Keep Your Friends Close by Cynthia Murphy is an explosive dark academia thriller, perfect for fans of Karen M. McManus, Holly Jackson and Mean Girls. Read on for an extract.
CHAPTER ONE
Sunday 5 September 1999
I manage to reverse park on my third attempt, which isn’t bad going considering it’s the first time I’ve ever done it outside of driving lessons. It didn’t even come up in my test this summer. I turn the engine off and take a deep breath, closing my eyes to avoid looking towards the tall hedges that separate the car park from the main school building.
‘You can do this,’ I whisper as I unbuckle my seatbelt. I open my eyes, do a quick make-up check in the rear-view mirror and retrieve my bag from the passenger seat. I dig out the little pink Nokia and switch it on, admiring the glittery cover. It was a gift from Mum – a back-to-school present that I know she can’t afford – so I do as I promised and type out a text message to let her know I’ve arrived safely. When she presented me with the phone last night, I was going to argue that I could just call her from the school payphone, but the proud look on her face stopped me in my tracks.
‘Chloe?’ My stomach flips as a familiar voice drifts in through the open window.
‘Theo?’
Oh my god, he looks good, all floppy brown hair and big blue eyes. I didn’t expect him to meet me as soon as I arrived. We agreed to chat at some point today, but we’ve barely spoken all summer, so I just assumed I’d bump into him at the pyjama party tonight. I smooth out my long brown hair and duck my head through the window.
‘Hi! One sec, OK?’ I wind the lever to close the window and then open the door, pulling my keys from the ignition. ‘How long have you been back?’ I ask as I climb out, discreetly brushing crumbs from my lap. It was a long drive and lunch had been eaten on the go from a McDonald’s drive-thru. Having my own car is amazing.
‘A few hours. Got here around midday. It’s good to see you,’ he says, holding his arms out for a hug.
I hesitate, but relief draws me to his broad frame. We’re still a couple then. I mean, we didn’t break up last term or anything, but I’ve been stressing about our relationship all summer. Phone calls were scarce between me having to pull double shifts to pay for my driving lessons and Theo’s stint working for Eurocamp in Italy. We talked as much as we could, but one of us was always in a rush.
‘I missed you,’ I mumble into his neck, the delight of seeing him outweighing my worry at being back after the whole Head Girl thing. Theo isn’t the only person I haven’t spoken to this summer. I pull back to get a good look at him. His hair is a little longer, curtains now framing his face, but it suits him, and his white skin has the remnants of a summer tan. I smile up at him as he brushes my hair behind one ear.
‘Is that . . . lettuce?’ He has a bright-green shred from my Big Mac between his fingers. Theo hates junk food.
‘I had the window down,’ I explain, trying not to sound too guilty. ‘Must be a leaf or something.’
‘Right.’ We stare at each other for a second. ‘Are your bags in the car? Do you need a hand?’
I really hope I’ve hidden the takeout bag under my seat. ‘Oh, yeah, please.’ Why does it suddenly feel awkward between us? I unlock the boot and pull out a suitcase as Theo studies my little red Fiesta. ‘What do you think? I know it’s not exactly a Porsche, but it gets me around and it was cheap so –’
‘No, it’s cool,’ he interrupts, taking the case from me and setting it down on the ground. ‘Listen, Chloe, there was a reason I wanted to see you as soon as you got here.’
‘Oh?’ I try to keep my voice light as I pretend to search for something in the boot, but I feel that horrible little flip in my stomach, warning me something is wrong.
‘Yeah. Come here.’ Theo gently takes hold of my hands and pulls me round to face him. His big blue eyes are earnest as he lets out a sigh. ‘I wish it didn’t have to be this way, Clo.’ ‘What way?’ I say it as innocently as I can muster, but I’m not daft. I know what’s coming.
‘You must feel it too. We drifted apart this summer . . .’ My ears start to ring as Theo launches into his break-up speech. What an idiot. We drifted apart? He means we hardly spoke on the phone and he didn’t reply to any of my letters until last week. Does he think I’m stupid? I knew this was coming, but when I saw him waiting for me, I thought maybe there was still a chance, that I’d been reading too much into the lack of contact. I didn’t think he’d break up with me as soon as I got out of the bloody car. Typical Theo – he never wants to make a scene. Well, I’ll make a scene for him. I’ll scream right in his pretty face and drag my fingernails down his cheeks and tell everyone exactly what he tried to get me to do at the end-of-year party in July and . . . ‘– focus on our studies. I think some time apart will be really good for both of us.’
‘Good for both of us?’ I echo, realizing I haven’t heard a word Theo’s said. I exhale, my revenge fantasies fading as the reality of what’s happening overrides the anger, threatening to wind me like a punch to the gut.
‘I knew you’d understand. I mean, I’m Head Boy, and you’re . . . deputy. We’re under a lot of pressure to succeed this year, especially now we’re in Jewel and Bone. We need to focus.’ He smiles gently, but I heard that pause. So that’s the reason for all this. I’m not good enough for Theo any more. I want to rip the wing mirrors off my car and beat him over the head with them. I want to drive my knee between his legs so hard that . . . ‘I’m so glad you’re cool with this, Clo.’
‘Of course,’ I say, taking my hands from his and painting an agreeable look on my face. Don’t show him you’re upset. Keep the peace; you know the drill. ‘You’re so sensible.’
‘We can still be friends, right? I’d hate to lose you.’
Oh, please.
‘Of course we’re still friends,’ I say in agreement, smiling as I heave my other case out of the boot. What a prick.
‘You’re the best.’ Theo grins at me and gestures to the car. ‘This really is cool. Maybe we can take a drive to Prescott when we get some time off. You know, as mates.’
‘Sure.’ I really want to tell him to fuck off, but I have two massive suitcases and I don’t want to make two trips up to the main building if I can avoid it.
‘Great.’ Theo pretends to pat his curtains so he can check his watch. ‘Sorry, I’m late to meet the footie lads. You’ll be OK, right?’ He’s already walking away as he says it.
‘Right,’ I say, grinding the word out through clenched teeth.
‘See you later, Clo,’ he calls over his shoulder. I stifle the urge to give him the finger and stare after him instead, trying not to cry. Just like that, I’m forgotten.
Theo disappears beyond the hedges, leaving me with my two huge bags, a bruised ego and the start of a tension headache.
***
The car park is situated to the side of the main school building, so when I emerge on to the grounds of Morton House properly, I have to drag my cases along a colonnade that stretches past the front of the school. The walkway provides some much-needed shade from the blazing afternoon sun as I pass the library, beads of sweat already threatening to ruin my make-up.
‘May I, Miss Roberts?’ I glance up in relief as the groundskeeper and general handyman approaches me from his perch at the main doors and holds his hands out for my bags.
‘Yes, thanks, Mr Loomis.’
I let him carry them up to the entrance and step out from under the elegant columns and on to the driveway, wrapping my hair round one hand as I attempt to create a breeze on the nape of my neck with the other. I cross the gravel to the lawn and tell myself I’m simply taking a second to enjoy being back at school, not putting off the start of a new year. I let my hair drop and turn my face up to the sun, forcing my shoulders to relax even though I’m almost melting. I can practically feel my freckles multiplying as I squint through the sunshine at the country’s most prestigious sixth-form college looming in front of me.
No, looming is the wrong word. It’s too ominous-sounding for Morton Academy, the place that has felt like home since the moment I arrived. The sheer scale of the building is overwhelming though, especially at first glance. There are four floors of honey-coloured stone supported by ranks of Greek- inspired columns, an impressive entryway and a façade that is dotted with what seem to be a million windows. It always amazes me that this place was a family home once, back in the early nineteenth century. According to the keystone above the main doors, the house was built in 1838 for the incredibly rich Morton family, who owned the majority of the land in the area. That was until confirmed bachelor Patrick Morton inherited it at the turn of the century and decided that instead of letting a distant relative get their hands on it when he died, he’d do something for the community instead. Morton Academy was founded in 1906 to educate boys and girls who showed academic promise but didn’t have the funds for fancy establishments like Eton College or Harrow School, and it’s been thriving ever since. I wonder what the original Morton family would make of their house being turned into a school for the underprivileged.
‘Come on, Roberts,’ I mutter, pushing thoughts of Theo and Nikhita away as I walk back towards the school. I can compartmentalise my feelings for a little longer, can’t I? I’ve had plenty of practice at home.
I climb the low, wide steps that lead into the main entrance hall, admiring the long, embroidered banners on either side of the doors that say ‘Welcome Back Class of 2000!’, and slip through the open office door to the left, where I’m greeted with an impressive level of organisation.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Roberts, and welcome back to school. Here’s your room key.’ Mrs Pritchard, Morton’s secretary, holds out a small silver key on a black leather fob. One side is emblazoned with the school’s crest, the worker bee, and the other has the number seven carved into it. My heart sinks a little as I take it from her. I was so sure I’d get the Head Girl’s room that I never made a roommate request last year. I could be stuck with anyone. ‘Mr Loomis has already taken your bags up and your roommates have yet to arrive, so you have time to get yourself settled.’ She hands me a thick black folder edged with the almost neon-green colour that is ubiquitous at Morton. ‘Your timetable and all the usual back- to-school information is in here so you can be ready to go first thing in the morning. Any questions?’
‘Just one. Do you know who I’m sharing a room with?’ ‘Well, I could tell you, but that wouldn’t be any fun, would it?’ She chuckles as I fight to keep a neutral expression. ‘You’ll be inseparable soon enough!’
I hold in a sigh. Great, I’m obviously expected to bond with random people.
I leave the office and trudge my way up to the West Wing, where the girls’ dorms are. I roomed with Nikhita and Rachel last year, who were strangers when we started as juniors – that’s what first years at Morton are called – because everyone comes from different high schools. It’s different in your senior year when you get a choice of roommates, although there is one notable exception – Head Boy and Girl each get their own room on the top floor, just off the senior lounges. Not only that, but their rooms boast their own bathrooms. Everyone else has to share the huge communal ones.
I stare at my key as I reach the top of the main staircase. The Head Girl’s room should have been mine. I hope Nikhita’s toilet gets blocked on the first night and she has to move out.
Or even better, it floods the room and leaves it inaccessible for months.
Karma.
I turn down the senior girls’ corridor and stop outside room number seven. The door is ajar, so I push it open. My cases are already in the room, which is a carbon copy of the one I was in last year: three beds, one to the left, one to the right and one directly ahead, all flanked by wooden bedside tables. The beds have been made with fluffy white linens, and I know that three freshly washed and pressed uniforms will be hanging in the trio of wardrobes. Morton might be full of kids who grew up without much of anything, but they treat us like royalty when we’re here. There are also bookshelves and a shared desk, although last year we used that as a dressing table because everyone studies in the common rooms or the library.
A small gift basket full of toiletries and other essentials sits on each bed, a typical Morton touch, and they have names attached, so I read the labels. My roommates are Claire Walker and Amari Haddad. I can picture them both – Claire is one of those miserable-looking gothy types who’s probably watched The Craft too many times, and Amari is more bookish and seems a bit of a wallflower. I can’t remember if I’ve ever had any classes with them, but they weren’t inducted into Jewel and Bone at the end of last year, that’s for certain. I slam the door closed in annoyance. I knew I’d get stuck with some random losers. Everyone else will have submitted a stupid roommate request.
Apart from Nikhita, I bet.
I try to push my lying, cheating ex-best friend out of my mind as I drag one of my cases to a wardrobe and start to unpack. I hang my clothes methodically, letting the repetition of the task calm me down as I wonder when the first society meeting will be. The thought creates a fizz of excitement. Who thought a girl from a council estate in the North-West would end up at Morton, never mind being inducted into an illustrious secret society for her senior year?
I think back to the day I was called into the office at my old high school, and even now it feels like a fever dream. I’d vaguely heard of Morton Academy and had assumed it was somewhere only the kids of millionaires or celebrities went to, so I’d never even bothered looking into it – there was no way my mum could afford to pay for school, and my dad hasn’t been in the picture since the day the condom broke. So I applied to my local sixth-form college like all my friends, but when I was introduced to Morton’s Headmaster Brierley in that dingy old office, I knew my fortunes had changed. He handed me the glossy school brochure and told me I’d been hand-selected to attend Morton and, even better, it would all be free. By the time my perpetually late mum had joined us, I’d all but signed the official offer letter.
I ponder what being a senior – and a Jewel, which is the cute nickname the acolytes gave ourselves after we were inducted – will actually mean this year as I tuck my clothes away. I mostly own casual outfits, but I did bring one nice dress for the Hunter’s Moon Banquet, even though that’s weeks away. I stow it in a garment bag and start to line up my shoes on the floor of the wardrobe. I empty my other case too, which is crammed with books and a few photos and trinkets from home, then I leave the cases outside the bedroom door for Mr Loomis to collect and put into storage. There are a few people wandering around out there now, and I brighten as I spot my friend Lottie, happy to see a familiar face. Lottie and I bonded immediately on the first day last year, when we stood next to each other in the welcome assembly and both got the giggles. And when I say giggles, I mean she laughs like a barking seal, so eventually the whole junior class broke and joined in with us. I smile at the memory and wave, ready to run over for a hug, but she just waves back, mouths, ‘See you later,’ and disappears down the hall. I deflate a little, try to ignore the feeling that I’ve just been shunned and wonder who else is here instead. I can’t wait to see Rachel. She’s the only person I managed to actually spend time with over the summer, even if it was fleeting.
There’s no sign of my roommates.
I go back inside my new room and unfold the fancy nightclothes I bought for tonight, draping them over the bed. The first night back is the senior pyjama party, held on the roof, and I’m determined to look even better than usual. I’ll show Theo what he’s missing. I take a fresh towel from the shared hamper, planning to hit the communal bathroom while it’s still fairly quiet.
‘Hey, bitch!’ I freeze at the familiar voice, my back to the open door as she trills the next words. ‘Welcome back!’
I steel myself, making a show of dropping my towel on the floor and spinning round with my arms outstretched. ‘Nikhita!’ I squeal. ‘Babe! How are you?’
‘Oh, you know, same same.’ She looks around the room and pouts. ‘Oh, I’ll miss you so much this year. Who are you sharing with?’ It’s amazing how easily I can see through her bull now.
‘They haven’t arrived yet,’ I say lightly, studying her. Her brown skin is a deeper shade than usual, which means she’s probably been somewhere hot over the summer. Her black hair has grown and is now halfway down her back, but it’s still thick and glossy, like a model out of a shampoo ad. How I wish she looked like shit. ‘So,’ I chirp. ‘What’s your new room like?’
‘Fine, I suppose. I just hope I don’t get too lonely up there.’ She sighs, like she never even wanted her own room. ‘Some of the girls are already up there – Lottie and Francesca wanted to start the pre-party early, but I said we couldn’t until my best bitch got here!’
‘Great.’ God, could I sound less sincere? Nikhita narrows her eyes at me.
‘Is everything OK?’ She lowers her voice and leans into the room again. ‘We heard about Theo. I mean, how could he? He’s dead to us now. You know that, right?’ How the hell does she know already? To my utter dismay, my eyes start to water. ‘Oh, don’t cry!’ Nikhita’s voice seems thick with concern, but she doesn’t make a move to comfort me, or even enter the room. ‘Come on, grab your stuff and join us upstairs. Lottie has Lambrini or something equally disgusting to drink. We’ll take your mind off him.’
‘OK,’ I say, agreeing, my voice small as I collect my things and follow her out into the corridor, hating myself as I do it. What choice do I have though? I don’t have anyone else now.
Better the devil you know. Right?
ABOUT THE BOOK
Cynthia Murphy is a Young Adult horror/thriller writer from the North-West of England and her new book, KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE, is out with Penguin Random House in September 2025.
She has a long-standing love affair with all things scary, reading Point Horrors before graduating to Stephen King in her teens. Studying for a degree in Art History and Archaeology meant that she developed a thirst for anything old, beautiful and very often dead.
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