by French, Tana
Holly hadn’t watched them go. Every muscle of her was still clamped tight; there was a ferocious crease between her eyebrows. She said, “Do you honest to God think I killed Chris?”
I stayed in the doorway. “What would you think, if you were me?”
“I hope I’d be good enough at my job that I could tell when someone’s not a murderer. Jesus.”
Her adrenaline was firing, touch her and the electric zap would’ve kicked you across the room. I said, “You’re hiding something. That’s all I know. I’m not good enough to telepathically guess what it is. You need to tell us.”
Holly threw me a look I couldn’t read, maybe scorn. Jerked her ponytail tight, hard enough to hurt. Then she shoved back her chair and went over to the model school. Unwound a length, expertly, from a spool of fine copper wire; chopped it off with a little pair of wire cutters, snick in the bleached air.
She leaned one hip against the table, flipped tweezers out of an empty bedroom. Twirled the wire deftly around the end of a thin pencil, adjusted with the tip of a fingernail when it slid out of true. Her fingers moved like a dancer’s, tucking, swirling, weaving, like a spell-caster’s. The rhythm and the focus steadied her, smoothed that forehead crease away. Steadied me along with her, till part of me even forgot to tense against whatever Mackey was trying to do with Conway.
In the end Holly held out the pencil towards me. Perched on top of it: a hat, wide-brimmed, barely big enough for a fingertip, decorated with one copper-wire rose.
I said, “Beautiful.”
Holly smiled, a small detached smile, down at the hat. Spun it on the pencil.
She said, “I wish I’d never brought you that fucking postcard.” Not angry, not wishing for an excuse to kick me in the nuts, not any more. Things that went too deep to leave room for that.
I said, “Why? You knew there’d be hassle; you had to expect all this. What’s changed?”
Holly said, “I’m not allowed to talk to you till my dad gets back.” She slipped the hat off the pencil, edged it between wires and dropped it over a tiny bedpost. Then she went back to her chair and sat down. Pulled her hoodie sleeves down over her hands and watched the moon.
Fast feet on the stairs: Conway, stepping out of the layers of shadow down the corridor, cool evening caught on her clothes. She said to me, “Mackey’s hanging on for another smoke—in case it’s a while before his next chance, he says. He says you can join him if you want. You might as well; he’s not going to come in till you do.”
She wasn’t looking at me. Gave me a bad feeling, couldn’t put my finger on it. I waited a second, trying to catch her eye, but all I got was Holly alert and scanning back and forth between the two of us, trying to snatch something. I left.
The tree line had turned black, swooping and dipping like a bird’s flight line against deep blue sky. I’d never seen it in that light before, but it looked familiar all the same. The school was starting to feel like I’d been there forever, like I belonged.
Mackey was leaning against the wall. He lit his smoke, waggled it at me: Look, see, I really did need one!
“So,” he said. “Interesting strategy you’ve got going on here, young Stephen. Some might say downright insane, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.”
“What strategy?”
Double-take, amused. “Hello? Remember me? We’ve met before. We’ve worked together. Your aw-shucks-little-old-me act won’t fly here.”
I said, “What strategy are we talking about?”
Mackey sighed. “OK. I’ll play. Hooking up with Antoinette Conway. I’d love to know: what’s your plan there?”
“No plan. I got the chance to work a murder, I took it.”
Mackey’s eyebrow went up. “I hope for your sake you’re still playing innocent, kid. How much do you know about Conway?”
“She’s a good D. Works hard. Going places, fast.”
He waited. When he realized I was done: “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”
I shrugged. Seven years on and Mackey’s eye could still make me squirm, still turn me into a kid gone insta-thick at an oral exam. “Up till today, I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about her.”
“There’s a grapevine. There’s always gossip. You’re above that kind of thing?”
“Not above it. Just never picked up anything about Conway.”
Mackey sighed, shoulders sagging. Ran a hand through his hair, shook his head. “Kid. Stephen.” His voice had gone gentle. “In this gig, you need to make friends. Have to. Otherwise you won’t last.”
“I’m lasting grand. And I’ve got friends.”
“Not the kind I’m talking about. You need real friends, kid. Friends who have your back. Who tell you the things you need to know. Who don’t let you prance straight into a shit tornado without even giving you a heads up.”
“Like you?”
“I’ve done OK for you so far. Haven’t I?”
“I said thanks.”
“And I’d like to think you meant it. But I don’t know, Stephen. I’m not feeling the love.”
“If you’re my best buddy,” I said, “go ahead and tell me what you think I need to know about Conway.”
Mackey leaned back against the wall. He wasn’t bothering to smoke his fag; it had done its job. He said, “Conway’s a leper, kid. She didn’t mention that?”
“Hasn’t come up.” I didn’t ask why she was a leper. He was going to tell me anyway.
“Well, she’s not a whiner, anyway. I suppose that’s one plus.” He flicked ash. “You’re no thicko. You had to have some clue that Conway’s never going to win Miss Congeniality. You didn’t mind teaming up with that?”
“Like I said. I’m not looking for a new best friend.”
“I’m not talking about your social life. Conway: her first week on Murder, she’s bending over writing something on the whiteboard, and this idiot called Roche smacks her arse. Conway whips round, grabs his hand, bends one finger back till his eyes pop out. Tells him next time he touches her, she’ll break it. Roche calls her a bitch. Conway gives his finger one more jerk, Roche yells, Conway lets go of him and goes back to the whiteboard.”
“I can see how that would make Roche into a leper. Not Conway.”
Mackey laughed out loud. “I missed you, kid. I really did. I’d forgotten how cute you are. You’re right: in a perfect squad, that’s how it should work. And in some squads, in some years, it actually would. But Murder’s not a cuddly place right now. They’re not bad lads, most of them, in their own way; just a bit rugby-club, bit in-crowd, bit no-neck. If Conway had said something smart, or laughed along, or grabbed Roche’s arse the next time she caught him bending, she’d’ve been grand. If she’d just made this much effort to fit in. But she didn’t, and now the rest of the squad thinks she’s an uppity ball-breaking humorless bitch.”
“Sounds lovely in there. Are you trying to turn me off Murder?”
He spread his hands. “I’m not saying I approve; I’m just telling you the facts of life. Not that you need telling. That little speech about blaming the harasser and not the victim, that was pretty, but tell me the truth: say you walk into Murder tomorrow, someone calls you a ginger skanger, tells you to fuck off back onto the dole where you belong. You gonna break his fingers? Or are you gonna play along: have a laugh, call him a sheep-shagging bog-monster, do what it takes to get what you want out of the situation? The truth, now.”
Mackey’s eyes on mine, opaque and knowing in the last of the light, till I looked away. “I’m gonna play along.”
“Yeah, you are. But don’t say that like it’s a bad thing, sunshine. I’d do exactly the same. That kind of accommodation, that’s what keeps the world turning. A little bit of give. When someone like Conway decides she doesn’t have to play along, that’s when things go to shite.”
I he
ard Joanne. They act like they can do whatever they want. It doesn’t work like that. Wondered what Mackey thought about his Holly and her friends giving the world the finger.
“Their gaffer isn’t an idiot; when the atmosphere in his squad room turned to poison, he noticed. He pulls people in, asks them what’s the story; they all clam up, tell him everything’s just dandy and everyone’s the best of friends. Murder’s like that: bunch of schoolkids, no one wants to be the telltale. The gaffer doesn’t believe them, but he knows he’s never getting the real story. And he knows the day things went south is the day Conway walked in. So as far as he’s concerned, she’s the problem.”
“So he’s going to drop her,” I said. “First excuse he gets.”
“Nah. They won’t boot her out of Murder, because she’s the type to sue for discrimination and they don’t want the publicity. But they can make damn sure she quits. She’ll never get a partner. She’ll never get a promotion. She’ll never get invited to join the lads for a pint after work. She’ll never get another good case; once she gives up on this, there’ll be nothing on her desk but D-list drug dealers till the day she hands in her papers.” Smoke curling up between us from his hand, a warning taint on the sweet air. “That’ll wear you down, after a while. Conway’s got spine, she’ll last longer than most would, but she’ll crack in the end.”
I said, “Conway’s career is her problem. I’m here for mine. This is my shot at showing Murder what I can do.”
Mackey was shaking his head. “No it isn’t. It’s a six-bullet round of Russian roulette. If you don’t get on with Conway, you’re back to Cold Cases: bye-bye, see you round, everyone remembers that Moran couldn’t hack it in the big leagues even for one day. If you do get on with her, then you’re her bitch-boy. No one else on Murder, and that includes the gaffer, is ever going to touch you with a ten-foot pole. Shit rubs off, kid. If you honestly haven’t got a strategy, I suggest you get one. Fast.”
I said, “You’re trying to stir shite. You get me and Conway looking over our shoulders at each other, means we take our eyes off the ball. Next thing we know, our case’s got away from us.”
“I might well be. It sounds like something I’d do. Ask yourself this, though: does that mean I’m wrong?”
The nettle edges to the air in the Murder squad room, fine and poisonous, when Conway walked in. Tiny barbs, sticky, working deep.
I said, “What’ve you been saying to Conway about me?”
Mackey grinned. “Same as I’ve been saying to you, sunshine: just the truth. And nothing but the truth. So help you God.”
And there it was. I could’ve kicked myself for asking. I knew what Mackey had told Conway. Didn’t need to hear it, from either of them.
Interesting strategy, letting young Stephen onboard. Some might say downright insane, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt . . .
“Ahhh,” said Mackey, stretching. Glanced at his smoke, burned down to long ash. Tossed it on the ground. “I needed that. Shall we?”
Conway was leaning against the outside of the door, hands in her trouser pockets, not moving. Waiting for us. I knew then.
You’re no idiot, Detective Conway; I’m betting you know the story on how Holly and I met Moran. Some of it, anyway. Want to hear the rest?
She straightened up as we got close. Opened the door, held it for Mackey. Caught my eye. As she closed the door behind Mackey, he flicked a winner’s grin over his shoulder at me.
Conway said, “I’ll take it from here.”
Moran was brand-new out of uniform, doing floater work on a murder case. The D in charge was called Kennedy. Kennedy was good to young Stephen. Very good. Pulled him out of the deep end of the floater pool, gave him a shot at the big time. Most Ds wouldn’t’ve done it; most Ds would’ve stuck to tried and true, no newbies need apply. Bet Kennedy wishes he had . . .
I only did what Mackey wanted me to do, back then. It never hit me, and it should’ve, that he would keep it tucked away in his back pocket: something he could use against me someday, if he ever needed to.
I said—keeping it down: his ear was pressed to the back of that door—“Mackey’s trying to fuck with us.”
“There’s no us. There’s me and my case, and then there’s some guy who’s been useful for the day and isn’t any more. Don’t worry: I’ll write your gaffer a nice note about what a good boy you were.”
Like a punch in the jaw. It shouldn’t’ve hit me; she was right, it had only been one day. Got me goodo.
It must’ve shown. The face on me pulled some fleck of guilt out of Conway. She said, “I’ll give you a lift back to HQ—give me your mobile number, I’ll text you when I’m done here. Till then, get a sandwich. Go for a nice walk, admire the grounds. See if you can get Chris’s ghost to pop up for you. Whatever.”
The second your boy Moran saw his chance, he shagged Kennedy up the arse with no Vaseline. Fuck loyalty, fuck gratitude, fuck doing the right thing: all young Stephen cared about was his glorious career.
I said, and I’d stopped caring about keeping it down, “You’re doing exactly what Mackey wants you to do. He wants me gone because he’s scared Holly’ll talk to me. You can’t see that?” Nothing on Conway’s face. “He tried it on me, too: bitched about you, hoped I’d walk. You think I took any notice?”
“Course you didn’t. You want to shake your booty in front of O’Kelly; doesn’t matter whose case you piggyback on to get there. Me, I’ve got something to lose here. And I’m not having you lose it for me.”
Kennedy never saw it coming. At least you won’t get blindsided like he did. If you honestly haven’t got a strategy, you might want to get one fast . . .
I gave Conway my phone number. She swung the door closed in my face.
24
One of Julia’s more impressive talents has always been the ability to barf at will. It was cooler back in primary school, before anybody noticed that public puking might not be particularly dignified—it even earned her a decent chunk of dosh, one way and another—but it hasn’t totally lost its usefulness since then. She just saves it for special occasions, these days.
Tuesday morning, April twenty-third, Chris Harper has just over three weeks left to live. Julia eats the biggest and most varied breakfast she can handle, because an artiste has her pride, then waits till the middle of Home Economics and barfs pyrotechnically all over the classroom floor. Orla Burgess is within range, but Julia resists temptation: her plan doesn’t include Orla being sent back to the boarders’ wing to change. As Miss Rooney shoos her towards the nurse’s office, Julia—clutching her stomach—catches a flash of Holly and Becca baffled, Selena gazing out the window like she hasn’t even noticed anything happening; Joanne’s flat-eyed smirk while she plans how to spread the word that that slut Julia Harte is pregnant; and Gemma giving her a look like a wink, amused and approving.
She does wobbly legs and some mild gagging for the nurse, answers the usual questions about her period—you could break your leg and the nurse would still want to know when your last period was; Julia suspects that being a day overdue would get you ratted out to the nuns for interrogation—and a few minutes later she’s all tucked up in bed with a glass of flat ginger ale and a pathetic look. And the nurse leaves her alone.
Julia works fast. She has it planned out: first Selena’s part of the wardrobe, then her bed, if she doesn’t score there she’ll pop out the bottom of Selena’s bedside table—they figured out how to do it last term, when Becca lost her key—and if she still comes up blank then she doesn’t know what the fuck she’s going to do.
It doesn’t get that far. When she slides her hand along the side of Selena’s mattress, between the bed and the wall, she finds a lump. Neat little slit in the mattress cover, and inside, surprise surprise, a phone. An adorable itsy-bitsy pink one, just like the one Alison bought off Joanne. Chris must have stocked up by the armful, o
ne for each of the lucky babes he was planning on honoring with his glorious dick. Up until she saw that phone in her hand, Julia still thought there was a chance Gemma was lying.
Selena hasn’t put a lock code on it, which might give Julia a flicker of guilt if she had room for that. Instead she goes to Messages and starts reading.
Still thinking abt the dance wd love to see you again— It punches a hiss of breath out of her. She’s been wondering when and how Chris ever hooked Selena, been going over every trip to the Court, looking for just ten minutes when Lenie was unshielded, but it’s actually almost creepy how close the four of them stick together; she couldn’t put her finger on once when anyone even went to the loo alone. And all the time: the fucking Valentine’s dance. While Julia was outside, getting reckless on rum and Finn’s grin and the sparking cold-air newness in every breath, Selena was exploring a little new territory of her own. And something watched and—without any anger, or any mercy—started considering what their punishment would have to be.
She keeps reading. Chris is excellent; Julia is almost impressed. He had Selena sussed dead on, right from the start. One sext, one hint of romance even, and she’d have been gone; so smart boy Chris never went near there. Instead he went for long texts about his emo sister’s problems, or how his parents didn’t understand him, or how it wounded him that he couldn’t show his true sensitive self to his shallow friends. Julia is glad she’s already puked herself empty.
Selena is a sucker for anyone who needs her. Maybe some people would call it arrogance, thinking she’s so super-special she can help where no one else could, but the thing is sometimes she can. Julia should know. You can say anything to Selena and she, unlike apparently everyone else in the world, will never come back with something that makes you want to hit her and yourself for having opened your big stupid mouth. So people who never talk to anyone talk to her. That’s what she’s used to. That’s what Chris Harper smelled off her. And that’s what he used to wiggle his way close enough to shove his hand down her top.