That twitch of a smile again. ‘Well . . . yeah. Just a couple. Just . . . when something was bothering me and I couldn’t talk about it, sometimes I . . . But I stopped ages ago. I had to be so careful, and then I was always scared someone would guess they were mine and get angry ’cause I put it up there instead of telling her? So I stopped. I took mine down.’
Someone. One of her own gang, Alison had been scared of.
She was as relaxed as she was ever going to get: not a lot. I said, easily, ‘Is this one of yours?’
The photo. Alison gasped. Clapped her free hand over her mouth. A high humming noise came out through it.
Fear, but no way to read it: fear that she had been caught, that there was a killer out there, that someone knew who it was, reflex response to any surprise, take your pick. Petrified of bleeding everything, Conway had said. It blurred her like streaming rain on a windscreen, turned her opaque.
I said, ‘Did you put that up?’
‘No! No no no . . . I didn’t. Honest to God—’
‘Alison,’ I said, soothing, rhythmic. Leaned forward to take the photo back off her, stayed leaning. ‘Alison, look at me. If you did, there’s nothing wrong with it. Yeah? Whoever put this up was doing the right thing, and we’re grateful to her. We just need to have a chat with her.’
‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t. I didn’t. Please—’
That was all I was getting. Pushing would do nothing but lose my next chance as well as this one.
Conway off in a corner, still playing invisible, watching me. Gauging.
‘Alison,’ I said. ‘I believe you. I just have to ask. Just routine. That’s all. OK?’
Finally I got Alison’s eyes back. I said, ‘So it wasn’t you. Any ideas about who it might have been? Anyone ever mention having suspicions about what happened to Chris?’
Head-shake.
‘Any chance it was one of your mates?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t know. No. Ask them.’
Alison was sliding back towards panic. ‘That’s all I needed to know,’ I told her. ‘You’re doing great. Tell us something: you know Holly Mackey and her friends, yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Tell me about them.’
‘They’re just weird. Really weird.’
Alison’s arms tightening around her middle. Surprise: she was afraid of Holly’s lot.
I said, ‘That’s what we’ve heard, all right. But no one’s been able to tell us what kind of weird. I figure if anyone can put a finger on that, it’s you.’
Her eyes on mine, torn.
‘Alison,’ I said gently. I thought strong, thought protective, thought myself into all her wishes. Didn’t blink. ‘Anything you know, you need to tell me. They’ll never find out it came from you. No one will. I swear.’
Alison said – hunched forward, a whisper, shrunk so as not to reach Houlihan – ‘They’re witches.’
Now that was new.
I could hear What the fuck? inside Conway’s head.
I nodded. ‘Right,’ I said. ‘How did you find that out?’
Houlihan, in the corner of my eye, leaning half off her chair. Too far away to hear. She wouldn’t come closer. If she tried, Conway would stop her.
Alison was breathing faster, with the shock of having said it. ‘They used to be, like, normal. Then they just went weird. Everyone noticed.’
‘Yeah? When?’
‘Like the start of last year? A year and a half ago?’ Before Chris; before that Valentine’s dance when even Orla had spotted something. ‘People said all kinds of stuff about why—’
‘Like what?’
‘Just stuff. Like they were gay. Or they were abused when they were kids, I heard that. But we thought they were witches.’
Glance at me, fearful. I asked, ‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know. Just because. We just thought it.’ Alison hunched down farther, over whatever she was hiding. ‘Probably I shouldn’t have told you.’