Page 3 of A Murder is Going Down

‘What?’

‘It was a whole thing.’ I put up my hands, like I can’t possibly get into it, even though I’m very much about to get into it.

‘Who killed him?’

‘Well, that’s a long story.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The police don’t know.’

Ten more inhales. Ten more exhales. Should I be concerned about how fast Marianne is churning through the available oxygen? Possibly. Nothing to be done, though – if I evenmentionthe possibility of us running out of air, Marianne will lose it.

‘What happened?’ Marianne asks.

‘Like I said, it’s kind of a long story.’

‘Tell me the short version, then.’

It’s like I can see Marianne’s heartbeat slowing at the prospect ofa story. Maybe she’s like me and stories have always been a good distraction, better medication for anxiety than those beta-blockers she’s misplaced. Stories got me through my acne years, a brief flirtation with cutting my own fringe and even the horrific heartbreak that turnedout to be a good thing. (You’ll be hearing more about that one soon.)

‘Please,’ she adds, like it’s the first time she’s said it – and not just to me.

‘I’ll tell you,’ I say. ‘But it’s kind of a lot.’

If anything, I’m underselling it.

Then

I was in the worst village in Switzerland when I found out my brother had been murdered.

Now

‘Hold on,’ Marianne interrupts. ‘The dead husband was your brother?’

‘Yeah. The woman who got stuck in the lift is my sister-in-law. Orwas, I guess.’

‘You didn’t say.’

‘I’m getting there.’

‘Okay.’

Then

I was in the worst village in Switzerland when I found out my brother had been murdered.

Don’t tell anyone, but I didn’t need much convincing to come back to Perth. I’d been ready to come home one week into what was supposed to be a European adventure with my best friend, Lilia.

Don’t blame Europe, blame my optimism for imagining I could turn up solo to the exchange program that was supposed to be my Best Term Ever with my Best Friend Ever. Better yet, blame Lilia.

I’d been prepared for a quaint village, raclette and sharing a room with Lilia for twelve weeks. What I got was a bedroom that was too big to heat properly, a host family with a dairy intolerance so severe I couldn’t bring a cheesesandwich home, and no Lilia. I spent most of my time a) trying not to cry; b) crying; and c) concealing my misery on social media by posting every photo where I didn’t actively have snot leaking out of my nose.

The Swiss village looked exactly like its photos: an AI-generated vista complete with snow, stained glass windows and a view of the Alps. But if you think it’s impossible to be miserable while sitting by a crackling fire, drinking a warm carob drink and attempting conversational French with your host sister, I can show you the journal entries that prove otherwise. Or I could if I didn’t burn them.

At school the teacher insisted everyone address me only in French (‘or she’ll never learn’), even though pretty much everyone’s English was better than mine. I survived the days only by thinking of the moment after dinner when I could retreat to my bedroom to watch horror movies on my laptop – the only genre that didn’t make me cry.

The day you cheer yourself up by watching teenagers get dismembered on-screen by a supernatural entity is the day you know your life isn’t working out as planned.