Conway propped herself against a table, near my shoulder, not too near. Orla gave her a vacant look, on her way over. Conway’s the type that makes an impression, but this kid barely recognised her.
Orla sat down, squirmed her skirt down over her knees. ‘Is this about Chris Harper again? OhmyGod, did you find out who . . . ? You know. Who . . . ?’
Snuffly voice. Pitched high, all ready for a squeal or a simper. That accent you get these days, like a bad actor faking American.
I said, ‘Why? Is there something you want to tell us about Chris Harper?’
Orla practically jumped back out of the chair. ‘Huh? No! No way.’
‘Because if you’ve got anything new to add, now’s the time. You know that, right?’
‘Yeah. I totally do. If I knew anything, I’d tell you. But I don’t. Honest to God.’
Tic-smile, involuntary, wet with hope and fear.
You want in with a witness, you figure out what she wants. Then you give her that, big handfuls. I’m good at that.
Orla wanted people to like her. Pay attention to her. Like her some more.
Stupid, it sounds; is. But I felt let down. Thrown down, with an ugly splat like puke. This place had had me expecting something, under these high ceilings, in this turning air that smelled of sun and hyacinths. Expecting special, expecting rare. Expecting a shimmering dappled something I had never seen before.
This girl: the same as a hundred girls I grew up with and stayed miles from, exact shoddy same, just with a fake accent and more money spent on her teeth. She was nothing special; nothing.
I didn’t want to look at Conway. Couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew exactly what was going on in my head, and was laughing at it. Not in a good way.
Big warm crinkly grin, I gave Orla. Leaned in. ‘No worries. I was just hoping. On the off-chance, you know the way?’
I held the grin till Orla smiled back. ‘Yeah.’ Grateful, pathetically grateful. Someone, probably Joanne, used Orla for kicking when the world pissed her off.
‘We’ve just got a few questions for you – routine stuff, no big deal. Could you answer those for us, yeah? Help me out?’
‘OK. Sure.’
Orla was still smiling. Conway slid backwards onto the table. Got out her notebook.
‘You’re a star,’ I said. ‘So let’s talk about yesterday evening. First study period, you were here in the art room?’
Defensive glance at Houlihan. ‘We’d got permission.’
Her only worry about yesterday evening: hassle from teachers.
I said, ‘I know, yeah. Tell us, how do you go about getting permission?’
‘We ask Miss Arnold. She’s the matron.’
‘Who asked her? And when?’
Blank look. ‘It wasn’t me.’
‘Whose idea was it to spend the extra time up here?’
More blank. ‘That wasn’t me either.’ I believed her. I got the feeling most ideas weren’t Orla.
‘No problem,’ I said. More smile. ‘Talk me through it. One of you got the key to the connecting door off Miss Arnold . . .’
‘I did. Right before first study period. And then we came up here. Me and Joanne and Gemma and Alison.’
‘And then?’