I didn’t even have the opportunity to drink wine from the bottle and walk around my flat listening to The Cure in the bowels of sorrow. No such fun. I was charged with the murder of Caro Morton and arraigned. That I now had to face a trial for a murder I didn’t commit felt like a surreal joke. I had been bested by the universe and if you believed in karma, which I do not, given that it’s for people who also set store by crystals, then you would think I’d been whacked in the face with a suitcase full of it.
I’ve mentioned that I fell into some sort of depression early on in my prison stay. Perhaps it’s a bit more obvious why it hit me so hard now. I didn’t feel as though there was any point in bothering to fight the case because I didn’t know what kind of life was now on offer to me that would be worth raising my hopes again for. I look back and see a shambling, vacant-stared husk of myself. I was being completely pathetic. Happily, the shock lifted. Partly the routine became less unbearable, you really do become institutionalised at a startling speed. I began to find it less scary and more boring and as my brain lowered the threat level, I started to think about things other than how to breathe normally when the doors locked at night. That meant taking an interest in my case and waking up to the weaknesses in it. I’d gone through the trial like a zombie, barely engaging with the process at all, weighed down by my own failures. But I began to see how my verdict could be challenged. That’s when I brought in George Thorpe. As with so many parts of British life, if you want to be listened to, taken seriously and treated with respect, employ a posh white man to speak on your behalf. Even better if he’s middle-aged. That’s the privilege jackpot right there.
Thorpe made me see that I didn’t have to take a jury decision as final.
‘Grace, jurors are, let us say, not always the type of people we necessarily have to listen to. They are often wrong, largely motivated by their own small personal animuses and have a remarkably basic grasp of actual facts. There are many options open to us so let’s see their verdict as a mere opening offer, shall we?’ I could have kissed the man, had he not been wearing actual braces under his suit jacket.
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.