Killing Kate

She didn’t want to tell her mum. She couldn’t face the conversation, didn’t want to have to explain what she was doing and then listen to her mum’s objections. It was easier to do it and deal with the fallout later.

Gemma had a saying: Beg forgiveness, don’t ask permission. Kate thought it applied here.

‘Out. Maybe go grab a coffee somewhere. But mainly anything to get out of the house.’

‘Go and grab,’ her mum said. ‘Not go grab. You aren’t American, darling. I know you like to watch those television shows, but you don’t need to speak like them.’

God, her mother annoyed her sometimes.

‘And anyway,’ her mum continued, her expression sceptical. ‘You had a cup of tea five minutes ago.’

‘Mum! I’m old enough to go out for a coffee!’

‘I’ll come with you. I could do with an outing.’

‘Mum, please. I’m only popping out. OK?’

Her mum shrugged, evidently not believing a word she said. ‘See you at lunch, then.’

She was back shortly after midday. Her dad was sitting in the living room, watching the news. She walked in and stood, waiting for his reaction. He studied her before he spoke.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘Bloody hell.’ He called into the kitchen. ‘Margaret, come and see your daughter.’

Her mum appeared in the door frame. She blinked a few times, then smiled.

‘Gosh,’ she said. ‘That’s quite a change.’

17 (#ulink_b706d9fa-798f-5e96-a786-a7c4c2ecb3ec)

It was. Kate had explained what she wanted to the hairdresser; he had asked if she was sure, absolutely sure, and she said yes, she was. So he went ahead. He cut her long, black hair into a close-cropped fuzz, which he dyed a dark red.

She hated it. Hated seeing her hair on the floor, hated how big her head looked, hated seeing herself shorn in this way. She was not vain, but she had always been proud of her hair. She had been told a million times that it was gorgeous and lovely and the compliments had stuck. Some portion of her self-esteem was wrapped up in her hair, and now it was gone. But she had a good reason for having done this, and, when it was safe to do so, she could always grow it back.

On her way home she went to a costume shop. It was a place she’d used before, when she and Phil had gone to a Halloween party in fancy dress. That time she’d bought bright red contact lenses; this time, she got green ones.

With them in she looked nothing like herself. More importantly, she looked nothing like Jenna Taylor or Audra Collins.

Gemma’s reaction was far less muted than her parents’ had been. She screamed, clapped her hand over her mouth, then burst into laughter.

‘Oh. My. God!’ she said. ‘What have you done?’

‘That’s a nice reaction,’ Kate said. ‘Don’t you like it?’

‘I dunno,’ Gemma said. ‘I suppose so. It’s – well, it’s a pretty big change, Kate. It’s not your usual style. It’s not what you do. I mean, it’s kind of like if Kate Middleton did it. A bit of a surprise.’

‘I know,’ Kate said. ‘And I hate it. Not as much as I did this afternoon – I suppose it’s growing on me …’

‘Literally,’ Gemma said. ‘Although it’s still got some growing to do.’

‘… But I have my reasons.’ She took out her phone and typed a search into Google. A picture of the two murdered women came up. ‘They look like me,’ she said, handing her phone to her friend. ‘Remember you guys teasing me about that? We laughed, but it’s not so funny now.’

Gemma studied it for a second or two. When she looked at Kate she was pale.

‘They don’t look like you now,’ she said.

‘Right,’ Kate said. ‘And it’s going to stay that way until this is over.’

They spent the afternoon at the Trafford Centre. Kate had never noticed before, but it was a place that, between the glass shopfronts and the mirrors inside the shops, was full of reflections. She saw herself everywhere, saw this stranger with the short, red hair and green eyes walking side by side with the familiar form of her friend, and each time was surprised anew at the realization that it was her.

It was interesting to see how the shop assistants treated her. When they suggested clothes for her they were different to the clothes she was used to being offered: more urban, more punk, more edgy.

She wasn’t quite ready to embrace her new style fully yet, not least because those scruffy-looking punk clothes came at designer prices. It cost as much to dress down as to dress up.

She was glad, though, that they saw her that way. It meant that the transformation had been a success. Whatever the type was that the killer was targeting, she no longer fit it.

That evening they went out for dinner, and then for a drink at a wine bar. Gemma had agreed to stay over, and they had drunk a bottle of wine with their meal. They were now drinking gin and tonics, and Kate was feeling the effects.

It was a nice feeling, though. Relaxing and warm. A great way to end a difficult week.

‘Well,’ Gemma said. ‘I’m starting to get used to your new look. And I have to say, I kind of like it.’

‘You’re only saying that,’ Kate replied. ‘And there’s no need. This is temporary. You don’t have to make me feel good about it.’

‘I’m not, I promise. It’s cool. And you’re so pretty that you can get away with it. Especially with those green eyes. I might get some myself.’ She sipped her drink; it was getting low. ‘One more?’

‘Why not?’ Kate stood up. ‘It’s my round. And I need the loo.’

In the Ladies she used the toilet, then, after washing her hands, took a small bottle of eye drops from her purse. The contact lenses were irritating her eyes. She wasn’t used to wearing them and she was looking forward to taking them out when she got home.

She stared at herself in the mirror. It was like looking at a different person. She smiled, and headed to the bar.

As she waited her turn, someone bumped into her back.

‘Sorry,’ a voice said. ‘Excuse me.’

The voice was familiar, and she turned round. It took her a moment to realize who it was.

It was Mike, the guy from Turkey.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit of a tight squeeze.’

She grinned; it was clear he didn’t recognize her, which was exactly what she wanted. ‘That’s fine,’ she said. ‘No problems.’ Then she added: ‘Mike.’

He paused. ‘Do I know you?’ he said. He stared at her, then his mouth opened. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘It’s you! It’s Kate?’

It was half-question, half-exclamation.

‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘How’ve you been?’