How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(6)

But, fuck.

Kicking myself for making such a rookie mistake, I don’t realise there is a man so close behind me, he’s almost in my skin with me, until he grabs my upper arm. Hard.

The shock makes me gasp and as I spin around, I see the handsy sleaze from earlier, holding a bottle of wine like a weapon.

He’s pissed.

And pissed off.

‘You didn’t say goodbye or finish your drink,’ he says. ‘That was a bit rude. Considering I paid for it.’ He holds the bottle out to me. ‘Go on. Drink it now. Show a bit of gratitude, you stuck-up bitch.’

I pull away from his grip and step backwards.

‘Listen, I’m really grateful that you paid for a drink, but it doesn’t mean I owe you anything. And it’s very not okay to follow me like this. I’m going home. Stop following me.’ I turn my back and continue walking, trying to remember how to stay calm.

‘Prick tease,’ he shouts after me. Then I hear the smash of glass hitting concrete, wetness splashing up my bare legs. I spin back around to face him and he’s smirking at me. The broken bottle is centimetres away from my feet.

‘Did you just throw that at me?’

He stalks over. ‘I know who you are. You’re that Instagram bird. No wonder you’ve been acting like you’ve got a pole up your hole all night. You think you’re too good for me.’

I stand my ground even though I’m now very aware of his thick, muscled arms and the five or so inches he’s got on me. Something inside me begins to stir, stretching out after a long sleep, batting my fear away with a paw.

The sleaze – I don’t even know his name – moves closer to me. Until he’s right up in my face. Close enough I can smell his booze and gingivitis breath. He grabs my arms pushing me backwards until I’m right up against the low wall that separates the embankment from the murky water of the Thames.

‘I could do you right now. That would teach you a lesson for being such an ungrateful slag.’

My knees buckle as he leans closer into me. He’s right – he could easily ‘do me’ if he wanted.

He could rape me.

He could strangle me.

He could throw my weak female body into the water and watch on the news as I’m eventually dredged up. Another woman killed because she didn’t do what a man wanted.

Not me.

Not tonight.

I bring my right knee up between his legs with as much force as I can. Which is quite a lot thanks to all the yoga and whatnot. He makes a low moan of pain and lets go of me, his hands reaching down to his crotch. He wobbles, drunk and stunned. I put my hands on his chest and shove him away from me. Hard. The movement sends him even more off kilter. He staggers backwards, unable to balance himself, and spins round, falling onto the pavement, his hands still cupping his groin as he lands facedown. He didn’t even put his hands out to break his fall. His face is going to be a mess.

Oops.

I wait for him to get back up, bracing myself.

But he doesn’t.

I gingerly take a few half-steps towards him, expecting an arm to lash out and grab my ankle.

But nothing happens and this is not a horror movie.

It’s worse.

There’s a rivulet of dark, thick liquid oozing its way across the concrete towards my feet.

Blood.

I lean in closer, still scared he’s about to jump up.

A large shard of glass sticks like an icicle through his neck. He’s fallen right onto the broken wine bottle. It’s embedded into one of the big carotid veins and torn off half his face.

He makes a gargling sound so loud in the darkness that I startle.

Then silence.

Silence.

Silence.

Where is everyone? Where are the revellers? The party people? The people I need to help me? The streets are dark and empty. Eerily so, for a not-that-late London night.

The blood continues to pump from his body. It flows towards my shoes for a moment, transfixing me.

Then I step around it and continue my walk home.

Well.

It’s not like I can call an ambulance, is it?





5


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

The door buzzer wakes me up from a sleep so deep and beautiful, I almost forget about the previous night. I wrap my robe – a magnolia silk kimono, from Wolf & Badger – around me and pad down the hall to the entry buzzer.

Hen is there looking like a phantom as I buzz her in. It’s early, my smartwatch says 8.34am. It’s not like Hen to be up before midday after a night out.

‘What’s the emergency?’ I ask.

‘Just passing. I’m out for a run,’ she says as I hand her a glass of water from the built-in purifier. ‘Which is just as well because you left this in the bar last night.’ She pulls my phone from the hidden pocket in her Lululemons.

I’d totally forgotten about it. You know, with the dead man and stuff.

‘Oh God, thank you, Hen. I didn’t even realise until I was home.’

She peers at me. ‘Are you okay, Kits? You’re normally surgically attached to that thing.’

‘What? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine. Must’ve been drunker than I thought!’

‘Well, you need to be more careful,’ she says after a long glug of water. ‘You could’ve had an emergency. You could have been kidnapped and murdered and how would you contact us?’