The Secret Place полностью

‘But the dog’s scrabbling at the door, whining, barking, O’Farrell can’t concentrate. He opens the door, grabs the dog, smashes its brains out on the wall. Then he finishes off the wife.’

‘OhmyGod. Ew.’

Gemma’s phone was on her bedside locker, Alison’s was on her bed. I couldn’t see the other two, but Joanne’s locker was an inch open. ‘OK if I have a look around?’ I asked Orla. Not a proper search, that could wait; just having a look-see, and unsettling her a little extra while I was at it.

‘Um, do you…? Like, do you have to?’ She fumbled for a way to say no, but my hand was halfway to the locker door and her mind was halfway on Conway’s fairy tale. ‘I guess it’s OK. I mean-’

‘Thanks.’ Not that I needed her permission; just staying the good cop. Cheerful smile, I gave her, and straight in. Orla opened her mouth to take it back, but Conway was moving in closer.

‘We show up’ – Conway gestured at the two of us – ‘O’Farrell swears it was a burglar. He was good; we nearly fell for it. But then we sit him down in his kitchen, start asking questions. Every time O’Farrell gives us some crap about his imaginary burglar, or about how much he loved his wife, there’s this weird noise outside the door.’

Joanne’s bedside locker: hair straightener, makeup, fake tan, iPod, jewellery box. No books, old or new; no phone. Had to be on her.

‘This noise, it’s like…’ Conway raked her nails down the wall by Orla’s head, sudden and violent. Orla jumped. ‘It’s exactly like a dog clawing at the door. And it’s making O’Farrell jumpy as hell. Every time he hears it, he whips round, loses his train of thought; he’s looking at us like, Did yous hear that?’

‘Sweating,’ I said, ‘dripping. White. Looked like he was gonna puke.’

It was so easy, it startled me. Felt like we’d practised for months, me and Conway, slaloming round the twists and kinks of the story side by side. Smooth as velvet.

It felt like joy, only a joy you didn’t go looking for and don’t want. That dream partner of mine, the one with the violin lessons and the red setters: this was what we were like together, him and me.

Orla’s bedside locker: hair straightener, makeup, fake tan, iPod, jewellery box. Phone. No books. I left the door open.

Orla didn’t even notice what I was doing. Her mouth was hanging open. ‘Wasn’t the dog dead?’ she wanted to know.

Conway managed not to roll her eyes. ‘Yeah. It was very dead. The techs had taken it away and all. That’s the point. Detective Moran here, he says to O’Farrell, “You got another dog?” O’Farrell can’t even talk, but he shakes his head.’

Alison’s locker: straightener, makeup, yada yada, no books, no extra phone. Gemma’s locker: same story, plus a bottle of capsules of some herbal thing swearing to make her skinny.

‘We go back to questioning him, but the noise keeps happening. We can’t concentrate, right? Finally Detective Moran gets pissed off. Jumps up, heads for the door. O’Farrell practically comes off his chair, roars at Moran, “Jesus God, don’t open that door!”’

She was good, Conway. The room had changed, dark places stirring, bright ones pulsing. Orla was mesmerised.

‘But it’s too late: Moran’s already opening the door. Far as we can see, me and him, the hall’s empty. Nothing there. Then O’Farrell starts to scream.’

One big wardrobe, all along one side of the room. Inside, it was split into four sections. Tangled bright things spilling out.

‘We look around, O’Farrell’s flying backwards off his chair, grabbing his throat. Howling like he’s being killed. First we think he’s putting it on, right, get out of being questioned? Then we see the blood.’

Breathy whine bursting out of Orla. I tried to check drawers without touching anything girly. Wished Conway was doing this bit. There were Tampax in there.

‘It’s dripping out between his fingers. He’s on the floor, kicking, howling, “Get it off me! Get it off!” Me and Moran, we’re like, What the fuck? We haul him outside – we don’t know what else to do, figure maybe the fresh air’ll help. He stops screaming, but he’s still moaning, holding his throat. We get his hands away. And I swear to God’ – Conway was in close, eyes locked on Orla’s – ‘I’ve seen dog bites. That, on O’Farrell’s throat, that was a dog bite.’

Orla asked faintly, ‘Did he die?’

‘Nah. Few stitches.’

‘The dog was only little,’ I said. Worked around someone’s bras. ‘Couldn’t do too much damage.’

‘After the doctors got him cleaned up,’ Conway said, ‘O’Farrell spilled his guts. Full confession. When we took him off in cuffs, he was still screaming, “Keep it away from me! Don’t let it get me!” Grown man, begging like a kid.’

‘Never made it to trial,’ I said. ‘Wound up in a mental hospital instead. He’s still there.’

Orla said, and it came from the heart, ‘OhmyGod.’

‘So,’ Conway said. ‘When McKenna says there’s no such thing as ghosts, excuse us if we have a laugh.’