Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  ‘You said that before,’ I murmured. ‘Hush now. Lie still. After I killed Bambi. Only Bambi didn’t die.’

  ‘The deer you hit – it was healed?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  ‘Did you touch the deer, Scarlett? Did you want to heal it?’

  ‘Mmm-hmm.’

  I was drifting away, so relaxed, when it came to me: there was something important I needed to ask him.

  ‘Was lookin’ for you today, Jude.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘My sister. Saw a picture. You were friends.’

  A pause. Then: ‘Yes.’

  ‘Friends or friends?’

  ‘Friends.’

  ‘Ah. So she was with him then.’

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Daniel.’

  Another pause. Then: ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re sad. Sorry to make you sad. She was your friend. She died. You couldn’t save her.’

  There was a silence during which the only audible sound was the old grandfather clock. The touch on my head was firmer now, and warm, so warm.

  ‘Sleep now, Scarlett. And wake up strong and brave. The clock is ticking.’

  With a blissful sigh, I slipped off the edge into the black abyss, but as I fell, I fancied I heard a whisper chase me down: I couldn’t save her. But I will save you.

  26: FACE-OFF

  Shouting, banging, heavy footfalls.

  ‘What the hell did you do to her! Move – out of the way. Scarlett, can you hear me? Jesus Christ – there’s blood all over her! Don’t just stand there, Jude; get help!’

  ‘It’s ketchup, Luke. Not blood.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s ketchup. She’s not hurt. She’s drunk.’

  ‘Drunk?’

  ‘Drunk.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘Tequila, mostly, judging by her ramblings.’

  ‘Tequila? Scarlett doesn’t drink tequila! Hell, she was staggering on a pint the other day. Who’s given her that? Who let her get like this? You – where have you come from? I checked with Si – you weren’t going; he said you weren’t going or I’d never have let them… How did you get her back here? They’re still searching the island. Damn, I’d better call him.

  ‘Si? It’s okay. I’ve got her… Home… No idea… Jude is with her… Did he? Right… Yeah, man. I’ve got it now. Cheers. Take it easy.’

  ‘Luke, if I may make a suggestion – take a breath, mate.’

  ‘Don’t you “mate” me! What are you doing here? Why are you with her?’

  ‘Look at her, Luke. She needed help. I brought her home. I gave her water. You burst in here. End of.’

  ‘But how…’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I warned you to stay the hell away from her.’

  ‘I remember. In graphic detail. But what did you want me to do – leave her lying alone in the trees?’

  ‘In the trees? Hell, it’s like she stalks catastrophe.’

  ‘Or it stalks her...’

  ‘This doesn’t change anything, Jude. I don’t trust you and I don’t want you anywhere near her.’

  ‘Who she has in her life isn’t your choice to make, Luke. You can’t control her.’

  ‘I’m not trying to control her, dammit – I’m trying to protect her.’

  ‘From me.’

  ‘From you.’

  ‘It’s a worthy endeavour, Luke. But it’s misdirected. I’m not the bad guy.’

  ‘I was there that night. I saw you.’

  ‘Have you told her?’

  ‘No. Not yet. But I will.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell her.’

  ‘Back off!’

  ‘What are you afraid of, Luke?’

  ‘I don’t want to hurt her, okay? Now will you just get the hell out so I can put her to bed…’

  27: FOREBODING

  The smell of coffee coaxed me awake. I peeled back an eyelid to find Luke sitting on the chair beside my bed cradling a steaming mug in one hand and his head in the other. He was staring down at the floor.

  ‘Luke?’

  His head snapped up. He looked done in.

  ‘Hey. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said automatically.

  A wave of déjà-vu swept over me – we had been here before.

  I sat up.

  ‘Don’t lie to me,’ Luke said sharply. ‘The state you were in last night, Scarlett, you can’t possibly be feeling fine.’

  What the… oh. A rush of memories came back: the boat party, the rum and Cokes, the Drake’s Island exploration, Cara leaving, sitting around the campfire. Then it got a little hazy. The conga – had I done the conga?

  ‘Is Cara okay?’ I asked.

  Luke nodded. ‘The physio will see her on Monday, but the pain’s better today.’

  ‘Right. Good.’

  I tried to pierce the grey veil in my head. I remembered the campfire. I remembered laughing and talking and feeling great. Then it was a blank. How had I got home?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You’re going to have to fill the blanks. My head’s a bit… foggy.’

  Luke snorted and folded his arms.

  ‘You’re mad. What did I do?’

  ‘Tequila, Scarlett. That’s what you did.’

  Ah. I remembered sipping a shot now – yeuck. And then downing another. And then?

  ‘Oh no. I was drunk?’

  ‘Immensely, spectacularly, obscenely drunk.’

  ‘Crap.’

  What had I done? Where were the memories?

  His eyes drilled into me; I looked away. Straight at another piercing blue, on the bedside table. Sienna’s chalcanthite. Sienna…

  ‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Jude told me they were friends!’

  ‘Friends?’ Luke sounded really peeved now. ‘Jude found you passed out and brought you home. Remember that?’

  I looked up at him. Did I remember? No. I only had the vague sense that I’d spoken to Jude about Sienna – that was it.

  ‘I don’t understand. I didn’t come back on the boat?’

  ‘No, you were here at the cottage when I found you. With Jude. He must have brought you back himself. Maybe he has his own dingy. Or something.’ He frowned.

  Weird. This was ringing no bells at all.

  ‘Scarlett.’ Luke’s voice was rough with emotion. ‘Tequila – what were you thinking?’

  I cringed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, really. Everyone was drinking it. I’ve never had it before. I didn’t realise it was so…’

  ‘Potent?’

  I nodded. ‘I’m an idiot. Good job Jude was there.’

  ‘To save the day. Yes, very convenient,’ said Luke in a snide tone I’d never heard before.

  I bristled. ‘What’s your problem with him? From what you’re saying, he helped me last night. Why be so down on him?’

  ‘Now’s not the time,’ he snapped. ‘I have to go home and shower and change. I’m due at a house clearance in’ – he checked his watch – ‘forty-five minutes.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ I looked more closely at Luke. His clothes were crumpled. ‘Did you sleep here?’

  He looked pointedly at the armchair he was sitting on.

  ‘Luke! That’s crazy! You didn’t have to do that.’

  He sighed. ‘Yes, Scarlett, I did. Because you live here all alone. And I was worried about you.’

  I crawled out of bed and put my arms around him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m a rubbish girlfriend. I’ll make it up to you, I promise. And I’ll stick to Coke from now on. The drink, I mean. Not the drug!’

  I felt his laugh rumble through me. I leaned back, but he pulled me in and gave me a long, lingering kiss.

  ‘Are we okay?’ I whispered, imploring him with my eyes to say yes.

  He dropped a kiss onto the end of my nose. ‘We’re okay.’

  Finally, I let myself relax. And smile.

  ‘You�
�ve never called yourself my girlfriend before,’ he said huskily, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind my ear. ‘I like it.’

  ‘I like it too.’

  ‘And I like it when you tell me you love me.’

  I blinked. I wasn’t aware we’d got to that point in the relationship.

  Luke was grinning. ‘That you really, really, really, really love me. And Cara. And Bert. And Chester. And Angela Lansbury.’

  ‘Oh God. What else did I say?’

  ‘Let’s see. That you once had an imaginary friend called Humphydink. That you think Harry Potter is kinda hot at the right angle. That you really had a good time at the folly. That you’ve got magic hands. That you think a history degree might actually be quite dull, unless it’s about Sir Francis Drake, who, judging by the description you gave, I think you have a bit confused with Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean. The journey from the sofa to the bed took a really, really long time.’

  I groaned and buried my head in my hands. Way to impress a guy.

  *

  For the first time since Luke had picked me up for the River Cottage lunch, I found myself relieved rather than sad to say goodbye to him. I needed a little time to scrape my dignity off the floor and prepare myself for the day ahead.

  I spent what was left of the morning taking it easy, expecting the mother of all hangovers to grace me with its presence at any moment. I sipped water. I napped. I wallowed in a bath. By lunchtime, there was no getting away from it: other than the usual tiredness, I felt great. The only residual issue from my misadventure was a memory with the consistency of Swiss cheese.

  I remembered the campfire pretty well. But then there was a big black hole where the getting home part of the evening should have been. I felt like I remembered Jude in the sitting room – beside the sofa? And I had a strong sense that he and Sienna weren’t an item; that the long-gone Daniel bloke was her ex. Jude must have told me that, I figured. Before Luke showed up. I had some hazy recollection of the two of them shouting, but the details of their argument escaped me. Still, judging by Luke’s reaction to my attempt to defend Jude this morning, he was still plenty mad with Jude. I’d have to get it out of him, the reason for the bad blood between them. I’d give Luke a chance to cool off first, though.

  I left the cottage after lunch. I was due at Hollythwaite for afternoon tea: Mother’s favourite meal of the day because for her it signalled the transition from Too-Early-to-Drink-Noticeably to Bring-on-the-Booze. But hey, I chastised myself, given the tequila fiasco the night before, who was I to judge? Anyway, truth be told, I liked afternoon tea too – in part for its old-fashioned quaintness, but mainly for the array of miniature cakes on offer.

  I wasn’t sure what to expect of Mother today, but I suspected histrionics may be on the agenda. I had quite deliberately not packed an overnight bag – even if it was late by the time I left, I’d choose a night drive back to Twycombe over staying at Hollythwaite.

  It was a steady drive, overtaking the odd Sunday driver but otherwise taking it easy. My mind drifted often to the night before. There was some memory that eluded me; I had a sense of it, but every time I tried to grab it, it danced away from me. Eventually, I gave up; like trying to remember the name of some actor in a film, it would come to me in time, when I least expected it, I thought.

  Finally, motorway gave way to A road, and then A road gave way to B road, and then B road gave way to country lane, and then country lane gave way to large wrought-iron gates and, beyond, a sweeping drive leading up to the house.

  As Hollythwaite came into view, I was struck, as I always was, by its affected grandeur. It was an eighteenth-century manor house trying to be a small castle: grey brick, turrets, gargoyles, the works. For years it had passed between monied hands – peers of the realm, barristers, politicians – until a fire in the 1950s had caused substantial damage, and the owner, deeming repair work too expensive, had abandoned it to crumble. The words ‘money pit’ meant nothing to my father, though. Right before he met my mother, when he was in his early twenties and had just come into his inheritance, he saw that this house was set amid the country estates of the wealthiest, the most respected, the most influential in England, and he snapped it up. He brought in a team of restoration specialists to return it to its former glory, and by the time the house was habitable he had met Mother and she crossed the threshold at his side as mistress of the manor.

  It was here that they had held their wedding reception; here Sienna and I had been born. This was the Blake family home. But now, there was only one Blake remaining within – no, in fact, she wasn’t a Blake at all. Mother would soon be plain old Elizabeth Iris Jones once more. I could only imagine how that was paining her.

  I eased the car around the lawned turning circle in front of the house and pulled up to a halt facing the large, ornate double front doors. They were closed, which was odd. The security system would have signalled that I had passed through the roadside gate, and usually the doors would be flung open and Mother – or at the least a member of staff – would be silhouetted in the doorway, waiting to greet me. I felt a stab of anxiety. Mother had forgotten I was coming, and that could only mean one thing: she wasn’t in her right mind.

  I got out and strode over to the doors. They were locked.

  There were three entrances around the other sides of the building, plus the doors leading into the conservatory. I headed around quickly to the east side of the house, alongside which were the old stables, converted now into storage rooms and staff quarters. Through an archway I could make out a sliver of the stables’ courtyard, which the staff used as a car park. I couldn’t see any cars. I veered off course and walked through the arch. The courtyard was entirely empty.

  A crawling feeling took hold of my stomach.

  In all the years I had lived at Hollythwaite, I had never known the staff not to be present. But it looked like Mother had sent them away. The obvious conclusion was that she had gone away too – a nice trip to the Cote d’Azur, perhaps, for some sun. But going away would have required the presence of mind to pack and travel, and if she were able to do that, she’d have told me she was leaving.

  I turned and walked sharply back to the house, to the entrance that led into the scullery. Locked.

  Further along the east side, I twisted the handle of the door to the boot room. It did not turn.

  An image came into my mind – Sienna walking into the ocean. And then more scenes flashed across my vision, like a poorly edited movie shot in flickering black and white and just one other colour: red.

  Flash: A cut-glass tumbler lying on its side, empty.

  Flash: Tablets spilling out of a prescription bottle.

  Flash: Flaming hair, splayed across the floor.

  Flash: A delicate high-heeled shoe, hanging off a pale foot.

  Flash: A knife, its blade sticky and sanguine.

  Flash: White skin splashed with red, cold to the touch.

  Now I was running, around the side of the house, along the neat gravel path bordered by immaculate box hedges and overlooked by cherubic white statues. The conservatory at the back was wide and filled with large potted plants. I peered between leafy fronds as I tried each door in turn, but I couldn’t see anything except lonely rattan furniture. Finally, just as I was thinking I’d have to smash my way in with a Cupid statue, a door slid open at my touch.

  ‘Mother?’ I shouted.

  Silence.

  ‘Mother!’

  I scanned the conservatory – nothing – and began a sweep of her usual haunts: the front drawing room, the back drawing room, the front sitting room, the back sitting room, the formal dining room, the informal dining room, the kitchen... But she wasn’t downstairs. And she wasn’t in the upstairs sitting room, or the music room, or her bedroom suite, or Father’s, or mine.

  I found her in Sienna’s room, on the large Persian carpet before the hearth. The rug had been golden once. Now it was splashed with crimson.

  28: LOST
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  ‘Scarlett, darling!’ slurred Mother. ‘Come and join me.’ She patted the rug, sending another cascade of red wine down from her teetering glass.

  In my relief, I sank to my knees beside her. For a moment there, I’d thought…

  ‘Lovely to see you, darling.’

  ‘Mother, what are you doing?’

  ‘Drinking.’

  ‘I can see that. But on the floor? In Sienna’s room?’

  Her brow furrowed. ‘The house is so big. I can’t find her.’

  She was really drunk. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  ‘Mother, where’s Marnie, and the rest of the staff?’

  ‘Ah. I gave them a holiday. Tickets to Majorca all round! Wasn’t that kind of me?’

  ‘Yes – but you can’t be here all alone.’

  ‘Why not? You’re all alone at the cottage.’

  She had a point.

  I reached over, prised the wine glass from her hand and put it on the stone hearth. ‘Come on, Mother. Let’s get you to bed.’

  ‘Noooooooo. You only just got here. We must catch up!’

  I put my hands in her armpits and hauled her up. ‘Come on, this way.’

  ‘How is that nice young driving instructor boy?’ she slurred as I propelled her out of the room and towards the west wing.

  ‘Luke? He’s okay.’

  ‘Are you seeing him?’

  Apparently, my silence was enough answer for her.

  ‘Hooray! Someone should have some goddam happiness around here – and not just Hugo with Ms Bottomly-Wider or whatever that hag of a PA is called.’

  I was beginning to get a glimpse of what Luke had gone through with me the night before, and shame heated my stomach. To get this drunk, to lose yourself like this; it wasn’t a pleasant sight.

  We reached her bedroom and I guided her over to the bed. Like a docile child, she let me slip off her shoes and tuck her under the covers.

  ‘That wretched man,’ she muttered.

  ‘Mother,’ I said tiredly, sitting down on the bed beside her. ‘This has to stop. Look at you! You have to look after yourself – take responsibility. No one else can do it.’

  She humphed and pulled the covers over her head. I tugged them back down.