‘Luke,’ she said, sharper than she’d meant. ‘Those pills – the Rohypnol – are you selling them to someone in town? Does someone here buy them from you?’
He blinked at her.
‘Is it Max Hastings? Does he buy those from you? He’s tall, longish blonde hair, well-spoken. Is it him? Is he the one buying those pills from you?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Is it Max?’ Pip said, the urgency cracking her voice.
Luke’s eyes hardened, the pity a thing of the past. ‘You know the rules by now. I don’t answer questions. I don’t ask’em and I don’t answer’em.’ There was the slightest smirk on his face. ‘Rules apply to you too. I know you think you’re special, but you’re not. See you next time.’
Pip crushed the bag in her hand as she walked out of the house. She thought to slam the door behind her, a flash of rage beneath her skin, but then thought better of it. Her heart was even faster now, battering against her chest, filling her head with the sound of cracking ribs. And those dead eyes, they were hiding just over there in the shadows from the street lamps. If Pip blinked, they’d be waiting for her in the darkness there too.
Was Max the one buying those pills from Luke? He used to buy them from Andie Bell who got them from Howie Bowers. But Luke had always been the one supplying Howie, and he was all that was left, the two lower links in the chain now gone. If Max was still buying, it would have to be from Luke, that made the most sense. Were he and Pip almost crossing paths at Luke’s front door like they did on their runs? Was he still slipping pills into the drinks of women? Was he still ruining lives, like he had done to Nat da Silva and Becca Bell? The thought made her stomach churn, and oh god, she was going to be sick, right here in the middle of the road.
She doubled over and tried to breathe through it, the bag rattling in her shaking hands. It couldn’t wait any longer. She stumbled to the other side of the road, under the covering of the trees. She reached inside the paper bag for one of the see-through baggies, struggling to unfasten it because her fingers were coated in blood.
Sweat. Just sweat.
She pulled out one of the long white pills, different to the kind she’d taken before. Scored into one side were three lines and the word Xanax, and on the other a 2. At least it wasn’t fake then, or cut with anything else. A dog barked from somewhere close by. Hurry up. Pip snapped the pill along the middle line and pushed half of it through her lips. Her mouth had already filled with saliva and she swallowed it dry.
She tucked the bag under her arm just as the dog walker and small white terrier came around the corner. It was Gail Yardley, who lived down her road.
‘Ah, Pip,’ she said, her shoulders relaxing. ‘You surprised me.’ She looked her up and down. ‘I swear I just saw you a second ago outside your house, coming back from one of your runs. Mind playing tricks on me, I guess.’
‘Happens to the best of us,’ Pip said, rearranging her face.
‘Yes, well,’ Gail laughed awkwardly through her nose. ‘I won’t keep you.’ She walked away, the dog stopping to sniff Pip’s trainers before the lead grew taut and it tottered off after her.
Pip rounded the same corner Gail had come from, her throat sore from where the pill had scratched on its way down. And now the other feeling: guilt. She couldn’t believe she’d done this again. Last time, she told herself as she walked towards home. Last time and now you’re done.
At least she’d get some sleep tonight. It should come on soon, the unnatural calmness, like a warm shield across her thinning skin, and the relief when the muscles in her jaw finally unclenched. Yes, she would sleep tonight; she had to.
The doctor had put her on a course of Valium, back after it first happened. The first time she saw death and held it in her hands. But it wasn’t long before he took her off, even when she’d begged him not to. She could still recite what he’d said, word for word.
‘You need to come up with your own strategies to cope with the trauma and stress. This medication will only make it harder to recover from the PTSD in the long-term. You don’t need them, Pippa, you can do this.’
How wrong he’d been. She did need them, needed them as much as she needed sleep. This was her strategy. And at the same time, she knew. She knew he was right, and she was making everything worse.
‘The most effective treatment is talk therapy, so we’re going to continue your weekly sessions.’
She’d tried, she really had. And after eight sessions she’d told everyone that she was feeling much better, really. She was fine. A lie practised well enough now that people believed her, even Ravi. She thought if she had to go to one more session, she might just die. How could she talk about it? It was an impossible thing that escaped language or sense.