How to Kill Your Family(89)

He ended the letter with a clichéd passage about how he didn’t expect me to forgive him (why do people say this when just the mere fact that they’ve got in touch with you to say it means they clearly expect forgiveness?), but he would spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to me and would be at the prison come the day of my release. Love you, Gray, I’ll help you sleep again soon, he signed off. I wondered if Sophie would insist on coming along, desperate to make my story her own for currency, just as she did when I was younger. Perhaps we’d all go to the local bakery for a celebratory breakfast. Jimmy would inevitably forget his wallet and Sophie would pay for us, shaking her head in exasperation and telling the long-suffering café owner that her kids were, to use her favourite phrase ‘total rotters’. I’d been in jail too long, because even as I thought about it, I felt a tiny zap of warmth. It was a facsimile of a family, but it was what I had.

Since the letter, we have slotted back into our old relationship with a strange ease. I phoned him two days after I read it, letting him panic a little bit. We have talked at every opportunity since. I have been magnanimous. He has been wracked with guilt, and had come up with a plan to move me into his flat and nurse me back to life, as though I had been marooned on a leper colony for months and not in jail because he accused me of murdering his ghastly fiancée. I firmly shut that down. I wanted to be in my familiar place as I planned for my next move, and having Jimmy bringing me cups of tea would hamper that somewhat. There would be time for cohabitation later, when we could live in a house big enough to spend a pleasurable amount of time away from each other.

Thorpe was also fielding calls from the media, especially from the tabloids, who had done a 180-degree turn on my case with such speed that reporters must have sprained muscles. The narrative of ‘The Morton murderer’ was about to be replaced by something equally terrible, at least in my mind. I idly speculated about my new moniker. If I’d had access to a betting shop I’d have put money on ‘Full of Grace’ being at least one headline used upon my release, complete with an image of me reading out a statement. Composed, long-suffering, dignified. The playbook was too easy. I wouldn’t speak to any of them immediately, of course. I wasn’t some desperate novice who didn’t understand how this stuff worked and took the first cheque she could. My narrative would be my own. Besides, press attention would wait until I revealed myself to be not only an innocent victim, but also a grieving daughter. That’s high-class human interest, the kind that guarantees your name will be known for decades to come.

Once the dust has settled a little, I’ll make some initial overtures to Thorpe regarding my father and his estate. Of course, I won’t put it as bluntly as that. I’ll just say that this experience has made me reassess my life and explain that I want to explore the connection with that side of the family. It’s too late to know my father, I’ll say as I dab my eyes with a tissue, but I want to know where I come from and who he was. There is nobody else left in that family, except Lara. And Lara isn’t even a blood relative. She’s an estranged wife, and one that I graciously spared at that. I knew from the moment I decided not to kill her that she would be my gateway. I will approach her with such charm and grace (ha!) that she will be on my side from the start. Two women wronged by Artemis men, both of us trying to lead lives away from their heavy presence. Women supporting women, that’s what we like to see. Perhaps we’ll even become friends, though a connection solely made because we were both damaged by brothers seems like an unhealthy foundation for lifelong kinship. But then again, forging a connection over hatred can be stronger than anything else. Stronger than bonding over a love of ceramics or a passion for avant garde opera. We would have a much tougher bond. The money is important, but the goal was always the annihilation of the family. But that didn’t mean I would be content with nothing. And if she wouldn’t play ball, there were other options. She’d been spared, but that was always negotiable. And now you’re up to date. I’ve spent a further eight days in Limehouse and I have one more to go. Today I was told by a bored-looking guard I’d not seen before (the turnover of staff is high, probably because who in their right mind wants to wrangle a bunch of angry women for twelve hours a day for minimum wage when you could work in a Starbucks and wrangle slightly less angry women but also get free lattes?) that I should expect to be released at 3 p.m. tomorrow on the dot. Since the guard had no care for my privacy, she told me this in front of Kelly, who has now insisted on having a party of sorts for me tonight, in the games room. As part of the preparation, she made me go to her friend Dionne’s cell to have my makeup done, something I hotly protested but was bounced into anyway.

I finish this from my cell, unable to sleep. I faintly remember this excitement from childhood, when Marie would creep across the room on Christmas Eve with a stocking for me. Like all children, I would try to stay awake, waiting for Santa to bring me my loot. Unlike most children, I succeeded and realised the con early on. It didn’t faze me much. I still got the presents, despite the subterfuge. Tomorrow I will spend the morning readying myself – staying calm and conserving my energy. But tonight I am all over the place, thoughts running wild, adrenaline surging. As I thought, my makeover was an experience I won’t be repeating. I emerged from Dionne’s cell after an intense twenty minutes with a face that vaguely resembled a blow-up sex doll and hair that had been backcombed within an inch of its life. The only excuse I have for allowing it is that I was high on the fumes of my freedom and knew that there could be no photographs of the night in question. Despite my complete success in making precisely no friends during my stay, a fair few women turned up to the party, lured by the distraction and the promise of soft drinks and cake. There was no cake as it turned out, but it limped on for forty-five minutes anyway, as Kelly told everyone how much she’d miss me and I took care not to return the compliment. I doubt it drove the message home, Kelly has the hide of a knock-off Birkin bag. When I retreated back to my cell, I got into bed, pretending to be asleep by 8.30 p.m. I’m writing this under the covers. Even with mere hours to go until I leave, I can’t risk encouraging Kelly to attempt one last deep and meaningful. Tomorrow morning I shall pack up my meagre possessions and get ready to re-enter the world. A world which will be very different for me from now on.