Chapter 65 Kate

65 KATE

NOW

Tonight is the vigil, held on the twenty-third anniversary of the killings in a beautiful chapel in Somerset.

Kate stands in her bedroom at the Airbnb, looking over the outfit she has picked, a green linen dress nipped in at the waist by a thick tan belt. Black, kitten-heeled ankle boots, small gold hoop earrings, and red lipstick. It’s an outfit she would never have dared to have worn a year ago, but she had some persuasion from Camilla, backed up by Jade, and she’s glad she relented. Her hair has been cut short, all the old brown lopped off, her silver brought to a fine shine with some kind of witchcraft in a purple shampoo bottle. Her teeth were broken after Darcy’s attack, and it took some getting used to veneers—but she has straight white teeth for the first time in her life, and she doesn’t give a shit if they’re fake.

She stands for a moment longer, mentally telling the voices in her head to shut up. No, she doesn’t owe anyone “pretty.” No, she isn’t mutton dressed as lamb, and no, she isn’t kidding herself that she’s the type of person who wears makeup. She can if she bloody well wants. And this Kate wants to.

She received a WhatsApp from Jade this morning, apologizing again for not being able to make the vigil tonight. She attached some photographs of Vietnam, where she’s currently traveling. She looks different from the girl Kate met in the Maldives. Her hair is brown and cut to her shoulders, and she wears no makeup. She looks happier, like someone who has seen the ocean for the first time.

Secretly, Kate is celebrating a bit of news, too—yesterday her agent sold her first book, penned as herself. Well, almost. She’s publishing this one as Briony Conley. A name she hasn’t gone by in over twenty years. It feels like an old sweater she’s dredged up from the depths of her wardrobe, surprised and delighted to find it still fits, that the colors haven’t faded. The book is about deception, and about a protagonist, Jane, who almost sells her soul to the devil. The endeavor costs her dearly, but it makes Jane wake up to who she is.

There’s a bottle of champagne waiting at home, which she’ll chill in an ice bucket and enjoy by the fire tomorrow night. She might light a candle for Briony, and for Professor Berry, who held a dear place in her heart for many years. After all, he was the first person to really encourage her in life. When she was in her third year of an undergraduate degree, still feeling like an imposter, he invited her into his office and asked if she had plans to pursue a master’s degree in archaeology. She blushed; she hadn’t considered it at all. He said she should, and that he’d help her prepare a scholarship application.

The scholarship application was successful.

After the massacre, she couldn’t return to her studies. She couldn’t return to many things—physically couldn’t. And she has no desire to resurrect those old dreams now.

But she feels a flicker of warmth inside whenever she thinks of that day in Professor Berry’s office, of the way his words persuaded her that she was capable of more than she thought.

A brief word of encouragement, but one that has lived inside her all these years, waiting to flower.

THE CHAPEL IS WARM INSIDE, lilies lining the pews to symbolize new beginnings. Many have come out for the vigil, many more than expected. Church volunteers are busily arranging extra rows of folding chairs at the back to accommodate the crowd. Some journalists are here, too. Kate’s interview with Motsi ran across two pages in The Guardian , and the case exploded into the media after that. Motsi is in discussions with TV producers about a possible multi-episode documentary.

Talk about a delayed response—but what a response! Darcy’s murder charge, her marriage to a successful software engineer, and the revelation of the real murderer behind the Spinnaker killings made for a great story, and plenty of journalists wanted to dive deep into that night in 2001. Others wanted to explore Darcy’s life, intrigued by what might have led the daughter of a decorated navy lieutenant to become a serial killer. The trial is about to begin. By offering a new way of thinking about #MeToo and toxic masculinity, Darcy’s story also reframes discourses on catfishing, grooming, and the dangers of artificial intelligence.

And the renewed media interest in the massacre shows no sign of slowing.

Camilla arrives, her daughter, Natasha, following behind. She’s wearing a black Westwood corset dress beneath a Prada trench, her hair tied up in a neat bun, gold hoop earrings the size of dinner plates.

A tray of votive candles burns brightly at the altar, and Natasha places a photograph of her uncle Cameron among the others that are already arranged, held in place by clips behind the candles.

“Jacob’s here,” Camilla whispers to Kate.

And there he is—the man she’d thought was a bully, a bastard, slipping in through the rear door of the church. He’s wearing a suit, is accompanied by a woman. No sign of the boys. Of course not. Not for this.

She watches as he takes a seat at the very back, away from everyone. She catches his eye and he nods. He has earned her respect, for sure. Coming here poses a risk—not everyone will be sympathetic to him. But the fact that he has come regardless shows that he recognizes the impact of Darcy’s actions on these people. And, perhaps, on his own children.

“Are you all right?” Camilla asks, squeezing her hand, and she nods. It feels good to be here. Emotional, too, and the horror of the massacre will never, ever fade. But there is a rightness about the vigil. A remembering of the ones they lost that night.

The minister rises and says a prayer. Kate usually hates these kinds of things, but it surprises her how the venue, with its old stone walls and saints embedded in stained-glass windows, the votive candles, and even the prayer, feel appropriate for this service. You don’t have to believe in God to believe in sanctity and the idea of a higher order; the tragedy that the victims’ families met with, coupled with the media silence and the bungled justice system, deserves just this kind of vigil, held with reverence and love.

THEY’RE IN A PUB ACROSS the road from the chapel, both on their third drink since the vigil.

“I see the yassification of Kate Miller is coming along nicely,” Camilla says.

Kate tugs at the neckline of her dress. “I had a little assistance in the clothing department.”

“And what in the Tan France have you done to your hair?”

“I had it cut,” Kate says, touching it. “The stylist showed me how to gel it. It’s stiff enough to dig a ditch.”

“I mean the color.”

“Oh. Well, they dyed the brown bits gray to match the roots.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Camilla exclaims. “Especially with the red lippy. I look like a jump-scare next to you.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“Maybe I should try going gray…. Did I tell you I was thinking of getting a tattoo?”

“Oh?”

“Natasha wants to do it. A guitar, to remind me of Cameron.”

“That’s sweet.”

Camilla cocks an eyebrow and looks Kate over. “You have a healthy glow about you, too. Kind of… smug. Like you’ve won the lottery, or had a really good shag.”

Kate’s eyes twinkle, and Camilla gasps. “You shagged someone? Oh my God, finally! Who?”

“Her name’s Sasha,” Kate says. “I met her on the plane home from the Maldives, actually. She runs her own ethical textile business.”

“And it’s going well?” Camilla says. “Don’t answer that, actually. I can see how well it’s going. Bloody hell. Talk about a glow-up.”

Kate chuckles, realizing how much she enjoys shocking Camilla. “I’ll let you in on another secret—I’ve been doing your workouts.”

Camilla’s eyes grow wide with astonishment. “What, online? You’ve been following my Instagram?” Kate nods, and Camilla throws her arms up in a hallelujah gesture.

She tells Camilla that it’s the first time in decades that she’s been able to stick to an exercise plan for more than a week. She’s had fibromyalgia flare-ups, but instead of quitting, she’s gotten straight back into her exercising when she’s started to feel better. The first time she did it she was utterly exhausted, ashamed of how unfit she was. She could barely lift her legs off the ground. But she’s proud of herself, and not a little surprised. Not only has she stuck to it, but she can see a difference: she’s stronger, able to do more repetitions than when she started, and her core—dare she say it—feels like it’s actually bloody working.

“Can I ask you a question?” Camilla says, returning with her round of drinks.

“That is a question,” Kate says, lifting her Negroni.

Camilla sits down and considers her words. “I don’t know how to deal with it,” she says hesitatingly. “The guilt. I mean, I said I wanted to kill you-know-who .”

Kate nods. She knows Camilla means Rob.

“But it wasn’t right,” Camilla says, softening. “Even if he had killed my brother, and all those people… Even if he was the real killer. It wasn’t right, was it?”

“Almost doing a deal with the devil is not the same as signing the deal with blood,” Kate says slowly.

“Are you saying that just because I said I’d kill him, ultimately I didn’t kill him, so it’s OK?” Camilla says.

“I’m saying that sometimes a lesson can be learned by having your mettle tested,” Kate says. “It’s not easy to confront the shadowy parts of your character, or to learn that your moral fiber is full of holes. But…” She looks away, thinking. “Well, I can only speak for myself. I won’t make excuses for what happened in the Maldives. But I’ve realized that I hadn’t been living. I’d made decisions after the massacre that cost me dearly. And without regretting too much, I wasn’t living life as fully as I could be.”

Camilla reaches out and takes her hand. “I’m really, really glad I met you. And I count you as one of my dearest friends. If that’s all right.”

Kate cocks her head. “Are you in danger of turning sentimental, Camilla?”

Camilla smiles, her eyes brimming. “I blame you,” she says. “Rubbing off on me.”

“Fuck off,” Kate says, and Camilla laughs.