‘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.’

Nothing in the wardrobe drawers that didn’t belong there, not on a quick check. Plenty that did; these four could have started their own Abercrombie & Fitch outlet. Nothing in the pockets of the hanging clothes. ‘We’re not saying Alison actually saw Chris Harper’s ghost,’ I said, reassuring. ‘Not for definite.’

‘Jaysus, no,’ Conway agreed. ‘She could’ve imagined the whole thing.’

‘Well,’ I said, poking through shoes. ‘She didn’t imagine that arm.’ Nothing on the wardrobe floor.

‘Nah, not that. I guess that could’ve maybe been allergies or whatever, though; who knows?’ Shrug, unconvinced. ‘All I’m saying is, if I knew anything that had anything to do with Chris, and I kept it to myself, I wouldn’t fancy turning out the lights tonight.’

I dialled the number that had texted me. All the phones stayed dark. No ringing coming from under a bed, from a stack of clothes I’d skimmed over.

‘Hate to admit it,’ I said. Glanced over my shoulder, did a shiver. ‘Me neither.’

Orla’s eyes skimming the room, hitting the corners, the shadows. Real fear.

Conway’s story had hit the mark. And Orla wasn’t the only one she’d been aiming at. The ghost story, or as much of it as Orla could remember, would be round the fourth-years inside half an hour.

‘Speaking of which.’ Conway swept up her satchel, plopped herself down nice and comfy on Joanne’s bed, right on top of her uniform – Orla’s eyes widened, like Conway had done something daring. ‘You might want to take a look at this.’