Keeping calm was impossible. Even before Brookie had shooed Joey away and closed the door, Fran’s palms were sweating. She was trembling like a leaf, and her breath just wouldn’t come. Eyes wide, she just stared at Brookie, desperately wanting to yell at him to barricade the door and not let the police in, but she was too petrified and breathless to speak. Her mind was almost blank with terror, and it was a while before she could even make coherent sense of what she was thinking.
Run. Run. I need to run. I need to escape. I need to—
It wasn’t until Brookie remembered about retrieving his laptop and accidentally nudged Fran’s quaking leg that he realised she was hyperventilating. Grey eyes widening with concern, he put the computer on the floor and sat down on the bed near her head.
“Hey, hey.” He tried to peel the duvet back, but Fran clung to it as though it was her last protection against certain death and he was forced to give up.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. Fran shook her head frantically, trying to convey to him that he couldn’t let the police in. Her throat was too dry for her to speak. There was a lump building in her throat, and she knew if she wasn’t careful that she was going to burst into tears. Her gasping breaths seemed to echo around the room, and while Brookie seemed sympathetic, the innumerable Bruno Mertons remained impassive and cold as they continued to glare. Fran tried to hide from their myriad eyes, but before she could escape under the covers completely, where her only persecution would be claustrophobia, Brookie managed to prise her torso away from the bed and gather her into his arms.
The comforting warmth of somebody patting her back and resting her head on their shoulder as her mother had used to do whenever Fran had been scared witless by her dad’s drunken rages did it: she broke down completely and started sobbing. He tightened his arms around her and Fran buried her face in the crook of his neck. Brookie didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. It had been so long since Fran had had human contact with somebody like this that just the encompassing warmth, the heat and comfort radiating off his chest, and the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he held her brought home to her just how much she’d missed and needed something like this. It was the first time in months that she’d actually felt safe.
I can’t keep going like this, she thought miserably as she cried on Brookie’s shoulder. I can’t. I need to tell somebody or I’ll explode. But I can’t tell. While she could tell that Brookie didn’t mind too much about looking after a rather weird and effeminate roommate, he wouldn’t take well to her blurting out that she was actually a girl. If he managed to keep his cool through that, he’d want to know why she was pretending to be a boy, and then she’d have to explain all about being Frances Pelham and the whole thing about the stalkers, and she just couldn’t do it. Moreover, she had a nasty suspicion that, whatever she said, Brookie either wouldn’t believe her or would go straight to the police. He’d probably just go straight to the police anyway, whether or not he stuck around for the whole story.
The police…. Fran choked and Brookie instinctively started rubbing small circles on her back.
“Hey, hey, shush,” he murmured. “It’s only the police. All they’ll do is ask you a few questions. It’s not that bad… is it?”
Fran nodded. Brookie’s hand momentarily ceased rubbing and Fran felt his muscles tense as he stiffened.
“Why?” A wary edge crept into Brookie’s voice. “You haven’t done something wrong, have you?”
After a slight hesitation, Fran shook her head.
“Then you have no reason to be so worried.”
Fran just clung to his crisp white shirt, bunching the thin material in her fists. Brookie’s soothing voice was already beginning to calm her, but it still couldn’t quite allay her terror that the game was up. Her plan had failed.
For a while, the silence was only broken by her sobs. Brookie tried to disentangle himself after a few minutes, but Fran was clinging too tightly to his shirt for him to make any headway, and he put his arms back around her, resting his chin on her head.
“Is it normal for you to get panic attacks?” he asked gently. Fran considered. She’d only started getting them after the stalkers had cornered her by the sports equipment shed at school. She’d escaped by breaking a window from the shed with a large stone and climbed inside, then waited in the darkness with the heaviest cricket bat she could find for them to follow her. They’d still been semi-conscious when she’d climbed back out of the window, and one had grabbed her ankle just before she made it safely through. Fran still had a nasty scar on her left shin from an eight-inch-long gash she’d gained by wrenching her ankle free straight over a sharp edge of glass. She’d been extremely lucky one of the teachers had found her hopping into the playground with a handkerchief wrapped just under her knee. The teacher had sent her straight to hospital and she’d had sixty stiches.
Eventually, she decided it was simplest to just nod. She didn’t trust her voice not to give her away in her current condition.
Brookie squeezed her sympathetically. “I’m so sorry. That must really suck.”
Fran just nodded again. Her aunt had told her that she probably had panic disorder which had been induced by her mental state resulting from the stalkers, but Fran had never had the opportunity to see a psychiatrist about it and she didn’t think it was that serious anyway. “Panic disorder?” she remembered saying. “Seriously? I mean, really? You can get diagnosed with a mental disorder if you just have a little freak-out? But everybody freaks out at some point in their lives.” Her aunt had just sighed and given up trying to explain it to her. Brookie, though, seemed to think of it as something of a more serious nature.
There was a sharp rap at the door and they both jumped.
“Two seconds!” Brookie yelled, this time succeeding in getting Fran to let go of him. She caught his hands as he pulled away, and he looked down, a little surprised.
“Do you want me to ask if I can stay for this?” he offered.
For a moment, Fran was tempted to say yes. But I don’t want him to be around when everything goes down the toilet, she reminded herself. In any case, I know from experience with the condition I was just in that I’d go to anybody for comfort when I’m like that. Brookie might be a celebrity, but he wasn’t that special. The last time Fran had had a proper breakdown, she’d spent three and a half hours crying in the arms of a drug-addicted tramp on the high street of her local town. The policeman in charge of looking after her had nearly had a hernia when he’d found her.
“No,” she managed. “I’ll be okay.” She somehow coped with giving Brookie a wan smile, which did nothing to lessen the look of concern on his face.
“Sure?”
Fran grumbled something uncouth at him. Frowning with irritation, Brookie stood up and crossed to the door. He wrenched it open with unnecessary force.
“Morning, officers. Can I help?”
“God almighty!” exclaimed a woman enthusiastically.
“No, Brookie Denvers. Sorry to disappoint.” Brookie held out a hand, which Fran presumed the police officers shook.
“Sorry,” said a youngish male voice. “We weren’t expecting to meet you here. We’re looking for a Mr Francis Grey…?”
Fran felt a chill running through her. I recognise that voice.
“Could I have your autograph first?” the female officer asked Brookie. The movie star flinched minutely.
“Gillian, not now,” sighed the male. “We have more important—”
“Aidan, it can wait just a minute! Please?”
“No,” said Aidan. Brookie looked relieved. Fran knew from an argument she’d had with him from the last time he’d been there that there was nothing he found more irritating than somebody asking for his autograph.
“Why would they even want it?” he’d exclaimed in frustration, slamming down his Spanish dictionary. “My handwriting’s really scruffy and they don’t even know me. It’s weird and pointless. What use is it? And what am I supposed to write for these things? I don’t know ninety-nine percent of the people and about half of them are drooling girls who just freak me out.” He’d looked up at a poster of his friend. “Honestly, I don’t know how Bruno stood it. But he was patient and I’m kind of not.” Fran had left the room before Brookie could continue the rant and start throwing things.
“Frankie’s here,” Brookie said, pointing. “I should warn you he’s quite tired and not feeling very well. Oh, and he probably has concussion. He bashed his head quite badly yesterday.”
Aidan Dale popped his head around the door and saw that Fran was awake and sitting up.
“He does look a bit peaky, doesn’t he? Come on, Gillian.”
Fran dragged the duvet up around her as the police officers entered the room and Brookie escaped, slipping out through the door before Gillian could call him back and protest that he hadn’t signed her notebook for her.
Great. I’m left alone with two people who might just be in the league of the stalkers – or unintentionally passing on information to them.
She looked from one to the other. She remembered Aidan – he’d been the one to suggest assigning her a bodyguard. He was in his mid-twenties, usually sported a playful grin, and was pretty good looking. His usual patrol partner, Malcolm, who had ended up as Fran’s bodyguard for some weeks, was about the same age but much better looking. Fran missed him. He’d been a great laugh.
Gillian she’d never met before. The woman was small and a little dumpy, with a roundish face and a beautiful smile. Her left hand clutched her notebook whilst her right rested on her baton. She had the air of somebody who not only knew how to use a weapon but wouldn’t hesitate to do so.
“Good morning, Francis,” Aidan said in a business-like manner. “We need to ask you a few questions. Would you object to us recording this conversation?”
“No,” Fran replied, but internally, she was screaming with horror and her heart started racing. I don’t know if my man-voice is good enough to convince people I’m not female in a recording! Then again, not cooperating would be a fantastic way to make things worse.
Aidan took out a small device and placed it on Fran’s desk. A small red light indicated that it was on and recording every word that followed.
“Right,” he said. “Now, first of all, please don’t be scared. We just need to you answer our questions honestly and to the best of your recollection.” He coughed and tilted his head to one side. “That is, assuming that your recollection is functioning properly after you bashed your head. How much of the past couple of days do you remember?”
“There are blank spots,” Fran admitted reluctantly. Gillian jotted it down.
Aidan sighed and looked at the recorder, then back at Fran.
“Would you happen to own a black wool and nylon coat in a small size from M&S?” he asked.
Fran couldn’t help glancing at her cupboard, where it was hanging alongside her school blazer. Aidan followed her gaze. Fran realised she would have to own up.
“Yes. It’s in there.”
Gillian crossed to the cupboard to verify it. She nodded to Aidan, who frowned, chewing on his lip.
“What has a coat got to do with anything?” Fran asked, looking from one to the other. Gillian looked like she wanted to ask Fran a question, but Aidan waved a hand at her, clearly thinking hard.
Eventually, he looked up.
“I’m going to play this straight,” he decided. “There have been murders going on in the surrounding towns for a while now. Saturday and Sunday saw the fourteenth and fifteenth victims, both teenage girls, with a mark cut into their cheek.”
“I know,” said Fran irritably. “I do read the news.”
Aidan got to the point. “One of your classmates was the first to discover the body on Saturday, shortly after the girl had been killed. He said he saw a smallish male figure climbing over a wall in a coat exactly like yours, and he thinks there’s a possibility it might have been you.”
Fran’s jaw dropped. Aidan surveyed her carefully.
“What were you doing at seven-twenty last Saturday evening?” Gillian chipped in.
“W-wandering around town, lost,” Fran said, looking from one to the other in a daze.
“Is there anybody who can confirm this?”
“Well, my friend Philippa, but she wasn’t with me—”
“And what about Sunday at around eight PM?”
Fran hesitated, gnawing on her lip. “I dunno. Ask Brookie. I don’t really remember much of yesterday evening. I think I was unconscious for most of it.”
Gillian turned to Aidan and mouthed “gang crime” with absolute zero subtlety. But Aidan had a deep frown on his face, as though he was trying to think of something that just eluded him.
“Aidan.” Gillian tapped her pencil on her notepad. “Aidan.”
He shushed her irritably and turned back to Fran.
“You look familiar,” he told her. “When did I meet you before? Where was it? I’m sure I know you.”
The only thought Fran was capable of was fiddlesticks.
To begin with, Brookie couldn’t help pacing back and forth outside his room. Bruno had been prone to absolutely horrible panic attacks, causing filming to stop on more than one occasion, and while Brookie knew that he’d done all he sensibly could for Frankie, it still unnerved him to see somebody like that, even if the attack had only been mild.
Frankie’ll be fine, he told himself, putting his hands behind his head and sucking in a deep breath. Get a grip.
He found himself staring at the door. What do the police want?
He quashed the part of him that said your autograph and yawned. Hmm… I’m not gonna make it through the day without coffee, am I?
Giving up on the hope that his bedroom door was going to open immediately and the police were going to leave, he headed for the common room.
It was occupied only by Piers, Arthur and Hewie. Arthur was watching a rerun of a medical programme while Piers and Hewie sat in a corner with their heads together, working on something. From the numerous copies of John Donne lying around, Brookie guessed it must be a poem dissection for English.
Spying a clean mug on the counter by the boiling water dispenser, Brookie made a beeline for it.
“Morning, Brook.” Arthur didn’t even look away from the TV. “How’s the squirtling today?”
“He seemed okay until the police came by,” Brookie said absently as he picked the cup up and rooted around in the cupboard above the sink for the strongest coffee he could find. “Then he had a panic attack. Couldn’t even speak.”
Arthur turned, draping his arm over the sofa. “F*ck me.”
Brookie raised an eyebrow and returned to searching out coffee. “No thanks. I don’t swing that way.”
“Screw you,” Arthur retorted. “Poor kid, though. Panic attacks are horrible.”
“I know. Bruno used to get them a lot. I spent about half my time on set trying to calm him down. Aha!” Brookie found the ground coffee and tipped a sizable amount into the mug before filling it up with boiling water. “Er… don’t go telling people that, by the way. Nobody’s supposed to know Bruno has panic disorder. It’ll just stress him out if people start asking questions, too.”
“Our lips are sealed,” Hewie put in blithely from the corner.
“What did the police come for?” Piers asked as he chewed on the end of his pen.
“No idea,” said Brookie.
Arthur gave up on the medical show and scrambled around, leaning over the back of the sofa. “It’s probably about the murders, isn’t it?”
“Huh?” Brookie took a sip of coffee. Seconds later, he choked and his eyes went wide. He shook himself vigorously and smacked his lips together several times before letting out a high-pitched whistle like an over-boiling kettle. It felt like he’d been kicked in the head.
Arthur burst out laughing. “Brook, your reaction to caffeine will forever be the highlight of my life. Somebody needs to film you and put it on Youtube. I swear you have the lowest caffeine tolerance out of anybody I’ve ever met.”
Brookie impatiently gave him the finger and took another sip. “Why would the police want to talk to Frankie about the murders?”
“Because they think he did them?” Hewie suggested.
“Impossible. I was with him the whole of Sunday evening. Ask Arthur.”
“Ice, ice, baby, aaaah!” Arthur grinned wickedly.
“Okay, don’t ask Arthur because he’s being a tool.”
“Could be a gang,” Hewie pointed out. “I mean, they leave a specific mark and everything. What about Saturday?”
“He was out with Philippa from third year,” Arthur said. “Lucky b*stard.”
“Wait.” Brookie held up a hand. “Philippa as in Sexophile? I mean, Sexy Phil? The one with really nice blonde hair?”
Arthur winked. “The one and only. They’ve been getting pretty close while you’ve been gone.”
“Bloody hell, that kid moves fast.” Brookie shook his head before adding, half sarcastically, “I’m honoured to share with such a player.”
The others laughed.
“Now the rumours about you guys having a threesome with your girlfriend can turn into rumours about you guys having a foursome!” Arthur exclaimed excitedly.
“Go die in a hole,” Brookie told him. “And make sure to bury yourself afterwards.”
“Before I do that, why don’t I continue what I was saying before about Phil and Frankie?” Arthur suggested. “I went to find Kevin and Simon yesterday to give them a ragging about beating Frankie up, and I eavesdropped on a very interesting conversation they were having. Turns out the student who found the body was Kevin’s little brother, and he saw a suspect who looked like Frankie and was wearing Frankie’s coat climbing over the wall at the end of the alley. Hence why Joey’s being wandering around like a ghost on drugs for the past couple of days and why Frankie had a panic attack when the police showed up.” He grinned smugly.
“Frankie might be accused of murder?” Hewie jumped up in alarm. “Frankie’s evil, but not that evil. Or that kind of evil.”
Arthur’s grin faded into a frown. “Actually, that’s kind of harrowing for him.”
Piers spoke up. “Maybe I should talk to him. He’s already in a mental state; this is just going to make him worse.”
“Piers,” Brookie began, “I don’t really think—”
“Trust me. I’m probably in the best position to help him out.”
Arthur shot Piers a sharp look. Piers met his eyes briefly and then looked away.
Brookie and Hewie looked between the two for some kind of explanation, but none was forthcoming. Brookie took another gulp of coffee.
“…Okay,” he said. “Before it gets awkward… conversation… does anybody know who’s mucked up everything on my gym equipment in my room?”
The following silence as everybody exchanged nonplussed expressions was so excruciating that not even the Awkward Whale would have remedied it.