The Secret Place (10 page)

That test-vibe drilling in from both sides, this time. Miss McKenna leaning in to see if I could be pushed; Conway watching, leaving me to it, to see the same thing.

I said, ‘It’s not the perfect answer, no. But it’s the best we can do.’

Miss McKenna eyed me up some more. Copped there was no point in pushing harder. Smiled at me instead. ‘Then we shall have to rely on your best.’

Conway shifted, getting comfortable. Said, ‘Why don’t you tell us about the Secret Place.’

Outside, the bell exploded again. Faint yelps, more running feet, classroom doors closing; then silence.

Wariness curling like smoke in Miss McKenna’s eyes, but her face hadn’t changed. ‘The Secret Place is a noticeboard,’ she said. Took her time, picked her words. ‘We established it in December, I believe. The students pin cards on it, using images and captions to convey their messages anonymously – many of the cards are very creative. It gives the students a place to express emotions that they don’t feel comfortable expressing elsewhere.’

Conway said, ‘A place where they get to slag off anyone they don’t like, no worries that they’ll get in hassle for bullying. Spread any rumour they want, no tracing it back. Maybe I’m just too thick to get it, maybe your young ladies would never do anything that common, but this seems like one of the worst ideas I’ve heard in a long time.’ Piranha grin. ‘No offence.’

Miss McKenna said, ‘We felt it was the lesser of two evils. Last autumn, a group of girls set up a website that fulfilled the same function. The kind of behaviour you describe was, in fact, rife. We have one student whose father took his own life a few years ago. The site was brought to our attention by her mother. Someone had posted a photo of the girl in question, with the caption “If my daughter was this ugly I’d kill myself too.”’

Conway’s eye on me:
Razor blades in their hair. Still beautiful now?

She was right. It startled me more than it should have, a shock like a splinter jamming under a nail. That hadn’t come in from outside, like Chris Harper. That had grown inside these walls.

Miss McKenna said, ‘Both the mother and the daughter were, understandably, very upset.’

‘So?’ Conway said. ‘Block the site.’

‘And the new one twenty-four hours later, and the next one, and the next? Girls need a safety valve, Detective Conway. Do you recall, a week or so after the incident’ – small snort of laughter from Conway:
incident
– ‘a group of students claimed to have seen Christopher Harper’s ghost?’

‘In the girls’ jacks,’ Conway said sideways, to me. ‘Fair enough; first place a young fella would go if he was invisible, am I right? A dozen young ones screaming their lungs up, hanging on to each other, shaking. I almost had to do the old slap in the face before they could tell me what was going on. They wanted me to go in with my gun and shoot it. How long’d it take to settle them, in the end? Hours?’

‘After that,’ Miss McKenna said – to me, again – ‘we could, of course, have forbidden any mention of Christopher Harper. And the “ghost” would have reappeared every few days, possibly for months. Instead, we arranged group counselling sessions for all the girls, with emphasis on grief management techniques. And we set up a photograph of Christopher Harper on a small table outside the assembly hall, where students could say a prayer or leave a flower or card. Where they could express their grief in an appropriate, controlled fashion.’

‘Most of them hadn’t even
met
him,’ Conway told me. ‘They didn’t
have
any grief to express. Just wanted an excuse to go mental. They needed a kick up the hole, not a pat on the head and poor-little-you.’

‘Possibly,’ said Miss McKenna. ‘But the “ghost” never made another appearance.’

She smiled. Pleased with herself. Everything back on track, nice and neat.

Not stupid. From what Conway had said, I’d been expecting some halfwit snob dyed certain-age-blonde, starved into a size zero and stitched into a frozen grin, running the school on big talk and hubby’s contacts. This woman was no halfwit.

‘So,’ she said, ‘we followed the same approach with the noticeboard. We diverted the impulse into a controllable, controlled safety valve. And, again, the results have been highly satisfactory.’

She hadn’t moved since she sat down. Straight-backed, hands folded. Massive.

‘“Controlled,”’ Conway said. She flipped a pen off the desk – Montblanc, black and gold – and started playing with it. ‘How?’

‘The board is monitored, obviously. We check it for any inappropriate material before the first class, again at breaktime, again at lunch and again after classes end for the day.’

‘Ever find any inappropriate material?’

‘Of course. Not often, but occasionally.’

‘Like what?’

‘Usually some variation on “I hate So-and-So” – So-and-So being either another student or a teacher. There is a rule against using names, or making another person identifiable, but of course rules do get broken. Generally in harmless ways – naming a boy the writer finds attractive, or declaring eternal friendship – but sometimes in crueller ones. And, in at least one case, in order to help, rather than to hurt. A few months ago, we found a card with a photograph of a bruise and the caption “I think So-and-So’s dad hits her.” Obviously we removed the card immediately, but we raised the issue with the girl involved. Discreetly, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Conway. She tossed the pen spinning in the air, caught it easily. ‘Discreetly.’

I asked, ‘Why the actual physical board? Why not just set up an official website of your own, with a teacher to moderate it? Anything that could hurt someone’s feelings, it never gets posted. Safer.’

Miss McKenna looked me over, picking out details – good coat but a couple of years old, good haircut but a week or two past its best – and wondering what kind of specialist, exactly. Unfolded and refolded her hands. Not wary of me, not that far, but being careful.

‘We considered that option, yes. Several teachers were in favour of it, for exactly the reason you mention. I was against. In part because it would have excluded our boarders, who have no unsupervised internet access; but primarily because young girls slip between worlds very easily, Detective. They lose their grasp on reality. I don’t believe they should be encouraged to use the internet more than necessary, let alone to make it the focus of their most intense secrets. I believe they should be kept firmly rooted in the real world as much as possible.’

Conway’s eyebrow was right up:
The real world, this?

Miss McKenna ignored her. That smile again. Satisfied. ‘And I was right. There have been no more websites. The students actually enjoy the complications of the real-world process: the need to wait for a moment when no one can see them pin up a card, to find an excuse to visit the third floor without being noticed. Girls like to reveal their secrets, and they like to be secretive. The board provides the perfect balance.’

I asked, ‘Do you ever try and trace who put up a card? Like, if there was one that said “I’m on drugs”, you’d want to work out who wrote it. How would you go about that? Is there a CCTV camera on the board, anything like that?’

‘CCTV?’ Drawn out like a foreign word. Amusement, real or put on. ‘This is a school, Detective. Not a prison. And the students here don’t tend to be heroin addicts.’

I said, ‘How many students have you got?’

‘Almost two hundred and fifty. First year through sixth, two classes in each year, roughly twenty girls in each class.’

‘The board’s been up around five months. Statistically, in that amount of time, a few of your two hundred and fifty have had something in their lives that you’d want to know about. Abuse, eating disorders, depression.’ The words came out of my mouth strange. I knew I was right, but in that room they made a flat splat like I’d spit on the carpet. ‘And like you just said, girls want to tell their secrets. You’re telling me you never find anything more serious than “French class sucks”?’

Miss McKenna looked down at her hands, hiding behind her eyelids. Thought.

‘When identifying a writer is necessary,’ she said, ‘we have found that it can be done. We had one card that showed a pencil drawing of a girl’s stomach. The drawing had been sliced in a number of places by a sharp blade. The caption said, “I wish I could cut the whole thing off of me.” Obviously, we needed to identify the student. Our art teacher offered suggestions based on the style of the drawing, other teachers offered suggestions based on the handwriting of the caption, and within the day we had a name.’

‘And was she cutting?’ Conway asked.

Eyes hooded over again. Meaning yes. ‘The situation has been resolved.’

No drawing on our card, no handwriting. The cutter had wanted to be found. Our girl didn’t, or didn’t want to make it easy.

Miss McKenna said – to both of us, now – ‘I think this makes it clear that the board is a positive force, not a negative one. Even the “I hate So-and-So” cards are useful: they identify the students whom we need to watch for signs of bullying, in one direction or the other. This is our window into the students’ private world, Detectives. If you know anything about young girls, then you’ll understand just how invaluable that is.’

‘Sounds deadly all round,’ said Conway. Tossed the pen again, whipped it out of the air. ‘Did the invaluable board get checked after school finished up yesterday?’

‘After classes end every day. As I told you.’

‘Who checked it yesterday?’

‘You would have to ask the teachers. They decide amongst themselves.’

‘We will. Do the girls know when it’s checked?’

‘I’m sure they’re aware that it is monitored. They see teachers looking at it; we don’t attempt to conceal the fact. We haven’t announced the precise schedule, however, if that is your question.’

Meaning our girl wouldn’t have known we could narrow it down. She would have thought she could vanish, into the stream of bright faces tumbling down that corridor.

Conway said, ‘Were any of the girls in the main school after classes ended?’

Silence again. Then: ‘As you may know, Transition Year – fourth year – involves large amounts of practical work. Group projects. Experiments. So forth. Often, fourth-years’ homework requires access to school resources. The art room, the computers.’

Conway said, ‘Meaning there were fourth-years here yesterday evening. Who and when?’

The full-on headmistress stare. Full-on cop stare coming back. Miss McKenna said, ‘Meaning no such thing. I have no knowledge of who was in the main building yesterday. The matron, Miss Arnold, holds a key to the door connecting the school to the boarders’ wing, and makes a note of any girl who is given permission to enter the main building after hours; you would need to ask her. I am simply telling you that, on any given evening, I would expect at least a few fourth-years to be here. I understand that you feel the need to find sinister meaning everywhere, but believe me, Detective Conway, there will be nothing sinister about some poor child’s Media Studies project.’

‘That’s what we’re here to find out,’ Conway said. She stretched, big, back arching, arms going over her head and out. ‘That’ll do for now. We’ll need a list of girls who had access yesterday after school. Fast. Meanwhile, we’re taking a look at this invaluable board.’

She flipped the pen back onto the desk, neat snap of her wrist like skimming a stone. It rolled across the green leather, stopped an inch from Miss McKenna’s clasped hands. Miss McKenna didn’t move.

The school had gone quiet, the kind of quiet made out of a hundred different low buzzes. Somewhere girls were singing, a madrigal: just snippets, layered up with sweet high harmonies, cut off and started over every couple of lines when the teacher corrected something.
Now is the month of maying, when merry lads are playing, fa la la la la
.
.
.

Conway knew where we were headed. Top floor, down the corridor, past closed classroom doors (
If tall dominates short, then
.
.
. Et si nous n’étions pas allés
.
.
.
). Open window at the end of the corridor, warm breeze and green smell pouring in.

‘Here we go,’ Conway said, and turned in to an alcove.

The board was maybe six foot across by three high, and it came leaping out of that alcove screaming straight in your face. Like a mind gone wrong, someone’s huge mad mind racketing out every-coloured pinballs full speed, with no stop button. Every inch of it was packed: photos, drawings, paintings, jammed in on top of each other, punching for space. Faces blacked out with marker. Words everywhere, scribbled, printed, sliced.

A sound from Conway, quick breath through her nose that could’ve been a laugh or the same shock.

Across the top: big black letters, fantasy-book curlicues.
THE SECRET PLACE.

Under that, smaller, no fancy font here:
Welcome to The Secret Place. Please remember that respect for others is a core school value. Do not alter or remove others’ cards. Cards that identify anyone, as well as offensive or obscene cards, will be removed. If you have any concerns about a card, speak to your class teacher.