The Ecstasy of Sister Amata

3.Ten Years Earlier (Friday 21st March, 2008; 6.35pm)

Susannah McDonald dragged on her cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, glancing over the swathe of lawn to her left towards the convent. She noticed a few pricks of light in the windows – even if this evening, of all evenings, virtually all the Sisters would be cloistered in their rooms until Sunday, holding private vigils, there was always the chance of someone seeing. She turned the cigarette round in her fingers and shielded the glowing tip behind her palm. The block between the convent and the chapel, where the refectory was, was dark: there'd been an early tea tonight, so the staff could get off for their time off before the Easter Sunday lunch, and Susannah sighed. Unusually for her, she'd forgotten to order supplies to make her own meals over the weekend; she'd have to cadge something off Raffy or Bea.

Raffy and Bea had both been acting a bit strange the last few days. Raffy was very distracted and surprisingly withdrawn since getting back from her sports camp thing; with Raffy, it was usually the pressure of the end of the sports season getting in the way of end-of-year schoolwork – or the other way round. Maybe something was up between her and that sporty lad from the local college she was seeing. She'd always been fine before, though, and there was no reason to suppose this year would be any different, A Levels or no.

Bea'd had a face like thunder at tea. She'd been on her way out as Susannah and Raffy had arrived, and had practically slammed her tray into the trolley near the collection point, which was very unlike her, and probably wouldn't have happened if she'd realised they were there. But then she'd basically ignored Raffy's attempt to catch her attention and ask what was up, too. Bea was never loud or demonstrative, even if she was potentially fuming inside – not that Susannah had ever really seen Bea fuming, either. She was just too quiet and calm. And she never ever ignored someone trying to talk to her – she was just too polite and with her and Raffy, well, they were her friends. The only time Bea did ignore people was when they were trying to bully her: Bea's method of dealing with the bullies was to just pretend they weren't there or were talking to someone else. (And, if she could, just walk away.) Eventually, they did give up, but Susannah often wondered just how much of it Bea took to heart. Not that anyone had dared confront her for at least a year now – one of the perks of being in the Upper Sixth, and a prefect to boot. Bea had quite a lot of power in her quiet way, having not just almost total control over the music in chapel, but also being a Library Prefect. If she wasn't in actual lessons or doing something musical, she was in the library doing her own work while keeping a quietly beady eye on everyone else; Sister Amata, the batty French Sister in charge of the library, relied on her a huge amount, and it was well-known that she listened to Bea like she didn't to many other people – Bea's ability in French probably helped, but she just had a way of dealing with Sister Amata, somehow, that no-one else had found. (Apart from Sister Francesca, probably. No-one, not even eccentric young French nuns, gave her any shit.) So if Bea had grounds to suggest barring you from the library, you were screwed when it came to keeping up with work – and it made Susannah smile sometimes to see how her friend now had such soft power over the people who'd bullied her before, as they all realised exams were getting closer and tried to cram in as much time in the library as possible. Susannah knew they felt Bea was now judging them from a position of righteousness, and though she was certain that Bea was far too fair-minded to actually think of doing so, it pleased her that her friend now unwittingly had the upper hand. She'd definitely been in a real mood at tea, though.

Susannah took a last drag of her cigarette and pushed herself off the buttress she'd been leaning on, brushing the back of her skirt and blazer to get rid of any grit. She ground the butt under her Doc Marten, then carefully buried it a few inches deep in the soil under one of the rose bushes surrounding the east end of the chapel. Sniffing her school jumper, she made sure she'd been careful enough not to get too much of the smell on herself – the security rituals of secret smoking were second nature to her, but it always paid to be careful around this place. Even on Good Friday.