They Did Bad Things

Maeve screamed and punched, desperate to get free from the hands trying to restrain her. Oliver had the keys. Oliver had found the keys. She needed to go after him. She needed to get them back. It was her job to keep the keys safe. She’d promised.

She hadn’t realized she’d closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the ghost was there.

“It’s okay. It’s me. It’s really me.” Lorna held up her hands. “It’s me.”

Maeve saw the blood—or at least, in the fading light, what looked like blood—but the air didn’t smell of it, not like when Hollis died.

Maeve stepped forward, saw she was real, and the two women embraced. Maeve was crying before she could even think about stopping herself.

“Nothing. Nothing happened. No one attacked me. I faked it.” Lorna rubbed her back.

“Why would you do that? I thought you were gone. I thought I was on my own. I thought—”

“I know. And I’m sorry. But I needed to get away from you. I mean, not you, specifically, but the group. And there was no way to do that without drawing suspicion.”

“But Lorna, why?” Maeve pulled back and wiped the tears from her eyes. “It’s not safe to be on your own. Not with this crazy woman running around. She could’ve killed you for real.”

“The so-called ex-girlfriend none of us remember? The one Ellie conveniently recalled after she killed James Caskie?”

Lorna went to sit down, but the nearest chair was the bloody one in which Caskie had died. She turned away from it and leaned back against the bar instead. The paint on her clothes had mostly dried, but the occasional patch glistened like a fresh wound.

“Callum never had a girlfriend,” she said. “He cared about you. He wanted you. Ellie’s story is bogus. A cover. Someone was camped out in the ballroom, but it’s not any mythical ex. There isn’t anyone else here. I think . . . I think it was just Ellie.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Maeve said. “Why would Ellie be living here? Hiding here? How would she have even known . . .” She thought back on everything Ellie had done this weekend, every comment, every reaction. Had she known all along? How good an actress was she? It didn’t seem possible. And yet, Maeve had been so hurt when Ellie mentioned a girlfriend. It would be just like Ellie to make up a story that would hurt Maeve the most.

“She looked right at me, Maeve. Ellie looked me right in the eye when she bent down to check that I was dead. She knew I was alive. She knew I was faking. She played along anyway, and the only reason she would do that would be to maintain her story that someone else is here.”

“I did it so I could sneak around and see what proof I could find. I didn’t know it would be her that checked on me. But turns out that’s all I needed to see.” Lorna pushed off the bar and paced the floor, carefully avoiding the blood soaked into the carpet. “When Caskie died, I couldn’t stop asking myself, why would Ellie do that? She had no reason unless she knew he was working with us and she killed him to get back at us.”

“But what was Caskie even doing here? He wasn’t supposed to come back till tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t know. I never got the chance to ask him. But Ellie must’ve found out about our plan.”

“Princess. God, I shouldn’t have called her princess in the text.” Maeve said. “She figured out it was us and then must’ve found out what we’d planned. But then why did she come at all? If she knew what we were going to do, why not stay home? Why risk hiding out in that other room if Caskie or even Mr. MacLeod could’ve found her? Why would she be camping out here at all? What was she doing all that time? And did she kill Mr. MacLeod?”

“She must’ve. And she could’ve slipped that twine into my pocket when we were searching the rooms together. But I still don’t understand why Caskie returned early in the first place. He wasn’t supposed to come back until Monday morning.”

“I don’t know. He said it’s because MacLeod found out we were staying here, but Caskie had problems of his own. It’s why we were able to convince him to let the house to us in the first place. He wouldn’t have tried to defraud his employer if he was such an honest, upstanding young man, now would he?”

“He was supposed to find the two of us hysterical, covered in blood, weeping over the nightmare weekend we only barely survived. The last ones standing. The final girls.”

“I don’t know!” Lorna pressed her palms against her eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know! God, Maeve. I don’t have all the answers! All I know is our plan’s been fucked ever since MacLeod turned up. But Hollis is dead, and Oliver’s too stupid to pull something like this off. Put tampons and a bra in with that camping stuff to throw us off his scent? Please. He couldn’t even touch an empty box of tampons on our bathroom counter. It has to be Ellie. She killed Callum, and we’re the only witnesses to what happened that night. You, me, Oliver, Hollis. For years, that’s never been a problem. None of us was going to talk. But once we texted her about Caldwell Street, that looked like it was going to change. So she plays along and decides to take her chances. See if she can off us one by one. So we need to sort her out. Now. Like we always planned. And the rest we can figure out later.”

Maeve looked up at the ceiling as if she could see through the floors and walls to the room where Ellie was trapped.

“And he can’t get far. He won’t know how to navigate Caskie’s boat back to Skye, and the next ferry is over twenty-four hours away. Let him go for now, and we’ll take care of Ellie first. Finish what we started.” Lorna held out her hand.

It had been the kind of Edinburgh day that taunted with the promise of blue skies and sun in the morning but drew clouds and temperature drops in the afternoon. She sat in a back booth against the large picture window in Black Medicine Coffee, nursing her second flat white while ignoring the pain au chocolat in front of her. Though the café was warm, she huddled in her oversized peacoat, a knit cap pulled down over her ears. Each time she checked her watch, she had to draw back the sleeve of her coat and the jumper underneath. The train had arrived twenty minutes ago, and Waverly was only an eight-minute walk away. She supposed she could’ve chosen a seat by the door. It would’ve made it easier to watch the people passing by, maybe pick her out from the crowd. But the table by the door felt too exposed. A back booth felt more suitable for their discussion. If she came, that was.

And come she did, bursting through the doorway in that clumsy manner of hers that hadn’t changed in two decades, late as always, more frazzled than she was trying to appear. She looked for Lorna and, once spotting her, gave a big childish wave before ordering her coffee. She waited at the counter until it was done, even though they’d bring it to the table, and spilled some of the large, frothy cappuccino as she carried it over.

“Did you get a pastry? Maybe I should get a pastry, too.” She looked over at the counter. “I got food on the train, but dropped half my sandwich on the floor, spilled coffee on my lap, and the toddler next to me swiped my crisps. Although I suppose he wasn’t a toddler. Maybe five or six? I’m terrible at judging ages. Do they have any danishes or scones?”

“God, Lorna. Cheers. Thanks.” She bit into it and spoke with her mouth full. “And thank you for all this. I can’t remember the last time I had a holiday where I wasn’t playing nanny to Max’s kids. You remember my brother, Max, don’t you?”

“I do.” She looked at Maeve’s frizzy hair, the bags under her eyes, the uneven lipstick. “You’re exactly as I remember.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself. I love what you’ve done with your hair!”

The pain au chocolat was already gone—all that remained was a few flakes on the plate and a crumb stuck to Maeve’s lower lip.

“I dropped my bag at the hotel before I came over. I hope you don’t mind. That place is so cute! I would’ve never found it on my own. I usually end up at a Travelodge or, if I’m really lucky, a Jurys Inn.” She rolled her eyes.

“Maeve, I don’t want to be rude, but I’d like to get straight to the point.”

“Oh! Yes! I’ll be honest, I never really pictured myself working for a university, but to tell the truth, I could so do with a change of scenery. I’ve always liked the idea of Edinburgh, even if I struggle with the Scots accent. The poor conductor had to repeat himself four times before I figured out he only wanted to see my ticket. What? I’m rambling again, aren’t I? Sorry. It’s . . . I’m so excited to see you. To see anyone, really.”

“No, look. I’m sorry. I haven’t been completely honest with you about why I asked you here.”

Maeve sipped her coffee, smiling at a little terrier crossing the street with its owner, but the sadness in her eyes was clear. “There’s no job, is there? Well that’s all right. The chap at the unemployment office is lovely. I can at least tell him I tried to get an interview.”

“No! It’s fine. I’ll make something up. I’ve got quite good at that, as it turns out. Besides, it’s still a holiday, isn’t it?” She finally noticed the crumb and brushed it away.

“There is . . . there is something I’d like you to do. Something I’d like us to do together. And I wasn’t sure you’d come if I told you straightaway. Plus, it’s not something I wanted to put in an email.” She sipped her flat white. It had gone cold. “It’s about Caldwell Street. About Callum.”

Maeve pushed the plate to the end of the table, suddenly more interested in a loose thread on her coat than looking Lorna in the eye.

The sound of milk being steamed drowned out Maeve’s initial reply. She repeated herself.

“But doesn’t it bother you that Oliver and Ellie, even Hollis, have gone on with their lives like it never happened?”

“Oliver was on Dragons’ Den. Did you see that? The cheek. Watching him get shot down by all four investors was the happiest I’ve been since . . . a long time.” She folded her arms and watched out the window, doing what Lorna suspected she’d done for most of her adult life: trying not to think about Callum McAllister.

“Stop it. Just stop it.” Maeve sat up straight, her hands clasped in her lap, out of sight, tears welling in her eyes. “If that’s all you brought me up here for—to guilt-trip me—well, I don’t need to be in Edinburgh for that. I’ll go. And not just from this coffee shop. I’ll get my bags and I’ll figure out how to change my train ticket and—”

“Maeve, I’m sorry.” She reached across the table, but Maeve remained unwavering.

“I thought you invited me because we’re friends.” She looked into her lap. “We were friends. Why does everything we do have to be . . . be tainted by what happened at Caldwell Street? Why can’t we just talk about the weather or stupid coworkers or weird shit our family does? Why . . .” Her voice rose as she spoke, and a pair of backpacking tourists eyed her from the next table. Maeve grabbed her mug, coffee spilling over the side onto her hand. She raised the mug but didn’t drink, using it to hide her face.

“Is that what you want?” Lorna whispered. “To forget him? Pretend he never existed? Write him out of history? Because I’ve tried that and it doesn’t work. I’ve tried to live my life like none of it ever happened. And then I’ll see an ad for Scottish Rugby. Or it’ll be a Wednesday and for one second I’ll think, ‘What’s he got for me today?’ Or someone will show me a picture they took on their phone and I’ll think, ‘Callum would’ve framed that better.’ And it might be one moment. Just one flash, and then for the rest of the day everything I see will remind me. Remind me of the one person who I didn’t find constantly annoying. The one person other than my dog who didn’t judge me for my sexuality. Who called out those idiots for heckling me during class. He stood up for me every time I needed him. And when he needed me, needed us, we turned our backs. If you want to keep looking the other way, I suppose I can’t blame you. Honestly. It’s not like I don’t understand. But I’m too tired to keep turning.”

“What I want is a TARDIS. I’d go back in time and rescue him in a TARDIS. Can you imagine the look on his face? God, he loved Doctor Who. Don’t you remember? I couldn’t get him to shut up about it sometimes. When they started it back up again, every time I watched David Tennant, all I could think was how much Callum would’ve loved this. A tall, lanky Scotsman playing the Doctor. He’d be in heaven.” Maeve wiped an errant tear from her cheek. “I buy the box sets every year. I tell myself they’re for my niece and nephew, but really I imagine giving them to Callum. Pretend that one day he’ll come by and we’ll binge-watch them all together. And he’ll tell me random facts about Daleks and I’ll pretend to be interested and . . .”

“Well, nothing could compare to your beloved Hitchcock, could it?” Maeve blew her nose and folded the tissue into quarters. “It’s more stupid for me to watch it. Because he’s never going to come by. He’s never going to call or text, and I won’t need to wow him with all these random facts about the show. He won’t friend me on Facebook or any of those other stupid things he never got to do. Because there’s no such thing as a TARDIS. No time machine that can stop us from doing what we did.”

Lorna rested her hand on Maeve’s. “What they did. Hollis. Oliver. Ellie. Maeve, this was their fault. They took him from us. What happened at the party, we had nothing to do with it. Maybe we could’ve done more to stop them, but in the end, it was them. And they have faced zero consequences. I mean, look at this.” Lorna pulled out her phone, showed the news article she’d found. David and Eleanor Landon, a picture-perfect couple being lauded at a gala for their charity work. Ellie beaming in an expensive gown, dripping in jewelry, on the arm of a handsome, well-dressed man. “Doesn’t that make you sick? Princess Ellie and her perfect life. Hunt the Cunt getting her happy ending while Callum gets nothing. Not even the acknowledgment that he was murdered. Don’t you think it’s time they paid for it?”

“You know I love horror films, right? Have you ever heard of the Final Girl trope?”

Lorna leaned back in the chair, listened to milk being steamed, dishes clanking. People laughing. While Maeve stared at Ellie’s picture on the phone. Maeve’s face hardened.

The others never tried to hide the bad parts of themselves. Oliver was an arrogant ass. Maeve a cloying sycophant. Hollis a chummy conflict avoider. Lorna a people-hating bitch. They wore these traits like badges of honor. But not Ellie. Eleanor Hunt always had to pretend to be what she wasn’t. Beautiful Ellie Hunt pretended to be kind. She pretended when she needed a cup of tea and got one of the others to make it for her. She pretended when she needed to borrow a fiver or a tenner and, in her silly lightheaded way, always forgot to pay it back. She pretended when she needed a good cry and arms to hold her. Over the months, the tally of things sweet, kind Ellie had needed increased, while those she had given in kind were nonexistent. Lorna was the first to notice, followed by Oliver. Maeve, for once, was not the last. Hollis took the longest. He might have continued to condone her to avoid stirring up conflict, but he noticed.

But Callum never did. Callum took people at their word. Whatever side you chose to show him, that was the person you were. Which is why, to Callum, Ellie was always kind. Until she wasn’t. And then it was too late for him, for any of them, to do anything about it.

This was what Lorna wanted to say to Ellie before she killed her. As she and Maeve made their way up the main staircase, Lorna rehearsed it in her head, wanting to get every word right because she would only have one chance. She thought of villains in action movies. How their monologuing always got them in trouble. How if they would just shut up and kill the hero, they would win. She used to wonder why they fell into such a trap. Now she understood. She needed to say these things to Ellie. She needed to say them to her face because, if she didn’t, they would build up inside her to a crescendo that would tear her apart. So she would say them, and then she would kill Ellie. And then she and Maeve would find Oliver and finish the job, quickly. There was nothing she needed to say to him.

“Do you think she rang Mr. MacLeod?” Maeve asked. Lorna had been so lost in thought, she couldn’t understand the question. “Was it Ellie that got Mr. MacLeod to return to the house?” Maeve repeated.

“But Ellie must know that we killed Hollis. What if she’s found a way to call the police? She might go to the police. She might—”

“I think she cares more about the police not finding out what she did to Callum.”

“Yes, it was me. I used the passage we used to move Hollis’s body to sneak upstairs and downstairs. I pushed the body downstairs to get your attention and keep up the ruse for Oliver.”

“Or maybe he only told Ellie about it. She does have more money than us. The more I think about it, the more I’m convinced he was a double agent and she turned on him and . . .”

The conversation was drawing her attention away from Ellie, the words Lorna needed to say to her. She pressed her fingers against her forehead, trying to keep them in. She’d smacked her head harder on the ground in that utility room than she’d meant to and a headache had blossomed behind her eyes. But Maeve kept talking.

Lorna turned and placed her hand over Maeve’s mouth. “Maeve. I understand you want to figure this all out, but right now MacLeod and Caskie are both dead, so for the moment, I’d rather focus on the people we came here to kill. Okay?”

At the top of the stairs, Lorna stepped around an armchair and continued down the hall, but Maeve stopped. Lorna was afraid she’d been too crass and prepared to backpedal until Maeve asked, “Where are you going?”

“Yes, because I put her in her staged room. It was already unlocked, so I didn’t have to worry about Oliver seeing me with the keys out.”

Lorna returned to Maeve’s side. Stared at the chair angled awkwardly in the hall.

The doctors had said she should’ve succumbed to the cirrhosis by now. Had promised she would. But each day she persevered. The smell bothered Oliver most. She’d lost control of her bladder and bowel movements a few months ago, a side effect of one of her many prescription drugs. Adult diapers wouldn’t have been so bad, except most days she was too drunk to change them herself. He either had to let her sit in her own filth or clean her himself. So he bought boxes of latex gloves. Unable to carry her anymore, he laid the plastic sheet under her, changed the diaper, and wiped her down. Each day he told himself this was what children were meant to do. Parents changed nappies for years and then they got old, and the kid had to return the favor.

Except Oliver’s mum wasn’t that old. She was just an alcoholic. He was, too, but not like her. He’d never be as bad as her. He’d need a drink or two to get through the day, but he could get through the day. He found work, paid bills, took care of the house. She lay on her backside and watched day-time talk shows and Antiques Roadshow, her bedroom full of empty Carling cans and vodka bottles because he refused to take them out anymore. He’d buy them, but she had to clean. That was a woman’s responsibility after all, wasn’t it? He didn’t care that he always kicked them when he entered her room, or that the drips of stale beer stained the carpet, so rough and brittle now. No, that he could handle. All that bothered him was the smell because now he smelled of it too. It was his sister who hadn’t been afraid to tell him.

They sat across from one another at a Pizza Express behind Royal Festival Hall on the South Bank. He watched the feet of the people passing on the pavement outside and she watched him, her long brown hair flat-ironed to within an inch of its life, black liner lengthening her eyes so they resembled her father’s side of the family more than their shared line.

The waiter approached and Oliver ordered a beer, but his sister kicked him under the table. He asked for a Coke Zero instead.

“You’re starting to smell like her, too,” she said when the waiter had gone.

“It doesn’t matter. Not with the state the house is in. It’s in your clothes. Your hair. Your skin.”

“How do you know what state the house is in? Not like you’ve seen it in years.”

“So I can only assume it’s worse.” She reached across the table and took his hand. He kept his eyes fixed on the menu. “You have to get out of there, Oliver. Come stay with me.”

The couple next to them glanced their way then turned their heads. It was obvious what they were whispering about. Oliver lowered his voice.

“So will you.” From her Marc Jacobs bag, she pulled out a brochure. The letters of Wolfheather House Rehabilitation decorated the front in an obnoxious cursive font. It looked shoddy. Slapped together. “Visit this place. They’re having an open house. I’ll cover the cost. Please.”

The waiter returned with their drinks, and they ordered a pizza to share. Not another word was mentioned regarding their mother, but the brochure found its way into his coat pocket. He took the train and stopped at the pub for a few pints before going back to the house, where he found her passed out in her bed, bathed in the glow of the television. He pulled out the yellow paint sample from Homebase and compared it to the tint of her skin. Still ‘Happy Daze’ but moving closer to ‘Lemon Punch.’ He sighed and kicked a pile of cans, hoping the sound might wake her. It didn’t. His sister was wrong, though. He was a survivor, and he could survive her. So he went to the front room to watch television with a beer but before he got too involved in Top Gear reruns, he found the brochure in his pocket and dialed the number.

Oliver’s breath clouded in front of his face, the cold air biting his cheeks as he shoved the quivering key into the door and locked it. He took a step back. Waited to hear someone pounding on the other side as Ellie had. But there was nothing. The sounds of the house were locked away. Whatever horror was happening inside could no longer reach him. He staggered into the gravel car park, clutching the diary with both hands. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it. He only knew that he needed it. And that he needed to get it away from the house.

As he ran to the parked cars, his bad knee gave out and buckled underneath him. He fell hard, the gravel cutting his palms, the diary skidding out of his hands. He tried to stand but couldn’t put any weight on his leg and crawled behind the nearest car instead, a Vauxhall, and collected the diary along the way. He sat with his back against a taillight, looking out at the loch in front of him. One hand clutched the diary, the other massaged his knee. All of these cars were about as useful as his own body. He could risk a rest—his knee gave him no choice—but what then?

As the rain speckled his clothes, he reached into the pocket and pulled up the near-ruined brochure his sister had given him at the Pizza Express. That had been the last time he’d seen her, but he hadn’t thought it could be the very last time. Wolfheather House Rehabilitation. What a joke. Why hadn’t he bothered to google the place first? A simple google search, and he would have realized this was all a lie. Why did he always have to be so fucking lazy? He crumpled up the fake brochure and tossed it toward the loch. When he got out of here, he was going to find a real rehab. And his sister would pay for it because she’d feel so guilty about leading him into this mess in the first place. Even if she did find out about the whole embezzling thing, she would still take care of him after this, especially if he did what she wanted and left Mum to her own devices. He snorted. Maybe Wolfheather House had rehabilitated him after all. Now he just needed to get out.

He waited until the pain in his knee had finally faded to a dull ache and hoisted himself up, using the boot of the Vauxhall, gently testing out his knee. It wouldn’t take his full weight, but he wasn’t falling over. He turned on the spot, taking in the useless cars, the house. A rancid smell reached his nose, as though a deer lay dead somewhere in the gorse. The gray gravel drive blended into the gray cloud-covered sky. He remembered his walk down that drive, how sore his knee had been by the end. He would barely make it back to the main road, let alone all the way to the quay.

Then he noticed the tire tracks in the car park. In the mud formed by the rain, a set of tracks wrapped around the house. Oliver followed them, dragging his leg, past the dining room windows, around the side of the boarded-up east wing. He thought the tracks stopped at a dumpster behind the house. And then he saw the old Land Rover behind it. He had to stop himself from shouting when he saw the keys hanging from the ignition.

Oliver climbed into the car and tossed the diary on the passenger seat. It smelled of wet dog and lager, but to Oliver the Land Rover was the most beautiful thing in the world. It must’ve been Caskie’s or MacLeod’s, but either way it didn’t matter to him. A dead man’s car had become his salvation. As he adjusted the seat, he noticed a sheet of paper plastered to the windshield. Hollis’s handwriting, the ink wet and running from the rain. The jagged top of the page indicated it had been torn, maybe from the notebook Lorna had been looking for. And while Oliver couldn’t make out most of Hollis’s scrawl, he could tell it was a list of names, the one at the bottom double underlined.

Oliver turned the ignition key while still staring at the note, but when the engine started, the wipers immediately went into motion, and the paper was lost to the wind.

He managed to get the vehicle turned perpendicular to the dumpster, and that was when he saw Ellie, like a ghost appearing from nowhere. In the distance, he couldn’t make out the details of her face, but her shoulders were hunched forward, a bull ready to charge. But he had a car. She had nothing. Oliver gave her a two-fingered salute, then threw the car into gear.

The windshield shattered. A brick lay on the hood. And Ellie was running at the car. He covered his face as a second brick penetrated the driver’s side window, hitting him in the head. Shards of glass rained over him. Oliver lost the vision in his right eye. He tried to scramble into the passenger seat but had trouble getting over the gear box. His hand slipped on the diary. Ellie opened the door and clawed at his legs, trying to drag him out. He grabbed the diary and shoved it down his shirt, then stretched out an arm, fingers brushing against the passenger door handle. He almost had it when a sharp pain exploded in the back of his thigh.

Turning as far as he could, he saw the handle of the corkscrew protruding from his leg. Ellie ripped it out and stabbed his other leg. Oliver screamed and kicked, hitting her in the face with the heel of his boot, and felt something crunch. Ellie cupped her nose with an animalistic growl, giving him enough time to open the opposite car door and tumble to the ground, head first, like a child falling down a slide. The corkscrew remained in his leg and he instinctively pulled it out and dropped it in the mud.

He supported himself against the house as he tried to get to his feet, but as soon as he put weight on his left leg, it collapsed in pain. He tried the right. Even leaning was too much.

Ellie was coming for him, squeezing her thin body between the car and the dumpster. He found a rock on the ground and hurled it through the nearest window of the house. The glass shattered and he broke out the rest with his elbow and tried to hoist himself through. Hands grabbed him, helping, but when Lorna’s face appeared, the shock caused him to let go.

With a shout of pain, Oliver obeyed and forced weight onto his feet so he could push himself up through the high window. Something pulled him from below. Ellie had latched on and was dragging him down. He wanted to kick but couldn’t get his leg free.

Lorna tugged at his arms, regaining ground lost to Ellie. His chest rested on the sharp edge of the windowsill, but he was almost there. A little farther and his center of gravity would tip him into the house. Lorna removed one hand, reached into his shirt.

She removed the diary. Oliver met her eyes. He knew what she was about to do, but he didn’t want to believe it. She would help him. Someone always helped him.

The tire iron struck the back of Hollis’s head with a sickening thwack. Whatever he’d been about to say never left his lips. One moment his eyes had been hazy and pained. The next they were lifeless. Maeve hadn’t known the transition could be that quick. The tire iron trembled in Lorna’s hand as the rest of his body hesitated, a belated shutdown of the system, like a computer powering down. Then he fell face down in the mud. Maeve imagined him breathing mud into his lungs, then blinked and remembered that wouldn’t be a problem. Hollis wasn’t breathing.

Maeve wasn’t sure who had spoken, but she tasted rain on her tongue and realized it had been her.

“We have to get him back to the house,” she repeated. “Before Oliver and Ellie see him. Lorna? Lorna.”

Together they looked down at Hollis’s body. If only it could sink into the mud, Maeve had thought. Sink and disappear into the earth.

“We have to go through with the rest of it now, don’t we?” Lorna asked. “It can’t end here.”

“Right.” Lorna nodded and tucked the tire iron into her jacket. Then they dragged Hollis together, carrying him back to the house through the conservatory and into the study, where they were almost caught by Ellie. They’d had just enough time to hide behind the bar with Hollis’s body as Ellie came in and fixed herself a drink. They hid right beneath her among clean glasses and bottles of tonic water, lying perfectly still on the rubber mats, Hollis between them, as she mumbled to herself. Maeve thought then that they were done. That Ellie would come behind the bar for a drink, or even gaze over the side, and spot them there. That months of careful planning would be over in an instant. Ruined, as so many things were, by Hunt the Cunt. But then Ellie walked into the conservatory and out again, leaving the study, ignorant of their presence. They hadn’t been caught, and it had been that giddy exhalation that had pumped Maeve full of adrenaline and made her think they could do this after all.

Lorna, though, remained grim as they continued their journey upstairs. A reflection of the sullen, moody girl Maeve had first met decades ago. Maeve could see the doubts written across her face, and she had no words to make Lorna feel better. They positioned Hollis on the bed and shoved the bloody tire iron underneath it.

“Okay, okay,” Maeve had sighed, looking everywhere but at Hollis’s body. “What else do we have to do? I have to go fuck up the cars. You have to finish double-checking the other rooms. Caskie did a good job with Hollis’s. God, I feel like I’m actually there. I can’t believe that I saved that many pictures of Caldwell Street. Do you think I’ll be able to get them back?”

Lorna remained silent, staring at Hollis’s body. Maeve accidentally glanced at Hollis again and cringed, tasting vomit at the back of her throat.

“It was his fault as much as the others. All those drinks, remember? It’s like you said. Hollis said he’d keep an eye on Callum. He didn’t. Let’s finish up and get to bed. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“You’re right.” Lorna nodded. “This is what I wanted. This is what I planned for. What we planned for.” She squeezed Maeve’s hand. But as Maeve turned to lead Lorna from the room, ready to leave Hollis until they would “discover” him tomorrow, Lorna pulled away and returned to the body. Maeve thought she was praying over him until she reached into his jacket pocket and pulled something out: a small notebook. She started flipping through it.

Lorna paused, reading something. Her eyes went wide and she inhaled sharply. She tore out pages, ripped them in half. Then crossed to the room and hoisted the window.

Maeve ran across the room and grabbed Lorna’s wrist. “What are you doing? Lorna? Lorna!”

Lorna shuddered, her body relaxed, but she remained at the window, watching the pieces of paper disappearing into the darkness below.

“Just in case Oliver or Ellie decide to search the body. They don’t need to find Hollis’s notebook.”

“Sorry.” Lorna left the window open but drew the curtain. “I wasn’t thinking. I just . . . wasn’t thinking. Sorry.”

“And that’s why we both need to get some rest. Come on. Let’s go do what we need to do.” Maeve sighed and took one last look at the room before flicking off the light.

Once they’d killed Hollis, Maeve thought it would be easy. Dragging his body through the house, positioning it on the sofa upstairs. She had made it through these actions without being sick. But the violence of that act had been hidden by the night. Two quick hits with a tire iron, and it had been over.

This was not quick. This seemed to have no end. Ellie kept bringing the brick down and down and down. The brown eyes Maeve had once so admired were gone. So were his cheekbones, his chin. His teeth. No one would ever see his face again because there was no face to see.

A red puddle formed around what remained of his head, mixing with the mud. Ellie stood over him, the blood and bone-spattered brick in her hand, fresh stains on her skin and clothes. A pause hung over them all, a vacuum created now that Oliver—this force that even in his absence had dominated much of their lives—had been eradicated for good. Maeve looked at his hand, which twitched as the nerves received their final signals from a brain that no longer existed. How long they all stood there, each adjusting to the vacuum in her own way, she would never know, but when she made eye contact with Ellie, the moment ended like the crash of a wave against the shore. Lorna took Maeve’s hand.

Pp. 98–120

not to get sidetracked, but all this took me years, you know. Years of tracking down their old diaries, old witnesses, old friends. Squeezing the truth out in droplets from the five themselves. And I’ve put it together as best I could. I admit some details may be wrong, but the key facts, the important facts, can all be verified. If anyone would care to bother.

So let’s talk about that. Fucking. Party.

It should have been no different from any other party in the house’s history. Remembrances of raucous nights were so ingrained in the muscle memory of 215 Caldwell Street’s nicotine-stained walls that a pulsating heavy bass beat could sometimes be felt on quiet Sunday mornings. The house fed on empty glass bottles stashed in the mouth of its disconnected gas fireplace. It breathed clouds of cigarette and weed smoke. And, like the monster it was, it gorged on the numerous sweating bodies that lingered inside. Brief moments of tranquility could be found in the clear air of the back garden, but those who escaped would eventually return inside, driven by the need for another drink, another toke, another kiss.

It’s easy to picture that night—the most beautiful night of 1995. Earlier in the evening, every pub with garden seating had been packed to capacity, the chatter and laughter of hardworking folk, students and regulars, mingling in the air like prayers to heaven. But after 11:30, the last straggler headed home or to a club while tired bar staff cleared sticky glasses from the picnic tables, able to enjoy the night’s tranquility for the first time since they came on shift. If anyone was out in the garden of the Byeways pub, and it’s likely there was, they would’ve heard the music drifting up from Caldwell Street, the bass thumping away even at that distance.

The sounds within the house were exponentially greater. A mate of Oliver’s acted as DJ and kept the music flowing through a series of boom boxes hooked up to speakers the size of mini-fridges.

Maeve tripped over the cords as she maneuvered from room to room, looking for some place or some group where she could fit in. She’d been left wandering ever since Lorna declared her night done and disappeared to her bedroom. Maeve muttered half-heard “pardon me’s” as she walked through the crowd, the cheap white wine in her tumbler sloshing over her hand as she forced her way through the bodies that filled the kitchen. She glanced at the picked-over pizza boxes, but only a few gnawed pieces of crust remained. After an elbow to her breast, she stumbled into the back garden, where the music was muffled and the smoke less dense. She hadn’t realized how dry her eyes had become until they watered in the fresh air. She pictured her mascara running down her cheeks; not wanting anyone to mistake her watery eyes for tears, she made her way through the high grass to the old chair by the fence. The green plastic bent under her weight, the legs sinking into the soft ground of the marshy corner. She tried to lean back but the chair tipped, so she settled for leaning forward, her glass cupped in both hands as the skirt of her sweat-stained yellow dress rode up her thighs.

From her position, she could watch the party unfold through the windows of the house. People she didn’t recognize talked, smoked, and kissed. Backlit by the house lights, they looked like profiles in silhouette. A shatter of glass and burst of laughter made her wince.

“So much for your rules.”

Maeve fell back. Her shoulder scraped the rough wood of the garden fence, but she managed to stay upright and save her drink.

“Jesus, Callum. Who said you could sneak up on people like that?”

“Sorry.” He sat on the ground beside her. It must’ve been damp, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“I thought you were upstairs.”

“I was, but it’s hard to think straight in there.”

Maeve pretended not to know what he meant and sipped her warm wine, telling herself she didn’t mind the taste.

“I thought Ellie got you some of those strawberry things you like?”

She shrugged. “I had one. Other people took the rest.”

A new song came on, and those within the house cheered.

“Not what you expected, is it?” he asked.

She watched the people enjoying themselves so effortlessly. So unselfconsciously.

“It is,” she said. “It really is.”

Many seconds passed. In the course of an average moment on an average day, those seconds would’ve felt like the life of a fly, there and gone with hardly a passing thought. But this was not an average moment on an average day. Each second grew heavier than the last, weighing on each of them in different ways until even breathing became too painful.

“Maeve.” His voice cracked the silence. She kept her eyes on the windows, pretending she was in there and not out here.

“Maeve, I wanted to talk to you about something. Something that’s been on my mind. That’s been bothering me for a while.”

Oliver stepped in front of the window. Inside the house, Maeve had sweated terribly. Despite the amount of deodorant she’d sprayed on, her makeup ran and her armpits stank. But Oliver looked immune to the heat and smoke. His face glowed. Every time he smiled, Maeve hated herself.

“Maeve? Are you listening?”

She’d forgotten about Callum there on the ground, sinking in the mud. “I’m sorry.”

“Right, but what I was saying was—”

“No, I mean I’m sorry if you ever thought I was flirting with you or if you thought I was leading you on.” She fixed the strap of her bra. “You’re a nice guy and all, and a really good friend, but I don’t like you that way. I never have, and I don’t think I ever could.”

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. She wasn’t sure if she could ever look at him again. But she heard him stand up. Heard him brush off his jeans. Heard him say, “This had nothing to do with you, actually? But fine. Whatever. It’s fine.”

She stared at the ground as he left. Listened as his feet stamped across the garden. When she could raise her head, the house had already absorbed him, the anonymous throng of bodies making him one of their own. Oliver’s face, though, remained at the window, clear and bold. Brazen, as Lorna might say. He chatted up a girl while Maeve downed the rest of her warm wine and wondered how she might extract another bottle from within the house’s depths.

In a comfortable corner of the downstairs spare room, cluttered with the useless junk left by previous tenants, Hollis was having no such problems while he chatted with a few of the lads from the nearby technical college.

“No, see, I wasn’t arrested.” He waved a can of Carling as he spoke. “It was a security guard that spotted me. He thought it were a real fox and the bloke panicked. Saying he couldn’t believe someone would be so cruel to an animal. I tried to calm him down, but he was in such a state, I had to cut it down and show him it were fake. Well, taxidermied. And then I ended up admitting I’d nicked it from the science hall. And that’s what got me in front of the dean.”

“So they expelled you?” asked the lad with the buzz cut.

“That or get arrested, and I didn’t want a record. Worst part is that the guard was so embarrassed, he spread this rumor that I’d gone and gutted a living fox and was thrashing it around like some sociopath.”

“And you want to be a guard after all that?” Buzz Cut asked.

“Nah, mate. I want to be a real policeman. Help out kids like me that get the short end of the stick. ’Cause I was one of them right? I know how they think and . . . Callum. Hey, Callum!”

Hollis caught sight of his lanky housemate skulking past the door and waved him inside.

“Oi, this is my mate Callum. He lives here, but he’s not like that wanker out there.” He nodded toward the front room. “You had a drink yet?”

“I was actually going to bed.”

“But I haven’t seen you all night. Come on then. Have a seat. It’s rough out there with that lot, aye, but we’re all right in here, aren’t we?” He handed him a can of Strongbow. “Was keeping that for you from the rest of the vultures out there.”

“Cheers.” Callum took a seat with the unopened can, looking unsure what to do next.

“Here, mate. Let me help you with that.” Hollis pulled the tab for him, then brought out a bottle of Smirnoff. “Add a bit of this. Give it a little kick.” He poured a healthy shot into the can.

Callum hesitated and took a small, tentative sip. Then another. Then he chugged the rest while the room cheered. Hollis slapped him on the back.

“There you go! Told you he was tops, didn’t I?”

Now that Callum seemed relaxed, Hollis handed him another can, and Callum drank that, too. They sat in the room swapping stories, and though Callum said very little, to Hollis he seemed content to sit there and absorb the atmosphere. He even smiled once or twice. When they ran out of alcohol in the spare room, they migrated to the kitchen, where, with their muscle, they secured a prime spot near the main drinks station. Whatever Hollis offered, Callum drank. When someone passed a joint around, Callum smoked that, too, even though in all the months they’d been living together, Callum had never shown any interest in marijuana.

When Buzz Cut went to relieve himself in the back garden, Callum wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and tried to speak. Each word seemed forced. Despite all the drinks, he hadn’t consumed enough social lubricant to speak plainly.

“Hollis, I need to talk to you about . . . about the thing.”

“The thing?” Hollis’s brain worked slowly through the alcohol, trying to figure out what Callum was referencing.

“You know. The thing. The . . . exams. And everything.” Callum shook his head, the unspoken words forming a backlog in his throat. Although unnecessary in the noise of the party, Hollis dropped his voice.

“Not really the time for it, mate.”

Callum took a swig of his beer. “What did your family say when you were expelled?”

“To be honest, they weren’t that surprised.”

“And you were able to get into another uni?”

“Yeah, but we didn’t, uhm, exactly broadcast why I left Exeter. I weren’t officially expelled, like I told them. Just asked not to return . . . But look.” He clamped a hand on Callum’s shoulder. “No one’s going to find out, okay? And it’s not like you have to keep doing it. New year, new start this September, eh?”

Callum nodded, then continued to do so, like a bobble-headed dog, until he belched. It might have been the shoddy lighting, but he seemed to turn a bit green and left the beer on the counter, slipping out of the kitchen and into the crowd. Hollis watched him disappear, wondering if he should follow, then became distracted when Buzz Cut announced the start of an American-style drinking game in the back garden, shattering the fragile tranquility that had once existed there.

One floor up, the noises from below were somewhat muted. Lorna’s room faced the front of the house, so she could not see the shenanigans taking place in the back garden. With her door locked, she knew little of what was going on downstairs either. She could only guess from the different noises and vibrations coming up through her floor. She sat crosslegged on her narrow bed in her pajamas with an open copy of Truffaut’s Hitchcock in her lap. With the small electric kettle she kept in her room, she’d made herself a nice hot cup of tea and had a pack of Fox’s custard creams open on the desk beside her. But instead of reading her book, drinking her tea, and eating her biscuits, her unfocused eyes stared at the same page as she tapped her bookmark into the spine.

She had tried tonight. She really had. This was to be the final party in Caldwell Street, and she’d wanted to make a go of it. Try to relax. Try to make friends. And it had started all right. Two of the girls from her film studies class had dropped by early, right at the start, bringing a bottle of wine and some nibbles for them to share, and the three of them had sat on the sofa by the front window with Maeve and drunk and chatted as more and more people arrived. It became clear within the second hour that the three guests per person rule wouldn’t hold, but she, her friends, and Maeve had staked their spot, chatted in their little bubble, and Lorna—to her surprise —found herself enjoying their company even as the music and smoke intensified and the bodies multiplied around them.

But then her classmates had to leave. She went to the door to see them out, and when she turned back their spot on the sofa had already been reclaimed by Oliver and a ginger girl she didn’t recognize, pawing each other and rubbing noses as Maeve sat on the opposite end trying to ignore them. Lorna wanted to hold onto that thin thread of enjoyment she had experienced earlier, so she and Maeve wandered between groups, trying to find a home within their home, but Lorna only grew more uncomfortable—and, though she didn’t want to say it, anxious. Other than her housemates, she knew no one else here. She didn’t like weed or cigarettes, and already felt sick from drinking. The music became too loud, and in every place she tried to stand, she felt awkward and in the way.

Reassuring herself that she’d given it her best shot, half an hour after her classmates left, she excused herself from Maeve’s company and went upstairs, bypassing a couple smacking on the stairs and locking herself in her room. But even though she’d removed herself from the throng downstairs, invisible tendrils of the music’s beating bass leached up through the floor, scraping against her skin as if trying to claw their way inside, the whole party an infection seeking a way into her body. On the outside, she knew she looked calm, tap-tap-tapping her bookmark, but on the inside a nervous storm raged.

A loud thump from Callum’s room made her spill tea over her lap.

“Shit!”

The tea was lukewarm, but it seeped into her thin pajamas. She looked frantically for a towel or napkin, but there was nothing save her bedsheets. The single loud thump multiplied into a series of rhythmic ones.

“Glad someone’s having a good time.”

She set her mug on the edge of the desk, jabbed the bookmark into Hitchcock and gathered her strength for what she needed to do next. The wet tea chilled her, but with her hand on the doorknob she hesitated. Her toes curled into the carpet. Would she be able to hold in her rage, or would something snap? Would she unleash a torrent of hate and vitriol on all those in the house, a tirade she knew would only result in her ridicule? Or would she be able to hold it together? Could she grab a towel from the bathroom and return to her sanctuary unscathed?

The thumping in Callum’s room continued. Tea dripped into her knickers. Holding her breath, Lorna opened the door, avoided eye contact with anyone who might’ve been in the hall, and took the two steps into the bathroom. She exhaled.

Then took a step back.

Callum, on his knees, was vomiting into the toilet. Whatever he had drunk came pouring out of him, splashing into the bowl like someone dumping a pot of soup. Her feet warmed the cold tile as she stood there, unsure of what to do. Callum, looking pale and worn, rested his head on the toilet seat, arms hanging slack at his sides.

Lorna took a step forward, grabbed the nearest towel off the rack, and retreated to her bedroom.

In Callum’s room, the thumping couple laughed as she changed pajamas and wiped herself off. She opened her window, tossed the remainder of the cold tea into the hedges below, and boiled water for a fresh cup. She didn’t leave the room for the rest of the night, not until she heard the shouting the next morning. But that came later.

As Lorna boiled water, Ellie held court in the front room, lounging in the brown armchair. Someone kept topping up her glass with nice cold white wine. All of her rules had been broken, except one—that the party would end at 2:30 a.m. According to her watch, it was 2:25, and the party looked like it wouldn’t be over any time soon. Ellie found she didn’t mind. She was having a splendid time. Everyone was. The music was good and people were dancing. Someone filled her glass again, and she thanked the person but couldn’t remember his name. Or hers. It was hard to tell. The hair was short and her vision had gone a bit blurry, but it didn’t matter. This party had become a celebration, and she didn’t want it to end.

Then she saw Maeve alone, leaning against the closet under the stairs, an empty glass dangling from the fingers of her lowered arm. Her hair had given in to the humidity and frizzed in all directions like she had been electrocuted, and her makeup, which Ellie had so painstakingly applied, was smeared. A wine stain marred the hem of her yellow dress—a dress that was really a bit too small and cut into the flesh around her arms. No one else seemed to notice her, yet Ellie felt Maeve’s misery spreading like the wine stain, touching everyone who passed. Ellie couldn’t bear it any longer.

“Maeve. Maeve!” She waved her over. “Poppet, your glass is empty. What’ve you been drinking? Never mind. You must try this wine.” She tapped her anonymous caretaker on the elbow. “Be a dear, would you, and fill my friend’s glass? Cheers! You’re ever so kind.”

Maeve stood awkwardly before Ellie as both their glasses were filled.

“Here. Sit here.” Ellie patted the armrest.

Maeve leaned against the edge, staring into her drink. “I really shouldn’t. The wine’s already going to my head.”

“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Ellie laughed. “Come on. Let’s drink together.”

They did.

“Now tell me. What’s got you in the doldrums?”

Maeve looked at the people around them, the ones with whom Ellie had been chatting, the ones who were listening now.

“Give us some privacy, please. Housemates only!” Ellie shooed them away. “Go on then. You know you can tell me anything.”

“I’m tired. That’s all. It’s been a long night.” Maeve took another long sip of wine.

“You’re not thinking of going to bed, are you? Oh, don’t be like Lorna, please. You know, I didn’t want to say this, but it is going to be so much nicer without her here next autumn, isn’t it? She’s such a wet blanket when it comes to these things.”

“It has been a nice party. It has. I . . .”

Ellie watched Maeve’s gaze as she glanced across the room at Oliver flirting with a slutty ginger whose breasts threatened to escape her top.

“You know,” Ellie said, “you just have to make him notice you, that’s all.”

“We’ve lived together almost a year.”

“Nine months.”

“That’s almost a year. And if he hasn’t noticed me by now . . .” Maeve let her sentence trail off and finished her glass. Ellie poured her a refill.

“Callum’s noticed you.”

“God! Could everyone shut up about Callum? I don’t like him. He’s tall and weird-looking and always has this stupid look on his face like someone’s kicked his dog.”

“Does he have a dog?”

“I don’t know! And I don’t care. I just want this year to be over so he can move out and I never have to see him again. He’s so fucking annoying.”

“Ellie.”

Callum towered behind Maeve, his face cast in shadow. Maeve gasped and ran out of the room while Ellie tried not to laugh. His face remained neutral.

“Yes? What is it?” she asked.

“I was wondering if I could crash in your room tonight? There’s these people in mine, and I can’t shift them, so I was hoping . . .”

“Oh, Callum. You should’ve locked your door like the rest of us.”

His hands turned to fists. “My door doesn’t lock. I’ve said that almost every single day since we moved in, and I say it every single time you lot say you want to have a party. Don’t you remember anything?”

Ellie despised aggression to begin with, but aggression on Callum looked unnatural.

“Sorry.” She sipped her drink to avoid eye contact.

“So can I crash there or not?”

“Have you asked Hollis or Oliver?”

“Of course I did. You think I’d come to you first? But they’re planning on having some girls spend the night.” Ellie didn’t like him like this. Had Callum always been an angry drunk? Had she ever even seen him drunk? She chewed on her lip and pictured the sanctity of her room spoiled by this drunken, angry, sweating boy.

“I really don’t know.”

“Seriously? You owe me, Ellie.”

“Look, I’m not sure where my key is right now. I hid it somewhere to keep it safe, but when I find it—”

“Can you look for it now, please?”

She crossed her legs. “No, actually. I can’t. I’m enjoying myself. When I feel like getting up, which means losing this chair, I’ll look for it and let you in. All right?”

Callum shook his head, then swayed as if the motion made him ill. “You’d rather not lose a chair than help out a friend?”

“It’s not—”

“Nope. I get it. I finally get it. You’re only nice when you want something. Lorna’s tried telling me that for months, but I wanted . . .” He shook his head and laughed. Then held up his hands and walked away, disappearing into the party. Ellie leaned back in the chair and waved her new friends back over. They filled her glass and they talked and they laughed and Ellie thought briefly of Callum and wondered what he would do if she continued to refuse his request. Then she drank more wine and let the thought float away.

Across the room on the sofa whose base was now so broken the cushions sank almost all the way to the floor, Oliver attempted to get into the ginger girl’s knickers. Other than being ginger she was exactly his type: thin but big-chested, clear skin, someone he hadn’t known before tonight. She was also, as he was learning, a terrible cock tease. Each time he dove in for a kiss, she turned her head or put her glass to her mouth. But then she’d place her hand on his thigh and squeeze. He’d groan, a little louder than needed, and try to kiss her again. Several times, he strongly indicated they should go upstairs to his quiet, private bedroom, but she wouldn’t budge, even though the way she sat on his lap made him want to drag her upstairs like a Stone Age caveman. He thought if maybe he could remember her name, it might help to move things along.

Despite all this, he knew the party was a success. As he’d suspected, it hadn’t taken much for Ellie to break her rules, and the rest, like the sheep they were, went along with it. With Lorna, the chief no-fun instigator, nowhere to be seen, he knew that meant she’d packed it in and would not be bothering them for the rest of the night. He’d managed to capture the corner of the ginger’s mouth with his own when the music cut out, the sudden silence then replaced with a slow song. He rolled his eyes at first, but the ginger seemed to be into it, rolling her body in rhythm against his, lowering her head to his neck where she licked the sweat from his skin. He got lost in her touch. Until she burst out laughing. Anger filled him like a flash flood and he was about to shove her off when he realized she wasn’t laughing at him.

“What is she doing?” the ginger whispered.

Maeve—a very, very drunk Maeve—danced by herself in the center of the front room, doing what he thought she thought were seductive moves. A crowd gathered as she ran her arms over her body, the dress that made her look like an overstuffed banana. The fabric was riding up her crotch and sticking there, thanks to sweat and static electricity. When her hand reached her mouth and she sucked on a finger, Oliver smothered his laugh. He looked across the room at Ellie, and they shared a smile. They knew someone should stop her before she really embarrassed herself, but neither of them moved.

Maeve swayed as she undid the top button of her dress. Someone in the crowd shouted, “Oh shit!” and everyone laughed, but Maeve didn’t notice. She undid the second button and someone else whistled.

Someone really, really needed to stop her.

Oliver held the ginger tighter on his lap. She whispered something in his ear that he didn’t remember, but it made him laugh. The third button came undone and then the fourth, and Maeve started to work her shoulder free from the dress. People laughed harder when it was clear her fat arm got trapped in the sleeve.

Maeve let her stuck arm hang and undid the next button with her other hand, exposing the plain tan bra underneath. She looked at Oliver then as if he were the only one in the room, and he leaned back against the sofa with his arms over his head and the ginger nestled against his side. Maeve’s strip halted as she attempted to remove her other arm, which had also become stuck. The entire party, having sniffed desperation like hounds on a fox hunt, was in the room now, excited to see what would happen next.

“What’s going on?”

Callum burst through the crowd, hesitated, then stepped in front of Maeve to shield her.

“Maeve, stop. Stop. Come on. Put your clothes on,” he whispered, trying to help her button her dress as her clumsy fingers fought to stop him.

“Aw, Callum.” Oliver grinned. “I was enjoying the show!”

Callum glared but kept talking to Maeve. “Come on. That’s enough now.”

“But I want to be noticed,” she slurred. “I want to be noticed!”

“Trust me. Everyone noticed. Let’s get you to bed.”

“No!” Maeve slapped him across the face. The crowd whooped and cheered. Ellie could no longer keep it together and laughed like a hyena.

“I don’t want to go to bed. I’m at a party, and I want to have fun!” She raised her arms above her head and jumped, her tits popping out of the dress Callum had tried to close. The crowd cheered.

“Leave her be, Tripod.” Oliver pushed himself up, ready to intervene. “She’s having a good time, aren’t you, Maeve?”

Callum shoved him away. Oliver staggered back, then punched Callum in the eye. The crowd gasped. Fists raised, Oliver turned to the ginger and smiled. He looked back at Callum. Callum punched him square in the jaw, sending him back onto the couch.

Fight, fight, fight . . . the crowd chanted.

With a growl, Oliver launched himself at Callum. The two little boys—for that was all they were at this point—collided and tumbled in a drunken heap. Both got their punches in as they rolled on the floor. Maeve, in an attempt to dodge the melee, smacked the back of her head against the mantel, toppling the empty bottles that had been left there. Indistinct whoops and cheers echoed from the crowd until Hollis muscled his way through.

“Oi. Oi! Break it up. Break it up!”

With help from Buzz Cut, Hollis split them apart. Oliver had a bloody lip. A bruise formed around Callum’s eye. Maeve sat in front of the fireplace, dress undone and skirt riding up to expose her knickers. Hollis tried to ask what happened, but Callum shoved him away.

“You’re all horrible people, you know that? You’re . . . you’re not nice and you fucking deserve each other.” Callum grabbed a bottle of whiskey out of a bystander’s hand and disappeared.

No one saw him for the rest of the night. Or so they said.

For years and years that’s the story they clung to.

But they lied. You know they lied. And for years and years, I picked those lies apart until I finally got to the truth. They had not seen who had killed him, that was true, but they knew it hadn’t been an accident. They knew it had been one of them.

But they didn’t know what to do about it. This was so much worse than cheating on an exam, and they knew that, too. That morning, as they stood around their housemate—heads like cotton wool and stomachs hollow while the late morning sun inched its way into the room, heating the spilled cups, empty boxes of wine, Pringles cans, and plastic ashtrays filled with ashes and butts—they saw their futures fading in front of their eyes.

Unable to bear the sight any longer, though they bore it longer than any decent person would have, they moved to the kitchen and poured each other warm juice and munched on leftover crisps. They had no answer but decided it would be best if they talked about this before they rang anyone. They were all there last night, and they all remembered what happened. Didn’t they?

And someone said it wasn’t their fault, and someone else agreed, but, just in case, shouldn’t they be absolutely certain no one would put the blame on them? After all, Hollis had given him the drinks and Maeve had insulted and slapped him and Lorna had ignored him and Oliver had fought him and Ellie had forgotten him. They didn’t want anyone blamed for what was clearly an accident. Because it was an accident. It was an accident after they put the phone back on the hook and threw out the broken lamp and burned the notebook Callum had kept as a record of what exams he had sold and to whom he had sold them. It was nothing more than an accident. A party gone wrong.

So they told their story to one another. To ensure it made sense, they told it many times. Until it became their truth. They remembered that after the guests had left but before they had gone to bed, Callum had stormed out of the house. They never saw him again until this morning.

Then they called an ambulance. They cried and told the police that they would have checked on Callum if they had known he was there. And the police told them it was all right, there was nothing they could have done, and carted Callum away in a black plastic bag but left the pink sofa, which to them smelled of rot. They returned to their rooms and studied for their exams and waited for Callum’s parents to come for his things. They made sure to express their condolences but were more grateful that his belongings, especially the camera, were gone.

But he wasn’t gone. Not entirely. The smell of his body became their contribution to the house’s growing inventory. Like the second broken microwave, it would never be removed, not until the fire years later.

All it would have taken was for one of them to tell the truth, just one, and their story would have fallen to pieces. But they were all so scared of what would happen to them if the truth came out. They’d be labeled as liars and cheaters. Disappointments. The truth was, they never told the truth because they were glad that he had died. Glad that their secrets were safe. Glad that they didn’t have to face the consequences of their mistakes. Life was easier for them with Callum dead, so they didn’t fear whoever had done it. They thanked them, and though they never spoke of Callum, even to the ones they loved, they never really forgot him.

But they never remembered me. Of course, why should they? I was part of Callum’s life, so to them, I was nothing.