How to Kill Your Family

by Bella Mackie

  ‘I don’t know where you are, or if you’re OK. I’ve been crying for hours, worried that I’ve hurt you or fucked things up. I’m scared of my feelings for you babe, and that made me push you away but I didn’t mean to make you sad. Please get in touch. I don’t care about our plans for evil stepmother, I just want to know you’re OK. I’m here whenever, just please reply.’

  Five minutes later, he messaged back. I was fucked up when you told me to go slower lol. Thought you were disgusted by me and felt exposed. Got angry – fell down an incel hole, fuck girls fuck being a nice guy. People are fake, you know? Thought you were fake and wanted you to feel punished. Lol I’m so messed up. I care about you 2 bb. Sorry for taking it too far, when I heard your voice I realised what a fucking idiot I am. But I’m working on making it up to you.

  Genuinely disturbing, that insight into his mind. His willingness to punish a girl for not immediately embracing a photo of his penis was chilling, and I say that as someone who has killed six people. I’d be glad when this was all over and I could vanish from his life, retaining his pathetic dick pic as collateral.

  We talked for an hour, me playing the part of an injured and shy teenage girl, him puffed up by my display of affection and keen to be my protector once more. I let Pete come around to the subject of hacking, keen for him to be the one to feel in control. As we spoke, he was telling me how he was working on the smart system, always using language I didn’t fully understand. I must have drifted off at some point. He’d left long gaps in the conversation as he figured out how to access the system controlling Janine’s house and, despite the importance of the task, the wait got boring.

  I woke up at 9 a.m. with a start, my brain scrabbling around to remember what was so important about the day. I reached for my action phone and saw twenty-two new messages from Pete. Would they be about the plan or would they be penises? The first message was a photo of a naked cartoon figure, complete with a six-pack, holding up a gold cup. Typical teenager, Pete chose to communicate through memes rather than language. I hoped the image meant success and not an incomprehensible way for him to further expose his incel tendencies. The next message was a video, the thumbnail image blurred. I braced myself, and clicked play. The video was dark, and hard to make out. I squinted my eyes, trying to figure out the pale shape in the middle of the screen. There was a movement, a jerk across the object and then a small noise. That was it. I played it again. It was … yes, it was. It was a bed. And that movement was a person. It was easier to see the outline of the mattress this time, and the jerk had been an arm, or a leg maybe? Was Pete sending me videos of him sleeping now? Christ, this was not ideal.

  Slightly alarmed, I opened the third message, which was an audiofile. ‘If you’re going, make the bed before, please. I don’t want to have to see crumpled sheets all day. Oh, and call the manicurist and tell them not to come until midday now. No, I don’t know who I booked with, probably Monaco Manicures – just find out, it’s not hard, Lacey! I’m going for a shower, tell the porter to ring when the delivery arrives.’

  I sat there completely still, the imperious voice still echoing in my ears. It was Janine. No question. I scrolled back and watched the video again. That must be her asleep – I checked the time Pete sent it over – 6 a.m. And the voice recording at 8 a.m. Only an hour ago. The next few messages were photos of the flat taken from CCTV footage. The beige lounge with its ill-advised gold accents, like a DFS version of Versailles, the hallways, with their gilt-framed paintings of things that people who don’t care about art buy in an attempt to look cultured. Landscapes, horses, a few twee sketches of ballerinas. The kitchen was the only sleek space in the flat, with white cupboards and a marble floor. It looked like it had never been used. The dining room was an assault on the eyes – dark red walls, a fluffy rug underneath an enormous mahogany wooden table which was laid with a full dinner set. Is there anything more tragic than thinking a permanently laid table is the height of sophistication? As though a minor royal might pop in at any moment and be disappointed in the lack of dinner plates.

  The photo of the walk-in shower was the prize for me. It showed a vast white marble room, almost the size of my flat, with a huge round shower head, a freestanding bath and two sinks under an ornate mirror. Behind the mirror was a wall which had been decked out in mosaic tiles showing nymphs bathing in a freshwater pool. A glass door from the shower led into the sauna, which was traditionally clad in wood.

  Pete had sent a few more messages, where he expressed great pride in his work through the medium of gifs, and then a final comment, which read, And for my masterpiece …

  I clicked the last video. It was a shot of the bedroom again, the curtains open this time, Lacey had made the bed. I watched the screen as the door opened, then closed, then opened again. Pete was showing off what he could do. He had control of the house. And I had control of Janine’s life.

  I replied to Pete in the most grateful way that I could. I sent him a gif of a sexy cheerleader throwing her pom poms into the air. He was online immediately, and told me that he hadn’t slept.

  It’s mad, Eve, I can literally do anything I want in this house. The system has no end to end encryption. I did some digging into the company and knew I was onto a winner. It’s run by some old dude in Germany who only sells it to crazy rich people but he doesn’t bother to run any updates on the tech or secure the data. These fools are paying 100 grand for something with less security than a fucking Fitbit.

  I asked him if it was possible to speak to Janine through the system and he mocked me for my terrible grasp of it all. Lol at ‘through the system’, you sound like my mom. But yeah, you can shit her up a little when she’s locked in the shower room – did you see that mural by the way. Sum sexy nymphs for sure. Will your step-mom be naked in our plan?

  I ignored this, and we messaged some more about how I’d be able to access the system from my phone too. He sent me a link to a file, and told me to download it. The little icon turned green and I clicked it and it opened up a webpage showing me a live image of the hallway in Janine’s house. Pete walked me through what I could see, and how I could access the cameras in different rooms.

  I’ll control the other stuff from here and you can speak through the phone and I’ll link it up with the house whenever you like.

  Is she in the house now? I asked, clicking around the apartment in wonder.

  Nah she left about ten minutes ago. You didn’t tell me just how fucking rich your dad was. This place is insane.

  It’s her money, I wrote back, keen to disabuse him of the idea that I was some kind of heiress.

  Well lucky Dad then. Wanna see some cool tricks while the house is empty?

  I watched as the blinds started zooming up and down in the lounge, while loud house music blared out from an unseen speaker. He really could do this, it wasn’t some teenage brag. I told him to stop, not wanting neighbours to notice and alert Janine when she got home. I suspected Janine rarely played house music at full blast in the mornings. Really nobody should play house music full stop.

  I told Pete to keep exploring and to message me the moment Janine came back to the flat. I showered and dressed in under five minutes, and grabbed my phone, a charging pack and some headphones and went down to the beach, where I chose the nicest looking café and sat outside under an umbrella, watching the waves lap the shore. I turned my attention back to the footage of Janine’s flat, and looked through the rooms to see if there was any sign of her again. Still nothing. Pete hadn’t messaged either, so I ordered a coffee and a croissant and sat gazing out at the beach, forcing myself not to check my phone every ten seconds. I didn’t have to hold this discipline for too long. My phone pinged just as I finished the last few flakes of the croissant, and I hurriedly wiped my buttery hands on a napkin before opening the message.

  She’s baaackkk, Pete wrote.

  * * *

  I click back to the camera view, and see Janine walking into her bedroom. She puts her large orange
Hermès bag down on the bed, alongside a small paper shopping bag, and takes out a gold-rimmed candle which she places on the table next to her bed. She walks around the room for a few minutes, plumping up a throw pillow with gold tassels, inspecting her finger for dust after running it along the windowsill. She’s bored, I think. Not the boredom of a rare free day when you feel like you’re wasting time. This is years of built-up ennui, a life filled with lunches and organising staff and too much time spent on physical maintenance. Buy a candle, have a blow-dry, take a yoga class, fly to your other house and repeat the routine again and again. She filled her hours with activities, but none of them really amounted to anything. It was just a carousel of banality. So here she is on a day with no staff and no friends around, wandering through her apartment and trying to find things to complain about to Lacey later on. If she’d had any insight into the depressing reality of her life, she might have jumped off her yoga balcony.

  Pete pings me a message, Incoming: woman holding bag – can see on door camera.

  Janine walks down the hallway, Henry suddenly appearing behind her, yapping ferociously. She bats the dog away and opens the door. A young woman in a black T-shirt and jeans comes in and follows her to the lounge in silence. As she unpacks her bag, I see it it’s the manicurist, come to fill up an hour of Janine’s day.

  Pete and I chat while she has her nails done, mocking the decor in the sitting room and exchanging opinions on what was the worst thing there. I plump for the small neon sign on the wall which says ‘Love’ in italics, a knock-off of a Tracey Emin design from a few years ago and the only concession to modernity in the space. Come to think of it, it might well have been an Emin. Doesn’t make it any less hideous. Pete is adamant that the glass coffee table is the winner, telling me to zoom in on the legs, which show tiny cherubs working hard to hold up the load. I order another coffee, and we wait and watch, two strangers breaking into a house without having to move a muscle.

  Eventually, the manicurist finishes her job and leaves, but not before Henry lunges at her, knocking over a bottle of red varnish which leaves a few drops of polish on the woman’s top. Janine scolds the girl for flinching when Henry jumped up, and tells her not to come again if she’s scared of dogs. ‘You really should be more professional, that could’ve gone on the rug,’ she says as she leads the girl out.

  As she shuts the door on the chastened manicurist, Janine lets out a sigh and heads for the bathroom. She begins to run the bath, and carefully pins up her hair in the mirror.

  Can you turn on the sauna now, without alerting her with lights?

  I message Pete. I switch back to the camera. Janine is applying a gloopy cream to her face.

  Done and done, Pete replies.

  Good. When she’s finished in the bath, make the lights go on in the sauna – she should go in to turn them off and then we’ll shut the door.He messages straight back with a thumbs up.

  I decide not to watch Janine take her bath, feeling as though she’s allowed a little privacy in her last moments. But Pete has no such qualms, narrating her ablutions and laughing at the way she sings Celine Dion songs as she lies back and soaks. Some people love to linger in baths, calling it self-care and pretending it’s got nothing to do with wanting to escape your family for a precious hour or so. Janine is one of them, despite having nobody to escape, unless you count the arsehole of a dog. She spends nearly an hour in the tub, topping up the hot water and adding various oils. While I wait, I find I’m becoming jittery from the coffee so I order a glass of rosé to offset the caffeine.

  Eventually, Pete alerts me that she’s getting out of the bath, and he makes a crude joke about her breasts which nearly makes me shoot back a choice comment about his dick pic, but I refrain. Pete makes me want to stick up for Janine, a sign that they both need to get out of my life pronto.

  The sauna will be baking hot now. I take a deep breath and tell Pete to turn the lights on. I watch the camera footage, and see the sauna suddenly clear in the frame. Janine hasn’t noticed. She’s wrapped in a towel and is cleaning her face with a cloth over the sink.

  Make them flicker, I type. The lights duly turn on and off in rapid succession. Janine stops cleaning and frowns. She walks towards the sauna with a look of annoyance on her face. Be ready to shut the door, Pete, please be ready.

  I am, jeez, I’m the king of this place babe, comes the reply.

  She walks into the sauna, and I hold my breath and scratch at my neck. The door closes silently behind her. At first, she doesn’t appear to notice. I can see the top of her head as she reaches to turn off the lights, fanning herself as she realises that the heat is on full blast. I watch as she pulls the door, the glass wobbling slightly but not giving way.

  LOL, she’s realising she’s stuck, messages Pete, but I ignore him, transfixed by an increasingly panicked Janine, who is now pressing a button repeatedly. That’s the alarm huh, says Pete. I’ve deactivated it obviously. Nobody can hear you scream, lady.

  Janine has sat down now, and hidden by an angle I can no longer see her, but she’s banging on the glass, and Henry runs into the bathroom, alerted by the noise. She can hear him, and stands up, her eyes peering over the frosted strip on the door. She tells him to get help, an absurd order which shows me that she’s getting frantic now. Henry looks up at her, his ears pinned back and his little body quivering with excitement. Then he tilts his head, turns around and walks out of the bathroom. I flick images, and see him lie down in his little bed in the hallway and promptly fall asleep. Perhaps Henry is a better judge of character than I’d thought.

  I check the time on my phone. She’s been in the sauna for fifteen minutes. What’s the temp in there? I ask Pete.

  Lemme check. He comes back two minutes later. Sorry I had to convert it into your weird degrees. It’s 110 degrees. Want it higher? She might pass out.

  I consider. We don’t have hours to let her sit and slowly cook to death. But I’m reluctant to let it get to a point where she gets badly burnt – a sign that might suggest she wasn’t able to get out. Crank it up a little, I don’t care if she faints. Would do the cow some good.

  I sip my wine and savour the breeze anew, knowing that Janine’s entire body will be crying out for it. I distract Pete from watching the CCTV too closely by talking about a potential trip to Iowa, and he rises to the bait immediately, telling me how cool it would be to hang out in real life. We go back and forth on what we’d do together, him getting increasingly flirtatious and me suggesting wholesome activities that his church leader would have approved of.

  All the while, I keep an eye on Janine, stuck in that little hot cupboard. There’s no movement that I can see, and I realise that if I want to talk to her, I’d have to do it now. I tell Pete to patch me in, aware that what I was about to say would throw up some questions later.

  There’s a short pause and then Pete tells me I can speak. I take a sip of wine and look around to make sure that nobody is within earshot. I lift the phone to my chin and speak quietly but clearly.

  ‘You’re probably not in the mood for a big heart-to-heart right now.’ Her head shoots up above the frosted glass and she wipes the steam away with one hand. ‘But I just wanted you to know why this is happening to you. It’s not an accident. You’ve probably realised that by now. But I’m not a criminal mastermind who wants to steal your diamonds. There’s nothing you can give me that will stop this.’

  She starts to yell something, frantically banging on the glass door.

  ‘Be quiet. You don’t have the energy for a fuss. Your husband left my mother with a baby. He abandoned her. He rejected me. And your family have lived a life of complete pleasure and comfort ever since. Is that fair? It didn’t seem so to me, watching my mother take a series of shit jobs and get weaker and weaker with every day she worked. Is it fair that your daughter had everything she could ever have wanted and that I was raised by people who only did it so that they could feel good about themselves?’

  She looks wild now,
one hand clawing at her neck.

  ‘It’s getting harder and harder to breathe, huh? Well it won’t be a problem much longer so do try to keep calm, it’s worse if you panic, I imagine. I’ll be honest, I considered not explaining any of this, but I wanted you to know the backstory as a courtesy more than anything. My father. Your husband. That’s why you’re in there. It’s good to know who to blame, isn’t it?’

  Pete messages me. Mega funny but it’s been ages now. I think she’s really struggling bb, shall we let her out? I don’t care if she stacks it but it’s your call.

  One minute. She’s fine. Turn it up a notch and give it a bit longer. I reply, staring at Janine, who’s tracing something with her finger on the glass. I strain my eyes, trying to make it out. She makes a noise, but it’s muffled.

  ‘Did you want to say something?’ I say. She whispers again. I feel irritation rise. ‘Louder please, you’ve probably not got long so if you want to say something, speak UP.’

  But she’s not listening now, intently moving her finger up the glass again. She’s barely able to move more than a millimetre before stopping. We watch in silence, until the first shape becomes clearer. A letter G, wobbly and small but clear enough. I feel a tiny pang of nausea. Pete is engrossed. What is she doing, an SOS message? The next letter starts to take shape, a long line, and then, as she tries to prop herself up against the door, a circle stuck to it. She’s drawn an R. The waves crash onto the beach as my vision goes a little blurry. She is going to write Grace. She knows. She knows everything. She’d probably always known – about me, about my mother, happy to let us live in poverty while her daughter had it all. And now she’s going to expose me. When Simon finds the message, he’ll know. Maybe not immediately, but he’ll put two and two together, think back over the other deaths and realise what was happening. He and Bryony would be safe and I would be in jail for the rest of my life.