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

Pip’s feet stopped moving. She didn’t tell them to, it was like some primal, unspoken knowledge – that even one more step would be too close to him.

‘Here, Pip,’ Roger said, pulling out the chair directly opposite Max, gesturing her down into it. Beside Max, across from Roger, was Christopher Epps, the same solicitor who’d represented Max in his trial. Pip had last come face to face with this man on the witness stand; she’d been wearing this exact same suit while he hounded her with that clipped bark of a voice. She hated him too, but the feeling was lost, subsumed by her hatred for the person sitting opposite her. Only the width of a table between them.

‘Right, hello, everyone,’ Hassan said brightly, taking his assigned chair at the head of the table, in between the two parties. ‘Let’s get the introductory bits out of the way. My role as mediator means I’m here to help you reach an agreement and a settlement that is acceptable to both parties. My only interest is to keep everyone here happy, OK?’

Clearly Hassan had not read the room.

‘The purpose of a mediation is essentially to avoid litigation. A court case is a lot of hassle, and very expensive for all involved, so it’s always better to see if we can come to some arrangement before a lawsuit is even filed.’ He grinned, first to Pip’s side of the room, and then to Max’s. A shared and equal smile.

‘If we cannot reach an agreement, Mr Hastings and his counsel intend to bring a libel lawsuit against Miss Fitz-Amobi, for a tweet and a blog post shared on 3rd May of this year, which they claim consisted of a defamatory statement and audio file.’ Hassan glanced at his notes. ‘Mr Epps, on behalf of the claimant, Mr Hastings, says the defamatory statement has had a very serious effect on his client, both in terms of mental well-being and irreparable reputational damage. This has, in turn, led to financial hardship for which he is seeking damages.’

Pip’s hands balled into fists on her lap, knuckles erupting out of her skin like a prehistoric backbone. She didn’t know if she could sit here and listen to all this, she didn’t fucking know if she could do it. But she breathed and she tried, for her dad and Roger, and for poor Hassan over there.

On the table, in front of Max, was his obnoxious water bottle, of course. Cloudy dark blue plastic with a flick-up rubber spout. Not the first time Pip had seen him with it; turns out that in a town as small as Little Kilton, running routes tended to converge and intersect. She’d come to expect it now, seeing Max out on his run when she was on hers, almost like he was doing it on purpose somehow. And always with that fucking blue bottle.

Max saw her looking at it. He reached for it, clicked the button to release the spout with a snap, and took a long, loud sip from it, swilling it around his mouth. His eyes on her the entire time.

Hassan loosened his tie a little. ‘So, Mr Epps, if you would like to kick things off here with your opening statement.’

‘Certainly,’ Epps said, shuffling his papers, his voice just as sharp as Pip remembered. ‘My client has suffered terribly since the libellous statement Miss Fitz-Amobi put out on the evening of 3rd May, especially since Miss Fitz-Amobi has a significant online presence, amounting to more than 300,000 followers at the time. My client has a top-tier education from a very reputable university, meaning he should be a very attractive candidate for graduate jobs.’

Max sucked from his water bottle again, like he was doing it to punctuate the point.

‘However, these last few months, Mr Hastings has struggled to find employment at the level which he deserves. This is directly due to the reputational harm that Miss Fitz-Amobi’s libellous statement has caused. Consequently, my client still has to live at home with his parents, because he cannot find an appropriate job and therefore cannot pay rent to live in London.’

Oh, poor little serial rapist, Pip thought, speaking the words with her eyes.

‘But the harm has not been my client’s alone,’ Epps continued. ‘His parents, Mr and Mrs Hastings, have also suffered from the stress, and have even recently had to leave the country to stay at their second home in Florence for a couple of months. Their house was vandalized the very same night Miss Fitz-Amobi published the defamatory statement; someone graffitied the front of their home with the words: Rapist, I will get you -’

‘Mr Epps,’ Roger interrupted. ‘I hope you are not suggesting that my client had anything to do with that vandalism. The police have never even spoken to her in connection with it.’

‘Not at all, Mr Turner,’ Epps nodded back. ‘I mention it because we can surmise a causal link between Miss Fitz-Amobi’s libellous statement and the vandalism, as it occurred in the hours proceeding that statement. Consequently, the Hastings family do not feel safe in their own home and have had to fit security cameras to the front of the house. I hope this goes some way in explaining not only the financial hardship Mr Hastings has suffered, but also the extreme pain and suffering felt by him and his family in the wake of Miss Fitz-Amobi’s malicious, defamatory statement.’

‘Malicious?’ Pip said, heat rising to her cheeks. ‘I called him a rapist and he is a rapist, so –’

‘Mr Turner,’ Epps barked, voice rising. ‘I suggest you advise your client to keep quiet and remind her that any defamatory statements she makes now could be classified as slander.’

Hassan held up his hands. ‘Yes, yes, let’s just everyone take a breather. Miss Fitz-Amobi, your side will have the chance to speak later.’ He loosened his tie again.

‘It’s alright, Pip, I’ve got this,’ Roger said quietly to her.

‘I will remind Miss Fitz-Amobi,’ Epps said, not even looking at her, his gaze on Roger instead, ‘that four months ago my client faced trial in Crown Court and was found not guilty on all charges. Which is all the proof you need that the statement made on 3rd May was, in fact, defamatory.’

‘All that being said,’ Roger now stepped in, shuffling his own papers, ‘a statement can only be libellous if it is presented as fact. My client’s tweet reads as follows: Max Hastings trial final update. I don’t care what the jury believes: he is guilty.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Now the phrase I don’t care clearly places the following statement as a subjective one, an opinion, not fact –’

‘Oh, don’t give me that,’ Epps cut in. ‘You’re trying to fall back on the opinion privilege? Really? Please. The statement was clearly worded as fact, and the audio file presented as though it were actually real.’

‘It is real,’ Pip said. ‘Wanna hear it?’

‘Pip, please –’

‘Mr Turner –’

‘It’s clearly doctored.’ Max spoke up for the first time, maddeningly calm, folding his hands in front of him. His eyes focused only on the mediator. ‘I don’t even sound like that.’

‘What, like a rapist?’ Pip spat across at him.

‘MR TURNER –’

‘Pip –’

‘OK, everyone!’ Hassan stood up. ‘Let’s take this down a notch. We will all get our chance to speak. Remember, we are here to make sure everyone is happy with the outcome. Mr Epps, could you take us through the damages your client is seeking?’

Epps bowed his head, pulling out a sheet of paper from the bottom of the pile. ‘For special damages, considering my client should have been in employment for the last four months, at a monthly salary level we would expect for someone in his position, this would have been at least three thousand sterling. This places the financial loss at twelve thousand pounds.’

Max sucked at his water bottle again, the water sloshing around his throat. Pip would have liked to take that fucking water bottle and smash it into his face. If there was to be blood on her hands, it should be his.

‘Of course no monetary figure can be put on the pain and mental anguish suffered by my client and his family. But we feel a sum of eight thousand pounds should be adequate, bringing the total to twenty thousand pounds sterling.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Roger said, shaking his head. ‘My client is only eighteen years old.’

‘Mr Turner, you should allow me to finish,’ Epps sneered, licking his finger to turn the page. ‘However, in discussion with my client, it is his opinion that his ongoing suffering is caused by the fact that the libellous statement has not been retracted and no apology issued, which would actually be of greater value to him than any monetary damages.’

‘Miss Fitz-Amobi deleted the post weeks ago, when your initial letter of demand was sent,’ said Roger.

‘Mr Turner, please,’ Epps replied. If Pip had to hear him say please like that one more time, she might just smash his face in too. ‘Deleting the tweet after the fact does not mitigate the reputational harm done. So, our proposal is thus: Miss Fitz-Amobi releases a statement on the same public account, in which she retracts her original defamatory statement with an admission of wrongdoing and apologizes for any hurt her words have caused my client. In addition – and this is the most important sticking point, so do pay close attention – in this statement, she must fully admit that she doctored the audio clip in question and that my client never said those words.’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Pip –’

‘Miss Fitz-Amobi,’ Hassan pleaded, struggling with his tie like it was tightening around his neck, chasing its own tail.

‘I will ignore your client’s outburst, Mr Turner,’ said Epps. ‘If those demands are met, we shall apply a discount, as it were, to the monetary damages, halving them to ten thousand pounds.’

‘OK, that’s a good starting point,’ Hassan nodded, trying to regain control. ‘Mr Turner, would you like to respond to the proposal?’

‘Thank you, Mr Bashir,’ Roger said, taking the floor. ‘The proposed damages are still too high. You make great assumptions about your client’s potential employment status. I don’t see him as a particularly spectacular candidate, especially in the current jobs market. My client is just eighteen. Her only income is from ad revenue from her true crime podcast, and she starts university in a few weeks, where she will incur a large student debt. In light of this, the demand is unreasonable.’

‘OK, seven thousand,’ Epps said, narrowing his eyes.

‘Five thousand,’ Roger countered.

Epps glanced quickly at Max who gave an ever-so-slight nod, slouching sideways in his chair. ‘That is agreeable to us,’ Epps said, ‘in conjuncture with the retraction and apology.’

‘OK, we seem to be getting somewhere.’ A cautious smile returned to Hassan’s face. ‘Mr Turner, Miss Fitz-Amobi, could we get your thoughts on those terms?’

‘Well,’ Roger began, ‘I think the –’

‘No deal,’ Pip said, pushing her chair back from the table, the legs screaming against the polished floor.

‘Pip,’ Roger turned to her before she could get to her feet. ‘Why don’t we go discuss this somewhere and –’

‘I will not retract my statement and I will not lie and say the audio file was doctored. I called him a rapist because he is a rapist. I will be dead before I ever apologize to you.’ She bared her teeth at Max, the rage curling her spine, coating her skin.

‘MR TURNER! Control your client, please!’ Epps slapped the table.

Hassan flapped, unsure what to do.

Pip stood up. ‘Here’s the thing about you suing me, Max.’ She spat out his name, unable to bear it on her tongue. ‘I have the ultimate defence: the truth. So, go on then, file the lawsuit, I dare you. I’ll see you in court. And you know how that goes, don’t you? It will have to prove whether my statement was true, which means we get to re-do your rape trial. All the same witnesses, the victim testimonies, the evidence. There won’t be any criminal charges but at least everyone will know what you are, forever. Rapist.’

‘Miss Fitz-Amobi!’

‘Pip –’

She planted her hands and leaned across the table, her eyes ablaze, boring into Max’s. If only they could start a fire in his, burn up his face while she watched. ‘Do you really think you can pull it off a second time? Convince another jury of twelve peers that you’re not a monster?’

His gaze cut back into hers. ‘You’ve lost your mind,’ he sneered.

‘Maybe. So you should be terrified.’

‘Right!’ Hassan stood and clapped his hands. ‘Perhaps we should have a break for some tea and biscuits.’

‘I’m done,’ Pip said, shouldering her rucksack, opening the door so hard it ricocheted into the wall.

‘Miss Fitz-Amobi, please come back.’ Hassan’s desperate voice followed her out into the corridor. Footsteps too. Pip turned. It was only Roger, fumbling his papers into his briefcase.

‘Pip,’ he said breathlessly. ‘I really think we should –’

‘I’m not negotiating with him.’

‘Wait a moment!’ Epps’ bark filled the corridor as he hurried over to join them. ‘Just give me one minute, please,’ he said, re-neatening his grey hair. ‘We won’t file for another month or so, OK? Avoiding a court case is really in everyone’s best interest. So, have a few weeks to think it over, when things aren’t so emotional.’ He looked down at her.

‘I don’t need to think it over,’ Pip said.

‘Please just…’ Epps fumbled in his suit pocket, pulling out two crisp ivory-coloured business cards. ‘My card,’ he said, offering them out to her and Roger. ‘My mobile number is on there too. Have a little think, and if you change your mind, call me any time.’

‘I won’t,’ she said, reluctantly taking his card, stuffing it into the unused pocket of her jacket.

Christopher Epps studied her for a moment, eyebrows lowered in an approximation of concern. Pip held his gaze; to look away was to let him win.

‘And maybe just one word of advice,’ Epps said. ‘Take it or leave it, but I’ve seen people in a self-destructive spiral before. Hell, I’ve represented many of them. In the end, you’ll only end up hurting everyone around you, and yourself. You won’t be able to help it. I urge you to turn back before you lose everything.’

‘Thank you for your unbiased advice, Mr Epps,’ she said. ‘But it appears you have underestimated me. I would be willing to lose everything, destroy myself, if it also meant destroying your client. That seems a fair trade. Now you have a good day, Mr Epps.’

She shot him a smile, sweet and acidic, as she turned on her heels. She quickened her pace, the clicking of her shoes beating almost in time with her turbulent heart. And there, just beneath her heartbeat, under layers of muscle and sinew, was the sound of a gun going off six times.