How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(61)

KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

Even when I get home and pour myself my celebratory glass of Chablis, there’s nothing. I just feel empty. And there’s something else. Something I can’t quite get a handle on that’s creeping through my veins like a thousand spiders.

Is this guilt?

Remorse?

Fear?

Or am I coming down with something?

I take my wine to the sofa and switch on my TV, which comes on at a nice, sensible volume. The news is on. Two men are debating the pressure on young footballers. Apparently, there’s been an incident in a hotel in Puerto Banús where some of the young England stars have gone on holiday. There appear to have been a couple of arrests. Do absolutely none of them know how to behave? Cross, I gulp down the rest of the wine and head to bed, the feeling of unease still lurking in a dark corner of my brain.

It’s still early when I wake up. My head is pounding and I think I’ve pulled a muscle in my shoulder, which must’ve happened when I was moving Raphe around last night. I rub my eyes, grab my phone from its charging dock and wander into the kitchen. The silence, which I usually find soothing, feels like a presence in the room and I wish – for a splinter of a second – that there was someone else here. Maybe I should think about getting a dog. I pop a pod in the coffee machine and head into the lounge, switching on the TV just to stop the deafening silence. It’s still on the news channel from last night and I’m stirring soy milk into my coffee when I hear the name ‘Raphael Reynolds’ from the Sky News presenter.

Has his body been found already? I take my drink into the lounge. But I’m confused. The news isn’t showing an expensive apartment block in West London. Instead, the presenter is talking from Marbella, Spain – according to the caption. I turn the volume up.

‘Raphael Reynolds remains in police custody in Spain following an alleged bar brawl in the Spanish town yesterday. The England centre-forward is accused of punching a waiter who tried to take a selfie with the star. It’s believed that Raphael had been drinking heavily with friends and teammates during a long lunch at the exclusive resort. The England star is already immersed in a story in the UK where he’s accused of harassing a teenage fan on Twitter.’

What? WHAT?

The TV is now showing footage recorded on someone’s phone of a man – who looks a lot like the man I murdered last night – hitting out at a waiter, while some other men try to hold him back.

‘Raphael’s spokesperson has confirmed that he remains in custody. With the new football season just weeks away from kick-off, his UK club will be worrying what the future may hold for their breakout star.’

I rewind the news feature and watch it again. I do this four more times before heading to the kitchen, pouring my coffee down the sink and immediately downing a large vodka.

Then I scream.

Okay. Don’t panic. There has to be a simple explanation here. Raphe can’t be in prison in Marbella and dead in his Chelsea apartment. But if he’s in Marbella, who is the guy I killed last night? Did I kill someone last night? Am I going crazy? I reach for my phone and type out a text.

Me: Hey! So nice to see you last night. Sorry I bailed early. Was a bit drunker than I thought. I hope I didn’t do anything embarrassing! (Cringe!)

Maybe Emily (Extras): Oh hey! You missed a fun night. No, you were fine, don’t worry. You spent most of your time talking to Ruben, bless him.

Me: Ruben???

Maybe Emily (Extras): Ruben Reynolds. You know, Raphe’s little brother. He’s super sweet.



Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I open my phone and type in ‘Raphael Reynold’s brother’ in a search. The first entry is Raphe’s Wikipedia page and I scroll down to family. ‘Siblings: Rowan, 30, and Ruben, 18.’

Shit.

I’ve killed the wrong man.

And not just a man. A fucking kid.

I head to the bar and unsteadily pour myself a neat vodka. Then another. Then another. I pop one, two, three Valiums, but my pulse is still thumping out a drum n bass beat through my nervous system. Then suddenly, for the first time in over a decade, I feel the overwhelming need for my mother. It’s something that never fails to bemuse me, the absolute most primal needs humans have, no matter who we are. I stalk back to the sofa and grab my phone, my hands refusing to calm. I ineptly scroll through my contacts, before I can steady myself enough to tap my mum’s.

It rings about ten times and I can picture her, on the veranda of her Riviera house, holding court with her new friends, looking at the name lighting up her phone. I can almost feel her hesitation all these miles away. To answer or not to answer, the temptation to just cut me off almost overwhelming. But she doesn’t and – despite the early hour she eventually answers.

‘Kitty? What have you done?’

And those five words are all I need to hear.

Suddenly I’m not a twenty-nine-year-old woman anymore; I’m transported back to being a fifteen-year-old girl. A fifteen-year-old girl who has just killed her own father by smashing an antique vase through his skull. And my mother is sat there, covered in blood and brain splatter, staring at me like she has no fucking clue who I am. And even though I know he’s dead, even though he’s crumpled like gold-plated tin in front of us, I’m still hitting him with the vase. And I’m hitting and hitting until we hear bones crunch and joints pop, and all that’s left of the upper quarter of his body is a pulpy mess, like a punched plum. My mother and I look at each other, horrified, for what feels like an eternity before she hauls herself up, pulls her nightwear into place to cover her bruised breasts and thighs, and walks over to me. She takes the vase from my shaking hands and wraps her arms around me.