by Megan Tayte
‘I saw him,’ I confided now.
‘Who?’
‘Michael.’
‘What?!’ Luke shot upright, leaving me to fall back against the sofa cushions. ‘Where?’ he demanded. ‘When?’
‘Outside,’ I said, struggling up. ‘Earlier.’
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘He was gone before I had the chance.’
Luke was on his feet now, as if ready to charge off somewhere in my defence.
‘Did he have Jack?’
‘No.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
I thought of Michael’s hand, beckoning to me. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
‘You’re lying! It’s written all over you. God knows you’ve lied enough times for me to recognise the signs.’ Luke stooped over and grabbed me with hands that were no longer gentle. ‘Tell me the truth, Scarlett! Where is Michael?’
‘I don’t know,’ I insisted. I felt tears building. Luke was angry. Luke, the one good, stable thing in this messed-up world, was doubting me. But he didn’t understand…
The grip on my arms tightened and Luke’s frowned deepened. He could see now, at least, that I honestly didn’t know where Michael was. But he could also see that I wasn’t like Gabe, upstairs now ranting at Evangeline, and I wasn’t like Sienna, destroying a statue because it was the next best thing to Michael. I was calmer, in fact, than I’d been in a long while. I’d gone beyond anger and reached sadness.
‘Michael’s dangerous,’ said Luke. ‘You remember that. He could have killed you a million times over. He’s all but killed your mother. And little Jack – who knows what he’s done. Who knows what he plans to do next, to all of you. To you.’
I cringed, but he carried on regardless.
‘I get that you want to be a good person. But enough, Scarlett! You can’t save the world. You can’t save him. Magic blue light or not, you’re just a girl, as imperfect as the rest of us. And I want you that way – do you understand? I want to be with a person, not a bloody saint.’
He broke off, but not because of the tears blinding me or my desperate ‘Stop, please’; because the conservatory door opened then and Jude appeared, supporting a limping Sienna.
‘She’s broken her toe,’ he said. ‘And she won’t calm down long enough for me to…’
His voice trailed off as he and Sienna took in the scene. Instantly, my sister’s face twisted and she began fighting against Jude’s arms around her, trying to get to me.
‘Hands… off… sister!’ she croaked furiously.
Luke let me go then. He moved away from me towards Jude, leaving me stunned and shaky on the sofa.
‘Did you see him?’ Luke demanded.
‘Who?’ said Jude, who was looking worriedly at me.
‘Michael?’
Jude’s eyes snapped to Luke. ‘What – where?’
‘Here. Outside.’
All hell broke loose. Jude started shouting. Luke started shouting. Sienna’s face went brick-red and she shoved Jude away and went to rush across the room to me, but she crumpled the moment she put weight on her foot and crashed to the floor. Jude stopped shouting. Luke stopped shouting. Both instinctively moved to Sienna.
I thought, I should go and help. I should go and be with them. They need me.
But I was needed more elsewhere. Michael beckoning: Come to me. Someone had to confront him.
I got up from the sofa and retreated behind it.
‘I have to go,’ I said.
Jude and Sienna didn’t hear me, caught up as they were in a wrestling match in which he tried to grab hold of her foot and she resisted. Luke did hear, though. He spun around.
‘No!’
‘I have to,’ I told him, backing away. ‘It’s me he wants.’
He launched into a run and leaped at the sofa, but I was across the room, out of reach.
‘No, Scarlett!’ he yelled as he saw me fade. ‘If you do this, it’ll be the end!’
The last thing I saw was Luke’s eyes, hard and unforgiving.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, but I was already gone.
*
The Cerulean graveyard was empty. I’d thought it would be, for now. I sat on the bench to wait for Michael. He’d beckoned me here. He would come.
He’d better hurry, though. Luke would work out where I was; he and Jude would follow me here soon.
Or would they?
The look in Luke’s eyes when I’d left. I’d seen him angry before. But never that angry. ‘It’ll be the end,’ he’d threatened. One too many times I’d left him behind, gone it alone, ignored him as if what he thought, what he felt, was insignificant. I’d hurt him. I’d let him down. He wanted a normal girl. I’d shown him for the final time that I couldn’t be that. I wasn’t who he wanted me to be. I wasn’t who he wanted.
I felt sick at the thought of the row that would come afterwards – of what Luke would say, what he would do. My heart stuttered with the knowledge that even more pain lay ahead: grieve a sister, sicken and die, grieve a sister again, grieve a mother, grieve a family torn apart, wrestle endlessly with life and self – and at the end of it all, grieve a love, grieve The One, come and then gone. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t see a way through it.
And yet I wouldn’t run back to Luke now, to keep his love. I’d put my disturbed brother above my devoted boyfriend and that was all wrong. But it was the only way it could be.
I waited, and I stared at the grave markers before me: Jonah, Anna, Saul, John – Noah. The empty grave.
I waited, and I considered why my mother had never been here, to her son’s grave. For the same reason she’d never told Sienna and me of our lost brother, I guessed: it was just too painful.
I waited, and I wondered how Michael had felt being Noah, painting as Noah, meeting my mother – his mother – as Noah. Good, I thought. To be himself at last. But then, what had gone wrong? What had happened that day in the gatekeeper’s lodge?
I waited, and I thought about how much time I’d spent in graveyards this past year.
I waited, and I realised it wasn’t only me who frequented graveyards – in Michael’s bedroom there had been a painting of St Mary’s churchyard.
I waited, and I thought about the angle of that painting, a bird’s eye view, and I remembered a brick from the church tower falling down on me a year ago.
And then I understood. It was so simple, so obvious, as everything else had been in this game of cat and mouse.
I waited no more, but closed my eyes and thought of a different gravestone in a different graveyard with a different name inscribed on it: Peter.
I materialised on my knees in neatly trimmed grass. Scrambled up quickly. Scanned my surroundings. As usual, St Mary’s graveyard was deserted; the only noises were the rustling of leaves in the breeze and the distant crash of waves on the beach.
I didn’t waste time checking behind every tree and gravestone. I looked up.
‘Michael?’ I called.
A white face appeared above the crenels at the top of the church tower. So acute was the conflict of emotion that hit me in that moment – fear vying with relief – that I grabbed hold of a nearby headstone.
‘Can I come up?’ I said, fighting to keep my voice steady.
‘Are you alone?’ came the answer, barely audible.
‘Yes,’ I said.
The face disappeared.
I stood hesitantly, trying to decide what to do. I couldn’t Travel to the top of the tower – I’d never been up there. It was accessed from inside the church, I thought, from somewhere beyond the altar. I’d have to get inside, and then find the steps… but by the time I got up there, he’d surely have gone.
A burble behind ended the indecision. I spun around.
Michael stood behind me, in the shadows of a sheltering oak. In his arms was Jack, chewing on a teething ring.
Instinctively, I stepped towards them, but alrea
dy Michael was gone. I stopped. Looked around. They were twenty feet away now, at the base of the tower.
‘Are you alone?’ said Michael again.
‘Yes. It’s only me. I just want to talk, Michael. That’s all.’
I moved towards him again and he began to blur.
‘No, wait, please! I won’t come any closer.’ I froze on the spot, hands up in surrender.
Slowly, he materialised fully.
I scanned my little nephew. He looked as he ever did, a little grubby around the neck of his sleepsuit, perhaps, but ruddy cheeked and bright eyed and perfectly content in Michael’s arms.
Michael saw me looking. ‘I’ve taken good care of him,’ he said. ‘I bought nappies and bottles and dummies and toys and books. We’ve read lots of books. He likes The Hungry Caterpillar best. Though he smeared the feast page with mashed banana.’
Jack let out a delighted gurgle at that and a smile quirked at the edges of Michael’s pale lips.
‘He looks happy,’ I said. Then: ‘Look, Michael, can we sit?’ I gestured to a bench. ‘And talk?’
He peered all around skittishly. ‘You’re sure you’re alone?’
‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘No one knows I’m here.’
Still he had the look of a cornered animal about to be shoved into a cage.
‘Even if they do come,’ I said, ‘you know as well as I do that no one can get close. Not when you can Travel in an instant. There’s no catching a ghost.’
His eyes widened then, but all he said was, ‘Keep your distance,’ and he began edging towards me.
We met in the middle, at the bench by my grandparents’ graves. It was a long bench, two joined together, in effect, with an arm-rest divider in the middle. I sat as far to my end as possible and Michael did the same at his end. I studied him as he tried to settle a squirming Jack on his lap. He didn’t look well. He was way too thin (why hadn’t I noticed that before?) and his pallor rivalled Evangeline’s on her deathbed.
He noticed my scrutiny and tugged a shirt sleeve down awkwardly.
‘Your hair,’ I said, eying the roots I’d noticed, but not noticed, in the hospital. ‘It’s red.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I usually dye it.’
‘And your eyes,’ I said, taking in the colour I’d noticed, but not noticed, in the hospital. ‘They’re green.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I usually wear contacts. Only one, the last time I saw you, I realised later.’ He sniffed. ‘I was – I am – a bit of a mess.’
‘You look like Sienna,’ I told him. ‘You look like Mum.’
He looked away then and I saw a pulse throbbing fast in his jaw. ‘You know?’ he said.
‘I do now. I read Evangeline’s letter. How long ago did you find that, Michael?’
‘Two years. Before Jude was sent to Claim Sienna.’
‘All this time!’ I swallowed. ‘Michael, why didn’t you tell me? All of us?’
He wouldn’t look at me. So far as I could tell, his eyes were fixed on the grave of Peter, his grandfather.
‘It’s hard to explain…’ he muttered. ‘I can’t… words… people… that’s why I paint. But now I can’t even do that. It’s all ruined. All of it. I did it. I ruined it.’
‘Tell me about it,’ I said. ‘Please.’
‘Why?’ He turned his stare on me. ‘Why are you here? You hate me. You’re ready to hurt me. I’ve seen you since. With Gabriel. With Sienna. I thought you were different, but I was wrong.’
A shiver ran through me at the thought of how often those unblinking eyes may have watched, silently, these past weeks and months. Clearly, Michael thought I was a new recruit for Team Gabriel, and he didn’t like that idea. Perhaps somewhere in that fact was the truth of why he’d singled me out, not Sienna or Gabe, before now to be a friend of sorts.
‘I know you’ve seen me angry,’ I said. ‘I have been angry. I am still. You’ve hurt people I love. But I’m not only angry. I’m scared. And sad, really, really sad about what happened to you. You should have been with us. You should have grown up my brother.’
He jerked at the word. ‘Don’t say that.’
‘Why not? It’s what you want, isn’t it? To be part of the family – or if you can’t have that, to punish us?’
‘No!’ he said.
Pushing him like this was crazy. But it was the truth, all of it. And some instinct told me if we were going to find a way out of this that ended with Jack in my arms and Michael opening up, only the truth would bring us there.
‘No more lies,’ I told him. ‘I’m sick of lies, and you are too.’
He nodded, just a little.
‘Tell me, Michael. Tell me all of it. What you wanted from Gabriel and Mum and Sienna and me. What you did. Why you watched me. Why you got close to Mum. What happened that day in Mum’s lodge. Why you took Jack. You want to tell me, I know you do. You wanted me to work it out, didn’t you? You wanted someone to hear you and –’
‘I want someone to see me,’ he broke in. ‘There’s no catching a ghost, that’s what you said. And that’s what I’ve always been. Invisible. No one sees me. Me. No one knows me. I am Noah. I am dead. I don’t exist.’
‘You do,’ I told him, but my words were lost: Michael was struggling with Jack, who’d decided he’d had enough of sitting quietly and was hell-bent on getting down, onto the ground.
‘No,’ said Michael, ‘Jack, the ground is dirty. Yuck.’ His voice was so gentle, it made me want to bury my head in my hands and cry.
But Jack wasn’t remotely moved by a loving tone. He wanted down, and he made that fact known by throwing his head back and emitting an almighty bellow of outrage. Michael paled still further and quickly scanned the empty graveyard.
‘He’s safe enough on the grass there,’ I said, gesturing to a patch of lawn that lay in front of and between the two of us.
Michael looked at me and I saw his desperation – to let go of Jack, it was a risk. Would I grab him? Had this been my plan all along?
‘Give me a chance,’ I said quietly.
As I am giving you one – unsaid words, but I knew he understood.
Slowly, warily, Michael stood and stepped forward. He laid Jack down on his back on the grass right in front of him – away from me. Straightaway the little boy switched from grumbling to cooing.
Michael glanced over and checked my position. I hadn’t moved a muscle, and I was careful not even to glance at Jack now. I looked at Michael. But that seemed to up his anxiety level, so I let my gaze slide away, to the other side of the graveyard, where the path led around to the front of the church, and I waited for Michael to make the next move.
He’d beckoned me here. He wanted me here. He wanted to talk. He just needed to find the courage. I was sure that, given a little time, he’d –
A flicker of movement at the corner of the church. A face peeking around the corner. A familiar face.
I made my body stay still, made my expression remain relaxed, but inwardly I was shouting: No! No! Not now! Go away!
Cara’s face didn’t disappear. I saw her crane her neck to see the baby lying on the grass.
The baby. His shout just now – loud, unmistakable. She must have heard.
Why was she here? Had Luke sent her?
Her parents’ graves. She was standing right near them. She’d been coming often, I knew, these past weeks. It was coincidence, then, that she’d found us. But not a happy one.
I risked a glance at Michael. He was watching Jack, who’d rolled onto his stomach and was engrossed in trying to pick a daisy.
I looked back at Cara. She was mouthing something. Help?
I shook my head a little. No!
She nodded and was gone.
What did the nod mean – Yes, I understand? Or, Yes, I’m getting help? I wished it was the former, but I knew by the terrified look on her face that it would be the latter. Cara would get the others. She would raise the alarm, and fast.
I turned to Michael. I had to tell hi
m – I had to. Gabe, Sienna, Jude, I didn’t know what they’d do when they got here, but I knew it wouldn’t involve a civilised conversation on a bench. At the first sight of them, Michael would run. And he’d never trust me again.
But before I could get out a single word, Michael said quietly, ‘It’ll be the end soon, and I’m ready.’
His eyes met mine and they were clear with purpose. And I didn’t want to be the one to cloud them with fear. I wanted to hear him. I wanted to hear him right now. Because those words, ‘it’ll be the end’, the echo of Luke’s final shout to me, they filled me with a sense of foreboding. That time was short and change was coming, and that this was my chance: I must hear Michael now or I never would.
‘I’m listening,’ I told him.
And my brother made his confession.
I was always wrong. I don’t remember a time I was right.
I thought, when I was eighteen, that death would change it. No more being alone. It didn’t change it, though. It made it worse, this thing inside, this thing that makes me think things, do things… But the real awakening – it began with Evangeline’s letter.
Since I learned who I was, I’ve come here, to the graveyard, a lot. I belong here, with the dead. And I like the top of the tower. No one goes there. It’s my own space.
I’d had it planned for months, since I’d Become a Cerulean. Dreamed of it. I wasn’t afraid to die, not this time. It was right. Free will. My choice – for the first time in my life, my own choice.
I’d been at the top of the tower all day. I’d seen the funeral for that old man, Bert. There you were. Scarlett Blake. I hadn’t expected that. Then you left, and I was ready.
But you came back. You came back and you stood at his grave and you recited that Brontë poem. You weren’t sad that man was dead. You were happy for him, that he was in the better place.
I knew then that you understood. The only person to understand! You were dying, like I’d been dying, and you didn’t want the Cerulean light, you didn’t want it. You wanted what’s right and natural and peaceful. You wanted death.
I don’t remember dropping the brick. I only remember afterwards, when that reverend came out and led you away. I was scared and I was ashamed – and I was angry that I’d missed. I wished I’d killed you, so we could go into the white light. Together.
