The Secret Place

Chapter 13

The fourth-year common room felt smaller than the third-year one, darker. Not just the colours, cool greens instead of oranges; on this side the building blocked out the afternoon sun, gave the room an underwater dimness that the ceiling lights couldn’t fight.

The girls were clumped tight and jabbering low. Holly’s lot were the only quiet ones: Holly sitting on a windowsill, Julia leaning against it snapping a hair elastic around her wrist, Rebecca and Selena back to back on the floor below; all their eyes focused and faraway, like they were reading the same story written across the air. Joanne and Gemma and Orla were in a huddle on one of the sofas, Joanne whispering fast and ferocious.

That was only for a flash. Then everyone spun to the door. Sentences bitten off in mid-word, blank faces staring.

‘Orla,’ Conway said. ‘We need a word.’

Orla looked like she might be going pale, far as I could tell through the orange tan. ‘Me? Why me?’

Conway held the door open till Orla got up and came, widening her eyes over her shoulder at her mates. Joanne hit her with a stare like a threat.

‘We’ll talk in your room,’ Conway said, scanning the corridor. ‘Which one is it?’ Orla pointed: down the far end.

No Houlihan this time. Conway was trusting me to protect her. Had to be a good sign.

The room was big, airy. Four beds, bright-coloured duvet covers. Smell of heated hair and four clashing body sprays thickening the air. Posters of thrusting girl singers and smooth guys I half-recognised, all of them with full lips and hair that had taken three people an hour. Bedside lockers half open, bits of uniform tossed on beds, on the floor: when the screaming started, Orla and Joanne and Gemma had been changing into their civvies, getting ready to do whatever they did with their bite of freedom before teatime.

The scattered clothes gave me that shove again, stronger: Out. No good reason, no bras on show or anything, but I still felt like a pervert, like I’d walked in on the four of them changing and wasn’t walking back out.

‘Nice,’ Conway said, glancing around. ‘Nicer than we had in training, am I right?’

‘Nicer than I’ve got now,’ I said. Only a bit true. I like my place: little apartment, half-empty still because I’d rather save for one good thing than buy four crap ones straightaway. But the high ceiling, the rose moulding, the light and green space opening wide outside the window: I can’t save for those. My place looks straight into a matching apartment block, too close for any light to squeeze in between.

Nothing said whose bit of room was whose; it all looked the same. The only clue was the photos on the bedside lockers. Alison had a little brother, Orla had a bunch of lumpy big sisters. Gemma rode horses. Joanne’s ma was the image of her, a few fillers on.

‘Um,’ Orla said, hovering by the door. She’d swapped her uniform for a light-pink hoodie and pink jeans shorts over tights, looked like a marshmallow on a stick. ‘Is Alison OK?’

We looked at each other, me and Conway. Shrugged.

I said, ‘Could take a while. After that.’

‘But… I mean, Miss McKenna said? Like, she just needed her allergy pills?’

Another look at each other. Orla trying to watch both of us at once.

Conway said, ‘I reckon Alison knows what she saw better than McKenna does.’

Orla gawped. ‘You believe in ghosts?’ Not what she’d expected; not what she’d been looking for.

‘Who said anything about believing?’ Conway flipped a magazine off Gemma’s bedside locker, checked out celebs. ‘Nah. We don’t believe. We know.’ To me: ‘Remember the O’Farrell case?’

I’d never heard of the O’Farrell case. But I knew, it slid from Conway to me like a note passed in class, what she was at. She wanted Orla scared.

I shot her a wide-eyed warning grimace, shook my head.

‘What? The O’Farrell case, me and Detective Moran worked that one together. The guy, right, he used to beat the shite out of his wife–’

‘Conway.’ I jerked my chin at Orla.

‘What?’

‘She’s just a kid.’

Conway tossed the magazine onto Alison’s bed. ‘Bollix. You just a kid?’

‘Huh?’ Orla caught up. ‘Um, no?’

‘See?’ Conway said to me. ‘So. One day O’Farrell’s giving the wife the slaps, her little dog goes for him – trying to protect its mistress, yeah? The guy throws it out of the room, goes back to what he’s doing–’

I did an exasperated sigh, rubbed my hair into a mess. Started cruising round the room, see what I could see. Handful of tissues in the bin, smudged that weird orangey-pink that doesn’t exist outside makeup. A bust Biro. No scraps of book.

‘But the dog’s scrabbling at the door, whining, barking, O’Farrell can’t concentrate. He opens the door, grabs the dog, smashes its brains out on the wall. Then he finishes off the wife.’

‘OhmyGod. Ew.’

Gemma’s phone was on her bedside locker, Alison’s was on her bed. I couldn’t see the other two, but Joanne’s locker was an inch open. ‘OK if I have a look around?’ I asked Orla. Not a proper search, that could wait; just having a look-see, and unsettling her a little extra while I was at it.

‘Um, do you…? Like, do you have to?’ She fumbled for a way to say no, but my hand was halfway to the locker door and her mind was halfway on Conway’s fairy tale. ‘I guess it’s OK. I mean–’

‘Thanks.’ Not that I needed her permission; just staying the good cop. Cheerful smile, I gave her, and straight in. Orla opened her mouth to take it back, but Conway was moving in closer.

‘We show up’ – Conway gestured at the two of us – ‘O’Farrell swears it was a burglar. He was good; we nearly fell for it. But then we sit him down in his kitchen, start asking questions. Every time O’Farrell gives us some crap about his imaginary burglar, or about how much he loved his wife, there’s this weird noise outside the door.’

Joanne’s bedside locker: hair straightener, makeup, fake tan, iPod, jewellery box. No books, old or new; no phone. Had to be on her.

‘This noise, it’s like…’ Conway raked her nails down the wall by Orla’s head, sudden and violent. Orla jumped. ‘It’s exactly like a dog clawing at the door. And it’s making O’Farrell jumpy as hell. Every time he hears it, he whips round, loses his train of thought; he’s looking at us like, Did yous hear that?’

‘Sweating,’ I said, ‘dripping. White. Looked like he was gonna puke.’

It was so easy, it startled me. Felt like we’d practised for months, me and Conway, slaloming round the twists and kinks of the story side by side. Smooth as velvet.

It felt like joy, only a joy you didn’t go looking for and don’t want. That dream partner of mine, the one with the violin lessons and the red setters: this was what we were like together, him and me.

Orla’s bedside locker: hair straightener, makeup, fake tan, iPod, jewellery box. Phone. No books. I left the door open.

Orla didn’t even notice what I was doing. Her mouth was hanging open. ‘Wasn’t the dog dead?’ she wanted to know.

Conway managed not to roll her eyes. ‘Yeah. It was very dead. The techs had taken it away and all. That’s the point. Detective Moran here, he says to O’Farrell, “You got another dog?” O’Farrell can’t even talk, but he shakes his head.’

Alison’s locker: straightener, makeup, yada yada, no books, no extra phone. Gemma’s locker: same story, plus a bottle of capsules of some herbal thing swearing to make her skinny.

‘We go back to questioning him, but the noise keeps happening. We can’t concentrate, right? Finally Detective Moran gets pissed off. Jumps up, heads for the door. O’Farrell practically comes off his chair, roars at Moran, “Jesus God, don’t open that door!”’

She was good, Conway. The room had changed, dark places stirring, bright ones pulsing. Orla was mesmerised.

‘But it’s too late: Moran’s already opening the door. Far as we can see, me and him, the hall’s empty. Nothing there. Then O’Farrell starts to scream.’

One big wardrobe, all along one side of the room. Inside, it was split into four sections. Tangled bright things spilling out.

‘We look around, O’Farrell’s flying backwards off his chair, grabbing his throat. Howling like he’s being killed. First we think he’s putting it on, right, get out of being questioned? Then we see the blood.’

Breathy whine bursting out of Orla. I tried to check drawers without touching anything girly. Wished Conway was doing this bit. There were Tampax in there.

‘It’s dripping out between his fingers. He’s on the floor, kicking, howling, “Get it off me! Get it off!” Me and Moran, we’re like, What the fuck? We haul him outside – we don’t know what else to do, figure maybe the fresh air’ll help. He stops screaming, but he’s still moaning, holding his throat. We get his hands away. And I swear to God’ – Conway was in close, eyes locked on Orla’s – ‘I’ve seen dog bites. That, on O’Farrell’s throat, that was a dog bite.’

Orla asked faintly, ‘Did he die?’

‘Nah. Few stitches.’

‘The dog was only little,’ I said. Worked around someone’s bras. ‘Couldn’t do too much damage.’

‘After the doctors got him cleaned up,’ Conway said, ‘O’Farrell spilled his guts. Full confession. When we took him off in cuffs, he was still screaming, “Keep it away from me! Don’t let it get me!” Grown man, begging like a kid.’

‘Never made it to trial,’ I said. ‘Wound up in a mental hospital instead. He’s still there.’

Orla said, and it came from the heart, ‘OhmyGod.’

‘So,’ Conway said. ‘When McKenna says there’s no such thing as ghosts, excuse us if we have a laugh.’

Nothing in the wardrobe drawers that didn’t belong there, not on a quick check. Plenty that did; these four could have started their own Abercrombie & Fitch outlet. Nothing in the pockets of the hanging clothes. ‘We’re not saying Alison actually saw Chris Harper’s ghost,’ I said, reassuring. ‘Not for definite.’

‘Jaysus, no,’ Conway agreed. ‘She could’ve imagined the whole thing.’

‘Well,’ I said, poking through shoes. ‘She didn’t imagine that arm.’ Nothing on the wardrobe floor.

‘Nah, not that. I guess that could’ve maybe been allergies or whatever, though; who knows?’ Shrug, unconvinced. ‘All I’m saying is, if I knew anything that had anything to do with Chris, and I kept it to myself, I wouldn’t fancy turning out the lights tonight.’

I dialled the number that had texted me. All the phones stayed dark. No ringing coming from under a bed, from a stack of clothes I’d skimmed over.

‘Hate to admit it,’ I said. Glanced over my shoulder, did a shiver. ‘Me neither.’

Orla’s eyes skimming the room, hitting the corners, the shadows. Real fear.

Conway’s story had hit the mark. And Orla wasn’t the only one she’d been aiming at. The ghost story, or as much of it as Orla could remember, would be round the fourth-years inside half an hour.

‘Speaking of which.’ Conway swept up her satchel, plopped herself down nice and comfy on Joanne’s bed, right on top of her uniform – Orla’s eyes widened, like Conway had done something daring. ‘You might want to take a look at this.’

Orla edged closer. ‘Have a seat,’ Conway said, patting the bed. After a second Orla moved Joanne’s skirt carefully out of the way and sat down.

I swung the wardrobe shut, leaned against it. Got out my notebook. Kept an eye on the door for flickers of shadow moving behind it, out in the hall.

Conway flipped open the satchel, whipped out the evidence bag and smacked it down on Orla’s lap, all before Orla had a chance to work out what was going on. Said, ‘You’ve seen this before.’

Orla took one look at the Thérèse book and bit down on both lips, hard. Hiss of in-breath through her nose.

Conway said, ‘Do us a favour. Don’t try to tell us you don’t know what’s in there.’

Orla tried to shake her head and shrug and look innocent, all at once. It came out like some kind of spasm.

‘Orla. Pay attention. I’m not asking you if this was yours. I’m telling you we already know. You try to lie about it, all that’ll happen is you’ll get us pissed off and you’ll get Chris pissed off. You want to do that?’

Trapped between thick and terrified, Orla dived for the only way out she could see. ‘It’s Joanne’s!’

‘What is?’

‘The key. That was Joanne’s. It wasn’t mine.’

And bingo. Straight in there, our Orla, dobbing her mates in as quick as she could. The flare of Conway’s nose said she smelled it too. ‘Same difference. Yous robbed it out of the nurse’s office.’

‘No! Swear to God, we never stole anything.’

‘Then how’d you get it? You telling me the nurse gave it to you ’cause she couldn’t resist your pretty faces?’

Orla’s face lit up with that thin malice. ‘Julia Harte had it. Probably she stole it, or one of them did. We got a copy off her – Joanne got it, I mean. Not me.’

Not bingo. All eight of them in the frame for the card, now all eight in the frame for eyewitnesses. And all eight in the frame, opportunity clicking into place, for the killer.

Conway’s eyebrow was up. ‘Right. Joanne asked nicely, Julia said, “No problem, anything for you, darling.” Yeah? ’Cause you’re all best buddies?’

Orla shrugged. ‘I mean, I don’t know. I wasn’t there.’

I hadn’t been there either, but I knew. Blackmail: Joanne had spotted Julia on her way in or out, Share or we tell.

‘When was that?’

‘Like, forever ago.’

‘When’s forever?’

‘After Christmas – last Christmas. I haven’t even, ohmyGod, thought about it all year?’

‘How many times did you use it?’

Orla remembered she could get in trouble here. ‘I didn’t. I swear. I totally swear.’

‘You gonna keep swearing when we find your prints all over it?’

‘I got it out a few times, or put it back. But for Joanne, and Gemma. Not for me.’

‘You never snuck out? Not once?’

Orla went cagey. Ducked her head down.

‘Orla,’ Conway said, close above her. ‘You need me to explain again why keeping your mouth shut is a bad idea?’

Another flash of that fear. Orla said, ‘I mean, I went one time. All four of us went. We were meeting some guys from Colm’s out in the grounds, just for a laugh.’ And a can and a spliff and a snog. ‘But it was so scary out there. I mean, it was really dark; I hadn’t realised it would be that dark. And there were all these noises in the bushes, like animals – the guys kept saying they were rats, ew? And we’d have been expelled if we got caught. And the guys…’ A wiggle, uncomfortable. ‘I mean, they were weird, that night. Mean. They were, they kept…’

The guys had tried to push the girls. Drunk, maybe. Maybe not. No way to know how that had ended. Not our problem.

‘So no thank you, no way was I going again. And I never went out on my own.’

‘Joanne did, though. And Gemma.’

Orla sucked in her bottom lip and did the titter. That fear, forgotten, just like that: zapped away, the moment sex gossip came into the story. ‘Yeah. Only a few times.’

‘They were meeting guys. Who?’

Hunched-up shrug.

‘Chris? No, hang on–’ Conway’s finger going up, warning. ‘Remember: you don’t want to lie on this one.’

Promptly: ‘Uh-uh. Not Chris. And they would’ve said if it was.’

‘Was he there the night yous all went out?’

Head-shake.

I said, ‘Is that how you guys knew Selena and Chris were together, yeah? Saw them outside one night?’

Orla swayed forward towards me, wet-lipped smirk widening, loving her moment. ‘Gemma saw them. Right here in the grounds. They were, like, all over each other. She said, if she’d watched for another five minutes, they’d’ve been…’ Breathy snigger. ‘See? They were with each other. You guys were all “Oh, you’re just making it up.” Obviously we couldn’t tell you how we knew, but see? We totally did know.’

This was some kind of triumph, apparently. ‘Fair play to yous,’ I said.

Conway said, ‘When was this?’

Blank look. ‘Like, last spring? Maybe March or April? Before Chris… you know.’

My eye caught Conway’s for a second. ‘Yeah, we figured that much,’ she said. ‘Did yous tell anyone you’d seen them?’

‘We talked to Julia. We were like, “Em, excuse me, hello, that needs sorting out?”’

‘And? Did she sort it out?’

‘I guess.’

‘Why?’ I asked, all fascinated. ‘Why didn’t yous want Selena going out with Chris?’

Orla’s mouth popped open, popped shut. ‘Because. We just didn’t.’

‘Did one of yous fancy him, yeah? Nothing wrong with that.’

That cringe again, hunching down into her shoulders. Something was scaring her worse than us and Chris combined. Joanne; had to be. Joanne had wanted Chris.

Conway tapped the book. ‘When was the last time any of yous snuck out?’

‘Gemma was out like a week before what happened to Chris. I mean, how creepy is that? We were all, “OhmyGod, if there was like a serial killer stalking the school, he could totally have got her instead!”’

‘You never went out after that? Any of yous? Ah-ah’ – finger lifting again – ‘think about it before you go lying to us.’

Orla was shaking her head so hard her hair whipped her in the face. ‘No. I swear. None of us. After Chris, we weren’t exactly about to go wandering around out there. Joanne actually told me to go get that key and bin it or something, and I tried, but I was just taking the books out and oh! my God! one of the prefects came barging in? And she was all, “What are you doing in here?” ’cause it was after lights-out ’cause I couldn’t exactly do it while everyone was in the common room? I almost had a heart attack. So after that, no way was I trying again.’

Conway lifted an eyebrow. ‘Joanne was OK with that?’

‘Oh my God, she would’ve been so furious! I told her…’ Snorty giggle from Orla, hand going over her mouth. ‘I told her I’d done it. I mean, it’s not like anyone could tell it was ours anyway, or even what it was…’ Something dawned on her. ‘How’d you guys know?’

‘DNA,’ Conway said. ‘Go back to the common room.’

‘Selena and Chris,’ Conway said, watching down the corridor as the common-room door shut behind Orla. ‘Not bullshit after all.’

She didn’t sound happy about it. I knew why. Conway figured she should have got to this a year ago.

I said, ‘Unless Orla’s lying. Or Gemma lied to her.’

‘Yeah. I don’t think so, but.’ Neither did I. ‘Let’s see what Selena has to say.’

We’d get nothing out of Selena. I could feel it, in with that feeling that she was at the heart of the mystery: she was wrapped so deep in layers of it, we would never get through them to her. ‘Not Selena,’ I said. ‘Julia.’

Conway started to give me the glare. Changed her mind – I’d been right about Orla – nodded instead. ‘OK. Julia.’

Orla was at the centre of the common-room gabble, flopped on a sofa with one hand on her chest like she had the vapours, eating up the attention. Joanne looked ready to kill: Orla had come clean about not binning the key. Holly’s lot hadn’t moved, but their eyes were on Orla.

A nun – civvies and headgear and a grim puggy underbite – was supervising from a corner, letting them talk but keeping a tough eye on where the chat was going. For a second I was surprised at McKenna, delegating this, but then I copped. Day girls had got home, boarders had rung home. McKenna’s phone was going like goodo. She was up to her glasses in damage control.

Sooner not later, some pissed-off daddy with pull was going to ring the brass. The brass was going to ring O’Kelly. O’Kelly was going to ring Conway and take her head off.

‘Julia,’ Conway said, past the nun. ‘Let’s go.’

A beat, and then Julia got up and came. No glance back at her mates.

Their room was two doors down from Orla’s. It had that same feeling, left in a hurry: locker doors open, clothes dropped in the dash. This time, though, I knew straight off what bit belonged to who, no need to check the bedside photos. Bright red bed linen, vintage poster of Max’s Kansas City: Julia. Old-looking patchwork quilt, poem written out poster-size in careful art-project calligraphy: Rebecca. Hanging mobile made of curled silver forks and spoons, good black-and-white photo that looked like a rock against low sky, till you looked twice and it was an old man’s profile: Holly. And Conway had been bang on about Selena: no dreamcatcher, but over her bed was a print of some medium-quality old oil, unicorn bending to drink at a dark lake by moonlight. Conway caught it too. Her eyes met mine, and the shadow of a private grin flipped back and forth between us. Before I knew it, it felt good.

Julia bounced down on her bed, propped herself up on her pillow, hands behind her head. Stretched out her legs – she was in jeans, a bright orange T-shirt with Patti Smith on, hair down – and crossed her ankles. Nice and comfy. ‘Hit me,’ she said.

Conway didn’t fuck about with fairy tales this time. She whipped out the evidence envelope, dangled it from finger and thumb in front of Julia’s face. Stood over her and watched. I got out my notebook.

Julia took her time. Let Conway hold the bag while she read the book’s title. ‘Is this a hint? I should be more virtuous?’

Conway said, ‘Are we gonna find your prints on that?’

Julia pointed at the book. ‘You think this is my bedtime reading? Seriously?’

‘Cute. Don’t do that again. We ask, you answer.’

Sigh. ‘No you are not going to find my prints on this OK thank you for asking. The only way I read about saints is when I’m forced to for essays. And even then I do, like, Joan of Arc. Not some simpering wimp.’

‘Wouldn’t know the difference,’ Conway said. ‘You can explain it to me some other time. Inside that book there’s a key to the connecting door between here and the school. Belonged to Joanne and her gang, last year.’

One of Julia’s eyebrows flicked; that was all. ‘OMG. I’m like totally shocked.’

‘Yeah. Orla says it’s a copy of one you had.’

Julia sighed. ‘Oh, Orla,’ she said to the air. ‘Who’s a predictable little girl? You are! Yes you!’

‘You’re saying Orla’s lying?’

‘Um, duh? I’ve never had a key to that door. But Joanne isn’t stupid. She knows that anyone who had that key could’ve been outside the night Chris died, plus anyone who had that key is in huge trouble with McKenna, like possibly expelled trouble. Of course she’s going to share the love.’

‘Joanne didn’t tell us. Orla did.’

‘Right. With Joanne’s hand up her arse.’

‘Why would Joanne want to get you lot in hassle?’

Eyebrow. ‘You didn’t notice that she’s not exactly our biggest fan?’

‘Yeah,’ Conway said. ‘We noticed. Why’s that, again?’

Julia shrugged. ‘Who cares?’

‘We do.’

‘So ask Joanne. Because I don’t.’

‘If someone was pissed off enough with me to try and get me expelled and arrested, I’d care why.’

‘That is why. Because we don’t care what Joanne thinks. In her tiny mind, that’s like a mortal sin.’

Conway said, ‘Not because Selena was going out with Chris.’

Julia mimed banging her forehead off her palm. ‘Oh my God, if I have to hear that one more time I’m going to stick pens through my eardrums. It’s a rumour. Like, first-years know not to believe everything they hear unless there’s actual proof. You don’t?’

‘Gemma saw them. Snogging.’

Flash of something, just the one: that had caught Julia off guard. Then a finger-wag. ‘Uh-uh. Orla says Gemma says she saw them. Which isn’t the same thing.’

Conway leaned back against the wall beside Julia’s bed. Held up the bag and tapped it with a finger, watched it spin.

‘What’s Selena going to say, if I give up on you and go ask her? You know I don’t ask nicely.’

Julia’s face pulled tight. ‘She’s going to say the same thing she said when you asked her last year.’

Conway said, ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. You have to have noticed: Selena’s not the same as she was last year.’

That hit home. I saw Julia weigh something up, stacking and balancing. Saw her decide.

She said, ‘Selena wasn’t the one going out with Chris. Joanne was.’

‘Right,’ Conway said. ‘You say she was, she says Selena was, me and Detective Moran get to play Here We Go Round the Rumour Bush till early in the morning.’

Julia shrugged. ‘Believe it or don’t, whatever. But Joanne was going out with Chris for a couple of months, before last Christmas. Then he dumped her flat on her arse. She didn’t like that one little bit.’

Conway and I didn’t look at each other, didn’t need to. Motive.

If it was true. This case was jammed with lies, couldn’t grab hold of it without getting a handful.

Conway said, jaw hardening, ‘How come no one said anything about this last year?’

Shrug.

‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ Conway didn’t move, but the line of her spine said she was ready to shoot through the ceiling. ‘This wasn’t about someone smoking in the jacks. This was a murder investigation. Everyone just decided not to mention this? Are yous all morons? What?’

Julia’s eyes and her palms turning up to the ceiling. ‘Hello? Have you noticed where we are? You found out about Joanne’s key, so the first thing she did was turn it around on me. If anyone had told you about her and Chris, she’d have done exactly the same thing: got back at them by dragging them into the shit with her. Who wants that?’

‘So how come you’re telling us now?’

Julia gave Conway the teen slouch-stare. ‘We did civic responsibility this year.’

Conway had her temper back. She was focused on Julia the same way she’d been on that sandwich. ‘How do you know they were together?’

‘I heard it around.’

‘From who?’

‘Oh, God, I don’t remember. It was supposed to be this big secret, but yeah, right.’

‘Rumour,’ Conway said. ‘I thought even first-years knew not to believe everything they hear. Got any proof?’

Julia scraped something off the frame of her Max’s poster. Balancing things inside her head again.

She said, ‘Yeah, actually. Sort of.’

‘Let’s hear it.’

‘I heard Chris gave Joanne a phone. A special phone, so they could text each other without anyone finding out.’

‘Why?’

Another shrug. ‘Ask Joanne. Not my problem. Then when he dumped her, I heard she made Alison buy the phone off her. I’m not swearing on my mother’s life or anything, but Alison got a new phone after last Christmas, all right. And I’m pretty sure she hasn’t changed it since.’

‘Alison got a new phone? That’s your proof?’

‘Alison’s got a phone that Joanne was using to do whatever she and Chris did over the phone, which I don’t even want to think about. Obviously I bet she erased all the texts after Chris died, but can’t you guys do something about that? Get them back?’

‘Sure,’ Conway said. ‘Why not. Just like on CSI. Did civic responsibility class remind you of anything else you should be sharing?’

Julia put a finger to her chin, gazed into space. ‘You know, I honest to God can’t think of anything.’

‘Yeah,’ Conway said. ‘I figured. You let us know if you do.’ And opened the door.

Julia stretched, slid off the bed. ‘See you ’round,’ she said to me, with a little grin and a wave bye-bye.

We watched her down the corridor and into the common room. Julia didn’t look back, but her walk said she felt our eyes. Her arse was mocking.

Conway said, ‘Joanne.’ The name fell into the silence. The room spat it back out, snapped tight shut after it.

‘Means, opportunity, motive,’ I said. ‘Maybe.’

‘Yeah, maybe. If everything pans out. If Chris dumped Joanne, that’d explain why she was such a bitch about him liking Selena.’

‘Specially if he dumped her for Selena.’

‘It’d explain why Joanne’s gang hate Julia’s, too.’

I said, ‘They’re using us. Both lots.’

‘Yeah. To get at each other.’ Conway, hands shoved in her back pockets, still staring where Julia had been. ‘I don’t like being some little rich kids’ bitch.’

I shrugged. ‘As long as they’re giving us what we’re after, I’m grand with them getting a bit of what they want as well.’

‘I would be, too. If I was positive we had a handle on what they want. Why they want it.’ Conway straightened up, took her hands out of her pockets. ‘Where’s Alison’s phone?’

‘On her bed.’

‘I’ll confirm with Alison where she got it. You search this.’

The thought gave me the heebie-jeebies: left alone here, surrounded by teenage girls and knickers that said maybe on the arse. Conway was right, but: we couldn’t leave Alison’s phone for someone to get rid of it, couldn’t leave this room till we’d searched it, and Conway was the one who knew her way around to look for Alison. ‘See you in five,’ I said.

‘Any of them come in here, you go straight into the common room. Where you’re safe.’

She wasn’t joking. I knew she was right, too, but the common room didn’t feel like such a safe place either.

The door shut behind her. For a stupid split second, I felt like my mate had abandoned me in the shit. Reminded myself: Conway wasn’t my mate.

I got my gloves back on, started searching. Selena’s phone spilling out of her blazer pocket onto her bed, Julia’s on her bedside locker. Rebecca’s on her bed. Holly’s missing.

I started on the bedside lockers. Something about the Julia interview was poking at me. It was stuck in a back corner of my mind, where I couldn’t get my hands on it: something she’d said, that we’d let go by when we should have pounced.

Julia shaking info in front of us like a shiny dangle, to keep us from questioning Selena. I wondered how far she would go, to protect Selena or what Selena knew.

No extra phones in the lockers. This lot had books, in with the iPods and the hairbrushes and whatever else, but nothing old and nothing with bits cut out. Julia went for crime, Holly was reading The Hunger Games, Selena was halfway through Alice in Wonderland, Rebecca liked Greek mythology.

Liked old stuff. I didn’t know the poem above her bed – I don’t know poetry the way I wish I did, just whatever they had down the library when I was a kid, whatever I pick up when I get the odd chance – but it looked old, Shakespeare-old.

A Retir’d Friendship

Here let us sit and bless our Starres

Who did such happy quiet give,

As that remov’d from noise of warres.

In one another’s hearts we live.

Why should we entertain a feare?

Love cares not how the world is turn’d.

If crouds of dangers should appeare,

Yet friendship can be unconcern’d.

We weare about us such a charme,

No horrour can be our offence;

For mischief’s self can doe no harme

To friendship and to innocence.

Katherine Philips

A kid’s pretty calligraphy, pretty trees and deer woven into the capitals; kid’s need to blaze her love on walls, tell the world. Shouldn’t have hit me, a grown man.

If I made a card to put up on the Secret Place: me, big grin, in the middle of my mates. Arms around their shoulders and heads leaning together, outlines melded into one. Close as Holly and her lot, unbreakable. The caption: Me and my friends.

They’d be holes in the paper. Cut out with tiny scissors, tiny delicate snips, perfect to the last loved hair – this guy’s head thrown back laughing, this one’s elbow locked round my neck messing, this one’s arm shooting out as he overbalanced – and not there.

I said people mostly like me. True; they do, always have. Plenty of people ready to be my mates, always. That doesn’t mean I want to be theirs. A few scoops, a bit of snooker, watch the match, lovely, I’m on. The more than that, the real thing: no. Not my scene.

It was these girls’ scene, all right. They were diving a mile deep and swimming like dolphins, not a bother on them. Why should we entertain a feare? Nothing could hurt them, not in any way that mattered, not while they had each other.

The breeze made soft sounds in the curtains. I got my mobile out, dialled the number that had texted me. No answer, no ringing. The phones lay there, dark.

A sock under Holly’s bed, a violin case under Rebecca’s, nothing else. I started on the wardrobe. I was wrist-deep in soft T-shirts when I felt it: a shift, behind my shoulder, outside in the corridor. A change in the texture of the stillness, a blink across the light through the door-crack.

I stopped moving. Silence.

I took my hands out of the wardrobe and turned, nice and casual, just having another read of Rebecca’s poem; not looking at the door or anything. The door-crack was in the corner of my eye. Top half bright, bottom half dark. Someone was behind the door.

I pulled out my phone, sauntered around messing with it, mind on other things. Got my back up against the wall by the door, out of eyeline. Waited.

Out in the corridor, nothing moved.

I went for the handle and had the door thrown open all in one fast move. There was no one there.