It’s a school photo. A boy who looks a little like Kian is gazing back at me, his hair shorter and flatter, like someone just raked a comb through it. He’s wearing a blue school jersey and a white shirt with a stripy tie, slightly askew.
It can’t be Kian, though. This boy looks so sad, so lost, his dark eyes are dead, empty. There are dark smudges under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept for a month.
‘D’you know him, at all?’ the younger man repeats. ‘Have you seen him?’
My heart thumps in my chest, and my hands tremble as they grip the sketchbook. These men have come to take Kian, and I don’t want them to take him. I don’t think Kian wants to be taken. I look at the two dark-haired men, keeping my smile bright, my voice steady.
‘I don’t know this boy, no,’ I tell them. ‘I live just down the lane. I come here every day, and I’ve never seen him. Sorry.’
I watch the light drain from the man’s face, watch his eyes become as dead as the eyes of the boy in the picture. For a moment, I feel bad, but not bad enough to backtrack, change my story.
‘I told you he’d not come back here,’ the older man says. ‘Why would he? Thanks anyway, missy’
They turn away, walking back towards the trees, the road. Then the younger man stops, takes off his hat and unties the scruffy red scarf from round the brim. He strides over to the wishing tree, ties the scarf on to the highest branch he can reach and stands looking at it for a long moment.
My heart thumps. Has he seen Kian’s rucksack, the bedroll, the hay, wedged out of sight in a forked branch? Maybe not. He turns, tips his hat at me and strides off, through the trees and away.
As if I ordered it specially, the midday sun is hot and the sky is a perfect, shimmering blue. I drop back on to the grass and close my eyes, letting myself drift. When I open them again, Kian is at the edge of the lough, leading Midnight along through the shallows.
I look at him, searching for traces of the sad-eyed boy in the photograph, but all I see are slanting cheekbones, unruly hair and eyes that shine, darker than the lough. Was I right to stay silent? And do I tell Kian about the men who were looking for him?
Kian flops down beside me, grinning. There are wisps of hay in his black hair, like he’s been sleeping in a barn.
‘You took your time,’ I tell him. ‘Missed the best part of the day!’
‘I found myself some work,’ he grins. ‘Raking hay for an old farmer guy in the next valley, stacking it up into hayricks. Twenty-five euros and as much hay as I want for Midnight. Same again tomorrow.’
‘Cool.’
I pack my sketchbook away, bring out an apple for Midnight. The big black horse ambles over, taking the fruit from my hand softly with a nose like velvet. He crunches the apple with his big yellow teeth, and I push a hand through his mane, ruffling the red-ribbon braids, inhaling the warm, sweet, treacly smell of horse.
‘OK, I’m jealous now,’ Kian says. ‘How come you never bring me apples?’
‘I do, sometimes,’ I grin. ‘It’s just that you never tickle my palm while you’re eating them.’
‘Could be arranged!’ Kian makes a dive for my hand, and I swat him away, laughing. Seconds later, he’s tickling my face, my neck, my ear, and I’m glad I lied to the dark-haired men this morning, because I need Kian to be here now, with me.
He leans so close to my ear I can feel his breath on my neck, and I know that he’s just a heartbeat away from touching me, kissing me. My hair falls across my eyes, but when I shake my head and turn to Kian, he’s stopped laughing, his face suddenly distant, distracted. He’s looking towards the wishing tree, where the red scarf from this morning flutters out in the breeze.
‘My dad,’ Kian says slowly. ‘My dad’s been here.’
Out in the centre of the lough, the little paper boat has sunk without trace.
It’s after tea when I hear a muffled yowl of pain from Holly’s room. I run through and find her sitting in the middle of the pink quilt with a bag of frozen peas held against her nose. She’s shivering and whimpering and chewing her lip.
Then I see the badge, its pin open and bent back at an unnatural angle. One of my old gold studs lies on the quilt, the butterfly clip beside it. I realize that Holly’s threats and jokes about piercing her nose were deadly serious.
‘What are you doing?’ I demand, horrified. ‘Holly, this is a bad, bad idea!’
‘Why?’ Holly says through chattering teeth. ‘I’ve got guts, OK? I can do it. It hurts, though – and this is just the ice-pack bit!’
‘Holly, can’t we talk about this?’ I say. ‘You’re nine. You can’t have a pierced nose. And there’s no way you can do it yourself! It’s crazy!’
‘Your friend did it,’ Holly points out.
‘She was older, and it was ears, not nose,’ I argue. ‘She was also nuts. I was there, remember? She swore like crazy, and there was a load of blood. Seriously, Holly, bad idea!’
‘This will be easier.’ Holly grins wickedly. ‘Only one piercing to make. You’ve seen it done – you’ll help me, won’t you?’
‘No way,’ I protest. ‘Dad and Clare would go crazy.’
Holly lets the packet of frozen peas drop down on to the bed. ‘Suppose so,’ she says. ‘We should be more honest with them, right? We shouldn’t have secrets. No piercings, no sneaking out to the lough to meet strange lads…’
‘Holly!’ I say warningly. ‘You promised not to tell!’
‘Did I?’ she says with a shrug. ‘Can’t remember. No, I think you’re right. We shouldn’t have secrets from Mum and Chris.’
‘Holly, don’t do this,’ I whisper.
‘I want my nose pierced,’ she says coolly. ‘Are you going to help, or shall I do it myself?’
I have never been blackmailed by a nine-year-old before. I pick up the bag of frozen peas and clamp it against Holly’s nose, then test the badge pin for sharpness. A bead of bright blood appears at my fingertip. It’s sharp, all right.
‘Are you sure –’ I begin.
‘Sure,’ Holly snaps. ‘Get on with it, before my face gets frostbite.’
I remove the frozen peas and position the badge pin at the side of Holly’s nose. It’s a cute, tip-tilted, little-girl nose, with just the right amount of freckles scattered across it. I can’t imagine it with a stud or a gold ring. It feels wrong.
‘Go on!’ Holly prompts.
I push the badge pin and she yelps and jumps across the bed, a trickle of red trailing across her top lip. ‘Yow!’ she shrieks. ‘That’s sore! Is it done?’
‘No – it was just a nick. Come here – and stay still!’
Holly screws her eyes shut and stuffs a corner of the pink quilt into her mouth. I feel bad, like I’m preparing to amputate a leg without anaesthetic.
‘Do it!’ Holly says from behind the quilt. ‘Please, Scarlett!’
So I do. I push the badge pin into her skin, but she jumps again and the badge pin slips and skids down to her top lip, where it slides through the soft skin like a knife through butter.
I have pierced my stepsister’s top lip. A thick pool of crimson wells up round the stab wound and snakes down over my shaking hand. I pull the pin out quickly, but by then, Holly is screaming.
‘It hurts!’ she yells. ‘Oh, oh, it hurts!’
‘Shut up!’ I hiss, clamping a hand across her mouth. ‘Dad and Clare will hear! What did you have to move for? Look what you’ve made me do! And I told you it would hurt, didn’t I? I told you!’
A river of thick, red blood pours down over my hand and drips on to the pink quilt. I sprint out to the bathroom and grab a cold, damp flannel and a box of tissues to staunch the flood.
Holly is crying now, little-girl tears, big gasping shudders of pain and shock. I realize with a sick, shaky certainty that nine is not old enough for this. Nor is nineteen, or even ninety.
‘I’m sorry,’ I hiss. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry, OK?’
‘Is – is it meant to b-bleed this much?’ Holl
y wails, as the blood seeps through the tissue and drips on to her white T-shirt, blooming into a red-rose stain.
‘I don’t know,’ I whisper. ‘I can’t remember. Shut UP, Holls, for goodness’ sake! Please!’
But it’s too late.
‘Holly?’ Clare calls up from the foot of the stairs. ‘Scarlett? Is everything OK?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ I shout back. ‘No problem.’
But Clare is coming up the stairs. I abandon Holly and step out on to the landing, closing the door behind me.
‘Don’t worry, Clare,’ I tell her, blocking the top of the stairs. ‘I yelled, but I’d just banged my toe against the bed in Holly’s room. I’m fine now.’
‘Oh,’ Clare says, ‘I was sure it was Holly I heard…’
‘No, really, Holly’s fine,’ I argue, but there’s a low, shuddering whimper from across the landing and Clare frowns and pushes past me into Holly’s room.
It looks like the scene of a small massacre. Holly is curled up on the bed, sobbing raggedly, her arms locked round her face. All around her, spots of blood litter the quilt and scrunched-up, bloodsoaked tissues lie strewn everywhere.
‘Dear God,’ Clare says. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ I say. ‘It was an accident – tell her, Holly’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Holly gasps. ‘We used the frozen peas, but it didn’t work and the badge pin slipped and it hurts! It really, really hurts!’
Clare takes Holly through to the bathroom, tilting her head back as she wipes the blood away and holds a clean white towel against the wound to stop the bleeding. ‘Explain,’ Clare says to me.
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ I stall. ‘I told her it was a bad plan.’
‘What was?’ Clare demands.
‘Piercing her nose.’
‘Oh, God,’ Clare says. ‘It wasn’t an accident? She did it herself?’
I look at Clare for a long moment, then I look at Holly, her green eyes wide and scared, her lips trembling. She looks terrified, but I can’t work out whether she’s scared of Clare – or me.
My mouth feels dry and my hands are shaking. I’ve blown it this time, I know. What made me listen to Holly? Messing up your own life, your own body, that’s one thing – but wrecking someone else’s? That takes real talent.
What made me think this could ever, ever be a good idea? I reach out to hold Holly’s hand, but my fingers are sticky, streaked with red. She pulls her hand away.
‘Holly didn’t do this herself,’ I say at last in a quavery voice. ‘I did.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, for the seventy-third time in a row. ‘It was an accident. I didn’t mean to hurt Holly.’
‘Didn’t mean to hurt her?’ Dad flings back, his eyes round with astonishment. ‘An accident? Scarlett, spare me the apologies. You’ve gone too far this time.’
They’re just back from an emergency trip to the doctor’s surgery in Kilimoor, and Holly is huddled at the table, a clumsy dressing taped to her face. Clare sits next to her, tight-lipped, an arm round Holly’s shoulder. Neither of them will look at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat.
I’ve made tea, got the right mugs, even added two sugars to Dad’s, but nobody seems to notice. I poured milk for Holly, but she doesn’t touch it.
‘Sorry doesn’t even start to cover it,’ Dad snarls. ‘Holly is a little girl. She’s nine, Scarlett. Don’t you have any sense of responsibility?’
I wasn’t much more than nine when Dad packed his bags and moved out, but that didn’t seem to affect his sense of responsibility. I can think of a million angry retorts to spit back, but I bite my tongue.
‘To deliberately puncture her lip – her face – with a dirty old badge pin! What were you thinking of, Scarlett?’ Dad rages. ‘We’ve had the wound cleaned, but there could still be infection. And possible scarring. Don’t you care about that?’
‘Yes, of course I do,’ I say as calmly as I can manage.
‘And her lip, of all places,’ Dad continues. ‘What were you trying to do? Make her into – into – a freak? Like you?’
My mouth feels dry and there’s a sick, sad feeling in my throat. I can’t remember my dad ever saying something so mean, so hurtful.
‘Wasn’t it bad enough, encouraging her to paint her face and give up meat?’ Dad says. ‘No. You had to push it one bit further, didn’t you? You had to talk her into this!’
‘No,’ I argue. ‘She wanted me to do it. And it was meant to be her nose – the badge pin slipped. I’m sorry!’
‘So you say’ Dad retorts. ‘I suppose we should be grateful you didn’t sever a main artery!’
I glance over at Holly, the injustice of it all bubbling up like the sour taste of guilt. Blackmail, I think. That’s why I did it. I wanted to keep Kian a secret, keep my new-found good-girl image, and Holly threatened to blow it all. I can’t admit it, though – not now, not ever. Holly could speak out, explain what happened, smooth it all out, but she’s acting like I’m some kind of axe murderer, like I meant for this to happen. She stares at the tabletop, slides her hands over her eyes to keep my glare at bay.
It’s Clare who looks up and meets my eye. She doesn’t look angry, just sad. ‘I thought you liked it here,’ she says softly. ‘I thought you were settling in. I thought you and Holly were friends – that you were good for each other. I thought we could trust you, Scarlett.’
My eyes prick with tears, but I can’t cry, I won’t. ‘You can trust me!’ I protest. ‘It was just a stupid mistake, OK?’
Clare shakes her head. In that one movement, I can see my summer falling apart. I try to see this evening’s events through Clare’s eyes, and it doesn’t look good. It doesn’t look good at all.
‘You can trust me,’ I say in a small voice. ‘I’m happy here.’ But Clare turns her face away, and I can feel that happiness slipping away, falling through my fingers like sand.
I chuck some stuff into the fluffy backpack, layer on a fleece and a jacket, slip on my ugly, sensible sandals. I pocket a handful of euros from my dressing table, a chocolate bar left over from earlier. I creep down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step three from the bottom, but still a door creaks open on the landing. When I look up, Holly is looking down over the banisters, her hair sticking out like straw, her eyes heavy with sleep. The dressing has come away from her wound in the night, and I can see the beginnings of a dark red scab just centimetres from her mouth.
‘Terrible place for a stud,’ I say, and Holly smiles faintly, just a flicker of something that might be forgiveness.
‘Don’t go,’ she whispers.
I put a finger to my lips, then turn away.
The lane is spooky at night. An owl hoots in the distance, and there’s a noise beyond the hedge that sounds like an old man coughing, although I think it’s only sheep.
I’ve messed up plenty of times in my life, but this time I’ve done it with style.
What did it matter, anyhow, messing up at school? There was always going to be another place, another bunch of teachers to annoy, another gang of bad-girl friends. What did it matter, dyeing my hair red, piercing my tongue, clomping through the streets on three-inch wedges? Nobody was looking, anyway. Nobody cared.
Mum would just huff and stress and pack me off somewhere safely out of sight, then change her mind and decide it was all a fuss about nothing. Back I’d come to carry on like nothing ever happened. Not this time, though. This time, it’s different.
I thought it’d be the worst thing in the world, being sent to this middle-of-nowhere hole to live with Dad and Clare and Holly. I wanted to hate them, and I tried, I really did, but I just couldn’t. I walked into that cheesy little cottage and even though I was angrier than I’ve ever been, I could feel the happiness there. I guess I just wanted to be a part of it. Some chance of that now.
I slip through the gap in the hedge and into the woods, my feet crunching through broken twigs and last year’s dried leaves. All those years, I thought that my Dad was a
total loser. Now I know he was just a guy in an unhappy marriage, a guy who fell for someone else and took his chance of happiness. Can I blame him for that? Not really. After all, when I thought I could have that happiness, too, all the anger dropped away and I grabbed for it with both hands. I nearly had it, too.
The trouble is, I’ve had no practice at being a big sister. I wanted to make Holly happy. I wanted her to think I was cool and wild and clever, and I let myself be blackmailed. Would she really have told Dad and Clare about Kian? I don’t think so. Not Holly
Don’t go, she said, but it’s not like I have a choice. I can’t stay there now, because they know how stupid, how bad, I really am. Bad enough to stab my little stepsister through the lip.
It’s not like that’s all, either. I need to find Kian. I was wrong to stay silent about the dark-haired men who were looking for him, and I need to put that right before I go.
He’s down by the lough, a hunched figure in the darkness. He is sitting on a rock beside the water, next to a small fire edged with stones and fuelled with fallen branches. An empty tin of beans, blackened on the outside, lies in the embers, and Midnight stands at a distance, gazing out across the lough.
‘Hey,’ he says, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to come strolling out of the woods at past one in the morning.
‘Hey, yourself.’ I sit down beside him, hugging my knees, holding my hands out to the fire. ‘Don’t you ever sleep?’
‘Sometimes.’ He laughs. ‘I’ve just been sitting, thinking, that’s all. I kind of lost track of time.’
My eyes slide over to the wishing tree, to the long scarf the dark-haired man in the hat tied on to a branch this morning. I can see it silhouetted against the night sky.
‘Some guys came to the lough this morning, looking for you,’ I say in a rush. ‘Two dark-haired guys, one with a hat, one with a moustache. I didn’t know what to say, so I pretended I didn’t know you, and they went away. The younger one tied a scarf on to the wishing tree.’
‘Yeah.’ Kian sighs. ‘My dad. My dad and my uncle.’
Scarlett Page 10
