by Megan Tayte
I ached for my friend and the boy I’d grown to love. They’d lost so much, and it seemed so wrong that they would lose me too. Should I pull back from them, distance myself, so the blow, when it came, was less painful? Or was that just another betrayal; did I owe it to them, in fact, to make the moments that remained count?
Every part of me wanted to protect them. And to do that, I knew I would have to bury the truth – even as I learned it. So although I was in pain, I didn’t reach out to my best friend or my boyfriend. I hid in my bed, beneath my grandmother’s patchwork quilt, and I tried very hard not to think or feel.
It was Chester who got me up in the end. He trotted into the room with his lead in his mouth, dropped it on the floor and gave me a hopeful woof. It was the first spark of the old Chester I’d seen since Bert had passed.
‘Chester!’ I gestured to him to get up on the bed with me. ‘Come here, boy.’
He took me at my word, but after a brief dog–girl hug it became apparent that lying about wasn’t on the agenda. Head down, he gave me an almighty nudge. I slid right off the bed and landed in a tangle of bedclothes on the floor.
‘Hey!’
But the eyes that peeked over the edge of the bed pleaded with me, Enough with the lying about being gloomy. Walkies.
I smiled at him. ‘Oh, okay, you win – we’ll go to the beach.’
That earned me a rib-crushing embrace from eighty pounds of beast and a sloppy lick on the face.
‘All right, all right. Give me a minute.’
I grabbed my phone from the bedside table and texted Luke:
Taking Chester to the beach for a surf. Can you join us? xx
He was working this afternoon, helping some students move house with his van. But he’d been unsure when he’d finish, and since late afternoon was our usual time to surf, it was worth a shot seeing whether he was done. As I waited for a reply I scraped my hair up into a ponytail and swapped pyjamas for a bikini, jeans and a t-shirt (long-sleeved to hide the ugly scab on my arm).
My phone chirped.
Sorry, stuck in a sofa-versus-front-door saga. We’ve been at it an hour and it’s wedged tight. Come over tonight and I’ll cook? Eight? xx PS – Chester’s surfing?!
I grinned and tapped out a quick reply:
No worries. See you later. xx PS – Ha ha.
‘Just me and you, Chester,’ I told the dog.
Downstairs I shoved my feet into battered old Adidas and grabbed my surf kit bag and board. Then we were off, striding – or in Chester’s case scampering – down from the house to the cliff path and along towards the beach. The sky was clear, the breeze was up, the sea below was calm but not too calm. It was a good day to be alive.
Down in the bay, I gave Chester a good run around for twenty minutes. Then I pulled on my wetsuit and called him to me.
‘Sit. Sit. Good boy. Now, Chester, you stay here while I go in the water.’
He tilted his head to one side.
‘You. Stay. Here,’ I repeated in my best sergeant-major voice.
He whined.
From behind my back I produced a packet of doggie drops: Chester would do anything for doggie drops. My furry friend barked joyously, and I let him have a drop. He wolfed it down and sat back expectantly.
‘Stay here,’ I told him.
I took a few steps away, down to the water. Chester stayed where he was, watching me.
‘Good dog!’ I said, and returned to give him a drop. ‘Now, stay.’
I repeated the process several times, until I could get all the way to the waterline without him moving a muscle. Then I tucked the dog treats into my kit bag, gave him a final ‘Stay’ and headed into the water with my board.
I checked behind me as I waded in and Chester was where I’d left him. By the time I was on the board and paddling out into the cove, he’d collapsed to his stomach on the towel I’d laid out for him – his favourite position for a kip.
On such a summery afternoon, I wasn’t the only wave worshipper hoping to catch some decent waves. I counted nine other surfers out this afternoon, and I knew them all – they were part of the Twycombe tribe who came to this isolated cove for the decent surf and the plentiful, prodigious parties.
As I got close I returned their calls of greeting with the customary ‘Hey’. There was Geoff, Liam, Andy, Duvali, Big Ben, Lucy, Jeanne and Sally – and Si, the undisputed king of us all, because he was the kind of bloke you couldn’t help but like.
‘Ms Blake!’ he said when I reached him. ‘How goes it?’
‘Good!’ I sat up on the board and checked the beach. Chester was prone on the towel. ‘I’m good thanks. You?’
‘I’m always good, Scarlett. So long as I’m somewhere near a beach and a beer. A bloke of simple pleasures, eh?’
‘I feel the same way about the beach and cake.’
‘Ah, cake. I’d certainly choose it over death.’ Si laughed. ‘Don’t look so alarmed! It’s a classic Eddie Izzard stand-up joke about Church extremism. You must have tea and cake with the vicar or you DIE! “Cake or death?” they ask you. “Cake or death?”’
‘Er, cake…?’
‘That’s right! Choose cake: choose life!’
‘O-kay.’
Si was wonderful – style and charisma and sociability incarnate, and the driving force for all the party action. But I had to admit, I found him just a little intimidating.
‘So, you all set for Newquay this weekend?’
‘Yep.’
‘Three-day party?’
‘Yep.’
‘Surfing in Fistral?’
‘Yep.’
‘Forty-foot waves?’
‘Er…’
He broke into another laugh. ‘Don’t worry, Scarlett – we’ll look out for you.’
A shout from behind drew my attention and I turned to see Duvali pointing at the beach.
‘Doggy paddle!’ he hollered at me.
I twisted round.
‘CHESTER!’
The blasted dog was in the water, swimming furiously to get out to me. I paddled back to him as quickly as I could. We met close enough to the shore that I could drop off the board to stand on the sea floor.
‘Bad boy!’ I chided, grabbing him by the collar.
He woofed and put one paw on the board.
‘No, mate. Dogs don’t surf.’
‘Actually, they do.’
I turned. Fellow surfer Geoff had come up behind us.
‘They’re known as surf-furs – dogs that surf. There are competitions in the States. You can get mini life jackets for them.’
‘Wow! I’m guessing those are little dogs, though. Not beasts like Chester here.’
‘I don’t know, I’ve seen YouTube clips of pretty big dogs – Labs and German Shepherds.’
I looked at Chester. ‘You want up? Go on then.’
It took all my strength to heft him onto the board, and he promptly slid off the other side. But he swam back around to me and put his paw up to try again, so I boosted him up and held him in place.
‘There,’ I said. ‘Happy now?’
He gave me a lick and I got a waft of doggy breath that was suspiciously sweet. I looked at the beach. From here, I could see my kit bag lying on its side, contents strewn all over the towel.
‘Chester. Did you get into the drops?’
He gave me a doggy grin. Then he sprang into an explosive jump that sent a spray of water into my face.
‘That dog,’ said Geoff, ‘has the spirit of a surfer.’
‘And the grace of a wrecking ball.’
But I was smiling. If Chester could shake off the oppressive veil of grief and embrace the exhilaration of the bellyflop, then so could I.
*
Later, when Chester and I were all beached out – me from surfing, he from fetching a stick Geoff threw for him on the beach – we made our way back along the cliff path to the cottage. With the gloomy silence of the afternoon far behind me now, I chattered away to Chester as
I walked, and he, still buoyant and boisterous, bounded excitedly in front, beside, behind, between my legs.
‘Mind, Chester. You’ll trip me. Stay back, okay? Now, how do you feel about surfing, boy? Shall we teach you, hey? Chester the surfing sheepdog. You’ll be legend–’
It happened so fast: one moment I was walking on the path, the next I felt a shove on my hip.
And I was crashing down onto the seaward side of the path.
And I was slipping over the fringe of grass at the edge.
And I was desperately scrabbling for a handhold.
And I was thinking, Not yet – not like this – not now!
And I was falling off the cliff.
8: DON’T LET GO
Falling.
Big drop.
Rocks below.
Death.
One grasping hand found a thick tree root and closed around it on reflex. My arm was just about yanked from my socket as my freefall met the sudden obstacle. I let out an involuntary scream even as I kicked my legs and gave myself enough momentum to reach up the other arm and grab the root with both hands.
Holy mother of… I was hanging off a cliff.
My feet kicked desperately at the rocky cliff-face.
Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.
The root shifted and I dropped down.
Shrieked.
Stopped.
The root held firm.
I scrabbled with my feet – there must be something – anything…
There: a tiny crack in the rock, just wide enough to shove one trainer toe in. The screaming muscles in my arms eased up a little as I braced my weight on my wedged-in toe. I leaned my head against the rock and took a deep, shuddering breath. I was safe, for now – as long as I didn’t let go.
Up on the path, Chester was beside himself, alternating between barking and – randomly – growling.
‘It’s okay, Chester,’ I panted. ‘I’m still here.’
I tried to think beyond the terror:
Rocks. Hard. Sharp.
Will it hurt?
Body broken.
Don’t look down, don’t look down.
‘Stop it!’ I told myself. ‘Focus.’
So, aside from panicking and screaming a lot, what was the correct protocol for getting oneself off a near-vertical cliff-face? Climbing up or down was out – I was well and truly stuck. So that left outside help. The surfers in the bay had gone home, and the beach had been deserted when I left it. It was unlikely that some passerby would happen upon me anytime soon; the west cliff was usually quiet. I could send Chester for help – but then he’d already exhibited a complete disregard for my orders, and when it came to a serious situation, he was more Goofy than Lassie. My mobile was in my back pocket. It was my only hope. But to get it, I’d have to let go of the root with one hand. I released one shaking hand and reached down for my back pocket…
‘Chester!’
The frantic shout from above startled me enough that I nearly lost my grip. I grabbed the root quickly with both hands. Then took stock.
I was saved!
‘Where is she?!’
A pale face appeared over the edge of the cliff.
I was doomed.
Jude. Typical. The only person in the entire universe I could not be happy to see right now.
I leaned my head on the rock and closed my eyes. ‘Go away,’ I told him.
‘Scarlett! Quick, grab my hands.’
‘No.’
‘What? Grab my hands.’
‘Not letting go.’
‘You have to! I’ll pull you up.’
‘No, thanks. I’ll wait here for someone else.’
‘For who?’
‘Someone with ropes and harnesses and things. Mountain rescue.’
‘The coastguard, you mean? Don’t be ridiculous. What if you can’t hold on that long? I can pull you up. Just grab my hands.’
‘No.’
‘Do it!’
‘NO!’
‘Why on earth not?!’
‘You’ll let go! You want me to die!’
‘No, Scarlett – not now, not like this! This is horrific! Please, take my hands – I won’t let you fall. I promise!’
I looked up at him. His eyes were wide and wild, and he was reaching down to me with both hands.
‘Please, Scarlett – do it now. Quickly.’
‘I don’t want to die.’
‘I won’t let you die.’
‘Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
I took a final breath. Then, in a quick movement, I let go of the root with one hand and stretched it up. He grabbed it and squeezed it tight enough to break it.
‘The other one. Now!’
I did it fast, and in a moment I was entirely at his mercy.
‘Just hold on,’ he said. ‘I’ve got you.’
‘Don’t let go...’ I pleaded, but already I was moving upwards. He threw all his weight back, every sinew in his body standing out with the effort, and hauled me up. I tried to help, kicking at the rock for a foothold, but there was nothing. My shoulders reached the top of the cliff, and he switched his grip quickly to grab me under the arms. Then he was pulling me back, well away from the edge, and tripping on my abandoned surfboard and kit, and we were falling, but this time away from the cliff, into undergrowth.
We lay panting, him beneath me, me on top. I stared at the pulse beating frantically in his throat and let the rhythm of his breathing move me up, down, up, down. I was saved. He had saved me. Jude. I closed my eyes.
He shifted underneath me, and gently slid me off his chest and out of the prickly gorse and onto my back on the cliff path.
Somewhere nearby Chester whimpered. ‘Quiet,’ Jude said. The whining stopped.
A hand stroked down my face.
‘Scarlett?’
I opened my eyes. Jude was eclipsing the sun, making him a shadowy silhouette trimmed with gold. I couldn’t work out where to look: the darkness or the light.
‘Are you all right? Are you hurt?’
I shook my head.
‘Which – you’re not all right or you’re not hurt?’
‘Not hurt.’
‘What happened? How did you end up…’
‘I fell.’
‘But how?’
‘I fell off a cliff, Jude!’
‘I saw that. What happened?’
I thought about it. Chester. He was so excited. After all these days being subdued, getting his groove back had been really, really exciting. ‘Chester was behind me,’ I said. ‘He shoved me. It was an accident.’
Jude frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘What, you think I’m that much of a klutz that I just tripped and fell off?’
‘No, that’s not what I meant.’
I struggled to sit up. Chester came to me and buried his nose in my lap, and I stroked his trembling body and told him quietly, ‘It’s okay. We’re okay.’
‘Scarlett, listen to me…’
When I ignored Jude, he reached out a hand and patted my arm. I couldn’t hide the instinctive wince as my graze complained at the contact.
‘What is it? You are hurt – let me see.’ Before I could do anything he was pushing my sleeve up and inspecting my arm. ‘What is this? This isn’t from today.’
I grabbed the sleeve and tugged it down. ‘It’s no big deal. I tried to heal it, but…’
‘You can’t heal yourself, Scarlett. It doesn’t work that way.’
He brushed a hand lightly over the scab. There was a sense of warmth and the slightest suggestion of a bluish haze, and then – pale, even, healthy skin. I shouldn’t have been shocked, but I was. Shocked, and awed.
‘What happened?’ he said. ‘How did you hurt your arm?’
I told him.
He looked appalled. And angry. ‘You have to be more careful, Scarlett!’
‘Hey, don’t blame me that you didn’t show up.’
‘What?’
‘Well, y
ou plucked me off a cliff today – where were you in the graveyard?’
‘Scarlett, we’ve been through this. I’m not some guardian angel who watches over you all the time!’
‘And yet you turned up right on time today.’
‘Luck, Scarlett! Luck! I checked in on you at the cottage. I heard Chester barking.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yes, oh. So you must take more care.’
‘Of what – cliffs? I do, Jude. But I can hardly help accidents, can I? Like you said: Death’s coming for me.’
Jude was shaking his head. ‘It doesn’t work like that, Scarlett. There’s no Grim Reaper stalking you, setting you up to fall off cliffs, throwing bricks at you. You’ll get sick – like Sienna did. Your body will shut down.’
I shifted away from him and pushed up to stand. He was on his feet at once, reaching out to steady me, but I stepped back, away from him.
‘Look, I appreciate you pulling me up. But I’m not ready to talk to you, Jude. I haven’t finished Sienna’s diary yet.’
‘When?’
‘I don’t know. The weekend, maybe. I’ll call you when I’m ready.’
Jude was shaking his head. ‘It has to be soon, Scarlett –’
‘End of, Jude,’ I growled. ‘Back off.’
He sighed. Frowned. Nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll respect your wishes. But you can’t keep running from me, Scarlett. You and I, we have a future ahead. And the sooner we talk about that, the sooner I can make sure you’re safe. I need to keep you safe.’
I took a step back. ‘I’m dying, Jude, so you say. There’s nothing safe about that.’
He opened his mouth, ready to say something, but when he saw the hard expression on my face he thought better of it.
Grabbing Chester’s collar, I led him away, down the path. Carefully. When I reached the turning to the cottage garden, I looked back just in time to catch a blur in the air behind me – a Cerulean dematerialising. The conversation was over. For now.
*
I cancelled dinner with Luke that evening; I told him I had a headache, which was no lie. I wanted nothing more than to be with him and tell him all about my brush with death, so he could soothe away the trauma. But I could well imagine how that would play out:
