Good Girl, Bad Blood

A yawn split her face as she stared down at the toast in front of her. Not hungry.

‘Why are you so tired this morning?’ her mum asked, watching her over a mug of tea.

Pip shrugged, flicking the toast around her plate. Josh was sitting opposite her, humming as he shovelled Coco Pops into his mouth, swinging his legs out under the table and kicking her accidentally on purpose. She didn’t react, pulling her knees up to sit cross-legged on the chair instead. The radio was on in the background, tuned to BBC Three Counties, as always. The song was just ending, the hosts talking over the fading drums.

‘Are you taking too much on with this Jamie thing?’ her mum said.

‘It’s not a thing, Mum,’ Pip said, and she could feel herself growing irritable, wearing it like a layer beneath her skin, warm and unstable. ‘It’s his life. I can be tired for that.’

‘OK, OK,’ her mum said, taking the empty bowl away from Josh. ‘I’m allowed to worry about you.’

Pip wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t need anyone’s worry; Jamie did.

A text lit up Pip’s phone, from Ravi. Just leaving for court to wait for deliberation. How are you? X

Pip stood and scooped up her phone, grabbing her plate with the other hand and sliding the toast into the bin. She felt her mum’s eyes on her. ‘Not hungry yet,’ she explained. ‘I’ll take a cereal bar into school.’

She had only taken a few steps down the hall when her mum called her back.

‘I’m just going to the toilet!’ she replied.

‘Pip, get in here now!’ her mum shouted. And it was a real shout, a sound Pip rarely heard from her, rough and panicked.

Pip felt instantly cold, all feeling draining from her face. She spun back, socks sliding on the oak floor as she sprinted into the kitchen.

‘What, what, what?’ she said quickly, eyes darting from a confused-looking Josh to her mum, who was reaching over to the radio, turning up the volume.

‘Listen,’ she said.

‘. . . a dog walker discovered the body at about six a.m. yesterday morning in the woodland beside the A413, between Little Kilton and Amersham. Officers are still at the scene. The deceased is as yet unidentified but has been described as a white male in his early twenties. The cause of death is currently unknown. A spokesperson for Thames Valley Police has said –’

‘No.’ The word must have come from her, but she didn’t remember saying it. Didn’t remember moving her lips, nor the scrape of the word against her narrowing throat. ‘No no nonono.’ She didn’t feel anything except numb, her feet a solid weight sinking into the ground, her hands detaching from her finger by finger.

‘P . . . i . . . p?’

Everything around her moved too slowly, like the room was floating, because it was right there with her in the eye of the panic.

‘Pip!’

And everything snapped back into focus, into time, and she could hear her heart battering in her ears. She looked up at her mum, who mirrored back her terrified eyes.

‘Go,’ her mum said, hurrying over and turning Pip by her shoulders. ‘Go! I’ll call school and tell them you’ll be in late.’

‘Up next, one of my favourite songs from the eighties, we have Sweet Dreams . . . ’

‘He, he c-can’t be—’

‘Go,’ her mum said, pushing her down the hall, just as Pip’s phone started buzzing with an incoming call from Connor.

It was Connor who opened the door to her, his eyes rubbed red and a twitch in his upper lip.

Pip stepped inside without a word. She gripped his arm, above the elbow, for a long, silent second. And then she let go, saying, ‘Where’s your mum?’

‘Here.’ His voice was just a croak as he led Pip into the cold living room. The daylight was wrong in here, too harsh, too bright, too alive. And Joanna was huddled against it, wrapped in an old blanket on the sofa, her face buried inside a tissue.

‘Pip’s here,’ Connor said in barely more than a whisper.

Joanna glanced up. Her eyes were swollen and she looked different, like something beneath her face had broken.

She didn’t speak, just held out her arms, and Pip stumbled forward to lower herself on to the sofa. Joanna wrapped her arms around her and Pip held her back, feeling Joanna’s racing heart in her own chest.

‘We need to call Detective Hawkins at the police station in Amersham,’ Pip said, pulling back. ‘Ask if they’ve identified the –’

‘Arthur’s on the phone to them now.’ Joanna shuffled over to clear a space between them for Connor. And once Connor had settled, his leg pressing into hers, Pip could hear the sound of Arthur’s voice, growing louder as he left the kitchen and walked towards them.

‘Yes,’ he said, entering the room with the phone to his ear, blinking as his gaze settled on Pip. His face looked grey, mouth in a tense line. ‘Jamie Reynolds. No, Reynolds, with an R. Yes. Case number? Um . . .’ His eyes darted over to Joanna. She began to push up from the sofa but Pip cut in.

‘Four nine zero,’ she said, Arthur repeating the numbers after her, into the phone. ‘Zero one five. Two nine three.’

Arthur nodded at her. ‘Yes. Missing since last Friday night.’ He chewed his thumb. ‘The body found by the A413, do you know who it is yet? No. No, don’t put me on hold aga—’

He leaned against the door, closing it, his head resting against one finger, pushing his skin into folds. Waiting.

And waiting.

It was the worst wait Pip had ever had in her life. Her chest so tight she had to force the air through and out of her nose. And with every breath she thought she might be sick, swallowing down the bile.

Please, she kept thinking, no idea who she was thinking it to. Just someone. Anyone. Please please don’t let it be Jamie. Please. She’d promised Connor. She’d promised she’d find his brother. She promised she’d save him. Please. Please, not him.

Her eyes slipped from Arthur back to Connor beside her.

‘Should I be here?’ she mouthed silently.

But Connor nodded and took her hand, their palms clammy, sticking together. She saw him take his mother’s hand, too, on the other side.

Waiting.

Arthur’s eyes were closed, the fingers on his free hand pressing into his eyelids, so hard it must have hurt, his chest rising in stuttering movements.

Waiting.

Until . . .

‘Yes?’ Arthur said, his eyes snapping open.

Pip’s heartbeat was so loud, so fast, it felt like that was all she was: a heart and the empty skin around it.

‘Hello detective,’ said Arthur. ‘Yes, that’s what I’m calling about. Yes.’

Connor gripped Pip’s hand even tighter, crushing her bones together.

‘Yes, I understand. So, is –’ Arthur’s hand was shaking at his side. ‘Yes, I understand that.’

He went quiet, listening to the other end of the phone. And then his face dropped.

Cracked in two.

He doubled forward, the phone going limp in his fingers. Other hand up to his face as he bawled into it. A high, inhuman sound that wracked his entire body.

Connor’s hand went slack against Pip’s, his jaw falling open.

Arthur straightened up, tears spilling down into his bared mouth.

‘It’s not Jamie,’ he said.

‘What?’ Joanna stood up, clutching her face.

‘It’s not Jamie,’ Arthur said again, choking over a sob, placing his phone down. ‘It’s someone else. His family just identified him. It’s not Jamie.’

‘It’s not Jamie?’ Joanna said, like she didn’t dare believe it yet.

‘It’s not him,’ Arthur said, staggering forward to pull her into him, crying down in her hair. ‘It’s not our boy. Not Jamie.’

Connor unstuck from Pip, his cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, and he folded himself in around his parents. They held each other and they cried, and it was a cry of relief and grief and confusion. They’d lost him for a while. For a few minutes, in their heads and in hers, Jamie Reynolds had been dead.

But it wasn’t him.

Pip held the sleeve of her jumper to her eyes, tears falling hot, soaking into the fabric.

Thank you, she thought to that invisible person in her head. Thank you.

They had another chance.

She had one last chance.