by Bella Mackie
Simon had disappeared at sea. This makes him sound like an ancient mariner when in reality he’d started off on his speedboat while drunk, despite warnings from the crew. He’d fled to his villa in St Tropez, apparently. I didn’t even know he had a house there, given that it’s just round the coast from Monaco, but perhaps Janine wanted a country house for much-needed rest. The rich are slippery. None of these properties are ever in the name of millionaires. That’s what anonymous offshore trusts are for. An assistant went with him, out of concern that he might do himself harm, which was pretty prescient as it happened.
According to the assistant, Simon was driving too fast, pushing the boat up onto its side. Alarmed, the assistant went to take control, and as he pushed past him, my sozzled father tumbled over the edge. The boat was travelling fast, and the assistant took a while to figure out how to get it under control. By the time he’d managed to slow it down and turn back, Simon was under the waves. The other man circled around for thirty minutes, searching in vain for any sign of his employer before returning to the yacht to call for help. The coastguard was called and a search took place but the dark sky and the expanse of water proved too much, and Simon Artemis was presumed dead. Presumed dead just means dead, doesn’t it? They hadn’t found his bloated corpse nibbled on by sea creatures, but perhaps it was only a matter of time. Or maybe his body sank to the bottom, quickly disintegrating, never to reemerge. It all amounted to the same thing. And as I write this, the authorities have yet to find any trace of him. Not even a monogrammed cufflink remains. He is gone. He never got to know what I had done.
I wept. I wept for two full days. The sorrow I felt was worse than when my mother died. Not for Simon but for all I had pinned on killing him myself. That it would make my life mean something. I would avenge Marie and prove that I could rise above my circumstances. I would make things fair. Now all I had for my troubles was the knowledge that I successfully killed some pensioners, drowned a nice boy who wanted to help amphibians, enticed my uncle into a deathly sex club, and bumped off two spoilt women the world would never miss. Not quite the glorious victory I had envisaged for myself.
I didn’t even have the opportunity to drink wine from the bottle and walk around my flat listening to The Cure in the bowels of sorrow. No such fun. I was charged with the murder of Caro Morton and arraigned. That I now had to face a trial for a murder I didn’t commit felt like a surreal joke. I had been bested by the universe and if you believed in karma, which I do not, given that it’s for people who also set store by crystals, then you would think I’d been whacked in the face with a suitcase full of it.
I’ve mentioned that I fell into some sort of depression early on in my prison stay. Perhaps it’s a bit more obvious why it hit me so hard now. I didn’t feel as though there was any point in bothering to fight the case because I didn’t know what kind of life was now on offer to me that would be worth raising my hopes again for. I look back and see a shambling, vacant-stared husk of myself. I was being completely pathetic. Happily, the shock lifted. Partly the routine became less unbearable, you really do become institutionalised at a startling speed. I began to find it less scary and more boring and as my brain lowered the threat level, I started to think about things other than how to breathe normally when the doors locked at night. That meant taking an interest in my case and waking up to the weaknesses in it. I’d gone through the trial like a zombie, barely engaging with the process at all, weighed down by my own failures. But I began to see how my verdict could be challenged. That’s when I brought in George Thorpe. As with so many parts of British life, if you want to be listened to, taken seriously and treated with respect, employ a posh white man to speak on your behalf. Even better if he’s middle-aged. That’s the privilege jackpot right there.
Thorpe made me see that I didn’t have to take a jury decision as final.
‘Grace, jurors are, let us say, not always the type of people we necessarily have to listen to. They are often wrong, largely motivated by their own small personal animuses and have a remarkably basic grasp of actual facts. There are many options open to us so let’s see their verdict as a mere opening offer, shall we?’ I could have kissed the man, had he not been wearing actual braces under his suit jacket.
The thing that really changed my attitude was reading that Lara had announced that she’d be opening the Artemis Foundation to help migrant children. I enjoyed this immensely, imagining this to be her final fuck you to a family only slightly less likely to care about the plight of vulnerable minors than the witch who lived in the gingerbread house. But it also panicked me. Just how good was Lara intent on being? If the money was about to be tied up in charitable trusts, I’d have a hard time accessing any of it. It’s perhaps not a great endorsement of my character that I was boosted into action by the worry that my money would be given to scared refugees, but we are who we are. I’ve killed six people, there’s very little point in panicking about my moral fibre now. I got to work then, any lingering depression fading away remarkably fast. I’ve even managed to reframe my failures. I didn’t get to kill Simon, no point trying to soften that blow, but I did dispatch six members of his family in pretty quick succession, causing him great fear, confusion and grief which followed him all the way to his final moments. I comfort myself with the knowledge that he would never have been drunk and manic on a speedboat without my actions, so I did play a vital role in his death, even if I couldn’t be there to witness his glorious demise. I don’t like boats much, so perhaps it all worked out for the best in some strange way. I had a good hand, even if it wasn’t quite the royal flush I’d hoped for.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I suppose I should start by introducing myself, otherwise this will be even odder for you than it already is. My name is Harry and I am your brother. Gosh that sounds silly, doesn’t it, like I’m doing a terrible Darth Vader impression. But nevertheless, it’s true. Not the same mother, of course, that would be nonsense. Same father, but that’s probably obvious. Sorry, I’m no good at explaining all this.
Perhaps I’ll just start at the beginning. I didn’t find out who my father was until I was 23 years old. Well, that’s not quite right actually. I spent that time with a lovely father. Christopher was a fantastic chap, always ready to drive me to rugby practice, taught me how to shoot when I was barely old enough to hold a gun. He used to come upstairs when Nanny had bathed me and put me in my pyjamas. Holding a glass of whisky, he’d perch on the side of my bed and read me a story every night. He wasn’t a fan of modern children’s books, preferring Arthur Ransom and John Buchan stories. He had a low, deep voice and used to gesticulate with his hands as he read to me, his drink swilling about so that the ice clinked together. It’s a sound I enjoy to this day.
My parents had two daughters after me. There was a fairly solid age gap, five years between me and Molly, and another two between Molly and Belle. I was always told that it was because they were devoting all their attention to me that they’d waited. That was something I held over my sisters’ heads a lot, let me tell you. It’s fun having siblings, even with such an age gap. You were an only child, weren’t you? I can’t imagine not having co-conspirators around all the time.
Always someone to gang up on. Always somebody to play with. Mum has always been a nervous sort really, but a lovely woman despite it all. She worked before she had me, she was a primary school teacher, but I think what she really wanted to do was raise a family and live in the countryside. I know that’s not a fashionable thing to say anymore, but it worked very well for our family. And Dad was happy enough to make that happen. I don’t think Mum was strong enough for work. You’d probably think that was ridiculous. I know how tough you are. You probably also think that’s ridiculous, since we’ve never met properly. But I’m right, aren’t I?
Oh dash, I’ve rambled on, haven’t I? As I said, I didn’t find out who my real father was until I was an adult. I’d graduated from Exeter with a degree in PPE, and I’d made the move to London to w
ork in the city and have some fun. Growing up in Surrey meant that London felt raw and exciting to me. Still does actually. You were born there, weren’t you? I imagine you’re jaded about the city, too used to it. Lucky you! Mainly though, I wanted to make money. We were well off, certainly. But I saw what the other lads had at my school, and I always felt a real desire to get that for myself. Christopher was the director of a mid-sized accountancy firm, and he earned a good-sized whack. It was always enough. Until, one day, it wasn’t. That day was when a boy in my class came over for tea during half term when I was about eight, and asked if the driver could take him home later on. Mum smiled and said that she’d get him back safely, but he looked bemused. That’s when I knew what I was missing. Funny that, realising at eight that you want a driver. I imagine most eight-year-olds want an Xbox.
Training to be a stockbroker was gruelling. About eighteen months in, I got a phone call one lunchtime when I was shovelling a sandwich into my mouth while trying to speed read that day’s figures. It was Mum; her name is Charlotte, by the way – everyone in the family calls her Lottie. Dad had had a heart attack and she was at the Royal Surrey Hospital with my sisters. I hailed a cab on Liverpool Street and told the driver to get me there as fast as possible. But it was too late. He died before I arrived. I know you’ll understand how I felt that day, having lost your mother so young. We were all inconsolable. I took three days off work to be with my mother and sisters, though Mum took to her bed and refused to speak much during that time. But I had to get back to work, and arranged for Granny to come down from York to stay with them. The funeral took place a week later. The church was stuffed full of Christopher’s friends – those he’d had from school days at Eton, those he made from work and everyone in between. The choir sang ‘Jerusalem’ and everyone said what a true gent my dad was. Mum took a mild sedative to get through it, and my sisters wept a lot. But it was a proper send-off, a lovely day, despite the sadness. Or at least it was, right up until 5 p.m. The wake was back at our house. We’d had it catered, Mum was evidently not up to laying out a spread. So all there was to do was go around and accept as many sympathetic words as we could from the people in attendance. Mum had retired to her room half an hour before, and I was trying to speak to as many people as I could. The girls were sitting in the living room with Granny. They looked worn out. It was my duty now. As I extricated myself from a dull man in a grey checked suit who’d worked for Dad and headed for the lav, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my aunt Jean. I call her my aunt, but really she was just my mother’s oldest friend. As close as sisters though, and a fixture of my childhood, though I’d not seen much of her in the last few years. She looked old now, big hollowed-out rings under her eyes and a weird bony hand which grasped mine.
‘I am so sorry about dear Christopher,’ she sniffed. I murmured thanks and we made some small talk about the day. ‘He always treated you just like a son. Always. He was a wonderful man.’ You’ll think me a fool, but I would absolutely not have realised what she’d said there, if it hadn’t been for the fact that as soon as the words came out, she flinched, dropped my hand and her eyes bulged. Just for a second, you understand. But I saw that she’d frightened herself. Jean started to say her goodbyes, she had to go, it was a long drive. I nodded, gave her a hug and told her that I’d say goodbye to Mum for her. I dived into the downstairs loo and rummaged in my jacket pocket for the packet of fags I’d made sure to keep on me in case I needed a minute to myself that day. I know you do that too, don’t you? Not all the time, not a morning coffee and a cigarette kind of girl. Just sometimes, when you need a break from the world. I borrowed your lighter once at the pub around the corner from your office. It’s a good tactic if you want to spend a second or two looking at someone without them minding, or getting creeped out. I went out the side door and into the kitchen garden, where guests weren’t congregating. Crouching over, with my back against the wall, I replayed Jean’s comment in my mind again and again. A comment made by a sad woman that normally I’d have put down to mild battiness. But she looked so panic-stricken when she’d said it. There was no mistaking that. I think I’m a rational person, Grace. I pride myself on cutting through mumbo jumbo and quashing any self-denial. So the only sensible conclusion, as painful as it might be, was that somehow Christopher was not my real father.
I waited until the last guest had gone, made sure that my sisters were safely ensconced in front of the TV, and headed up the narrow staircase to my mother’s bedroom. Was your mother weak, Grace? I imagine she was. I bet she was very similar to mine in many ways. The only difference is that my mother had a husband to protect her from the world and yours did not. I didn’t want to land a harsh blow on her, that day of all days. But I suddenly felt so tired of tiptoeing around her, making sure that she wouldn’t face any stress or unpleasantness as she often called it. I wanted to be blunt for once. And so I was.
Lottie wasn’t asleep. She was just lying in semi-darkness, a cushion hugged to her as though it was a sleeping pet. She looked tiny, her wispy blonde hair spread over the pillows like a child’s. I sat down on the other side of the bed and told her that I knew that Christopher wasn’t my real dad. No point in letting her have even a tiny opportunity to lie. If I was expecting her to crumple and beg forgiveness, I was wrong. She ducked and weaved with an energy I’d not seen in her before. It was energy I didn’t know she had in her, to be honest.
It took us ten minutes to get past the outraged stage, where she couldn’t believe that I’d make such an allegation. It was twenty minutes to move on from the weeping and repeated insistence that we couldn’t talk about such things today of all days. At the half an hour point, Lottie was hugging me, telling me that Christopher was my father, no matter what anyone said. Ten minutes later, she began to tell me the truth.
My mother had a fairly sheltered upbringing in Somerset, with a family who had a nice little ancestral home and a respected name. Not too much money for her when the first child was a prized son, but she was happy enough. She went to London aged 20, ostensibly to work at an art gallery off Savile Row, but mainly, she told me, to have an adventure. For my mother, this meant a lot of parties, nightclubs and jaunts to the south of France with rich pals. I knew she’d lived in London before she’d had me, but I was a little surprised at the freewheeling life she was telling me about now. My mother has worn cardigans and wellies every day of my life. It’s still hard to imagine her going to some of the clubs that I frequent in town. She already knew Christopher, she told me, but they were just friends. He was shy, something I knew he had been all his life, and she didn’t notice him much when out in a group.
One night, at the nightclub Vanessa’s, she was sitting in a booth with a group of girlfriends when a waiter brought over a glass of champagne and told her that it was from the gentleman at the bar. When she looked over, she saw a dark-haired man in a T-shirt and black trousers, staring at her intently. Between quivering breaths, my mother explained that she was intrigued. Most of the men she knew were already facsimiles of their fathers. Proper and reserved, looking for the right kind of wife. This man was different, and her girlfriends made a huge fuss about the approach, urging her to go and talk to him. So she did. My anxious mother, who takes to her bed whenever life overwhelms her, walked over to this stranger and struck up a conversation.
I don’t need to tell you the rest really do I, Grace? Because you know. It’s not your story, and yet it is. By the time Lottie found out that she was pregnant, this man had moved on. And she wasn’t strong like your mother. Terrified by what her parents would think, she carried on working in a state of denial. Until one day, my father turned up at the flat she shared with a couple of friends just off the Kings Road and told her that he knew what had happened. I don’t know whether he’d guessed or what, Lottie was crying at that point and I didn’t want to push it, but he was very kind and told her that they should get married. That makes me smile to think of. Such an act of Victorian heroism from the old man. It was t
he Nineties, for chrissakes! But my grandparents were old fashioned, and I’m sure would’ve hated any society gossip. As would my mother, for that matter. There is a section of the British upper class which enjoys scandal, or at least finds it all a hoot. My family, despite our good fortune, weren’t quite at that level. She smiled as she remembered her reaction to this proposal, still hugging the cushion to her body.
I don’t know whether Lottie loved Christopher with a romantic passion back then. Maybe she never did. But they were happy, Grace. Really happy. And that seems like it might mean more than the fireworks and passion that men are always being told women want. Prince Charles, who seems like a decent guy, got in a whole heap of trouble when he answered a reporter who asked if he was in love with Diana by saying ‘whatever “in love” means’.
I didn’t know what to do that night. Watching Mum cry was an awful thing. So I hugged her and gave her a sedative that our family doctor had prescribed for her and left her to sleep. The rest of it came out over the next few weeks. I went back to work and travelled to my mother’s house every Friday night, walking the dog for miles with my sisters and making sure Mum ate (she has a tendency to forget when she’s anxious). Occasionally I’d ask a question or two about my dad, and she’d flush and sag. Sometimes she’d answer, sometimes she wouldn’t, or couldn’t. But I couldn’t let it go. I’d look at my sisters and suddenly see the ways in which their features weren’t like mine. I’d wonder which bits of me were from my mum and which bits were not. My temper was always a source of conversation in my family – I can explode in a way that nobody else does. Christopher was far too mellow, Lottie far too meek. Now I knew it was given to me by someone else. Breeding matters to me, Grace. Not in some stuffy blueblood way, like some of the chaps I went to school with who sought to know what land your family owned in the 1500s, but because it tells you things about yourself that nothing else can. I thought I was the son of Christopher and Lottie Hawthorne and I knew what that meant. I knew who I was, and who I would be. And now I had to figure out the ways in which I was wrong about it all.