Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (20 page)

‘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.

‘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.

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…’

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.