The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(41)

They don’t giggle or scream, the way they did when they went looking online. Those were primped and plastic as Barbie, no way could you imagine a real guy attached. This is different: smaller; shoving itself up at them like a thick middle finger, like a threat, out of a mess of dark sticky hair. They can smell it.

‘If that was the best I could come up with,’ Holly says coolly, after a moment, ‘I wouldn’t exactly advertise it.’

Julia doesn’t look up.

‘You should text him back,’ Selena says. ‘“Sorry, can’t tell what pic is, way too small.”’

‘And get a close-up. Yeah, no thanks.’ But the corner of Julia’s mouth twitches up.

‘You can come on over, Becs,’ says Holly. ‘Totally safe, unless you’ve got a microscope.’ Becca smiles and ducks her head and shakes it, all at the same time. The grass squirms under her legs, prickling.

‘Well,’ Julia says. ‘If you perverts have seen enough mini-dick for one day . . .’ She hits Delete with a flourish and gives her phone a finger-wave. ‘Bye-bye.’

Tiny beep, and it’s gone. Julia puts the phone away and lies down again. After a bit Holly and Selena drift back to their places, looking around for the thing to say, finding nothing. The moon is strengthening, as the sky turns darker.

In a while Holly says, ‘Hey, you know where Cliona is? She’s in the library, looking for a sonnet to copy that Smythe won’t know.’

‘She’s gonna get caught,’ Becca says.

‘That’s so typical,’ Selena says. ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to just write the sonnet?’

‘Well, totally,’ Holly says. ‘This always happens. She ends up working harder to get out of doing the thing than she would just doing the thing.’

They leave space for Julia to say something. When she doesn’t, the space gets bigger. The conversation falls into it and vanishes.

The photo isn’t gone. The faint rank smell of it is still stained onto the air. Becca breathes shallowly, through her mouth, but it greases her tongue.

Julia says, up into the smeared watercolour sky, ‘How come guys think I’m a slut?’

The red is blotching her skin again. Selena says gently, ‘You’re not a slut.’

‘Duh, I know I’m not. So why do they act like I am?’

‘They want you to be,’ says Holly.

‘They want all of us to be. But I don’t see anyone sending any of you guys dick pics.’

Becca moves. She says, ‘It’s only the last while.’

‘Since I snogged James Gillen.’

‘Not that. Loads of people snog someone and the boys don’t care. It’s since before that. Since you started having a laugh with Finn and Chris and all them. Because you make jokes, because you say things . . .’

She trails off. Julia says, ‘You are shitting me.’

But Holly and Selena are nodding, as it sinks in and clicks into place. ‘That,’ Selena says. ‘You say stuff like that.’

‘So you figure they want me to be some prissy hypocrite bitch like Heffernan, who let Bryan Hynes finger her at the Halloween dance because he had booze, but she acts totally OMG-so-outraged if you make a dirty joke. And then they’ll respect me.’

Holly says, ‘Just about, yeah.’

‘Fuck that. Fuck them. I’m not doing it. I’m not being it.’ Her voice is raw and older.

Thin clouds are running across the moon so it feels like the moon is moving, or like all the world is tilting under them.

Selena says, ‘Then don’t.’

‘And just keep taking this kind of crap. Sounds great. Anyone got any more genius ideas?’

‘Maybe that’s not why,’ Becca says, wishing she had kept her stupid mouth shut. ‘Maybe I’m totally wrong. Maybe he was trying to text someone else with a J, Joanne or someone, and he hit the wrong—’

Julia says, ‘When I snogged James Gillen.’

The dark condenses, under the cypresses, at her voice.

‘He tried to put his hand up my top, right? Which I was expecting – I swear, I don’t know why guys all have such a fixation with tits, did their mommies not breastfeed them enough or something?’

She isn’t looking at the others. The clouds move faster, setting the moon speeding across the sky.

‘So since I’m not actually interested in James Gillen feeling me up and let’s be honest I’m only even snogging him because he’s cute and I want the practice, I go, “Whoa, I think this is yours,” and give him his nasty clammy hand back, right? And James, being a total gentleman, James decides the appropriate thing to do is to shove me back against the fence – like an actual shove, not just a little nudge or whatever – and stick his hand right back where it was. And he says something incredibly predictable along the lines of, “You love it, don’t act so pure, everyone knows about you,” blah blah whatever. Prince Charming or what?’

The air feels chilly and searing all at once, feverish.

They’ve had it spelled out a dozen times, in cringey classes, in cringey parent talks: when to tell an adult. The idea never comes near any of their minds. This thing opening in front of them is nothing to do with those careful speeches. This mix of roaring rage and a shame that stains every cell, this crawling understanding that now their bodies belong to other people’s eyes and hands, not to them: this is something new.