Алекс Баркли - I Confess

‘But,’ said Clare, ‘I’m a...’ She trailed off under the heat of Laura’s glare.

Johnny was standing, paralysed, in the middle of the room. ‘She’s going to be here any second. What’ll I do? What the fuck will I do? Jesus Christ. What the fuck does she want? Like, it’s one in the morning—’

‘Hurry the fuck out to her, either way,’ said Murph, ‘or it’ll be even weirder. She’ll be in on top of us.’

‘It’s fine,’ said Johnny, batting a hand at him. ‘The door’s locked. I have to know what I’m saying—’

‘You can’t leave her standing out there in the rain,’ said Clare.

‘Shut the fuck up!’ said Johnny, wild-eyed again. Glances fired around the room between the others.

Laura stood up. ‘I’ll go.’

‘And have the Sergeant all to yourself?’ said Johnny.

Laura raised her hands. ‘Well, I’m hardly going to do anything now, am I?’ She tilted her head towards Clare. Clare crossed her legs, angling her body away from her.

‘Look — I’m in now,’ said Laura. ‘I might as well help you out on this. I am — after all — a sergeant’s daughter. And they look after their own.’

Johnny looked at Murph and Patrick.

Patrick nodded. ‘It’s not a bad idea.’

‘Fair play,’ said Murph.

‘OK,’ said Johnny. ‘Go. Thanks. We’ll come up with something. Just keep her in the hall as long as you can.’ He paused. ‘Act normal.’

‘Title of your sex tape,’ said Murph.

Everyone broke into nervous laughter.

‘Go,’ said Johnny.

She started to walk past him.

‘Cut to: Laura confesses,’ said Murph.

They laughed again. The doorknob started to rattle back and forth. ‘Jesus, it sounds like great craic altogether in there!’

Murph pointed towards it, hissing at Johnny. ‘The fucking key!’

‘Shit,’ mouthed Johnny. ‘Val — Jesus — you were quick!’ he said, lunging for it, fumbling with it. ‘Hold on!’ He opened the door.

‘Is it a lock-in altogether?’ said Val, walking in. Everyone laughed.

She stood between Johnny and Murph, filling the space between them — almost as tall as them, broad-shouldered with thick sandy hair pulled into a low ponytail.

‘It’s not a lock-in until a guard’s got a drink in his hand,’ said Murph. ‘Her hand. A sergeant. What are you having?’

‘I won’t, no,’ said Val.

‘You will,’ said Murph.

‘Oh, go on, so — a small Jameson.’ She turned to Johnny. ‘Front door wide open, honesty bar locked. Who are these savages that you have to secure them?’

‘There’s a problem with the draw on the fire,’ said Johnny, ‘and with the wind tonight, the door was rattling.’

Val looked at the door. ‘Solid mahogany? I’d get my money back.’ She looked at everyone. ‘Don’t mind the face,’ she said, pointing to it. ‘I’m a unicorn, in case you’re wondering.’ Her face was pink with glitter sprinkled across the sides and diamantés glued beside her eyes. ‘The youngest was at a party earlier and, sure, we all got roped in.’ She unzipped her jacket.

‘So,’ said Johnny. ‘These savages... we were in school together. I mean... apart from me. It’s... Helen’s birthday.’ He looked around the room. ‘Oh.’ He paused. ‘Helen’s in bed, of course.’

Val shot him a bemused look.

‘So,’ said Johnny, ‘that’s Patrick by the fire, Laura in the corner, Clare... and this eejit.’ He tilted his head towards Murph.

‘The eejit with the drink,’ said Murph, handing it to Val. ‘Isn’t it some night?’

‘Shocking,’ said Val.

‘What’s brought you out in it?’ said Murph.

‘I’m on my way to pick my son up from town and I was swinging by to have a word with Edie... or Johnny.’ She looked around the room. Murph followed her gaze to Laura — her hair was flat against her scalp and there were watery trails of black mascara down her face and blotches of eyeshadow in the sockets. Opposite her, Clare was red-cheeked and red-nosed, her dark hair frizzy, dark smudges under her eyes. She was still wearing her rain boots.

‘I had the girls in an awful state,’ said Murph in a boom that drew everyone his way. ‘With a rousing rendition of that song about the little boy — heartbreaking. Patrick’s up next. “Green Fields of France”.’

Patrick stood up. He smiled. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘But the girls haven’t cried all their make-up off yet,’ said Murph.

Patrick gestured towards the fire and looked at Val. ‘Murph and I were about to go out for logs.’

Murph shook his head. ‘I fucking hate the sober people.’

‘Well, I hope I’m not breaking up the party,’ said Val.

‘Not at all,’ said Murph. ‘Patrick’s pulling a Langer on the whole thing.’

Everyone looked at him.

‘Langer!’ said Murph, gesturing towards Patrick. ‘I was in New York — God, years back — and I looked Patrick up and we were out in some Irish bar in Manhattan ’til all hours, and one of Patrick’s mates arrives in — Langer. I shit you not. That’s how he introduces himself. Hand out — “Langer”. And I basically told him langer was Cork for dick. And he wasn’t a bit happy with that. Bit of a dry shite, no offence. What was his name? Langersomething. Langer... Langerwell! That was it. Because, of course, I told him that was like being very good at being a dick, and, anyway, the point is, he was so pissed off with the whole thing, that when I tried to get him to give us a song later, he gets up, and walks out. Literally — stands up, leaves, doesn’t say a word.’

Everyone looked at Patrick. ‘At least I explained myself,’ he said. ‘My job is to keep the fire going.’

Murph nodded. ‘I’ll be on TripAdvisor first thing,’ he said. ‘The Inn at Pilgrim Point: one star. Sub-zero stars.’

‘And I was thinking,’ said Val, ‘how are you not all passed out in here? The heat.’

Murph looked at Patrick. ‘Come on, so, langer.’ He squeezed past Val and walked out the door. Patrick followed him and closed it behind him.

Murph raised his arm, smelled his armpit, and recoiled. ‘Jesus. She could use that as evidence. “The smell of fear was the first thing I noticed on entering the premises.”’

Patrick stifled a laugh.

‘Fuck, though,’ said Murph. ‘That was a great move.’

Patrick bowed.

‘Now, what are we doing here, exactly?’

‘Well,’ said Patrick, ‘we don’t know why she’s here—’

‘You’re the one who hopped up—’

‘She was hardly going to explain herself over the singing, either way.’

Murph pursed his lips. ‘The deafening silence at the end would have given her a moment.’

‘My point is — she could be here because her dog’s gone missing and she wants to search the grounds—’

‘Oh,’ said Murph. ‘Shit.’

‘Or she might need to borrow tools or timber because the storm’s blown something down,’ said Patrick.

‘She’d have sent the husband over for that,’ said Murph. ‘A night like tonight. Would you be arsed?’ He paused. ‘I didn’t even notice where all Terry’s shit is — did you? Could she have spotted his van? No. She wouldn’t have, would she? She’s coming from the other direction. But who knows?’

‘And what was your sing-song plan?’ said Patrick.

‘I swear to God I thought a few bars of “Green Fields of France” from you would have been the quickest way to get rid of her.’ He paused. ‘Jesus — you know what we could do? Have Val be the one to find the body.’

Patrick looked at him.

‘I’m serious,’ said Murph. ‘If we move the fucker... Terry, his body, Jesus it’s fucked up... out by her car where she can’t miss it and she’ll know it wasn’t there when she arrived... well, we’ll all have been inside — with a guard! — when it all went down. It’ll be like what Colm didn’t do for Kevin Crossan. We could literally have a Sergeant as our alibi.’