How to Kill Your Family(94)

The thing that really changed my attitude was reading that Lara had announced that she’d be opening the Artemis Foundation to help migrant children. I enjoyed this immensely, imagining this to be her final fuck you to a family only slightly less likely to care about the plight of vulnerable minors than the witch who lived in the gingerbread house. But it also panicked me. Just how good was Lara intent on being? If the money was about to be tied up in charitable trusts, I’d have a hard time accessing any of it. It’s perhaps not a great endorsement of my character that I was boosted into action by the worry that my money would be given to scared refugees, but we are who we are. I’ve killed six people, there’s very little point in panicking about my moral fibre now. I got to work then, any lingering depression fading away remarkably fast. I’ve even managed to reframe my failures. I didn’t get to kill Simon, no point trying to soften that blow, but I did dispatch six members of his family in pretty quick succession, causing him great fear, confusion and grief which followed him all the way to his final moments. I comfort myself with the knowledge that he would never have been drunk and manic on a speedboat without my actions, so I did play a vital role in his death, even if I couldn’t be there to witness his glorious demise. I don’t like boats much, so perhaps it all worked out for the best in some strange way. I had a good hand, even if it wasn’t quite the royal flush I’d hoped for.





CHAPTER SIXTEEN


I suppose I should start by introducing myself, otherwise this will be even odder for you than it already is. My name is Harry and I am your brother. Gosh that sounds silly, doesn’t it, like I’m doing a terrible Darth Vader impression. But nevertheless, it’s true. Not the same mother, of course, that would be nonsense. Same father, but that’s probably obvious. Sorry, I’m no good at explaining all this.

Perhaps I’ll just start at the beginning. I didn’t find out who my father was until I was 23 years old. Well, that’s not quite right actually. I spent that time with a lovely father. Christopher was a fantastic chap, always ready to drive me to rugby practice, taught me how to shoot when I was barely old enough to hold a gun. He used to come upstairs when Nanny had bathed me and put me in my pyjamas. Holding a glass of whisky, he’d perch on the side of my bed and read me a story every night. He wasn’t a fan of modern children’s books, preferring Arthur Ransom and John Buchan stories. He had a low, deep voice and used to gesticulate with his hands as he read to me, his drink swilling about so that the ice clinked together. It’s a sound I enjoy to this day.

My parents had two daughters after me. There was a fairly solid age gap, five years between me and Molly, and another two between Molly and Belle. I was always told that it was because they were devoting all their attention to me that they’d waited. That was something I held over my sisters’ heads a lot, let me tell you. It’s fun having siblings, even with such an age gap. You were an only child, weren’t you? I can’t imagine not having co-conspirators around all the time.

Always someone to gang up on. Always somebody to play with. Mum has always been a nervous sort really, but a lovely woman despite it all. She worked before she had me, she was a primary school teacher, but I think what she really wanted to do was raise a family and live in the countryside. I know that’s not a fashionable thing to say anymore, but it worked very well for our family. And Dad was happy enough to make that happen. I don’t think Mum was strong enough for work. You’d probably think that was ridiculous. I know how tough you are. You probably also think that’s ridiculous, since we’ve never met properly. But I’m right, aren’t I?

Oh dash, I’ve rambled on, haven’t I? As I said, I didn’t find out who my real father was until I was an adult. I’d graduated from Exeter with a degree in PPE, and I’d made the move to London to work in the city and have some fun. Growing up in Surrey meant that London felt raw and exciting to me. Still does actually. You were born there, weren’t you? I imagine you’re jaded about the city, too used to it. Lucky you! Mainly though, I wanted to make money. We were well off, certainly. But I saw what the other lads had at my school, and I always felt a real desire to get that for myself. Christopher was the director of a mid-sized accountancy firm, and he earned a good-sized whack. It was always enough. Until, one day, it wasn’t. That day was when a boy in my class came over for tea during half term when I was about eight, and asked if the driver could take him home later on. Mum smiled and said that she’d get him back safely, but he looked bemused. That’s when I knew what I was missing. Funny that, realising at eight that you want a driver. I imagine most eight-year-olds want an Xbox.

Training to be a stockbroker was gruelling. About eighteen months in, I got a phone call one lunchtime when I was shovelling a sandwich into my mouth while trying to speed read that day’s figures. It was Mum; her name is Charlotte, by the way – everyone in the family calls her Lottie. Dad had had a heart attack and she was at the Royal Surrey Hospital with my sisters. I hailed a cab on Liverpool Street and told the driver to get me there as fast as possible. But it was too late. He died before I arrived. I know you’ll understand how I felt that day, having lost your mother so young. We were all inconsolable. I took three days off work to be with my mother and sisters, though Mum took to her bed and refused to speak much during that time. But I had to get back to work, and arranged for Granny to come down from York to stay with them. The funeral took place a week later. The church was stuffed full of Christopher’s friends – those he’d had from school days at Eton, those he made from work and everyone in between. The choir sang ‘Jerusalem’ and everyone said what a true gent my dad was. Mum took a mild sedative to get through it, and my sisters wept a lot. But it was a proper send-off, a lovely day, despite the sadness. Or at least it was, right up until 5 p.m. The wake was back at our house. We’d had it catered, Mum was evidently not up to laying out a spread. So all there was to do was go around and accept as many sympathetic words as we could from the people in attendance. Mum had retired to her room half an hour before, and I was trying to speak to as many people as I could. The girls were sitting in the living room with Granny. They looked worn out. It was my duty now. As I extricated myself from a dull man in a grey checked suit who’d worked for Dad and headed for the lav, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was my aunt Jean. I call her my aunt, but really she was just my mother’s oldest friend. As close as sisters though, and a fixture of my childhood, though I’d not seen much of her in the last few years. She looked old now, big hollowed-out rings under her eyes and a weird bony hand which grasped mine.