How to Kill Your Family

by Bella Mackie

  I spent my cab ride home with all sorts of interesting ideas forming. What a generous man my uncle was. In just twenty minutes, he’d given me a free drink, and a lead on how to kill him. Who says the ultra-rich don’t help the needy?

  * * *

  I fell asleep during my massage, despite the harsh pressure the therapist applied, and then had a long bath, re-reading my battered old copy of The Second Sex before shaving my legs and giving my hair a deep condition. I began reading feminist literature aged 16, when Jimmy’s mum became concerned at how much time I was spending with Jimmy and his mates. I think she thought that a lack of female role models might lead me down a path where I would be completely unprepared to deal with the disadvantages that my sex would throw up. This was typically well intentioned of Sophie, but it also showed just how privileged she was. A wealthy white woman, insulated from actual discrimination in just about every way possible but very keen to talk about it in general outraged terms. The Latimers and their friends were masters of this – shaking their heads about the local corner shop closing, when they always sailed past it to go to the next-door deli, talking loudly about giving their cleaner sick pay at a dinner party but getting rid of her when she could no longer work Wednesdays. ‘Very disappointing, she’s been with us for ten years and Tuesday just doesn’t work as well for us.’

  Did she think that I had no understanding of the way the world treated women? I understood how the system was stacked against women long before I ever knew the words to describe how we are marginalised, discarded, belittled. I saw it chip away at my mother day by day. Brought up by strict parents who had rigid views about how girls should behave (who spurned her when she decided to live her life a different way), prized for her looks until one day she wasn’t, used by a man for fun until he got bored. Working hard in a series of low-paid jobs where she was never appreciated. Raising a child alone without it counting for a thing.

  But the feminist literature introduction was a revelation, and I’ll always be grateful to Sophie for it. Perhaps I was spending too much time with boys, adapting my behaviour to fit in with them. Without a crash course in the works of Wollstonecraft, De Beauvoir, and Plath, I might have quashed the early flickers of rage I felt, tried to live small, as women are wordlessly taught to do from birth. But reading about other angry women made me bolder, allowed me to nurture my anger, see it as a worthy and righteous thing. Of course, I do not mean to make these women shoulder any small part of my eventual deeds, though I’m sure that the tabloids would salivate over constructing a ‘vicious feminist’ narrative should my story ever become public.

  There was one book that made me see wicked vengeance in a more positive light though: The Bloody Chamber by Angela Carter. This wasn’t a book given to me by Sophie, but one I came across in a bookshop in Soho on a rainy autumn afternoon just after my seventeenth birthday, when I’d spent the day in town on my own. Its cover jumped out at me from a pile, the swirls of black and red seemed to complement what was going on in my teenage head. I scanned the blurb quickly, took it to the till and read it in one go at a dingy tourist café off Tottenham Court Road. Her dark fairy tales, where women plot and deceive, opened a door in my mind. I saw that, just as we did not have to be small and quiet and weak, women did not have to be good or strong, virtuous but ultimately sacrificed. We could be underhanded, out for ourselves, led by desires we dared not voice. I finished the book, and walked out onto the street with a sense of new possibility. I gave Annabelle a copy the next Christmas, thinking that the nervy kid could use a shot in the arm, but Sophie pursed her lips as she watched her daughter unwrap the book, and took me aside after lunch to tell me that Annabelle was far too sensitive for such gory stories.

  ‘Honestly, Grace, I know you’re a tough girl, but Belle suffers horribly with her worries and I really think you could have thought about that. She looks up to you and obviously now she’ll be dying to read this book. I’ll have to be the one to put her off until she’s a bit older. Could you exchange it for Primo Levi? She’ll be studying the Second World War next term.’ I just stared at her until she hurried off to stir the gravy. I replaced a book of fairy tales with a real-life scream of pain about the worst thing that humanity has ever done. Annabelle had nightmares for three days after she’d finished reading If This Is a Man. Sophie was full of pride for how empathetic her daughter was.

  When my bath went cold, I carefully dried my hair, loosely curling it so that it rolled down my back in soft ropes. I painted my nails bright orange and carefully inched new tights up my legs so as not to ladder them immediately. The dress I selected to wear that night was a short black one, with long sleeves and a high ruffle neck. It made me look stern but enjoyably so. After my first brief foray into the world of sex clubs, where my uncle so generously planted the idea for his murder, I went online and did my research. There are dozens in the capital, traversing a sliding scale between ‘a masked ball full of models’ to ‘expect a slick of sadness and bring suitable antibacterial wipes’. But it was easy to figure out which ones to avoid – ‘the venue is a three-minute walk from the drive-thru McDonald’s’ or ‘bring your own booze, no tins’ get ticked off immediately. Lee was hardly likely to frequent a sex party held on a ring road somewhere near Wembley. And I was happy to do research, but not anywhere near an industrial estate. I’ve had enough sadness in my life already.

  After looking at a lot of generic sex-party sites, where the word ‘fun’ is thrown around as though you’re going to a theme park, I found three high-end clubs which encouraged choking, BDSM, and domination play, and signed up to their mailing lists. They weren’t as relaxed as the Chinatown dive. You were asked for a photo, and a small paragraph about yourself before you could attend an event. I sent in a picture of a semi-famous Instagrammer who looked enough like me as not to raise questions on the door and three lines of fluff about how I was a PR girl looking for new experiences with sexy strangers. It’s not hard to get into these places if you’re a fairly attractive woman, the organisers are much stricter with lone men who will likely stand around creeping people out.

  I also, and this is ridiculous in retrospect, took a first aid class. Somehow, I decided that if I was going to strangle someone to death, it might be good to see what experts looked for when trying to save someone from such a fate. I wanted to know what the tipping point was, when the bloodshot eyes and loss of consciousness became irreversible. Unfortunately, this meant enduring two hours in a community centre in Peckham one dull Tuesday evening, while a busy woman called Deirdre stood around showing us how to perform CPR on dummies that looked to be as old as her. It’s not easy to ask about strangulation casually, but I did learn that though people normally lose consciousness within seconds, it can take four minutes to actually die, despite it looking like the person has already pegged it. On balance, it wasn’t worth having to wrap bandages around the hand of a rather sweaty man called Anthony who stared at me the entire time to learn this snippet when I could have just googled it, but there we were. Now I know that cling film is handy for minor burns, thank you, Deirdre.

  Once I was fully made-up, I drank a glass of wine while standing at the kitchen sink. These kind of parties don’t start until late, and I didn’t think being stone-cold sober would be comfortable. The event I went to is run by the son of a peer of the realm. He’s been in the papers many times, promoting his debauched club nights, but he is much more low key about this side of his work. I only knew he was involved because it’s held in the same building tucked behind Regent Street which his company is registered to. It makes sense. Entertain the rich and beautiful at your parties, and watch them. Find the ones who still seek more, whose eyes glaze over at the dancing and the champagne on tap. They have everything they want but they want more. A discreet black calling card, with a website address embossed on it, handed to them with the enormous bill. Exclusive, the card signals. For those who require something extra. It’s a good spin-off for the Hon Felix Forth. He knows those clients. H
e is one himself. I’d submitted my application and waited for three weeks for a reply.

  When I finally got one, it was simply a pop-up invitation with the date and the venue. Nothing else, no welcome or instructions. I guessed I wasn’t supposed to email back asking whether to bring my own ball gag, so I did what any millennial would do, and googled it. From the three places I’d looked into, this one was the most exclusive. The reviews on a site called Sleeksexperts spoke smugly of how hard it was to get an invite (I think I’d proved that wrong), how opulent the venue was and how ‘dark’ things could get. Everything was vague and infuriating, but it was clear that if I was looking for a place where serious kink was encouraged, then I was on the right track. More than one person said that they’d never been able to indulge in such serious depravity before, which came across as strangely mundane on a review site modelled to look like a TripAdvisor knock-off.

  I had no way of knowing whether Lee would be there, but it didn’t matter much. I was mainly going to see what the limits were at these gatherings. He liked choking, he told me. But was that a brag, designed to make him seem more edgy than he really was, or did he truly indulge in walking that precarious line between life and death? And if so, did these parties allow him to do it, or did he have to carry out his practices in discreet hotel rooms where nobody could ever interrupt or disapprove?

  I took the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and walked the rest of the way. I’ve always liked walking around the city. When I was younger and the Latimer house got too much for me, I’d tramp around Hampstead Heath for hours with their old dog Angus, letting my thoughts float around, moving in and out of my head with each step. Nothing can stick in my brain when I’m moving. That’s why I love running. I can get away from my obsessional thoughts, disconnect from the plans I’ve made, quieten down the urge to hurry and get on with it all. If I didn’t have that time, I think I’d have been weighed down to the point of inertia by the business of my brain.

  I got to the venue at 11.45 p.m. Late enough not to look unduly keen and be prey for the prompt and the sleazy, early enough not to walk in and confront sex within seconds. If the Chinatown bar was the last-minute budget airline ticket of erotic parties, then this was a private flight. Complete with free drinks. And free nuts obviously. The vast double doors were opened from the inside by a woman wearing a dress which looked suspiciously like something Chanel sent down the runway last season. I stepped onto marble floor, and ahead of me a grand iron staircase split in the middle, sending you up to a palatial entrance room where a man in a tuxedo and a black mask covering his eyes silently offered champagne from a salver. He held up an identical eye mask made of flimsy black silk, which I assumed was mandatory. Once on, I smoothed down my hair and went into the main room, which was already teeming with bodies, the vast windows behind them giving a view over the shop lights of Regent Street. I briefly wondered how sexy it was to be able to see the Apple store as you came to orgasm before I realised rich people are exactly who would find that erotic.

  I drained my glass and took another one from a woman dressed like she was going to a black-tie charity ball, and walked the perimeter of the room. There were three people stroking each other’s arms to my left. I saw one woman kissing another as a man in a bowtie inched towards their faces, keen to join. The carpet was so thick my heels sunk low into it with each step. The stroking and kissing was boring. The masks were slightly cheesy. If I was going to be out this late, I might as well see some action.

  I went towards a door draped in black fabric, which took me into a hallway with several other doors leading off it. The rooms had names, which I could just about see in the dim light. They must have been offices for virtuous Victorians at some point. Now they had signs which told you that you were entering ‘The Playroom’. Still, we don’t have consumption anymore, so that’s progress, I guess.

  I respected myself too much to go into that room, so I walked on and stopped outside ‘The Dark Room’. I’d heard about dark rooms from my research. They’d sprung up in gay bars during the Seventies, but were now commonplace at these kinds of parties. It could be as innocuous as a room with low light, but it might also be a place for those looking for slightly more transgressive activities. I opened the door slowly, careful to remember that the room might be in use and visitors not always welcome.

  Inside, there was a low blue light snaking round the skirting boards. The door closed silently behind me and I stood with my back to it, letting my eyes adjust. I could hear someone wincing, taking gulping breaths, sucking up the air as another sound took over – the sound of chains. Slowly, my eyes took in the scene in front of me. A woman was suspended on a wall, like a rough approximation of Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man. Next to her, a guy in just his trousers and mask was holding up a heavy chain and preparing to hit her with it. I held my breath, waiting to see what would happen.

  The man drew his arm back, and then raised it fast. The chain shot out of his hand and landed across her abdomen. She screamed briefly, before clamping her mouth shut and closing her eyes. He went over to her and kissed her shoulder, while I watched her manage her breathing. Even in the darkness, I could see a welt forming on her stomach. I guess the rule here was only to mark places on the body which would be easily concealed when back at the office on Monday. Despite what I’ve been doing recently, I don’t get excited by acts of violence, even ones which are done with consent. It’s almost a prerequisite for serial killers to have spent their childhoods torturing animals before moving onto other people, exploring the rush they get when they see others in pain.

  That kind of senseless act baffles me. This woman and her bleeding stomach baffle me. Violence and punishment are necessary in certain situations, but I can’t fathom inflicting pain or terror because you find joy in the immediate practice. You find joy in the retribution, in correcting a wrong or in punishing someone who truly deserves it. I am strengthened by what I do. But I’m not doing it because I get off on seeing someone in pain. Yes, watching my grizzled old grandfather getting weaker by the second as his dead, decapitated wife lay beside him held some small reward for me, but that was dwarfed by the chain of events I was setting off. I was eliminating a toxic group of people from society. A family who’d done nothing but take what they could get for themselves, and treat other people with disdain.

  My mind had wandered so far away from this dark room that I started when I heard the chain crack again. This time, the woman let out the word ‘mighty!’ and the man dropped the metal rope and picked up a water bottle, raising it to her lips and stroking her hair. Elegant safe word, I thought, as I backed out through the door. The couple had barely glanced my way while I’d been standing there watching them perform. There was tenderness and trust between them. An understanding that whatever went on, it was done as a partnership. I was beginning to see that the sex party community ran on these unspoken guidelines. That you could transgress, and discard the sense of shame that might normally accompany such acts. You could inflict harm and comfort someone immediately afterwards. And you could walk out the door five minutes later, without ever knowing the name of your victim. And sure, shame was suspended within the four walls of this palatial building. But outside? It would be there waiting. If Lee was to die in a place like this, I knew that the Artemis family would do their utmost to conceal and obfuscate. Nobody would strive to understand what Lee sought in these dark rooms. Nobody would look for answers.

  I peeked into a couple of other rooms – a couple experimenting with a rubber suit and a group of people awkwardly attempting an orgy but being slightly stymied by the physical logistics of it – but my heart wasn’t in it. And neither were theirs by the looks of it. If Lee was here, I wasn’t likely to spot him in the gloomy rooms, and I didn’t want to look too hard for a glimpse of my masked and possibly naked uncle.

  Back in the bar, I struck up a conversation with another woman standing alone. I was drawn to her because I admired her suit, a sharp black tux I’d agonised ov
er buying myself just days before. Standing in a crowded sex party, interested only in tailoring. That was my transgression. I asked how her night was going and she flicked her masked eyes towards me, before shrugging her shoulders.

  ‘If I wanted to fuck a coked-up banker I’d hang around Liverpool Street station on a Thursday night,’ she said.

  That made me laugh and as I got the bartender’s attention, I gestured to her to order a drink. ‘So where would you go,’ I said. ‘I mean … for more than this. It feels as though everyone brags about how hardcore they are, but these parties all look like a glossy advertorial for gin or something.’ She nodded in recognition, paused for a second and then looked around the bar, which was emptying out as people headed for the private rooms.

  ‘Honestly, this place is good only because it’s central and the wine doesn’t leave you with a hangover you’ll regret. But it’s so safe. They promise depravity but for most of these men that just means telling them that they’re losers then they cum. That’s what counts as dark for rich men. But what is it that you really want?’

  She was truly beautiful this woman, even with a mask covering half her face. Cheekbones which didn’t vanish when her smile did. Dimples which made her look a fraction less threatening than such a face would normally be. A mouth which was pleasingly plump but not stuffed with fillers like half the women I’d seen that night. I wondered what her deal was, if she came to these nights to meet the rich guys or whether she was really searching for sexual gratification in a way that I didn’t understand. Whatever she was, she clearly favoured the direct approach. So I took it.

  ‘I want to tie someone up and make him completely helpless. Then I want to choke him so hard he passes out. Sexy for him, part of the healing process for me. Do you know anywhere which might host such a situation?’

  On the way home, I opened the browser on my phone and searched for the name of the club she’d mentioned. ‘Well you only want one place, darling, you’re wasting your time with all this,’ she’d gestured to the palatial space around us. ‘But I’ve got to say, if you’re here then you’re an amateur, and I’m telling you about a place where your learner plates will do you no good. Don’t go unless you really want it.’ She didn’t know how much I wanted it, and she didn’t push any further, slinking off with her drink towards the Playroom. As she’d said, there was very little online about her recommended spot, just a map of the location – Mile End – and a mobile number. Maybe now I was finally on the right track. I just needed Lee to come with me. Getting him to acquiesce to being choked by a stranger didn’t seem like the hard part. I was more worried about asking him to go to the East End.