As Good as Dead: The Finale to A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

Pip still didn’t breathe.

She pushed her eyes up against the cupboard door, adjusting to the checkerboard view beyond.

Outside, Max swayed on his feet for a moment. Then he stumbled past her, holding one hand to his face. Up to his eye.

Pip exhaled, carefully, breath bouncing back into her face. Nat must have hit him. That was the thump Pip heard. Not part of the plan, but it had worked. Bought Pip enough time to hide in this cupboard.

Max hadn’t seen her; he didn’t know anyone was inside. The drugs were in place, dissolved in his blue water bottle. She’d made it. The part where Ravi was scared it would all fall apart. She’d just about held it together.

And now, Pip waited.

Max moved away from her, past the living room, towards an archway into the kitchen. Pip heard clattering, Max swearing to himself under his breath, and another slamming door. He returned a minute later, clutching something up to his eye.

Pip shifted to get a better view as Max padded over to the sofa. Something green and plastic; maybe a pack of frozen peas. Good. Pip hoped Nat hadn’t held back. Although, now Max would have a black eye to explain, to fit into the narrative. But maybe that wasn’t a bad thing, maybe that worked even better. A fight, between Max and Jason Bell. Jason punched him and Max walked away, returned with a hammer, sneaking up behind him. Yes, the bruise blossoming on Max’s face could bend, fit right into the story Pip was creating for that not-yet dead man ten miles away.

Max slumped down into his place on the sofa. Pip could no longer see his face, just a striped view of the back of his head. A grunt, a shuffling sound as he must have rearranged the peas. His head moved as he leaned forward.

Pip couldn’t see. She couldn’t see from here if he was drinking the water.

But she could hear it. That obnoxious sucking sound from the spout, filling the silent house, cutting right through her.

Pip pushed up on to her feet, quietly, quietly, her bag snagging on the top of the Hoover. She unhooked it and straightened up, looking through the slats again. Now she could see him, from this height. One hand on the frozen peas over his eye, the other clutched around his bottle. At least four large sips before he put it back down. That wasn’t enough. He had to drink all of it, most of it.

She pulled out the burner phone from the front pocket of her hoodie. It was 8:57 p.m. Fuck, almost nine already. Pip thought they could buy at least three hours with Jason’s body. Which meant she only had half an hour until the time-of-death window might open. She was supposed to start establishing her alibi in forty-five minutes.

And yet, there was nothing she could do now. All she could do was wait. Watch Max from her hiding place. Try to play god, using that dark place in her mind to make him sit forward and drink more.

Max didn’t listen. He leaned forward, but only to place his phone on the coffee table. Then he picked up his controller and unpaused his game. Gunshots. A lot, but Pip heard only six, striking her through the chest, Stanley’s blood creeping over her hands in the dark cupboard. Stanley’s, not Jason’s. She could tell the difference somehow.

Max took another sip at 9 p.m. on the dot.

Two more at 9:03 p.m.

Went to the downstairs toilet at 9:05 p.m. It was right next to Pip’s cupboard, and she could hear everything. He didn’t flush, and she didn’t breathe.

Another sip at 9:06 p.m. as he returned to the sofa, a sucking, rattling sound from the spout. He put down the water bottle, and then picked it back up again, getting to his feet. What was he doing? Where was he taking it? Pip couldn’t see, shifting her head to peer through the slats.

He wandered through the archway into the kitchen. Pip heard the sound of a running tap. Max appeared again, the blue bottle in his hand. Twisting his wrist as he screwed the top back on. He’d just refilled the bottle. He must have drunk it all, or at least he’d got close enough to the bottom to need to fill up.

The drugs were gone. Inside him now.

Max stumbled, tripping over his own bare foot. He stood there for a moment, blinking down at his feet, like he was confused, a deepening red mark under one eye.

The pills must have already started to take effect. Some had been in his system for over ten minutes now. How long would it be until he passed out?

Max took a tentative step, swaying slightly, and then another quick one, hurrying over to the sofa. He lowered himself down, took another sip of water. He was feeling dizzy, Pip could tell. She’d had that same feeling, almost a year ago, sitting across from Becca in the Bells’ kitchen, though she’d been given more than two and a half milligrams. The exhaustion, like her body was starting to separate from her mind. Soon his legs wouldn’t be able to hold him up.

Pip wondered what he was thinking right now, as he unpaused the game and started shooting again, taking cover behind a dilapidated wall. Maybe he was thinking his light-headedness had come from the blow to his head, from Nat’s fist. Maybe he was feeling tired, and as he felt sleep dragging him in, closer and closer, he’d tell himself he just needed to sleep it off. He’d never know, never suspect, that as soon as he fell asleep, he would be out of the house, killing a man.

Max’s head lowered against the arm of the sofa, resting on the frozen peas. Pip couldn’t see his face, couldn’t see his eyes. But they must have still been open, because he was still shooting.

But his on-screen character was moving sluggishly too, the violent world spinning around him in dizzying circles as Max started to lose control of his thumbs.

Pip watched, eyes flicking between the two.

Waiting. Waiting.

She glanced down at the time, the minutes running away from her.

And when she looked back up, neither of them were moving. Not Max, stretched out on the sofa, head up on the arm. And not his character on-screen, standing still in the middle of a battlefield, life bar draining as he took hit after hit.

You’re dead, the game told him, fading to a loading screen.

And Max didn’t react, didn’t move at all.

He must have passed out, right? He must be unconscious. It was 9:17 p.m. now, twenty minutes after he’d first started drinking the spiked water.

Pip didn’t know. And she didn’t know how she could know for certain, trapped back here in the understairs cupboard. If she left her hiding place and he wasn’t asleep, the plan was finished, and so was she.

Gently, Pip pushed the slatted door of the cupboard, opening it just a few inches. She glanced around her, looking for something, something small, to test it out. Her eyes landed on the plug for the vacuum cleaner, its long wire wound around the machine. That would do. Pip unwound some of the cable, to give herself some slack, ready to reel it back in and close the cupboard door if Max reacted at all.

She threw the plug out of the cupboard, towards the living room. It clattered, bounding three times against the floorboards before it reached the end of its wired leash.

Nothing.

Max didn’t stir at all, lying deadly still on the sofa.

He was out.

Pip pulled the vacuum plug back in, the plastic hissing loudly against the floor, and still Max didn’t move. She rewound the wire and then left her cupboard, closing it behind her.

She knew he was out, but she trod carefully anyway, creeping one foot in front of the other, towards the large rug, towards the sofa, towards him. As she neared, she could now see his face, cheek crushed up against the hard end of the couch, his breaths deep and whistling. At least he was breathing, that was good.

Pip approached the coffee table, the hairs rising up the back of her neck. She felt like he was watching her somehow, even though his eyelids were heavy and closed, the beginnings of a bruise around one. He looked helpless, lying there behind her, his face almost child-like, innocent. People always looked innocent when they slept; pure, removed from the world and its wrongs. But Max was not innocent, not even close. How many girls had he looked at like this, laid out helpless before him? Had he ever felt guilty, like Pip almost did now? No, he hadn’t; he was a taker, through and through. Born wrong, bred wrong, it didn’t matter which.

And Pip knew, as her eyes trailed away from him, that this wasn’t just about her own survival; she knew herself well enough by now. Had reckoned with that dark place in her mind long enough.

This was also revenge.

This town wasn’t big enough for the both of them. This world wasn’t. One of them had to go, and Pip was going to give one hell of a fight.

She reached forward, wrapping her gloved fingers around Max’s phone. It illuminated as she picked it up, telling her that it was 9:19 p.m. now, and she better hurry.

The symbol at the top told her that the battery had at least half of its charge left. Good, that should be enough.

Pip stepped away from Max, behind the sofa. She flicked the side button to switch his phone on to silent and then she bent to her knees, removing her rucksack. She reached inside and retrieved one of the small, clear sandwich bags, swapping it with the empty baggie from her pocket and the roll of duct tape.

She opened the sandwich bag and dropped Max’s phone inside, sealing the top after it. She straightened up, her knees clicking at her, and turned towards the front door. She left her rucksack behind her on the floor; she wasn’t finished here yet, she’d be back in a minute. But first she needed to hand off Max’s phone to Jamie and Connor.

She passed a sideboard in the hallway, a wooden bowl on top with a collection of coins and keys. Pip rifled through until she found an Audi keyring and pulled it free. These must have been Max’s car keys, the house keys attached too. Pip would need these as well.

Keys in one hand, bagged-up phone in the other, Pip pulled open the Hastingses’ front door and stepped outside into the cool evening, shutting the door gently behind her. She walked down the front path, glancing quickly at the duct-taped cameras. She could see them, but they couldn’t see her.

Down Tudor Lane, to the dark waiting shape of Jamie’s car.

The passenger-side door opened and Nat poked her head out.

‘All OK?’ she asked, and the relief in her eyes was evident.

‘Y-yeah, fine,’ Pip said, taken aback. ‘What are you still doing here, Nat? You were supposed to leave straight after, go to your brother’s house to establish an alibi.’

‘I wasn’t going to leave you alone in there with him,’ Nat said firmly. ‘Not until I knew you were safe.’

Pip nodded. She understood. Even though she wouldn’t have been alone – Jamie and Connor were right here – she understood.

‘All good?’ Connor asked her from the back seat.

‘Yeah, he’s out,’ said Pip.

‘Sorry I had to hit him.’ Nat looked up at her. ‘He was trying to push me out and shut the door, and I could still see you there behind him, so I just –’

‘No, that’s fine,’ Pip cut across her. ‘Might actually work out for the better, even.’

‘And it felt good.’ Nat smiled. ‘Wanted to do that for a long time.’

‘But you need to get to your brother’s now,’ Pip said, her voice hardening. ‘Unlikely anyone will believe Max when he says you went over for a chat, but I want you to be as secure as possible.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Nat replied. ‘Dan will be on his fifth beer already. I’ll tell him it’s 8:45, he won’t know the difference. Kim and the baby are at her mum’s.’

‘OK.’ Pip shifted her focus to Jamie behind the steering wheel. She leaned across Nat to hand him Max’s bagged-up phone. Jamie took it and gave her a small nod, placing it down on his lap. ‘I’ve put it on silent already,’ she said. ‘Battery looks good.’

Jamie nodded again. ‘I’ve plugged the location into the satnav,’ he said, indicating the car’s inbuilt system. ‘Then two right turns to Green Scene Limited. Back roads only.’

‘And your phones are off?’ Pip asked.

‘Phones off.’

‘Connor?’ She turned to him.

‘Yes,’ he said, eyes glowing from the dark back seat. ‘Turned it off back at home. We won’t turn them back on again, not until we’re clear.’

‘Good.’ Pip exhaled. ‘So, when you get there, you’ll see that the gate is open. Do not go inside, you understand? You must not go inside. Promise me.’

‘No, we won’t,’ Connor said. A small glance between the brothers.

‘Promise,’ Jamie added.

‘Don’t even look through the gate, just pull up outside, off the road,’ Pip said. ‘Leave Max’s phone in the bag, don’t touch it whatever you do. There’s some rocks, big rocks, on the grass, lining the small drive up to the gate. Leave the phone in the bag behind the first big rock. Just put the bag there and leave.’

‘Pip, we’ve got it,’ Jamie said.

‘Sorry, I just… It can’t go wrong. Not one part can go wrong.’

‘It won’t,’ Jamie said softly, kindly, calming her spiking nerves. ‘We’ve got you.’

‘Have you worked out where you’re going after?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ Connor said, leaning forward, into the yellow glow of the light by the rear-view mirror. ‘There’s this late-night Marvel film festival thing at one of the cinemas in Wycombe. We’ll go there. Turn our phones on when we get to the car park. Make a couple of calls and texts while we’re there. Cameras everywhere. We’ll be fine.’

‘OK.’ Pip nodded. ‘Good, yeah, that’s a good idea, Connor.’

He smiled weakly at her, and she could tell he was scared. Scared because he could tell that something terrible had happened, and he’d never know what he’d been a part of. Though they could guess, they’d probably guess when the news got out. But as long as it was never said out loud, as long as they didn’t truly know, beyond any doubt. Connor didn’t need to be scared; if anything went wrong, Pip would bring it all down on her. The rest of them would be safe. They were just at a late-night cinema showing; they knew nothing. She tried to tell him all of that with her eyes.

‘And you’ll call me, from the burner, once you’re clear of Green Scene?’ Pip said. ‘Drive for at least five minutes and then call me from the burner to tell me Max’s phone is in place.’

‘Yes, yes, we will,’ Connor said, waving the burner phone she’d given them.

‘OK, I think we’re all set.’ Pip stepped back from the car.

‘We’ll drop Nat at her brother’s and then we’ll go straight there,’ Jamie said, starting the car, the engine cutting through the quiet night.

‘Good luck,’ Nat said, holding Pip’s eyes for a lingering second before she closed the door.

Headlights on and Pip shielded her eyes from the glare as she backed up, watching them drive away. But only for a moment. She didn’t have time to dwell or time to doubt, or time to wonder if she was dragging everyone she cared about down with her. Time wasn’t something she had.

She hurried back up the pavement, up the front path to the Hastings house. She tried two keys before she found the one that unlocked the front door, pushing it open quietly. Max was passed out, but she didn’t want to push her luck.

She left the car keys on the floor of the hall, near her rucksack, so she wouldn’t forget them on her way out. Her mind was scattering, pushed out of place by Jamie’s kindness and Nat’s concern and Connor’s fear, but she needed to focus again. The plan was working and it pulled up a new list in her mind now. The list she and Ravi had worked out of everything she needed to take from Max’s house.

Three things.

Pip headed up the staircase, rounding the corner into the hallway upstairs and across into Max’s bedroom. Pip knew which one it was. She’d been here before, back when she first found out Andie Bell had been selling drugs. It didn’t look any different: the same maroon bedspread, the same piles of discarded clothes.

She also knew that behind that Reservoir Dogs poster, pinned up on the noticeboard, was a photo of Andie Bell. A topless photo Andie had left in Elliot Ward’s classroom, that Max had found and kept all this time.

It made Pip feel sick, knowing it was there, and part of her wanted to rip the hidden photo down, carry Andie safely home with her along with her ghost. Andie had suffered enough at the hands of violent men. But she couldn’t do that. Max couldn’t know anyone had been here.

Pip turned her attention to the white wash basket, overflowing, its lid balanced precariously on top. She pushed off the lid and rummaged through Max’s dirty washing, glad for the gloves covering her hands. About halfway down she found something that would do. A dark grey hoodie with a zip, creased and crinkled. Pip chucked it out, on to Max’s bed, then repacked the too-full wash basket the same way she’d found it.

Next, she headed towards his built-in wardrobe. Shoes. She needed a pair of his shoes. Preferably ones with a unique tread pattern. Pip opened the doors and stared inside, eyes falling to the very bottom and the chaotic jumble of shoes that greeted her there. She bent down and reached in towards the back. If the shoes were at the back, that likely meant Max didn’t wear them as often. Pip discounted one pair of dark running shoes; their soles rubbed flat and smooth with age. She found another nearby, a white trainer, and turned it over, her eyes following the hectic zigzagged lines of its soles. Yes, that would make for some good tracks, and these weren’t the shoes he used on his daily runs. She fished through the pile of mismatched shoes, searching for the trainer’s pair, pulling it out from a tangle of laces.

She straightened up, about to close the wardrobe doors when something else caught her eye. A dark green baseball cap with a white tick, balanced on top of the hangers. Yes, that might come in handy too, thank you, Max, she thought, mentally adding it to the list as she grabbed it.

With the grey hoodie, the white trainers and the cap bundled in her arms, she made her way downstairs, stepping in between Max’s deep-sleep breaths. She laid the pile of clothes down beside her rucksack.

One last thing, and then she was out of here. The thing she was most afraid to do.

She reached in and pulled out another resealable sandwich bag.

Pip held her breath, though she didn’t need to. If Max could hear anything, it would be the sound of her heart, throwing itself around her ribs. How long could it keep going at this rate, before it gave up and gave out? She walked up silently behind him, to the other side of the sofa, where his head lay, listening to the sound of his breaths as they rattled his top lip.

Pip edged closer and then crouched down, cursing her ankle as the bone clicked, echoing in the quiet room. She opened up the sandwich bag and held it up beneath Max’s head. With her other gloved hand, she drew her thumb and forefinger close and then gently, slowly, she pushed them through Max’s hair, towards his scalp. There was only so gentle she could be, pulling hairs out of his head, but that’s what she had to do. She couldn’t cut them out; she needed the root and skin cells attached to the hair, carrying his DNA. Carefully, she pinched her finger and thumb together around a small clump of his dark blonde hair.

She jerked her hand back.

Max sniffed. A heavy breath and a stuttering in his chest. But he didn’t move.

Pip could feel her wild heartbeat, even through the backs of her teeth, as she studied the hairs snagged between her fingers. Long, wavy, a few visible bulbs of skin at the root. There weren’t many, but it would have to do. She didn’t want to risk trying again.

She lowered her fingers into the sandwich bag and rubbed them together, the blonde hairs trickling down into the clear bag, almost invisible. A couple still clung to the latex gloves. She wiped those off against the sofa, sealed the bag up and stepped away.

Back in the hall, she packed Max’s hoodie into the large plastic freezer bag, his shoes and his cap into another before stuffing them all into the main body of her rucksack. It was full now, the zip struggling to fasten, but that was OK, she had everything she needed. She tucked the bag with Max’s hair in the front pocket instead, and then hoisted it all up on her shoulders.

She flicked off the light in the living room before she left, unsure why she did. The yellow lights, harsh as they were, wouldn’t be enough to pull Max out of unconsciousness. But she didn’t want to take the chance; he still had to be like this when she got back in a few hours. Pip trusted the pills, as Max had surely done himself countless times in his life, but she didn’t trust anything that much. Not even herself.

Pip scooped up the keys from the floor and walked out, pulling the front door closed behind her. She pressed a button on the fob and the tail lights blinked in Max’s black car, telling her that it was unlocked. She opened the driver’s side door, dropped the keys on the seat, and then shut it again, leaving the car behind her as she walked down the drive and down the street.

She pulled off the latex gloves. They were stuck fast to the sweat on her hands – sweat or Stanley’s blood, it was too dark to tell – and she had to use her teeth to rip them free. The evening air felt cold and too solid on the bare skin of her fingers, as she stuffed the used gloves in her pocket.

Her car was waiting for her just ahead. Waiting for her and the next step of the plan.

Her alibi.