A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder

‘It’s a house party, not a pantomime,’ Pip said, trying to wrestle her face out of Cara’s grip. But Cara held on tight: facial hijack.

‘Yeah, but you’re lucky – you have a face that can pull off eyeshadow. Stop wriggling, I’m almost done.’

Pip sighed and went limp, submitting to the forced preening. She was still sulking that her friends had made her change out of her dungarees and into a dress of Lauren’s that was short enough to be mistaken for a T-shirt. They’d laughed a lot when she’d said that.

‘Girls,’ Pip’s mum called up the stairs, ‘you’d better hurry up. Victor’s started showing Lauren his dance moves down here.’

‘Oh jeez,’ Pip said. ‘Am I done? We need to go and rescue her.’

Cara leaned forward and blew on her face. ‘Yep.’

‘Cracking,’ said Pip, grabbing her shoulder bag and checking, once again, that her phone was at full charge. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Hello, pickle!’ her dad said loudly as Pip and Cara made their way downstairs. ‘Lauren and I have decided that I should come to your kilometre party too.’

‘Calamity, Dad. And over my dead brain cells.’

Victor strolled over, wrapped his arm round her shoulders and squeezed. ‘Little Pipsy going to a house party.’

‘I know,’ Pip’s mum said, her smile wide and glistening. ‘With alcohol and boys.’

‘Yes.’ He let go and looked down at Pip, a serious expression on his face and his finger raised. ‘Pip, I want you to remember to be, at least, a little irresponsible.’

‘Right,’ Pip announced, grabbing her car keys and strolling to the front door. ‘We’re going now. Farewell, my backwards and abnormal parents.’

‘Fare thee well,’ Victor said dramatically, gripping on to the banister and reaching for the departing teenagers, like the house was a sinking ship and he the heroic captain going down with it.

Even the pavement outside was pulsing with the music. The three of them strolled up to the front door and Pip raised her fist to knock. As she did, the door swung inward, opening a gateway into a writhing cacophony of deep-bass tinny tunes, slurred chattering and poor lighting.

Pip took a tentative step inside, her first breath already tainted with the muggy metallic smell of vodka, undertones of sweat and the slightest hint of vomit. She caught sight of the host, Ant’s friend George, trying to mesh his face with a girl’s from the year below, his eyes open and staring. He looked their way and, without breaking the kiss, waved to them behind his partner’s back.

Pip couldn’t let herself be complicit in such a greeting, so she ignored it and started down the corridor. Cara and Lauren walked beside her, Lauren having to step over Paul-from-politics who was slumped against the wall, lightly snoring.

‘This looks . . . like some people’s idea of fun,’ Pip muttered as they entered the open-plan living room and the chaos of teenage bustle hosted there: bodies grinding and thrashing to the music, towers of precariously balanced beer bottles, drunken meaning-of-life monologues yelled across the room, wet carpet patches, unsubtle groin scratches and couples pushed up against the condensation-dripping walls.

‘You’re the one who was so desperate to come,’ Lauren said, waving to some girls she took after-school drama class with.

Pip swallowed. ‘Yeah. And present Pip is always pleased with past Pip’s decisions.’

Ant, Connor and Zach spotted them then and made their way over, manoeuvring through the staggering crowd.

‘All right?’ Connor said, giving Pip and the others clumsy hugs. ‘You’re late.’

‘I know,’ Lauren said. ‘We had to re-dress Pip.’

Pip didn’t see how dungarees could be embarrassing by association, yet the jerky robot dance moves of Lauren’s drama friends were totally acceptable.

‘Are there cups?’ Cara said, holding up a bottle of vodka and lemonade.

‘Yeah, I’ll show you,’ Ant said, taking Cara off towards the kitchen.

When Cara returned with a drink for her, Pip took frequent imaginary sips as she nodded and laughed along with the conversation. When the opportunity presented itself, she sidled over to the kitchen sink, poured out the cup and filled it with water.

Later, when Zach offered to refill her cup for her, she had to pull the stunt again and got cornered talking to Joe King, who sat behind her in English. His only form of humour was to say a ridiculous statement, wait for his victim to pull a confused face and then say: ‘I’m only Joe -King.’

After the joke’s third resurgence, Pip excused herself and went to hide in a corner, thankfully alone. She stood there in the shadows, undisturbed, and scrutinized the room. She watched the dancers and the over-enthusiastic kissers, searching for any signs of shifty hand trades, pills or gurning jaws. Any over-wide pupils. Anything that might give her a possible lead to Andie’s drug dealer.

Ten whole minutes passed and Pip didn’t notice anything dubious, other than a boy called Stephen smashing a TV remote and hiding the evidence in a flower vase. Her eyes followed him as he wandered through to a large utility room and towards the back door, reaching for a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket.

Of course.

Outside with the smokers should have been the first place on her list to scout out. Pip made her way through the mayhem, protecting herself from the worst of the lurchers and staggerers with her elbows.

There were a handful of people outside. A couple of dark shadows rolling around on the trampoline at the bottom of the garden. A tearful Stella Chapman standing by the garden waste bin wailing down the phone at someone. Another two girls from her year on a children’s swing having what looked like a very serious conversation, punctuated by hands-slapped-to-mouths gasps. And Stephen Thompson-or-Timpson who she used to sit behind in maths. He was perched on a garden wall, a cigarette prone in his mouth as he searched double-handed in his various pockets.

Pip wandered over. ‘Hi,’ she said, plonking herself down on the wall next to him.

‘Hi, Pippa,’ Stephen said, taking the cigarette from his mouth so he could talk. ‘What’s up?’

‘Oh nothing much,’ Pip said. ‘Just came out here, looking for Mary Jane.’

‘Dunno who she is, sorry,’ he said, finally pulling out a neon green lighter.

‘Not a who.’ Pip turned to give him a meaningful look. ‘You know, I’m looking to blast a roach.’

‘Excuse me?’

Pip had spent an hour online that morning researching Urban Dictionary for its current street names.

She tried again, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘You know, looking for some herb, the doob, a bit of hippie lettuce, giggle smoke, some skunk, wacky tobaccy. You know what I mean. Ganja.’

Stephen burst into laughter. ‘Oh my god,’ he cackled, ‘you are so smashed.’

‘Certainly am.’ She tried to feign a drunken giggle, but it came off as rather villainous. ‘So do you have any? Some shwag grass?’

When he stopped hooting to himself, he turned to look her up and down for a drawn-out moment. His eyes very obviously stalling over her chest and pasty legs. Pip squirmed inside; a gloopy cyclone of disgust and embarrassment. She mentally threw a reproach into Stephen’s face, but her mouth had to remain shut. She was undercover.

‘Yeah,’ Stephen said, biting his bottom lip. ‘I can roll us a joint.’ He searched his pockets again and pulled out a small baggy of weed and a packet of rolling papers.

‘Yes please,’ Pip nodded, feeling anxious and excited and a little sick. ‘You get rolling there; roll it like a . . . um, croupier with a dice.’

He laughed at her again and licked one edge of the paper, trying to hold eye contact with her while his stubby pink tongue was out. Pip looked away. It crossed her mind that maybe she had gone too far this time for a homework project. Maybe. But this wasn’t just a project any more. This was for Sal, for Ravi. For the truth. She could do this for them.

Stephen lit the joint and took two long sucks on its end before passing it to Pip. She took it awkwardly between her middle and index fingers and raised it to her lips. She turned her head sharply so that her hair flicked over her face, and pretended to take a couple of drags on the joint.

‘Mmm, lovely stuff,’ she said, passing it back. ‘Spliffing you could say.’

‘You look nice tonight,’ Stephen said, taking a drag and offering the joint again.

Pip tried to take it without her fingers touching his. Another pretend puff but the smell was cloying and she coughed over her next question.

‘So,’ she said, giving it back, ‘where might I score me some of this?’

‘You can share with me.’

‘No, I mean, who do you buy it from? You know, so I can get in on that too.’

‘Just this guy in town.’ Stephen shuffled on the wall, closer to Pip. ‘Called Howie.’

‘And where does Howie live?’ Pip said, passing back the weed and using the movement as an excuse to shift away from Stephen.

‘Dunno,’ Stephen said. ‘He doesn’t deal from his house. I meet him at the station car park, down the end with no cameras.’

‘In the evening?’ Pip asked.

‘Usually, yeah. Whatever time he texts me.’

‘You have his number?’ Pip reached down to her bag for her own phone. ‘Can I have it?’

Stephen shook his head. ‘He’d be mad if he knew I was just handing it out. You don’t need to go to him; if you want something, you can just pay me and I’ll get it for you. I’ll even discount.’ He winked.

‘I’d really rather buy direct,’ Pip said, feeling the heat of annoyance creeping up her neck.

‘No can do.’ He shook his head, eyeing her mouth.

Pip looked away quickly, her long dark hair a curtain between them. Her frustration was too loud, gorging itself on all other thoughts. He wasn’t going to budge, was he?

And then the spark of an idea pushed its way through.

‘Well, how can I buy through you?’ she said, taking the joint from his hands. ‘You don’t even have my number.’

‘Ah, and what a shame that is,’ Stephen said, his voice so slimy it practically dripped out of his mouth. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone. Jabbing his finger at the screen, he entered his passcode and handed her the unlocked phone. ‘Put your digits in there,’ he said.

‘OK,’ said Pip.

She opened the phonebook application and shifted her shoulders, facing Stephen so he couldn’t see the screen. She typed how into the contacts search bar and it was the only result to pop up. Howie Bowers and his phone number.

She studied the sequence of numbers. Damn, she’d never be able to remember the whole thing. Another idea flickered into life. Maybe she could take a picture of the screen; her own phone was on the wall just beside her. But Stephen was right there, staring at her, chewing his finger. She needed some kind of distraction.

She lurched forward suddenly, launching the joint across the lawn. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I thought there was a bug on me.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get it.’ Stephen jumped down from the wall.

Pip had just a few seconds. She grabbed her phone, swiped left into the camera and positioned it above Stephen’s screen.

Her heart was thudding, her chest closing uncomfortably around it.

The camera flicked in and out of focus, wasting precious time.

Her finger hovered over the button.

The shot cleared and she took the picture, dropping her phone into her lap just as Stephen turned.

‘It’s still lit,’ he said, jumping back up on the wall, sitting far too close to her.

Pip held out Stephen’s phone to him. ‘Um, sorry, I don’t think I want to give you my number actually,’ she said. ‘I’ve decided that drugs aren’t for me.’

‘Don’t be a tease,’ Stephen said, closing his fingers round both his phone and Pip’s hand. He leaned into her.

‘No, thank you,’ she said, scooting back. ‘Think I’m going to go inside.’

And then Stephen put his hand on the back of her head, grabbed her forward and lunged for her face. Pip twisted out of the way and shoved him back. She pushed so hard that he was deseated and fell three feet from the garden wall, sprawled on the wet grass.

‘You stupid slut,’ he said, picking himself up and wiping off his trousers.

‘You degenerate, perverted, reprobate ape. Sorry, apes,’ Pip shouted back. ‘I said no.’

That was when she realized. She didn’t know how or when it had happened, but she looked up and saw that they were now alone in the garden.

Fear flushed through her in an instant, her skin bristling with it.

Stephen climbed back over the wall and Pip turned, hurrying towards the door.

‘Hey, it’s OK, we can talk for a bit more,’ he said, grabbing her wrist to pull her back.

‘Let me go, Stephen.’ She spat the words at him.

‘But –’

Pip grabbed his wrist with her other hand and squeezed, digging her nails into his skin. Stephen hissed and let go and Pip did not hesitate. She ran towards the house and slammed the door, flicking the lock behind her.

Inside, she wound her way through the crowd on the makeshift Persian-rug dance floor, being jostled this way and that. She searched through the flailing body parts and sweaty laughing faces. Searching for the safety of Cara’s face.

It was musty and hot, inside the crush of all these bodies. But Pip was shaking, an aftershock of cold quaking through her, knocking her bare knees.

Pippa Fitz-Amobi

EPQ 03/10/2017

Production Log – Entry 22

Update: I waited in my car for four hours tonight. At the far end of the station car park. I checked, no cameras. Three separate waves of commuters getting in from London Marylebone came and went, Dad among them. Luckily he didn’t spot my car.

I didn’t see anyone hanging around. No one who looked like they were there to buy or sell drugs. Not that I really know what that looks like; I never would have guessed Andie Bell was the kind.

Yes, I know I managed to get Howie Bowers’ number from Stephen-the-creep. I could just ring Howie and see whether he’d be willing to answer some questions about Andie. That’s what Ravi thinks we should do. But – let’s be real – he’s not going to give me anything that way. He’s a drug dealer. He’s not going to admit it to a stranger on the phone like he’s casually discussing the weather or trickle-down economics.

No. The only way he’ll talk to us is if we have the appropriate leverage first.

I’ll return to the station tomorrow evening. Ravi has work again, but I can do this alone. I’ll just tell my parents I’m doing my English coursework over at Cara’s house. The lying gets easier the more I have to do it.

I need to find Howie.

I need this leverage.

I also need sleep.

Persons of Interest

Jason Bell

Naomi Ward

Secret Older Guy

Nat da Silva

Daniel da Silva

Max Hastings

Drug dealer – Howie Bowers?