The Secret Place

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.’