? Mary Scythe – another protestor. And she was one of Stanley’s friends, volunteered with him at the Kilton Mail. She said this was ‘our town’ and he shouldn’t be buried in it. Maybe she’d want me out of her town too.
? Jason Bell – I found the truth of what really happened to Andie Bell, and yet it only caused more pain for the Bell family, to learn that their younger daughter, Becca, had been involved all along. Plus, it brought a huge amount of press and media attention back into their lives five years after Andie first died. Jason and DI Hawkins play tennis, apparently, and Jason complained to Hawkins about harassment he’d received because of the podcast, because of me. Jason’s second marriage broke down – was that because of my podcast too? He’s now back living with Andie’s mum, Dawn, in the house where Andie died.
? Dawn Bell – same reasoning as above. Maybe she didn’t want Jason back in the house. My investigation indicated that Jason isn’t a good man: he was controlling and emotionally abusive to his wife and daughters. Becca won’t really talk about him. Could Dawn blame me for having him back in her life? Did I do that to her? I didn’t mean to.
? Charlie Green – it’s not him. I know it’s not him. He never intended to hurt me. He set that fire because he wanted me to leave Stanley there, to make sure he died. I know that’s why. Charlie wouldn’t want to hurt me: he looked out for me, helped me, even if he had his own reasons why. But the objective part of my brain knows he should be on the list because I am the only witness to him committing first-degree murder and he is still a fugitive on the run. Without me to testify, would a jury find him guilty? Logic dictates he should be on here. But it isn’t him, I know it.
? DI Richard Hawkins – fuck him.
Is it normal for one person to have this many enemies? I’m the problem, aren’t I?
How did it get so late already?
I understand why they all hate me.
I might hate me too.
Chalk dust on her fingers, gritty and dry. Except there wasn’t, because she was awake now, her eyes cracking open, dragging her from the dream. Her eyes felt gritty and dry, but her fingers were clean. Pip sat up.
It was still dark in her room.
Had she been asleep?
She must have been asleep, otherwise how had she dreamed?
It was all still there, thrumming around her head, like it had all been lived only moments before. But not lived, only imagined, right?
It had felt so real. The weight of it in her cupped hands. Still warm, keeping away the cold of the dark night. Its feathers so soft, so sleek against the cage of her fingers. Pip had locked eyes with it, or she would have done, if it had had a head. She hadn’t thought that strange at the time – that was the way it was supposed to be – as she carried the small, dead pigeon across the driveway. So soft she almost didn’t want to let it go. But she had to, resting the dead bird down on the bricked driveway, shifting it so that the space where its head should have been was pointing towards her bedroom window. Looking in through the gap in the curtains to watch Pip asleep in her bed. Both here and there.
But it hadn’t finished there. There was more to do before she could rest. Another task. The chalk had already been in her hand, not nearly as nice to hold as the dead pigeon. Where had it come from? Pip didn’t know, but she knew what she was supposed to do with it. She’d retraced her steps, remembering where the last ones had been. Then she stepped forward three times, towards the house, to find their new home.
Knees on the cold driveway, the chalk in her hand ground down to a stub, her fingers red and raw as she dragged it along the lines of the bricks. Downward legs. Upward body. Sideway arms. No head. She carried on until there were five stick figures, dancing together, slowly making their way to Pip asleep in her bed to ask her to join them.
Would she join them? She didn’t know, but she was finished, and the chalk had dropped from her hands with a tiny clatter. Chalk dust on her fingers, gritty and dry.
And then Pip had pulled herself out of the dream, studying her fingers to know what was real and what wasn’t. Her heart was fluttering, wingbeat fast, winding up the rest of her. She’d never sleep again now.
She checked the time. It was 4:32 a.m. She really should try to sleep; she’d only climbed into bed two hours ago. Time was always cruel to her in these early hours. She wouldn’t be able to do it, not without help.
Pip glanced through the darkness at the drawer in her desk. There was no point fighting it. She threw off her duvet, the cold air full of invisible jaws, biting at her exposed skin.