‌Chalk dust on her fingers, gritty and dry. Except there wasn’t, because she was awake now, her eyes cracking open, dragging her from the dream. Her eyes felt gritty and dry, but her fingers were clean. Pip sat up.
It was still dark in her room. Had she been asleep?
She must have been asleep, otherwise how had she dreamed?
It was all still there, thrumming around her head, like it had all been lived only moments before. But not lived, only imagined, right?
It had felt so real. The weight of it in her cupped hands. Still warm, keeping away the cold of the dark night. Its feathers so soft, so sleek against the cage of her fingers. Pip had locked eyes with it, or she would have done, if it had had a head. She hadn’t thought that strange at the time – that was the way it was supposed to be – as she carried the small, dead pigeon across the driveway. So soft she almost didn’t want to let it go. But she had to, resting the dead bird down on the bricked driveway, shifting it so that the space where its head should have been was pointing towards her bedroom window. Looking in through the gap in the curtains to watch Pip asleep in her bed. Both here and there.
But it hadn’t finished there. There was more to do before she could rest. Another task. The chalk had already been in her hand, not nearly as nice to hold as the dead pigeon. Where had it come from? Pip didn’t know, but she knew what she was supposed to do with it. She’d retraced her steps, remembering where the last ones had been. Then she stepped forward three times, towards the house, to find their new home.
Knees on the cold driveway, the chalk in her hand ground down to a stub, her fingers red and raw as she dragged it along the lines of the bricks. Downward legs. Upward body. Sideway arms. No head. She carried on
until there were five stick figures, dancing together, slowly making their way to Pip asleep in her bed to ask her to join them.
Would she join them? She didn’t know, but she was finished, and the chalk had dropped from her hands with a tiny clatter. Chalk dust on her fingers, gritty and dry.
And then Pip had pulled herself out of the dream, studying her fingers to know what was real and what wasn’t. Her heart was fluttering, wingbeat fast, winding up the rest of her. She’d never sleep again now.
She checked the time. It was 4:32 a.m. She really should try to sleep; she’d only climbed into bed two hours ago. Time was always cruel to her in these early hours. She wouldn’t be able to do it, not without help.
Pip glanced through the darkness at the drawer in her desk. There was no point fighting it. She threw off her duvet, the cold air full of invisible jaws, biting at her exposed skin.
She rummaged through the drawer, prising up the false bottom, her fingers scrabbling below for the small plastic bag. Not many left now. She’d have to text Luke Eaton again soon, ask him for more, those burner phones lined up and ready.
What happened to one last time, then?
Pip swallowed the pill and bit her lip. These last months had been filled with one last times and just one mores. They weren’t lies; she’d truly meant them at the time. But she always lost, in the end.
It didn’t matter, it wouldn’t matter soon. Because she had the plan, the new plan, and after that she’d never lose again. Everything would go back to normal. And life had handed her exactly what she needed. Those chalk figures, those dead pigeons, and the person who’d left them there for her. It was a gift, and she should remember that, prove Hawkins wrong. One last case, and it had landed right on her doorstep. It was her against them this time. No Andie Bell, no Sal Singh, no Elliot Ward or Becca Bell, no Jamie Reynolds or Charlie Green or Stanley Forbes, and no Jane Doe. The game had changed.
Her against them.
Save herself to save herself.
