Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (16 page)

As I watched, Mother lowered herself carefully to her knees
on the grass and arranged the lilies she’d brought in a flower holder. Father
stood straight-backed, watching her silently.

Eventually, Mother burst out, ‘I don’t find her here! I
don’t feel her! This is meaningless to me.’

Father muttered something I couldn’t quite make out – it
sounded like
senator
– and then, angrily, ‘What do you expect?’

Mother began crying, broken, racking sobs. ‘Every time we
come, I think it will be easier. But it never is.’

Father continued to stand stiffly, but his tone was a shade
quieter as he said, ‘I know, Elizabeth.’

I sighed. I knew that I should make my presence known. I’d
given up hiding in dark corners while my parents rowed in childhood. But after
yesterday, I couldn’t face Mother’s emotion and Father’s coldness. And what
would I say? I doubted very much that Sienna had confided in them – Mother’s
bewilderment since her death was genuine, I was sure. But I could see no gain
in telling them what I now knew: that their daughter had been dying when she
took her life. If Sienna had wanted us to know, she would have told us. I would
respect her choice.

And so, on a green hill on a beautiful summer’s morning, I
huddled behind the cold, crumbling gravestone of one C.S. Nesbit Esquire,
recollecting happy memories of my sister even as I watched our parents trample
on each other’s hearts.

‘Let me get this straight. We’re going to roll down this
epic hill in a giant inflatable ball like kamikaze hamsters?’

‘Yep.’

‘And this will be fun.’

‘Yep.’

‘And safe.’

‘Yep.’

Another green hill. Another beautiful day. But this time, an
altogether lighter atmosphere. And the addition of an enormous transparent PVC
sphere into which Cara and I were currently being harnessed by a majorly
over-excited chap called Colin on whose t-shirt were embroidered the words
‘Zany Zorbing Ltd’. Trust Cara to take my ‘It’s summer! I’m free! I’m ready to
roll!’ declaration literally.

I had got back from St Augustine’s on Sunday on something of
a high. Undeterred by my parents going at it – that was no new occurrence, after
all – I focused on the sense of peace that I’d found at Sienna’s grave. I got
it now, the choice she’d made. Admired her for it, in fact. Though the thought
of the burden she’d carried alone made me ache for her, and still the hole
created by her loss pulled at me, the desperation in me was gone, replaced by a
sense of acceptance. I knew what she’d say to me if she could be with me now –
‘Enough, Scarlett. No more crusade. You’ve cried for me. You’ve fought for me.
Now let me go and get on with
living
.’ My sister had had no choice to
live, but I did, and I owed it to her as much as myself to move on now.

I had gone straight round to Luke and Cara’s on Sunday
evening to assure them I was just fine after the drama of the day before –
really, honestly, just fine. Luke took more convincing than Cara, but finally,
over a takeaway Chinese and a feisty game of Mario on the Wii in which, to
everyone’s amusement, I demonstrated my seriously lacking hand–eye
coordination, I saw the tension melt from his shoulders.

I didn’t tell either of them the details of my experience at
St Augustine’s, but I did make it clear that I was ready to enjoy what was left
of my summer here.

Yes, Luke, I will be surfing with you all week –
regardless of the cut on my head. Saturday next for a date? Perfect.

Yes, Cara, I am up for shopping. And coffee. And cake.
Many cakes. And that new zombie movie. And the broody one with that grim reaper
bloke. And a little outdoorsing it? Sure, what the heck.

Operation Starlet Scarlett – a name that rather bemused me
but delighted my enthusiastic friend – commenced the very next day.

On ‘Makeover Monday’ Cara took me from shop to shop, picking
out a vast array of colourful clothing in styles I’d never usually consider and
then passing judgement as I tried each outfit on. Makeup counters were next,
then a hair salon, and an hour later I emerged with highlights and layers that
felt strange after so many years of straight, my-coloured hair. Still, judging
by the expression on Luke’s face when he saw me that evening, it wasn’t a
change for the worse.

Tuesday was all about cinematic escapism. I’d heard of pub
crawls, but it hadn’t occurred to me that the same concept could be applied to
movie-going. We started out at the old Reed Cinema, then moved on to the arts
centre, then took in a showing at the new 15-screener at the leisure complex.
Needless to say, after three paranormal romance movies and an inhuman amount of
popcorn, I had some pretty surreal dreams that night.

Wednesday was balmy-hot; definitely a day for the beach.
Cara drove us to Bigbury-on-Sea – a large and popular beach along the coast. We
paddled. We rock-pooled. We made sandcastles. We buried each other to the waist
in the sand. We ate ice-creams. Then we boarded the 1930s’ sea tractor and took
a ride out across the beach to the tiny Burgh Island. Cara had ‘a cunning plan’
to poke about the famous Art Deco hotel there, but she was foiled by a
‘Residents Only’ sign on the gate, so we settled for a drink at the ancient
Pilchard Inn.

Today, Thursday, we were ‘bringing on the adrenaline’,
apparently. Hence I’d been packed into Cara’s car, driven to a deserted hill
near Exeter and ushered into a large ball.

Now, strapped in opposite me and flushed with anticipation,
Cara breathed, ‘It’ll be brilliant, honestly, Scarlett. Pure head rush.’

I grinned back.

With a final click of a buckle, Colin emitted a
high-pitched, ‘Ready, gals?’ and Cara nodded and I nodded and then he was out
of the orb, zipping it closed, and then there was a sharp jolt and then
–
holy cow!

I’d like to say that I was dignified in the face of such a
new, exhilarating experience – well, as dignified as one can be hurtling down a
Devonshire hill in a bubble. I was not dignified. I screamed. A lot. As did
Cara, across from me.

Sky.

Grass.

Sky.

Grass.

Sky.

Grass.

Sky.

Grass.

Finally, the dizzying rhythm began to slow. With a final
turn, the ball came to rest.

‘That,’ I said, panting and brushing back crazy hair from my
eyes, ‘is what I’m talking about!’

‘Hell, yes,’ croaked Cara, as pink as I’d ever seen her. ‘In
my next life, I’m coming back as a hamster.’

I threw my head back and laughed.

Cara’s eyes gleamed. ‘What next, Ms Blake? Sand kiting?’

I shook my head.

‘Bungee jumping?’

I shook my head.

‘Sky diving?’

I shook my head.

‘A vindaloo from that dodgy Curry-in-a-Hurry takeaway?’

I shook my head. Dropping the smile, I raised an eyebrow and
said: ‘I can do better than that. How about… murder.’

*

‘It’s the museum collator. Look at that twirly moustache.
He’s got killer written all over him. Mind you, that marshmallow-brained
duchess had it coming. The minute she told her lover “We’ll always be together”
she may as well have signed her own death certificate. Wandering about after
hours at an Egyptian exhibit, I ask you. It’s an open invitation for a
khopesh in the back.’

Pink-cheeked and twinkly eyed, Bert was in his element – not
one but two young female visitors to entertain, a large carrot cake courtesy of
Mrs Hobbs at number twelve and a BBC marathon of cheesy whodunits. Chester was
similarly enchanted by the company, and was running himself ragged dancing from
me to Bert to Cara to the kitchen to me to Bert to Cara to the kitchen…

As for Cara and me – well, it may not have the excitement of
zorbing, but we had agreed that an afternoon with Bert was time well spent. I
was not the only one who had seen the deterioration in Bert’s health over the
past weeks, and Cara had been delighted at my idea to visit for the afternoon –
a surprise for Bert, given that he’d seen me only that morning when I’d taken
Chester for an early walk on the beach.

‘But Bert,’ said Cara, ‘Mr Hargreaves can’t have done it. He
has an alibi – he was with the albino lap dancer, remember? I reckon it was the
mummy in the tomb…’

The elderly man put a hand to his heart in mock-affront.
‘How dare you!
Murder She Wrote
, I’ll have you know, young lady, has
none of that daft vampires and werewolves and ghosts and whatnot that you
youngsters love. Killers are as flesh and blood as you and me.’

‘All right then,’ said Cara. ‘It’s the dodgy-looking bloke
with the squint in the grubby mac.’

Bert nearly choked on a mouthful of cake.

‘Cara,’ I said. ‘That’s not the killer. That’s Columbo. The
detective. From the programme we just finished watching.’

‘So? Who says a detective can’t be a killer? I’m betting
he’s a bent cop.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘If I were you, I’d stick to
The
Vampire Diaries
.’

‘It’s really quite simple to work out,’ said Bert. ‘There’s
a formula, you see. Learn it, and the pieces of the puzzle slot right into
place.’

As he launched into a long and rather dubious explanation of
how you identify the killer within the first five minutes of a whodunit, I
smiled and nodded but found myself distracted by the trembling in Bert’s hands
and the rattle in his chest.

‘… and if the body’s in a freezer, the killer’s usually
tall. And if the dead woman’s wearing white shoes, look to the husband…’

I glanced over at Cara and saw that she too was studying
Bert. Her brow furrowed briefly, and then she looked away.

‘… and if the business partner breaks down in tears when he
hears the news, he’s your man. And if there’s no body to be found, the
victim’ll be alive and well someplace. And…’

‘And the butler did it,’ added Cara smoothly.

Bert shook his head. ‘The butler did it? No dear, that’s not
a formula. That’s a shameless cliché.’

I suppressed a smile as Cara pointed to the TV and Bert
swung around to see Angela Lansbury ticking off a bloke in a grey tailcoat and
white gloves.

The old man blinked and then said cheerily, ‘Ah, the butler did
it. Look at her go. Jessica Fletcher, what a filly… Now then, more tea?’

*

By our fourth cuppa, Bert was showing signs of flagging, and
with a kiss on each papery cheek and a pat for Chester, we said goodbye. Cara
and Luke’s place was two streets away, and we walked back together arm in arm,
the early-evening sun casting shadows that stretched before us.

‘How long do you think he has left?’ Cara asked quietly.

‘I don’t know. Every day he’s a little worse, I think.’

‘I hate it. I hate watching him slip away like this.’

‘I know. But he seems peaceful with it.’

Cara was silent, and I thought of all the people she’d lost:
her parents, her grandfather – even her grandmother, stuck in a care home. And
now Bert, a man she’d known from childhood. This must be torture for her.

‘Does he have anyone else?’ I asked gently. ‘Family?’

‘There’s a son,’ said Cara. ‘He lives in London. Comes down
every couple of months. We have his number. We can call him if… when the time
comes.’

I squeezed her arm. We walked the rest of the way back in
companionable silence.

At the steps to her house I went to dig my car keys out of
my bag; Luke was working a double shift today and so surfing was cancelled. But
Cara stopped me.

‘Come in? I’ll do us mocktails and we can sit up on the roof
terrace.’

‘What roof terrace?’

‘Duh. The terrace on the roof.’

None the wiser, I told her to lead the way.

Five minutes later Cara and I were lounging in Papasan
chairs – huge, round, with plump cushions – on a white-paved terrace dotted
with potted plants and encircled by glass barriers. The area was huge, spanning
the whole house, but it was slightly set back at the front, which meant it
wasn’t obvious from street level. The view from this height over Twycombe was
spectacular – higgledy-piggledy roofs in varying shades of red and brown and
grey giving way to the long stretch of beach and the blue beyond.

‘Look,’ said Cara, pointing seawards with a cocktail
umbrella. ‘Surfers. Like teeny ants from up here.’

I squinted and made out flashes of black against the rolling
waves.

‘You surfing tomorrow?’ she asked me.

‘Definitely.’

‘You love it, huh?’

‘I love it,’ I said at once. Then I caught myself. ‘I’m
sorry, Cara; that was insensitive.’

Cara thwacked me on the arm. ‘Because I can’t surf, you
mean, with these bum legs? Silly, doesn’t mean
you
can’t love it. And
you’re pretty good, from what I’ve seen.’

‘You’ve seen me surf?’

‘I’ve seen you.’

‘Well, Luke’s a good teacher…’

‘It wasn’t Luke I saw you with.’

I choked on a sip of my virgin pina colada.

‘Monday morning lethargy,’ said Cara over my coughing. ‘I
needed a caffeine fix. The cafe in town opens at half-seven, so I dragged
myself out of bed. You were on the beach with Big Ben and Liam and Duvali and
Lucy and Melissa and that newbie chap – John? Jed?’

‘Geoff,’ I said. ‘Look, it’s not…’

‘Chill out, will you? I’m not going to tell Luke.’

I nodded. Guilt was crawling in my stomach – this morning
had been the fourth I’d been out on the water early with Geoff and co., and I’d
quite deliberately said nothing to Luke about it at our evening surfs. The
truth was, I couldn’t get enough of riding the board. Going behind Luke’s back
was wrong, I knew – but we were getting on so well, and somehow the time never
seemed right to tell him. Anyway, I’d told myself, it wasn’t like I was doing
anything wrong. I wasn’t all-out lying.

The image of my parents rowing at Sienna’s grave flashed
into my head. All my life, I’d seen them tearing each other apart like that.
And the lies – always the lies.

Elizabeth, she’s just a colleague.

What are you, the wine police? I had one glass with lunch
– one.

I told you, I have to be away on business. Yes, people
‘do business’ on Christmas Day.

I can’t talk to you now, Hugo. I have a headache.

As a young child, I had been unable to differentiate between
my real parents and the parts they played, and I’d frequently been bewildered.
Only once I reached my teens did their duplicity crystalise for me. I’d
promised myself then that I wouldn’t be like them.

‘I’m going to tell Luke about the morning surfing,’ I told
Cara. I felt a sense of relief even as I said the words.

Cara nodded. ‘Fair enough. And Si’s little expedition next
Saturday? Kyle said you were on the list. Cruising till sundown, then mooring
at Drake’s Island.’

Now I remembered – Geoff had asked me and, keen to have a
chance to learn more from the other surfers, I’d agreed. Now, though, after the
weekend, the desire to probe for answers about Sienna had diminished. I knew
the truth.

‘Well, I did say I would, but to be honest it’s not really
–’

‘You have to go!’ implored Cara. ‘Si said it was cool for
Kyle and me to tag along, and the only way Luke’ll let me go is if you go too.
He’s invited but he’s working that day – I already checked his schedule.’