Last One To Die

by Cynthia Murphy

  I nod. Not that there’s much I can tell him. I ran from the room screaming as soon as I saw Sara’s body and refused to return.

  “You said earlier that you swapped rooms with the deceased, is that correct?”

  “Yes.” My voice sounds rusty. “She said she didn’t like heights. And my room was on the second floor, so. . .” I choke on the words.

  “And you had never met before?”

  “No.”

  “So why did you swap rooms?”

  I open my mouth to explain but Derek materializes in front of me. “She a suspect?”

  “Excuse me?” The guard looks pretty peed off at the interruption.

  “Miss Hughes here, she a suspect?”

  “These are routine questions, sir.”

  “I don’t mind. . .” I start, but Derek, to my immense surprise, cuts me off.

  “Don’t say anything else,” he warns me, before turning back to the officer. “She ain’t answering nothing without a lawyer present, all right?”

  The officer flushes “They’re really just routine, sir.” He squirms a little and I realize Derek is right. I’m a suspect.

  “Routine my eye,” says Derek. “You wanna question her, then take her down the station and give her a lawyer. Otherwise, leave her be. Poor girl’s had a massive shock and she’s a minor, too.” The officer consults his notes and frowns. “That not in your notes? She’s sixteen and I’m in loco parentis for the present moment. Everything goes through me, right? No need to worry her parents with this yet.” He puffs his chest out. “You’ll need my permission to question her any further.”

  I think my eyes are in danger of falling out of my head.

  “Is this true?” The guard directs the question at me, though I can tell Derek’s rattled him. I nod, not really understanding half of what’s just been said. Derek, the dark horse. “Fine,” says the officer. “We’ll be in touch.”

  He marches out of the foyer and I gawp at Derek. He winks at me.

  “Close your mouth and drink your tea, Irish, or you’ll be catching flies.”

  “Mammy, I’m fine, honestly.” I hold the payphone slightly away from my ear and gaze dully out of the dirt-streaked window as she rants about the dangers of the Big City and threatens to get on the next flight over. Derek had done his best to be reassuring, he didn’t tell her too much, especially about me finding Sara, but he underestimated the neurosis of the average Irish mammy.

  “Niamh, I want you home. One night away and someone has died. Been killed, no less. Holy Mother of God, we’re lucky it wasn’t you, girl.”

  “I know,” I mutter. I’ve been trying not to think about it. “But I want to stay. If anything, it’s safer, now. They’ve moved us to a different halls. There’s a guard on patrol, like.”

  “No way, absolutely not. . .” I hold the phone away again and study the graffiti that decorates the phone booth. It stinks in here. How did people use these before mobiles? They’re claustrophobic and disgusting. But the charge on my phone didn’t last two minutes this morning. I push the door ajar with my foot and search for my hand sanitizer with my free hand.

  “Mammy,” I interrupt as the phone beeps a warning, “my money’s about to go. I’m staying. I’ve worked too hard to give up before I even start.”

  “Niamh. . .”

  “Please?”

  She huffs down the phone and I know I’ve won, for now.

  “Fine, but I’m telling you now, girl, if it wasn’t for Granny H being ill again. . .”

  “I know. How is she?”

  She sighs. “Much the same. She didn’t recognize your daddy the other day.”

  “Oh, mammy. I miss her.”

  “I’m sorry, love. I know you do. Listen, now. You will get your mobile fixed immediately and ring home every day. I’ll get your daddy to transfer the money for repairs right now, OK?”

  “OK.”

  “I mean it. Every single day, Niamh Marie. And get in touch with your sister once and a while, would you? She’s driving us all crazy, climbing the walls without you. Promise?”

  “I promise.” It’s a small price to pay for being allowed to stay. Although the thought of going home to our safe little town is very tempting right now. I miss them. I’m not going to let her know that, though.

  “I love you, Niamh.”

  “Love you too, Mammy. Say hi to Daddy for me and tell Meghan I’ll send some pictures later.”

  “Bye, love—” She’s cut off as my money finally runs out.

  “Bye,” I whisper into the handset before setting it back in its cradle. I stare at the silent phone. Am I doing the right thing? Should I be staying here at all? I liberally coat my hands in sanitizer and rub it in, wishing it worked on memories, too.

  A loud tap on the glass makes my skin shrink on my bones.

  “You done?” A tall, scruffy lad is glaring at me through the window, eyes sharp between long, greasy strands of hair.

  “Yeah, sure.” I push the door open. “All yours.” He grunts and pushes past me. Honestly, city people. So rude. “You’re welcome,” I mutter, hoisting my bag on to my shoulder and crossing the quiet road, my damp hands tingling in the morning breeze.

  There it is. The London Academy of Dramatic Arts rears up in front of me, a grey concrete building that manages to look both imposing and dated. It feels silly to be coming and enrolling on a drama course after what happened this morning, frivolous, almost. I tell myself it’s what Sara would have wanted.

  Well, I’m pretty sure it is. It’s definitely what Granny H would have wanted, if she remembered who I was. She was the actress of the family, back in her heyday, a semi-famous soap starlet in Dublin. One of us has to carry on the tradition.

  Right?

  “Walk! You, yes, you, walk! Walk to a space with PURPOSE! Walk like you really MEAN IT! Walk like you have SOMEWHERE TO GO!”

  Oh, Lord. I’ve made a terrible mistake.

  I furrow my brow and march to the other side of the room. Was I going to be doing this for the next six weeks? Walking? When I landed a spot on one of the UK’s most prestigious acting courses, trudging around a drab studio was not what I had in mind. Where was the stage? The dressing rooms? A script?

  Anything but walking.

  “Stop,” Miss Joanne, the instructor, bellows. Her voice belies her size; she’s tiny and was evidently a dancer at some point. Her feet are perpetually turned out and her hair is slicked back in an immaculate bun. “Find a space in the room. Now. Make yourself as small as possible, a tiny seed in the earth.”

  I peek at the others in the room. Twenty kids, all curling their bodies into the foetal position. I make sure my backside is facing the wall, so I don’t flash anyone on the first day. Honestly, what possessed me to put a T-shirt dress on for a workshop? I’ll stick to leggings, next time.

  “Now, grow! Become tall, stretch, raise those arms like branches towards the sun. . .”

  I glance around again, watching arms flail in the air and faces earnestly turn to the ceiling.

  I thought the walking was bad.

  I endure the rest of the class, which seems to last for ever, including some excruciating “ice-breakers”. (Seriously, does anyone ever enjoy those things? Painful.) I’m grateful when lunch is called; I haven’t eaten properly since I arrived. The downside is, at least the morning activities had kept me busy.

  Now I can’t stop thinking about Sara, how she should be here, how we should be rolling our eyes about that class together. Her eyes. Sara’s wide, staring eyes sear into my eyelids every time I blink. I shake my head. Stop it. Try to carry on.

  I follow the crowd to the small canteen on site, but the food is expensive, which I didn’t think about. I should at least have a drink, though, so I grab a Coke, Derek’s advice about sugar being good for shock echoing in my ears. He was great last night, a welcome surprise. I hope he’s stationed at the new halls, too.

  Little pockets of people have already formed on tables and I try desperatel
y to look like I know what I’m doing. I’m about to escape to the toilets so I don’t have to sit alone when a girl, a petite blonde sitting at one of the tables, waves me over. Jasmine, I think her name is.

  “Hi!” She pats the space next to her. “It’s Niamh, right? Come and sit down.”

  I grin at her in relief and nod, sliding on to the edge of the bench. There are two guys and another girl from class at the table. The guys nod in greeting. The girl smiles at me, then drops her head, studying the label of her flapjack intently.

  “I love your accent,” Jasmine says, putting a tiny hand on my arm. I think of Sara, and a lump forms in my throat. “My great-grandma was Irish, you know.” I nod politely. Wasn’t everyone’s?

  “Thanks,” I murmur, wishing I’d just legged it to the loos. I feel huge next to Jasmine, she’s so teeny. I eye the festival wristbands that decorate both wrists and idly wonder how old she is. Mammy said I wasn’t to go to a festival until I was eighteen – unless you counted the Kilkenny music festival, which I did not. “Cool wristbands.”

  “Oh, cheers. They’re from last summer.” She takes a sip on her reusable water bottle. “It was pretty epic.”

  I nod, unsure of what to say next, and so I follow her lead and take a sip of my Coke. “So, Niamh, tell us.” Her voice drops to a stage whisper and her eyes dart around the table, as though she’s checking for an audience. “Is it true?”

  “Is what true?” I ask, confused.

  “You know,” she whispers, leaning so close I can smell her citrussy-fresh shampoo. I realize the rest of the table have gone quiet and are watching me too. “That you found a body.”

  I freeze. Is she serious?

  “Jas, stop,” the flapjack girl across from me warns, but Jasmine presses on regardless.

  “We heard about it this morning.” Her voice is full of gleeful curiosity. “Is it true? Did you really find a dead girl in the halls? Is that why we’ve all been moved?”

  “Yeah,” I say. And immediately regret it.

  “No way!” Jasmine practically explodes from her chair. She grasps my forearms and my heart thumps, like an animal who has to gnaw off their own limb to escape danger. “You’re lying.”

  “Jasmine!” The girl opposite puts down the flapjack wrapper and shakes her head. “Stop it.”

  “Chill, Tasha.” Jasmine glares at the girl opposite me and resumes her inquisition. “Everyone’s saying she was murdered. Is it true? Did you see anything?” Her eyes grow wide and she pulls away slightly. “Oh my god. Are you a suspect?”

  My vision blurs. Oh, no. Not here.

  I cannot cry here.

  I mutter something about having to go and push myself up from the bench. The table screeches and I hear the thump of my open Coke bottle behind me, but there’s no way I’m turning back. I stubbornly wipe the tears from my eyes and run to the nearest bathroom, where I lock myself in a cubicle and sit down heavily on the toilet lid.

  This has to be the worst first day in the history of first days. Ever.

  My sobs eventually slow down, turning into gentle hiccups until I lean back against the wall and set off the automatic flush, which of course makes me jump and sets off another flood of tears. Maybe I should listen to my mother after all. Call it quits.

  I peel a wad of tissues from the dispenser and dab at my face, though why I’m attempting to save my make-up I have no idea. I take a deep, shaky breath, stand up on wobbly legs and open the door, stopping in surprise when I see a figure at the sinks. I didn’t hear anyone out here. The girl’s face is obscured by a long, shiny curtain of dark hair but then she looks up, and I recognize her as Jasmine’s friend. Tasha.

  She’s currently dabbing at a brown stain on her white vest top.

  “Oh, hey.” Tasha catches my eye in the mirror. “You OK? You left in kind of a hurry.”

  I gesture at her top. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. . .”

  “Hey, don’t worry. I’m just sorry you didn’t get Jasmine, too.” She smiles, her eyes full of sympathy. “She was kind of awful back there.”

  “Yeah.” I wash my hands slowly, rubbing the foamy soap carefully over each finger, seeing glimpses of Sara’s bloody hand as I do.

  “So it is true then,” Tasha whispers. “Sorry,” she says quickly. “I’m being as bad as Jas. You don’t have to talk about it.”

  I sigh. Is this going to be what happens if I stay? I’ll be the girl who found a body?

  “It’s OK,” I say. Might as well set the story straight. I meet her eyes in the mirror as I yank paper towels from the dispenser. “Yeah, it’s true. She was called Sara. I only met her last night and then. . .” The words stick in my throat and I lean against the wall.

  “And then she was dead?” Tasha whispers. I nod and another hot trail trickles down my cheek.

  And then she was dead.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah.” What else do I say? “I didn’t know her, really, but she seemed nice.”

  Tasha shakes her head. “No one deserves that. Are they sure it wasn’t . . . you know. . .”

  “What, suicide? No.” I swallow.

  There’s silence for a moment.

  “I really am sorry about soaking you,” I say. “Here.” I rummage in my shoulder bag and pull a crumpled black cardigan from the bottom. It’s dotted with tiny, sparkling buttons and has matching little cuffs on the elbow length sleeves. I haven’t even worn it yet and it cost a small fortune – it was my I’m-off-to-live-in-London cardigan. “It’s clean, just a bit wrinkled. You can borrow it if you want. It should fit.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course, take it.”

  Tasha grins and disappears into a cubicle, re-emerging with her damp top wadded in her hands. She shoves it into a pocket of her bag and straightens up, admiring her reflection.

  “This is so pretty!” She brushes her fingers along the velvet ribbon that lines the closure. “I’ll give it back to you tomorrow, pinkie promise.”

  “It looks good on you.” I offer a watery smile.

  Tasha nods towards the door. “Are you coming?”

  I hesitate.

  “I mean, I’ll walk with you,” Tasha offers, before adopting a dramatic pose, “but only if you do it with purpose.”

  I grin and follow her out the door. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

  The afternoon is much more bearable. No more workshops, we’re told, just a lecture about what we’ll be doing for the next few weeks.

  As we file into the lecture theatre and wait for the speakers, Tasha and I chat. I warm to her immediately. She’s from a little town up in the North of England and we quickly bond over the desperation to leave our hometowns for somewhere more exciting. I knew I wasn’t the only one.

  The room is warm, and the lights have been dimmed. Past students are on a big screen, sharing their experiences of being on work placements out in the wider community. I try my best to listen to a redhead discussing the challenges of pretending to be an animal for the tourists at London Zoo. Good God, please don’t let that be my work placement. We’ll be assigned them in the next few days.

  “Hey.” Tasha nudges me and I realize I’m close to dozing off. She hands me her phone. “Put in your number there.” I pull my phone out of my bag and show her the cracked screen. She grimaces.

  “I need to get it fixed after class, so I can call home,” I whisper. “My mammy is having a fit.”

  “Can’t think why,” Tasha replies. “You only discovered a murder.”

  I start to reply until we’re actually shushed by the girl in front. We promptly dissolve into silent giggles and return our attention to the proud graduate who is now sharing the life lessons she learned while pretending to be a tiger.

  Once I’ve waved Tasha off, I walk to the nearby phone repair shop that she googled for me. It’s only round the corner. They promise to have it fixed before they close but that’s more than three hours away, so I decide to go back to the canteen and fina
lly read the course material while I wait.

  I head to the canteen but spy Jasmine holding court with a group at the little coffee bar in the corner, all holding refillable coffee cups and loudly discussing the lack of “real” vegan options on the menu. I swerve down the nearest corridor, before she can spot me and force me to relive the worst moment of my life, and land in front of a pair of double doors bearing a small plaque that reads “Library”.

  Perfect.

  I push open one of the large, wooden doors and pass through the grey security gates that stand sentry on either side. It’s dark and a little cramped in here but I immediately feel safe, cocooned. I love libraries.

  I wander past the checkout desk to my left and inch forwards to trail my fingers over the large, leather padded table in the centre of the room. It’s encircled with rickety wooden chairs, and tall shelves loom above me on a second level, a short flight of steps leading up into the stacks, which stand tall behind a wooden railing. I’m staring up into the gloom, marvelling at the height of the shelves, all those books, when a tall, lanky figure emerges from them and sends my pulse racing.

  “Oh!” I hold a hand up to my chest, a thump sounding loudly behind my breastbone. It’s the guy from the phone booth earlier, and he looks just as unfriendly, glaring at me with the same cutting stare. His hair is stringy in the overhead lights and startlingly dark against his pale, waxy skin. His mouth and chin are peppered with painful looking acne. “Sorry, I didn’t know there was anyone else here.”

  He says nothing, just grabs a trolley, grunts and disappears back into the darkness. The wheels squeak behind him.

  “Don’t mind him.” Another small heart attack rocks me as a friendly voice pipes up from behind. I spin around to see a small, plump woman emerge from the little office behind the checkout desk. “That’s just Will. He doesn’t talk much.” She smiles and I immediately warm to her; there’s something comforting and motherly about her. “Can I help you?”

  “I was just looking for somewhere quiet.” My voice is croaky. I clear my throat and hold up my enrolment folder. “To read this. Is that OK?”