The Trespasser by Tana French Page A

force it back under control. ‘And yeah, at first partly I was hanging out with her because I liked her thinking I was amazing, but after the first while it was because I liked her . People thought she was thick, but that was just because of what I told you, how she was unsure – it made her seem like she wasn’t keeping up. She wasn’t thick, at all. She was actually really perceptive.’
    Steve is nodding along, all enthralled. I’m interested too, but not like that. Lucy wants us to know Aislinn, or at least her version of Aislinn; wants it badly. Sometimes we get that: the friends and family want to shove a holy innocent in our faces, so we won’t think this was all the vic’s fault. Usually they do it when they think it was at least partly the vic’s fault. Aislinn shagging a married man might be enough to do that for Lucy, or there might be more.
    ‘And she could make even shit things funny. Like I’d have some bitch-off with some cow in our class, and afterwards I’d be all pissed off and adrenaline-y, like “Who does that geebag think she is, I should’ve punched her face in . . .” And Ash would start giggling, and I’d be like, “ What? It’s not funny !” all ready to go off on her; but she’d go, “You were brilliant, like this little furious cat chasing away a horrible dirty hyena” – and she’d do an imitation of me jumping up and down, trying to punch something way above my head. She’d be like, “I thought she was going to run for it, she’d be hiding in a corner screaming for help while you bit the ankles off her, everyone’d be crowding around chanting your name . . .” And all of a sudden I’d be laughing too, and the whole thing wouldn’t feel like a big deal any more. I wouldn’t feel like such a big deal.’
    Lucy laughs, but there’s a stretched sound to it, like it’s straining against the solid weight of pain dragging downwards. ‘That was Ash. She made things better. Maybe because she’d had so much practice with her mum, trying to make their life even bearable for both of them; I don’t know. But even when she couldn’t make things better for herself, she made them better for other people.’
    Please I don’t know where else to— That woman was still the twelve-year-old that Lucy’s describing: chubby, insecure, clothes that wouldn’t suit anyone and definitely didn’t suit her. The dead woman was a whole different story. I say, ‘Things got better for her, too, though. She grew into her looks, got a bit of style, bit of confidence. Yeah?’
    Lucy grinds out her smoke, picks up her glass but doesn’t drink. Now that we’ve moved back to the present, the carefulness is creeping back in.
    She says, ‘Not as soon as she should’ve. Even after we left school, she stayed living at home – she felt like she couldn’t leave her mother, and even though I thought her staying was a terrible idea, I could see her point: without Aislinn there, probably her mum would’ve killed herself inside a few weeks. So right up until a few years ago, Ash was going home to that house every night, just like when we were kids. It kept her . . .’ She turns the glass between her hands, watching the light move on the surface of the water. ‘Like it kept her from growing up. She had a job, but it was the same one she’d had since we left school – she was the receptionist at this place that sells toilet roll and hand soap to businesses, which would have been fine except it wasn’t what she wanted to do. She didn’t have a clue what she wanted; she’d never had a chance to think about it. I was scared for her, you know? I could see us being thirty, forty, and Ash still doing this job she’d wandered into and going straight home to look after her mum, and her whole life just . . .’ Lucy snaps her fingers, hand lifting through a patch of pale sun. ‘Gone. And she could see it too. She just didn’t know how to do anything about it.’
    ‘So what changed?’