by French, Tana
“Nah. Load of bollix.” I leaned against the wall, one-shouldered so I could keep an eye on that line of light around the door. “I don’t know about Julia and Finn, but the others: Chris was the one that wanted things on the down-low. I’d bet it was so he could keep a few girls on the go at once. Joanne started pressuring him to go public, he dumped her.”
Nod. She nodded sideways, on a twist, street style. “Looks like your Holly might’ve been right about Chris. Not the sweetheart everyone said.”
He only cared about what he wanted, Holly had said.
The face on Chris, looking at Selena. But that age: wanting beats loyalty so easily. Doesn’t mean the loyalty isn’t real. You know what you’ve got, but you know what you want, too. So you go after it. You see your chance, and you take it. Tell yourself it’ll be grand in the end.
I said, “If he kept up the two-timing, and one of the girls found out . . .”
“If Selena found out, you mean.”
“Probably not her. Selena and Chris were over, weeks before he died. If you’re gonna smash your fella’s head in for cheating, you do it when you find out, not weeks later. Could’ve been why she broke it off, though.”
“Maybe.” Conway kicked someone’s clumpy uniform shoe out of her way. She didn’t sound convinced. “That didn’t go down the way Joanne said, anyway. She told Julia to get Selena away from Chris, Julia went, ‘Yes, ma’am, straight away, ma’am,’ and ran right off to do what she was told? You think Julia takes orders on her mates’ love lives from Joanne?”
“She’d tell her to go fuck herself. Unless Joanne had something major on her.”
“That video’s major enough: could’ve got Julia and all her mates expelled. But Joanne didn’t need to use it. Chris and Selena split up first.”
“You believe her?”
“On that, I do.”
I thought back. Realized I’d already forgotten Joanne’s face. Hard to tell, but: “Yeah. I think I do too.”
“Right. So maybe Selena did dump him because she caught him two-timing.” Conway swept up Gemma’s hair straightener on her way past, gave it a what-the-fuck grimace, tossed it on Orla’s bed. “Or maybe it was something else.”
“They just fizzled out?” I didn’t believe it, not after that footage. But, trying it on for size: “That age, even a month or two is a long time to be with someone. That’s when Chris got bored of Joanne. He could’ve got restless again, started feeling like it was too much commitment. Or Selena wanted to go public, same as Joanne did.”
Conway had stopped moving. The sun was lowering; it came in through the window arrow-straight and level, turned her face into a light-and-shadow mask. “I’ll tell you what else a month or two is, at that age. It’s when guys start turning up the pressure. Put out or get out.”
I waited. Silence, and the thick flower-chemical smell of body sprays burning the inside of my nose.
Conway said, “Someone did something to Selena that fucked up her mind and put all four of them off guys. And right around the same time, Selena and Chris broke up.”
I said, “You think Chris raped her.”
“I think we need to check out the possibility. Yeah.”
“Running into temptation and two-timing a girl you really like, that’s one thing. Raping her’s another. That video: on there, he looks like . . .” Conway was withering me. I finished anyway. “He looks like he was mad about her.”
“Course he does. So does any teenage guy who thinks he’s got a shot at a shag. They’ll be whatever they think the girl wants to see. Right up until they realize it’s not getting them into her knickers.”
“That looked like the real thing to me.”
“You an expert, yeah?”
“Are you?”
Conway upped the stare. Couple of hours earlier, I would’ve blinked. I stared right back.
She left it. “Even if it was real,” she said. “Even if he was genuinely mad about her. He could’ve raped her anyway. Grown adults don’t do something that’s obviously gonna hurt someone they love, not if they can help it, but that age; remember that age? They’re not the same. They don’t put things together. That’s why half of what they do looks full-on certifiable, to you or me or any sane adult. Things don’t make sense, when you’re that age; you don’t make sense. You stop expecting to.”
A second of silence. Her being right, me wishing she was wrong.
When he wanted something and he couldn’t get it? Holly had said. Not so nice.
“That night,” I said. “The night Joanne videoed. That was the last time Chris and Selena met up. If he did something to her . . .”
“Yeah. It was that night.”
Silence, again. Under the body spray, I thought I caught a whiff of hyacinths.
“What now?” I asked.
“Now we wait for Sophie to get us Chris’s phone records. I’m not talking to anyone else till I see what he was at last spring. Meanwhile, we do a proper search in here.”
In the corner of my eye: a flutter of darkness, behind the door-crack.
I had the door flung open before I knew I was moving. Alison squealed and leapt back, hands flapping wildly. In the background, McKenna took a protective pace forward.
“Can I help you?” I asked. My heart was going harder than it should have been. Conway eased away from the wall on the other side of the doorway—I hadn’t even seen her go for it. Even with no clue what I was at, she’d been straight in there, ready to back me up.
Alison stared. Said, like someone had taught her the line, “I need to get my books to do my homework please.”
“No problem,” I said. I felt like an eejit. “In you come.”
She sidled in like we might hit her, started pulling stuff out of her bag—her hands looked frail as water spiders, skittering over the books. McKenna stood in the doorway, being massive. Not liking us one little bit.
“How’s the arm?” I asked.
Alison shifted it away from me. “It’s OK. Thanks.”
“Let’s see,” Conway said.
Alison shot a glance at McKenna: she’d been told not to show it. McKenna nodded, reluctantly.
Alison pulled up her sleeve. The blisters were gone, but the skin where they’d been still had a bumpy look to it. The handprint had faded to pink. Alison had her head turned away.
“Nasty,” I said sympathetically. “My sister used to get allergies. Up her face and all, once. Turned out it was the washing powder our mammy was using. Did you figure out what did that, no?”
“The cleaners must have switched to a new brand of hand soap.” Another glance at McKenna. Another line learned off by heart.
“Yeah,” I said. “Must’ve done.” Shared a look with Conway, let Alison catch it.
Alison tugged down her sleeve and started scooping up her books. Glanced once round the room, big-eyed, like we’d turned it into somewhere strange and untrustworthy, before she scuttled out.
McKenna said, “If you should wish to speak to me, Detectives—or to any more of the fourth-years—you will find us in the common room.”
Meaning the nun had ratted us out. McKenna was taking over the fourth-years, damage control or no, and we were getting no more interviews without an appropriate adult.
“Miss McKenna,” I said. Held out a hand to keep her back, while Alison straggled down the corridor towards the common room. Even on her own, the kid walked like she was trailing after someone. “We’ll need to speak to some of the girls without a teacher present. There are elements of this case that they wouldn’t be comfortable discussing in front of school staff. It’s only background to the investigation, but we need them to speak freely.”
McKenna was opening her mouth on Absolutely not. I said, “If unsupervised interviews are a problem, obviously, we can have the girls’ parents come in.”
And s
tart last year’s flap again, parents outraged, panicking, threatening to pull their daughters out of Kilda’s. McKenna swallowed the No. I added, for good measure, “It would mean we’d have to wait till the parents can get here, but it might be a good compromise solution. The girls would probably be more comfortable discussing breaches of school rules in front of their parents than in front of a teacher.”
McKenna shot me a look that said You don’t fool me, you little bastard. Said, salvaging, “Very well. I will allow unsupervised interviews, within reason. If any girl becomes distressed, however, or if you receive any information that affects the school in any way, I expect to be informed immediately.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thanks very much.” As she turned away, I heard the surge of voices from the common room, hammering around Alison.
“That arm’s gone down some more,” Conway said. She tapped Joanne’s bedside table. “Fake tan in there.”
I said, “Joanne didn’t have any reason to create a diversion to get us out of the common room. She thought Orla had ditched the key a year ago.”
It had only hit me when I looked at the arm again. “Huh,” Conway said. Thought that over. “Coincidence and imagination, after all.” She didn’t look as pleased as she should’ve been. Neither was I.
It does that to you, being a detective. You look at blank space and see gears turning, motives and cunning; nothing looks innocent any more. Most times, when you prove away the gears, the blank space looks lovely; peaceful. But that arm: innocent, it looked just as dangerous.
16
By the time Julia and Finn get to the back of the grounds, the music seeping out of the dance is long gone behind them. The moon catches flashes of light and snippets of color strewn through the bushes, like a crop of sweets in a witch’s garden. Finn pulls out the nearest one and holds it up to the light: a Lucozade bottle, full of something dark amber. He uncaps it and sniffs.
“Rum. I think. That OK for you?”
There are always rumors about some guy who put some drug in some booze some year and raped some girl. Julia figures she’ll take the chance. “My favorite,” she says.
“Where’ll we go? There’s going to be a lot more people headed here, if they can get out.”
No way is Julia bringing him to the glade. There’s a little rise among cherry trees, tucked away at the side of the grounds; the cherry blossom is out, which turns the place more romantic than Julia had in mind, but it has plenty of cover and a perfect view of the back lawn. “This way,” she says.
No one else has got there first. The rise is still. When a breeze flits through, cherry blossom falls like a shake of snow on the pale grass.
“Ta-da,” Julia says, sweeping a hand out. “Will this do?”
“Works for me,” Finn says. He looks around, the bottle swinging from one hand, the other tucked in the pocket of his navy hoodie—it’s cold, but there’s almost no wind, so it’s a mellow, clean cold that they can ignore. “I never even knew this was here. It’s beautiful.”
“It’s probably covered in bird crap,” Julia says, dampeningly. He doesn’t sound like he’s just playing Mr. Sensitive to up his odds of getting into her bra, but you never know.
“The element of risk. I like it.” Finn points to a patch of clear grass among the cherry trees. “Over here?”
Julia lets him sit down first, so she can get the distance right. He uncaps the bottle and passes it to her. “Cheers,” he says.
She takes a mouthful and discovers she hates rum as well as whiskey. She has no idea how the human race found out you could actually drink this stuff. She hopes she doesn’t just hate booze in general. Julia figures she’s ruled out enough vices already; this is one she was planning to enjoy.
“Good stuff,” she says, giving it back.
Finn takes a swig and manages to avoid making a face. “Better than the punch, anyway.”
“True. Not saying much, but true.”
There’s a silence, question-marked, but not uncomfortable. The ringing in Julia’s ears is starting to fade. Far away, maybe in the grove, an owl calls.
Finn lies back on the grass, pulling up his hood so he won’t get dew or bird crap in his hair. “I heard the grounds are haunted,” he says.
Julia is not about to snuggle up for protection. “Yeah? I heard your mum is haunted.”
He grins. “Seriously. You never heard that?”
“Course I did,” Julia says. “The ghost nun. Is that why you invited me out here? To look after you while you got your booze?”
“I used to be petrified of her. The older guys made sure we all were, back in first year.”
“Us too. Sadistic bitches.”
Finn hands her the bottle. “They’d come into our dorm last thing before lights-out, right, and tell us the stories? The idea was, if they scared us enough, some poor kid wouldn’t have the guts to go to the jacks and he’d end up wetting his bed.”
“Ever get you?”
“No!” But he’s grinning too. “They got plenty, though.”
“Seriously? What’d they tell you? She came after guys with garden shears?”
“Nah. They said she . . .” Finn glances sideways at Julia. “I mean, the way I heard it, she was kind of a slut.”
The word comes out practically radioactive with self-consciousness. Julia inquires, “Are you trying to see if I’ll get all shocked because you said ‘slut’?”
Finn’s eyebrows go up and he stares, half shocked himself. She watches him coolly, amused.
“Well,” he says, in the end. “I guess. Sort of.”
“Were you hoping I would or I wouldn’t?”
He shakes his head. He’s starting to smile, at himself, snared. “I don’t know.”
“Anything else you want to try shocking me with? You could go for ‘shit.’ Or even ‘fuck,’ if you’re feeling really crazy.”
“I think I’m done. Thanks, though.”
Julia decides to let him off the hook. She lies back on the grass beside him and spins the cap off the bottle. “The way we heard it,” she says, “the nun was shagging like half the priests from Colm’s, and then some kid found out and ratted her out to the Father Superior. Him and the Mother Superior strangled the nun and hid her body somewhere in the grounds, nobody’s totally sure where, so she’s haunting both schools till she gets a proper burial. And if she catches anyone, she thinks it’s the kid who ratted her out, so she tries to strangle them and they go insane. Does that about cover what you heard?”
“Well. Yeah. More or less.”
“Saved you some trouble there,” Julia says. “I think I’ve earned this.” She has another sip. This one actually tastes OK. She decides, with relief, that she doesn’t hate rum after all.
Finn reaches for the bottle, and Julia holds it out. His fingers skim over hers, tentative, light. Over the back of her hand, up to her wrist.
“Ah-ah,” Julia says, shoving the bottle at him and ignoring the leap of something in her stomach.
Finn takes his hand back. “Why not?” he asks, after a second. He’s not looking at Julia.
Julia says, “Got a smoke?”
Finn props himself up on an elbow and scans the back lawn; somewhere far off a high squeal falls into a giggle, but there’s nothing that sounds like nuns on the hunt. He fishes in his jeans pocket and pulls out a very battered packet of Marlboro Lights. Julia lights up—she’s pretty sure it looked expert—and hands the lighter back.
“So . . . ?” Finn says, and waits.
“Nothing personal,” Julia says. “Believe me. Me and a Colm’s guy is never going to happen, is all. No matter what you’ve probably heard.” Finn tries to stay blank, but the eyelid-flicker tells her he’s heard plenty. “Yeah. So if you want to go back inside and find someone who’ll spend the evening with your hand up her top, feel free. I promise not to get my
ickle feelings hurt.”
She totally, no question, expects him to go. There are at least two dozen girls inside who would rugby-tackle the chance to have Finn Carroll’s tongue down their throats, and most of them are prettier than Julia to begin with. Instead Finn shrugs and pulls out a smoke of his own. “I’m here now.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I know.”
“Your loss,” Julia says. She lies back on the grass, feeling the damp tickle of it on the back of her neck, and blows smoke up at the sky. The rum is kicking in, making her arms go happily floppy. She considers the possibility that she underestimated Finn Carroll.
Finn uncaps the bottle and has a swig. “So the ghost nun,” he says. “Do you believe in stuff like that?”
“Yeah, I do,” Julia says. “Some of it. Maybe not the ghost nun—I bet the teachers just made her up to stop us doing this—but some stuff. How about you?”
Finn takes another swig. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, no, because there’s no scientific evidence, but I actually think I’m probably wrong. You know?”
“More rum,” Julia says, holding out her free hand. “I think I need to catch up.”
Finn passes it over. “Like, OK: everyone in history’s thought they were the ones who finally knew everything. In the Renaissance, right, they were positive they knew exactly how the universe worked, till the next set of guys came along and proved that they were missing like a hundred important things. And then that set of guys were sure they had it all down, till another set came along and showed them parts they were missing.”
He glances at Julia, checking if she’s laughing at him, which she isn’t, and if she’s listening. Which she is, completely.
“So,” he says, “it’s pretty unlikely, just mathematically, that we’re living in the one single era that happens to finally have everything figured out. Which means there’s a decent possibility that the reason we can’t explain how ghosts and stuff could exist is because we haven’t figured it out yet, not because they don’t. And it’s pretty arrogant of us to think it definitely has to be the other way round.”