Page 11 of The Guilty Girl

The magpie is one of the most intelligent creatures on earth. Legend has it they swoop in and steal shiny objects to line their nests. Legend or not, I am good at stealing things. Like the innocence of young girls. Tonight’s party is ripe with young flesh just waiting to be ravished.

First, though, I need to know what Lucy McAllister is scheming.

7

Sharon tossed and turned until 3.35, when she got up for a drink. Outside her brother’s room she noticed there was no light seeping from the gap at the bottom of the door. Jake must be asleep, and she felt sad that he hadn’t brought her home chicken nuggets and chips.

She crept across the tiny landing to the main bedroom. The door was slightly ajar. She pressed her nose through the slit at the jamb, trying to see into the darkness. The curtains had not been closed nor the bed slept in. Her mother had not come home.

Downstairs, the kitchen was neat and tidy. She poured herself a glass of milk and stood at the sink drinking it. She could smell something rotten coming from the plughole. Setting down her milk, she searched the cupboard and found an unopened bottle of disinfectant. Pouring a liberal amount into the sink, she inhaled the floral scent, hoping whatever was in it wasn’t toxic. That was what her brother called anyone he didn’t like.

‘Don’t talk to him, he’s toxic.’ Or sometimes he’d say, ‘Run a mile from her, she’s toxic. You don’t want toxic people in your life, Shaz.’

She didn’t think her brother knew – she hoped he didn’t – but she had already been in close contact with very nasty people. They must be toxic. Did that make her toxic? Was it contagious?

She finished her milk, then rinsed the glass under the tap and left it in the sink. Her head felt woozy from the bluebell odour rising from the plughole. Maybe it would make her sleep. She hoped so, because she was shivering with the thought that her mother was still out and the toxic people might know where she lived.

8

SATURDAY

Sarah Robson loved early-morning house cleans, especially in summer. Getting up early meant she could appreciate the crisp morning air and marvel at the misty fog hanging low over the town as the sun rose. Fine weather eased her depression.

Looking up at the sky, she knew it would be a nice day, even though the weather forecast promised rain in the midlands by nightfall.

She left home with the car radio belting out a Niall Horan song. She knew someone who had taught him in school, and she’d met his father once. She smiled at that piece of useless information as she drove.

After parking at the front of the McAllister house, grandiosely called Beaumont Court – some people had notions – she unloaded her cleaning basket and hoover. She always brought her own hoover to the McAllisters’, because the one they owned was a cordless piece of shit that needed to be charged after half an hour’s work. Hers was an old-fashioned, slightly battered Nilfisk. She’d bought it second-hand. Best fifty euros she’d ever spent.

Twirling the awkward hose around her arm, she bent down to scoop up the basket, before pausing. Something had subconsciously struck her as being out of place.

Was it the silence?

Beaumont Court was located over two kilometres outside Ragmullin, with no close neighbours, and this morning a deathly noiselessness hung in the foggy air. Inexplicably, she felt something was wrong.

Abandoning her equipment, she crept towards the large front door under the portico. On the step sat a crate of empty beer bottles. More bottles and glasses lined the windowsills. Had Lucy thrown a party while her parents were away?

She pushed the heavy mahogany door inwards, surprised to find it unlocked, and stuck her head around it. The lights were still on.

‘Hello? Anyone home? Lucy?’

No answer, which wasn’t odd in itself, because it was just gone seven a.m. She stepped inside.

The state of the carpet!

Her heart dipped at the thought of the job she’d have to do to clean it. She could see a multitude of stains and … were those bits of pizza crushed into the deep pile? Who put cream carpet in a front hallway anyhow, with all that foot traffic? Sometimes the richest people had the poorest brains.

‘Lucy? Where are you?’ she called up the stairs, which stood majestically midway down the wide hallway.

She shook her head at the broken glass scattered around her feet, shattered crystals sparkling in the morning light pouring in behind her. Stepping forward, she noticed the stem of a smashed glass. A wine glass. She hoped it wasn’t the Waterford crystal she was tasked with washing and shining once a month. She certainly hoped she wouldn’t be blamed for breaking it.

Moving towards the open door to her right, she entered the massive living room.

‘Christ almighty,’ she cried at the scene of destruction laid bare before her.

Her first thought was: what the hell has happened here? Her second thought was the length of time it would take her to deep-clean and restore the room to its former self. Her third thought was obliterated in a flash as her eyes were drawn to what looked suspiciously like blood on the far wall and the carpet.

She froze where she stood. Who had been hurt? The McAllisters were due home from their holidays today. Lucy should be around, though, shouldn’t she? The glass in one of the patio doors was broken, and she glanced into the garden. Bottles strewn around and more desecration on the lawn.

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