Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (19 page)

‘Hey, sexy lady,’ sang the camp-as-
Carry On
bartender
tunelessly. ‘What can I get for you?’

‘What are the options?’

‘Beer, lager, wine, cider, cocktail, rum, vodka, tequila,
whiskey, gin, brandy, liqueur…’

‘Er, how about Coke?’

‘Coke Regular? Coke Zero? Diet Coke?’

Someone elbowed me in the back, hard. ‘Er… Diet?’

‘Regular, Cherry, Vanilla or Lime?’

Seriously? ‘Um… Lime. Two Lime Cokes, please.’

Not only was the boat impressively stocked, but it was
impressively packed. It had taken me a good five minutes to work my way here
from the upper deck, where I’d left Cara sitting on a bench seat soaking up the
sun. I’d never seen so many people in one space – it was rather like the ‘how
many people can you fit in a Mini’ challenge, but with revellers instead of
record-breakers, and a fifty-foot party boat complete with dance floor and decks
instead of a micro-car. There were young people in every corner, on every
surface, dangling over the guardrails – shouting, laughing, dancing, generally
having a blast. I recognised the usual crowd from Twycombe, but many of the
people around me were strangers.

Quite how Si knew all these people was beyond me, but the
more I hung around with him, the more I got the sense that he was just one of
those blokes who knew everyone. Take the skipper, for example: mate from his
uni course, Cara had told me, who’d cut a good deal for the boat. And the DJ:
mate from his five-a-side team. And the bartender: mate from his charity work.
Si was like a spider in the middle of a web, the ultimate networker.

As I weaved my way back through the throng to Cara, trying
not to slosh Coke down my white sundress (yes, a dress; Cara had insisted), I
scanned each face. Black guy. Chinese guy. Short guy. Girl in a thong. Geezer
with a dodgy mullet. Woman in a wig.

Cara was sitting right where I left her, easy to spot even
across the deck in her psychedelic-print maxi dress. I slumped down on the
bench beside her with a ‘Phew!’ and handed her a plastic beaker.

She took a swig and her eyes lit up. ‘Cuba Libre?’

‘Nope, Plymouth, actually.’

My wit earned me a punch on the arm. ‘You know what I’m
saying – this got rum in it?’

I shook my head.

‘Scarlett! It’s a free bar! Never look a gift horse in the
arse.’

‘It’s mouth, Cara – why would you be looking a horse in the
arse?’

She rolled her eyes. ‘Sayings like that are all nonsense
anyway. The point is, bring on the booze!’

‘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 Jude? 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.’