by Megan Tayte
‘Cara, you promised your brother not three hours ago that you’d behave…’
It was Luke who’d given us a lift to Plymouth Harbour. I’d sat him down this week and ’fessed up to my morning surfing. Initially, he’d been concerned – he clearly didn’t like me in the water without him nearby – but eventually, after grilling me over who exactly I was surfing with, he had to concede I could hold my own and that the others would look out for me. The same logic applied to the party, and after checking the guest list with Si, he’d been pretty cool about Cara and me going – it wasn’t like he could tell me not to go in any case, and recently he’d mellowed immensely when it came to his protectiveness of Cara. Still, neither of us had mentioned the Drake’s Island exploration bit to him, a fact for which I felt horribly guilty – especially when he’d kissed me goodbye at the harbour and said lightly, ‘Have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Which I imagined included trespassing on private property. And drinking Cuba Libres.
But Cara was not to be deterred. ‘C’mon, what Luke doesn’t know can’t hurt him, eh? I’ll be back before him tonight, and I’m ace at hiding a hangover. Eternally sunny disposition, you see.’
‘Except when you’re arguing with Luke,’ I pointed out.
‘Well, yes. But since you’ve come on the scene, Scarlett Blake, that’s been happening a whole lot less!’
I grinned. Despite the hiccup of the parental drama and the surprising photo, the Luke glow had lasted throughout this week, and I’d added a good number of happy moments to the memory bank.
‘C’mon, Scarlett. Live a little. You’re meant to be celebrating!’
‘Celebrating what?’
‘Duh! Exam results?’
‘Oh. Yeah. That.’
My A level results had arrived this week. They were good, good enough to secure me my place at university. Two hundred miles away in London. Somehow, it didn’t feel like news worth celebrating.
‘Go on,’ coaxed Cara. ‘Just a teeny splash of rum?’ She added in the voice of a five year old: ‘I’ll be your best friend…’
Faux-hurt, I fired back, ‘Aren’t you already?’
‘No, you have to buy my friendship with booze.’
That made me laugh. ‘Fine. I’m not your keeper. But if you take it too far, don’t drop me in it with Luke.’
She grinned. ‘Things are going well?’
I stared out at the partygoers on deck. Dreadlocked dude. Girl with bunchies. Bloke with sunburn. Guy in a NY Yankees baseball cap. ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Luke is great.’
‘And so is RUM!’ declared Cara. ‘Go! GO!’
And with that she thwacked me on the rump like I was a disobedient donkey.
Sod it, I thought as I weaved my way slowly back through the crowd. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.
*
By the third rum and Coke the sun was sinking toward the horizon.
‘Look!’ shouted someone nearby. ‘France!’
‘No, man,’ said another guy. ‘We saw France two hours ’go, ’fore we turned ’round. ‘’S’England.’
‘Jesus H! Has it shrunk, or’ve I grown? I’m a giant! I’m Gulliver, man!’
‘Y’arse! S’Drake’s Island.’
Unlike these fine specimens of Englishmen, I was not drunk. But I couldn’t quite swear to being entirely sober either, and Cara, curled up against Kyle, who had appeared out of the throng at some point – I forget when – was ridiculously giggly.
I turned to Si, who was sitting next to me. ‘Si.’
‘That’s me.’
‘Drake’s Island. What’s the deal?’
‘Hold on!’ He swiped a trilby hat off a nearby bloke, who was too wasted to notice, and put it on. ‘There. Now I have my “history hat” on. Prepare to be dazzled by my knowledge:
‘Drake’s Island. So-called because Sir Frances Drake, the pirate guy, was governor briefly. Over the years it’s mainly been used for defence – that’s what all the fortifications are about. It protects the naval dockyard, beyond. But it was also a prison, sometime after the Civil War. And it was a kids’ adventure centre for a while in the sixties, but that went nowhere. Now it’s just derelict while the new owner tries to get planning to build a luxury hotel.’
‘Thanks, Professor Si. Not the info I was after, though. I can’t help noticing the whole island is majorly visible on all sides – Cornwall, the city, the massive naval vessel parked up on the breakwater right in front of it. Won’t it be a bit, well, noticeable if a boatload of people trek about it?’
Si gave me a wide, toothy smile. ‘Young Scarlett, you have much to learn.’
‘About a life of crime?’
‘Nope. About knowing a guy. The caretaker – he’s a mate of mine. He cleared it with the owner. So long as we don’t do any damage, it’s cool.’
I thought about this for a moment. ‘So we’re not doing anything dodgy?’
‘You sound disappointed! Do you really think Luke would’ve let you and Cara out with me if we were?’
‘Luke knew?’
‘Ah, Scarlett, when it comes to Luke, the safest bet is to assume he always knows. He’s astute, that guy.’
‘Yes,’ I agreed dreamily. ‘Very cute. You know, Si, you actually suit a trilby. Are you sure you’re not gay?’
His laugh was loud. ‘My grandmother used to call me that. Such a gay little boy, always happy. So in that sense, I guess you could call me gay.’
We were interrupted by a loud splash followed by a chorus of cheers – then another splash and another and a cry of, ‘Man overboard!’ Within seconds the upper deck of the boat was emptying fast as people jumped and dived – and, in the case of one poor bloke, belly-flopped – into the sea. I was ready to grab Si and tell him just how bad an idea I thought it was to let drunk people go swimming when I realised we were pulling up to the pontoon attached to Drake’s Island, and the first escapees were already wading ashore. Given that I was feverishly hot and the water looked mighty refreshing I thought about joining them, but then I realised that was hardly fair on Cara, who’d have to walk off the boat.
Si and Kyle melted off to organise the disembarking and, arm in arm, Cara and I headed down to the exit ramp on the bottom deck. As we waited in the lurching, raucous queue, I scouted the scene.
‘Why do you keep doing that?’ said Cara.
‘Doing what?’
‘Nosying about.’
‘Oh. I’m looking for someone.’
‘Who?’
‘I don’t think you know him…’
‘Him?’ Cara’s voice was a little sharp.
‘No,’ I reassured her. ‘It’s not like that. You know I’m with Luke. He’s just this guy who was close to my sister. I think. I want to ask him about her. Thought maybe he’d be partying today.’
‘Which guy do you mean?’ said Cara.
‘The one she was close to – keep up, Cara.’
‘No, I mean which one – Jude or Daniel? She was friends with them both.’
I turned to stare at her.
‘Friends, or friends?’
Cara shrugged. ‘Who knows? No offence, but your sister was kind of a flirt. I just saw her with Jude and Daniel at some parties, and they seemed… well, intense.’
‘How so?’
‘Chatting a lot. Bit of an angsty vibe.’
‘With them both?’
‘I think… Look, I don’t really know. I’ve told you before that I hardly knew your sister, Scarlett. And I’ve never even spoken to Jude. And that Daniel bloke only appeared at a couple of parties with Sienna, and the only reason I remember him was because of his scar…’
‘On his cheek?’ I asked, thinking of the guy next to Sienna in the photograph.
She nodded.
‘Is he here? Daniel?’
‘No, Scarlett. Like I said, I only saw him a couple of times, back when Sienna was…’
The unspoken word alive hung in the air between us.
‘What about Ju
de? Is he coming?’
‘I don’t know. Si told Luke he wasn’t, but… Hey, look! We’re missing the paaaaaaaaaaarty…’
The queue ahead had disappeared. I didn’t want to move. I wanted to think about our conversation. About Sienna and her ‘friends’. About the fact that other people knew stuff about my sister that I didn’t know. But it was hardly the time or place for a ‘moment’. So I let Cara tug me down the ramp, onto the pontoon and across to terra firma. And when she starting channelling Lady Miss Kier and belting out ‘Groove Is in the Heart’, I hummed along.
*
The tiny island couldn’t have been more than a few acres in total, but amid the rocks and the scrubby trees were surprisingly large buildings dating back to the Napoleonic era – barracks and batteries and a citadel. While Si and Cara and Kyle and a gang of helpers trekked off to set up a base, laden down with provisions, the other partygoers scattered around the island, and I let Geoff and Duvali talk me into a poke-about in the abandoned buildings. They were dark and gloomy and dirty and decidedly eerie, and the boys were in their element trying to scare me out of my wits, but I managed to avoid girly screaming, even when they took me down into the tunnels cut into the island beneath the buildings.
We came upon an old military-issue stretcher – faded and ripped khaki canvas stretched between two wooden poles – abandoned on the floor of the main magazine. The sight was sobering somehow.
‘People died here, you know,’ said Duvali. ‘When it was a prison. We did it at school. That bloke Robert was imprisoned here. Five years on this tiny island. Then – bam, dead.’
‘Robert who?’ said Geoff.
‘Dunno,’ said Duvali. ‘But he was one of the guys who signed Charles’s death warrant.’
‘Charles who?’ said Geoff.
Duvali rolled his eyes, and I stepped in to help. ‘King Charles the First. You know, the Roundheads.’
Geoff looked blank.
‘The regicide?’
No glimmer of understanding.
‘The Civil War?’
‘Is that the one where the Americans threw teabags in a harbour?’
Laughing, I gave up.
‘You some history buff?’ asked Geoff.
‘I guess,’ I said. ‘I’m starting a history degree soon.’
I expected cringes, but the looks I got were respectful.
‘Then secret tunnels must be right up your street, eh?’ said Geoff.
‘Er…’
‘Somewhere here there’s a secret tunnel that leads all the way to The Hoe on the mainland! Shall we look for it?’
Duvali guffawed. ‘You spanner. That’s an urban myth.’
‘It’s not! All Plymouth’s Napoleonic forts are connected by underground passageways.’
‘Bull.’
‘No, it’s not! I read about it.’
‘On UrbanMyths-dot-com.’
‘No, on HiddenPlymouth-dot-com!’
Duvali guffawed.
‘Hey!’ snapped Geoff. ‘It’s a legitimate site!’
I left them arguing and headed back down the cold tunnel, all at once eager to be in what lingered of the daylight.
I followed the smell of smoking meat and the thrum of a dance beat upwards to the highest point of the island, a grassy plateau dominated by a radio mast. A campfire was blazing already, around which various barbecues were set up, and people were sitting about chatting and laughing and drinking. I looked about and spotted Cara alone, leaning up against a tree. Her eyes were closed and her usual grin was missing.
‘Hey,’ I said, scooting down next to her. ‘You okay?’
‘Nope,’ she said, keeping her eyes closed. ‘Bloody leg. I fell on the climb up here and twisted it. I thought if I sat for a while it would ease up, but it’s raging.’
‘Good news.’ I began rummaging in my bag. ‘I never leave home without painkillers.’
She opened one eye. ‘No offence, Scarlett, but aspirin isn’t going to touch this.’
‘Oh.’ I sat back. ‘Okay. What can I do?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Skipper’s gonna run me and Kyle back to shore in a minute, and we’ll get a taxi to mine. Kyle’s just finding Si to tell him.’
‘Will I help you down to the boat?’
‘No, you will not! Just because I’m stupid enough to fall over doesn’t mean you have to cut the night short.’
‘Don’t be daft, Cara. I’m happy to go now.’
‘I thought you wanted to see Jude, eh? Maybe he’ll turn up later. He’s always fashionably late.’
My eyes widened; I really did want to talk to Jude. But Cara came first. ‘So what? It’s not important.’
‘Tsssk, yes it is.’
‘Cara, please…’
‘No, you stay on and party till the boat heads back to the harbour, then Si’ll see you home safe. And leave Lovely Kyle to take me home; I can’t complain about a little alone time with him.’
Her tone was bright, but the pain in her eyes was unmistakable.
‘Cara…’
‘No, Scarlett!’ she snapped. ‘This isn’t how it works. I don’t need help. I don’t need fussing over. I don’t need to be ruining anyone’s night. Just let me go.’
I sat back, distressed – my friend was in pain and I was making it worse. She glared at me and, mutely, I nodded. Then she pulled me in for a hug.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry for… You just can’t give me special treatment, you know?’
I uttered an ‘I know’ into her shoulder and blinked back tears.
*
The island felt bigger without Cara on it. Lonelier. Eerier. But I soon discovered a cure for my nerves…
‘One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, four. Five tequila, six tequila, seven tequila, more!’
So went the cry out into the night air as the shots were passed round. I’d bowed out of the first four rounds, sticking to rum and Coke, but eventually curiosity got the better of me and I accepted a tiny glass of the liquor.
My first sip – yes, I sipped it, to great hilarity all round the campfire – sent me into a paroxysm of coughing. The second sip brought tears to my eyes. By the third, my throat was on fire. By the fourth I had resolved never, ever to drink such an odious beverage again. But then, after a good while chatting to the girl next to me (Alice, I think her name was. Or perhaps Alex. Or was it Albert?), when the call went up again I found myself accepting the glass and knocking back the contents.
With tequila, it emerged, came loose lips and a blossoming confidence in mingling among the other surfers and asking direct and difficult questions:
Did you know my sister?
Did you see her in the cove?
Did you talk to her?
Were you there the night she died?
A hazy image emerged: Sienna, life and soul of the party – loud, gregarious, friendly, wild. Everyone knew her, but no one could recall any tangible fact about her: why she was in the cove, who she was beneath the smile. The night she died was more prominent in memories, but accounts were chaotic and conflicting. All anyone really remembered was Si turning off the music and shouting ‘Sienna’s drowning!’ and then everyone running to the shore and spreading out in a line and scouring the water.
‘Who raised the alarm?’ I asked.
‘Si,’ was the universal reply.
‘Yes, but who told him?’
No one seemed to know – though Big Ben had a feeling it was some old bloke walking his dog. My heart caught at that. Not Bert; it couldn’t be Bert. He’d have told me. Surely.
Somehow, the shot glass in my hand was full again, so I remedied that. It helped.
Then I found a glass in the other hand too, and all around people were chanting ‘Double or nothing’ and then knocking back their drinks, and of course it would have been impolite not to join in.
And then I loved everyone.
Don’t ask me what round we were at when I got up and joined in the dancing. I couldn’t tell you. It was before
I squeezed a hotdog too tight and oozed ketchup all down my dress, I think. And it was definitely before I decided to take a wander into the trees and have a little lie-down.
*
‘Hello? Scarlett?’
I opened my eyes. No one there. A voice without a body. A ghost.
‘Ooooooo,’ I said.
‘Scarlett? Are you all right?’ Ghostie sounded worried.
I giggled.
‘Blake, are you drunk?’
‘Yessir.’
‘You’re drunk.’ Ghostie sounded stunned. ‘Out-of-your-mind drunk.’
‘Yep.’
‘Good grief, girl – what are you trying to do to me! Wake up. Open your eyes!’
‘Are open.’
‘No, they’re not.’
That was funny. I giggled some more.
‘Oh, man.’
‘Shhh,’ I told the ghost. ‘Sleepy time.’
‘Scarlett?’
Warm arms around me. Then, nothing.
*
Something was licking me. A wet tongue on my forehead.
‘Ugh. Gerroff, Chester,’ I groaned.
‘Scarlett, open your eyes.’ Not Chester. Not woofy-sounding enough.
I peeled back an eyelid and took in a glimpse of a pale face looming over me. Frowning.
‘Oh! Hey, Jude.’
I chuckled. That was funny.
Jude rolled his eyes and put down the wet cloth he was holding. ‘Scarlett Blake, you are disgracefully drunk.’
‘Um-hmm. ’Graceful.’
‘Here. Drink up.’
A hand slipped behind my head and lifted it and he held a glass to my lips.
‘Tequila?’ I whispered.
His lips quirked. ‘No, water.’
I drank deeply. ‘Mmm. S’nice.’
‘Again. Drink it all down.’
I did as I was told and then lay back and closed my eyes. Then opened them again. Blinked.
‘Hang on. Where am I?’
‘Home.’
I sat up and just had time to take in a familiar room before the sofa lurched widely beneath me and a firm hand pushed me back down. I closed my eyes. Still the world was spinning. The wet cloth went back on my head and then I felt a cool hand stroking my hair.
‘Hush now,’ said Jude. ‘Just lie still.’
‘’Kay.’ His touch was nice. Calming. Soothing.
