How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(63)

An autopsy will determine the cause of death but the Metropolitan Police have confirmed that they’ve launched a murder investigation and that anyone with any information about Ruben’s movements that night should get in touch with them as a matter of urgency.

Raphael has been released from police custody in Spain, where he was arrested following a drunken affray. It’s believed he’s returning to the UK to support his family.



After the news report come the inevitable back stories about Ruben. About how he idolised his footballer brother. How he still lived with his mum and dad and was thrilled when Raphe asked him to look after his Chelsea apartment. How he would sometimes pretend to be his brother to impress girls because he’d never had a proper girlfriend. I can’t stop watching – Raphe talking on the news, photos of their mother, haunted and grey, his father pleading for any information about their son’s death. I sit in front of my TV, letting the stories run on loop. Rewinding, re-watching. Rewinding again. I don’t move from the sofa for – how long – hours, or it might be days. I’m unable to sleep despite the cocktail of downers I throw down my throat. When sleep does come it’s not sweet relief or perchance to dream. It’s a nightmarish funhouse of the grotesque. I dream I’m in labour, but the baby’s head is torn off during delivery. A faceless midwife puts the decapitated child on my chest and when I look down it’s Adam, that rivulet of blood coming from his mouth. He tries to latch on to my breast but I’m screaming, I’m paralysed and can’t wake myself up. When I eventually come round, I’m soaked with sweat, shivering and confused.

The only person I have any contact with during this time is Dr William, my meds supplier, who does a weekly drop of pills and potions, like a twisted subscription service.

I keep telling myself it was a mistake, but I can’t deal with it. A mistake is picking up dairy butter instead of vegan, not drugging and murdering an innocent man. Then there are more dreams. This time it’s Ruben drowning in a sea of blood, shouting for me to help him. I stand on a pier watching him and waving. He gets sucked under a scarlet wave. I’m taking selfies while he drowns in blood. I hear my mother’s voice: ‘Kitty. What have you done?’

I increase the amount of pills, mix some Diazepam and Zoplicone, throw in some Lorazepam for good measure. I don’t want to dream. I want to be unconscious. I don’t want my brain spewing up inside my head anymore. I shove handfuls into my mouth like Smarties and wash them down with vodka. I eventually manage to crawl from my sofa to my bed and stay there, the covers pulled over my head. I only leave to get more drugs or vodka.

I think I hear the buzzer go several times, but I’m so in and out of consciousness, I can’t be sure. And why would I answer it? Who would it be? The only people who should be visiting me are the police. I’ve considered calling them myself. I deserve it.

What stops me?

They’d not stop at Ruben’s murder. They’d look at me, put my life under a microscope and find out that I’m not one virus, but many. They’d discover the truth about all the others. All the others and my dad. My mother would get dragged into it, Tor too. And Charlie would see it all. He’d know the truth, which is far worse than my cheating on him. He’d know that I have this monster living inside me that can kill. It wouldn’t matter that it was a mistake, that he was never meant to die. ‘Yes, I kill men, but only men who deserve it.’ The thought of him seeing me like that terrifies me more than prison.

In the rare moments I’m able to drag myself out of my bed, I make it as far as the balcony where I sit, still hidden. Time means nothing and I spend probably hours staring down at the ground. Wondering how much it would hurt to fall on it from up here. My dreams continue and Adam joins Ruben in the sea of blood. But he can’t swim. He can’t save himself or shout for help. He can only blink.

I think of my expensive knives, my beloved Shuns, and imagine myself cutting through the flesh of my wrists. To press down hard enough that it slices through the delicate butterfly-wing skin into the vein, opening it up like a ziplock, watching the blood flow out of my own body this time. I fantasise about it – I even go as far as the kitchen and pick out a knife. But the complete truth is, even killing myself seems like too much of an effort. I put the knife down and head back to bed, grabbing my self-prescribed cocktail of vodka and benzos on the way.

I’m aware of a few things during this period. I’ve already mentioned the occasional blare of the door buzzer. Sometimes there’s a more insistent knocking. And there’s also the heat. It still hasn’t broken. I don’t open any windows – apart from when I think about throwing myself out of one – so the apartment stinks. My cleaner usually comes twice a week but doesn’t have a key. I think briefly that I should pay her anyway; it’s not her fault I’m having some kind of breakdown. But then the thought of banking apps and life just becomes too much again and I take more drugs and drink some wine this time and soon it fades away again. A dark black wave washes over me and takes me back out with it. Back to the peace of total oblivion.





54


CHELSEA AND WESTMINSTER HOSPITAL, FULHAM ROAD

Before I wake up, I can tell that something isn’t right. I’m in a considerable amount of discomfort. My throat in particular feels like I’ve swallowed one of my knives. Oh God, I hope I’m not getting sick. I feel bad enough as it is without having to deal with actual physical illness. It’s too bright as well, which annoys me because I haven’t opened the blackout blind in over a week. My eyelids are stuck together, like I’ve got conjunctivitis. Fuck, it feels like I’m actually going to pull my eyelashes out. That would be far from ideal. When I finally manage to open my eyes, I have to close them again because I’m clearly having one of those weird dream experiences where I think I’ve woken up, but I haven’t. Because when I open them, I see Charlie sat next to my bed. He’s reading a book, glasses on. I open my eyes for the second time and he’s still there. What’s happening?