Tell Me No Secrets (11 page)

‘She must have gone to the toilet,' Angela tells me. She now has both her legs in one side of her trousers and is inching across the tent. She falls full-length on to the sleeping Lynn who starts to flail around, knocking a mug of water over the notes for Mary's camping badge. That sets Mary off. I'm not in the mood for this. I hardly slept and when I did Orla's face was there in my dreams, larger than life and twice as cruel.

My own face feels puffy, my skin tight with dried-on tears and I grab my soap bag, unzip the tent and go outside where the sun is just beginning to warm the ground. The heavy rain has left puddles all through the campsite. The pile of firewood is soaking. It doesn't bode well for breakfast.

It's already seven o'clock and most of the patrol leaders are up. Last night seems unreal.
Could I have imagined it?
I look around for Orla. Somehow she's found dry wood and is building a fire with some of her patrol. She is bent down next to it trying to blow it into action. One of the girls asks her a question and she looks up. Her face has the beginnings of a bruise over one cheek and she has a scratch at the side of her right eye where my ring tore the skin. I didn't imagine it then. My stomach lurches as her words come back to me.
I tried him out for you. He could be a better kisser but otherwise he was a pretty good shag.

I feel like I want to start crying all over again and am grateful when Miss Parkin blows her whistle. ‘Fall into patrols please, girls. Who's on breakfast duty?'

Faye's patrol raises their hands.

‘Bacon butties all round, I think. Get started. You'll find everything you need in the supplies tent.' She eyes the rest of us. ‘Sandra, your shirt should be tucked in. Angela, stop giggling. Grace? Where's Rose?'

I look around and notice for the first time that she isn't part of the circle. That's odd because she has stuck to me like glue since we climbed into the minibus. I glance over the other girls' heads expecting to see her coming towards me, trailing through the woods carrying sticks or water. Something helpful. And then the details of the night before come back to me. I remember ignoring her when she came to speak to me. And I pushed her. I remember now. Quite hard and if she'd skinned her knee or banged her elbows I wouldn't have heard her cry above the sound of all that rain. Maybe she's in a huff somewhere.

‘I'll go and find her, Miss Parkin.' I move out of the circle. ‘She's probably cleaning her boots or something.'

‘Be quick about it, Grace. Orla, you go with her.'

I'm already at the edge of the wood. ‘I can go myself,' I call back. ‘She won't be far.'

The last person I want to spend any time with right now is Orla. I think of Euan with his tongue in her mouth, his hands all over her. And the rest. I shudder. What the hell? How could he? We are supposed to be going out.

Orla runs to catch me up. ‘Wait!'

She's almost alongside me. ‘Fuck off, Orla.' I push her backwards. ‘I'm never talking to you again.'

‘For God's sake!' She rights herself and grabs hold of my arm. ‘I was just winding you up! I didn't really have sex with him. He fancies you! Everyone knows that.'

I fold my arms and face her. I want to believe her but on countless occasions I've watched her lie: to teachers, to parents and to other children. She does it seamlessly. There is nothing elaborate about her lying and it's the straightforward aspect that makes it so believable.

‘How do I know you're not lying?' I say.

‘Because we're friends. Best friends.' Her hair is wild around her shoulders, curls jump out all over her head. Apart from the bruise and the scratch, her face looks paler than normal and it occurs to me that she probably didn't get much sleep either.

But it's her eyes that give her away. They are uneasy. Sad, even. I remember something else. ‘Why didn't you fight back last night?' I ask her.

‘Because you were right to hit me.'

‘But you've just said you didn't do it.'

‘I didn't.'

‘So why didn't you tell me that last night?'

‘Because. Because . . .' She puts her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, lifts her shoulders and shrugs. ‘I deserved it.'

She's not making sense but still I feel sorry for her. She looks miserable, bloody miserable. ‘We can talk about this later. We need to find Rose. I'll look over by the pond.'

I trudge off over the squashed ferns and tangled brambles and Orla holds up her hands on either side of her mouth and shouts, ‘Rose! Breakfast time.'

My chest feels lighter and I take some deep breaths. I'm not totally convinced that she's telling the truth but it doesn't look as black as it did last night. I decide to give my face and hands a quick wash, so kneel down at the edge of the pond and take my soap out of the bag. My mother has packed me off with Yardley's lily of the valley:
With no proper facilities you'll want something that smells nice.

I dry myself on my T-shirt and sit back against a rock. All is quiet apart from Orla's voice and the intermittent calls from one blackbird to another as they busy themselves in the trees. The air is unusually still and the sun warms my face. I feel myself sliding back towards sleep and quickly stop myself, stand up, automatically brush both hands over my backside and look all around the pond but can't see any sign of Rose.

About twelve feet into the water ahead of me I spot a jacket. I can't see the front of it but it looks like one of ours. We all have the same navy blue waterproofs with the Girl Guide motif and our unit number printed over the left breast. Angela's mum works in the factory and got us a special deal.

Orla pushes through the woods behind me. ‘She isn't out in this direction. Let's go back before we miss out on the bacon butties.' She stops beside me. ‘What's that nice smell?'

‘Lily of the valley soap.' I touch my wash bag with my foot. ‘You know my mum – good at the details.'

‘Unlike mine,' Orla says, her expression cloudy. ‘She won't even notice I'm gone this weekend.'

I point ahead of us. ‘One of the girls has lost her cagoule.'

‘We can come back for it later,' she says, but I am already picking up sticks and discarding the shorter ones until I find one long enough.

‘I think I can reach it with this,' I say. I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my jeans and wade in. The stick catches at the body of the jacket. I try to give it a tug but it doesn't shift. ‘It's lodged on something. I'll have to go in deeper.' I come back out and take off my jeans.

‘You really hurt my face, you know.' Orla is lying back on a rock, rubbing her cheek. ‘It bloody hurts like hell.'

‘Serves you right. You shouldn't go around making up stuff like that.' I throw my T-shirt down on top of my jeans and wade in some more. The cold water reaches up past my knees and makes me gasp. ‘I hope whoever's jacket this is appreciates it.'

‘We'll make her scrub the pots,' Orla says. ‘Parky has Irish stew planned for dinner. Stew on a camping trip! She's completely barking.'

When the water hits my thighs I stop. I'm only a few feet away now and the movement in the water sets up a small wave. The arm of the jacket slides out to the side. I go to grab it with the stick then stop, blink once, twice, three times. Each time my eyes open I see the same thing. There are fingers coming out of the end of the jacket.

‘Hurry it up!' Orla is growing impatient. ‘She's probably back at the campsite by now eating the last of the bacon.'

I turn back. ‘Orla, in . . . I . . .' My voice gives out.

‘What?' She frowns and looks to the end of the stick. ‘What the . . .' She splashes in behind me and we grab the body, haul it back to the bank then up on to the flat ground.

When we turn her over we both let out a scream. It's Rose. Beautiful, blonde Rose. Her face is greyish-blue and bloated, her hair tangled with weeds and small splinters of wood.

‘Fuck, fuck, fuck. Grace! Fuck.'

She is stiff and cold. I roll her on to her side and press down on her back to expel the water from her lungs. Some dribbles out. I roll her on to her back again and thump her heart once. Then I feel the bottom of her sternum and begin cardiac massage. I pump her chest counting as I go . . . five, six, seven and then blow air into her mouth. The stench from her mouth is nauseating but I manage not to retch. ‘Get Miss Parkin, Orla!' I say between breaths. ‘We need help.'

‘Grace! She's dead.' She pulls me away from her. ‘Can't you see? She's long dead.'

‘She can't be.' I frown, back off, rub my hands on my bare legs, stare at Rose, now merely a body. Her eyes are blank, empty, devoid of the spirit that made her Rose. I can't think. There is nothing in my head. No words to help me make sense of this. I look round at Orla.

‘It was . . .' Her limbs are jerking and her body is contorted. She grabs her hair and howls.

I place my T-shirt over Rose's face. It doesn't feel right; her eyes open watching this.

‘It was you.' Orla claps a hand over her mouth. ‘It was you.'

‘What are you talking about!' I am horrified.

‘When you pushed her!'

‘What?'

‘Was she in the tent when you went back?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Think, Grace.' Her eyes are wide and feverish. ‘Think.'

I think back. I didn't check that Rose was in her sleeping bag. I didn't check on any of them. It didn't even occur to me. I was too upset. And before that, the memory of Rose's hands on the back of my coat. I see myself turn around on the very spot we're standing on now. She was trying to tell me something but I couldn't make out the words and I didn't give her the chance to repeat them.

I look down at my hands. A heavy weight drops down into my pelvis. ‘Christ! I pushed her. I pushed her down the bank.'

Orla moans and starts to pace, huge long strides that cause her to trip over boulders and clumps of grass, wobble and then steady herself. ‘Think, think, think.' She is banging her head with her fist. ‘We have to get our story straight.'

There's a singing in my ears. ‘She's dead.' I realise the enormity of what I've just said and I start to tremble then turn towards a bush and throw up. After half a dozen retches my stomach is empty; acid burns in my throat.

‘We have to stay calm.' She holds my shoulders, her fingers gripping my skin. ‘You could be done for murder.'

‘Murder?' I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. In my mind's eye I see my future: my parents' faces, my name in every newspaper, prison bars. My insides drop, my legs give way.

Orla catches me, props our hips together then pushes me back against a tree.

‘But it was an accident. Jesus, Orla. It was an accident,' I tell her. I look down at Rose's body on the ground. ‘I would never do something like this.' A tremendous pressure builds in my chest, leaving no room for air. I start to choke, hold my neck and try to cough but I can't.

Orla slaps me hard across the face. My teeth bite into my tongue and I wince then cry out with the pain.

Orla shakes me. ‘Listen! You can still be prosecuted. Say nothing about last night. Nothing. Grace?' she hisses. ‘We saw nothing. We heard nothing. Do you hear me?'

6

The DJ is set up at one end of the room. Lights flash behind him, change colour and make shapes on the ceiling. Daisy is in jeans and a plain black halter-neck top and her face is glowing with a kind of iridescent happiness. Ella is wearing a pair of faux leopardskin footless tights, flat gold shoes and a black pelmet skirt. Her T-shirt is a shocking pink and says ‘super bitch' on the front in sparkly letters. Her hair lies down her back, hooked up on one side of her head with an imitation tropical flower. They are both surrounded by friends and are opening presents. Daisy folds the wrapping next to her on the table; Ella throws it down by her feet.

I leave them to it and arrange the food on to plates next to bottles of drink and paper cups. Then I take a bag of rubbish outside and light up. I'm halfway through the cigarette, and growing tired of batting away the anxiety that's mushrooming inside my skull, when I hear Euan's voice behind me.

‘What? You haven't started again?'

‘Only in moments of stress,' I tell him.

He comes down the steps to join me and I offer him the packet and the lighter. He takes one out, lights it and looks up into the sky. It's bursting with stars that shimmer and gleam and feel almost close enough to touch.

‘So what happened in Edinburgh?'

‘It was bad,' I say. ‘Think of the worst-case scenario and double it.'

He blows a ribbon of smoke out through his mouth and over my head. ‘She's going to tell Paul how Rose died?'

‘Yup.'

I feel him recoil. ‘Shit.'

‘I know.' I shrug like it's hopeless. ‘It's all part and parcel of clearing her conscience. She's becoming a nun.'

He gives a dry laugh. ‘That's bullshit. She's no closer to becoming a nun than I am.'

‘I'm not sure I believe her either but probably some nuns do start out as troublemakers until they see the light.'

‘She was more than a troublemaker. She was cruel and bitchy and dangerous. She was dangerous, Grace.' He points his cigarette at me. ‘And she was always the girl you could have behind the bike sheds.'

I turn to him. ‘You had Orla behind the bike sheds?'

‘I might have done.'

I jerk up straight. ‘You
might
have done?'