Eighteen Kisses (7 page)

I didn’t regret sending it, I wanted him to know I was annoyed. I waited a few minutes, but there was no reply, no apology, no nothing. I slammed the phone down, got under my duvet and closed my eyes.

The dream was the exact same – the car, the covered-up number plate, the stilettos, the rain. We followed the man in the balaclava, over the low stone wall, but this time I wasn’t staring at the arm because I’d noticed something in his back pocket. A Polaroid photo – the same one from the file. He had an invitation to the party.

The surroundings suddenly switched, and once again we were standing beside the barbed-wire fence.

‘Where’d he go?’ I asked. She didn’t reply. She smiled and completely ignored the question, as if I’d never said it. I
squinted my eyes, searching for him in the distance, but all I saw was blackness.

‘Let me take your picture,’ she said. She held up the Polaroid camera and once again the flash blinded me, sending little coloured dots dancing in front of my eyes. I looked around, searching for some landmark, anything that would help me to figure out where we were. I saw a tree to our right, its branches all twisted and bare as if it had been struck by lightning. Wild red roses were growing in the hedges either side of it. The sharp pointed edges of a barbed-wire fence glinted in the moonlight.

She held the photograph out to me. I leaned over to look at it, but to my surprise, I wasn’t in it. Instead it was a picture of the man in the balaclava, his brown eyes staring straight at the camera. I gasped and stumbled backwards, narrowly missing the barbed-wire fence.

‘Careful,’ she said. ‘You’re standing on my grave.’

I woke up with a jolt, sweating and shaking, taking in gulps of air, as if I might stop breathing altogether. There was no serial killer, or if there was, he hadn’t killed Kayla. Matt Lawlor was right: she’d been murdered by somebody who was at the party, somebody she knew. My heart was racing. I took deep breaths, trying to get the image of the man in the balaclava out of my mind. Eventually my heart stopped beating so fast, and I drifted into a restless sleep. The eyes from behind the balaclava haunted me until the morning.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was exhausted from the night before, but I had to give the impression of being at least semi-ready and alert for my work experience. I checked the map on my phone again. I was confused – it told me I was outside
Electric
magazine, but I couldn’t see the big bold sign I’d imagined such a famous magazine would have. People in suits hurried by, walking with purpose, and schoolkids wearing brightly coloured backpacks passed me by as I tried to decide which direction to go. I really didn’t want to be late for my first day. I probably shouldn’t have spent so much time eating breakfast, but Gran’s scrambled eggs were just too delicious to miss. I ended up walking past the office building three times before finally spotting the tiny and discreet blue, record-shaped sign with
Electric
magazine written under it. This place was so cool it didn’t even need to advertise itself to anyone. I took a deep breath and rushed inside, taking the elevator to the fifth floor.

The lobby I stepped out into was amazing. One wall was just glass, with a stunning view over St Stephen’s Green. Framed covers of
Electric
hung on the walls, some dating
back thirty years. There was a huge desk in the shape of a guitar inside the door and behind it sat a girl on the telephone. Her hair was styled in a neat braid and she wore lots of jewellery. Her bracelets clinked together as she talked. She covered the receiver with her hand. ‘Work experience?’ she asked.

‘Yes – Jacki King,’ I said quietly.

She pointed to the red leather sofa on the far side of the lobby, then resumed her phone conversation. ‘He’s in a meeting at the moment, would you like to be put through to his voicemail?’

There was a guy already sitting on the couch, flicking through the latest copy of
Electric
. He had black curly hair and glasses and was wearing jeans and a blue check shirt, its sleeves rolled up. I could see his green eyes as he looked up nervously from the magazine.

‘Hey,’ I said.

‘Hey,’ he said with a smile.

‘I’m Jacki; are you here for work experience too?’ He was about my age and looked just as apprehensive.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m Dillon.’

Up close he looked vaguely familiar and I wondered where I’d seen him before.

‘I think I know you …’ he said. ‘You’re friends with Hannah Murray, right?’

‘Yeah …’ I said, still not recalling where we’d met.

‘I’m mates with her brother Mark,’ he explained, and then it began to dawn on me.

‘I thought I knew you all right,’ I said. ‘You look different though.’

‘I cut my hair.’

‘That’s it.’ I knew exactly who he was now. He used to hang out with Hannah’s brother, reading comics and listening to music in their garage. Hannah was always complaining because they rarely let her in there, and when they did they’d make fun of her musical taste, just because she’d never heard of whatever obscure band they were listening to that week. I’d never actually spoken to him or even been introduced, but I remembered he looked a lot different back then – his hair was really long and used to kind of take over his face. I hoped he wasn’t as pretentious as Hannah had described.

‘So, you want to be a music journalist too?’ he said.

I realized I should probably fake an interest in journalism. I wouldn’t tell him that I really wanted to be a singer-songwriter.

‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘I thought this would be interesting anyway.’

‘But you don’t actually want to work on a music magazine?’ he said, sounding surprised.

‘Well, I’m not sure yet, but music
is
my life.’

He looked at me like I was crazy.

‘What?’ I asked self-consciously.

‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but you do know that loads of people would kill for this internship? Why did you apply if you don’t really want to work here?’

‘Um … well, isn’t the whole point of transition year to try things you might not normally do?’ I couldn’t believe I was actually quoting Miss Jennings, but how dare he talk to me like that.

‘So how’d you get this?’ he asked. ‘Does your dad work in the music industry or something?’ he added with a grin. He probably didn’t mean it in a bad way, but I couldn’t help but be offended.

‘No, actually, my dad’s dead,’ I said bluntly. ‘Does yours?’

‘Sorry,’ he muttered and looked away awkwardly.

I heard my phone beep in my bag and took it out, hoping it would be Nick. It was Mum, wishing me luck. I texted her back, then we sat in silence. I tried not to let this Dillon guy get to me, but I couldn’t help feeling annoyed. And I wished Nick would text me. I couldn’t believe he still hadn’t apologized. I wasn’t having a good time with boys this week it seemed.

After a few minutes a blonde-haired girl came into the lobby. ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m Ellie, assistant to the editor.’

We introduced ourselves and she shook our hands. She was wearing high-waisted shorts, a white T-shirt, dusky pink brogues and a gold necklace that said
ELLIE
, which was good, because the second she said her name it went out of my head. I could feel Dillon looking at me, but I didn’t make eye contact. I couldn’t believe I’d have to spend two whole weeks with him. He
was
just as irritating as Hannah described.

‘Follow me,’ said Ellie. We walked behind her into a room with over a dozen desks arranged in rows.

‘This is team
Electric
!’ she said. ‘Michael, Patricia, Cliona, Paddy …’ Each person waved or said ‘Hi’ to us in turn. They were all incredibly stylish. I looked down at my own purple skinny jeans and Thin Lizzy T-shirt, and wished I’d gone for something a bit more sophisticated.

‘The two of you will share this desk,’ said Ellie, pointing to a table in front of us with one Mac and two chairs.

‘In there is the office of our editor, Tim,’ she added, pointing to a door on the far wall.

‘Beside it is my office, and beside that is the meeting room.’ Dillon and I both nodded. ‘And over there is the archive.’ She motioned to a box room where hundreds of magazines were shelved. ‘We’ll probably get you guys to tidy that up at some stage, although we’ve got lots lined up, so there may not be time. Firstly, I’ll give you a quick overview of what you’ll be doing for the next two weeks.’

Dillon took out a notebook and I rooted in my bag for a notebook that wasn’t there. I was so disorganized. I thought we’d just be photocopying stuff and making cappuccinos – I didn’t think we’d have to do actual proper work. Dillon seemed to notice my panic and tore off a page from his notebook and gave it to me. I took it from him grudgingly and grabbed a pen from the desk to start writing down what Ellie was saying.

‘… Next Wednesday is the
Electric Unsigned
showcase in Rage Rock Bar and you two will be working on the floor. We’ll need you there at four p.m. till late; it’s tough going, but you’ll get guest passes for your friends in return.’

Dillon’s eyes went wide with excitement.

‘The following Wednesday we’re going on location and you’ll assist on a shoot. It’s a cover shoot so it’ll be a great experience for you both.’

‘Who are you shooting?’ asked Dillon.

‘Willis Middleton.’

‘No way!’ he said.

I couldn’t believe it either. I’d always found Willis Middleton fascinating – an ageing British rock star who lives in New York, but also owns a castle in Galway. He’s known for his awesome bass solos and outrageous behaviour.

‘Yep, it’s his first interview in three years,’ she said. ‘And his first contact with the press since he got out of rehab. He’s known to be a bit … sensitive, so it’s really important that it goes well. Hair and make-up starts at seven a.m.’

‘Have you heard his solo album yet?’ I asked Ellie.

‘He sent us a few tracks,’ she said. ‘They’re awesome.’

Dillon seemed impressed that I knew about his solo venture. Not that I cared.

He resumed scribbling away, his face intense with concentration. This all sounded like a lot of fun, but I didn’t want to get too excited. I had to remember the real reason I was in Dublin. I still had to talk to another seven people and hopefully solve the mystery of Kayla’s disappearance before I went back to Avarna.

‘You’ll be working on lots of different projects,’ said Ellie. ‘So you’ll get a feel for all the different aspects of the magazine.’

Dillon pointed to the gigantic pile of CDs beside our desk.

‘Is that …’

‘The demo pile? Yes. Paul has been away for a few days so it’s building up. That can be your first task, actually, to listen to these. Arrange them into two piles – good and bad, basically. If you need anything I’ll be in my office. Oh, and lunch is at one. Good luck!’

I sat down on the swivel seat nearest to me and Dillon
sat on the other one, his leg brushing off mine as he did. Our shared workspace was a bit too cramped for my liking.

‘I’ve always wanted one of these chairs,’ he whispered, spinning round. It was obvious that he was trying to make up for earlier, but I still found him super-annoying. I gave him a forced smile.

‘Isn’t it kind of crazy that they leave this to us?’ he said, looking at the pile of demos. ‘That we get to decide people’s fate?’

‘Yep, choose wisely,’ I said, taking a CD from the top of the pile and putting on my headphones. At least if we were listening to music then I wouldn’t have to talk to him.

After two hours of bad drum beats and too-long guitar solos, however, my head was just about ready to explode. I was so relieved when Ellie opened her office door and waved at me. I took off my headphones. ‘Jacki, can you help me in here?’ she said.

I wondered what she wanted me to do. I didn’t really mind what it was as long as I got a little break from this. Dillon was so engrossed in the CD he was listening to that he didn’t even look up. I walked into Ellie’s office and closed the door behind me.

‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘I was starting to think they’d forgotten about Kayla altogether.’

For a second I was taken aback, but then it clicked. She was Eleanor Higgins, a name from my list. I didn’t recognize her from the party video, but then I had only watched it once. I should probably watch it again, like Sergeant Lawlor had told me to, even if it made me uncomfortable.

‘I’m Kayla’s best friend,’ she said, signalling for me to
take a seat. Her desk was covered in stacks of paper and CDs and magazines. ‘Well, I suppose she has three, but I think she’s probably closest to me. Every time my phone rings, I hope it will be her.’

Unfortunately I knew that was one phone call Ellie was never going to get.

‘Do you think she ran away?’ I asked.

‘No, no way. I think she was taken,’ she said. ‘But since she went missing, I’ve heard of two girls who were held captive and then escaped, years later … not in Ireland, I know, but still. You’ve probably heard about the serial killer theory, but they haven’t actually found any bodies. So maybe he’s keeping them somewhere? Sometimes I wish we could search every house. I didn’t want to stop looking, but eventually I had to. As much as I’d like to, I know I can’t look everywhere.’ Ellie was so composed earlier, but now she looked like she might cry. She took a tissue from the box on her desk and I looked around the office, giving her a moment to wipe her eyes. The place was chaotic, there was stuff everywhere, but there did seem to be some sort of order to it. Huge cardboard copies of recent covers of
Electric
were propped up against the walls. Gemma Hayes was on the February cover, Nick Cave in March, and Imelda May was the face of
Electric
in April. The covers were really cool. The artists were all impeccably styled; I’d have done anything to get my hands on Imelda May’s red dress.

‘How long have you worked here?’ I asked Ellie.

‘I started when I was nineteen,’ she said. ‘I did a diploma in journalism, then began as an unpaid intern.’

‘It’s a really cool job.’

‘It has its moments.’ She smiled meekly. ‘Kayla would be so impressed if she knew I was working here,’ she added. ‘She’s big into photography. Whenever we go to gigs she always brings her giant camera with her.’