‘Yeah, that was good, Naomi,’ Pip said, studying the photo. She could tell the smiles weren’t real, none of them. But Hawkins wouldn’t.
Pip had another idea, the hairs rising up her arms as she realized where it had come from. She might just be putting one foot in front of the other, getting through the plan, but her steps weren’t in a line. They were curving back on themselves, right to the start of everything.
‘Naomi,’ she said, holding up the camera again. ‘In the next one, can you be looking down at your phone, angling the screen this way, so we can see it in the photo. On the lock screen, so it displays the time.’
Both of them stared at her for a second, eyes flickering with recognition. And maybe they could feel it too, that all-seeing circle reeling them back along. They knew where the idea came from too. It was exactly how Pip had worked out that Sal Singh’s friends had taken his alibi away from him. A photo taken by Sal, and in the background had been an eighteen-year-old Naomi, looking down at her phone’s lock screen, the time on it giving everything away. Proving that Sal had been there, long after his friends originally said he left. Proving that he had never had enough time to kill Andie Bell.
‘Y-yeah,’ Naomi said shakily. ‘Good idea.’
Pip watched the three of them in the front camera of Cara’s phone, waiting for Naomi to get her positioning right, lining up the shot. She took the photo. Shifted her smile and her eyes and took another, Cara fidgeting beside her.
‘Good,’ she said, studying it, her eyes drawn to the little white numbers on Naomi’s home screen, telling them the photo had been taken at 10:51 p.m. exactly. The numbers that had helped her crack a case once before, and now they were helping her make one. Concrete evidence. Try not believing that, Hawkins.
They took more photos. Videos too. Naomi filming Cara as she attempted to see how many chips she could fit in her mouth at once, spitting them into the bin while the table of drunk men cheered her on. Cara zooming in on Pip’s face while she sipped her Coke, zooming and zooming, until the shot was only of Pip’s nostril, while she innocently asked, ‘Are you filming me?’ A line they had prepared.
It was a performance. Hollow, orchestrated. A show for Detective Inspector Hawkins days from now. Weeks, even.
Pip forced down another chicken nugget, her gut protesting, foaming and simmering. And then she felt it, that metallic coating at the back of her tongue.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, standing up abruptly, the others looking up at her. ‘Gotta pee.’
Pip hurried across the concourse, her trainers shrieking against the just-mopped tiles as she headed towards the toilets.
She pushed through the door, almost crashing into someone drying their hands.
‘Sorry,’ Pip just about managed to say, but it was coming, it was coming. Rising up her throat.
She darted into a cubicle, slamming the door behind her but no time to lock it.
She dropped to her knees and leaned over the toilet just in time.
She vomited. A shudder down to the very deepest parts of her as she vomited again. Her body convulsing, trying to rid itself of all that darkness. But didn’t it know, that was all inside her head? She threw up again, undigested bits of food, and again, until it was just discoloured water. Until she was empty, retching with nothing more to come, but the darkness remained.
Pip sat back beside the toilet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She pulled the flush and sat there for a moment, breathing hard, her neck resting against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. Sweat trickled down her temples and the insides of her arms. Someone tried to push into her cubicle, but Pip kicked it shut with one foot.
She shouldn’t stay in here too long. She had to hold it together. If she broke down then the plan did too and she wouldn’t survive it. Just a few more hours, a few more boxes to tick in her head, and then she would be clear. Safe. Get up, she told herself, and the Ravi inside her head said it too, so she had to listen.
Pip pushed up to her feet, shakily, and pulled open the cubicle. Two women around her mum’s age stared at her as she walked over to the sink to wash her hands. Wash her face too, but not too hard that it cleared away the foundation covering the tape marks beneath. She swilled cold water around her mouth and spat it out. Took one tentative sip.
Their stares hardened, disgust in the way they held their upper lips.
‘Too many J?gerbombs,’ Pip said, shrugging at them. ‘You’ve got lipstick on your teeth,’ she told one of the women before leaving the bathroom.