How to Kill Your Family(43)
Someone pushed the door a fraction, and I spoke sternly. ‘This is a private session.’ The door closed. People were so wonderfully polite at this free for all. Such a typically British respect for the rules. It wouldn’t matter too much if we were disturbed since it would look very much like a typical kink session, but I hoped we’d be lucky.
The second thing I had to do was practise. Practice makes perfect after all.
From careful perusal of an old tome called 25 Knots You Need to Know – discovered by happy coincidence when browsing a second-hand bookshop one day – I learnt that the more knots you tie in a rope, the more you weaken it. So you need one strong knot. God help me, I found this fascinating. I decided that the most suitable knot for me was the scaffold knot. I don’t think I need to elaborate on where the tie got its name. This looked like a fairly complicated noose, and my explanation of it will surely be insufficient, but from memory, it went something like this: you form a loop with the rope, wrapping one end through the loop several times before bringing it back to meet its twin. It involved three loops, loosely woven and then pulled tight when finished. I had to practise this many times to get it perfect, because it had to be constructed after it was attached to the hook. I spent an entire Sunday working to get this right, and it took hours of frustration before I finally did it correctly in one go. Even then it had taken me over three minutes of concentration. I wouldn’t have three minutes on the day, it would look far too sinister, even for a man who was a willing participant. Within another hour, I’d got the time down to forty-five seconds, which I felt was acceptable.
The other key piece of advice I got from 25 Knots You Need to Know was that a rope to stop a falling object may be subject to a load many times the object’s weight. With this in mind, I plumped for the nylon rope, 10 mm in thickness. It was a little pricier, but you can’t put a value on peace of mind, can you?
When women prepare to give birth, they pack a bag to leave in the hallway. I did something similar while waiting for Lee to get in touch. I had a medium-sized Celine tote bag in a lovely chocolate brown which seemed perfect for the job, given that it was roomy and not too flashy. Classic Celine. Inside went my rope, some gloves, which I hoped looked less murderer in a dark alley and more fashion victim, a large-brimmed wool hat which made me look slightly like I was attempting detective cosplay, and some disinfectant wipes. It was needlessly organised to have packed a bag without having a date nailed down, but I was getting to the stage, as I did every time the killing drew nearer, where I was getting impatient and jittery.
I spent ten days doing aimless runs around London, crisscrossing bridges and hauling myself up hills in a bid to get rid of some of the nervous energy. I spent an evening with Jimmy at the pub, where he repeatedly laughed at me for gazing off into the distance. I told him I was waiting for a guy to call, which wasn’t exactly a lie. I took to putting my phone on airplane mode for hours at a time, so I couldn’t check it constantly for any new messages. It began to be excruciating. And then one Friday morning, I woke up to a text from Uncle. It had been sent at 3.48 a.m., and simply said, OK, miss smug I’m bored. Let’s go out.
I sat straight up in bed and re-read it. Then I put my phone down and took a long shower, did 100 squats and made coffee. Only then did I return to the phone and compose a reply. Once I’d written it, I decided it was too early to send. I guessed Lee would still be asleep, and I didn’t want to look too eager. Only at lunchtime, when I left the office and had space to think, did I check my response and hit send.
I promise what I have in mind won’t be boring. Meet me Saturday night at the Tube station. Mile End, midnight. Text me when you’re there. Don’t be late.
Two hours later, I got a text saying, Had to look it up on a map. This better be good. CU there.
I had a date planned for Friday night but I cancelled it. It might have taken the edge off, but I needed the edge. I wanted to feel hopped up. I was so bored of waiting around for these people to get in line with my plans. The immediate run-up was always the delicious bit, knowing that there would soon be another one down, watching the list get smaller, seeking out any reaction from the family that I could find. It could leave me feeling euphoric for days. Of course, this was mixed with a sliver of fear that the plan wouldn’t work, that I’d have to start all over again. But that’s what made it so heady. If it went well, I could rearrange the date. But he seemed a little drippy, texting that he was disappointed not to see me and adding a sad emoji, so it was unlikely.
On Saturday, I ran from Shadwell to Battersea and then back to St Paul’s, my app telling me that I’d scored my fastest 15 km run. Feeling slightly in need of a rest, I sat down on the cathedral steps for a bit just watching the tourists mill about. Another runner did the same, sitting a few steps away and stretching his legs. He smiled at me, and I smiled back without meaning to. He was handsome, in a slightly ruddy way, but with something a little more about the eyes than his posh demeanour initially suggested. I could see he was lingering, and realised with annoyance that he was working himself up to say something, so I got up and headed for the Tube. Shame really. He was potentially not completely terrible, but I didn’t have the time or the energy to sit and play romance on the sun-drenched steps of a church. Today was not that day. No day was that day for me actually. At most, we’d have fucked once or twice and then at some point he’d have asked me to go to Putney to meet his friends after rugby and I’d have had to delete his number. Better to opt out of that particular horror sooner rather than later.