by French, Tana
Julia shook her head. “Just like that. ‘Oh.’ I still feel sick thinking about it.”
Conway said, “You figured she’d killed Chris.”
“Duh, yeah, I did. I just— What was I supposed to think? I thought she’d been out meeting him and he told her about me, and she— And then when she was legging it back inside, she grabbed the wrong phone somehow. If they’d, I don’t know, if they’d taken off their clothes and their phones had ended up—”
I said, “Or she might have taken it so we couldn’t link her to Chris.”
“Yeah, no. Selena? Wouldn’t even occur to her. What freaked me out was where was her phone, like had she left it wherever Chris was? But I figured I couldn’t worry about that. I just grabbed the phone and I was out of there.”
It jibed with Holly’s story, or partway. Holly had thought faster: like her dad, always on top of the just-in-case, never let the off chance sneak up on her. She had swiped Selena’s phone early in the morning, before the full story got through to McKenna and the school went into lockdown. Between then and study time, someone else had found a way into that room.
Conway said, “Where’d you put it?”
“Locked myself in a toilet cubicle, deleted the shit out of the message folders, took out the SIM and stuck the phone in a cistern. I figured even if you found it, you couldn’t link it to us, and without the SIM you probably couldn’t link it to Chris either. That weekend when I went home, I left the phone on the bus. If no one stole it, it’s probably in the Dublin Bus lost and found.”
She had guts, Julia. Guts and enough loyalty for a dozen. She was good stuff. I wished I knew how badly we were going to break her heart.
“Why keep the SIM card?” I asked.
“I thought it could come in useful. I was pretty sure Selena was about to get arrested—even if by some miracle she hadn’t left evidence all over the place, I figured she’d go to pieces and confess. Do you even remember what a wreck she was?”
“So was everyone else,” Conway said. The sharp point on her voice said Should’ve known. “She wasn’t bawling or fainting: she looked to be in better nick than most.”
Julia’s eyebrow flicked. “Yeah, if only you’d told me that back then. I was there expecting you guys to come for her any minute. I thought if there was at least a way to show you that she was the one who’d dumped Chris, and that he was a total dickhead to girls, Lenie might get—I don’t know, a lighter sentence or whatever. Otherwise everyone would just think he dumped her and she went psycho, lock the evil bitch up and throw away the key. I don’t know, I wasn’t exactly thinking clearly; I just figured keeping it couldn’t hurt, at least for now, and it might help.”
If Julia had talked to any of the others, she would have known that the story had tangles, that not everything pointed straight to Selena. No way to guess what they would have done next, but they would have done it together.
It had been months too late for that to happen. Chris had cracked the four of them right across. Even after he was gone, the fault line he made had kept widening, deep under the surface, while everything up on top shone beautiful as new. We were just finishing the job he had begun.
I said, “Can you remember if anyone did manage to go up to the boarders’ wing before study period that day? We’ll check the logbook, but while we have you here: anything come to mind?”
I had Julia’s attention. She was watching me hard. “What? You think someone else put that phone down behind Selena’s bed?”
“If Selena didn’t take that phone off Chris, someone else did. And then somehow it got to where you found it.”
“Like, someone tried to frame her?”
Behind her shoulder, Conway’s eyes said Careful. I shrugged. “We can’t say that yet. I’d just like to know if anyone had the opportunity.”
Julia thought. Shook her head, reluctantly. “I don’t think so. I mean, obviously I’d love to say yeah, but actually there’s not a chance in hell anyone would’ve got up there without a really good excuse. And even then, no way would she have been allowed on her own. Seriously, when I asked could I go get my French homework, Houlihan acted like I’d asked to go into a drug den and buy heroin.”
The violin under Rebecca’s bed. The flute in Selena’s bit of wardrobe. I said, “What about during activities? Anyone go missing then?”
“Seriously? You think I’d’ve noticed? If you’d seen the mess the place was in . . . Plus I was concentrating on trying to get that phone. Joanne and Orla do drama too, and I know they were both there because Joanne kept trying to burst into tears”—Julia mimed puking—“and Orla had to comfort her and shit. But they’re the only ones I remember.”
“We’ll try asking your mates.” I said it nice and casual. The moonlight blazed into my face, felt like it was stripping me naked. I tried not to turn away. “Do they do drama as well, yeah? Or would they be able to tell us about other groups?”
“We’re not actually surgically attached. Holly does dance. Selena and Becca do instrument practice.”
So they would have had to go back to their room to get their instruments. Two of them together, to protect each other from the brain-eating maniac; they would have been allowed.
“Right,” I said. “How many people in those, do you know?”
Julia shrugged. “Lots of people do dance. Like forty? Instruments, maybe like a dozen.”
The odds said the rest had been day girls. We would check the logbook, but if the numbers held, Rebecca and Selena had been the only ones through that door.
The sudden quiet, all the day’s jabbering and wailing fizzled away into that white silence. Rebecca holding out the phone she had taken to make sure that Selena was safe, that no one could ever link her to Chris. Holding it out like a gift, priceless. Like salvation.
Or: Selena burrowing in the wardrobe for her flute, slow with shock and grief. Behind her back, Rebecca, light as a ghost and just as urgent, leaning over her bed. Selena was the one who had started keeping secrets. She was the one who had let Chris in, to start things cracking apart. It had been her fault.
I looked at Conway, across that lone gallant slash of red. She was looking at me.
“Right,” I said. “Your mates might remember someone leaving. Worth a shot, anyway.”
“I’d say Selena was too upset to do much noticing,” Conway said. “Let’s ask Rebecca.” And she stood up.
Mostly people look relieved. Julia looked taken aback. “What, that’s it?”
“Unless there’s something else you want to tell us.”
Blank second. Headshake, almost reluctant.
“Then yeah, that’s it. Thanks very much.”
I stood up too, turned towards the path. Julia said, “What did I give you?”
She was looking at nothing. I said, “Hard to tell at this point. We’ll have to see as we go.”
Julia didn’t answer. We waited for her to stand up, but she didn’t move. After a minute we left her there, looking out over what used to be her kingdom; black hair and white face and that ember of red, and the white grass spread all around her.
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 pajama 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 gray 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 counseling sessions for all classes. There will be individual counseling 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.”