How to Kill Men and Get Away With It
Katy Brent
This is for every woman who has ever walked
home with her keys between her fingers.
And for my mum, who has always shown me
what it means to be a strong woman.
‘When we are struck at without a reason, we should strike back again very hard; I am sure we should – so hard as to teach the person who struck us never to do it again.’
—JANE EYRE
‘It seems I could do anything when I’m in a passion. I get so savage, I could hurt anyone and enjoy it.’
—LITTLE WOMEN
Prologue
AN APARTMENT, BELGRAVIA, LONDON, NOW
Before all this started, I’d thought that squeezing the life out of someone would be easy. The right amount of pressure on their windpipe and they’d just go limp, like when a kitten suddenly falls asleep.
It’s actually nothing like that.
When someone who doesn’t want to die, realises they’re going to die, they fight.
Holy fuck, do they fight. It’s astonishing how even the world’s worst monsters are desperate to keep living. Are they worried about what comes next? Can they feel those fires of hell warming their faces already?
Take the monster I’m with now, for example. He’s not worked out that struggling is pointless. He’s cuffed to the bed. The easiest thing for him would be to let it happen. Instead, he’s squirming, bucking and just hurting himself.
I give the nylon stocking I’ve wrapped around his neck an extra hard tug and watch as his eyes bulge and contort, like they’re trying to escape from his head. I like these particular stockings, they’ve got crystals on the back seam, which really give you some excellent grip. Then his eyes burst – and the whites turn completely red.
I like it when they do that.
Red eyes, blue lips, a pale yellowing skin. Oh, and some gorgeous shades of purple later as the blood pools in the lowest parts of the body. The colour palette of death is really rather pretty.
‘How does that feel?’ I say. ‘Nice and tight? That’s how you like it, isn’t it?’
He’s trying to say something, but it’s coming out guttural and muffled. I lean over and pull the other stocking out of his mouth, holding my knife – a ?350 Shun, beautiful Japanese steel and newly sharpened – to his throat. I want to hear his last words.
‘Please, the kids.’
‘I think you know exactly how they feel about you right now.’
‘You’re a fucking bitch.’
‘I didn’t fuck you though, did I?’ And with that I give the stocking around his throat one last tug to cut off his air supply for good.
The other thing about asphyxiation is that it takes so much longer than you’d think. I’ve been straddled here, crushing his windpipe for a good six or seven minutes and he’s only just dropping into unconsciousness. I think about the chilled glass of Montrachet waiting for me in the other room.
Then he becomes still.
I lean forward and peer at him. He finally looks like he’s shuffled off his miserable mortal coil. I press my chest up against his, letting my ear drop to his lips.
Silence.
I ease his eyelids down over his eyes and sit back to admire my work. This is my favourite part. He looks childlike and peaceful, lying against the crisp white linen.
Almost innocent.
Almost.
I have to admit, she’s right. It does look authentic this way.
Also, there’s no blood. Blood is a shocking stain to get rid of. Even Mrs Hinch has nothing helpful on that. I once had to burn a beautiful pair of cream Max Mara slim-leg trousers because it just doesn’t come out.
And nothing is worth that.
1
GREENSPEARES, CHELSEA, JUNE
I’m treating myself to a breakfast out. ‘Treat’ is a bit of a fib to be honest as I come out for a walk and a smoothie as part of my breakfast routine most days. But this time I’m actually eating something. It’s only mushrooms on toast. And I’ve left most of the toast.
I’m tucked away in my favourite seat: a bright-pink loveseat right at the back. It’s the best place to people-watch, pretend – for fifteen to twenty minutes – that I’m just like they are. It’s been my long-term go-to for soul soothing.
I’m about to take a long slug from the caffeine-heavy (come on, even angels like me deserve a vice), non-dairy but ethically sourced beverage. I’m breathing those freshly ground beans right into my solar plexus, my anxieties getting ready to hide away in a corner of my mind, when I hear—
‘Kitty! Kitty Collins? OMG. IT IS.’
There’s a squeal that seizes up every muscle in my body. I see two skinny teenage girls – with excellent brows – saunter towards me before I can take even the tiniest of sips.
‘Oh my God. This is unreal. Can we get a selfie with you? Please? Like two seconds, tops.’
Oh God, please not right now. Pretty please not right now. I look up and see them watching me as I try to take a sip of my coffee. But it’s no good. I have a thing about eating and drinking in front of other people.
My internal annoyance system is flashing dangerously close to amber. I just want a peaceful morning drink without an audience. Instead, I close the magazine I was (not) reading and smile at them. Big smile, with teeth, and extra twinkles of joy in my eyes. Just for them.