Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  Mother had stopped crying and was gazing at me wide-eyed. She seemed lost for words. Eventually, she reached over and pulled me in for a long hug. When we broke apart, she looked stronger.

  ‘You’re right of course, darling. Terrible to air personal stuff in front of a stranger.’

  I winced at the word – Luke was hardly that – but said nothing.

  ‘It just hurts so, still, and I worry about you. You’ve always been so independent and self-sufficient, and I don’t know what’s going on in your mind, and now you’re here, where it happened, and I torture myself thinking about, well, an accident…’

  She couldn’t bring herself to say the words, but I knew her meaning, and I reached over and held her hands. ‘Mother, you have to believe me when I say I’m okay. Really. I’m not going to have an “accident” like Sienna.’

  She searched my eyes and then finally nodded, relaxing. ‘Okay, darling. Okay. But tell me now – are you well?’

  I thought of the packet of painkillers in the bathroom cabinet, bought last week and only two remaining; of the head rushes that came sometimes with standing up too fast; of the exhausting dreams that plagued me every night and the bone-aching weariness that stalked me.

  ‘I’m fine, Mother,’ I replied.

  ‘You look tired. Doctor McNesby could prescribe you something to help you sleep, you know.’

  It was tempting, but no. ‘Honestly, Mother, I feel good. Sun, sea air – it’s good for me here.’

  She looked at me long and hard, and I saw tears glittering once more, but then the kitchen door swung open and Luke – who’d had the good sense to take an age finding the tissues that I knew were in clear view on the kitchen table – reappeared.

  The transformation in Mother was impressive. She accepted the tissues, blotted under each eye, gave Luke a dazzling smile and said, ‘So tell me, Luke, do you live locally?’

  In the following half hour there was no trace of the grief-stricken mother; instead she was charming and polite, and carefully steered the conversation along safe lines of the weather and what had changed in the village these past years. When she discovered that Luke was into cooking, she launched into a lengthy conversation on the best way to prepare king prawns. As she chatted away, I felt the familiar ache from childhood – the wish that this Mother, this lovely Mother I had been proud to identify as my own at a school play or in a park, could be permanent, and the black cloak of depression wouldn’t cover her and turn her into someone else, someone needy and selfish and strange; someone I did not want to be around.

  Finally, Luke made his excuses. Mother insisted on a peck on the cheek, and he obliged. Then, promising to see me on Monday for our lesson, he disappeared around the side of the house and I heard his van engine start and recede into the distance.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said to Mother.

  I didn’t have to elaborate. She knew that I meant thank you for toning down the emotion; for remembering how to be a mother.

  She smiled at me. ‘You like him, don’t you? Luke.’

  I was surprised at her perception; usually Mother was in a world of her own. I shrugged, unwilling as ever to confide in her. But apparently the shrug was answer enough.

  ‘Hugo wouldn’t approve, of course.’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what Father thinks.’

  I expected a ticking-off, but she just snorted and said, ‘No, neither do I much these days. But anyway, Luke. I like him. There’s something about him, something genuine, that’s refreshing. Right now, with all you have going on, I think he could be good for you, Scarlett.’

  I blinked at this endorsement from Mother, who’d never once, in my entire life, brought up the subject of boys with me – though I know she’d lectured Sienna endlessly about her string of boyfriends.

  I said nothing; I didn’t know what to say. She reached over and squeezed my arm.

  ‘Now look, the sun is dipping, and Jervis will be wanting to get on the road. I’ll just freshen up.’

  We went inside. In the kitchen Mother stopped and sighed as she looked about, then she click-clacked across the wooden floor, into the hall and up the stairs. It felt strange having her here, in the house. I was used to having it all to myself, and though this had once been her home, as a child, living with Grandad and Nanna, she didn’t fit here.

  I washed up the lemonade glasses and jug, and wiped down the kitchen table. After a few minutes I began to wonder about Mother; it was very quiet upstairs. I went to check.

  The door to the bathroom was open wide, revealing an empty room. My eye was drawn at once to the end of the hall, to the door that remained closed. Sure enough, when I pushed it open, I found her: sitting on the bed, the patchwork quilt clutched in her hands, eyes fixed on the view from the window. Tears streaked her face, but she cried silently now, without theatrics.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ I said. I crossed to her, sat beside her and put my arms around her.

  ‘I’m sorry, Scarlett,’ she said quietly. ‘I just wanted a moment. Her room at home, it doesn’t feel like hers – she was there so rarely, what with school and summers away. Here, she feels closer.’

  I knew what she meant. I came here myself some evenings just to think and let out a little of the emotion I buried deep each day.

  ‘This was my room, you know, when I was a child. I loved it – the view of the sea. Some of those books’ – she gestured to the bookcase – ‘I remember from so many years ago. I understand why this place pulls you back, why it grounds you. Once, it did that for me too. But too much has happened, too many years have passed. Your father… well, I made my choice, and I’ve stuck by it. But here, here it hurts. And I wonder whether it could have been different and then, maybe, I could have saved her. I should have saved her.’

  ‘I think that too,’ I said quietly, ‘but I don’t see how. She always knew her own mind. She knew we were there, that we loved her, that we’d have done anything for her. I don’t know what happened inside her that night. I’ve been trying to understand…’

  Mother looked away from the sea then. At me. ‘Oh Scarlett, I know you have, darling. But sometimes people do things we can never understand. Never. I learned that a very long time ago. You are what matters most now. Your eighteenth birthday is just weeks away, and then you’ll be a woman! But Scarlett’ – she grasped my hand and looked earnestly into my eyes – ‘I know you need your space, you need to find your own way with things, but you must know, I’m here. I’m always here.’

  It was the biggest speech my mother had ever given me; the most loving I’d ever known her. A fresh wave of grief washed over me then – not just for Sienna, but for us all. For my grandparents, who were gone now. For Father, who was shut away in his own world. And for Mother, who had the potential to be everything I could have wished for in a mother, who cared for me deeply, but whose lucid, loving periods were so fleeting.

  I cried then, for everything I’d lost and everything I’d never had to begin with. And afterwards, in my mother’s arms, I felt calmer, but still I ached with loneliness, and I knew that she did too. We were two, we were together, we were bound by blood and experience, and yet each would face the world alone.

  14: MOTH TO A FLAME

  ‘The red one. Definitely the red one. With the slutty heels.’

  From her cross-legged perch on my bed, Cara gestured to the crimson slip of material in my hand with the imperiousness of a queen who expected to be obeyed. I gawped back at her, appalled, clinging hard to the black t-shirt in my other hand.

  ‘Seriously, Cara, I’ve seen bikini tops with more material than this! And red’s not really my colour – I prefer black…’

  ‘… so you can blend into the background and hide, yeah, I get it. Not happening on my watch. And what’s the point of a name like Scarlett if you don’t wear red!’

  In despair, I slumped down onto the bed beside her. I couldn’t help feeling that as girly pre-party get-togethers went, this one wasn’t going well.

  First
Cara had pitched up merrily in a taxi, wielding an enormous bottle of schnapps which, she promised, tasted like heaven and would ‘take the edge off’. But when she insisted I take a swig I’d discovered it tasted a lot more like the fuzzy peach shower gel I’d once inadvertently got in my mouth mid-shower, and boy did it have a kick. Undeterred, Cara had barged into the kitchen, located two pint glasses, sloshed in the leftover lemonade on the counter, topped each up generously with the schnapps and urged me to drink up. I didn’t have much of a taste for alcohol, and even tentative sips weren’t going down well.

  Then came the hair-styling fiasco. Cara had come armed with an industrial-strength hairdryer, straighteners and curling tongs, and had coaxed me into sitting at her feet while we watched naff Saturday teatime game shows and she added ‘Adele-esque body’ to my usually straight hair. Fifteen minutes of singed ears and a tingling scalp later, and the ‘ta da’ moment in the mirror revealed a delighted Cara beaming over my now enormous barnet. She assured me it was to-die-for; I wasn’t convinced, and resolved to find time to slip into the bathroom and comb it down a little before we left.

  Finally, after a slight culinary disaster on my part that left our oven pizza somewhat crunchy, we’d moved upstairs to change. At this point the mystery of the enormous duffle bag that Cara had dragged in with her was solved as a bewildering array of clothes, shoes, accessories and makeup was dumped onto my bedroom rug in a flurry of sparkles, glitter and vivid colours. Cara got to work putting together outfits, and dressing me like a giant doll. I managed to stick my heels in on wearing jeans – no skirts or dresses – but it seemed tops and footwear were very much up for discussion.

  The truth was, I knew Cara was genuinely trying to help, but I was way out of my depth. Friday-night prep had always been Sienna’s speciality, not mine. Still, I told myself firmly as Cara pointed again at the slinky red top, I had an agenda in going to this party, and being myself would be no good at all. Cara had assured me that all the girls would be ‘dressy’ (she herself was wearing a tight purple strapless dress running down to her ankles). There was nothing for it; I would have to join her.

  I reached over to the nightstand, took a massive glug of the peachy-lemonade and said brightly, ‘Red halterneck it is then.’

  Cara cocked her head. ‘And the Vogue heels.’

  I eyed the red sandals – yes, those red sandals, which somehow Cara had unearthed from the back of the wardrobe; it was if she had a sixth sense for style. I’d never been able to fathom how Mother wore such heels day in, day out. This pair seemed more strap than shoe and had heels vicious-looking enough to take out a would-be mugger.

  ‘Sure. It’s not like we’re walking far, right?’

  Cara clapped delightedly. ‘My work is done. You shall go to the ball. But hey – remember that we need to leave by midnight or I turn into a pumpkin. Yes, really.’

  *

  When the taxi dropped us off at nine that evening in the village square, I didn’t need to ask Cara which house was Si’s. There was only one home on the waterfront lit up and thrumming with a dance beat, with a huddle of revellers hooting and shouting in the front garden around some kind of huge inflatable. The other houses were dark and silent. Given that Si’s parties were legendary and pretty regular occurrences, I figured his neighbours either went out on nights like this or joined the fun.

  Sliding her arm through mine, Cara led the way. Given the heels, for once I was just as much holding on to Cara for support as she was me. I gripped her arm tightly, suddenly overwhelmingly nervous.

  ‘Are you sure Si’s okay with me coming?’ I asked again.

  She laughed. ‘Si’s always okay. With everything. He’s that kind of bloke.’

  Still, I felt queasy at the thought of casually strolling into a house full of strangers. I didn’t know these people, and they didn’t know me. But they did know of me, I reminded myself. Because they’d known Sienna. Once, this had been her, coming to her first Twycombe party, dressed up to the nines. How would she have handled it? I heard her voice in my mind, confident and sassy: Head up, shoulders back, chest out, take no prisoners. I smiled. As strategies went, it wasn’t a bad one.

  ‘C’mon, missus,’ said Cara, tugging me onwards. ‘It’ll be fab, I promise. They’re a nice bunch.’

  And with that she pulled me through Si’s front garden – past what I now saw was a bucking bronco ride, on which a chubby bloke was holding on for dear life to calls of ‘Off! Off!’ – and into the house.

  The place was humming with people – some I recognised from my evenings on the water, but many were strangers. There were guys and girls chatting and laughing and flirting all over the place, leaning against walls, sitting cross-legged on cushions, perched on the stairs, on sofas, on coffee tables, on each other. Most had a drink in their hand; some were smoking; all looked happy and animated. There was a mix of ages, from mid-teens to early twenties, I guessed. The guys were mainly dressed down, but the girls were more glam, without a pair of trainers in sight, and I felt a flood of gratitude for Cara and her makeover.

  The house itself was spectacular – minimal and modern and stylish. Stark white walls and porcelain-tiled floors were the perfect backdrop for designer furniture in bold colours – a vast leather corner sofa in lime green; a chaise longue in yellow; several neon polypropylene seats bent from a single sheet of plastic. Scattered between items of furniture were bizarre, attention-grabbing artworks. A huge green sculpture by the wall-inset fire drew my eye; I studied it for a few long moments before Cara whispered in my ear:

  ‘Looks like a giant mouldy willy, doesn’t it? But apparently it’s worth thousands. Si’s parents are seriously minted. This is one of their summer places. Si lives here all year now, though. He’s at Plymouth Uni.’

  As Cara chatted away, pulling me through the enormous living room, a few people looked up and smiled and nodded to her. We were heading, I saw, towards the doors at the back, through which the party was spilling out into the rear garden and onto the beach. But before we could step outside Cara guided me to the left where, adjoined to the living room in an L-shape, was an impressive kitchen – all polished black surfaces and stainless steel. We’d barely moved into the space when a lanky guy leapt across the island unit, grabbed Cara and leaned her back for a long, lingering kiss. I stood by awkwardly.

  ‘Kyle! This is Scarlett,’ said Cara at last when she came up for air. ‘Scarlett, Kyle.’

  ‘Good to meet you, Scarlett,’ said Kyle. He was our age, with intricate swirls shaved into his buzz cut and a wide, crooked smile.

  ‘Likewise,’ I said.

  ‘And I’m Si,’ said a velvety voice from behind, and I turned to see a tall, well-built black guy with chocolate eyes and a crazy-big afro. He was a little older – twenty, I’d guess – and his dress sense was zany: silvery trousers and a purple-striped shirt, open at the throat.

  He reached for my hand and lifted it to his lips. ‘Enchanté,’ he said, eyes dancing.

  ‘Smooth,’ scoffed Cara as, blushing, I said hello.

  Si, it turned out, was the consummate host. Within minutes Cara and I were sitting on tall bar stools set against the kitchen island, fruity cocktails before us, and laughing at Si’s stream of funny patter. As each new person floated into the kitchen, to grab a drink from the well-stocked fridge or a snack from the spread of nibbles laid out on a side counter, Si was careful to introduce me. Though I saw the odd flicker in an eye that indicated recognition of my name, the reception was decidedly friendly. Soon – with the drink warming my belly and the realisation that, far from gawking at me or giving me the cold shoulder, the other partygoers were being welcoming – I relaxed and began to enjoy myself.

  I was deep in conversation with a guy called Geoff, a carpenter from Plymouth who was also fairly new to surfing, when I realised that the seat next to me was vacant. I felt a moment’s panic at Cara’s desertion, then figured I couldn’t cling to her side all night. I chatted to Geoff for a while longer, until he
excused himself to find the bathroom. Left alone, I found my eyes drawn to the lights through the window, and I decided to check out the party outside. A little air would clear my head, which was fuzzy with schnapps and cocktails.

  The air was surprisingly cool as I stepped out onto the decking and I shivered in my thin top. I stood for a moment and took in the scene. A decked veranda, filled with people sitting on patio furniture, spanned the length of the house and stepped down onto a lawn where a few drunken lads were larking about, rugby-tackling each other and playing keep-away with one poor bloke’s glasses. In the far easterly corner, beneath the shade of a tall tree, a sizeable summerhouse was the setting for a gaggle of teens playing a rowdy game of Twister. Beyond, on the beach that was visible through a wide, glass-panelled barrier, a game of football was underway by the light of the moon and, some way off, a lonely campfire.

  I’d never been part of something like this before, and I had a rush of feeling that was hard to describe. Rather than being a little detached from life, as I usually was, on the sidelines, I was in the thick of it all. Alive, that was it, I felt alive. But also a little overwhelmed. I’d become used to the quiet of the cottage, and my head throbbed with the shouts of ‘Right foot RED!’ and ‘Referee!’ and the bass thrumming from Si’s sound system. The campfire was deserted, and its warmth and light called to me. I’d sit by it for a while and watch the footballers, I decided, before plunging back into the throng inside.

  I stepped down, off the decking, and walked across the grass, through the open gate and onto the beach. At once, my heels sank into the gritty sand, making walking impossible. I crouched down, balancing precariously, and undid the tiny silver buckles that secured the straps, then slipped the sandals off. My cramped, aching feet sang with joy at being flat once more, and against soothing, cool sand. I turned up my jeans, and set out across the sand. Out here the air was cooler still, and I wished Cara had been a little less scathing of my idea to wear a cardie over the skimpy top. She was convinced I had a ‘cardie habit’ that she was heaven-sent to cure me of.