How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(19)

I wasn’t sure what I was reading at first. I mean, I was, but it was as if the words were about someone else, like I was reading a story, some fiction he’d written because how could this be true? Saskia and Adam? Adam and fucking Saskia? This couldn’t be right. But after the tenth time reading it, I realised exactly what was going on. And, if Adam thought he had rages, he’d seen nothing. But while his anger was white-hot exploding stars, which involved smashing things up and screaming at everyone in earshot, mine was quieter. A simmering pressure cooker of fury – volcanic and destructive.

So, when he skipped downstairs ten minutes later, ready for our night out, I was waiting. From the kitchen I asked him if he wanted a drink.

‘Please baby, let’s get pre-gaming. What are you watching?’

I didn’t answer, instead letting him sit on the sofa with his back to me. The laptop screen untouched in front of him. The messages between him and Saskia there for him to clearly see. I headed back into the living room and watched the back of his head as he realised his secret was out. He jerked around to face me, his mouth already open, ready to deliver the killer blow. He’d either lie to me or break my heart.

I didn’t give him the chance to do either.

I left him there and walked home, where I curled up in a ball for a week.





15


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

After putting Joel through the mincers and making sure that Matthew Berry-Johnson hadn’t been a beacon of virtue, I realised that not only had I killed two men, two horrible men, okay, technically by accident, but I’d got away with it. And not only had I got away with it, I’d even enjoyed it. In a weird way. Not like in a psychotic way; snapping people’s arms and cutting them up isn’t exactly fun. But it’s like I’m finally doing something more meaningful than just posting photos of myself online.

Even the presence of the stalker hasn’t brought me down from my high. And the photos I have been posting have been my most popular yet.

‘Kitty! You are absolutely glowing.’

‘Are you using a new face cream or is this lasers or something?’

‘That’s the face of a woman in love. Spill it, Kitty.’

‘Vegan glow, that’s all I’m saying.’

My followers have grown by like 20k in a week, which hasn’t happened in ages, and everyone wants to know what I’m using on my face or hair or who I’m shagging. You know what ‘look’ this is, people? This is purpose.

Anyway, it’s got me wondering if it’s something I should be doing a bit more of. I mean, I’m only talking about the absolute scum of scum, right? I’ll only be taking out men who are a very clear and present danger.

Anyway, in a sort of Dexter-esque way I’ve decided that there are people who really deserve to die. And those who don’t. So, I’ve made my own list of rules. It makes me feel like I’m doing something good in the world.

KITTY’S CODE

First up, no women. None. And don’t even bother coming at me with trans arguments or whatever. This is Chelsea. Tor still gets eyeballed because she’s black. Women are not predators. Not in the same way as men. There’s always an exception that proves the rule. Which is the most stupid saying in the fucking world. Good old English. I’m not saying that I’ve never wanted to kill a woman. Several of the Extras annoy me so much I have to bite my tongue ’til I taste blood. The way they hang around footballers and Z-list celebrities makes me want to tear their insides out and redo their make-up with their own innards. Their main aim is to get knocked up by one of these guys. Not even a wedding, just a baby. ‘It’s a permanent meal ticket,’ someone called Tiffany told me one night.

‘But, you’ve got money, T,’ I said. Her dad’s some hotel giant.

‘Money doesn’t last, Kitty,’ she’d said with a thin-lipped pout. ‘Nothing is forever.’



Leave the innocent. Now, innocence is a bit of a tricky one as it’s subjective most of the time. Did that sleaze from the bar innocently follow me home with the hope of a hook-up? Or was he out to get me for having the audacity to reject him? That’s a no-brainer for me, but beyond reasonable doubt? Who only fucking knows. And that’s why the bastards get away with doing it again and again. (Side note: Why the fuck the British public play such a big role in the justice system is mental to me. These are the people who apply for Love Island and Tipping Point. Jon Ronson really should write a book about it.) But I mean the real innocents – kids, animals, the mentally disabled. Anyone who doesn’t have a voice.

Also off limits, the homeless or people who have fallen on hard times. The killings of vagabonds and prostitutes date back as far as records go and no doubt before this too. The vulnerable are too easy. They need help. Not murdering. And don’t even get me started on the fucking Rippers and Bundys of the world. What I would give for half an hour alone in a room with them and a freshly sharpened Shun.

No doormen. They come in extremely useful.

And no police officers. Because likewise.

Don’t get caught. I mean, this is so obvious it barely needs explaining. Being caught would mean prison. For a long time. It would also mean grey tracksuits and flat shoes. And I’ll bet none of the gym equipment gets sterilised.

Killing must serve a purpose or it’s just plain murder. Okay, I stole this one directly from Dexter, but it’s pertinent. I don’t want to go around London hacking people to death because I’m just an angry woman. The men I kill deserve it. Every last little bit of it. So, it’s not actually murder when you look at it that way.