How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(8)

That’s the official story.

Tor isn’t quite so convinced and thinks her adoption was nothing but a PR stunt, forced upon a bemused Sylvie because everyone else was doing it at the time. There are so many pictures online of a young and startled-looking Sylvie – part eco-warrior, part earth-mother – posing with her new baby. And it’s surely no coincidence that baby Tor was the Most Beautiful Child in the World. She’s often mused to me what her life would be like if she’d been born with a cleft palate or something. Tor gets on well with Sylvie though – they’re genuinely close – but the bond isn’t quite maternal. Sylvie’s like this mad, adoring older sister. And she idolises Tor. We all do. Anyway, my point is, it’s all a lot more interesting than meat.

Dad tried to get me excited about murdering animals by dragging me along to his abattoirs and meat processing plants, where he barely knew the names of the people working for him. Nothing like a nice day out at a slaughterhouse on Take Your Kid to Work Day.

‘It’s your heritage, Kits,’ he told me one particularly miserable morning after watching two absolute thugs laugh while shooting a cow with a bolt gun that didn’t even kill her. Then they heaved her into something they called the Bleed Area, hung her up by her back legs and cut her throat.

I cried.

Dad wrapped his arm around my shoulders and guided me away from the Bleed Area. ‘Don’t cry,’ he whispered. For the tiniest of split seconds, I thought he cared about me, or the cow. But he didn’t want his staff seeing his kid sobbing over a dead animal. That was the first time I’d seen blood spill from something that had been jumping and kicking just moments before.

‘It’s called “sticking”,’ Dad told me as I vomited into a feed trough, the metallic smell of cow blood so potent, it filled my mouth as well as my nose. It’s a good name. It certainly stuck with me.

I haven’t eaten meat since that day.





6


HONOR OAK CREMATORIUM, SOUTH EAST LONDON

I don’t know why I decide that going to Matthew Berry-Johnson’s funeral is a good idea. It’s in SE4, for a start. And should I really be linking myself to what happened that night? Obviously the answer is no, but there’s part of me that just can’t stay away. The FB videos of that gorgeous little girl singing ‘Let It Go’ without a care in her world.

I need to know I did the right thing.

I need to know walking away while he bled to death hasn’t made me a monster.

The funeral is ten days after his body was found. It was all over Facebook so it didn’t take much brain power to find out where he was being buried. I’m still not sure what I’m hoping to gain from going. Maybe I want to make sure he was truly as horrendous as he seemed and not just a lairy lad after too many drinks.

But as I slick my lipstick on, I shake the thought from my head.

It’s not an excuse.

Humans have been able to at least act civilised for thousands of years now. If boozy nights out turn us into animals, we’d all be shitting in the streets, killing each other and chowing down on the body parts, instead of waiting (mostly) patiently in queues for kebabs and cabs.

I shakily pull on my classic Chanel funeral dress and oversized vintage sunglasses. I’ve got my cover story ready in case anyone asks who I am. It’s simple – he helped me buy some commercial property and I want to pay my respects.

I take an Uber to the crem and as we do the usual stop-start-stop journey through London, I hope that the funeral guys did a good job on his face after the laceration from the bottle. I’ve tried not to think about the way the side of his face looked like raw beef.

When we finally arrive, there’s quite a few people here, which momentarily stuns me. But then they all get in their own cars and cabs and I realise they’re not here for Matthew Berry-Johnson.

The crematorium is what you’d imagine. Bland brickwork, covered in flowers and crucifixes, trying to look like it’s something spiritual and not just a massive oven and chimney. There are still a few people milling around outside the door; I can see the girlfriend, Hayley, but not the little girl. A surprise tear leaks from my left eye. I’m thankful Hayley’s decided the funeral of her daughter’s father isn’t a social media event. I’d been concerned about videos of a distraught Lucy plastered over Hayley’s Insta, TikTok, FB, etc., purely for ‘likes’ and sympathy validation.

Once most people have gone inside, I slink in and sit in one of the back rows, next to a middle-aged lady who’s holding a giant box of Kleenex. One of those huge cardboard ones, usually found in relatives’ rooms in hospitals. Clearly planning on doing a lot of crying then. She sees me, gives me a watery smile and offers the box. I shake my head.

‘I worked with him,’ she sniffle-whispers to me. ‘Such a lovely guy.’

I try to marry this up with the man who threatened to rape me and it makes zero sense. I nod, offering my own watery smile.

The celebrant – or whatever they’re called – starts talking about the life of Matthew Berry-Johnson. She’s clearly never met him, but regales us with that fake joy only funeral comperes can nail, about how much he loved life, cricket, his family, Lucy, along with violence towards women and girls.

I made the last one up.

Then we all stand and sing some hymn I know neither the words or tune of, but nor does the woman next to me, so I’m in good company at least.