Page 125 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

“I saw him once,” he said. “I was about six years old, and we were driving through the town in my mother’s Bentley. We stopped at some lights, and I glanced out of the window, and there he was, standing in the street, on his own. He was filthy, his clothes were torn and ragged, and his shoes looked like they were about to fall off his feet. He was throwing rocks at the cars driving past, but he didn’t throw one at ours. He just stopped and stared when he saw our car.

“I remember pointing at him and saying to my mother, “That boy looks just like me,” and she sneered and pulled me away from the window, telling me to sit back in my seat. Then she said, “Aren’t you glad it isn’t you? I mean, look at him. He’s a filthy little boy. Look how dirty he is. Look at the state of him.” And then the car drove on and he was gone. She never looked back. She didn’t care that he was living a life like that. He wasn’t her responsibility anymore. What sort of a mother can do that?”

He pulled me closer to him, smelling my hair before he kissed the top of my head.

“I only found out the truth when they died,” he went on. “When they passed away, I was given the access code for the safe by their lawyers. Inside was a letter from my mother explaining what they’d done, along with two birth certificates. Mine and Arran’s. She’d kept his birth certificate despite throwing him out like trash. And knowing what they did sickened me. I realised then that the boy I’d seen all those years ago didn’t just look like me. I guessed it was Arran, and I tried to reach out to him. I wanted to help him. None of this was his fault, not really. The life he’d led up until I’d found him had pulled him down a path to destruction and it was hard to pull him back out. I tried, but I see now, it was impossible. I failed.”

“You didn’t fail, Alex,” I said, trying to ease the burden of his guilt. “You did the best you could in a bad situation.”

“But it wasn’t enough. Nothing would ever be enough. Two lives destroyed for the sake of one woman’s spite. I hated my parents for a long time. But now, I feel nothing for them. Even pity is too good for them. They don’t deserve to be in my thoughts, to have any sort of legacy.”

“And that’s why you refused their title.” I stroked my fingers gently down his back for comfort.

“I know I took the money. I felt like that was owed to both of us. Arran got his fair share through his work, and I set up a savings account for him too, with what was left over. But the titles...” He shook his head. “They loved those titles. But I didn’t want them. It was their name, not mine. So, I decided to let them stay buried with my parents. She’d have liked that, being the last ever Duchess of Sunford. No one else would ever live up to that title in her eyes. And why would they want to? For me, the title was cursed.”

Alex went on, talking about the years following his parents’ death, and how he’d tried to do what he could to save his brother. But not everyone can be saved. Some people are so consumed by their demons, that the demons eventually take control. And that’s what’d happened to Arran. Just like the poem he’d recited in Italy, Arran had been a tortured man, but his demons roared too powerful and loud. They were unstoppable. No one could tame him. He didn’t want to be tamed. He lived for the chaos, and he died for it, too.

EPILOGUE 1

ALEX

Three Years Later

Isat on a sun lounger in the garden, watching my wife and son playing in the pool. It was the hottest day of the year, and I reached for the cocktail that Clive had brought for me and left on the glass table to my right. I picked it up and sipped the cool orange flavour, savouring how well it quenched my thirst, as Emma smiled and waved back at me. This wasn’t my usual choice of drink. I was more of a whisky man, but sometimes, it was good to shake things up. Keep those around you on their toes. Surprise them. Predictability brought its own problems; it made people watch you closer. Notice things you didn’t want them to notice. Especially if things weren’t as they seemed.

“Look, Daddy. I splashing,” our son, Albie, squealed, and I laughed, waving back at him.

“I can see that. You’ll be swimming soon, my clever little man.”

Emma glowed with pride, looking at me, then our son, and asking him, “Shall we splash Daddy?”

Albie squealed in delight, and Emma pushed the little ring he was clinging to through the pool as he pretended to swim towards me. Then, as they came closer, they started to flick water at me. Albie barely made a splash, at least, not in my direction. He screwed his little face up as the water hit him more than anyone else. But Emma was really going for it, soaking my legs as I called out, “Oi. You’ll pay for that.”

I stood up, took my shirt off, then ran and jumped into the pool, tucking my knees into my chest to do a cannonball that I knew would soak them both.

As I broke the surface of the water and pushed my hair out of my eyes, I heard Albie squealing, and Emma laughing.

I swam to the opposite edge of the pool and shook my head.

“Game on,” I teased.

“Oh no, Albie, Daddy Shark is after us,” Emma teased, and Albie shrieked even louder.

I laughed as she tried to swim further away, and Albie’s little legs kicked faster in the water. And I felt a surge of love in my heart. A warmth that only she had ever given me.

I was so fucking proud of her and the life we’d made. The family we’d created and were still creating.

In four months, Albie would have a little brother. My heart was so full, at times, I couldn’t handle it.

I looked at her, my beautiful wife, knowing I’d do anything for her. I’d kill for her. I had done. I’d killed my brother to save her. I’d killed her boss, too, because he’d made her life a misery. I’d choked him and dumped him in the canal where he belonged, along with the rest of the scum. It’d been a long time coming. I was surprised I’d waited so long to take him out.

And the man at her office, Harrison, I’d killed him as well. He'd slapped her ass in front of everyone at the meeting where I’d first laid eyes on her, fucking violating her. She wasn’t the only girl he’d harassed that day, though. I’d caught him leaving a store cupboard in the hallway right after the meeting, and as the door slowly shut behind him, I noticed a girl cowering in the corner, crying. He was a sick fuck. A quick deep dive into his internet history, courtesy of my friend Ethan, who’d answered my text and come up with the goods, told me as much.

I made sure he wouldn’t hurt another woman again. But they’d never find his body, because Arran had helped me dispose of it. Arranging the vat of acid and helping me lift his body into the polypropylene drum he’d bought for the job. It still amazed me that acid could melt through metal and bone, but hard plastic, like that drum, was resistant.

Yes, I’d killed for my wife, and I’d do it over and over again if it kept her safe.

My name was Alex Kingston.