Perfectly Preventable Deaths

by Deirdre Sullivan

  Why would I give my father Mamó’s nails?

  ‘He did?’ Catlin is intrigued. ‘What kind?’

  ‘I can’t think of any off the top of my head,’ Mam says. ‘But he definitely had at least four.’

  ‘Maybe Brian is keeping a good secret,’ Catlin says to Mam. ‘Like a surprise holiday. Or a new pony!’

  ‘You hate ponies, Catlin,’ Mam reminds her. It’s true, she does. One stole her thunder at a birthday party once and she never forgave the species.

  ‘I know. But the idea of a surprise pony is still kind of good. A sturdy little dude to cart my schoolbooks around. And I’d give him hay and maybe make him a sunbonnet with holes for his ears like in a book or something. Lon would befriend him.’

  I think of the grey dapple of a smooth coat, marble mottled. I look at my sister. There are things I want to say and can’t. We fall silent once we’ve left the house, walking up the driveway, past the bare and sweeping ash, the skinny little rowan trees, the hawthorns crumpled up like whipping boys. Yew trees line the journey to the gate. They like to have those sorts of trees in graveyards. And no one’s ever sure how old they are. A hundred years. A thousand. They hollow out with age. A space inside.

  At the bus stop, I look at Catlin, twisting around Lon like tangleweed. Her hair all messed. Her happy, perfect face. His mouth. Her neck. I’m so far away from her today.

  I think of Oona. Beautiful and strange. Where have you been? I think. Is something wrong? Is it to do with magic? Are you like me? Is everybody something? My brain fills up with question marks and clouds. The bus passes her stop. She isn’t there. I feel it like an ache.

  Twigs and plants through the smudged window. Some of them are white as broken bone. Recently, I have been drafting a coming-out speech in my head. The best I can come up with is: ‘Not that my sexuality is any of your business. But I like girls. End of discussion.’ It’s short and to the point, but it would probably end up way more emotional and teary. I get a nervous flutter even considering it. Like if I do, there’ll be no going back. It will be out there.

  And the thing is, if I can have such a huge revelation about who I am in such a comparatively short period of time, who is to say I won’t have another one that moves me to a different place again? Maybe I should just say, ‘I am currently identifying as extremely gay, but in the future I may be open to other suggestions. End of discussion. P.S. Magic is real, so the salt stays under your beds.’

  I look at Lon’s face at lunchtime, searching for danger. Knowing Catlin doesn’t want me there. I need to tell Brian about this, like Mamó said. And as soon as possible. His reaction will tell me what to do. I think of his conviction that we’re safe here. Because of who his father was, or what. It feels like I am planning to betray her. Because, whatever happens, it will hurt. Lon loves that Catlin loves him. His copper-coloured eyes above her head. When people died in olden times, they used to put coins on their eyelids. To keep them closed. Helen Groarke. Her pale face wasting till she’s earth and bone.

  I let myself be ignored for twenty minutes, then I stomp inside.

  ‘The two of them,’ I say to Charley, and I roll my eyes.

  ‘I know.’ She smiles. I wonder if she means it, and I squint.

  ‘Are you OK? You look like you’ve a pain,’ she asks.

  I think of Lon, and gesture towards the pub.

  ‘I might do actually.’

  She snorts at this.

  ‘So, Charley. You never told me the full story about his ex.’

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know it to tell, to be honest …’

  ‘You must know something about Helen,’ I say, threading some of Mamó’s steel through my voice.

  She pales at the mention of her name, crosses herself. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Why?’ I glare at her.

  She squares her shoulders at me. ‘Don’t try that stuff on me. It doesn’t work.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say, filing this away for future reference. ‘Have you ever kissed Lon?’ I ask.

  ‘Ugh,’ she says. ‘I’d rather eat a knife.’ Her tone gives me a shiver in my gut.

  After school, his eyes on her seem kind, although he scares me. Catlin laughs at something that he says, and pucks him in the stomach. ‘You’re as bad.’

  Her face alight with love. I see her happy and I hold my tongue.

  One of us should get to be OK.

  A normal girl.

  29

  Dog’s Tooth Violet

  (divination, healing)

  The morning light is bleaching through the garden, making green things grey and red things bright. I’m swollen up with worry about Catlin. I can’t stop scrolling through the things I’ve seen, making them turn sinister in my mind. Lon’s eyes on me, expressionless before they flicker back to Catlin’s form. His large hand snaking all around her hands. The tips of her fingers barely meet the first bend of his knuckle.

  I stare too much at Lon, I realise. Taking him in. Do I read menace into innocence? Maybe she did fall over. She’s never lied to me before, not about important things like that. She knows I love her and will protect her. Something in this place has hurt my sister. No matter how much I want her to be fine, she isn’t fine.

  I slip on my black boots, a jumper over my pyjama top, and pad down the stairs, trying to keep as silent as possible. Channelling a fox. Or something that doesn’t get noticed right away. A hedgehog maybe. Or a little badger.

  I think of roadkill, swallow down the dread. I have been getting up earlier in the mornings to go out to the greenhouse and look at the plants. There is a sort of tension in the air that won’t relent. I pick off one of the thorny yokes that stuck to me on the walk through the garden. I crush it in my fist until it hurts and then I blink and blink and blink again. Squeeze my eyelids tight and harsh together. Scan for something. Writing on a wall. Familiar smell.

  There’s something lost here, that I need to find.

  When Catlin loses something, she prays to Saint Anthony. I don’t believe in saints, but there is something to this panic in my stomach. Back in Cork, Mam had a friend who died. It was cancer, but she always wondered if gaps the husband tore had let it in. Life doesn’t work that way, I told her then. I do not know that now. My certainty is gone. There’s magic in the world. And it’s more dangerous than I could have known.

  I think of Catlin, trying to please Lon. I think of his arm around her. His mouth on hers in front of other boys. The egg-shaped bruise. Holding her back from hugging me that night, his knuckles white with tension on her shoulder. I think of his big hands clutching the back of her head when they kiss. I think of skulls. Of Bridget, Helen, Nora and Amanda. A girl can so easily turn into a ghost.

  If something were to happen to Catlin … If he were to hurt her … I would never forgive myself.

  On my way back to the castle, I catch sight of Mamó. She’s with the raven, digging up what looks like delph and meat, placing chunks and chips in a little jam jar full of water.

  I stare at her until she turns to me.

  ‘Mamó,’ I say.

  ‘Madeline,’ she says.

  ‘Caw,’ says the raven.

  Of course it does.

  I glare at her.

  She glares back.

  Hers is better.

  We both have work to do. Just different work. Time to get to it.

  Brian’s car is in the driveway – he must have come back late last night. I find him in his office, sending emails. He looks tired; there are bags under his eyes. His hair is grey in parts and thin up top.

  ‘Madeline.’ His voice is glad to see me. I plonk two cups of tea down on his desk. He passes me two coasters.

  ‘Thank you, love. You’re up early.’

  ‘I was out in the garden.’

  He sighs. ‘Trouble sleeping?

  ‘I wanted …’ I start but then get worried. I don’t want to put more on anyone than they can take. And he looks really stressed. �
��I didn’t want to bother you, but …’

  His face turns serious. ‘Madeline Hayes, I’m here for you. Spit it out. I’ll see what I can do.’

  I exhale slowly, then breathe in again.

  ‘Oh, Brian. It’s Catlin.’

  ‘All right.’ His voice is neutral. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘She’s been seeing this older boy, and I don’t like him and I’ve heard some things.’

  He doesn’t even pause. ‘Lon Delacroix,’ he says.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  A long, long sigh from Brian. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘We’ll nip that in the bud.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Lon?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing you could put your finger on.’ Brian looks beyond me, over my shoulder at the door frame. ‘There was something with a girl before. Helen. Allegations were made, and then the whole thing escalated. I don’t want him next nor near you girls.’

  ‘Helen Groarke,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ Brian says. My stomach jolts. Either he lied to her, or she to me.

  ‘Do you think he had anything to do with it? What happened.’ I cannot keep the shiver from my voice.

  ‘No one could prove anything,’ Brian tells me, with another heavy sigh. ‘But there was a suspicion. And that’s enough, more than enough, to nip whatever this is in the bud.’

  ‘He hangs around the school,’ I say, trying to keep my voice as close to neutral as I can. The words feel like a betrayal in my mouth. I can picture Catlin hearing us, her features twisting into anger, hate.

  ‘Does he now? He might want to rethink that.’ Brian’s face is grim. His voice is lower, different. I do not know this man, I think. Who is he?

  ‘I’ll have a chat with your mam,’ he says. ‘When she gets up. Don’t worry, Maddy. You did the right thing there, confiding in me. I’ll take care of it.’ His voice is sure, confident. This must be the kind of Brian he is at work, why people fly him all around the world.

  ‘Thank you, Brian,’ I say, and really mean it.

  ‘You look tired, Madeline.’ He reaches an arm out to take my cup. ‘The tea’s gone cold. I’ll put the coffee on.’

  I do feel tired, I realise, all of a sudden. Exhausted even. Brian rises to go. ‘See you downstairs,’ he says, and walks out purposefully, like the business-dad he is.

  His office is really warm. The underfloor heating must be turned way up, I think. The shrunken head is lolling just a little to one side, balanced on the dark wood of the lintel, all wizened and remoulded. Soft grey bread with nostrils, cheeks and eyes. Those features lie, the truth of them forgotten.

  Corpses in the mountains, in the house.

  I stagger up. I’m feeling very drained, for some strange reason. I press my hand to the wallpaper, feeling the soft relief of shapes. I haven’t been in here for more than a few minutes before. And never by myself. I haven’t had the time to take it in. I should move, I should head downstairs. Brian will be waiting. The wallpaper in his office is off-white – darker than cream, with patterns carved in. Can you say carved with paper? I don’t know. They look like they’re carved. There’s something natural about them. To the touch, it feels like the pelt of something. A solid, organic texture. I shake my head, trying to shed my mind-fog. Outside, I see the curl of the blue path to the courtyard, spot a little creature hurrying down the trail. I close my eyes. It could be a rabbit or a rat. A little dog. It’s hard to tell from here. It feels like I’m inside a computer screen, in a story or a film, and looking out but I can’t break the barrier between me and the world. I can’t get through. There’s something I’m not doing, and if I could just …

  But, as my eyes swim, something like a pattern is developing. A sort of shape that’s underneath the shapes. There’s something wrong about it, like one section is slightly paler than the others. But not in colour. In another way. In something else. I touch my hand to that part of the wall, to the left of Brian’s desk, and it is warmer. There is something here. The wild roses and birds, linking intricately together. The cruel downturn of beak. The sharp of thorn and claw. I sigh, and press my hand harder against the wall.

  It gives beneath my hand. It starts to open.

  30

  Chickweed

  (itches and the lungs)

  Little receptacles line the walls. Jam jars, bell jars, vials and old glass bottles full of dried-up little things. Feet. Eyes. Skin, leaves, powder. Shards of bone. There is only a very little light. The door clicks shut behind me and I start.

  When we first moved here, Brian told us there were places that he didn’t know about, things his father built inside these walls. But this is some next-level wizardly nonsense. I’m not sure how to feel. Secrets are unnerving, but secret passages are kind of … magical. The proper kind of magical. That real good scary Christmas-morning feeling.

  My excitement wanes a bit as I realise that the dark has enveloped me entirely. I cannot see my feet or hands. They say when you are sensory-deprived, your other senses start to compensate. I wish they would. I wish I had my phone, some sort of light. The stone is rough and jutting – unpredictable – and I am very glad of my thick boots.

  My mind keeps replaying the conversation with Brian. Fluttering between two kinds of guilt. Does it count as betrayal when you’re worried about someone’s safety?

  It will to her.

  She’s going to be so mad. Maybe I should stay here in this musty, cobwebby passageway, and forge a new life among these cool jars. I could work my way up through the ranks of the jar-folk, carrying small and large items alike and being respected because of my pockets.

  I inch my feet gingerly along the path. Baby steps. There could be a drop here, easily. Eroded steps. A surprise torture dungeon. Brian’s decent, but his house is weird as hell, pieced together by his father’s wants. Castle upon castle. Halls in walls. I wonder if it is a murder castle. How long have I been walking step by step? It seems to take me ages, tightrope-walking foot in front of foot. My mind is clear. I do not have to worry about the fallout from Catlin, or the story with Oona. I only have to get back to the light. I breathe the air in, dusty and thick with unfamiliar stuff. It’s coating my oesophagus with paste. Coughing doesn’t help. I need to keep on moving. Through the dark.

  The walls feel rough and dry beneath my fingers. Brick meets brick until I reach an edge. I feel the sharpened slant of wall beside me. Two paths diverge. And I don’t know what’s right. I close my eyes, breathe in a layer of scum and try to think. Place my two hands flat upon the ground. It isn’t earth. It’s concrete, and it’s harsh. There is an unfinishedness about this place. I get the sense that there is something here I will not like. Or that there has been, maybe, in the past. I’m not sure if it’s intuition, fear.

  I choose to venture on and see what happens. It feels strange to be eaten by Brian’s house. I keep on searching, hoping in the dark. My hand finds a door, thick and smooth with varnish. I grasp the handle, turn and it doesn’t give. I kick and bang. Scrape at it until hard flecks are caught beneath my nails. It doesn’t help. I might be here forever. Like the bones inside the steamer trunks.

  I leave the door and carry on, piece by piece. There are some letters carved into the wall. I can’t make out the words. A zigzag, a circle, then some random scratches. Someone else was here before me, I think. And for long enough to do this. Pass the time with chipping glyphs into stone. I shudder.

  I keep on walking, feet upon the path. The cement turns to flagstones, to pebbles, then to something soft. A fleecy damp. I put my hand down, pull at it, and smell it. It’s moss, or something that’s a lot like moss. I hope that’s a good sign. I still can’t see, the walls are close and it is getting colder. I wish I had something to keep me warm.

  I move until I meet a metal door. I feel for, find, the latch. It’s fastened with a padlock that has rusted. I can feel it flake beneath my touch. There’s dust on it too. I don’t think it’s been used for quite a long time. My fingers search the ground for anything at all to bash
it open. I find a stone; it’s small and thin and sharp. I saw and saw at the little lock. I have to hold it steady with one hand for this to work. It takes a while. I feel it start to give. My hand slips and the sharp edge slices deeply down into my palm. Blood drips. I use the stone again, my left hand stinging. Warm blood on the smooth surface. The shackle gives.

  I push it open. Stumble into brightness. There are steps overgrown with ivy, brambles, nettles and herb robert. I see some bottles poking underground. Glass and stings are nothing. I am free.

  The fresh air feels so healing in my lungs. I cough out dust and make my way down the steps and down and down again until I hit a road. My clothes are thick with dirt. I turn and walk until I hit the main street of the village. I make my way towards the long road home. My muscles ache. The sky is grey. I wonder how long it has been. Since I pushed in that door.

  The bright red car pulls up beside me. ‘State of you,’ she tells me. ‘Hop in.’

  ‘How did you know I’d be here?’ I ask.

  ‘Brian called me – said you’d gone wandering in the walls. There’s only a few places that you’d come out in one piece.’

  ‘Wait – what?’ It’s hard to tell if she’s joking or not and then I remember she is Mamó.

  ‘Did you break the padlock?’

  I nod. She says, ‘You’ll be replacing that for me.’

  ‘For you?’ I ask. ‘Is it your secret passage to Brian’s office then?’

  ‘It was in his father’s time. I mainly use it for storage now.’

  ‘What was it for before?’

  She grunts at me. That’s all I’m going to get. I nod at her. It’s easier than speaking. My throat is dry. She hands me a little bottle of clear liquid. I drink from it. It burns my well-worn throat.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Something small to help you,’ she tells me. ‘We used to use it for babies when they were teething back in the day. To shut them up. We called it Mother’s Lull.’