Posse (7 page)

‘There's no point in making a fuss
now
!' she shout-whispers. She puts her hand on my shoulder and lowers her voice again. ‘
Is
there?'

It's what Clare wants, and it's definitely what Jo wants, so I agree not to do anything till morning. I'm not at ease with this decision, but I can't seem to reach another one, so I curl up on my sleeping bag. I feel like hell. I also need to wee really badly, but I don't want to get up again. All I can do is lie here.

I know that this is somehow my fault, that I've led Clare or Bevan or both of them into this catastrophe. I love Clare – she's my best friend. It hurts me to see her hurt. My
globus
has gone into overdrive, sitting on my chest like a massive boulder. I stay awake for what feels like hours, wondering what's happened to Clare, knowing damn well that I should be finding out and not lying here worrying.

I
WAKE EARLY
,
BUT
C
LARE
is already gone. I don't think she's disappeared again. I think she's probably taken herself to the teachers, which is a relief. I wasn't looking forward to dragging her there.

In the half-light I see that the rest of the posse is asleep on the floor; everyone except Jo. She must be with Clare. Thank God she's come to her senses and taken the initiative. Her attitude last night was downright suspicious.

I get up and go to the shower block to wee and
wash my face. Then I head over to the mess hall. I imagine that's where she'll be, bawling her eyes out with teachers huddled around her. Pouring out her horrible story, whose details I don't even know yet. What I do know is that this should all have been done last night.

I walk into the mess hall and see Clare sitting at a table with a group of teachers – Mrs Kerr, Mrs Ricci, Miss Howell, Miss Lackie and a few others. Mrs Lovas, the nurse, isn't in sight. And neither, for that matter, is Jo. Where the hell is she? And why isn't Clare being seen by the nurse?

Clare's not crying. She looks serious, but not distraught. I approach the group and Miss Howell stands up.

‘Amy, we need to talk to you … separately.'

Clare looks up and forces a smile.

‘Hi,' she mouths. I run to her and we hug.

‘I'm sorry,' I whisper.

‘It's okay,' she says.

Miss Howell pulls me away gently and takes
me to the other end of the mess hall. Miss Lackie follows us and we all sit at one of the tables. They offer me something to drink, but I don't want anything. Miss Lackie has a notepad and a pen poised. She looks like a kid on a school excursion.

‘Now, Amy,' says Miss Howell. ‘Some very serious allegations have been made about one of the young instructors here …'

‘Bevan.'

‘Yes. Bevan. I want you to tell us what you know, what happened last night.'

‘Well, Clare ran off, and when she came back, she'd obviously been hurt …'

‘You say she'd obviously been hurt. What do you mean? What did she look like?'

‘She was crying. I found her in the showers and she was crying, sitting on the floor, with her singlet ripped down the side. She told me …'

‘What colour was the singlet?'

‘What colour? Um, white.'

Miss Howell's mobile phone rings. She apologises and then answers it, walking away a few metres to talk. Miss Lackie pats my hand, which doesn't comfort me one little bit. I hate phoney gestures like that. Miss Howell comes back to the table.

‘Can I talk to you for a moment, Louise?' she says to Miss Lackie.

They walk a short distance away to have a hushed conversation. Miss Lackie leaves the hall and Miss Howell comes back. I have no idea what's going on. I wish someone would tell me.

Miss Howell sits down and picks up Miss Lackie's notepad and pen.

‘Do you know why Clare ran off last night after activities?'

‘She was upset.'

‘Do you know why?'

‘Not really.'

I look across the hall to Clare. She's shaking her head and saying ‘I don't know' over and over.

‘Amy, please concentrate on what I'm asking you. This is very, very important.'

I stare at my hands. For some reason I feel like I'm in a lot of trouble. The
globus
is ramping up – I don't think I've had it so bad and for so long since Mum and I were living with Dad. And there's also something strange about the way we're being handled. Miss Howell is my favourite teacher – but suddenly I don't trust her. Not one bloody inch.

‘So you don't know why Clare was upset last night.'

‘Well, I don't know exactly, but I have some idea … I think she was jealous …'

‘Jealous?'

‘I think she liked him, you know, had a crush on him.'

‘And he didn't like her?'

‘Well, no. I mean, I didn't think so, but obviously he wanted to …'

‘Amy, you must only tell me things you
know. Nothing about this situation is obvious, okay?'

‘Okay.'

‘Are you all right?'

I shrug. ‘This is very serious,' I say.

‘Yes, it is.'

‘Are you going to call the police?'

‘Not at this stage. We've called the headmistress and she's driving out here as we speak. Mrs Sproule wants to … confirm the story before we tell the police.'

‘What if Bevan gets away?'

‘Bevan is … Bevan has been told about the allegations and he's left the camp.'

‘You let him go!'

‘Amy, he can't stay here. Not after what's been said.'

Miss Lackie returns to the mess hall. She has Jo with her. That must have been what the conversation on the mobile was about. They want to know what Jo says.

I wave and try to catch Jo's eye, but she doesn't seem to see me. She's not looking at Clare either. She looks strung-out and jittery. She and Miss Lackie sit together in another part of the hall.

I wonder if Clare has told the teachers about my adventure with Bevan. I wonder whether I should tell Miss Howell right now. Will I be in trouble for what I did? I was happy to kiss him. And he didn't exactly drag me kicking and screaming into his hut. It's not as if he raped me, not like Clare.

I wish I knew exactly what he
did
do to Clare. Without that information, I'm just groping around in the dark. Did she go to his hut to confront him about me? Did she try to seduce him? Did he try to seduce her? Did she abuse him until he became angry enough to attack her? Was she enjoying things and then it all went too far? God, I wish I knew.

‘He did things with me too,' I blurt out.

‘What?' This seems to be news to Miss Howell. Maybe Clare hasn't told them. Maybe after what happened to her, she forgot about me. I know that
I have to report it. I can't just bury it and hope for the best.

‘That's why Clare was upset. Because she liked him and then he started coming after me.'

‘After
you
?' Miss Howell has stopped taking notes and started listening.

I tell Miss Howell the whole story, from the song on the verandah to my hasty exit from Bevan's hut. She's shocked by my account, and I realise why I stopped trusting her. She didn't believe Clare, and she was searching for inconsistencies in our stories. She thought Clare was lying and she thought I would lie to help her. But I can tell from the change in her that she believes every word I'm saying.

‘Am I in trouble?' I ask.

‘No, no, I don't see why you would be,' she says, blinking quickly. This doesn't exactly fill me with confidence. ‘I just … I'm surprised, that's all. I'm sorry this has happened to you.'

‘What about Clare?'

‘Well, of course, I'm very sorry for her too.' She closes her eyes and rubs them for a minute. ‘You just never know about people, do you?'

She rises, holding the notepad to her chest.

‘Stay here, Amy. I'll be back in a few minutes.'

‘Can I talk to Clare?'

‘Soon.'

She walks over to the growing, buzzing huddle around Clare.

I don't often pause to consider what teachers think of me. To be honest, I don't really care. If I did, I'd keep my sexual preferences a secret. I've always sensed that people disapproved of me, even before I took up with Marina, but it never bothered me too much. I know Miss Howell likes me, because of hockey, and my English teacher, Mrs James, likes me because I can write. The rest of them I rarely notice or think about, except to tease them behind their backs. I don't make an effort to charm and impress them like Johanna, but I don't openly antagonise them either – not like Clare does.

Now I really wonder what kind of person they think I am. Do they think I would conspire with Clare to bring down one of the camp instructors? Is that how little they think of me? I've certainly been irreverent over the years. I've had fun at their expense. But I would never lie to hurt someone. Never. But do
they
know that? Miss Howell does, surely. She knows me better than any teacher at the school. But even she was suspicious when we first sat down to talk.

Thank God we have Johanna to back up our story. She's a hardworking student, a fine athlete, a Christian – the kind of girl whose grinning but not-too-pretty face would appear on the front of the school prospectus. And then there's her father, Reverend Harris. They have to believe her. I look across the hall to where she's sitting with Miss Lackie. Mrs Kerr's joined them now. She and Jo are talking intensely and Miss Lackie's on her mobile phone.

When Mrs Kerr notices that I'm staring at them,
she says something to Miss Lackie, and the three of them glance quickly at me and then go outside onto the verandah. I look at Jo but she doesn't look me in the eye. There's something fishy going on.

I raise it with Miss Howell when she returns. She looks worried and unsure. Her wide eyes search my face.

‘Jo must think we're in trouble,' I say, deciding to try a different tack. ‘She wouldn't look at me. Would you tell her that it's okay, that we're doing the right thing. She looks really, really scared.'

‘She shouldn't be scared …'

‘But tell her, will you?'

‘Okay, Amy. But first, what I'm going to ask you to do is write down everything you just told me in a statement. And then sign your name at the bottom.'

She lays a notepad and pen in front of me.

‘Find me when you're finished,' she says.

I pick up the pen and look out the open double
doors of the hall. I see that the sun's well and truly up. It must be nearly seven o'clock by now. Girls will be out of bed soon and lining up for the toilets and showers. Deborah and Patricia will wonder where we are.

They don't even know about Clare. It gradually occurs to me that the only people who do know about Clare are in the mess hall. Are the teachers making an effort to keep us away from the rest of the year as well as from each other? Have we been quarantined?

I try to focus on writing my statement, but I only get as far as my name and the date. Leaving it on the table, I get up and walk over to Clare, who is also writing. Mrs Ricci is looking over her shoulder.

‘Clare!'

‘Amy, not now,' says Mrs Ricci.

‘Shouldn't she be doing this at a police station?' I say. ‘Shouldn't she be taken to hospital for an examination?'

‘Amy, go and sit down. Miss Howell will let you know when …'

I don't catch the end of the sentence. I've already skipped out the double doors. I run back to our hut and burst through the door. I have to tell Deborah and Patricia what's going on. Patricia's still snoring like a bear, but Deborah's up and getting dressed. She's not wearing any underpants when I walk in and I see her triangle of pubic hair.

‘Jesus, doesn't anyone knock?' She steps into her underpants. ‘Is Clare back?'

‘Yeah.'

‘When did she come back?'

‘Last night while you were asleep.'

Patricia rouses and sits up, blinking.

‘Where's Clare?'

I take a deep breath.

‘Something terrible's happened.'

Quickly, I tell them as much as I know. Patricia's reduced to a blubbering heap, of course, and Deborah is staggered but unruffled. None of us
can work out why the police haven't been contacted.

While I'm telling them about finding Clare last night, I suddenly remember her ripped white singlet. I'd put it in a plastic bag and left it in the corner of the hut. When I realise it's not there any more, I tell the girls about it and we turn the little hut upside down searching for it. It's nowhere to be found. I'm absolutely positive that Jo and I had a conversation about it last night. She suggested putting it in a plastic bag to keep it safe so that we could give it to the police in the morning.

A knock at the door startles us. It's Miss Howell. She's not looking happy.

‘Amy, I asked you to stay in the mess hall. What do you think you're doing?'

‘We're looking for Clare's white singlet, the one she was wearing when I found her. It was all torn down one side. It's gone.'

‘Look, I need you to be sensible about this. Mrs Sproule doesn't want any hysteria. You mustn't tell
anyone else what's happened – what you
think
has happened – to Clare. That means no detective work. You leave it up to us, and up to the police, if it gets that far.'

‘Why haven't you called them yet?' asks Patricia. She's stopped crying but her cheeks are still mottled and tear-streaked.

‘Well, we want to get to the bottom of it first.'

‘Let the police get to the bottom of it,' Patricia fires back.

‘We want to give Bevan the benefit of the doubt before we …'

She trails off into silence. She has about as much confidence in what she's saying as we do. The police should be notified and she knows it. She rubs her eyes and sighs.

‘Please, Amy – please, girls, all three of you, come to the mess hall. We need to get something in writing. Mrs Sproule has asked for written statements so she can make a decision.'

‘So
she's
going to lock him up and throw away the key, is she?' Patricia says.

I have never seen Patricia assert herself like this. She's usually such a lamb.

‘Patricia …'

‘What? Say it!'

Patricia and Miss Howell are locked in a stare. It's Miss Howell who breaks first.

‘There's nothing to say, is there?' Patricia stands with her hands on her hips. ‘You've got nothing to say for yourself.'

‘Look, girls, you can express your opinions to the headmistress when she arrives, which will be very soon. Please come to the hall with me now. I can't leave you here. I can't risk you alarming the other girls.'