Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  ‘Definitely. Text me.’

  I got out and watched her execute a perfect three-point turn and then head back down the lane, somehow managing to simultaneously steer and clap happily along to Pharrell Williams on the radio.

  As I walked up to the cottage I rummaged in my bag for the keys, and it was only when I was on the doorstep that I realised two surprises awaited me there. The first was a cardboard box with my name and the cottage’s address printed neatly on the front; Mother’s package, I guessed. The second was a dying bird.

  I dropped to my knees, horrified. It was a magpie and it was deeply distressed, feebly thrashing against the stone of the step, its beady eyes staring up at me in terror. Instinctively, I reached out and touched it on the wing, desperate to soothe it. The bird calmed a little. I slipped my hand under its stomach and brought it onto my lap. I turned it over slowly, searching for a wound, and found it at once – chest feathers clogged with blood around a small tear. A predator attack, I thought; perhaps the ginger wildcat I’d seen stalking through the weeds in the garden.

  The bird was shuddering now. I’d seen the look in its eyes before in the dying. As a child I’d spent many summers roaming the headland and in that time I’d encountered at least a dozen injured animals – birds and rabbits, mostly. With each I had sat as I was now, cradling the animal and stroking it until its eyes clouded and it stilled. It was not enough, of course, but what else could I do but be with the poor creature in its last, pain-filled moments?

  It was my grandfather who’d taught me – and Sienna too – how to soothe the passing. One balmy summer’s evening Sienna and I came across a dying bat outside Grandad’s tool shed. I couldn’t have been more than five, Sienna would have been six, and our limited life experience to that point had not equipped us to deal with a wild, wheeling bat, frantic in its pain, veering in crazy spirals that nearly brought it into collision with us. How we’d screamed! The fuss we made, you’d have thought we were being attacked by Satan’s minion. Grandad came running, of course, and he sent Sienna to grab one of our fishing nets leaning against the house after an afternoon’s rock pooling. We’d huddled behind him as he expertly captured the beast. But to our astonishment, no sooner had he caught it than he released it into his lap, and the bat calmed and stayed there as Grandad stroked it. There were tears on his face when the bat finally stopped moving. It was the only time I ever saw my grandfather cry.

  My thoughts had drifted, I realised, and I had been gazing down the garden at Grandad’s shed and stroking the magpie. The bird, meanwhile, had quietened. I looked down. The magpie was limp and staring. I sighed, and slid my hand under it – I would take it into the house for now, until I could dig a hole in which to bury it. But as I moved the bird, I froze.

  The eye twitched. I was sure it twitched.

  I leaned forward and watched.

  Twitch.

  And then the bird was twisting in a quick, fluid movement, and it was up on its feet, and it was hopping away from me, and then stopping and turning and looking at me, head cocked. It stood tall and proud, and I searched for the wound on its chest, but I saw nothing – no gash, no blood. The bird ran a few steps and took off, soaring up and then swooping down, up and then down, and then away, out of sight beyond the village.

  I sat back on my heels for a minute, processing the event. Dying bird. Dead bird. Flying bird. Shock, I decided. It must have been in shock – not helped by me, a human, handling it. And as for the wound; well, it must have been lower down on the bird’s chest than I’d thought, and so out of sight once it stood.

  Still, as I stared at the empty sky, a shiver ran through me. The magpie had been granted a reprieve today, but it was only a matter of time before it plummeted from the heavens to the earth or the sea. As had my sister. As would I, someday.

  9: ONE FOR SORROW

  A scattering of breadcrumbs on a frosty lawn.

  A siege of birds squabbling and squawking.

  Two little girls looking on from a stone bench.

  ‘Loads of magpies today! Gotta be enough for the whole rhyme, I reckon.’

  ‘Okay, Enna. You start.’

  Little voices chanting, mittened hands pointing.

  ‘One for sorrow.’

  ‘Two for joy.’

  ‘Three for a girl.’

  ‘Four for a boy.’

  ‘Five for silver.’

  ‘Six for gold.’

  ‘Seven for a secret never to be told.’

  ‘Eight for a wish.’

  ‘Nine for a kiss.’

  ‘Ten: a surprise you should be careful not to miss.’

  ‘Eleven for health.’

  ‘Twelve for wealth. There, that’s it! We got them all.’

  ‘Silly, Scarlett. You missed the last one. Thirteen: beware, it's the devil himself. See there, up in the sky? Another magpie flying. That’s means he’s coming.’

  ‘Who’s coming?’

  ‘The devil.’

  10: TRUST ME

  Sunday passed quietly and slowly, especially after I discovered that the Tudors box set actually contained only one of the thirteen discs. After a long lie-in ruined by unsettling dreams, I pottered about aimlessly, tidying the house, putting a wash on, hunting for the key to the attic. I had the unsettling sense that I was wasting time, but really, what else was there to do on a Sunday in Twycombe? And a quiet day would at least not add to the residual tiredness.

  Dealing with Mother’s package killed all of ten minutes. The contents, it turned out, were decidedly random. Inside were seven boxes of soup-in-a-cup, a huge bar of fine chocolate, a bottle of expensive lemon-scented shampoo, a pair of ludicrously high red strappy sandals, a stack of cheesy old romance videos and an enormous lump of colourful rock. Her attached note was just as bizarre:

  My Scarlett,

  A little provisions pack for you.

  I know how you young girls love your slimmer soups, and of course you’ll be watching your weight, but I’ve slipped in a little treat for a ‘naughty’ moment. The shampoo smells just like that sorbet you’re so keen on – or was it Sienna who liked that? Forgive me; you were so alike.

  The shoes will suit you. It’s about time you stopped shying away from scarlet! I saw them in Vogue the other month on a model with just your colouring. And you know I always say you need heels, to make up for your height. Don’t you just love them?

  The films are to see you through all those quiet nights in. Lots of them. You aren’t gallivanting, are you?!

  As for the lurid rock thing; it’s chalcanthite, Hugo says – whatever that is. I found it in Sienna’s room at the cottage when we came down to clear it. We had it sent for valuation, but it’s practically worthless; a hundred pounds at most. I thought, perhaps, you may like to have it.

  Hoping to hear from you soon – and missing you, darling, and thinking of you –

  Mother

  PS. Father sends his love.

  I sighed. The chocolate was decent. But slimmer soup? Really? And yes, it was Sienna, not me, who liked the sorbet. And no, I didn’t love the shoes, which I was quite sure I would never manage to walk in. And nineties’ chick flicks? No, thanks. And as for Father sending his love; well, I doubted very much that had come from him.

  Strange, emotional, half-thoughtful and half-thoughtless – it was typical Mother. The eclectic mix of objects found their way into the back of cupboards, except for the rock. I examined it closely. It was jagged, sharp mass of prismatic crystals in the most striking shade of blue – like a bolt of lightning during an electrical storm. The colour was so vivid it looked unnatural, but when I typed ‘chalcanthite’ into Google Images I quickly realised this was the real deal – a mineral whose name translated to ‘copper flower’. What Sienna was doing with it, I had no idea, but I could see why she’d have kept it as an object of beauty. I put it on the nightstand beside my bed.

  With the laptop booted up for the web search, it made sense to check my emails. I braced myself as they downl
oaded. Mother had recently got to grips with email as a form of communication, and given the numerous missed calls and voicemails and texts of the last week, I could just imagine how many ‘Darling, how are you?’ emails awaited me. Seventeen, as it turned out. Some bright and cheery and two lines long; some long and anguished. Sighing, I pulled them into the ‘Mother’ folder and scanned the rest of the contents of the inbox:

  From: HornyX@BigDaddy.Alexardi.biz; Subject: Enlarge your Penis 2day with Vi@gra

  From: Sarah.Barnes@Millsbury.ac.uk; Subject: Oops, just realised I’ve got your Tudors DVDs still…

  From: MaribuTomlamagady@aol.com; Subject: Hello. Needin money for militry takeover. This is nott a scam.

  From: support@ebay.co.uk; Subject: Please leave feedback for item 537543291: Child’s Surfboard, Floral

  From: KatieTrent@Willake.ac.uk; Subject: Sienna…

  Katie had been Sienna’s best friend at their school, Willake. I could never stand the girl – she’d come home with Sienna on the odd weekend and I’d found her whiny and needy – but she and Sienna had been thick as thieves. Katie had been adamant that she’d known nothing about Sienna’s plans to run away, and hadn’t heard from her afterwards. I’d never been convinced. I opened her email at once.

  Hi Scarlett.

  How R U? Good, I hope.

  Got ur message bout meetin up. Am around start of Aug. When’s gd 4 U?

  Let me know.

  Katie x

  Good to see Ma and Pa Trent’s money hadn’t been wasted on their daughter’s education, I thought; what a way with words Katie had. Then I caught myself. Be nice. Sienna had obviously seen something in Katie to be friends with her, and the girl had made the effort not only to respond to my email asking that we chat but also to agree to the meeting.

  I dashed off a quick email setting a date for a coffee. I didn’t reply to Mother’s messages; I couldn’t face it. But I did break out the vast bar of chocolate she’d sent, curled up on the sofa that evening, watching The Tudors. I allowed myself one square of chocolate every time Henry VIII got amorous. By bedtime, the DVD was finished. So was the chocolate.

  *

  The next day Chester was ecstatic to see me, and he conveyed his delight with a flying tackle leading into a pouncing and wriggling frenzy. I figured the easiest way forward was to remain in place, lying on the floor of Bert’s sitting room, and let the dog have his moment, but when the face licking started I decided enough was enough.

  ‘Chester, off!’ I commanded.

  He whined but sat back on his haunches.

  ‘Look at that!’ exclaimed Bert from the armchair by the fire. ‘He knows who’s boss. Good dog!’

  It was more a case of good Scarlett for showing up with chocolate buttons and making sure Chester saw them in my pocket, but I said nothing, only pulled myself up to sit on the sofa. Chester came over at once and laid his chin on my lap.

  ‘The fun you’ll have today, eh?’ said the old man. He was looking tired, I noticed, and his breathing seemed more laboured than last week.

  ‘How are you, Bert?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh fine, fine,’ he said. ‘Life in the old dog yet. Though you try telling that to the docs at that hospital there. Fine lot of doom-and-gloomers they are. It’s all about attitude, you know. Heart could give out any time – and it will someday, I know. But in the meantime, life’s for living, eh? Only wish I could still get out with Chester like I used to…’

  I liked Bert. I admired his spirit and I hoped I’d be that brave, when the time came.

  ‘Well, I’ll have Chester back to you for three-ish.’

  ‘What’s the plan today?’

  ‘I thought we’d try the coastal path for a stretch. A long walk ought to wear him out.’ And me, I added silently.

  ‘So long as it’s a walk, love, not a sprint. You’re a wee slip of a thing…’

  I stared at him. I hadn’t told him about the Chester chase incident. How did he know?

  He winked. ‘That Cara pops in once a week, you know, on a Sunday. Brings me the papers and a plate of roast. I heard the whole story.’

  Thanks, Cara, I thought.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, love. My fault. It was bad of me not to tell you about the buttons. Anyway, you’re set for today?’

  ‘Yep.’ I patted my pocket. Chester gave a loud, joyous bark.

  ‘Good. Well, off you go and have fun. Oh, and maybe you’ll stay for cake again? That Battenberg that Mrs Hobbs from number twelve brought round has got your name all over it…’

  I agreed; of course I agreed. It was the least I could do. Looking in Bert’s eyes was not unlike looking in the eyes of the magpie – there was a realisation that death was stalking close by. I couldn’t soothe Bert as I had the bird, but I could give him time and companionship, and if eating lurid pink-and-yellow marzipan was the way to do it, so be it.

  *

  By the time I got to the beach that evening, clouds were rolling in and the wind was picking up. I was running really late. I’d stayed with Bert for longer than I’d intended because we’d got engrossed in an episode of his favourite show, Quincy ME – I’d never seen it before, but had to admit it had a kind of cheesy, kitsch charm. Then, when I’d got home, I’d intended on a quick change, but had fallen asleep for an hour, the result of my long walk with Chester along the coast that afternoon. Still, at least I was a little less exhausted for my surfing lesson – well, what was left of it.

  The tide was out, and the walk across the beach to the waterline, where I could make out Luke’s form, was a long one. I arrived panting and ready to apologise for my tardiness, but Luke was grinning.

  ‘Evening!’ he said. ‘Perfect weather for it.’

  I looked out at the sea. It was grey and tossing. The last time I’d seen waves this big was the day of my near-drowning. I gripped my board tightly and gulped.

  He put a hand on my arm. ‘Hey, don’t worry. This is great surfing weather. See?’ He gestured to a handful of shadowy figures bobbing on the waves. ‘And I won’t let anything happen to you, okay?’

  ‘Well…’

  Before I could think of a decent excuse, he was kneeling down and attaching my board’s leash to my ankle. ‘We’ve done the theory, now you’ve got to put it into practice.’ Arm around my shoulders, he guided me to the water. ‘C’mon, you’ll be…’

  *

  ‘… absolutely shocking at surfing!’ I spluttered an hour later.

  I was terrible, truly terrible. I’d wiped out so many times I’d lost count – so many times the sea had begun to blur into sky and I kept losing track of whether I was under and meant to hold my breath, or up and gasping. The result was a throat burning from saltwater coughs.

  ‘You’re doing great!’ said Luke. He sat comfortably on his surfboard beside me as I trod water and clung grimly to my board.

  ‘Chester the dog could surf better than me!’ I snapped, glaring up at him.

  ‘Come on,’ he said cheerily. ‘Back on the board.’

  ‘I’ll just fall straight off.’

  ‘Seriously, you’ll get it soon. It’s like riding a bike – all in the balance. It’ll suddenly click.’

  ‘It won’t click. It’s like bloomin’ skiing all over again. And horse-riding. And tennis. All sports, in fact. I have no coordination. Do you know I managed to knock myself out doing a handstand when I was six?’

  He laughed. ‘Scarlett –’

  ‘No, Luke!’ I was very far from laughing, and so tired and sore and utterly miserable I didn’t even care any more about being polite. ‘This was a bad idea. My sister may have become some surfing goddess in just a few weeks, but that’s not me.’

  The word ‘sister’ wiped the smile straight off Luke’s face, and I cursed myself for the outburst. I did not want to talk about Sienna. Especially not here, out in the ocean, where she’d… Oh God, what if it was right here that she’d died? I looked around frantically, as if I would see her here, floating – had she floated? Face up or face �
�

  ‘Scarlett?’

  ‘Huh?’

  Luke dropped onto his belly on his board, so our faces were level. I wanted to pull away, but something in his eyes held me there. It was like he knew what I was feeling; like he knew the pain.

  ‘You can do this,’ he said. ‘I know you can. I’m not letting you off until you’ve caught one wave, or getting back out here will be all the harder.’ I opened my mouth to protest, but he added, ‘It’ll be worth it, Scarlett. Trust me.’

  And I found that I wanted to. I wanted to trust him.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, and I pulled myself onto the board to await the next wave. As Luke scanned the upcoming waves for a decent one, I let my gaze drift eastwards to where the other surfers were smoothly riding the ocean. No sign of the boy from the churchyard today. At least that was one less person witnessing my humiliation.

  I did not surf the next wave. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next. But then…

  ‘This one. Start paddling. C’mon now, Scarlett. Keep paddling, keep going… Now! Up, up!’

  It was a quick move, but each stage seemed slow: hands on board, knees sliding, feet in contact, spread apart and then up, arms out, balance, balance. I took in a deep breath of air, preparing for the plummet into the deep, but there was only wind in my face and a heart-hammering sensation of flying, fast, along the cusp of the wave. There was no time for jubilation, only shock – and the most delicious shiver of mastery running through every cell in my body.

  It can’t have lasted long, a few seconds at most, before I lost my balance and the board flew away from me. But this time as I tumbled down it was without the frown. I surfaced to the sound of cheering – Luke, up and surfing in a way that no doubt made my amateur attempt look ungainly, hooting and whooping as he followed my path. A few feet from me he dropped gracefully into the water and came to stand beside me.

  ‘Scarlett Blake, I KNEW you had it in you. How do you feel?’