The Secret Place

Chapter 28

They’re eating breakfast when Holly feels the thread-tug of something gone wrong, deep in the weave of the school. Too many footsteps tumbling too fast, down a corridor; nun-voices too shrill outside the window, snapping to hushed too suddenly.

No one else notices. Selena is ignoring her muesli and twisting at a loose pyjama button, Julia is eating cornflakes with one hand and doing her English homework with the other. Becca is gazing at her toast like it’s turned into the Virgin Mary, or maybe like she’s trying to lift it off the plate without touching it, which would be a hugely stupid idea but Holly doesn’t have time to worry about it right now. She nibbles her toast in circles, and keeps one eye on the window and the other on the door.

Her toast is down to thumb-sized when she sees the two uniformed cops, hurrying down the edge of the back lawn, trying for out of sight but getting it just wrong.

Someone says at another table, wide awake all of a sudden, ‘OhmyGod! Were those policemen?’ A suck of breath sweeping across the canteen, and then every voice rising at once.

That’s when Matron comes in and tells them breakfast is over, and to go up to their rooms and get ready for school. Some people complain automatically, even if they’ve already finished their breakfast, but Holly can tell from Matron’s face – slanted towards the window, no time to hear whinge – that they’re on a loser. Whatever’s happening isn’t small.

While they get dressed Holly watches the window. One movement and she’s there, face to the glass: McKenna and Father Voldemort, in a smoke-whirl of black robe, heading down the grass at charge speed.

Whatever’s happened, it’s happened to a Colm’s boy.

Something blue-white zips along Holly’s bones. The face on Joanne as she held out that screen, tongue-tip curling, wet-fanged at the delicious thought of doing damage. The way she licked up the shock Holly couldn’t help showing, every drop. Joanne would do bad stuff, stuff that comes from places most people would never know how to imagine.

Don’t worry. We’ll get him.

Holly knows how to imagine the places where bad stuff begins. She’s had practice.

‘What the fuck?’ says Julia, craning against her shoulder. ‘There’s people in the bushes, look.’

Off in the haze of layered greens beyond the grass, a flick of white. Like Technical Bureau boiler suits.

‘They look like they’re looking for something,’ Selena says, leaning in at Holly’s other side. Her voice has that floppy, hard-work sound it’s had for the last couple of weeks; it gives Holly the plunk of guilt she’s starting to get used to. ‘Are they police too? Or what?’

Other people have noticed: excited jabber is filtering through the walls, feet go thumping down the corridor. ‘Maybe some guy was running away from the cops and he threw something over the wall,’ Julia says. ‘Drugs. Or a knife he used to stab someone, or a gun. If only we’d been out last night. Now that would’ve made life more interesting.’

They don’t feel it, what’s prickling at Holly’s scalp. The tug in the air has hooked them – Lenie is buttoning her shirt too fast, Jules is bouncing on her toes as she leans against the window – but they don’t understand what it means: bad things.

Trust your instincts, Dad always says. If something feels dodgy to you, if someone feels dodgy, you go with dodgy. Don’t give the benefit of the doubt because you want to be a nice person, don’t wait and see in case you look stupid. Safe comes first. Second could be too late.

All the school feels crammed with dodgy, like cicada noises zizzing through a hot green afternoon, so shrill and many that you’ve got no chance of picking out any single one and seeing it straight. Joanne would go a long long way to get Selena in bad trouble.

I don’t get pissed off with people like her. I get rid of them.

The bell for school goes. ‘Come on,’ Becca says. She hasn’t come to the window; she’s been plaiting her hair in a calm methodical rhythm, like there’s a pearly bubble of cool air between her and that fizz. ‘You guys aren’t even ready. We’re going to be late.’

Holly’s heartbeat has reared up to match the cicada pulse. Selena’s made it so easy for Joanne. Whatever Joanne’s done, she did it knowing: all it’ll take is one sentence to a teacher or to the detectives who’ll be patient in the corner of everything from now on, one fake slip of the tongue, and oopsie!

‘Shit,’ Holly says, when they reach the bottom of the stairs. Through the open connecting door they can hear the net of school noise, pulled tighter and higher today. Someone squeals, And a police car!! ‘Forgot my poetry book. Hang on–’ and she’s squeezing back up the stairs against the flow and yammer, hand already outstretched to dive down the side of Selena’s mattress.

Two hundred and fifty of them bundle whispering into the hall. They settle instantly like good girls, hands all demure, like they’re not sucking up every detail of the two plainclothes police being bland in back corners, like that eager boil isn’t simmering just below their smooth eyes. They’re jumping to know.

That groundskeeper guy Ronan you know how he you-know-what, I heard cocaine I heard gangsters came looking for him I heard there were cops with guns right out there on the grounds! I heard they shot him I heard the shots I heard I heard– Selena catches Julia’s sideways grin – the grounds, like it’s some scary jungle full of drug lords and probably aliens – and manages to come up with one back. Actually she barely has the energy to pretend she cares about whatever pointless drama is going on here. She wishes she knew how to puke on demand like Julia, so she could go back to their room and be left alone.

But McKenna coming up behind the podium has her mouth and her eyebrows rearranged into her special solemn face, carefully mixed stern and sad and holy. Back when they were in first year and a fifth-year got killed in a car crash over the Christmas break, they all came back in January to that face. They haven’t seen it since.

Not Ronan the groundskeeper. People are twisting to see if they can spot anyone missing. Lauren Mulvihill isn’t in ohmyGod I heard she was going to fail her exams I heard she got dumped ohmyGod-

‘Girls,’ McKenna says. ‘I have some tragic news to share with you. You will be shocked and grieved, but I expect you to behave with the good sense and dignity that are part of the St Kilda’s tradition.’

Straining silence. ‘Someone found a used condom,’ Julia guesses, on a breath too low for anyone but the four of them to hear.

‘Shh,’ Holly says, without looking at her. She’s sitting up high and straight, staring at McKenna and wrapping a tissue around and around her hand. Selena wants to ask if she’s OK, but Holly might kick her.

‘I am sorry to tell you that this morning a student from St Colm’s was found dead on our grounds. Christopher Harper–’

Selena thinks her chair’s spun over backwards, into nothing. McKenna’s gone. The hall has turned grey and misty, tilting, clanging with bells and squeals and distorted scraps of music left over from the Valentine’s dance.

Selena understands, way too late and completely, why she wasn’t punished after that first night. She had some nerve, back then, thinking she had any right to hope for that mercy.

Something hurts, a long way away. When she looks down she sees Julia’s hand on her upper arm; to anyone watching it would look like a shock-grab, but Julia’s fingers are digging in hard. She says, low, ‘Don’t fucking faint.’

The pain is good; it pushes the mist back a little. Selena says, ‘OK.’

‘Just don’t break down, and keep your mouth shut. Can you do that?’

Selena nods. She’s not sure what Julia’s talking about, but she can remember it anyway; it helps, having two solid things to hold on to, one in each hand. Behind her someone is sobbing, loud and fake. When Julia lets go of her arm she misses the pain.

She should have seen this coming, after that first night. She should have spotted it seething in every shadow, red-mouthed and ravenous, waiting for a great golden voice to give it the word to leap.

She thought she was the one who would be punished. She let him keep coming back. She asked him to.

The splinters of music won’t stop scraping at her.

Becca watches the assembly through the clearest coldest water in the world, mountain water full of movement and quirky little questions. She can’t remember if she expected this part to be difficult; she thinks probably she never thought about it. As far as she can tell she’s having the easiest time of anyone in the whole room.

McKenna tells them not to be afraid because the police have everything under control. She tells them to be very careful, in any telephone calls to their parents, not to cause needless worry with foolish hysteria. There will be group counselling sessions for all classes. There will be individual counselling sessions for anyone who feels she may need it. Remember that you can talk to your class teacher or to Sister Ignatius at any time. At the end she tells them to return to their homerooms, where their class teachers will join them to answer any questions they may have.

They foam out of the gym into the entrance hall. Teachers are positioned ready to herd them and hush them, but the jabber and the sobs can’t be tamped down any longer; they surge up, careening around the high ceiling-space and up the stairwell. Becca feels like she’s taken her feet off the ground and she’s being carried along effortlessly, floated from shoulder to shoulder, all down the long corridors.

The second they’re through the homeroom door, Holly has a hand clamped round Selena’s wrist and she’s force-fielding the whole four of them past sobbing hugging clumps, into a back corner by the window. She grabs them into a fake hug and says, hard, ‘They’re going to be talking to everyone, the Murder detectives are. Don’t tell them anything. No matter what. Specially don’t tell them we can get out. Do you get that?’

‘OhmyGod, look,’ Julia says, holding up a cupped palm, ‘it’s a great big handful of duhhhh. Is it all for us?’

Holly hisses into her face, ‘I’m not joking. OK? This is real. Someone’s going to actual jail, for life.’

‘No, seriously, are they? Do I look handicapped?’

Becca smells the acrid electrical-short urgency. ‘Hol,’ she says. Holly’s all jammed-out angles and staticky hair; Becca wants to stroke her soft and smooth again. ‘We know. We won’t tell them anything. Honestly.’

‘Right, that’s what you think now. You don’t know what it’s like. This isn’t going to be like Houlihan going, “Ooh dear, I smell tobacco, have you girls been smoking cigarettes?” and if you look innocent enough she believes you. These are detectives. If they get one clue that you know anything about anything, they’re like pit bulls. Like, eight hours in an interview room with them interrogating you and your parents going apeshit, does that sound like fun? That’s what’ll happen if you even pause before you answer a question.’

Holly’s forearm is steel, pressing down across Becca’s shoulders. ‘And the other thing is: they lie. OK? Detectives make stuff up all the time. So if they’re all, “We know you were getting out at night, someone saw you,” don’t fall for it. They don’t actually know anything; they’re just hoping you’ll get freaked out and give them something. You have to look stupid and go, “Nuh-uh, they must’ve got mixed up, it wasn’t us.”’

Someone behind them sobs, ‘He was sooo full of life,’ and a wavering wail rises above the fug of the room. ‘Jesus Christ, someone shut those dumb bitches up,’ Julia snaps, shouldering Holly’s arm away. ‘Fucking ow, Holly, that hurts.’

Holly jams her arm back where it was, clamping Jules in place. ‘Listen. They’ll make up mental stuff. They’ll be like, “We know you were going out with Chris, we’ve got proof-”’

Becca’s eyes snap wide open. Holly is looking straight at Selena, but Becca can’t tell why, if it’s just because they’re opposite each other or if it’s because much more. Selena doesn’t feel staticky. She feels too soft, bruised to jelly.

Julia’s face has gone sharp. ‘They can do that?’

‘OhmyGod, here, have some more duh. They can say whatever they want. They can say they’ve got proof that you killed him, if they want, just to see what you do.’

Julia says, ‘I have to talk to someone.’ She shrugs Holly’s arm off and heads across the classroom. Becca watches. There’s a high-pitched huddle around Joanne Heffernan, who’s draped artistically over a chair with her head back and her eyes half-shut. Gemma Harding is in the huddle, but Julia says something close to her and they move a step away. Becca can tell by the angles of their heads that they’re keeping their voices down.

Holly says, ‘Please tell me you get that.’

She’s still looking at Selena, who, without the tight brace of the fake hug on both sides, rocks a little and comes down on someone’s desk. Becca’s pretty sure she hasn’t heard any of it. She wishes she could tell Lenie how utterly OK everything is, shake out a great soft blanket of OK and wrap it round Lenie’s shoulders. Things will run their own slow dark ways, down their old underground channels, and heal in their own time. You just have to wait, till you wake up one morning perfect again.

‘I got it,’ she says to Holly, comfortingly, instead.

‘Lenie.’

Lenie says obligingly, from somewhere way off outside the window, ‘OK.’

‘No. Listen. If they say to you, “We’ve got total proof that you were with Chris,” you just say, “No I wasn’t,” and then you shut up. If they show you an actual video, you just say, “That’s not me.” Do you get it?’

Selena gazes at Holly. Eventually she asks, ‘What?’

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Holly says up to the ceiling, hands in her hair. ‘I guess that could work. It’d better.’

Then Mr Smythe comes in and stands in the doorway looking skinny and petrified at the soggy heaving hugging mess in front of him, and starts flapping his hands and bleating, and gradually everyone unweaves themselves and brings the sobs down to sniffles, and Smythe takes a deep breath and starts in on the speech that McKenna made him memorise.

Probably Holly is right; what with her dad and everything else, she would know. Becca figures she should really be terrified. She can see the terror right there, like a big pale wobbly lump plonked down on her desk, that she’s supposed to hold on to and learn by heart and maybe write an essay about. It’s a little bit interesting, but not enough that she can be bothered picking it up. She pokes it off the edge of her mind and enjoys the squelchy cartoon splat it makes hitting the floor.

By mid-afternoon the parents start showing up. Alison’s mum is first, throwing herself out of a mammoth black SUV and running up the front steps in spike heels that send her feet flying out at spastic angles. Alison’s mum has had a lot of plastic surgery and she wears fake eyelashes the size of hairbrushes. She looks sort of like a person but not really, like someone explained to aliens what a person is and they did their best to make one of their own.

Holly watches her from the library window. Behind her the trees are empty, no flashes of white or fluttering crime-scene tape. Chris is out at the back, somewhere, with efficient gloved people picking over every inch of him.

They’re in the library because nobody knows what to do with anybody. A couple of the tougher teachers have managed to get the first- and second- years under control enough to do some kind of classes, but the third-years have outgrown their little-kid obedience and they actually knew Chris. Every time anyone tried to jam them down under a lid of algebra or Irish verbs, they boiled up and burst out at the cracks: someone started crying and couldn’t stop, someone else fainted, four people got into a shrieking row over who owned a Biro. When Kerry-Anne Rice saw demon eyes in the chem supplies cupboard, they were basically done. The third-years got sent to the library, where they’ve reached an unspoken agreement with the two teachers supervising them: they manage not to lose it, and the teachers don’t make them pretend to study. A thick layer of whispering has spread over the tables and shelves, pressing down.

‘Awww,’ Joanne says, low, next to Holly’s ear. She’s big-eyed and pout-lipped, head to one side. ‘Is she OK?’

She means Selena. Who is skew-shouldered in a chair like she was tossed there, hands dumped palms up in her lap, staring at an empty patch of table.

‘She’s fine,’ Holly says.

‘Really? Because it just totally breaks my heart to think about what she must be going through.’

Joanne has one hand over her heart, to demonstrate. ‘They were over ages ago, remember?’ Holly says. ‘But thanks.’

Joanne crumples up her sympathy face and tosses it away. Underneath is a sneer. ‘OhmyGod, are you literally retarded? I’m never going to care about anything any of you feel. Just please tell me she’s not going to start acting like she just lost her true love. Because that would be so pathetic I might have to puke, and bulimia is so over.’

‘Tell you what,’ Holly says. ‘Give me your mobile number. The second you get any say about how Selena acts, I’ll give you a text and let you know.’

Joanne examines her, flat eyes that suck in everything and put nothing back out. She says, ‘Wow. You actually are retarded.’

Holly sighs noisily and waits. Being this close to Joanne is trickling cold oil down her skin. She wonders what Joanne’s face would do if she asked, Did you do it yourself, or did you make someone do it for you?

‘If the cops find out what Selena was doing with Chris, she’ll be a total suspect. And if she goes around acting like some big tragedy queen, then they’re going to find out. One way or another.’

Since Holly is not in fact retarded, she knows exactly what Joanne means. Joanne can’t take the Chief Mourner seat that she’d love, because she can’t afford to have the cops start paying special attention to her, but no one else is getting it either. If Selena acts too upset, then Joanne will upload that phone video online and make sure the cops get a link.

Holly knows Selena didn’t kill Chris. She knows that killing a person does almost-invisible things to you; it leaves you arm-linked with death, your head tilted just a degree that way, so that for the rest of your life your shadows mix together. Holly knows Selena down to her bones, she’s been watching Selena all day, and if that tilt had happened since yesterday she would have seen it. But she doesn’t expect the detectives to know Selena that way, or to believe her if she tells them.

Holly won’t be asking whether Joanne did it herself. She’s never going to be able to give Joanne, or anyone else, one hint that the thought has crossed her mind.

Instead she says, ‘Like you know so much about how detectives work? They’re not going to suspect Selena. They’ve probably arrested someone by now.’

They both hear it in her voice: Joanne’s won. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ Joanne says, flicking one last sneer at her and turning away. ‘I forgot your dad’s a Guard.’ She makes it sound like a sewage sorter. Joanne’s dad is a banker.

Speaking of whom. Dealing with Joanne has taken Holly’s attention off the window; the first she knows about Dad arriving is when there’s a tap on the door and his head pokes round it. For one second the rush of helpless gladness blows away everything else, even embarrassment: Dad will fix it all. Then she remembers all the reasons why he won’t.

Alison’s mum must have got snared by McKenna for a de-panicking session, but Dad doesn’t get snared unless he wants to be. ‘Miss Houlihan,’ he says. ‘I’m just borrowing Holly for a minute. I’ll bring her back safe and sound, cross my heart.’ And gives Houlihan a smile like she’s a movie star. She never thinks of saying no. The fog-layer of whispers stops moving to let Holly pass underneath, watched.

‘Hiya, chickadee,’ Dad says, in the corridor. The hug is one-armed, casual as any weekend hello, except for the convulsive gripe of his hand pressing her head into his shoulder. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m fine,’ Holly says. ‘You didn’t need to come.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything else, figured I might as well.’ Dad is never doing nothing else. ‘Did you know this young fella?’

Holly shrugs. ‘I’ve seen him around. We talked a couple of times. He wasn’t my friend. Just some guy from Colm’s.’

Dad holds her away and scans her, blue eyes lasering right through hers to scour the inside of her skull for scraps. Holly sighs and stares back. ‘I’m not devastated. Swear to God. Satisfied?’

He grins. ‘Smart-arsed little madam. Come on; let’s go for a walk.’ He links her arm through his and strolls her down the corridor like they’re headed for a picnic. ‘How about your pals? Did they know him?’

‘Same as me,’ Holly says. ‘Just from around. We saw the detectives during the assembly. Do you know them?’

‘Costello, I do. He’s no genius, but he’s sound enough, gets the job done. Your woman Conway, I only know what I’ve heard. She sounds OK. No idiot, anyway.’

‘Were you talking to them?’

‘Checked in with Costello on my way up. Just to make it clear that I won’t be stepping on their toes. I’m here as a dad, not a detective.’

Holly asks, ‘What’d they say?’

Dad takes the stairs at an easy jog. He says, ‘You know the drill. Anything they tell me, I can’t tell you.’

He can be a dad all he wants; he’s always a detective too. ‘Why? I’m not a witness.’

This time, says the space in the air when she stops.

‘We don’t know that yet. Neither do you.’

‘Yeah, I do.’

Dad lets that lie. He holds the front door open for her. The air spreading its arms to them is soft, stroking their cheeks with sweet greens and golds; the sky is holiday-blue.

When they’re down the steps and crunching across the white pebbles, Dad says, ‘I’d like to believe that if you knew anything – anything at all, even something that was probably nothing – you’d tell me.’

Holly rolls her eyes. ‘I’m not stupid.’

‘Farthest thing from it. But at your age, going by what I remember from a few hundred years ago, keeping your mouth shut around adults is a reflex. A good one – nothing wrong with learning to sort stuff out by yourselves – but it’s one that can go too far. Murder isn’t something you and your mates can sort. That’s the detectives’ job.’

Holly knows it already. Her bones know it: they feel slight and bendy as grass stalks, no core to them. She thinks of Selena, rag-dolled in that chair. Things need doing, things she can’t even get hold of. She wants to lift Selena up, put her in Dad’s arms and say Take good care of her.

She feels Joanne behind her, high in the library window. Her stare zipping through the sunlit air to fingernail-pinch the back of Holly’s neck, twisting.

She says, ‘I’ve actually known that for a while. Remember?’

She can tell by Dad’s head rearing back that she’s taken him off guard. They never talk about that time when she was a kid.

‘OK,’ he says, a second later. Whether he believes her or not, he’s not going any farther down that trail. ‘I’m relieved to hear it. In that case, I’ll have a word with Costello, ask him to interview you now, get it out of the way. Then you can pack up your stuff, nice and discreetly, and come home with me.’

Holly was expecting this, but she still feels her legs go rigid against it. ‘No. I’m not going home.’

And Dad was expecting that; his stride doesn’t change. ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. And it’s not forever. Just for a few days, till the lads get this sorted.’

‘What if they don’t? Then what?’

‘If they don’t have their man locked up by Monday, we’ll review the situation. It shouldn’t come to that, though. From what I hear, they’re pretty close to an arrest.’

Their man. Not Joanne. Whatever the detectives have against this guy, sooner or later it’s going to crumble in their hands, and they’re going to go hunting again.

‘OK,’ Holly says, turning docile. ‘Lenie and Becs can come with me, right?’

That gets Dad’s attention. ‘Say what?’

‘Their parents are away. They can come home with us, right?’

‘Um,’ Dad says, rubbing the back of his head. ‘I’m not sure we’re equipped for that, sweetheart.’

‘You said it’s only for a couple of days. What’s the big deal?’

‘I think it’s only for a few days, but this gig doesn’t come with guarantees. And I don’t have their parents’ permission to haul them away for the duration. I don’t fancy being had up for kidnapping.’

Holly doesn’t smile. ‘If it’s too dangerous for me to stay here, it’s too dangerous for them.’

‘I don’t think it’s dangerous at all. I think I’m a paranoid bastard. Professional deformation, they call it. I want you at home so that any time I start getting panicky, I can stick my head in and look at you and take a few deep breaths. It’s for my sake, not yours.’

His smile down at her and the weight of his hand on her head make Holly want to let every muscle go floppy: shove her face back into his shoulder, fill herself up with his smell of leather and smoke and soap, daydream there sucking her hair and say yes to whatever he tells her. She’d do it, except for the things Selena’s got stashed in her head, ready to spill out ping-ponging all over the floor if Holly isn’t there to keep them battened down.

She says, ‘If you take me home, everyone’s going to think it’s because you know something. I’m not leaving Selena and Becca here thinking a murderer could come after them any time and there’s nowhere they can get away. If they’re stuck here, they need to know it’s safe. And the only way they’re going to know that is if you say it’s safe enough for me.’

Dad’s head goes back and he snaps a chunk off a laugh. ‘I like the way you work, chickadee. And I’ll happily sit your mates down and tell them I’d bet a lot of money they’re safe as houses, if you want me to. But much as I like Selena and Becca, they’re their own parents’ responsibility, not mine.’

He means it: he doesn’t think anyone’s in danger. He wants Holly home, not in case she gets murdered, but in case being around another murder traumatises her poor fragile ickle mind all over again.

Holly doesn’t want a lovely Daddy-cuddle any more. She wants blood.

She says, firing it at him, ‘They’re my responsibility. They’re my family.’

Score: Dad’s not laughing any more. ‘Maybe. I’d like to think I am too.’

‘You’re a grown-up. If you’re paranoid for no reason, that’s your problem to deal with. Not mine.’

The tightened muscle in his cheek tells her she might be winning. The thought scares her so she wants to take it all back, swallow it down in a great gulp and go running into the school to pack her things. She stays silent and stretches her steps to match his. Pebbles grind together.

‘Sometimes I think your ma’s right,’ Dad says, on a wry one-sided grin. ‘You’re my comeuppance.’

Holly says, ‘So I can stay?’

‘I’m not happy about it.’

‘Yeah, hello? Nobody’s happy about any of this?’

That brings up the other side of the grin. ‘OK. I’ll make you a deal. You can stay, if you give me your word that you’ll tell me or the investigating officers anything that could conceivably be relevant. Even if you’re positive it isn’t. Anything you know, anything you notice, anything that just happens to occur to you as a vague possibility. Can you live with that?’

It occurs to Holly that this might be what he was after all along, or at least his backup plan. He’s practical. If he doesn’t get his dad wish, at least he can get his detective one.

‘Yeah,’ she says, giving him all the straight look he could want. ‘I promise.’

Selena’s in the bedroom and Becca wants to give her this red phone. It comes with a long explanation that Selena can’t keep hold of, but it lights a grave holy shine all round Becca and almost lifts her off her toes, so probably it’s good. ‘Thanks,’ Selena says, and puts the phone down the side of her bed since that’s where a secret phone belongs, except her own one isn’t there any more. She wonders if maybe Chris came and took it, and left this red one with Becca so he can text her later when he gets a chance because right now he has to be busy, only then that sounds wrong but she can’t track down why because Becca is looking at her, this look that dives down inside Selena and lands right on the place that’s trying hard to hurt. So she just says ‘Thanks’ again and then she can’t remember what they came up here for. Becca gets her flute out of the wardrobe and puts it into her hands and asks, ‘What music do you need?’ and for a moment Selena wants to laugh because Becca looks so calm and grown-up, riffling through her music case neat as a nurse. She wants to say That’s what you should be after school, you should be a nurse, but the thought of the look Becca would give her makes the knot of laughter swell bigger and harder at the bottom of her throat. ‘The Telemann,’ she says. ‘Thanks.’

Becca finds it. ‘There,’ she says, and clicks Selena’s music case shut. Then she leans in and presses her cheek to Selena’s. Her eyelashes moth-wing against Selena’s skin and her lips are stone-cool. She smells like ripped green and hyacinths. Selena wants to hold her tight and breathe her all in, till her blood feels erased to pure again, like none of this ever happened.

After that Selena stays as still as she can and listens to how her heartbeat’s changed, gone slow and rolling in underwater dark. She thinks maybe if she follows it far enough down the tunnel she’ll find Chris. Probably he’s dead if they all say so, but there’s no way he’s gone. Not the taste of his skin, not the hot mountaintop smell of him, not the upward curl of his laugh. She thinks if she concentrates hard enough she’ll at least find what direction he’s in, but people keep interrupting her.

People ask her questions in McKenna’s office. She keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t break down.

Just like Holly said, they get called into McKenna’s office one by one. There’s McKenna, there’s a woman with black hair, and there’s a fat old guy, all sitting in a row behind the long battered gloss of McKenna’s desk. Becca never noticed before – the couple of times she was in here, she was too panicky to notice anything – that McKenna’s chair is extra tall, to make you feel little and helpless. Actually, with three of them back there and only one tall chair, it just looks funny, like the woman detective’s feet must be dangling in mid-air, or like McKenna and the guy detective are midgets.

They start with the stuff they ask everyone. Becca thinks back to what she was just a few months ago and does that, huddling up and tangling her legs and answering into her lap. If you’re shy enough, no one sees anything else. The guy detective takes notes and bites down on a yawn.

Then the lady detective says – examining an unravelling thread in her jacket cuff, like this is no big deal – ‘What did you think about your friend Selena going out with Chris?’

Becca frowns, bewildered. ‘Lenie never went out with him. I think maybe they talked to each other a couple of times at the Court, but that was ages ago.’

The detective’s eyebrows go up. ‘Nah. They were a couple. You mean you didn’t know?’

‘We don’t have boyfriends,’ Becca says disapprovingly. ‘My mum says I’m too young.’ She likes that touch. Looking like a kid might as well come in useful for once.

The lady detective and the man detective and McKenna all wait, staring at her from behind the sun-patterns slanted across the desk. They’re so huge and meaty and hairy, they think they’ll just squash her down till her mouth pops open and everything comes gushing out.

Becca looks back at them and feels her flesh stir and transform silently into something new, some nameless substance that comes from high on pungent-forested mountain slopes. Her borders are so hard and bright that these lumpy things are being blinded just by looking at her; she’s opaque, she’s impermeable, she’s a million densities and dimensions more real than any of them. They break against her and roll off like mist.

That night Holly stays awake as long as she can, watching the others like just by watching she can keep them safe. She’s sitting up with her arms around her knees, too electric to lie down, but she knows none of them will try to start a conversation. Today has gone on long enough.

Julia is sprawled and far away. Becca daydreams, eyes dark and solemn as a baby’s, flicking back and forth as she watches something Holly can’t see. Selena is pretending to be asleep. The light over the transom does bad things to her face, turns it puffy and purple in tender places. She looks pounded.

Holly remembers that time back when she was a kid, how everything felt ruined, around her and inside her. Slowly, when she wasn’t looking, most of that washed away. Time does things. She tells herself it’ll do them for Selena.

She wants to be in the grove. She can feel it, how the moonlight would pour over them all, calcify their bones to a strength that could take this weight. She knows they would be insane even to think about trying it tonight, but she falls asleep craving it anyway.

When Holly’s breathing evens out, Becca sits up and takes her pin and her ink out of her bedside table. In the faint light from the corridor the line of blue dots swings across her white stomach like the track of some strange orbit, from her rib cage down to her belly button and back up to the ribs on the other side. There’s just room for one more.

Selena waits till even Becca’s finally gone to sleep. Then she looks to see if there’s a text for her on the red phone, but it’s gone. She sits in the tangle of sheets and wants to go frantic, scream and claw, in case it did come from Chris. But she can’t remember how – her arms and her voice seem like they’ve been unhooked from her body – and anyway it would be too much work.

She wonders, like a retch, if she did see this waiting all along, and closed her eyes because she wanted Chris so much. The more she tries to remember, the more it slips and twists and leers at her. In the end she knows she’s never going to know.

She goes back to staying still. She carefully cordons off enough of her mind to do the necessary stuff, like showers and homework, so people won’t come bothering her. She puts the rest into concentrating.

After a while she understands that something destroyed Chris to save her.

After a while longer she understands that this means it wants her for its own, and that she belongs to it for good now.

She cuts her hair off, for an offering, to send the message that she understands. She does it in the bathroom and burns the soft pale heap in the sink – the glade would be better, but they haven’t been back there since it happened, and she can’t tell if that’s because the others know some reason she hasn’t figured out. Her hair takes the lighter flame with a fierceness she didn’t expect, a whump and a wide-mouthed roar like faraway trees taking forest fire. She whips her hand away, but not fast enough, and her wrist is left with a small drumming wound.

The smell of burning stays. For weeks afterwards she catches it on her, savage and holy.

Chunks of her mind fall off sometimes. At first it frightens her, but then she realises once they’re gone she doesn’t miss them, so it doesn’t bother her any more. The burn scars red and then white.

When Chris has been dead for four days, Julia hears that Finn’s been expelled for hotwiring the fire door, and starts waiting for the cops to come for her.

They gave her and the others some hassle about Selena going out with Chris, but it was the cunning mirage hassle Holly talked about, looked impressive till you got up close and saw there was nothing solid there. It dissolved after a few days of blank head-shakes. Which means that Gemma couldn’t keep Joanne from flapping her yap altogether – in fairness, nothing short of surgery could – but she must have managed to get it through Joanne’s thick skull that, no matter how incredibly awesomesauce the drama would be, they need to keep the details quiet for their own sakes.

But Julia couldn’t exactly get that through to Finn. (Hi, Jules here! Remember how u thot i was usin u 2 shag ur mate? U no wat wd b totes amazeballs? If u cud not mention dat 2 d cops. Kthxbai!!) All she could do was keep her fingers crossed he would somehow work out all the stuff Holly warned about, and this is the kind of situation that requires more than crossed fingers. A bunch of Colm’s idiots versus those two detectives: of course someone slipped up, in the end.

She doesn’t have a clue what she’ll say when they come. As far as she can see, she has two options: spill her guts about how she wasn’t the only one meeting Chris, or deny everything and hope her parents get her a good lawyer. A month ago she would have said she’d go to jail before she’d throw Selena under a bus, no question; but things have changed, in ferocious tangled ways she’s having trouble getting a grip on. Lying awake late, she runs through each scenario in her head, tries to imagine each one playing out. They both feel impossible. Julia understands that doesn’t mean they can’t happen. The whole world has come apart and gone lunatic, gibbering.

By the end of the week she thinks the cops are playing mind-games with her, waiting for the suspense to break her down. It’s working. When she drops a binder – she and Becca are in the back of the library, collecting binders full of old Irish exams for the class to practise on – she almost leaps through the roof. ‘Hey,’ Becca says. ‘It’s OK.’

‘I’m actually smart enough to decide for myself whether it’s OK or not,’ Julia snaps in a whisper, scooping dusty pages off the staticky carpet. ‘And believe me, it fucking isn’t.’

‘Jules,’ Becca says gently. ‘It is. I swear. It’s all going to be totally fine.’ And she runs the backs of her fingers along Julia’s shoulder, down her arm, like someone calming a spooked animal.

Julia, whipping upright to rip her a new one, finds Becca looking back with steady brown eyes and not a hint of a flinch, even smiling a little. It’s the first time in weeks she’s looked at Becca properly. She realises that Becca is taller than her now, and that – unlike Selena and Holly and, Christ knows, Julia herself – she doesn’t look like shit. The opposite: she looks smoothed, luminous, as if her skin’s been stripped away and remade out of something denser and so white it’s almost metallic, something you could shatter your knuckles on. She looks beautiful.

It makes Julia feel even farther away from her. She doesn’t have the energy to rip anyone anything; she just wants to sit down on the disgusting carpet and lean her head against the bookshelves and stay there for a long time. ‘Come on,’ she says instead, heaving up her armful of binders. ‘Let’s go.’

After another week she realises that the cops aren’t coming. Finn hasn’t given them her name. He could have used it to bargain down the expulsion into a suspension, thrown it to the cops to get them off his back, but he didn’t.

She wants to text him, but anything she said would come out as Ha-ha, you’re in the shit and I’m not, sucker. She wants to ask his friends how he’s doing, but either he’s told them everything and they hate her, or he hasn’t and it would start rumours, or they’d tell him and he’d hate her even more, and the whole mess would just bubble up viler. Instead she waits till the others are asleep and bawls like a stupid whiny baby all night long.

After two and a half weeks the centre of the world is starting to turn away from Chris Harper. The funeral is over; everyone’s talked themselves tired of the photographers outside the church and who cried and how Joanne fainted during Communion and had to be carried outside. Chris’s name has fallen off the front pages, into the occasional snippet in spare corners that need filling. The detectives are gone, most of the time. The Junior Cert is just a few days from pouncing, and the teachers get narky instead of guidance-y if someone messes up a class by bursting into tears or seeing Chris’s ghost. He’s drifted off to one side: there, all the time, but in the corner of your eye.

On the way to the Court, under trees puffed up with full summer green, Holly says, ‘Tonight?’

‘Hello?’ Julia says, eyebrows shooting up. ‘And walk straight into a dozen of your dad’s buddies just waiting for someone to be that incredibly fucking stupid? Seriously?’

Becca is hopscotching over cracks, but Julia’s whipcrack voice gets her watching. Selena keeps on walking with her head tipped back, face turned up to the sweet swirls of leaves. Holly has her elbow to make sure she doesn’t smash into anything.

‘There aren’t any detectives. Dad’s always complaining about how he can’t even get surveillance authorised on, like, major drug dealers; no way would they authorise it on a girls’ school. So duh, incredibly fucking stupid yourself.’

‘Well, isn’t it just awesomesauce to have an expert on police procedure right here. I guess it never occurred to you that maybe your daddy doesn’t tell you everything?’

Julia is giving Holly her fiercest better-back-down glare, but Holly’s not backing anywhere. She’s been waiting weeks for this; it’s the only thing she can think of that might fix things. ‘He doesn’t need to tell me. I have brain cells–’

‘I want to go,’ Becca says. ‘We need it.’

‘Maybe you need to get arrested. I honest-to-God don’t.’

‘We do need it,’ Becca says, stubborn. ‘Listen to you. You’re being a bitch. If we have a night out there–’

‘Oh, please, don’t give me that crap. I’m being a bitch because this is a stupid idea. It’s not going to get any less stupid if we–’

Selena wakes up. ‘What is?’

‘Forget it,’ Julia tells her. ‘Never mind. Go think about pink fluff some more.’

‘Going out tonight,’ Becca says. ‘I want to go, so does Hol, Jules doesn’t.’

Selena’s eyes float over to Julia. ‘Why not?’ she asks.

‘Because even if the cops don’t have surveillance on the place, it’s still a dumb idea. Have you even noticed that the Junior Cert starts this week? Have you even heard them, every single day: “Oh you have to get sleep, if you don’t get sleep you can’t concentrate and you won’t be able to study-”’

Holly’s hands fly up and out. ‘Oh my God, since when do you care what Sister Ignatius thinks you should do?’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Sister Ignatius. I care if I end up stuck in, like, needlework class next year because I fail my–’

‘Oh, yeah, right, because of one hour one night, you’re totally going to–’

‘I want to go,’ Selena says. She’s stopped walking.

The rest of them stop too. Holly catches Julia’s eye and widens hers, warning. This is the first time in weeks that Lenie has wanted anything.

Julia takes a breath like she’s got another argument ready, the heaviest of all. Then she looks at the three of them and puts it away again.

‘OK,’ she says. Her voice has dulled. ‘Whatever, I guess. Just, if it doesn’t…’

‘If what doesn’t what?’ Becca asks, after a moment.

Julia says, ‘Nothing. Let’s do it.’

‘Woohoo!’ Becca says, and jumps high to pull a flower off a branch. Selena starts walking and goes back to watching the leaves. Holly takes her elbow again.

They’re almost at the Court; the warm sugary smell of doughnuts reaches out to make their mouths water. Something seizes Holly, in the tender space between where her breasts are growing, and drags downwards. At first she thinks she’s hungry. It takes her a moment to understand that it’s loss.

Outside their window the moon is slim and running wild with streaks of cloud. Their movements as they dress are filled up with every other time, with the first can’t-believe-we’re-doing-this half-joke, with the magic of a bottle cap floating above a palm, of a flame turning them to gold masks. As they pull up their hoods and take their shoes in their hands, as they slow-motion like dancers down the stairs, they feel themselves slowly turn buoyant again, feel the world flower and shiver as it waits for them. A smile is tipping the corner of Lenie’s mouth; on the landing Becca turns her palms to the white-lit window like a thanksgiving prayer. Even Julia who thought she knew better is beating with it, the bubble of hope expanding inside her ribs till it hurts, What if, maybe, maybe we really could-

The key won’t turn.

They stare at each other, wiped blank.

‘Let me try,’ Holly whispers. Julia steps back. The rhythm in their ears is pounding faster.

It won’t turn.

‘They’ve changed the lock,’ Becca whispers.

‘What do we do?’

‘Get out of here.’

‘Let’s go.’

Holly can’t get the key out.

‘Come on come on come on–’

The terror leaps like wildfire among them. Selena has her mouth pushed into her forearm to keep herself quiet. The key rattles and grates; Julia shoves Holly out of the way – ‘Jesus, did you break it?’ – and grabs it in both hands. In the second when it looks like it’s really stuck, all four of them almost scream.

Then it shoots out, slamming Julia backwards into Becca. The thump and oof of breath and scrabble for balance sound loud enough to call out the school. They run, flailing clumsy in slipping sock-feet, teeth bared with fear. Into their room and the door closing too hard, clawing clothes off and pyjamas on, leaping for their beds like animals. By the time the prefect drags herself awake and comes shuffling down the corridor to stick her head in at each door, they have themselves and their breathing all neatly arranged. She doesn’t care if they’re faking or not, as long as they’re doing nothing that could get her in trouble; one glance around their smooth sleeping faces, and she yawns and closes the door again.

None of them say anything. They keep their eyes closed. They lie still and feel the world change shape around them and inside them, feel the boundaries set solid; feel the wild left outside, to prowl perimeters till it thins into something imagined, something forgotten.