The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(27)

So Julia not liking James Gillen is beside the point. The point out here is the hard handsome curve of his lips, the flecks of stubble along his jaw; the tingle sparking down her wrist veins when their fingers touch on the bottle. She holds his eye and licks a leftover drop off the rim of the bottle, with the tip of her tongue, and grins when his eyes widen.

‘Do we get some of that?’ Holly wants to know. Julia passes her the bottle without looking at her. Holly rolls her eyes and takes a good swig before she passes it on to Selena.

‘Want a smoke?’ James asks Julia.

‘Why not.’

‘Oops,’ says James – he doesn’t even bother patting his pockets first. ‘I must’ve dropped my smokes over there. My bad.’ He stands up and holds out his hand to Julia.

‘Well,’ Julia says, only a tenth of a breath of hesitation. ‘Then I’ll just have to come help you find them.’ And she catches James’s hand and lets him pull her up. She takes the cider bottle off Becca and winks while she’s got her back to James, and they walk away side by side, into the tall bobbing weeds.

The sunlight opens to receive them and blinks closed again behind them; they’re lost in its dazzle, vanished. Something between loss and pure panic shoots through Becca. She almost screams after them to come back, before it’s too late.

‘James Gillen,’ Holly says, half-wry, half-impressed. ‘For God’s sake.’

‘If she starts going out with him,’ Becca says, ‘we’ll never see her again. Like Marian Maher: she doesn’t even talk to her friends any more. She just sits there texting Whatshisname.’

‘Jules isn’t going to go out with him,’ Holly says. ‘With James Gillen? Are you joking?’

‘But what . . . ? Then what . . . ?’

Holly shrugs, one-shouldered: too complicated to explain. ‘Don’t worry. She’s just snogging him.’

Becca says, ‘I’m never doing that. I’m not getting off with some guy unless I actually care about him.’

There’s a silence. A shriek and an explosion of laughter, somewhere down the Field, and a girl from fifth year leaps up to chase after a guy waving her sunglasses over his head; a victory howl as someone gets a bullseye on the graffiti face.

‘Sometimes,’ Holly says suddenly, ‘I actually wish it was still like it used to be fifty years ago. Like, no one shagged anyone till they got married, and it was this huge big deal if you even kissed a guy.’

Selena is lying back with her head on her jacket, scrolling through her photos. She says, ‘And if you did shag a guy, or even if you just acted like you might someday think about it, you could end up locked in a Magdalen laundry for the rest of your life.’

‘I didn’t say it was so totally perfect. I just said at least everyone knew what they were supposed to do. They didn’t have to figure it out.’

‘Then just decide you’re not going to shag anyone till you get married,’ Becca says. Usually she likes cider, but this time it’s left her tongue coated in a thick stale layer. ‘And then you’ll know, and you won’t have to figure it out.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Selena says. ‘At least we’ve got the choice. If you want to be with someone, you can. If you don’t want to, you don’t have to.’

‘Yeah,’ Holly says. She doesn’t sound convinced. ‘I guess.’

‘You don’t.’

‘Right. Except if you don’t, hello, you’re a total frigid freak.’

Becca says, ‘I’m not a total frigid freak.’

‘I know you’re not. I didn’t say that.’ Holly is stripping the lobes off a ragwort leaf, carefully, one by one. ‘Just . . . why not do it, you know? When it’s hassle if you don’t, and there’s no reason why not? Back then, people didn’t because they thought it was wrong. I don’t think it’s wrong. I just wish . . .’

The ragwort leaf is coming apart; she rips it in half and tosses the pieces into the undergrowth. ‘Forget it,’ she says. ‘And that dick James Gillen could’ve at least left us the cider. It’s not like they’re going to be drinking it.’

Selena and Becca don’t answer. The silence settles and thickens. ‘I dare you,’ Aileen Russell’s high overexcited voice yelps behind them, ‘I so dare you,’ but it skims off the surface of the silence and fizzles away into the sunlight. Becca feels like she can still smell Lynx Sperminator or whatever it’s called.

‘Hi,’ says a voice beside her. She looks around.

This little spotty kid has edged up next to her in the weeds. He needs a haircut and he looks about eleven, both of which Becca knows she does too, but she’s pretty sure this kid actually is in second year, maybe even first. She decides this is OK: he’s presumably not looking for a snog, and he might even be all right with the two of them getting some rocks and joining the guys throwing stuff at the graffiti face.

‘Hi,’ he says again. His voice hasn’t broken.

‘Hi,’ Becca says.

‘Was your dad a thief?’ he asks.

Becca says, ‘What?’

The kid says, in one fast gabble, ‘Then who stole the stars and put them in your eyes?’

He looks at Becca hopefully. She looks back; she can’t think of a single thing to say. The kid decides to take this as encouragement. He scoots closer and tries to find her hand among the weeds.