Tana French - The Secret Place

‘Barrister. Maybe. I don’t know; I’m only thinking about it.’

‘You’ve got the arguing skills for it, anyway. Prosecution or defence?’

‘I thought maybe defence.’

‘How come?’

Still all pleasant and intrigued, but Holly can feel the tiny chill: he doesn’t like that. She shrugs. ‘Just sounds interesting. Is this minced enough?’

Holly’s been trying to think of a time when her dad decided she shouldn’t do something and she ended up doing it anyway, or the other way around. Boarding is the only one she could come up with. Sometimes he says no flat out; more often, it just ends up not happening. Sometimes Holly even winds up, she’s not sure how, thinking he’s right. She wasn’t actually planning to tell him about the law thing, but unless you concentrate you end up telling Dad stuff.

‘Looks good to me,’ Dad says. ‘In here.’ Holly goes over to him and scrapes the garlic into the casserole dish. ‘And chop that leek for me. Why defence?’

Holly takes the leek back to her stool. ‘Because. There’s like hundreds of people on the prosecution side.’

Dad waits for more, eyebrow up, inquiring, until she shrugs. ‘Just… I don’t know. Detectives, and uniforms, and the Technical Bureau, and the prosecutors. The defence just has the person whose actual life it is, and his lawyer.’

‘Hm,’ says Dad, examining the potato chunks. Holly can feel him being careful, looking over his answer from every angle. ‘You know, sweetheart, it’s not actually as unfair as it looks. If anything, the system’s weighted towards the defence. The prosecution has to build a whole case that stands up beyond a reasonable doubt; the defence only has to build that one doubt. I can swear to you, hand on heart, there’s a lot more guilty people acquitted than innocent ones in jail.’

Which isn’t what Holly means, at all. She’s not sure whether Dad not getting it is irritating or a relief. ‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘Probably.’

Dad throws the potatoes into the casserole dish. He says, ‘It’s a good impulse. Just take your time; don’t get fixed on a plan till you’re a hundred per cent definite. Yeah?’

Holly says, ‘How come you don’t want me to do defence?’

‘I’d be only delighted. That’s where the money is; you can keep me in the style to which I wish to become accustomed.’

He’s slipping away, the nonstick glint coming into his eyes. ‘Dad. I’m asking .’

‘Defence lawyers hate me. I thought you were going to do your hating me around about now, get it out of your system, and by the time you were twenty or so we’d get on great again. I didn’t think you’d be just getting started.’ Dad heads for the fridge and starts rummaging. ‘Your mother said to put in carrots. How many do you figure we need?’

‘ Dad. ’

Dad leans back against the fridge, watching Holly. ‘Let me ask you this,’ he says. ‘A client shows up at your office, wanting you to defend him. He’s been arrested – and we’re not talking littering here; we’re talking something way out on the other side of bad. The more you talk to him, the more you’re positive he’s guilty as hell. But he’s got money, and your kid needs braces and school fees. What do you do?’

Holly shrugs. ‘I figure it out then.’

She doesn’t know how to tell her dad, only half of her even wants to tell her dad, that that’s the whole point. Everything the prosecutors have, all the backup, the system, the safe certainty that they’re the good guys: that feels lazy, feels sticky-slimy as cowardice. Holly wants to be the one out on her own, working out for herself what’s right and what’s wrong this time. She wants to be the one coming up with fast zigzag ways to get each story the right ending. That feels clean; that feels like courage.

‘That’s one way to do it.’ Dad pulls out a bag of carrots. ‘One? Two?’

‘Put two.’ He has the recipe right there; he doesn’t need to ask.

‘How about your mates? Any of them thinking of law?’

A zap of irritation stiffens Holly’s legs. ‘No. I actually can think all by myself. Isn’t that amazing?’

Dad grins and heads back to the counter. On his way past he lays a hand on Holly’s head, warm and just the right strength. He’s relented, or decided to act like it. He says, ‘You’ll make a good barrister, if that’s what you decide on. Either side of the courtroom.’ He runs his hand down her hair and goes to work on the carrots. ‘Don’t sweat it, chickadee. You’ll make the right call.’

The conversation’s over. All his careful probing and all his deep serious speeches, and she slipped right past without him laying a finger on what she’s actually thinking. Holly feels a quick prickle of triumph and shame. She chops harder.

Dad says, ‘So what do your mates have in mind?’

‘Julia’s going to do journalism. Becca’s not sure. Selena wants to go to art school.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem. Her stuff’s good. I meant to ask you: is she doing OK these days?’

Holly looks up, but he’s peeling a carrot and glancing out of the window to see if Mum’s on her way. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Just wondering. The last few times you’ve had her round, she seemed a little… spacy, is that the word I’m looking for?’

‘She’s like that. You just have to get to know her.’

‘I’ve known her a good while now. She didn’t use to be this spacy. Anything been on her mind?’

Holly shrugs. ‘Just normal stuff. School. Whatever.’

Dad waits, but Holly knows he’s not done. She dumps the bits of leek into the casserole dish. ‘What’ll I do now?’

‘Here.’ He throws her an onion. ‘I know you and your mates know Selena inside out, but sometimes those are the last people to cop that something’s wrong. A lot of problems can show up around your age – depression, whatever we’re supposed to call manic depression these days, schizophrenia. I’m not saying Selena’s got any of those’ – his hand going up, as Holly’s mouth opens – ‘but if something’s up with her, even something minor, now’s the time to get it sorted.’

The balls of Holly’s feet are digging into the floor tiles. ‘Selena’s not schizophrenic . She daydreams . Just because she’s not some stupid cliché teenager who goes around screaming about Jedward all the time doesn’t mean she’s abnormal .’

Dad’s eyes are very blue and very level. It’s the levelness that has Holly’s heart banging in her throat. He thinks this is serious.

He says, ‘You know me better than that, sweetheart. I’m not saying she has to be Little Miss Perky Cheerleader. I’m just saying she seems a lot less on the ball than she did this time last year. And if she’s got a problem and it doesn’t get treated fast, it could do a pretty serious number on her life. Yous are going to be heading out into the big wide world before you know it. You don’t want to be running around out there with an untreated mental illness. That’s how lives end up banjaxed.’

Holly feels a new kind of real all around her, pressing in. It squeezes her chest, makes it hard to breathe.

She says, ‘Selena’s fine . All she needs is for people to leave her alone and quit annoying her. OK? Can you please do that?’

After a moment Dad says, ‘Fair enough. Like I said, you know her better than I do, and I know yous lot take good care of each other. Just keep an eye on her. That’s all I’m saying.’

A key rattling in the front door, impatient, and then a rush of cool rain-flavoured air. ‘Frank? Holly?’

‘Hi,’ Holly and Dad call.

The door slams and Mum blows into the kitchen. ‘My God ,’ she says, flopping back against the wall. Her fair hair is coming out of its bun and she looks different, flushed and loosened, not like cool good-posture Mum at all. ‘That was strange .’