I unpacked the last of my stuff, including my copy of Mastering Psychic Protection – the book that Ger had advised me to read. This time I was going to be prepared. I wasn’t going to let headaches or panic attacks slow me down. I read some pages, but it was written in very old, complicated language and I was quite tired, so I decided to leave it for another day. I’d make sure to do what Ger had suggested though, and imagine a white light round me, protecting every part of my body. Lying there in bed, I couldn’t quite shake the uneasy feeling I’d had since going to Kayla’s house. Without really thinking, I leaned over, picked up my mobile and rang Nick’s number. I just wanted to hear his voice – someone comforting and familiar.
‘Hey,’ he said.
‘Hi! How are you?’
‘Good,’ he said, his voice suggesting that he wasn’t.
‘How was practice?’ I asked, trying to sound upbeat, even though there was obviously something wrong.
‘Fine.’
I sighed. The upbeat thing obviously wasn’t working. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘You seem a bit annoyed.’
‘I’m fine,’ he said tightly. ‘I just don’t think we need to talk every night, you know? I’m kind of tired.’
‘Oh, right, yeah… sorry,’ I said, a little bit shocked.
‘Night.’
‘Night.’
He hung up and I got a sinking feeling in my stomach, that emptiness I felt when he did stuff like that. He’s just upset, I told myself. He’s just upset because I’m missing his gig. I looked down at the guitar bracelet on my wrist – a reminder that he obviously still loved me. I shouldn’t be so sensitive. It was fine and he was right, we didn’t need to talk every night. But still, I knew I wouldn’t have said something like that. I could feel the anger rising inside me. I snatched my phone off the locker and texted him.
There’s no need to be so moody.
I didn’t regret sending it, I wanted him to know I was annoyed. I waited a few minutes, but there was no reply, no apology, no nothing. I slammed the phone down, got under my duvet and closed my eyes.
The dream was the exact same – the car, the covered-up number plate, the stilettos, the rain. We followed the man in the balaclava, over the low stone wall, but this time I wasn’t staring at the arm because I’d noticed something in his back pocket. A Polaroid photo – the same one from the file. He had an invitation to the party.
The surroundings suddenly switched, and once again we were standing beside the barbed-wire fence.
‘Where’d he go?’ I asked. She didn’t reply. She smiled and completely ignored the question, as if I’d never said it. I squinted my eyes, searching for him in the distance, but all I saw was blackness.
‘Let me take your picture,’ she said. She held up the Polaroid camera and once again the flash blinded me, sending little coloured dots dancing in front of my eyes. I looked around, searching for some landmark, anything that would help me to figure out where we were. I saw a tree to our right, its branches all twisted and bare as if it had been struck by lightning. Wild red roses were growing in the hedges either side of it. The sharp pointed edges of a barbed-wire fence glinted in the moonlight.
She held the photograph out to me. I leaned over to look at it, but to my surprise, I wasn’t in it. Instead it was a picture of the man in the balaclava, his brown eyes staring straight at the camera. I gasped and stumbled backwards, narrowly missing the barbed-wire fence.
‘Careful,’ she said. ‘You’re standing on my grave.’
I woke up with a jolt, sweating and shaking, taking in gulps of air, as if I might stop breathing altogether. There was no serial killer, or if there was, he hadn’t killed Kayla. Matt Lawlor was right: she’d been murdered by somebody who was at the party, somebody she knew. My heart was racing. I took deep breaths, trying to get the image of the man in the balaclava out of my mind. Eventually my heart stopped beating so fast, and I drifted into a restless sleep. The eyes from behind the balaclava haunted me until the morning.
Chapter 7
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. I was exhausted from the night before, but I had to give the impression of being at least semi-ready and alert for my work experience. I checked the map on my phone again. I was confused – it told me I was outside Electric magazine, but I couldn’t see the big bold sign I’d imagined such a famous magazine would have. People in suits hurried by, walking with purpose, and schoolkids wearing brightly coloured backpacks passed me by as I tried to decide which direction to go. I really didn’t want to be late for my first day. I probably shouldn’t have spent so much time eating breakfast, but Gran’s scrambled eggs were just too delicious to miss. I ended up walking past the office building three times before finally spotting the tiny and discreet blue, record-shaped sign with Electric magazine written under it. This place was so cool it didn’t even need to advertise itself to anyone. I took a deep breath and rushed inside, taking the elevator to the fifth floor.
The lobby I stepped out into was amazing. One wall was just glass, with a stunning view over St Stephen’s Green. Framed covers of Electric hung on the walls, some dating back thirty years. There was a huge desk in the shape of a guitar inside the door and behind it sat a girl on the telephone. Her hair was styled in a neat braid and she wore lots of jewellery. Her bracelets clinked together as she talked. She covered the receiver with her hand. ‘Work experience?’ she asked.
‘Yes – Jacki King,’ I said quietly.
She pointed to the red leather sofa on the far side of the lobby, then resumed her phone conversation. ‘He’s in a meeting at the moment, would you like to be put through to his voicemail?’
There was a guy already sitting on the couch, flicking through the latest copy of Electric. He had black curly hair and glasses and was wearing jeans and a blue check shirt, its sleeves rolled up. I could see his green eyes as he looked up nervously from the magazine.
‘Hey,’ I said.
‘Hey,’ he said with a smile.
‘I’m Jacki; are you here for work experience too?’ He was about my age and looked just as apprehensive.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m Dillon.’
Up close he looked vaguely familiar and I wondered where I’d seen him before.
‘I think I know you…’ he said. ‘You’re friends with Hannah Murray, right?’
‘Yeah…’ I said, still not recalling where we’d met.
‘I’m mates with her brother Mark,’ he explained, and then it began to dawn on me.
‘I thought I knew you all right,’ I said. ‘You look different though.’
‘I cut my hair.’
‘That’s it.’ I knew exactly who he was now. He used to hang out with Hannah’s brother, reading comics and listening to music in their garage. Hannah was always complaining because they rarely let her in there, and when they did they’d make fun of her musical taste, just because she’d never heard of whatever obscure band they were listening to that week. I’d never actually spoken to him or even been introduced, but I remembered he looked a lot different back then – his hair was really long and used to kind of take over his face. I hoped he wasn’t as pretentious as Hannah had described.
‘So, you want to be a music journalist too?’ he said.
I realized I should probably fake an interest in journalism. I wouldn’t tell him that I really wanted to be a singer-songwriter.
‘Yeah, maybe,’ I said. ‘I thought this would be interesting anyway.’
‘But you don’t actually want to work on a music magazine?’ he said, sounding surprised.