As we started our descent, Amir saw his opportunity and reminded me to shut my laptop. Once again, I was drawn into conversation, remembering to be careful not to mention my name or give him any personal information. I was furious at this attention, having deliberately dressed in black trousers, a shirt, and no makeup for the flight so as to draw as little notice as possible. No jewellery, no personal touches, nothing that might stand out in a person’s mind were they to be questioned. Not that they would be, I’m just a young girl going on holiday in Marbella, like so many others this summer.
The flight was all Amir can have of me, and even that was taken not given. So now I’m squeezing past people, flashing smiles as I push to the front of the passport queue and head straight for baggage reclaim. I position myself behind a pillar as the room fills up, and look down at my phone. A few minutes later, I see my bag and grab it, before turning on my heels and walking purposefully towards the exit. And then I have a thought and stop in my tracks.
I’m leaning by the railings outside the airport when Amir emerges. His face brightens as he sucks his stomach in and puffs up his chest.
‘I was looking for you!’ he says, and I note the bright gold watch as he gesticulates.
‘Yeah, sorry, I’m in such a rush to get to my friend in time for lunch, but I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye,’ I reply.
‘Well let’s have that night out, gimme your digits, and we’ll link.’ Absolutely not a chance, but I have to keep him sweet if I’m to get what I want from this.
‘I’ve got a new phone, Amir, can’t remember the number for the life of me. Tell you what, you give me yours and I’ll be in touch,’ I smile and touch his arm lightly. After I’ve stored it and declined his offer of a lift, I wave goodbye.
‘Amir,’ I call, as he walks away, ‘that offer of a car, is it still on?’
*
I arrive at my rented apartment just under two hours later, a fairly pain-free drive from the airport in my hire car. I found it on Airbnb and arranged to pay the landlady in cash so as not to have a record under my name. She was fine with a private booking when I said I’d pay double. It’s painfully expensive, especially in the high season, but I only have this week booked off work and I’m keen to get on with my plan, so I’m throwing money at the problem. The flat is tiny and stifling, the aesthetic is very much reminiscent of an Eighties cosmetic clinic but with added china dolls. I’m desperate to see the ocean and stretch my legs, but I have a limited time here, and there’s work to be done.
I’ve done my research, as much as you can do on two old bigots who have an inconsiderately minimal online presence, and I’ve got a good idea where they’ll be tonight. It seems, from the little I could glean from Kathleen’s Facebook page （the poor love has a public account, blessings be that old people do not understand privacy settings）， that between feeling angry at the amount of Spanish people living in Spain, the Artemis seniors spend most of their time shuffling between a restaurant called Villa Bianca, which is right on the waterfront, and a casino called Dinero just outside of town. I’ve booked a table at the restaurant for dinner.
Let me be clear here. I have no idea what I am doing. I’m 24, I’ve been thinking about how to best avenge my mother for many years now, and this is the biggest step I’ve taken so far. Mostly, I’ve been working my way up the career ladder, saving money, researching the family and trying to get myself into a position where I can get closer to them. It’s been helpful, but mundane. Of course, I’m willing to make these sacrifices in order to get nearer to my end goals, but my God it’s hard to pretend I care about customer surveys and participate in the optional （read mandatory） team-bonding drinks on Fridays. If I’d known I’d have to drink J?gerbombs with people who willingly work in marketing, I’d have given myself more time to research trepanation first. Maybe that’s why I’m rushing this big move, desperate to prove to myself that I’ve made inroads and can do what I’ve been saying I will since I was 13. And yet, I am woefully underprepared. I envisaged that by the time I got to Marbella, I’d have a firm plan in place, carefully plotted my route, the timings, and have invested in an incredible disguise. Instead, I am holed up in a flat which smells like your family hamster died underneath a wardrobe and your mother didn’t know what the smell was and has been going mad with the bleach for six months. I have a plan in my mind, but no idea whether I’ll be able to pull it off. I have a wig that I bought at a cosmetics shop in Finsbury Park, which looked convincing enough under the store strip lighting, but appears worryingly flammable in the Spanish sun. Despite this free-floating anxiety about my lack of preparation, excitement spreads through me. As I fix my wig and apply my makeup, I feel as though I’m getting ready for a brilliant date, and not at all like I’m on the way to kill my grandparents.