The smile stayed a little longer this time, after Ravi was gone. It did. But when Pip walked upstairs, standing alone in her bedroom, she realized it had already left her without saying its goodbyes. She never knew how to bring it back.
The headache was starting to pinch at her temples now, as her eyes focused beyond the window at the thickening darkness outside. The clouds amassing into one dark, lurking shape. Night-time. Pip checked the time on her phone; it had just gone nine. Wouldn’t be long now until everyone was in bed, lost to sleep. Everyone but her. The lone pair of eyes in a sleeping town, begging the night to pass on by.
She’d promised herself no more. Last time was the last time. She’d repeated it in her head like a mantra. But even as she tried to tell herself that now, even as she balled her fists against her temples to out-hurt the pain, she knew it was hopeless, that she would lose. She always lost. And she was tired, so tired, of fighting it.
Pip crossed to her door and gently closed it, in case anyone walked by. Her family could never know. And not Ravi. Especially not Ravi.
At her desk, she placed her iPhone on top, between her notebook and her bulky black headphones. She opened the drawer, the second one down on the right, and began to pull out the contents: the pot of pins, her rewound red string, an old pair of white earphones, a glue stick.
She removed the pad of A4 paper and reached the bottom of the drawer – the false bottom she’d made out of white cardboard. She dug her fingertips in at one side and prised it up.
There, hidden below, were the burner phones. All six of them, arranged in a neat line. Six pre-paid phones bought with cash, each from a different shop, a cap pulled low over Pip’s face as she’d handed over the money.
The phones stared blankly up at her.
Just one more time, and then she was done. She promised.
Pip reached in and took out the one on the left, an old grey Nokia. She held the power button down to turn it on, her fingers shaking with the pressure. There was a familiar sound hiding in the beat of her heart. The phone lit up with a greenish backlight, welcoming her back. In the simple menu, Pip clicked on to her messages, to the only contact saved in this phone. In any of them.
Her thumbs worked against the buttons, clicking number 1 three times to get to C.
Can I come over now? she wrote. She pressed send with one last promise to herself: this was the very last time.
She waited, watching the empty screen below her message. She willed the response to appear, concentrated only on that, not on the growing sound inside her chest. But now that she’d thought about it, she couldn’t unthink it, couldn’t unhear it. She held her breath and willed even harder.
It worked.
Yes, he replied.
It was a race, between her ticking heart and the pounding of her trainers on the pavement. Her body alive with sound, from her chest to her feet, dulled only by the noise cancellation of her headphones. But Pip couldn’t lie to herself that one was caused by the other; she’d been running for only four minutes and already she was here, turning on to Beacon Close. The heart had preceded the feet.
She’d told her parents she was going out on a quick run, as she always did – dressed in her navy leggings and a white sports top – so at least running here left her with a shred of honesty. Shreds and scraps were all she could hope for. Sometimes running itself was enough, but not tonight. No, tonight there was only one thing that could help her.
Pip slowed as she approached number thirteen, lowering her headphones to cradle her neck. She planted her heels and stood still for a moment, checking whether she really needed to do this. If she took one more step there was no going back.
She walked up the drive to the terraced house, past the gleaming white BMW parked at a slanted angle. At the dark red door, Pip’s fingers passed over the doorbell, balling into a fist to knock on the wood. The doorbell wasn’t allowed; it made too much noise and the neighbours might notice.
Pip knocked again until she could see his outline in the frosted glass, growing taller and taller. The sound of the sliding bolt and then the door opened inward, Luke Eaton’s face in the crack. In the darkness, the tattooed patterns climbing up his neck and the side of his face looked like his skin had come apart, strips of flesh re-building to form a net.
He pulled the door just wide enough for her to fit through.
‘Come on, quickly,’ he said gruffly, turning to walk down the hall. ‘Got someone coming over soon.’
Pip closed the front door behind her, and followed Luke around the bend into the small, square kitchen. Luke was wearing the exact same pair of dark basketball shorts he’d been wearing the first time Pip met him – when she’d come here to talk to Nat da Silva about the missing Jamie Reynolds. Thank god Nat had got away from Luke now; the house was empty, just the two of them.
Luke bent down to open one of the kitchen cabinets. ‘Thought you said last time was it. That you wouldn’t be back again.’
‘I did say that, didn’t I,’ Pip replied flatly, picking at her fingernails. ‘I just need to sleep. That’s all.’
Luke rustled around in the cupboard, coming back up with a paper bag clenched in his fist. He opened the top and held it out so Pip could see inside.
‘They’re two milligram pills this time,’ Luke said, shaking the bag. ‘That’s why there aren’t as many.’
‘Yeah, that’s fine,’ Pip said, glancing up at Luke. She wished she hadn’t. She always found herself studying the geography of his face, searching for the ways he was similar to Stanley Forbes. Both of them had been Charlie Green’s final suspects for Child Brunswick, narrowed down from all the men in Little Kilton. But Luke had been a wrong turn, the wrong man, and lucky for him because he was still alive. Pip had never seen his blood, never worn it the way she’d worn Stanley’s. It was on her hands now, the feel of cracking ribs below the pads of her fingers. Dripping on to the linoleum floor.
No, it was just sweat, just a tremor in her hands.
Pip gave her hands something to do to distract them. She reached into the waistband of her leggings and pulled out the cash, flicking through the notes in front of Luke until he nodded. She passed over the money and then held out her other hand. The paper bag went into it, crinkling under her grip.
Luke stalled, a new look in his eyes. One that seemed dangerously close to pity. ‘You know,’ he said, doubling back to the cupboard, returning with a small, clear baggie. ‘If you’re struggling, I have something stronger than Xanax. Will completely knock you out.’ He held up the baggie and shook it, filled with oblong tablets of a light mossy-green hue.
Pip stared at them, bit her lip. ‘Stronger?’ she asked.
‘Definitely.’
‘W-what is it?’ she asked, her eyes transfixed.
‘This,’ Luke gave it another shake, ‘is Rohypnol. Stuff puts you right out.’
Pip’s gut tightened. ‘No thanks.’ She dropped her eyes.
‘I’ve had experience.’ By which she meant she’d had it pumped out of her stomach when Becca Bell had slipped it into her drink ten months ago. Pills that her sister, Andie, had been selling to Max Hastings before she died.
‘Suit yourself,’ he said, pocketing the small bag. ‘Offer’s there if you want it. More expensive though, obviously.’