Devil and the Deep (The Ceruleans: Book 4)

by Tayte, Megan

  *

  I didn’t bother with the spare key under the statue, I simply Travelled into the living room of the lodge. There, I plomped down on the sofa – and promptly regretted it when the slender white leather design revealed it didn’t just look like some kind of stretched stiletto shoe but was as uncomfortable as one too. I sighed. The abrupt change from treehouse passion with a laughing-eyed guy to isolation in a silent show home was a bit of a shock.

  What to do with myself to pass the next couple of hours? Watch some TV? I couldn’t see one anywhere. Read a book? The only one in sight was a thick guide to venue management. My drooping eyelids made the decision for me, and I slid down to lie on the sofa. Shifted position. Shifted position again. Fell off. Got back on. Fidgeted about. Found The Spot. Closed my eyes and let myself drift.

  *

  Scarlett, are you awake?

  No.

  Why are you here?

  Sleeping.

  But why here – on the floor?

  Mum’s bed’s out of bounds. So I don’t find out her secrets.

  What secrets are in her bed?

  Room. Bedroom. Pictures of her with my father. He was a Cerulean, you know.

  Was?

  Name’s Rafe.

  Rafe? Your mother told you that?

  Yes. She loved him. They made babies together, you know. Sienna and me.

  Sienna and you.

  That’s what I said.

  A happy family, Rafe and Elizabeth and Sienna and Scarlett.

  Not happy. They split up. He left. She lost the plot.

  Do you forgive them that?

  What does it matter now?

  What does it matter?

  You know, you have this habit of parroting. Hey, who did you say you were?

  I didn’t.

  Well, tell me now.

  I don’t need to. You know me, Scarlett.

  *

  There’s nothing quite like an afternoon nap to chase away the cobwebs. Except when you wake up on the floor, having slipped off the world’s most useless sofa, with your heart pounding and the vestiges of a bizarre dream tugging at your consciousness.

  I was on a hilltop – not the hilltop in the meadow, but one with no colour or texture, no movement even. I was talking to someone there, a man, and I couldn’t place him. But when I woke up, there was a name on my lips: Peter. Dreaming of him wasn’t especially odd. But his being so obscure was a little unsettling. I mean, he hadn’t even looked like my grandfather – more like a stickman.

  A memory stirred – a picture on Mum’s bedroom wall. I hadn’t paid it much attention when I’d last been here, engrossed as I was in the family photograph. But now I felt the urge to go back and look again.

  I shouldn’t. Mum had locked the room up for a reason. But then it wasn’t like I was going to see anything I hadn’t seen before. And what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.

  Seconds later I was standing once more in front of my mother’s memory wall. This time, I didn’t just hover at a respectful distance like an art gallery visitor; this time I reached up and lifted one of the picture frames off its hook. I took it to the bed and sat down to study it.

  I’d assumed, when I’d last seen this picture, that it was one of Sienna’s drawings, or perhaps mine, from childhood. There was such a simplicity to it: four stickpeople hand in hand on an impossibly round hill, above which a circle and ten slashes represented a jolly sun. But the picture wasn’t on paper, I realised now; it was on a paper napkin. And the lines, the curves, the proportions, on closer inspection none of them had the crooked charm of a child’s work.

  I sat for a while and looked at the stickman and the stickwoman and the two little stickgirls, each with a half-moon smile. The napkin seemed a bizarre item to treasure. But the very fact that Mum had framed it and put it up on her wall indicated that it was important to her. Why?

  My fingers fumbled on the catches at the back of the frame. Gently, I freed the thick card backing and lifted it away. I took the napkin carefully from its frame. Mum had folded it so that the picture fitted the mount, and now I smoothed it flat, looking for some extra detail. Unsurprisingly, there was no artist’s signature. Nothing at all to see, only the merest suggestion of a scent. I lifted the napkin to my face and inhaled. Vinegar, I thought.

  As I pondered that discovery, my eyes drifted – and then widened as they encountered a most disturbing sight: a girl in a gaping wedding gown with haystack hair, panda eyes and an old musty napkin clutched to her nose.

  ‘Holy cow, Scarlett,’ I told the girl in the mirror. ‘Get it together!’

  What had happened to ditching all curiosity about the past, all the thinking and wondering and worrying? Out there Mum and Cara and Luke were waiting for me to join them and have some fun. That’s why I was here, at Hollythwaite. That’s why I’d come back to them all in the first place: to have a life. So what the heck was I doing delving about in my mother’s private space analysing napkin scrawls?

  Grumbling at myself, I quickly set to work refolding the napkin. But somewhere in all my waving it about one of the tissue plies had worked loose, and the more I tried to smooth it down, the more it stuck to my hands.

  ‘Fine!’ I snapped at last and pulled the wispy layer off entirely.

  The other plies lay flat obediently and I positioned them in the frame and fastened the back on securely. Then I re-hung the little picture of the happy family Mum had once dreamed of and headed to the bathroom in search of soap, water and a hairbrush, before Travelling back to Mum’s old bedroom in the big house to retrieve clothes that didn’t leave me with a choice between suffocation and full frontal nudity.

  *

  To my recollection, I’d never been in the rose garden at Hollythwaite in the dark. I’d certainly never been there sitting on a little stone bench with a gorgeous guy at my side. Nor with a glass of Buck’s Fizz in my hand pressed there by my mother. Nor, indeed, listening to a song by the eighties’ band Bucks Fizz belted out by a fake-tan-aficionado with a thick Glaswegian accent.

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s better than her last song,’ said Luke. ‘That “Twist and Shout” was twisted and shouted.’

  ‘Wishing we hadn’t stayed?’

  The arm flung around my back drew me closer. ‘’Course not,’ he said. ‘Besides, some of the others were pretty good.’

  I had to agree. One hour into the music showcase and we’d seen a wide range of acts, ranging from an opera singer to a classical string quartet to a thirty-piece swing band to a pretty decent Adele impersonator to a modern rock band. The music quality was somewhat hampered by the small PA system working to amplify sound through the sprawling Hollythwaite grounds, but from our vantage point at the back of the garden – Luke and me on a bench, Cara and Si and my mother on a picnic blanket on the grass before us – we weren’t a million miles from feeling we were at an outdoor concert. Albeit one with a quite random soloist appearing mid-line-up.

  ‘I should’ve known,’ groaned Mum. ‘With a name like Rubyella Rocks, she was bound to be terrible.’

  ‘Rubyella?’ said Cara. ‘I’m sure they vaccinated us against that at school.’

  Mum patted her arm kindly. ‘That’s rubella. German measles. Easy mistake, though.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Si, ‘I don’t think you need to worry about her being terrible.’

  Cara look horrified. ‘Si-mon! I thought you had better music taste than that!’

  ‘I do – I hope. But look around. Some of the brides-to-be are loving this cheese.’

  We all looked at the people scattered across the lawn in front of us. Most of them were sitting on the picnic blankets Mum had supplied. But a sizeable minority of the women were up and bopping along to the music in the manner of girls about town.

  ‘Perhaps a little less free Buck’s Fizz for the next wedding fair,’ I suggested to Mum, and she laughed.

  ‘I’ll add that to my do’s and don’ts list for next time,’ she said. ‘Right under “Do ma
ke clear that cake displays aren’t edible” and “Don’t exhibit I Dove You Wedding Animal Rentals”.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Luke, ‘I quite enjoyed the “miniature donkey on the loose” part of the day.’

  We all laughed, but I thought Mum looked a bit strained, so I said, ‘Mum, you’ve done an amazing job. Especially for your first event.’

  Luke and Cara and Si quickly agreed.

  ‘Have you enjoyed it?’ I asked my mother.

  There was no trace of anxiety left in her eyes as she said, ‘Oh yes. This is the first time I’ve felt truly useful in… I don’t know how long. Just to have a purpose, you know, to work towards something. And I love seeing the old place full of people – it’s how it should be, don’t you think?’

  I was about to answer when I heard a rustling behind. I turned around, but all I saw was a rose bush swaying. Then I felt a warm breath of air on my face and heard a voice, low and urgent, by my ear:

  ‘It’s Michael. Make an excuse and meet me in the house. Upstairs. Quickly. It’s important.’

  ‘Scarlett?’ Mum’s voice. I shot back around to face her.

  ‘I was just saying –’ she began, but I leapt up.

  ‘Need the toilet!’ I announced. ‘Back in a bit.’

  I left Luke looking perplexed and Mum grumbling about my lack of ladylike decorum and I walked quickly away. I entered the house through the conservatory, paced quickly across, smiled at a wayward bride coming out of the toilet in the hallway and then hurried up the stairs. At the top I halted – to the left was the west wing, leading to my old bedroom and Sienna’s, to the right the east wing, which had been Mum and Hugo’s.

  ‘Michael?’ I called.

  ‘Here.’

  He emerged at the end of the east wing corridor. ‘Sorry,’ he said, striding quickly towards me. ‘Upstairs was the only place with no people.’

  As I hurried to meet him my mouth formed the words ‘Why are you here?’ but then he stopped in front of me and I registered the state of him. He was dishevelled, he was black, he was stinking. That smell. Acrid. Familiar.

  ‘I thought I should come and tell you,’ he said. ‘A group of us were called to attend. We’re still working – I have to go back.’

  ‘There’s been some accident, like the train derailment. You need me to come.’

  ‘It’s not just some accident, Scarlett. It’s the care home. Near Twycombe.’

  I grabbed the wall for support, but collided with a huge artwork.

  ‘Careful,’ he said, steadying me.

  ‘Is she dead?’ I whispered. ‘Grannie Cavendish?’

  ‘I don’t know. It was Jude who said, when we arrived, that she lived there. But –’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I said at once. ‘I’m coming now to find her.’

  ‘Jude won’t like that.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Michael. ‘But Scarlett, if you’re coming, hurry. The fire – it’s bad.’

  23: IT’S YOU

  I had to go. I had to go now.

  But I couldn’t just disappear from Hollythwaite like Michael had moments ago – the others would worry, and Luke and Cara would never forgive me for keeping this from them.

  I took the stairs three at a time, sprinted across the downstairs of the house and arrived back at our spot in the rose garden. Luke and Cara and Si were alone now.

  ‘Quick,’ I said breathlessly. ‘Where’s my mum?’

  ‘Down near the front,’ said Cara. ‘What’s –’

  ‘We’re leaving. Now! Get to the car.’ I pulled the car key out of my pocket and threw it at Luke. ‘You’re driving. Start it up. I’ll sort Mum.’

  Three mouths opened simultaneously to protest and question.

  ‘There’s no time!’ I snapped. ‘I’ll explain when we’re clear. Just go!’

  Mum’s white shirt was gleaming under the lights of the makeshift stage, and I kept it in sight as I weaved my way quickly through the picnic blankets. When she caught sight of me approaching, I forced myself to slow down and drop my shoulders and smile.

  ‘All right, darling?’ she said. Rubyella was leaving the stage to make way for a barbershop quartet, so Mum was easily audible.

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Listen, we’re heading off now.’

  ‘Oh. Now? Okay.’

  She waited for me to give a reason, but there was no time to think up a convincing lie, so I just reached over and gave her a hard hug, then broke away.

  ‘Thanks for inviting us!’ I said, already walking backwards in the direction of the stables. ‘Great day! Well done! Love you!’

  ‘Love you too, darling,’ she said.

  Leaving her looking bemused, I jogged off.

  Luke and Cara and Si were waiting in the Mini. I flung open the passenger door, leapt in and commanded Luke to drive before I’d even slammed the door shut.

  ‘But I’m not insured,’ said Luke.

  ‘Doesn’t matter – just drive!’

  He looked at me for a moment – too long a moment – and then said ‘Belt up’, dropped the handbrake and drove out of the yard.

  ‘Quickly!’ I urged.

  ‘Woah,’ said Cara in the back. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  Grannie, their last living relative. I couldn’t tell them. I couldn’t.

  ‘Scarlett?’ Luke’s hand was on my leg. ‘What is it?’

  We were on the drive leading to the gates now, alone.

  ‘Stop,’ I told him. ‘Stop driving.’

  He eased off the accelerator and brought the Mini to a stop. ‘Which is it, Scarlett, go or stop?’

  He looked stressed. He was right to look stressed.

  I took his hand. Squeezed it. ‘I have to go,’ I said. ‘I have to Travel – now. You need to drive back to Twycombe. Safely! Not too fast.’

  Cara thrust her head between the headrests. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. Tears were threatening – but there was no time for that. ‘Michael came to get me. The care home is on fire. It’s bad.’

  ‘Grannie?’ cried Cara. ‘No, no, no, no – not like that!’

  Si grabbed her and held her, but Luke sat rigidly. His inner conflict was written all over his face – he didn’t want his grandmother hurt, or worse, but neither did he want me putting myself in danger.

  ‘Scarlett…’ he said desperately.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘Hurry!’ sobbed Cara at the same time that her brother begged me, ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised them both, and then I was gone.

  *

  Fire is hell. Fire is death. Fire is hot. Then why does it have the power to freeze?

  I’d Travelled to a gloomy corner of the car park – it seemed the safest place to begin. But now I was here, I was paralysed.

  Reds and oranges licking the black sky.

  The stench of smoke and charring.

  Blue lights pulsing frantically.

  People all around, rushing about.

  People on the ground, going nowhere.

  Shouts, cries.

  The heat – the terrible heat.

  ‘Hey!’

  A hand grabbed me, pulled me around.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  Jude: dirty, furious. I flung myself at him. He patted my back once, twice, then pushed me away.

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Michael told me. Luke’s grannie…’

  ‘I know. I remembered you said she lived here. But I warned Michael not to –’

  ‘Is she out – have you seen her?’

  ‘No.’

  I looked at the home – the west side was crumbling, but the east side, the side where Grannie’s room was located, was still standing. ‘Did you check her room?’

  ‘I don’t know where her room is. I’ve never been here before. So I can’t Travel in.’

  ‘I have. I can.’

  ‘You can’t go in ther
e!’

  ‘I can’t not do it.’

  Now, urgency blew away the fear. As Jude reached out to grab me again, I lurched back, and before he could get a grip I pictured a little room with fairytale prints and a bookcase full of Disney movies, and I willed myself there.

  *

  The fire alarm was clanging and a sprinkler in the ceiling was spurting but the air was thick and reeking and the figure on the bed was still, so still.

  I reached her in a single stride and shook her roughly.

  ‘Wake up!’ I shouted. ‘Grannie, wake up!’

  She mumbled something.

  ‘Wake up! There’s a fire. We have to go, now!’

  Her eyes opened. ‘Fire?’ she said, bewildered.

  I grabbed her hand. ‘It’s okay, I’m here. I’ll get you out.’

  Then it hit me – how exactly was I going to get her out? I hadn’t even considered that before Travelling in.

  The window was out: the room was on the second floor, too high to jump, and at the back of the home, too remote to attract the attention of the firefighters. Working our way through smoke-filled corridors was madness – I’d tried that in the fire at the cottage and had ended up plummeting through a collapsed floor. Travelling, of course, was the safe and fast option. But I’d only ever Travelled with someone in tow once – Luke, the night I’d got ill – and that had been an accident; I’d been totally out of it when it happened. Jude had never taught me to Travel accompanied. I hadn’t a clue how to do it.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’re getting out,’ I told Grannie again. Then I squeezed her hand tightly, closed my eyes and pictured the car park outside.

  Grannie began coughing.

  I opened my eyes. We were still in her room. I tried again, and again. Nothing. It was like Grannie was an anchor, holding us here.

  Think, Scarlett!

  But it felt like someone had opened the top of my head and poured in hot, sticky treacle.

  Now I was coughing too.

  The window. We needed air. And if I shouted, maybe someone would hear me. Maybe.

  I tried to coax Grannie out of bed, but she clung to me like a frightened child, so I had to lift her. She was surprisingly heavy, and I lost my balance, and we fell backwards, and her weight drove me into the bookcase, and the back of my head struck a shelf, and we slid into a pile on the floor, and it rained Disney movies.