Perfectly Preventable Deaths

by Deirdre Sullivan

  He walks towards Lon. ‘He swore to me that Helen wasn’t his. That it was different. I like to hope that people can change. Get better. I wasn’t ever sure that I believed him.’ He gives Lon a kick, he flops down on his side. ‘I also wasn’t sure that I didn’t. Benefit of the doubt.’ He kicks again. ‘And then he had the temerity to interfere with my daughter. With my family.’ Another vicious kick. His face is calm. His face is very calm. I don’t think I have ever seen Brian like this. He’s always been just a little nervous. Hands twitching at his cuffs. There’s a confidence to him, a sort of horrid grace. I’m not sure if it’s comforting. It’s unnerving.

  He closes his eyes. His voice is his again, high and uncertain. ‘Forgive me, girls. Sheila. I let this happen. I’m sorry. Madeline, I’ve tried to reason with Mamó, to bargain, but there isn’t any way …’

  His eyes are wide. I incline my head a touch, like she does. Acknowledging.

  ‘I know you tried. It’s OK, Brian. I’m coping.’

  ‘And coping very well, fair play to you.’

  Mam walks closer to him, puts a hand on his shoulder. For better or for worse. She loves him still. I see it in her face. I’m not sure that she trusts him, but she loves him. Which is just as well. This version of Brian is definitely best kept onside. I’d hate to see that calculated rage turned against me. Every kick timed for the perfect hurt. How did our stepdad get so good at this?

  Lon moans; his mouth is gagged, I think it’s stuffed with rags. I’m glad, I think. I don’t want him talking. Catlin’s little hand inside my hand. Her fingernails have almost grown back. I stare at Lon. The thing that killed my sister. I look for my compassion. It isn’t here. I used it up on Catlin, Mam and Brian. The people that he hurt with what he did.

  Amanda Shale. Nora Ginn. Bridget Hora. Helen Groarke. Cold bones in rough soil. And all the other names upon the walls. Each one a girl. Each one a person’s life.

  Brian takes the sword from Mam. Passes it to Catlin. He strides to Lon, and cuts his feet loose from his hands. Lon is missing several fingers, I realise. They should be bleeding but the soft pink stubs seem to be forming something to replace. What is he? Is he a thing that broke through at the crossroads, in the wake of something big and old? I look at him. His copper penny eyes on mine, wide, pleading.

  What did Mamó say to me that night?

  Our face on their appetites.

  He is a mask, a lie. He would have killed her.

  ‘Thank you, Brian.’ Catlin walks towards her crumpled ex.

  Mam is standing straight, but her face is hollow, caving in.

  ‘Lon?’ Catlin’s hands brush the side of his face. ‘Lon?’

  He makes a creaking sound from his mouth, and my sister tells him, ‘Shh …’

  She looks to me. ‘Maddy, can you hold him?’ I venture over. Put my hands around his waist and haul.

  He’s very light for somebody so tall. I think of the shadow stretching through the garden. Birds have hollow bones. The swoop of claws. He makes another sound. I curl my fingers tight beneath his ribs. My sister on the bed, her face splayed wide.

  ‘I forgive you, Lon.’ Catlin’s voice is jarring through my thoughts. ‘I don’t want you to think that I am doing this because we broke up, or out of revenge. After this is finished, I’m going to work really hard on never thinking about you ever again. On turning you into nothing. This is the first step.’ She pushes the tip of the wooden sword towards his chest.

  ‘Left a bit,’ I say. ‘If you want heart.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she says, and presses it into his skin. It parts like butter but he does not bleed. I put my hand down to feel where his fingers went missing. I can touch them now, the muscle and the soft nubbed baby growth that moves beneath. The blood on him, I realise, must not be his.

  Catlin pushes harder, angling up between two of his ribs. I can feel him tensing and convulsing. His armpits are dry. He mustn’t sweat. I wonder how he regulates his body.

  Brian has looped an arm around Mam’s waist. She doesn’t seem to notice. She’s still staring.

  ‘You broke my heart,’ Catlin says to Lon. Her voice is so, so gentle. ‘You broke my heart. Because I really loved you, till you killed me. I dream about you sometimes, and I cry. Because you warped a lovely thing and turned it into something else entirely. You made me less. And then you ate my face.’

  She looks at him, her eyes flashing angry.

  ‘It is not OK for girls to be your food. We’re not for eating.’

  There is a pause. Her face is tense, she’s putting all her weight on the sword but it isn’t budging. Maybe something’s stuck. Who knows where his heart is or if he even has one?

  She turns to me, her face twisting against itself.

  ‘I asked him to stop. I kept on begging, pleading with him to stop. And so he took my tongue. He tried to shut me up. But I am speaking. Mam, I need some help.’

  She’s crying now. I feel Lon shrink a little, slump and soften. I wonder, then, how much of her he loved. Brian’s blade in Catlin’s hands and inside Lon, and Catlin crying when a puppy dies on television. Me playing with my doctor dreams. I wanted to save lives, not to take them. I wanted to help people. And maybe in a weird way, this is that.

  Mam starts to move towards her struggling daughter. Brian removes his hand, letting her go, stands awkward at the side. The three of us crowding around the lanky awkward half-corpse.

  ‘It’s not revenge,’ she says. ‘It’s not for me. But it is for someone.’ We all look at the wall. She starts to say their names.

  ‘Dearbhla, Sibéal, Amanda …’ We join in.

  We say their names like prayers.

  We wield the sword.

  ‘… Laoise, Eimear, Laura, Bríd, Sorcha, Bridget, Karen, Gráinne, Julie, Roisín, Gobnait, Violet, Dymphna, Alacoque, Aoife, Fionnuala, Victoria, Elizabeth, Emer, Sinéad, Sally, Ciara, Mary-Ann, Nancy, Susan, Fiona, Delia, Maisy, Laura, Rachel, Caoimhe, Julie, Ava, Sheila, Maria, Antoinette, Cathleen, Martina, Jennifer, Carol, Nora, Lee, Colette, Ellen, Claire, Laurel, Jacinta, Mary-Bridget, Mary, Ann, Marie, Noreena, Savita, Carmel, Sarah, Aoibhe, Scarlett, Dearbhla, Katherine, Cecilia, Lisa, Lillian, Louise, Patricia, Katie, Cliodhna, Shona, Nuala, Shauna, Patricia, Monica, Meabhdh, Jean, Gillian, Elaine, Anna, Sabhdh, Sarah, Adele, Rose, Grace, Joyce, Nicola, Ruth, Frances, Naomi, Elizabeth, Sandra, Dolores, Aisling, Sharon, Lola, Chloe, Helen, Daisy, Megan, Úna, Fawn, Catlin.’

  We move our hand and I now understand the expression ‘twist the knife’. It’s because of what a body does, when you curl a blade inside it. We push and worry our way deeper in. And then there is a sigh.

  And he is gone.

  Catlin starts to cry, and so does Mam. And I can feel a building-up behind the tops of my cheeks but there’s a wall that’s keeping them from flowing and I wonder if what used to push them out of me was in my soul. Maybe now I’ll be a little grey cloud. Never raining. Always full of rain.

  I press my face into Catlin’s shoulder so hard that I feel as if when I pull back there should be the imprint of my features in her skin. Me and Mam and Catlin go to put on the kettle. Brian stays back, to safely bury Lon. He’s brought cement.

  Button is in the kitchen. Mamó has sewn his eye shut. He looks like a little Franken-cat. He’s still small, but shaped like a cat now and not a kitten. He hisses and he starts when he sees me. He slinks away, back arched.

  ‘He hates you now,’ says Catlin, looking amused. ‘I wonder why.’

  I haven’t told them how he lost his eye. What I was prepared to do, for her sake. I don’t think there’s a need to. I’m not proud.

  ‘It’s these shoes,’ I say, pointing to my mucky army boots.

  ‘On Mam’s good floor. He used to love you though.’

  Mam nods. ‘Sure, who wouldn’t love Maddy?’ She kisses the top of my head and stirs the spoon round and round in the fat red teapot. Listening to the rhythm of their voices, I can’t quite put away the harsh reality. I don’t think Lon should be aliv
e, but what came out of him – the stuff that was his blood but wasn’t blood – the smell of it all wrong – it’s on our hands. And that’s the kind of thing that changes people. Button cringing out of rooms and hating me. I lost my soul, but apparently my conscience is still around to nag me. I wonder …

  ‘Madeline?’ Mam says. They are both looking at me, across the table. Their expressions mirroring each other. It’s a little weird, I think. Aren’t Catlin and I supposed to do that? Maybe that’s what Mam has every day. I try to force my thoughts away from darker places and join in, but my eyes are getting heavier and heavier.

  Eventually I drift off into sleep. I feel Catlin’s breath against my ear. ‘I’ll say a prayer for you tonight, Mad. Love you.’

  Mam lifting up my head, sliding a pillow gently underneath.

  ‘Put her to bed.’

  ‘If she gets up, she’ll only go downstairs. To that … that woman.’

  Feet move, lights click.

  They leave me.

  I’m alone.

  49

  Navelwort

  (St Anthony’s fire, other outward heats)

  Mamó comes for me in the half-light. The moon and sun are both in the sky, two pale, one shining. We are going to find a blessed tree and cut off bits of that and then do the same thing with a cursed tree. I’m to look for acorns as well. For anything that’s useful. Dying insects, feathers. Special rain. When we get back, I’m going to weed the physic garden, while she sees some clients. I might fit in some study if I’m quick.

  I’m building up to helping her with people. She’s easing me in slowly, so she says. My muscles ache. It doesn’t feel that slow. The air is bright and cold. I kind of like this, working all the time. Being bone tired, always learning more. It kind of suits me. Weirdly.

  The mountains hazy. Somewhere up there, Oona is swimming. I wonder if she’s thinking about me, as she flickers through the wet. The place where she feels safe. She’s been in touch. I haven’t called her back. Catlin’s still in bed, Button curled around her. He loves her now, as much as he hates me. Her hair and nails and eyebrows growing back, millimetre by millimetre. Piece by piece. My sister sleeps a lot. I used to sleep a lot. Before all this.

  Before I worked for Mamó.

  The raven flies above. Mamó is fairly sure she thinks there will be food. The raven is a she. Badb, not Bob. Mamó feeds her well. She doesn’t think it’s loyalty, but I amn’t sure. I offered her a slice of ham yesterday. She flew it far away before she ate it.

  Mamó looks behind her, making sure I’m there. I give a nod. The air’s too thin for voices. She strides ahead, so my short legs can’t catch up. I need to hasten. Seven years. I sigh. I don’t like thinking about it. Still, I’m here. I want to do this right. I want to learn.

  What we’ve done so far has been about herbs, and ointments. Ingredients. Mamó says the best way to learn magic is through doing. She says that I’m not ready. Says I’m weak. I have to grow a little stronger first. It almost killed me, saving Catlin’s life. The shining thread.

  I think about the little orange seed inside the marble sometimes. Wonder if she’s using it at all. What would you need a soul for? The little missing shimmer bit of me. ‘It’s somewhere safe’ and, if I watch and listen, maybe someday I could get it back. Be me again. Be whole.

  My hands deep in my pockets, I rustle the salt packets from cafes, the rowan berries, little bits of twigs. My pockets are always full. My hands are dirty. I paint my nails to try to hide the stains.

  Mamó’s back is straight and proud ahead. I feel like I’m alone with all my thoughts. Two thousand, five hundred and forty more days to go. A flash of something foxy through the gorse. Bright copper fur and eyes. Something ending, something else beginning.

  And all of it is strange but so am I.

  The morning bright, I feel like I belong.

  Epilogue

  Yew

  (protection, poison, ghosts)

  You’re tired in the forest and you’re running. Your breath catches in your throat. The woods around you, clean and fresh. You see the tiny oak, new growing from the earth. The soft things starting, like your baby girls. The two are there. They’re coming for you now. You cannot stop them, but you try to hide. You are exhausted.

  It was supposed to be a normal life. A wife. Two daughters. Clever little things, her mouth, your eyes. Catlin has her hair and Maddy yours. They’re perfect. Sheila’s face. There are so many good things in your world.

  Checks and balances.

  The steps come slower now. You try to move so silently away. Oak and ash and elm. Little flecks of bark and leaf to help. You say the words. You try to say the words. It doesn’t help. You see a raven land and then another. Something’s different here. There’s something wrong.

  You were always quiet. She liked that in you. Steady. She trusted you, and almost right away. There is a sort of love that is like magic. And it grows, it draws in other people. You’re kinder in your life because of her. And it will be OK. The little girls. You hope they’re not like you. You hope they are.

  There’s goodness and there’s badness in the world.

  You turn. They are there. The old one and the young. There’s something in his hand – the young one’s hand – it’s hard and heavy. Moving down towards you.

  Once your legs are broken, you know what’s going to happen next. It’s what they do. It’s what they’ve always done. You cannot move. When they are done with you, you cannot move. All you are is chunks of flesh on bone. The canopy of trees, the wavy oak, the fat lopsided beech. The lovely ash.

  The old one takes a book out, starts to chant. The young one pours.

  You close your eyes. It’s warm on you and wet. Like being Christened. You can remember things. Moments of love. Eyes and little hands. Two babies in one cot, and curled together. They cannot sleep when they are kept apart. Two hands flexing around your index fingers. They grasped you right away. Such different souls, but something in them knew that you were theirs.

  The young one pauses, and you see him look at your face for a long time. So long that his father stops the chant to make him carry on.

  You haven’t told them what they want to know. It wasn’t hard; you’re used to being quiet. You felt the secrets rising in your mouth sometimes with Sheila. The parts of it she didn’t, couldn’t, know. The weight of love from her. Those hazel eyes that look at you. That looked.

  Love is hard to hide from.

  You won’t see her again. You know that now. He watches you on fire. Oak and ash. Elm and beech. All the living creatures. You clutch at what you can get. The earth. Blood. Bone. You spend it all. Everything you’ve left, one perfect coin.

  You’re burning and it hurts and, oh, it hurts like nothing’s ever hurt. And that is something. Channel it.

  On fire.

  Pink flesh red and black and grey and white.

  With everything. You keep the forest safe.

  You do your job.

  Acknowledgements

  Perfectly Preventable Deaths started its life as a conversation over chips with my favourite person in the world, Diarmuid O’Brien, then ended up turning into a very busy November. I’d like to thank the Office of Letters and Light for challenging and motivating me with NaNoWriMo, and Diarmuid for loving me through many adventures, even though I can’t jump up on a bale of hay.

  Hot Key has been such a welcoming and supportive home for this story, and much of that has been down to the keen eye and warm heart of Georgia Murray. She put such thought, care and love into editing this book and I couldn’t be more grateful to her and to Talya Baker, who copy-edited PPD, with such knowledge of the nuances of language in general and the twins in particular. The gorgeous cover was illustrated by the magnificent Elsa Klever, and I’m so grateful to her, and Anneka Sandher, the designer.

  My agent, Clare Wallace, is insightful, supportive and brimming with kindness. I’m so grateful for her wisdom and enthusiasm. Perfectly Preventable Deaths
would not be what it is, or where it is, today without her and the wonderful Lydia Silver.

  My pal Suzanne Keaveney was a very early reader, and her love for it helped me stick with it. Claire Hennessy, whose books you should read immediately, was really kind about an early draft and then the current book, and also a lot of other things as well. I’m very grateful. Sarah Maria Griffin, Dave Rudden and Graham Tugwell are some of my favourite writers and sound people, and you should all read them too. Jacq Murphy read a version of this and was incredibly sound and supportive about it. Vanessa Fox-O’Loughlin took the time to help me out shortly after I completed this, and she does this for so many people as well as writing her own books. Juno Dawson took the time to be excited about my witch book at DeptCon and I held that support like a shiny coin. Moira-Fowley Doyle, for listening to me describe this at length back when I wasn’t sure it would ever see the light of day. Celine Kiernan, for last-minute witchcraft. Melinda Salisbury, Gráinne Clear and Mary-Esther Judy for reading and loving the proof. It meant the world.

  I’d like to thank Mam, Dad, Tadhg, Nana and all the Sullivans and Kings for endless support, particularly Laoise and Ciara King, who gave me such helpful advice. Cameron Taylor for positivity and book barges, ‘The Pigeons’ (especially Maria Griffin) and all their beautiful nestlings, Siobhán Parkinson for the most useful writing course probably ever, YA Book Club for general soundness. My students, for helping me see the world differently every day. I’m so grateful. Anyone who bought or brought me books, or worked in a place where I got my hands on them when I was a child, thank you for nourishing me. Booksellers and librarians who were kinder than they needed to be (please never change!). The Irish children’s book community, and all at CBI (the beating heart of it).