The Secret Place (Dublin Murder Squad, #5)(56)
‘Exactly,’ says Julia. ‘Maybe you think you’re going to puke, but you’re not sure. And you think probably you’ll be fine if you just lie still for a while.’
They’ve left their curtains open. Outside it’s below freezing, frost patterning the edges of the windowpane, the sky a thin sheet of ice laid over the stars. The shot of cold air hits Becca like it’s been fired straight through the glass from the huge outside, wild and magic, pungent with foxes and juniper.
Holly says, ‘But don’t act like you want to puke. That looks fake. Act like you don’t want to puke. Think about trying your hardest to hold it in.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Selena asks. She’s propped up on one elbow, trying to see Becca’s face.
‘If you’re not,’ Holly says, ‘no probs. Just say it now.’
Becca says, ‘I’m doing it. Stop asking me.’
Julia catches a glance and the tip of a smile from Selena: See, our shy Becca, this is what I meant— ‘Good for you, Becsie,’ she says, reaching across the space between the beds to high-five Becca. ‘Make us proud.’
The next day, lying on the too-narrow bed in the nurse’s office, listening to the nurse hum Michael Bublé as she does paperwork at her desk, Becca feels the wild cold of the key strike deep into her palm, and smells running vixens and berries and icy stars.
Before lights-out they lay out their clothes on their beds and start getting dressed. Layers of tops – outside the window, the night sky is clear and frozen; sweatshirts; heavy jeans; pyjamas to go over it all, until the moment comes. They fold their coats away under their beds, so they won’t need to rattle hangers or squeak wardrobe doors. They line up their Uggs by the door so they won’t have to fumble.
Now that it’s turning real, it feels like a game, some geeky role-playing thing where someone will give them fake swords and they’ll have to run around smacking imaginary orcs. Julia is singing ‘Bad Romance’, cocking a hip and whirling a jumper by one sleeve like a stripper; Holly joins in with a pair of leggings on her head, Selena whips her hair in circles. They feel stupid, and they’re turning giddy to dodge that.
‘Is this OK?’ Becca asks, spreading her arms.
The other three stop singing and look at her: dark-blue jeans and dark-blue hoodie, the hoodie stuffed spherical with layers and the hood strings pulled so tight only the tip of her nose shows. They start to laugh.
‘What?’ Becca demands.
‘You look like the world’s fattest bank robber,’ Holly says, which makes them all worse.
‘You’re twice your size,’ Selena manages. ‘Can you even move in all that?’
‘Or see?’ says Julia. ‘That’s just what we need: if you can’t make it down the corridor without smacking into walls.’ Holly does Becca, lurching along blinded and unwieldy. The giggles have hold of all three of them, the helpless kind that keep going even after you run out of breath and your stomach muscles hurt.
Becca has gone red. She turns her back to them and tries to get the hoodie off, but the zip is stuck.
‘Becs,’ Selena says. ‘We’re only having a laugh.’
‘Whatever.’
‘Jesus,’ Julia says, rolling her eyes at Holly. ‘Chillax.’
Becca yanks at the zip till it dents her fingers. ‘If it’s just a great big joke, then why are we even bothering?’
No one answers. The laughter has faded to nothing. They glance at each other sideways on, eyes skidding away from meeting.
They’re looking for a way to ditch the whole thing. They want to throw their clothes back in the wardrobe, bin the key and never mention it again, blush when they remember how near they came to making idiots of themselves. They’re just waiting for someone to say the word.
Then one of the second-floor prefects slams their door open, snaps, ‘Stop lezzing it up and get changed, it’s lights-out in like five seconds and I will so report you,’ and bangs the door closed again before any of them can shut their mouths.
She didn’t even notice their entire outdoor wardrobes spread out on their beds, or the fact that Becca looks like an inflatable burglar. All four of them stare at each other for a second and then collapse on their beds, screaming with laughter into their duvets. And realising they’re actually going.
At lights-out they’re in their beds like good little girls – if the prefect has to come back, she might be in a more observant mood. After the bell goes, the edgy giddiness starts to fade. Something else starts to show through.
They’ve never listened to the sounds of the school falling asleep before, not this way, ears stretched like animals’. At first the flickers are constant: a burst of giggles through the wall, a faraway squeal, a patter of slippers as someone runs to the toilet. Then they drift farther apart. Then there’s silence.
When the clock at the back of the main building strikes one, Selena sits up.
They don’t talk. They don’t flick on torches, or bedside lights: anyone going down the corridor would see the flicker through the glass above the transom. In the window the moon is enormous, more than enough. They strip off their pyjamas and stuff their pillows under their sheets, pull on final jumpers and coats, deft and synchronised as if they’d been practising. When they’re ready they stand by their beds, boots dangling from their hands. They look at each other like explorers in the doorway of a long journey, all of them caught motionless in the moment before one of them takes the first step.