It was inevitable: officially released Shoot, the much-talked-about book by Harry which sold more than 400,000 copies in a single day, at the same time the teasing came out. The hashtag has started circulating on Twitter #ShutUpHarry with a series of irreverent memes and in English bookstores they went wild, showing their alignment: devaluing discounts and allusive showcases appeared here and there.
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But the setting up of the wins over all Bert’s Book in Swindon, a small town in southwest England, where they pulled over Shoot to How to kill your family (How to kill your family) Of Nice Mackiean English publishing success, which – coincidentally – arrived in Italy, published by HarperCollins, precisely on January 10, 2023, the same day as the release of the (ex) prince’s book.
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We publish here to follow the prologue of the book Like killing my family, hilarious and dark. Maybe some point of contact with Shoot you too can find it, if only for the great editorial success.
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Limehouse Prison, as you can imagine, is horrendous. If, on the other hand, you can’t imagine it (probably), you should know that there are no video games or flat-screen TVs here, despite the newspapers claiming the opposite. There is no atmosphere of friendly sharing, there is no alliance between sisters: generally the atmosphere is tense, chaotic, and fights are always around the corner. Ever since I set foot in here, I’ve been trying not to attract attention. Between meals, which with a good dose of optimism I could define as occasionally digestible, I leave my cell as little as possible and try to avoid my roommate (she loves being called that, however much she gets on my nerves).
Kelly likes to chat. The day I arrived, fourteen long long months ago, she sat on my cot, she dug her sharp nails into my knee and she told me she knew what I had done and she thought it was amazing. That compliment came as a pleasant surprise, as I expected to be engulfed in a wave of violence as soon as I stepped through the menacing gate of this vile place. Ah, the innocence of someone who got an idea of prison by watching bad TV series! After that introduction, Kelly established that I was her new best friend and, even worse, a trophy to show off. She at breakfast she would join me running, take my arm and whisper in my ear as if we were engaged in a conversation between friends. I heard her tell the other inmates, her voice reduced to a whisper, that I had confessed my crimes to her in minute detail. He wants deference and respect from girls, and who better than Caro Morton’s assassin to get them? Believe me, my nerves are frayed. I wrote that Kelly says she knows all about the crime I committed, but perhaps the choice of words cheapens what I did a little.
To my ears the term crime sounds dull, inelegant and trivial. Shoplifters commit crimes. Anyone who reaches sixty kilometers per hour in an area where the speed limit is thirty to drink one last coffee on the go before starting yet another boring day at the office is committing a crime. I did something much more ambitious: I devised and then implemented a complex and carefully planned plan born out of motivations that arose long before the unfortunate circumstances surrounding my birth. And, given that I don’t have much to do in this depressing and uninspiring cage (an imprudent psychologist offered me a course in spoken word, and to my great joy a glance was enough to make her understand that it wasn’t really the case, nor then or ever), I decided to tell my story. I don’t have the laptop I usually write on, so it won’t be an easy task. When my lawyer showed me a dim light at the end of the tunnel a while ago, I thought I’d make sense of my stay in prison and put some of the things I did on paper. One visit to the canteen, and I was left with a thin notepad and a ruined ballpoint pen (and £5 less than the £15.50 I have each week).
Forget the light-hearted articles advising you to save money by foregoing takeaway coffee: if you want to save some money, treat yourself to a stay at Limehouse. Writing may prove futile, but somehow I have to counter the paralyzing boredom of this place, and I hope that Kelly and her interminable group of ladies, as he insists on calling them, will stop asking me if I want to watch a reality show in the TV room while I’m focused. “Sorry, Kelly,” she’ll say, “but I can’t right now, I’m writing some important notes for the appeal. We talk later.” I’m sure the very idea of her telling her something juicy about herself will make her wink, wink like a character in an old movie, and convince her to leave me alone. Of course my story is not for her. I doubt she would be able to understand what prompted me to act the way I did. My story is mine alone, exactly, but if it were published people would go crazy. Even if it will never happen, it comforts me to know that it would. It would be a bestseller and everyone would run to the bookstore hoping to find out more about the attractive and tragic young woman who was capable of such a heinous act.
The tabloids have been talking about me for months and yet readers still haven’t gotten tired of the two-bit psychologists trying to analyze me from a distance, nor the occasional provocateur who defends me to cause a sensation on Twitter. My exploits have such a fascination that people have even fed up with a botched Channel 5 documentary which also featured a fat astrologer who claimed my birth chart predicted my future fate. Too bad he got the date of birth wrong. In short, I know they would all hang on my lips. My case became famous without giving particular explanations. And, ironically, without anyone knowing what I really did. This country’s justice system is ridiculous, and what I’m about to say is damning proof: I’ve killed many people (some brutally, some more gently), but I’m in prison for a murder I didn’t commit. If discovered, the crimes I’ve orchestrated would secure my fame for decades, maybe even centuries—if mankind can survive that long. Dr Crippen, Fred West, Ted Bundy, Lizzie Borden and finally me, Grace Bernard. I have to say I’m a little sorry. I’m not an amateur or an idiot. Out of here, I attracted the admiring glances of passers-by on the street. And maybe that’s why Kelly is all over me instead of beating me mercilessly like I expected. Even here I retain a certain elegance, and a coldness that those weaker than me desperately want to crack. They tell me that despite what I have done, I receive a lot of letters overflowing with love and esteem, or that they ask me where I bought the dress I had on the first day of the trial (it’s from Roksanda, for the record. Unfortunately the horrible wife of the prime minister wore a very similar garment just a month later). But there are also quite a few hateful messages. And then absurd letters from madmen convinced that I communicate with them telepathically. Apparently people really want to get to know me, they want to impress me, to imitate me, if not in gestures at least in the wardrobe. It doesn’t matter, however, because I don’t even read those letters: my lawyer collects them and takes them away. I don’t care what I represent to strangers frustrated enough to write to me. Maybe I’m too magnanimous with these people and delude myself that they feel complex emotions when the reality is quite different.
It is possible that the sustained and frenzied interest in my case could be explained by Occam’s razor, according to which the simplest answer is usually the right one. If so, my name will long outlive me, and for the most prosaic reason in the world: the idea of a love triangle is incredibly passionate and gory. But when I reflect on what I actually did, I realize that no one will ever know the intricate planning it required. Getting away with it is obviously the more appealing prospect, but maybe one day, long after my death, someone will open an old safe and find this confession. Everyone would be blown away. After all, hardly anyone is able to understand how a person of just twenty-eight years can kill six members of his family without batting an eye. And then continue to live as if nothing had happened, without even the shadow of a regret.
© 2021 Bella Mackie
© 2023 HarperCollins Italia SpA, Milan
Source: Vanity Fair

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