by Megan Tayte
‘A brick!’
‘The tower!’
‘Such a crash!’
‘Your arm!’
‘Could have been killed!’
Thankfully, the cool and quiet of the vestry seemed to calm him a little, and having seated me on a chair he busied himself laying out the contents of a large first-aid box on the old wooden table in the middle of the room.
‘I don’t understand it,’ he said as he worked. ‘Only last month I had the tower assessed, because I thought some of the crenellations were loose, and the mason said everything was shipshape. I’m terribly sorry, Scarlett. I don’t know what can have happened. I’ll call the mason back out first thing tomorrow.’
‘It’s all right,’ I assured him. ‘Really. Just one of those things.’
I had no doubt it was true. But it was deeply distressing to realise that Death wanted me badly enough that even a house of God would crumble for his need.
The reverend was at my side now, sitting heavily on the chair beside me and dabbing gently at my arm with gauze soaked in antiseptic. I flinched and swallowed the curse on my lips – it really, really stung.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said. ‘Nearly done. There. In days gone by I’d have bandaged you up, but I believe the guidance now is to leave the wound to air; heals faster that way.’
I took a look at the graze. It was broad and long, sweeping from bicep down to forearm, and the raw skin glistened even in the dim light of the vestry. ‘Thank you, Reverend.’
‘Not at all. Not at all. Now tell me, Scarlett – how are you?’
His hand had stopped fretting with gauze and come to rest on mine. When I looked at him I saw his eyes were watery with age but warm with compassion.
‘I’m fine, honestly. As I said, it’s just a –’
‘No, that’s not what I mean, dear. How are you in yourself, after everything that’s happened? The death of someone we love has a profound effect on us, after all, and dear Bert was the second person in a matter of months.’
‘Oh. That. I’m okay. I mean, sad, obviously, but not… falling apart.’
The lie was hard to force out in this place, sitting next to a stack of Bibles.
‘Hmm.’ The concern on the reverend’s face was unmistakable. ‘Scarlett, while we have this opportunity to talk, are there any questions you’d like to ask me?’
I wished it were as simple as that. I wished I could go back to childhood, to Sunday school, where the big questions could be answered so simply:
Why did God make me?
Because He loves you.
Why did God make slimy slugs?
Because He loves them too.
Where is God?
He is everywhere.
Why did God shove a bunch of animals into a boat when it rained?
That was Noah, dear. And he did that to save them.
How can God be the Father when I already have a father?
He is the Father of all fathers.
Where did my hamster Scallywag go when it died?
Heaven.
But the questions pulling me apart now – What am I? Where is my sister? Must I die? Why? When? – these were beyond the reach of this kind-hearted reverend and the Church to which he had dedicated his life.
I shook my head.
‘All right, dear. But just remember that my door is always open for you if you need reassurance, or comfort, or spiritual guidance.’
I thanked him, but I knew I wouldn’t be back here. The answers I sought lay elsewhere. They clamoured for my attention, like sinners desperate for salvation. Tomorrow I would let them be heard. But for today, just for today, I wanted a little more time. To pretend the summer was not drawing to a close. To be nothing more than a regular eighteen-year-old girl with a lifetime ahead in which to live and laugh and love.
As I walked away from the church, to the beach and the cliff path that would lead me home, the big hand of St Mary’s clock shuddered onto the twelve. With each dong that announced six o’clock I walked a little faster, away from the bell that would too soon ring my death knell.
3: LUKE’S SCARLETT
‘Your arm! What happened? Are you all right?’
I sighed. I’d tried, when I got home, to use my light to heal the wound, but apparently it only worked on other people; I couldn’t heal myself. Then I’d tried to find an outfit that would hide the graze, but any clothing I slid over the top just stuck to the wound painfully. So I’d been forced to opt for the usual vest top and jeans and brave out Luke’s reaction. It was, after all, only to be expected that Luke react to his girlfriend’s arm being a gory mess. But all I wanted was a quiet, normal evening. Just one more.
‘Really it’s fine,’ I said, as I grabbed Luke’s hand and pulled him into the cottage. Chester trotted along in his wake.
‘It doesn’t look fine. What happened?’
‘A brick fell off a building and grazed me.’
‘A brick! You might have been –’
‘– killed. Yes, I realise that.’
Luke pulled me into him. He smelt of cinnamon and musky aftershave and the sea. ‘Scarlett Blake, what am I going to do with you!’
I smiled into his chest. ‘Just love me.’
‘That’s not hard,’ he said.
He slid a finger under my chin to lift it, then pressed his lips to mine firmly, passionately. The room slipped away – until Chester brought us round with a low woof. We broke apart and sank onto the sofa. Luke uttered a low growl.
‘What you do to me…’
Were I not already red-faced, I’d have flushed. Kissing Luke was wonderful, but each time we got a little hotter, a little deeper, a little more lost in each other, and hands were beginning to stray.
‘Seriously, though, Scarlett, there won’t be much left of you that’s kissable if you don’t start taking care. What is it with you?’
The glow from our kiss dissipated in a moment. We were back to the drama, it seemed.
‘I know.’ I attempted a comic eye roll. ‘Catastrophe magnet, that’s me.’
Luke gave me an odd look.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just – I’ve heard that before. Something Jude said to me once: that catastrophe stalks you.’
I stilled beside him. This was so hard: he had no idea.
Luke shifted so he could look into my eyes. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you – did you talk to him, Jude? On your birthday?’
Ah yes, Jude. The boy-who-wasn’t-just-a-boy. The Cerulean.
Luke knew I’d been looking for him, to ask him what he knew about my sister’s suicide. But when I’d eventually found him, I’d got so much more than I’d bargained for: a glimpse of a world beyond this one that at once terrified and fascinated me; a sister, not lost but out there somewhere, needing me to come to her; and – finally – a death sentence.
I recalled now my last conversation with Jude, hurried whispers exchanged in the corner of my birthday party while Luke was busy in the kitchen:
Jude: Scarlett, I know you’re angry. And hurt. There’s so much you need to understand…
Me: I don’t want to talk to you right now.
Jude: You don’t have to. Read the diary I gave you – Sienna’s diary. Let her tell you what happened to her, what will happen to you. Then we can talk.
Me: I’m not ready to read it. Or talk.
Jude: You have to get ready.
Me: I need time, Jude.
Jude: It’s not mine to give you.
Me: Please –
Jude: Look, you’ll get sick, Scarlett. Really sick. I can’t stop it. I can’t heal you. Your time is coming.
Me: But Luke, Cara, my mother, everything I love…
Jude: I’m sorry.
Me: You can stop this.
Jude: No, I can’t.
Me: Whatever. Just leave me alone!
Jude: I will. Until you’ve read the diary. That’s as long as I can give you. Then we’ll talk.
Me: Fine. Fine! Bu
t just so you know, I’m a really slow reader.
Jude: Really?
Me: REALLY.
Jude: Okay, I get it.
Me: You can go now.
Jude: I will. Just… don’t shut me out, okay? I want to help. I want to be there for you. If you need me, when you need me, get in touch.
Me: How? Some mystical summoning ceremony involving candles and herbs and chanting?
Jude: Er, no. You can call my mobile. Here’s the number…
‘Yes, I talked to Jude,’ I told Luke. ‘It was just as I thought: he knew Sienna was dying, he tried his best to talk her out of ending it, he’d left the party before she ran into the sea. He was nowhere near the water that night.’
Luke relaxed a little. ‘Well, that settles it. Though I’m still not sure I –’
‘– like the guy. Yeah, I get it.’
I had a feeling that when it came to Jude, Luke would never completely relax. Perhaps he sensed the connection between Jude and me, and felt threatened by him. Or perhaps it was just that a friendly, hardworking bloke from Twycombe had nothing in common with a strange, tattooed drifter who gave away so little of himself.
‘Enough with the chat,’ I declared. ‘I’m starving. Did you bring the cakeage?’
‘Would I dare turn up empty-handed?’ He stood. ‘The cakes are in the van. I’ll go get them.’
‘Then go, go.’
I gave a firm, denim-clad buttock a tap and he headed out of the room muttering, ‘All right! All right! You women and your cake…’
I stood too and weaved my way around comfortable old furniture to the doorway leading into the kitchen. Here, the evening sun bathed the room in a soft, golden light, and I took a moment to close my eyes and drink in the glow. Then I knocked back a couple of painkillers from the packet on the worktop and moved over to the powder-blue Aga where the lid of a saucepan was rattling in an alarming manner.
‘You cooked?’ The voice from behind me was warm with surprise and tenderness – and a hint of trepidation.
I smiled as I stirred. ‘I cooked.’
Luke’s arms crept around me and he nuzzled my neck from behind. ‘I expected just cakes for tea. Or a sandwich. You really didn’t have to –’
‘Yes, I did.’
His breath tickled my ear as he said, ‘Can I help?’
‘No. It’s all in hand. Just go sit at the table and keep me company while I serve up.’
Truth be told, I already had a sinking feeling that dinner wasn’t remotely ‘all in hand’. The potatoes were rock hard, the green beans were limp and the beef bourguignon was more soup than stew. But I was determined to pull this off, because it was a nice, ordinary thing to do: cook dinner for your boyfriend.
‘You’re still on for the Newquay trip this weekend, right?’ said Luke as I drained the potatoes over the sink. ‘Si paid the balance for the accommodation today. Right at Fistral Bay – where all the surfing’s at.’
‘Definitely,’ I said. ‘Three nights?’
‘Yep. Three long nights together…’
Were I not doing battle with the potato masher in a cloud of steam, I’d have grinned at him. As it was, he had to settle for a hot-and-bothered, ‘Great!’
‘Great. And I was thinking about taking a weekend off afterwards. Spend it together here. Do you fancy the zoo?’
‘Which zoo?’ I puffed.
‘Do you need a hand?’
‘No! I can manage.’ I pounded into the pan. ‘Which zoo?’
‘Dartmoor. It’s not far from here. It’s the one that film We Bought a Zoo is based on.’
‘I haven’t seen it.’ Damn these potatoes!
‘That’s okay. I have the DVD. We can watch it together sometime – movie night.’
I wanted to come back with some light-hearted comment, but the pounding in the pan had stirred up the pounding in my head, and I was fast realising that it was not steam blurring my vision any longer. I staggered, and grabbed the kitchen counter for support.
‘Scarlett?’ Before I could so much as say ‘head rush’ Luke had grabbed me and pushed me onto his now-vacant chair. ‘What is it?’ he said, crouching down so we were at eye level. ‘Are you ill?’
‘No, just a little overheated, I think. All that steam…’
He frowned. ‘Let me take over.’
‘Not on your nelly. Just get me a glass of water, then I’ll get back to it.’
I sipped the water he brought me slowly, and it helped. A couple of minutes later my head was clear again and I stood up and returned to the stove.
‘Stop hovering. Really, I’m fine.’
Luke fell back a few paces, but he stayed within arm’s reach.
Carefully, I served up: lumpy mash, mushy beans and runny beef bourguignon.
‘Looks good,’ said Luke, taking the plates and setting them on the table, in the process slopping a fair amount of sauce down himself. He gamely tucked in, forking in a chunk of beef and chewing… and chewing… and chewing.
I tried a mouthful of mash. It was kind of crunchy.
Luke audibly swallowed his mouthful and declared, ‘Delicious!’
‘Luke, admit it: it’s grim.’
‘No, really. I mean, the meat’s really well cooked.’
‘Overcooked.’
‘A little. But hey, that’s better than undercooked, right?’
‘Undercooked like the potatoes?’
‘Um, well…’
I had to laugh at the tortured expression on his face. ‘It’s okay, I can take it. I should stick to cheese sandwiches.’
He grinned at me. ‘But the way you butter the bread and the way you place the cheese slice – you make it an art form.’
Leaning across the table, I kissed him, long and deep. ‘Thank goodness for cakeage,’ I said.
*
It was a perfect evening – full of light and laughter and knee-trembling kisses. Everything I wanted for this, my last night. Of being just Scarlett. Luke’s Scarlett.
Luke didn’t stay, though I’d have liked him to. Since the night we’d almost drowned, we’d shared a bed every night, either mine or his. It wasn’t about getting hot and heavy (though I sure thought about that often), it was about being close. With his warm, solid body pressed against me, I could sleep – safe. But Luke had an early man-and-van job in the morning, and we both knew that the time had come for just a little space. So we kissed each other goodbye, and then he was gone and I was alone in the cottage.
I moved quietly around the downstairs, taking my time tidying and washing dishes and locking up. After a moment’s hesitation, I left the living room lamp on – plunging the cottage into darkness tonight was too much. I called Chester to me, and he came sombrely. ‘Poor baby,’ I said to him. ‘You miss Bert, huh? It’ll get easier, I promise.’ He tilted his head to one side and whined mournfully, but let me lead him upstairs by his collar.
I got ready for bed slowly – taking a hot shower, putting on soft pyjamas and brushing my long hair one hundred times. The green eyes in the mirror watched me anxiously, but I ignored them. I focused instead on the pendant around my neck, a gift from Luke. Blue, the colour of his eyes.
Finally, when Chester had settled on the rug, snoring softly, and the black outside the window was oppressively thick, and there was no getting away from the truth that the day was done, I sat on my bed and looked at the bedside table. There, lying beside a big chunk of bright-blue crystal, was a spiral-bound notebook: my sister’s diary. I reached over and touched my palm to the cover. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I would find the courage to open it. But for tonight, I would lay my aching head on the cool pillow and close my eyes and whisper the prayer my grandmother had taught me:
Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
Thy angels watch me through the night,
And keep me safe till morning’s light.
4: SOME KIND OF SORCERER
I met a guy today. Jude. Seriously hot. Like something off a
Dior Homme ad, with smoky eyes that look right into you.
We met in the school grounds, down by the lake (I was skiving gym class again). Suddenly, this pale face was looking out at me from the trees by my rock. Totally freaked me out – a boy? At Willake? He was all ‘Hello, I’m Jude’, like I’d asked who he was. Like it was the most normal thing in the world for a god in a duffel coat to be loafing about the grounds of a posh private girls’ school.
When I didn’t reply, because I was too busy staring, he asked my name, and I opened my mouth and out it came – bloody etiquette. And he said, ‘It’s good to meet you, Sienna.’ The kind of stuck-up formality that usually leaves me cold. But on him, it wasn’t formal at all. It was… I don’t know. Intimate.
We talked for a few minutes, until the bell rang for next period, about nothing really. The view. The fish in the lake. The weather. Pathetic, right? Not my usual patter. But weirdly, I found I gave a damn about what he thought of the big brown fish rooting about near our feet and whether it was cold enough to snow. I gave a damn about just about anything that came out of those lips.
I looked back at him when I left for drama class. He was sitting there, watching me, with this mega intense look about him.
Like I said, seriously hot.
~
We met at the lake again today. All right, I admit it – I was lurking, hoping I might see him. And why not? I’m bored senseless dating Dreary David. Beyond the stunning physique, there’s not much there. And Jude is… Well. He’s like no one I’ve met before.
It’s not just that he’s attractive. There’s something about him. Something magnetic. And when I’m with him, I feel different. It’s like he sees past all my crap, and I find myself less Sienna with him – less the Sienna that everyone knows: the life and soul. More how I really feel inside. Because when I talk, he listens. I can tell him stuff, stupid stuff, and he doesn’t laugh or look at me like I’m a contender for Freak of the Year.
I told him about the dream. I was testing him, I guess. I said it lightly, so he wouldn’t see how much it meant to me – ‘I want to be a dancer on a cruise ship. High-kick my way around the world.’ He didn’t laugh. Didn’t comment on the cheese factor. Just asked why I loved dancing and which places I wanted to travel to.
