‘Nah. Alison’s suggestible, but. And she was half hysterical to start with, after the interview and all.’ Conway was keeping her voice down, head tilted backwards to listen to the popcorn crackle of voices from the common rooms. ‘She’s headed for the jacks, Joanne gives it loads about Chris’s ghost being all stirred up – she knows Alison inside out, remember, knows exactly how to get her going. Then she sticks fake tan on her hand, gives Alison’s arm a squeeze. It’s a decent bet Alison’ll go mental over one thing or the other. Joanne’s hoping there’ll be enough chaos that we’ll leg it out of the common room, leave the door open, she’ll have a chance to nip in there and swipe the book.’

Sixteen-year-old kid, I almost said: would she be up to that? Copped myself on in time. Said, instead, ‘Alison’s wearing long sleeves.’

‘So Joanne got her before she put on the hoodie.’

It could work; maybe, just about, with plenty of luck. I said, ‘Joanne didn’t try to go for the common room, but. She stayed right here, in the middle of the action.’

‘Maybe she was betting we’d take Alison away, she could take her time.’

‘Or Joanne had nothing to do with it. The ghost was Alison’s imagination and the arm’s accidental, like McKenna said.’

‘Could be. Maybe.’

The footsteps had faded out of the stairwell. That white silence was sifting down again, filling the air with corner-of-the-eye shapes, making it hard to believe that anything in here was as simple as imagination and accident.

I said, ‘Does McKenna live here?’

‘Nah. Got more sense. But she’s not going home till we do.’

We. ‘Hope she likes canteen food.’

Conway flipped her bag open, checked the book tucked away inside. ‘Things happening,’ she said. Didn’t even try to hide the blaze of satisfaction. ‘Told you.’

Chapter 12

Chapter 12

In a way they were right: it’s not the same the second time they sneak out, or the third. It turns out that doesn’t matter. The glade where they lie and talk always has that other one behind it, a promise waiting for the right moment to be kept. It colours everything.

I never thought I’d have friends like you guys, Becca says, deep inside the third night. Never.  You’re my miracles.

Not even Julia bats that away. Their four hands are twined together on the grass, loose and warm.

Late in January, half past ten at night. Fifteen minutes till lights-out, for third-years and fourth-years at Kilda’s and at Colm’s. Chris Harper – brushing his teeth, half-thinking about the cold soaking into his feet from the tiled floor of the bathroom, half-listening to a couple of guys giving a first-year hassle in a toilet cubicle and wondering whether he can be arsed stopping them – has just under four months left to live.