How to Kill Your Family(9)
A tank appears on cue. The noise is startling, and I flinch momentarily. Amir laughs at this, and high fives JJ as he hands over the keys. This car is enormous. Tinted windows and matt black alloys. He makes me practise on the driveway with him a few times, pointing out the chrome finish and the triple suspension, or something. I clutch the steering wheel and hover my foot cautiously over the brake, wondering whether this is a good idea after all. But when I dare to put my foot down, I realise the power in this machine will serve me well. I tell Amir how great this will be for my little trip, and gush over how my friend will love the drive.
‘Girls love big cars, innit. Look proper sexy in them. Just don’t mess my baby up, I want to take it to the South of France next week.’ I feel momentarily guilty that I’m almost certainly going to, if not total his baby, then at least inflict some serious cosmetic damage on it. Still, nothing that a wad of cash can’t fix, and from what I’ve seen today, Amir has no problems on that front.
He tells me to drop the car at the club whenever I’m ready, and with that, he winks, gives me a bear hug and walks back inside. I sit in the car for a minute, enveloped in the lingering smell of his woody aftershave, marvelling at my luck. A man who knows nothing about me has given me a car without quibbling about insurance, proof of ID, or even a guarantee I know how to drive. My little hire car is safely tucked away in a side street and I am free to carry out my plan with even less of a footprint than I imagined. I wonder if it’s a trap, but since nobody knows my plans, I shake that thought off.
It’s now 6.30 p.m. Time flies when alcohol is being sprayed all over you. I know that Jeremy said that they would head to the casino after dinner, so I guess they will get there around 9.30. I’m not going to follow them around all evening – for one thing, I don’t want anyone to clock the car – so I drive very slowly towards Marbella, hoping to find some food that isn’t chicken goujons or soggy chips.
As I sip a bowl of soup, I breathe slowly and force my foot to stop tapping. Marie used to ask me to list the top five moments of the day, ‘To remember how lucky we are.’ I haven’t done this since she died, but today seems like a good time to take stock. Today, as terminally earnest people like to say, is the first day of the rest of my life. Perhaps it’s the day my life properly begins. So much of it has been focused on getting here. My childhood was brief, my teenage years a frustrating waiting room on the way to adulthood. My twenties have been functional – a means to an end. I’ve not felt that lucky, sorry, Marie. You left me too early and fortune never smiled that brightly as a result. So I might not manage to list five top moments. But maybe one is enough for now? Let’s start small and see what happens.
At 8.45 p.m., I pay my bill and head back to the enormous wagon parked across the road from the restaurant. I wonder if there’s an inverse correlation between money and taste – Amir’s predilection for chrome seems to suggest there might be. As does Jeremy and Kathleen’s house, for that matter. But these people are new money, or ‘nouveau riche’ as Jimmy’s mum was guiltily fond of saying. Perhaps the older your cash, the better your eye. If I pull this off, I’ll be richer than Croesus, but thoroughly nouveau. Perhaps I’ll develop an eye for bronze and beige and bling, but I doubt it. That probably means taste is more to do with whether you’re ghastly or not. The Artemis family would certainly back that up.
I don’t put my destination in the satnav, just in case Amir looks, or the police do find the car. Instead, I have a little map which I bought at the airport for six euros. I’ve checked out the route many times now, and I’ve got plenty of time if I do get lost. I pull the wig out of my bag and wince at how bedraggled it looks from just one wear. Buy cheap, pay dear, as Jimmy’s mum says. Next time I’ll invest some proper money in a disguise. I drive up winding dark roads in silence, never going above 30 kph. There’s barely a car on the road, but I wonder whether the casino visitors will change that as I get closer. I’ll only get one chance at this, and if there’s any sign of another car, I just can’t risk it. Fuck. It has to work. It has to.
The casino is in the middle of nowhere, but surrounded by a strange little cluster of restaurants and bars, which means I can park in the car park with no fear of sticking out like a sore thumb. I do a quick stroll around it to ensure that the Artemises’ Mercedes isn’t yet here, and then I head over to the entrance. I’m not going in – for one thing I’m not a member and for another, I don’t want to be picked up on the casino CCTV. Instead, I hover in the darkness between the club and a bar called Rays. This place looks like an out-of-town shopping centre and I half expect to see a Homebase. It’s hardly glamorous – I’m surprised that my grandparents deign to visit. Then again, they choose to spend their old age in a gated community in Marbella, a place which makes Florida look like Renaissance Italy in terms of culture.
I’m angry that I’ve given myself so much time. I’d bet on my grandparents being the kind of people who worry if they’re not home by 11 p.m., but what if they’re secret night owls? I can hardly hang around the car park with a few sparse bushes for cover. I lose my nerve and head back to my car, to regroup and go over the route again. As I’m walking, a silver saloon creeps up the drive, hogging the middle of the road, headlights on full beam. I hold my breath, squinting at the number plate, but it’s unnecessary. I see Mrs Artemis, her miserable expression and the resplendent blowdry which frames it in the glass. I hear a giggle, and quickly retreat between two cars until I realise that the sound came from me. I’m clearly more excited than I’d thought. At least part of me is looking forward to this.