Better Left Buried (26 page)

And I'm pretty sure there's nothing left of the drug itself. Because I think I know what Max did with it. And why.

But Jack. I realize he's not going to get off so lightly. Jack has betrayed them, and denied them a fortune.

Of course they're never going to leave it there.

I think of my brother, in the same situation, knowing the wolves were at his door, that there was no way to shake them off. He wasn't tough like Jack. He couldn't live with that, any more than he could live with what had happened to that girl. To Anna.

The note he wrote. It told me everything. That note was Max saying goodbye. His life was over, he believed, and he came here to die. He took what he had left of that drug, and it stopped his heart and by the time he was found, all trace of it had gone.

A wave of sadness ripples through me as I grieve for my brother. For the dead end he drove himself into. And Anna. What a waste. And I think of the damage to all our lives – Rob's university plans, Lizzie's ruined exams. My mother's breakdown.

And my missed audition, I realize, finally admitting to myself that I'm way too late.

Jack coughs, and glances out to where our boat drifts in the distance. I wipe my eyes, wondering why he let them take the motorboat, leaving us stranded here. How on earth are we going to get back before we freeze to death?

“The faster they leave, the safer we are,” he says, reading my thoughts.

I scan the lake in every direction to see if there's anyone who might rescue us, but there's no sign of any other boats. Only the ceaseless backdrop of trees and reeds, the occasional bobbing head of a water bird.

We're completely alone.

Jack stands and peels off his wet clothes, down to his underpants. His skin is almost blue with cold, but his body is tight and lean and I have to turn away before he catches me staring.

He lays his clothes out on the rock and I wonder what he's doing. There's no way they'll dry in this weather. It's nearly dusk and the air is turning cooler as the light disappears.

But Jack doesn't sit back down. Instead he goes to the edge of the island, peering into the dark water for a couple of seconds before diving in.

“Jack,” I yell, jumping up in alarm, but he's already heading out towards the boat in a steady crawl.

Five minutes later, I see him pull himself over its side.

The moon rises slowly behind the island as we row away, at first a tinge of orange between the trees, then a looming white ball rising over them, astonishingly bright against the darkening sky.

I'm wrapped in the tarpaulin Jack found in the box at the back of the boat. He's rowing with the one oar we have left, using it like a paddle, first one side, then the other.

It's slow going, but at least we're moving. Jack doesn't speak, just examines the play of the moonlight on the ripples as if hypnotized by the impossible beauty of it all. Out of nowhere, the wind drops, the water going as still and clear as glass, the silence so deep you could drown in it.

“Do you think it was a full moon then?” I ask quietly. “When Max…” I can't say it.

“Maybe,” Jack says, lifting his eyes to the perfect sphere hanging above us. “It would be nice to think so.”

He leans over and pulls something out of his jacket pocket. A glint of metal, dark and hard, then a splash as he drops the gun into the water. I imagine it sinking slowly into the depths of the lake, silt settling around it like a caress.

And then we catch the sound of voices, improbably near. The low dull hum of an outboard motor. Jack spins and looks around us.

“Is it them?” I whisper, holding my breath. “Are they back?”

“Shhhh…”

He holds the oar in mid-air, letting the boat drift. A fish flashes out of the water right to the side of us, making my heart leap. The sound of the motor draws nearer, and up ahead, in the distance, a boat slides into view. I can hear people talking in Swedish, a man's voice and a woman's, sounding far closer than they actually are.

We watch them glide past in the twilight, heading towards a group of islands further up the lake.

“Fishing.”

Jack's voice has relief in it. I let myself breathe again as he carries on paddling the boat. Pretend to gaze out over the lake, but really I'm studying him out the corner of my eye. He's put his jeans back on, but his chest is bare and the muscles in his arms and stomach contract with each tug on the oar.

I want to ask him if he was tempted, when that man offered him a fortune.

But I don't need to. I know he was. And I know there's nothing to forgive him for. It's not wrong to hesitate in the face of temptation, I understand that now; what counts is having the strength to turn your back on it.

So instead I ask the question that's been playing around my head for so long I can't hold it in any more.

“You tried it, right?”

“What?”

“The stuff that Max made.”

Jack looks straight at me and then averts his eyes. For a moment I think he's not going to answer.

“A few times.”

“What was it like?”

He thinks for a while, contemplating the way the moonlight spills across the waves. “Amazing. At the time it made everything feel so…so significant. But being here, now, I can see that was nothing.”

“Like a dream, you mean?”

“Like a shadow. Like a picture of something real. Like a postcard from somewhere wonderful you can never go back to.”

We fall silent for a while, listening to the suck and slosh of the oar in the water, following the moon as it rises higher in the evening sky.

Jack nods towards it. “There's so much beauty in the world, Sarah. You don't need pills. You only need to open your eyes.”

My heart turns back to Max. Did he see this too? Did he come down to the lake to watch the moon before he…my mind shies away. Sorrow sweeps through me again with such force it feels as if it might just kill me.

“I'm lost,” I say, my voice choking. “I don't understand anything.”

Jack gazes back at me, and even in the dusk I can see the softness in his eyes.

“We all are, Chicory. That's the point. We're all dreaming and we don't know how to wake up.”

I think of the nightmare I had last night. Max and me. Running. Terrified.

“I want to wake up,” I whisper.

Jack smiles. “Not yet, Chicory. Not every dream is bad. You've got a whole lot of good ones ahead of you yet.”

I lean back into the boat, letting my hand trail in the water, soft as silk despite the cold.

“Will you do something for me?” Jack asks.

“What?”

“Sing something.”

I look at him. He's staring right at me. Is he serious?

“What? Now?”

He nods. “Your voice is lovely.”

I sit up. “How do you know?”

He doesn't reply. Simply carries on rowing.

“You listened, didn't you? When you were following me?”

He doesn't confirm it, but it's there, in his face. He's gazing at me with such a solemn expression I don't have the heart to refuse. I pull the tarpaulin tighter around me and straighten my back. Hum the key to “Dido's Lament” for a minute, then lift my head and begin.

“
…on thy bosom let me rest…death is now a welcome guest…
”

As I sing the first lines from Purcell's aria, I hear my voice ring out over the lake, the water reflecting and amplifying the sound until it feels as if it's all around us, shrouding us with the loveliness of Dido's haunting expression of grief. And as everything drops away – the cold, the fear, the exhaustion – I know in the very depths of me that this is all I ever want to do.

The only time I feel truly whole.

“
…When I am laid, am laid in earth…
”

My eyes shift from the moon and settle on Jack. He's stopped rowing again, watching me, his mouth slightly open as he listens. I build to a crescendo and let my voice swoop and soar, let it dance on the waves and mingle with the moonlight, let it wash away everything until there's only the music.

“
…may my wrongs create, no trouble, no trouble in thy breast…remember me, remember me…
”

I gaze back towards the island and let the tears flow down my cheeks. I'm not singing now for Jack, nor for myself. I'm singing a requiem for Max, for my brother, for everything he lost, and for everything we lost when he left us. I'm singing for his life – and death – and putting all that I have left in me into the song.

“
…remember me, remember me, but, ah, forget my fate
.”

The last note lingers and dies in the night. Jack inhales and doesn't speak for ages. Then finally clears his throat.

“Never stop,” he says, his voice jagged. “Promise me that, Chicory. Promise me you'll never stop singing. Not many things in life are worth a damn, but that…”

He breaks off and looks away.

I focus on my feet, trying not to cry.

“I want you to invite me.” He turns back, fixing me with that slow, serious stare.

“Where?”

“To your first concert – when you're a famous…a famous…” I see him groping for the word. “…soprano.”

I smile through my tears. I haven't the heart to tell him I'm an alto.

“Go home, Chicory. Forget all this. Leave it to your dreams. Just concentrate on your singing.”

“It's too late,” I say miserably.

Jack frowns. “Why?”

“I've missed the audition.”

He looks at me intently.

“When was it?”

“This Saturday morning.”

Jack goes quiet for a few minutes. I watch him calculating our chances of getting back in time.

He needn't bother. I've already added them up and made zero. Besides, there's no way I'm ready – not after all that's happened.

He takes a deep breath then sighs. “Don't think like that, Sarah. It's never too late, do you hear me? I'll come with you, talk to them if you want. Explain.”

I laugh. The idea of Jack turning up at the Royal Music School, demanding they give me another chance, is so absurd that I have to.

Jack fixes my eyes with his. “There'll be other opportunities, okay? You're not your brother. You haven't screwed up like that.”

I study his face, letting the truth of this sink in, and something lifts in my heart. He's right, I think. He's absolutely right.

This isn't the end at all.

I find Jack standing down by the pavilion, gazing out over the lake. The sun has risen and there's a light mist on the horizon. A gang of birds swoops and wheels over the water just past the jetty.

I hand him a mug of tea. “There's no milk, but at least it's hot.”

I'm shivering despite the blanket draped around my shoulders, but Jack hardly seems aware of the cold.

“We should go soon,” he says.

I gaze at the lake, trying to imagine the sheet of ice that will cover it over in winter. In only a few months. It feels impossible, all this life, all this movement, frozen for weeks on end.

“Okay,” I say, but suddenly the thought of leaving this place tugs at my heart so forcefully I'm tempted to refuse. Max, my brother, who lost his way and ended up here by himself.

How can I leave him alone?

In the distance I hear a long, low howl, fading back into silence. I sense Jack shiver beside me.

“Reckon it's a dog or a wolf?” He looks at me with his grey-sky eyes and all at once I understand what they remind me of. Wild and fierce and piercing.

And dangerous, I think, remembering the gun.

“What will you do?” I fix his gaze with mine, not letting it slide away. “When we get back, I mean.”

Jack shrugs. Then seems to consider the question more carefully.

“I'm not sure. I've been thinking maybe I'll go travelling. I fancy Asia. Somewhere really different.”

“What about college? You said you wanted to study horticulture.”

He shrugs again. “It may have to wait.”

I understand what Jack means. And why he needs to get away. I stand for what feels like ages, looking out at the lake, listening to the sound of the birds and the wind in the leaves. And I think of Phoebe, and how Jack won't be able to see her at all. He'll be in exile, like Lizzie, for who knows how long.

Though Lizzie can come home now, I realize. As soon as I get back I'll call her, tell her there's no longer anything to keep her away. And I know that everything will be fine between us.

She, at least, isn't lost to me.

“Jack,” I say, turning to face him, “I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

I feel my cheeks colour. “Just swear to me you won't…you know…touch that stuff…or get involved with it again. Ever.”

He sets his mug on the little table in the pavilion and lifts his hand, placing it on my cheek.

“I won't, Sarah, I give you my word. I'm done with all that.”

His hand lingers and I don't draw back. Those winter eyes pull me in, and then I feel his mouth on mine and with it a surge of longing that makes me giddy. I kiss him back, wanting to hold this embrace like a perfect note I never have to let go. I want to sink into it and never have to surface.

But Jack gently draws back and runs his hand through my hair. Then leans towards me again, this time resting his forehead against mine.

“This isn't the answer, Sarah.” His voice soft and quiet. “This would just be the beginning of the problem.”

I feel his words like the ground dropping out from underneath me.

“Jack, I…”

I want to say it. More than anything in the world I want to tell him what's in my heart. But something in his expression holds me back.

“Maybe one day, Chicory.” He lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “But don't hold your breath, okay?”