The Secret Place

Joanne thought that over. Got her virtuous face back on. Graciously, to me: ‘I’m going out with Andrew Moore. His dad’s Bill Moore – probably you’ve heard of him.’ Property developer, one of the ones on the news for being bankrupt and a billionaire all at once. I looked properly impressed.

Joanne checked her watch. ‘Do you want to know anything else about my love life? Or are we done?’

‘Bye-bye,’ Conway said. To Houlihan: ‘Rebecca O’Mara.’

I walked Joanne to the door. Held it for her. Watched Houlihan scuttle after her down the corridor, Joanne not bothering to look.

Conway said, ‘And another one still in the running.’

Nothing in her voice. No way, again, to tell if that was You better up your game.

I shut the door. Said, ‘There’s stuff she’s thinking about telling us, but she’s holding back. That fits our card girl.’

‘Yeah. Or else she’s just trying to make us think she’s holding something back. Make us think she knows for sure that Chris and Selena were together, or whatever, when actually she’s got nothing.’

‘We can call her back. Push harder.’

‘Nah. Not now.’ Conway watched me come back to my chair, sit down. Said, roughly, ‘You were good with her. Better than me.’

‘All that arse-licking practice. Came in useful in the end.’

Wry glance from Conway, but a brief one. She was filing Joanne away for later, moving on. ‘Rebecca’s the weak link in this bunch. Shy as fuck; went scarlet and practically tied herself in knots just being asked her name, never managed anything louder than a whisper. Get your kid gloves on.’

Bell again, rush of feet and voices. It was past lunchtime. I could’ve murdered a dirty great burger, or whatever this canteen was into, probably organic fillet steak and rocket salad. I wasn’t going to say it till Conway did. She wasn’t going to say it.

Conway said, ‘And go careful with this lot, till you get the feel. They’re not the same thing.’

Chapter 8

An evening in early November, the air just starting to flare with little savoury bursts of cold and turf-smoke. The four of them are in their cypress glade, snug in the lovely pocket of free time between classes and dinner. Chris Harper (over the wall and far away, not even a whisper of a thought in any of their minds) has six months, a week and four days left to live.

They are scattered on the grass, lying on their backs, feet dangling from crossed knees. They have hoodies and scarves and Uggs, but they’re holding out a last few days against winter coats. It’s day and night at once: one side of the sky is glowing with pink and orange, the other side is a frail full moon hanging in darkening blue. Wind moves through the cypress branches, a slow soothing hush. Last period was PE, volleyball; their muscles are slack and comfortably tired. They’re talking about homework.

Selena asks, ‘Did you guys do your love sonnets yet?’

Julia groans. She’s drawn a dotted line across her wrist in Biro and is writing under it in case of emergency cut here.

‘“And if you don’t feel that you have, em, adequate experience of, em, romantic

love,”’ Holly says, in Mr Smythe’s reedy simper, ‘“then perhaps a child’s love for her mother, or, em, love for God would be, em, would be-”’

Julia mimes sticking two fingers down her throat. ‘I’m going to dedicate mine to vodka.’

‘You’ll get sent to Sister Ignatius to get counselled,’ says Becca, not entirely sure whether Julia is serious.

‘Whee.’

‘I’m stuck on mine,’ Selena says.

‘Lists,’ says Holly. She pulls one foot to her face to examine a scuff-mark on her boot. ‘“The wind, the sea, the stars, the moon, the rain; The day, the night, the bread, the milk, the train.” Instant iambic pentameter.’

‘Instant iambic craptameter,’ Julia says. ‘Thanks for the most boring sonnet in history, here’s your F.’

Holly and Selena glance at each other sideways. Julia has been a bitch for weeks now; to everybody equally, so it can’t be something one of them did.

‘I don’t want to tell Smythe about anyone I love,’ Selena says, sliding past that. ‘Ew.’

‘Do it about a place or something,’ Holly says. She licks her finger and rubs it on the scuff-mark, which fades. ‘I did my gran’s flat. And I didn’t even say it was my gran’s, just a flat.’

‘I just made mine up,’ says Becca. ‘I did it about a girl who has this horse that comes under her window at night and she climbs out and rides him.’ She has her eyes unfocused so that the moon has turned into two, translucent and overlapping.

‘What’s that got to do with love?’ Holly says.

‘She loves the horse.’

‘Kinky,’ says Julia. Her phone beeps. She pulls it out of her pocket and holds it above her face, squinting against the sunset.