Oona has insomnia as well. We talk about it, sometimes, on the bus. I sit beside her now, on the way home. Today she wore a little lacy vest beneath her blouse and I could see her collarbones above it. She’s so beautiful. Not in an I-want-to-look-like-that way, but in an I-want-to-look-at-her way. I kind of can’t believe she’s friends with me. Or getting to be friends, anyway.
The tea came in a small brown bag, with a message scrawled in crow-black script.
For Copping On.
‘She’s kind of a magnificent bastard,’ is Catlin’s take on Mamó.
I’m not so sure, but I’m still drinking the passive-aggressive tea before I go to bed. Anything that helps me not have freak-outs. To be more like a normal human being.
‘I wonder,’ Catlin muses, ‘if Mamó has a Lon-attracting tea.’
‘You wouldn’t need it,’ I tell her.
‘I know.’ She smirks. ‘He looooooves me.’
It is true. He does loooooove her. They have become a sort of little gang. The last day, when I tried to join her for a smoke break, Lon told me, ‘You don’t smoke, you’re not allowed.’
Catlin laughed, and then I was genuinely made to go back in. Which was some nonsense.
On her phone, she has a special beep that’s just for him. A wolf-whistle. It is, apparently, hilarious. One of their little in-jokes. And if she doesn’t reply, he rings, to make sure she’s safe. It’s a little creepy, but she likes it.
‘Why hasn’t he kissed me yet, Mad?’ she asks me.
‘Because sneaking into school to kiss a student is a level of creepy even he’s uncomfortable with?’ I ask. ‘Like, maybe he wants to kiss you on a burning Viking boat, or a rocket that’s going to the moon.’
Catlin looks sceptical. And she’s right to. I don’t know much about the business of kissing. I’ve only kissed, like, five or six guys. The ‘or six’ is because he didn’t use tongue even though his mouth was open. I’m not sure what we did together, House-Party-Paul and I, but I wouldn’t call it kissing. Not exactly.
‘I’m not a Disney princess though,’ Catlin tells me. ‘I am a proper girl. With proper lusts.’
‘Maybe it’s not about you though,’ I tell her. ‘It could be about him.’ This feels wise. I have the idea that a lot of things Lon does are mostly about Lon.
‘Working up the courage,’ Catlin says, and I restrain my side-eye. Hold my tongue.
We reach the crossroads, both paths up the mountain. One up left, another to the right. We take the right one. It curls around the rocks and comes out at this jutting, flat sort of ledge. If you want to go beyond that lip, there is no path, you have to climb it properly, like a mountaineer. We sit and wait for Layla. Catlin has a little bottle of whiskey and Coke. She took it from Brian’s press. The whiskey, not the Coke. It’s probably expensive. It tastes heavy. We sit and drink and look back at the castle, the hanging bits of trees and lichen, moss. The sheep have gone inside now for the winter. The only creatures we see are crows. There are always crows around the castle. It’s like they know they’re being picturesque.
Catlin deftly rolls a cigarette and then another. Her nails are longer, filed into a curve. The way Lon likes. It’s pretty, I suppose, but unhygienic. I rest my head on her shoulder and look at all the landscape. Dead things wait in stasis till the spring.
‘I feel like I’m in rehab here,’ she says. ‘Or on a reality show or something. Being watched.’
I nod. Catlin is exactly the kind of person who would have done a stint in rehab. Not boring, real-person rehab. The fancy celebrity-filled ones where you fall in love with expensive men who buy you things like islands.
‘We should ask Mam to drive us into Galway to get supplies,’ I suggest. Catlin nods. She is not thinking about the same supplies that I am thinking of. (Jelly beans and Tipp-Ex.)
‘Good plan.’ She pulls out her phone. ‘I hate living in a village. Even if I were friends with everyone I’d met here, I’d still only have, like, nine friends. Including you. It’s not enough.’ She sighs.
‘I know,’ I tell her, counting all my friends, including Mam. Four. Five if I had more self-esteem. Three and a half, realistically. I’m still not sure about Oona.
Layla bounds towards us, looking flushed. She twists sweat out of her long ponytail, and winds it in a knot on top of her head. Her face is lightly feathered with sweat. She’s wearing shorts, in spite of the cold.
‘I had the best run,’ she says, plonking herself down and staring at the mountain. ‘Do either of you run?’
‘I do a bit,’ I say. She smiles at me.
Catlin looks at Layla. ‘I’m not big into exercise,’ she tells her. ‘Maybe if there was something to run from …’
‘Like Lon,’ Layla says, and Catlin laughs.
‘I wouldn’t run from Lon. Not yet at least. I kind of really like him.’ Her face is happy, but she’s almost shy. She’s giving Layla a piece of something real, something important.
But Layla’s face is grim. ‘And he likes you,’ she tells her. Her face is strange, expressionless. A mask. There is a pause.
‘Do you want some whiskey and Coke?’ asks Catlin.
‘I’m good, thanks,’ Layla says. ‘My life is weird enough without the drink.’
She waggles her eyebrows as if we know what she means. We do not know what she means at all.
‘Weird, how?’ says Catlin.
‘Ballyfrann is … Actually I will have a drop. Thanks, Catlin.’ Layla takes a gulp and passes the bottle back.
‘Ballyfrann is what?’ I ask her.
‘Ballyfrann is very … Ballyfrann. It’s not like the real world, is it?’ she says. ‘I mean, not that I have much experience of the real world, but I have seen it on TV, and I feel that we get a pretty raw deal here.’
‘The Internet is terrible,’ I tell her. ‘Oona sent me a gif last night and it did not load for fifteen minutes. That’s too long to wait for any gif.’
‘I don’t know though,’ Catlin says. ‘Like, there’s loads of nature and stuff. And we get to live in a castle.’
A wolf-whistle emerges from Catlin’s bag.
‘Lon?’ Layla asks.
I nod at her.
‘It would be. Jesus Christ.’
Catlin moves a little bit away, angling her phone to get reception.
Layla turns to me. ‘Does Brian know?’ she asks.
‘About what?’
‘Herself and Lon.’ She gestures to Catlin’s back.
‘No,’ I say. ‘It’s none of his business who she’s seeing.’
‘Might be worth telling him,’ she tells me. ‘Just a thought.’
I take a swig from the bottle of whiskey and Coke. It’s sweet and sharp and earthy. I’m not sure if I like it, but I find I want more.
‘So,’ Layla says, her smile a shepherd’s crook, ‘Oona, eh?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing,’ she says, her grin widening. ‘Yet.’
She’s very full of questions, I think. But I suppose that’s how you make friends. And I would be curious as well, if I’d grown up with a small bank of people and suddenly someone made a lodgement of more people in the bank of people.
When Catlin comes back, Layla takes us up the mountains to a little ledge where people meet up in summer.
‘When I say “people”, I mainly mean me and my brothers and possibly a Collins or two,’ she says.
‘It’s cool,’ I say, looking out at the darkening trees below us. ‘It almost looks like the top of them’s an ocean.’
‘Careful where you swim,’ she says, and laughs.
‘How was Lon?’ I ask Catlin.
‘Fine,’ she says. ‘He just wanted to check I got home safe. I told him I was back at the castle, in case he got worried.’
‘Good,’ Layla says. Catlin looks at her. ‘You wouldn’t want to worry Lon too much.’
‘No.’ Catlin’s voice is slower, careful. ‘It’s early days yet.’
‘Early
days,’ says Layla. Crooks her mouth.
I wonder if she has a thing for Lon.
We talk about that later, walking home in the approaching darkness.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised at all,’ says Catlin. ‘There’s a very small pool of tappable men in Ballyfrann.’
‘This is true. And she’s related to two of them. Like, it’s Eddie or Lon, basically. Unless she’s bi. I hope it doesn’t make things weird for ye.’
‘Do you know what? I actually don’t care. Because he likes me.’ Catlin’s smile is bright and full of hope.
‘Of course he does,’ I say to her. ‘You’re magic.’
‘I kind of am,’ she says, high-fiving a tree. ‘But that doesn’t mean everybody fancies me. There’s free will and things. It’s a sort of sex lottery.’
‘Can I point out that I don’t find Lon attractive at all?’ I say. I could go on, but I don’t want to ruin this. She’s just so happy, thinking about him.
And then we turn a corner and we stop.
A dead thing in the road, splayed valley wide, red on grey and green, and blue and purple.
I had never seen a fox in real life before, only in books. In photographs. On screens. It is bright orange. Sunset. Autumn leaves. The feet are black, the tip of the tail white. Its fur is only soaked in blood in patches. No flies buzz. The ribcage has been forced apart, the insides scooped and tangled. It looks fresh.
Catlin’s frozen. I crouch low beside it, sniffing, looking. Running torchlight up and down, across, for details.
I don’t know what compels me to do that. I need to find out more. There is something off about the fox, and not just that it has been tortured, killed.
Our father, charred to flakes upon the earth.
‘Madeline,’ Catlin says. She says my name again. ‘Maddy?’
I kneel down and put my ear beside the fox’s mouth. I feel the heat emanating from it. This is recent. It will leach out soon. It will be cold, as dead things always are.
A matter of minutes, I think. While Layla told us gossip about Lon, somebody was tearing this apart.
‘There’s something wrong,’ I say. ‘About this fox.’
I can feel her eyes on me, as mine scan the forest floor, the leaves, the trees for clues. The blood paint-bright and all the woods a canvas. I look at her.
I feel the wrongness pouring from the earth.
Catlin’s lips are moving and her hands are clasped. I realise she’s praying. I look hard at her, not with normal eyes. It isn’t helping.
Our breath pools over the little corpse together. She peers at the delicate ribcage, white bone through the red. The clean lines of an incision, with a scalpel or those fancy cooking knives Brian bought in Asia. There were jagged edges too though. Like something had been tearing it, or eating. Some bits were stuck with pins into the earth, splayed wide apart. Like a butterfly in a box.
Catlin strokes its paw. ‘The poor dead thing. I hope it’s found its peace.’
I eye the branches, thinking of the person that did this. They could be close. They could be very close. They could be here. I pull at her and tell her we should go.
My sister nods.
We walk back through the woods in dark and silence. She links my arm like we’re kids again.
The fox rests on the soft floor of the forest.
A mockery of something lovely once.
15
Cowslips
(St Peter’s herb, for helping things along)
The forest is harsh on the way home, the crossroads almost flickering in the moonlight. I keep an eye behind us in the night, and so does Catlin. The path is oil-slick dark, a black snake’s tongue. I feel as though we should have been dropping breadcrumbs on our way to meet Layla. To guide us home, like children in a story. Catlin’s hands are cold and she is shaking.
I rub my sister’s back.
‘Madeline, it reminds me of something …’ she tells me. ‘I can’t think what. But looking at that fox, it didn’t feel like it was a dead animal. It felt like it was someone that we knew. Like, gut-punch hard.’
I swallow. ‘I felt it too,’ I say. ‘And I kind of …’
‘Do you want to throw salt at it?’ she asks, her mouth a little crooked. Catlin knows me well. Salt for danger. Metal objects buried in the ground and wrapped in cloth.
‘Oh, so much salt,’ I tell her. ‘Like, ocean-level salt. Poor little dude.’ I’m trying to keep my voice light, but it isn’t working.
‘It feels as though the forest’s not for humans,’ Catlin tells me. ‘It’s like it’s uncharted. Off the map.’ She’s murmuring again, she’s saying the Hail Mary. I know it calms her down, but it’s making me so anxious here right now. My breath comes fast. She quiets then. She knows me.
‘I want to know …’ she begins, and then trails off. ‘Do you remember? Something about the fox …’
‘Catlin, you’re not making sense.’
‘You know,’ she says, ‘when you’ve had, like, this really detailed dream and then you wake up and all you can remember is, like, images? The general sense of it. The how-it-made-you-feel. And, like, you’re turning bits inside your mind, and waiting for other bits that will never come. And then you see, like a bowl of cereal or the colour blue and get a little flash?’
‘If you’ve been getting a little flash, Catlin, you should report it.’
‘Stop, Madeline. I’m trying to explain.’ Her hand is ratting through her hair, as though it were more tangled than it is. As though this were a thing that she could fix, if her ponytail were smooth enough.
‘You know that book that Dad had when we were small?’
I nod, and then I realise it’s dark, so I also say, ‘The stories, yeah?’
‘Was there one about a fox or something? Something like the thing we saw? A fox?’
‘There was that Mr Fox guy, I remember. The murderer.’
‘I remember him. Be bold, be bold, but not too bold,’ she chants. ‘No, no, it wasn’t that. I’ve … I’ve lost it.’
Her voice is sad, frustrated. We’re almost halfway down the castle driveway. It’s wrong that it’s so normal. Everything’s the same shape that it was. Except our brains, and small bits of our hearts.
The castle, when we get to it, is empty. We call and call and run through rooms and halls, sheet-covered furniture like odd-shaped ghosts. Sometimes, when you leave a scary thing, the normal stuff around you makes you almost forget that it has happened. With this, though, the strange of it keeps bleeding through. Statues look as if they’re about to move. Shadows are dangerous. My breath sounds harsh, like it’s someone else’s breath. We can’t find Mam or Brian. We try their phones, but they don’t even ring. My body hums with action.
Catlin looks at me. ‘We have to do something, Maddy.’
‘I don’t know if there’s anything we can do. It won’t bring it back, like.’ It sounds lame and lying, coming out of my mouth. Not that I think we’ll resurrect the fox, but there has to be a thing. A concrete thing. To mark the little murder that we found.
Catlin’s mouth keeps moving, and her hands. Her head tilts up.
‘You need to see Mamó,’ she says, and her face is very sure. I’m glad that someone’s sure. I feel too young to deal with this myself. It’s too much death.
And that is why we knock on Mamó’s door. The smooth dark wood of it. The iron knocker, shaped like leaf and moon. I swallow down. I can’t hear any movement, but Catlin’s leaning in. She nods.
‘Someone’s inside.’
I knock again. The door cracks open. Mamó is wearing men’s flannel pyjamas. Her hair is in a braid all down her back. She looks quite put-upon and strangely normal. I never thought about her asleep before. She doesn’t seem the type. Unless it was with one eye open, watching.
‘What is it now?’ she barks, as though this were something we often do.
‘There was a thing,’ I say to her, so helpful. We step inside. Catlin looks at everything. I can see her big eyes dri
nking in the jam jars full of things, the many plants. Mamó sees it too, turns to her as though she were an unexpected mouse. An inconvenience.
‘A thing?’ she repeats, her face impassive. ‘Be more specific.’
‘We found a slaughtered fox in the woods. It isn’t safe.’
She makes a disdainful sound, but goes to pull on her boots and a long brown duster. She grabs her car keys from the kitchen counter.
‘Go home, Catlin,’ she says. Catlin looks at me. I look at her. She doesn’t move.
Mamó glares at her, and in a tone of I shouldn’t have to explain this to you but it seems I do, she adds, ‘Wait for Brian and your mam. They’ll worry if neither of ye are there.’
Catlin quietly nods. Mamó nods back.
She turns to me. ‘Take some jars with you. You’ll know which ones,’ she says, offering me a black canvas shopper. It has a strawberry embroidered on it. It is the least Mamó bag I’ve ever seen.
I scan the shelves, and pluck and choose a few things. I do not need many. I close my eyes and let my fingers find them. My breathing slows, as this clicks into place. I find my calm.
Mamó decidedly picks up a little brown doctor’s bag from beneath the coat rack. And a massive shovel. Why does she have shovels in her house, the way that normal people have umbrellas? She lashes it over her shoulder, and we stride towards the car. She doesn’t lock her door. I notice that.
The trip consists of Mamó, hands grimly on the steering wheel, firing question after question at me, about what we were doing in the forest. About the things we saw. The temperature. The placement of the organs. How decomposed or otherwise it had been. The gender.
‘It was male, I think,’ I offer. ‘But it was hard to tell. The pieces were all … moved around and things.’
‘What things?’ she barks.
‘Like bitten off or cut. And there were pins.’
And she says, ‘Hmmm.’ And glares. Mamó loves glaring. It’s probably her favourite thing to do. Except for glowering.
‘There’s something in the fox,’ I say, and amn’t sure exactly why I’m saying, ‘a kind of … something … It’s warm there. Much too warm.’
Perfectly Preventable Deaths Page 9
