The Secret Place

‘Well, they used to be OK, like ages ago. Now we’re just like, “Whatever,” you know?’ Orla’s hands flapping upwards.

‘What kind of weird are they?’

Too much to ask. Short-circuited stare, like I was looking for calculus. ‘Just like weird.’

I waited.

‘Like they think they’re so special.’ The first zip of something, bringing Orla’s face alive. Malice. ‘Like they think they can do whatever they want.’

I gave it intrigued. Waited more.

‘I mean, just for example, right? You should have seen them at the Valentine’s dance. They looked totes insane. Like Rebecca had on jeans, and Selena was wearing I don’t even know what it was, it looked like she was in a play!’ That high sharp giggle shot out again, jabbed me in the ear. ‘Everyone was like, hello, what are you like? I mean, there were

guys there. The whole of Colm’s was there. They were all staring. And Julia and all of them acted like that didn’t even matter.’ Jaw-dropped face. ‘That was when we realised, um, hello, weirdos?’

I gave her the crinkly grin again. ‘And that was February?’

‘Last February. Last year.’ Before Chris. ‘And I swear to God they’ve got worse and worse. This year Rebecca didn’t even come to the Valentine’s dance. They don’t wear makeup – I mean, we’re not allowed to in school’ – virtuous glance at Houlihan – ‘but sometimes they don’t even wear it to hang out at the Court – the shopping centre. And this one time, like just a few weeks ago, there’s a load of us down there? And Julia says she’s going back to school? And one of the guys is there, “How come?” And Julia says, she says her stomach is killing her because…’

Orla shot me a look. Sucked in her bottom lip, did a cringe like she was trying to disappear into her shoulders.

Conway said, ‘She had period cramps.’

Orla collapsed in giggles, scarlet and snorting like goodo. We waited. She got it together.

‘But, I mean, she just said it. Straight out. All the guys were like, “OMG, ew! Way TMI!” And Julia just waved and left. See what I mean? They act like they can say anything they want. None of them have boyfriends – duh, surprise? – and they act like that’s not even a big deal.’ Orla was hitting her stride. Face lit up, lip curling. ‘And did you see

Selena’s hair? OhmyGod. You know when she cut it off? Like, right after Chris got killed. How much of a show-off can you actually be?’

I was getting the head-spins again. ‘Hang on. Her haircut is showing off, yeah? About what?’

Orla’s chin vanished into where her neck should have been. New look on her, sly, careful. ‘About how she was going out with Chris. Like she’s in mourning or something. We’re all, “Hello, who cares?”’

‘What makes you think she was going out with Chris?’

Slyer. More careful. ‘We just do.’

‘Yeah? Did you see them kissing? Holding hands?’

‘Um, no? They wouldn’t exactly have been that obvious about it.’

‘Why not?’

Flash of something: fear. Orla had slipped up, or thought she had. ‘I don’t know. I just mean, if they’d been OK with everyone seeing they were going out, they wouldn’t have kept it a secret. I mean, that’s all I mean.’

‘But if they kept it so secret that they never actually acted like they were together, how come you think they were together to begin with?’

That blown-fuse gawp again. ‘What?’

Jesus. Head-desk territory. I rewound. Nice and slow: ‘Why do you think Chris and Selena were going out together?’

Empty stare. Shrug. Orla wasn’t taking any more risks.

‘Why would they keep it a secret if they were?’

Empty stare. Shrug.

‘What about you?’ Conway asked. ‘You got a boyfriend?’

Orla sucked in her bottom lip, let out a breathy titter through it.

‘Do you?’

Squirm. ‘Sort of. It’s, ohmyGod, complicated?’

‘Who?’

Titter.

‘I asked you a question.’

‘Just this guy from Colm’s. He’s called Graham, Graham Quinn. But we’re not exactly going out

out – I mean, ohmyGod, don’t go to him and say he’s my boyfriend! Like, he sort of is, but-’

‘I get it,’ Conway said, final enough to get through even to Orla, who shut up. ‘Thanks.’

I said, ‘If you could pick just one thing to tell me about Chris Harper. What would it be?’

The stare. I was less and less in the humour for the stare. ‘Like what?’

‘Like anything. Whatever you think is most important.’

‘Um, he was gorgeous?’

Giggle.

I took the photo away from her. ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘That helps.’

I left a second. Orla said nothing. Conway said nothing. She was sitting back on the table, writing or doodling, I couldn’t tell which out of the corner of my eye. I wasn’t going to look at her, like I was looking for a hand.

Houlihan cleared her throat, a compromise between asking and keeping schtum. I’d forgotten her.

Conway shut her notebook.

I said, ‘Thanks, Orla. We might need to talk to you again. Meanwhile, if you think of anything that might help us, anything at all, here’s my card. Ring me any time. Yeah?’

Orla gave the card a look like I’d asked her to jump into my white van. Conway said, ‘Thanks. We’ll talk soon.’ To Houlihan, who jumped: ‘Gemma Harding next.’