And there he was.
On the other side of the road. Blue water bottle gripped in one hand.
Max Hastings.
And just as she saw him, he saw her. Their eyes met, only the width of one road between them as they approached each other.
Max slowed his pace, pushing his blonde hair back from his face. Why was he slowing down? Shouldn’t he want to get this over and done with too, the moment they had to pass each other? Pip pushed her legs harder, a pain in her ankle, and their mismatched steps became a kind of music, a chaotic percussion that filled the unknowing street, accompanying the high-pitched howl of the wind in the trees. Or did that sound come from inside her head?
There was a tightening in her chest as her heart outgrew its cage, unrolling under her skin, filling her with angry red until it was all behind her eyes. She watched him draw close and her view shifted to red, the scene speeding up before her. Something takes over, pulls Pip by the hand across the road, guiding her feet. And she isn’t scared any more, she is only rage. Only red. And this is right, this is supposed to be, she knows it.
She’s over the road in six strides, and up on to his side. He’s just feet away when he stops, stares at her.
‘What are you do—’ he begins to ask. She doesn’t let him finish.
Pip closes the gap between them and her elbow crashes into Max’s face. She hears a crack, but it isn’t Stanley’s ribs this time, it’s Max’s nose. The sound is the same, it’s all she knows. Max bends double and howls into his hands as the nose falls crooked on his face. But she isn’t finished. Pip rips his hands away and hits him again, slamming her fist into his sharp cheekbones. His blood, it slides between her knuckles on to her palm, right where it belongs.
And still she isn’t finished. There’s a lorry coming; there are never lorries on this small country lane, they wouldn’t fit. But this one is almost here, and now is her chance. Pip grabs Max, twisting her hands into the fabric of his sweat-stained top. And in that passing moment, Max’s eyes widen in fear and they both know it: she has won. The lorry’s horn screams but Max doesn’t have a chance to. Pip throws him out into the road in front of the too-big lorry and he explodes, raining red down on her as she stands there, smiling.
A car passed, in real life, and the sound brings her back. The red falls from her eyes and Pip returned to herself. To here and now. Running down this path. Max was over there on his side of the road, and she here on hers. Pip looked down and blinked, trying to shake loose the violence inside her own head. If she should be scared of anything, it was of that.
She glanced up again at Max, keeping her eye on him as he regained his speed, water bottle pumping at his side. The moment was coming, the moment they would pass each other, cross paths, overlap. They were still running towards each other and then it happened, the pass, the split second of convergence, and then they were running away from each other, their backs turned.
At the end of the lane, Pip checked back over her shoulder. Max was gone and she could breathe a little easier, without his steps haunting hers.
She was getting worse; she could step outside of herself and recognize that. The panic attacks, the pills, the rage so hot it might just burn the world down with it. She was slipping ever further from that normal life she was so desperate to crawl back to. To Ravi, to her family, her friends. But it would be OK, because she had a plan for how to get there. To fix everything. Save Jane Doe, save herself.
But there might be a new obstacle now, she realized as she looped down the far end of Martinsend Way, past the broken lamp post, her usual marker to slow for the wind-down walk home. If she really did have a stalker, whoever they were, whatever they wanted to do to her – whether it was just scare her, or whether they really did want her to disappear – they were now in her way too. Or maybe it was Pip getting in her own way. What had Epps called it? A self-destructive spiral. Maybe there was no stalker, maybe there was just her and an overspill of violence from that dark place at the back of her head. Finding danger only because she was looking for it.
That’s when she walked over it, on the pavement between the Yardleys’ house and the Williamses’， her own still in the distance. She caught it as a blur in the corner of her eye, white intersecting lines and a large smudge of chalk, but she had to back-step before she realized what it really was. There across the width of the pavement, smeared by her own trainers, were three large words written in chalk:
DEAD GIRL WALKING
Pip’s head whipped around. She was alone on the street, and the neighbourhood was dinner-time quiet. She turned back to study the words beneath her feet. Dead Girl Walking. She had been the one to walk over them. Was this for her? It wasn’t on her driveway, but it was on her route. A feeling in her gut, an instinct. It was a message for her, Pip knew it.