could tell you more about a person.
The last thing in the box was a thick, cream envelope. Inside were two pieces of paper. The first one I opened was a letter from Simon himself. It was a hasty scrawl, written in black ink, the words almost ripping through the paper.
Marie, thank you for your letter. I am sorry to hear that you are ill, but what you suggest is impossible. As I have told you many times before, your decision to have your child was yours alone. You had no right to imagine that I’d risk my family and reputation for the product of a six-week fling. Instead, you chose to have the baby (which I have no proof is mine anyway), and then try to entice me into seeing her. This delusion has to stop. Your daughter is not, nor ever will be, a part of my family. I have a wife, Marie! I have a daughter. I may possibly be due a peerage in next year’s Honours list. You must stop trying to impress upon my life. I have enclosed a cheque for £5000, which is more than generous, but given your health problems feels like the right thing to do. In return, I demand that you cease all contact. Simon.
The other letter in the envelope was the letter my mother had sent which provoked this nightmarish screed. I didn’t want to read her pleas, see the vulnerability and sadness in her own handwriting. It was too embarrassing to see how weak my mother was in the face of this man. She was weak, but I was strong. So I would read it and reinforce the rage in my stomach, fortify it with steel and keep it there. I opened it.
Dearest Simon,
I know you have asked me not to write, and I have tried to respect your decision, though it makes me sad. But I must tell you that I am not well. I will not live too long, according to the good doctors at the Whittington Hospital (it is not far from you). I am resigned to it, not because I wish to die but because I’m tired. I’m tired and I have felt unwell for many years now, and life since I had Grace has been hard and it does not seem to be getting any easier. But do not for one second think that I blame Grace. She has been a light through it all. I wish so much that you had met her as a baby, as a toddler, when she was six and insisted on being called ‘Crystal’. I wish you had been there for her frog phase, when she ribbited instead of speaking for a week, or when she won the drawing prize at school. You have missed so much, but you do not have to miss the rest. I will. I will miss it all, and it makes me so anxious that I cannot sleep, though truthfully the monitor and the ward noise don’t help. Simon, you must take her. You must tell your wife about her – she will forgive you for something which happened so many years ago. Surely as a mother she would not let a child go without both her parents? I have little money to ensure her coming teenage years will be smooth, and my parents have never stopped being angry with me for my choices – I will not let her blossoming spirit be squashed by them. My friend Helene has offered to take her in, but it would not be as wonderful as having her own family around her. I do not want to beg, but I will, for our daughter’s sake. Please do the right thing, I know you are a good man and that you would not leave your own child alone in the world. I will not be going home, so please write to me at the hospital, Floor 4, the Hummingbird Ward.
All my love and affection,
Marie
I shut the file, pushed it back under the bed and checked the floor for any loose paper which might give me away to Helene. After that, I must have walked straight out of the flat, because I found myself in the local park, where I sat down on a bench and tried to slow my heart down. I stroked the palm of my hand with my other one, and tugged at the bottom of my throat, trying to loosen the lump which had suddenly taken up residence there. I knew more about my father than ever before. I knew he was rich beyond comprehension. I knew he had a family, a home, a horrible mantelpiece. He owned businesses I had heard of – Sassy Girl, was a label the girls at school wore. He was a public figure. My mother had asked him for help as she was dying (and humiliated me by doing so). And he had rejected her, berated her, and knocked her down. I wanted to run to his house and jump on him, hit him, push my fingers into his eyes and force his head against his hideous marble floor. I breathed slowly, trying to focus on the see-saw in the children’s play area. But the rage stayed. I knew it wouldn’t fade now, no matter how calm I could make myself feel outwardly. In life my mother had ably shielded me from the rejection, from the callous and cold detachment of this man. And I had been safe with her warmth to surround me. But in dying, she could not absorb this hurt for me anymore. I knew I couldn’t really go to his house, ring the bell, and demand that he pay some vague price for what he had done. I’d get as far as the bronze gates outside and be turned away. The Artemis family were clearly used to putting up walls and dismissing those who inconvenienced them – debtors, fans, beggars, and unwanted children. I would have to wait, I realised, sit it out and come up with a plan for when I was older and more able to make contact. This thought comforted me. I had five years until I was 18. Five years to think up a way to make the Artemis family suffer. I still remember this moment vividly, and I’ve thought of it many times since, always with a smile. Because even at 13 (and though I was too nice back then to let myself think it explicitly), I comforted myself with the knowledge that I would grow up and make them know, really know, the pain that we had suffered.
CHAPTER FIVE
I didn’t much want to kill Andrew Artemis. It had to be done, of course, I knew that and held firm, but I wasn’t prepared for one of them to be so, well, nice. The research I’d done on his relatives had been thorough, meticulous, I suppose one could argue obsessive. And from that, I’d come to know just how morally rotten this family was. It made it easier to focus on the task at hand, knowing that I wasn’t taking anything decent away from the world. In my head, I had even begun to explain away my wholly personal pursuit as a public good. The Artemis family were the embodiment of toxic capitalism, a vacuum of morality, a totem of greed. God, I was insufferably young.
The ease with which I offed Jeremy and Kathleen emboldened me. It was luck really – one dramatic swerve of a wheel and they whooshed off a cliff, not even a scratch left on Amir’s car to cause suspicion. So many things could’ve gone wrong, so many things that make me wince when I look back on it. And if anything had gone differently, I might have lost my nerve, reassessed my plans, or worse – been caught. But I wasn’t. I had a full house that night. Frankly, the considerate way my grandparents died so fast meant
that I carried on. I can thank them for something at least.
Andrew was the son of Simon’s brother Lee and possibly the hardest to glean any reliable information about. He wasn’t present at any of the grotesque family parties, where waitresses dressed up like peacocks (thank you gossip columns for that titbit) and neat lines of cocaine laid out on silver platters were offered about by dwarves in top hats. He wasn’t on the family yacht come summer, oiled up and lying out on the deck with Bryony and her thin, bronzed friends. He didn’t even have a token job at Artemis HQ, the looming building off Great Portland Street where an immaculate grey Bentley idled outside whenever Simon was at the office, the nouveau version of raising the flag whenever the queen is at home. Even Tina, my Artemis informant – someone I’d begrudgingly befriended when I worked there (I’ll get to that) – couldn’t help me much when I cast around for information about him, vaguely saying that she thought Andrew ‘might have followed his own path’ when I texted her to ask why he wasn’t mentioned in the magazine coverage of the annual Artemis charity ball. As usual, I couldn’t push her too far on these matters. I had to let her lead, so as not to raise any red flags, and my cousin clearly didn’t interest her at all.
I knew something was really up when Andrew was a no-show at his grandparents’ funeral (that was a deliciously strange event to witness from a respectful distance). I persevered. When Facebook failed to locate him, I set up a Google alert on my young cousin and waited patiently. Eventually I found a mention of him in a local online freesheet, a profile of the work some old crusty was doing on marsh frogs in an area of wetlands in East London. Once I’d boned up on what exactly a wetland was, I realised that Andrew, perhaps more than me, had strayed far and away from the family Artemis. Saying something, when you consider that my very existence had been denied since birth.