Good Girl, Bad Blood (A Good Girl's Guide to Murder #2)(10)

She turned. It was Jamie Reynolds, shuffling slowly through the crowd, a determined look in his eyes, the candles lighting up a sheen of sweat breaking across his face.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered distractedly, like he didn’t even recognize her.

‘It’s OK,’ Pip replied, following Jamie with her eyes until Mohan Singh walked out of the pavilion and cleared his throat at the microphone, silencing the common. Not a sound, except the wind in the trees. Ravi gripped tighter, his fingernails pressing half-moons into Pip’s skin.

Mohan looked down at the sheet of paper in his hand. He was shaking, the page fluttering in his grip.

‘What can I tell you about my son, Sal?’ he started, a crack halfway through his voice. ‘I could tell you he was a straight-A student with a bright future ahead of him, but you probably already know that. I could tell you he was a loyal and caring friend who never wanted anyone to feel alone or unwanted, but you probably already know that too. I could tell you he was an incredible big brother and an amazing son who made us proud every day. I could share memories of him, as a grinning toddler who wanted to climb everything, to a teenager who loved early mornings and late nights. But instead, I will tell you just one thing about Sal.’

Mohan paused, looked up to smile at Ravi and Nisha.

‘If Sal were here today, he’d never admit to this and would probably be thoroughly embarrassed, but his favourite movie of all time, from age three to eighteen, was Babe.’

There was a light and tense laugh from the crowd. Ravi too, eyes starting to glaze.

‘He loved that little pig. Another reason he loved the film was because it contained his favourite song. The one that could make him smile and cry, the one that made him want to dance. So I’m going to share a little of Sal and play that song for you now to celebrate his life, as we light and release the lanterns. But first, those words from Sal’s favourite song, I say them to you now, my boy.’ The page quivered against the microphone like paper wings as Mohan wiped his eyes. ‘If I had words to make a day for you, I’d sing you a morning golden and new. I would make this day last for all time. Give you a night deep in moonshine.’ He paused, nodded at someone off to the right. ‘Take it away.’

And from the speakers set up on both sides, the super high-pitched voice of a mouse exclaimed: ‘And-a-one-and-a-two-and-a-three, hit it!’

The song started, a steady drum and the climbing melody sung by a squeaky mouse, until a whole chorus of other mice joined in.

Ravi was laughing now, and crying, and something in between the two. And somewhere, behind them, someone started clapping in time to the song.

Now a few more.

Pip watched over her shoulder as the clapping caught, passing up and down as it swelled through the swaying crowd. The sound was thunderous and happy.

People started singing along with the shrill mice, and – as they realized it was just the same few lyrics repeated – others joined in, struggling to hit those impossibly high notes.

Ravi turned to her, mouthing the words, and she mouthed them back.

Mohan walked down the steps, the page in his hand replaced with a Chinese lantern. The district councillor carried another down, passing it to Jason and Dawn Bell. Pip let Ravi go as he joined his mum and dad. Ravi was handed the small box of matches. The first one he struck was blown into a thin line of smoke by the wind. He tried again, sheltering the flame with his cupped hands, holding it under the lantern’s wick until it caught.

The Singhs waited a few seconds for the fire to grow, filling the lantern with hot air. They each had two hands on the wire rim at the bottom, and when they were ready, when they were finally ready, they straightened up, arms above their heads, and let go.

The lantern sailed up above the pavilion, juddering in the breeze. Pip craned her neck to watch it go, its yellow-orange flicker setting the darkness around it on fire. A moment later, Andie’s lantern crossed into view too, mounting the night as it chased Sal across the endless sky.

Pip didn’t look away. Her neck strained, sending stabs of pain down her spine but she refused to look away. Not until those golden lanterns were little more than specks, nestling among the stars. And even beyond that.





SATURDAY

Four

Pip tried to fight them off, her sinking eyelids. She felt fuzzy around the edges, ill-defined, like sleep had already taken her, but no . . . she really should get up off the sofa and do some revision. Really.

She was lying on the red sofa in the living room, in Josh’s Place apparently, as he kept intermittently reminding her. He was on the rug, rearranging Lego while Toy Story played in the background. Her parents must still be out in the garden; her dad had enthusiastically told her this morning that they were painting the new garden shed today. Well, there wasn’t much her dad wasn’t enthusiastic about. But the only thing Pip could think of was the stalk of the solitary sunflower planted near there, over their dead dog’s grave. It hadn’t yet bloomed.

Pip checked her phone. It was 5:11 p.m. and there was a text waiting on the screen from Cara, and two missed calls from Connor twenty minutes ago; she must have actually fallen asleep for a bit. She swiped to open Cara’s message: Urgh, been throwing up literally all day and Grandma keeps tutting. NEVER AGAIN. Thank you so much for coming to get me xx

Cara’s previous text, when you scrolled up, had been sent at 00:04 last night: Polpp whertf ui i I traifng finds anfulpw ggind hekp me safd. Pip had called her immediately, whispering from her bed, but Cara was so drunk she couldn’t speak in full sentences, not even half sentences or quarter, broken up by cries or hiccups. It took some time to understand where she was: a calamity party. She must have gone there after the memorial. It took even longer to coax out whose house the party was at: ‘Stephen-Thompson’s-I-think.’ And where that was: ‘Hi-Highmoor somewhere . . .’