by Bella Mackie
I still wasn’t entirely certain, mind you. For a while, I thought you were playing out some kind of mad fetish where you were actually going to sleep with your own uncle. I’m sorry for thinking that, but you’ve got to admit it’s weird to watch someone walk into a sex club with a relative. I enjoyed that night actually. It’s not something I’d normally go in for but I thought I’d better get in character. At an orgy, a man in chinos would probably stick out more than a bloke in assless chaps would at an annual budget meeting. I wore a mask which made me feel like I was playing a role and I was sad I had to leave the fun early when you took Lee down the hall to a private room.
Anyway, when I saw what happened, I knew exactly what was going on. I waited for you to leave the room, of course, loitering in the dimly lit corridor. Do you remember me looking you up and down, our hands brushing? I was both impressed by the boldness of killing a man in a busy nightclub and slightly horrified that you’d left him to be found by someone else. Me, as it happened. I left him too, of course. But I suspect that bulging face won’t leave my brain for a long time yet.
You were killing our family. I had no proof you’d got to Kathleen and Jeremy, but it didn’t take much to imagine you flying out to Spain, hiring a car and ramming them off the road. You took a much more rough and ready approach as a beginner, didn’t you? But I guess you were intent on making each death look like an accident, and two old people driving off a cliff in the dark is an easy initial win.
Now I had to decide what to do with this information. The Artemis family wasn’t big – and the only ones (that you hadn’t bumped off) connected with the money were Simon’s wife and daughter, and his sister-in-law. That’s if it was the money that was driving you. If I had to guess, I’d say there was more to it though. From the little I saw of your life, you lived a pretty boring existence. Not many friends, no big career (I hope that’s not offensive to you) and a small flat in a dingy street. Almost like you were treading water until … until what? Until you rid the world of your toxic family and could then go forth and prosper? I harbour very little resentment towards Simon because I had a wonderful life with Lottie and Christopher and my sisters. Had it not been for Jean, I would have gone on happily because I had that foundation. I still will. But you didn’t. And maybe that made you obsessed with the unfairness of it all. It is unfair, Grace. Out of all of us entangled in this mess, you got the short straw, didn’t you?
After a few days turning it over in my mind, and a bracing conversation with Simon which involved him shouting at me for not being able to come to his office at 11 a.m. one Wednesday, I decided that I would let whatever you were doing play out. Partly, I felt that you should be allowed to right the wrongs done to you. And partly, since I’m being honest, because I weighed up what was best for me and realised that you might be doing me a favour. Two things made my decision. One is that I wanted Simon out of my life. I could now see the future, and it involved spending time with him whenever he demanded it. The money he’d given me had made him feel like he’d earned it, and I could not bear the idea of being absorbed into his family, driving around in his Bentley and spending summers in Marbella. The other thing was, if you did succeed in cutting down the lot of them, I’d be in line for some of the fortune. You see, Grace, I’m a happy hypocrite. I didn’t want much to do with dear old Dad, but I would be completely at ease with taking some of the spoils. Money is money, no matter how you come by it. And I would use it in a different way to Simon. No brash displays of excess, no gold taps. I was meant to have money, or so I’ve always thought. I’d be rather good at it I think. And your plan could get me there faster than toiling away trying to work my way up the ladder.
I’d never have even considered doing what you did if I’d not watched it play out. Even if I’d been wronged in the way you felt you’d been wronged. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t make something good out of it. I guess on a sliding scale of morality I’d be somewhere in the middle. I reckon most people would look at my situation and come to the same decision as me if they were being honest. Hard thing to be honest about though – that’s why telling you all this has been so freeing. I know you can never show anyone this. It’s enforced trust, which is probably better than the normal kind.
I’m getting tired of writing all this down though, so I’m going to try and wrap it up. You know the majority of my story now. Or as much as you need to know. I watched you continue on with your course of action. Janine went a bit far, if you don’t mind me saying – the description of her death really made me feel queasy. Again, I wasn’t there (you took off abruptly and I couldn’t get the time off work at such short notice), but I found out pretty sharpish from Simon’s PA. I still don’t fully understand why you let Lara off – did she just seem like small fry? I wasn’t there for Bryony of course, but I very much enjoyed how you executed that (well, her). Funny and effective. But that’s when Simon really started to unravel. He loved Bryony. I think he was bored of Janine – had been for years. We’re the result of that, I suppose. But Bryony was his only child. His only true child. He’s oddly old fashioned, for a product of the modern world. Marriage, kids, a reputation, that all mattered immensely to Simon. And no matter how ghastly she might have seemed to you or me, he loved his daughter. Beyond the pain of losing her, he also began to get paranoid. Though I guess it’s not paranoia if someone is actually out to get you. He would summon me to his house, and sit on the sofa with the curtains closed, occasionally getting up to pace the room manically. He’d tell me repeatedly that someone was killing off his family. He’d been to the police, hired security, the works. Nobody really believed him, which I guess you can take as a compliment. Everyone thought it was just a series of unlucky coincidences – the Daily Mail ran a double-page spread on ‘the mogul’s misfortune’ listing all the bad luck that had fallen on the Artemis family. But the fact that nobody seemed to take him seriously made Simon even more insistent. He thought it was someone he’d crossed paths with in business. He didn’t say who, but he clearly had someone in mind because he was frightened.
I stepped into the role of dutiful son at this time. I slept at the Hampstead house, often woken up several times a night by Simon, who would want to point out more ways in which someone was trying to kill him. These were always nonsense – a man he thought was loitering outside the front gates, or a car parked too near his office entrance. He was just looking for signs. Every time a window rattled, the man would fall apart. Not that the windows at his house rattled, the originals had long been ripped out and replaced with sturdy double glazing.
We became close, as I leant into my new position as closest relative and confidant, hopeful that it would be short-lived with your assistance. I helped organise all the grim things that need doing when someone dies. And I listened when he wanted to scream and shout about it all, which was often. He became more and more unbearable as the weeks went on and from what I could see, you weren’t doing much. I occasionally saw you lingering outside his gates, you know. It wasn’t very subtle, Grace, I must say. Even if you did have some big plan in the works, I was beginning to despair of you being able to get near Simon. His security detail was immense by now, he was surrounded by burly men who would have snapped you like a twig if you’d got within five feet of him.
I began to feel furious with you, which is bonkers, isn’t it? But I felt like I had finally figured out how to extricate myself from this appalling situation and I’d come to imagine that we were working in tandem and to a schedule. But you weren’t playing ball. I barely had time to follow you much back then, since Simon was growing more aggressive, more erratic, more dependent on me. But when I did, I saw you going for dinners and heading off on long runs, carrying on as if you’d not got one more target to tick off, and I was confused by your lack of momentum.
I was barely able to function at work because he called every five minutes, crying or drunk or both. I’d turn my phone off and he’d email me. I began to flinch whenever I looked at my inbox. I pride myself on being
a hard worker, I really do think that work makes a man and I was furious with myself for doing a half-arsed job when I was meant to be attacking this opportunity and rising up through the company. Bonus time was looming and I could just see mine shrinking every time my boss saw me on the phone.
Looking back, my mental health was plummeting, something I’d never even considered before. My sleep was shot to pieces, my weight dropped alarmingly, no matter what I ate. I just felt completely trapped, like a fox in a hole. It’s rather put me off hunting now that I see the analogy actually. Another thing Simon has ruined for me. But he wouldn’t leave me alone and his will was overwhelming. Eventually, I marched round there and told him that I couldn’t do it anymore. I was firm but I was calm. I told him he was behaving appallingly and couldn’t treat me like one of his assistants. I went on and on until he started crying again, but I wasn’t swayed this time. The tears dried up pretty fast when he realised I wasn’t going to comfort him, and he walked over to his desk and sat down. I carried on listing the ways I felt he wasn’t being a gent, getting so worked up that I wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing until he came back over to me and presented me with a cheque. It was made out for £500,000. That stopped me in my tracks, I can tell you. My mouth hung open for a few seconds as he pushed it into my face and told me that if I went with him to St Tropez for a week, he’d make sure it was worth my while.
‘I need to be out of the country for a few days, just keep my head down, son. And I don’t want to go alone. Don’t tell me this wouldn’t help your mum. What about those girls, Harry? They need this. It’s just a week or so.’ I stayed silent, weighing it all up in my mind, and he watched me, eyes narrow. ‘You’re bargaining with me, is that it? Well there’s no clearer sign that you’re my son. I’ll make it official. I’ll make over an inheritance. That’s what you want, isn’t it? That’s what everyone wants in the end.’ He wasn’t wrong there. But he couldn’t see that he made his money the only currency he had in life all by himself.
Simon wasn’t clear about why he needed to leave the country initially, but for all he fudged it, it became clear that there was some kind of investigation into his company going on and his advisers had strongly suggested he not be available for a while. I wondered which part of the company was likely the most dodgy (the airline seemed a prime contender) but to be honest, Grace, having seen how he worked, it could have been any of them. It was clear that shit was about to hit the proverbial but I couldn’t concern myself with that. I wouldn’t get more enmeshed in his villainous world. That’s how I saw it by now. A seedy and nasty life that I was ashamed to have gone looking for. But that kind of money was impossible to ignore, and I would have been a fool to do so. And that is why, not six hours later, I stepped off a private jet and out into the warm French air. If I’d known what would happen I might have asked for that cheque to have a few more zeros on the end.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
12 p.m.
It’s all over. The past fourteen months are about to become a strange footnote in my life story. Kelly wished me luck before I left for the decision.
‘I’ll miss you, Gracie, come visit me sometime. I’ll make you a spoon in the next class, haha.’ She hugged me tightly, digging her nails into my back. I allowed her to stay like this for five seconds, before striding through the door without looking back. George Thorpe came through, his face ruddy with pride as he met me in a visitors’ room at Limehouse after he’d been to court and seen my case successfully overturned. I’d watched via video-link, which deprived me of the chance to have a dramatic moment in front of the judge and meant I missed out on the inevitable media scrum outside the court. Better this way, despite the slight anticlimax, I can work at my own pace now. Instead, I received an awkward embrace from my lawyer, a pledge to catch up in a few weeks to go over everything and an invitation to dinner, which I will certainly not take up. I even got a congratulations from the officer supervising our meeting. Not exactly a cinematic climax, but momentous nonetheless. I did what I set out to do for Marie. Now I am free.
4 p.m.
I am home! I was released at great speed, which took me by surprise since I’d become used to a system that took months to make even the smallest decisions. I guess they were desperate for my cell. Even now I imagine Kelly will be telling her new roomie all about the last occupant, sitting an inch too close on the thin bunk. I had to scramble to get my stuff together and get out by midday, which meant Jimmy wasn’t there to meet me. I didn’t mind though, not when I realised it was to avoid any hopeful photographers. I was grateful for it, since fourteen months in prison doesn’t exactly help you look camera ready. I took a cab home, weaving through London streets bathed in rare bright sunshine, staring out of the window and smiling the whole way. The flat was quiet and warm when I opened the door, everything in its rightful place. Sophie had even sent her cleaner over, and there was a bottle of Brunello and some tiramisu from the local deli waiting for me on the table. I took both into the bath, and soaked in Le Labo oil for two hours. A glorious experience, I was half hysterical with glee. I’m going to go through all my mail and then meet Jimmy for what I hope will be a suitably indulgent dinner at Brasserie du Balon. Life feels like it’s finally unfurling and showing itself to me.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
God what a mess, Grace. What a godawful mess. It all turned into a sort of hideous farce, except nobody remembered to laugh. On our first day in France, Simon crashed out on a sofa in the games room and I escaped to the veranda and asked a timid member of staff to get me a coffee. I stretched out in the sun and tried to shake off the dreaded chance that he’d wake up and find me. For a couple of minutes I stared out towards the sea, marvelling at how little I could enjoy this beautiful place. This sunny place for shady people, as someone once said. Then, out of habit, I picked up my phone and scrolled through the BBC news site. Flicking past war and news about some minor Tory MP shagging his PA, my eye was drawn to a photo of a beautiful woman, ‘tributes were still pouring in for’. She’d been pushed off a balcony and you’d been the one to push her. My face went cold, despite the humming heat, and a roaring sound rushed through my ears and into my head. I felt like I didn’t understand you at all, despite all the time I’d spent trying. You were a cold-blooded revenge-seeker, not an impulsive crime-of-passion killer. Why would you waste all your hard work to throw a love rival off a balcony? What a moment of stupidity. I don’t want to risk being called sexist, but this emotional reaction was hard to see through any other lens. How would you get to Simon now?
After a few hours spent trying to find out more about your arrest, I heard Simon yelling at me from the sitting room and had to give up the quest. I wasn’t too worried about him seeing your news, since he was by now practically living on another planet of paranoia and rage. In his state, he was more likely to be found watching YouTube videos about aliens than checking the headlines. I spent two hideous days with our father in his villa, where he shoved a frankly astonishing amount of cocaine up his nose and refused to open the curtains in case someone was watching the house. His security detail stayed outside, wary of his outbursts, and the poor housekeeper, who hadn’t been told we were coming, fled to her room after he threw a vase at her head when he discovered the beds weren’t made. It was just me and him. Every time I tried to retreat to another part of the house he would follow me, ranting about how there was a conspiracy and insisting that ‘we have to stop the bastards’. I kept telling myself, ‘Come on, Harry, a few more days and there’s half a million quid for the family,’ but it felt pretty far away, I can tell you. On the third morning, I awoke to find Simon standing over my bed, eyes bloodshot and shirt ripped. He’d clearly been up all night, and he stank of whisky.
‘We’re out of here. There’s cameras. The yacht awaits, get your shit together, son.’ I bridled at being called son, thinking of my dear old Christopher with sorrow, but he was already off, grabbing his suitcase and slamming doors.
The yacht was
a monstrosity. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life and hope never to again. A fancy floating caravan, that’s what it looked like, all chrome and glass and nothing like a real boat at all. Thankfully, once on board, Simon seemed to relax and he passed out on the sofa for the entire day, only to wake up when dinner was served. We ate in semi-silence, as he downed glass after glass of wine – ‘Chic Chablis’ from his own vineyard, he told me as I tried to keep the disgust from my face. As if anything could tell you more about a person, right, Grace? My hand started twitching as we ate dessert, and I tried to steady it, alarmed at this new development. Simon noticed, and he laughed. He laughed and told me I was too delicate for a big chap. I said nothing, my heart beating and my ears humming. When it was all over and he was pretty steaming, he yelled for the captain and told him to prepare the speedboat. The man, clearly sensing that Simon wasn’t in a mood to argue, hurried off with no word of warning, but a steward clearing the table raised his eyes in my direction. I tried to distract our father, telling him that I was in no mood for an excursion, but he waved me away in irritation. ‘You’re here on my dime, young Harry. We’re going for a ride.’
And so we did. He took a fresh bottle of Chic Chablis under his arm and staggered down the stairs to the speedboat, as I trailed behind him feeling a bit sick. We roared off into the dark black distance, me holding the seat for dear life, him yelling into the wind as he held the bottle between his knees. After about fifteen minutes, he slowed the boat down and came to a stop. He fumbled his way back towards me and laughed at my expression. I admit I felt queasy. Boats have never really been my thing and his ducking and weaving through an empty ocean had me feeling all kinds of green. Mainly I was just fed up. Of him, of this boat, of my life every day since I had met him.