Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (23 page)

After that long, dark night, I refused to think about it.

It.

That thing that didn’t happen, because it couldn’t have
happened, because that kind of stuff doesn’t happen in the real world, only in
the films Cara was obsessed with – and I wasn’t Cara, I was me: practical and
sensible and logical; just an ordinary, nothing-special girl.

I cleaned the house. I walked Chester. I surfed. I read a
biography of Anne Boleyn. I skimmed an email from Mother telling me she’d
checked into The Harmony Centre. I went to the pub with Luke and beat him at
pool. I stood obediently as Cara did a fitting for The Dress. I went to the
library and borrowed a
Poirot
DVD and watched it with Bert.

I didn’t look for Jude.

Sometimes, I’d catch Luke watching me – when I was laughing
at one of his funny man-and-van stories, or when his fingers were entwined with
mine and we were walking on the beach – and I’d think he saw through me: past
the smiling, joking, affectionate exterior to the panic at my core. But he said
nothing.

I knew it couldn’t last. Pushing it away. With every
heartbeat, I heard it: the ticking clock.

*

I made it four days. I made it to Sunday.

Sunday lunch with Luke and Cara had become a tradition. The
River Cottage lunch had been delicious, but I couldn’t imagine anything topping
a meal in the warmth of the Cavendish kitchen, with Luke pottering about the
kitchen in the ‘Kiss the Cook’ apron I’d bought him and Cara chattering away
about clothes and Kyle.

As ever, today’s lunch was delicious, and when my plate was
empty of toad-in-the-hole I was almost sad.

‘There are leftovers,’ Luke whispered in my ear as he
cleared the table. ‘For later.’

I grabbed him and kissed him. ‘You,’ I said, ‘are a keeper.’

He grinned and moved away with the dishes.

‘Urgh, get a room,’ said Cara with faux-disgust.

‘You can talk,’ said Luke over his shoulder. ‘I saw you and
Kyle on the promenade yesterday…’

Cara grinned. ‘And you didn’t come over and prise us apart?
You really are mellowing in your old age, brov.’

Luke threw a tea towel at her. ‘I’ve done a plate for Bert. Will
one of you take it down to him?’

‘I’ll go,’ Cara and I said in unison, then laughed.

‘We’ll both go,’ said Cara. ‘Give you a chance to wash up.’

We walked arm in arm, Cara talking excitedly about The
Dress. She’d finished work on it, and when I’d tried it on that morning I’d
been staggered by the end result – it took every curve I had, usually hidden in
cardies and jeans, and accentuated it. It was dramatic and daring and without a
doubt the signature Cara Cavendish piece. Which was the idea: I’d spent an hour
before lunch playing model as she photographed me in the dress from every angle
for a website she was planning to launch that would offer customised formalwear
designs. My only issue with The Dress was finding a bra to work with the
lace-covered back and plunging neckline, and I asked her now what style would
work.

‘Don’t wear one,’ Cara told me. ‘Toupee tape’ll keep you
in.’

‘Cara! That’s a recipe for some kind of Bridget-Jones-style
fashion disaster.’

‘Oooo, wouldn’t Luke enjoy that…’

But we were turning into Bert’s street now and Cara’s
chuckle died on her lips as the sound of a dog barking loudly pierced the peaceful
afternoon air.

‘That sounds like Chester,’ said Cara, even as I was
quickening our pace. But there was only so fast Cara could walk.

Chester was at fever pitch now; frantic.

‘Get Luke,’ I told Cara and I dropped her arm and broke into
a run.

The door to Bert’s house was unlocked, as it always was when
he expected company. I raced into the living room and took in the scene in a
heartbeat: Bert lying back his chair, his eyes closed, his face slack; Chester
running from side to side in front of his master, barking furiously.

I ran to Bert, pressed my ear to his chest – nothing.
Nothing.

I didn’t think, I just did it: I put my hands to his chest
and I
willed
his heart to beat. At once, as I had known they would, my
hands blurred and began to emanate a light, an impossible light, an ethereal
light that got brighter and brighter and bluer and bluer…

But then, abruptly, the light was gone as something –
someone – pulled me sharply away.

I struggled forwards, reaching out for Bert, but the arms
holding me were rigid.

Then there was a low voice in my ear: ‘Scarlett, no.
Scarlett, you can’t – you mustn’t. Stop. You have to let him go.’

‘I can save him! I can bring him back.’

‘He doesn’t want to be saved. He’s ready. Look.’

But I was blinded by tears. My knees gave way and the arms
released me so that I could sink to the floor. Chester stopped barking and came
over and buried his nose in my lap, keening and shivering into me. I bowed my
head and sobbed.

A hand slipped gently under my chin and pulled it up. Cool fingers
brushed tears away so that the eyes watching me came into focus. The grey not
of a storm but of a misty twilight.

‘Scarlett,’ Jude said softly, compassionately. ‘I need you
to look. You need to understand.’

I shook my head.

‘Please.’

‘I’m frightened.’

‘I know you are. But Bert isn’t.’

He shifted aside.

I took a ragged breath.

I could see him. I could see Bert. Not his empty earthly
body, which lay still in the chair, but standing before me:
Bert
, the
Bert within. The old man was no longer old. Nor was he frail and hunched. He
was his best self; the man he had been in his prime: handsome, charismatic,
strong, so strong.

He was looking towards us, not at us but at some point just
beyond. With wonder. With joy. Whatever he saw, it was bright and beautiful; it
lit his face.

I turned to see the light that shone on him. I saw nothing.
Just a bookcase.

Then Jude was moving beside me, and his arms were around me,
lifting me. He set me down in the doorway, away from the bookcase, but he
didn’t let go of me. I let him hold me, because right now he was the only thing
keeping me up, keeping me together.

‘Look, Scarlett,’ he breathed in my ear. ‘Look. It’s the
most beautiful thing you’ll ever see.’

Bert was in motion, walking slowly across the room, and with
each step the light that bathed his face was brighter, whiter. He stopped right
before the bookcase and looked down, at Chester who had come to sit at his
feet. He reached his hand down and stroked the dog’s head.

Above the sound of Chester’s pitiful whine I was dimly aware
of the rhythm of trainers slapping concrete outside, fast, staccato, to match
my heartbeat. But then Bert was looking at me, right at me, and I couldn’t
think, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Never had I seen such serenity.

And then he looked at Jude. And Jude nodded.

It took a second, that was all. Just a simple step forwards,
and into the beyond. He was there, and then he was gone. The last I saw of my
friend was his face lit by the smile I had grown to love so well and a light, a
light that had guided him home.

‘He’s gone,’ I whispered.

But there was no reply. It was not only Bert who had gone. I
was alone, impossibly alone.

The bang of a door; Luke bursting in; ‘Oh no, Bert!’; his
arms around me, rocking me.

The bench in the front garden; Luke there, kneeling in
front of me – ‘What happened, Scarlett? Was he already… did he…’; a whisper:
‘He’s gone. I couldn’t save him.’

Cara sitting beside me, crying silently.

Flashing lights, people rushing past.

Staring at a garden gnome; words on my lips: ‘Are gnomes
real too?’

Fingers pressed to my wrist; ‘Nasty shock’; Luke across
the garden, looking at me, while a man in green spoke to him.

Chester keening in the arms of a burly neighbour.

The walk back to Luke’s, slow this time.

Silence.

The sunset that evening was spectacular – the kind wash of
colour that makes you stop wherever you are, whatever you’re doing, and look at
the sky. It reminded me of a Bible quote my grandfather had written out and
pinned to the noticeboard above his writing desk:

The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky
above proclaims his handiwork.

Luke and I watched the sunset from the roof terrace, a
tangle of limbs under a blanket on one of the huge circular seats. Cara was in
bed already, done in by all the emotion of the day. I had come out of my shock
but my head was a mess, and Luke knew it.

‘Scarlett, you’ve been so quiet. You can talk to me, you
know. I’m here.’

I leaned my head on his shoulder. ‘I know.’

‘Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re thinking, it’s
okay. To be there at the moment someone passes away – powerless, helpless – it
rips you open.’

He was silent for a moment, and then I felt the deep,
shuddering breath he took.

‘I watched my parents die,’ he said.

I squeezed his arm. ‘Please. You don’t have to.’

‘Please,’ he said huskily. ‘I need to.’

I nodded. I got it.

‘We’d been into the city, to the theatre. A touring
production of
Guys and Dolls
. Mum was tired afterwards; she wanted to go
straight home. But I’d read about this late-night cafe that served really
unusual ice-creams, and I talked them into going. The ice-cream was phenomenal.
I had gingerbread lime. Dad had basil mint. Mum had jasmine coconut. Cara had
pomegranate. I remember that part so clearly.

‘It was late when we left. Dark out. I sat in the back seat
with Cara. She and Mum were singing songs from the show. “Luck Be a Lady”, the
last one. Dad was laughing at them.

‘It was a trucker. Fell asleep at the wheel. I don’t
remember it. I just remember afterwards, when I woke up, and this fireman was
strapping a neck brace on me.

‘There was screaming. Cara – she was screaming. I couldn’t
turn to look at her. I could only look forwards. They were working on Mum and
Dad. They weren’t moving. I fought the fireman, fought him until he told me
that they were alive. He said it to calm me, I guess. He must have known –
their injuries, the blood; he must have known there was no hope.’

‘Dad died moments later. The paramedic with him just moved
back, away, and I said to him, “What are you doing? Don’t leave him,” and he
just looked at me and said, “I’m sorry, son.” And I was screaming at him: “I’m
not your son, I’m
his
son – don’t leave him.”

‘Then Mum started moving in front. They must have given
something to Cara; she was quiet now – and I could hear Mum. She was calling to
us, to me and Cara. I thought then, I thought she’d be okay. She was awake; she
was talking. Then they started with the cutters, and I couldn’t hear her any
more over the shrieking metal. But I watched her – I never took my eyes off
her. She just went still. She just went still.’

My hair was wet now with his tears, and I twisted to sit in
his lap, facing him, and I put my arms around him and held him.

‘I blamed myself,’ he said brokenly. ‘If we hadn’t have gone
for ice-cream, we wouldn’t have been on that road – we’d have got home safely.
If anyone should have died that day, I thought, it should’ve been me. But I
walked away with nothing more than a broken arm and a cut on my face. Mum and Dad
died. And Cara’s left with mangled legs and a lifetime of pain and limping
ahead.’

I leaned back to look at him. In his eyes was all the agony
of the world.

‘It’s not your fault, Luke,’ I said. ‘It was an accident.’

‘I know that, Scarlett. It took time, but I know that now.
That’s the point: I couldn’t save my parents. And Scarlett, what you said in
Bert’s garden – you have to know that you couldn’t have saved Bert. It was just
his time. Just as… I’m sorry, I know it hurts, but I have to say it:
just as
neither of us could have saved your sister.
’

I squeezed my eyes shut tight.

‘Talk to me, Scarlett. Tell me what you feel.’

I opened my mouth, closed it again. Burrowed into his chest.

‘I want to tell you,’ I whispered. ‘But I can’t find the
words.’

‘It’s okay,’ he said. ‘As long as you know I’m here.’

*

I stayed with Luke that night. Neither of us wanted to be
alone. I lay with him in his bed, my back pressed to his stomach, but I didn’t
close my eyes. I looked around the shadowy room, unfamiliar but comforting for
its touches of Luke: the desk piled with CDs and cookbooks; the drawers
spilling over with t-shirts and jeans; the cookie crumbs on the bedside table;
the poster on the wall of a surfing Chewbacca. Only once I was sure Luke was
asleep, his breathing deep and even, did I stop looking outward. Finally, in
the safety of his arms, I opened the door to the memories I had been blocking.
They came haltingly, haphazard and hazy. I let them flow, watching from a
distance.

The hands on the rabbit. Odd: bluish, blurry.

The magpie. Still, and then flying.

The hospital. Jude there. Feeling better.

The graveyard. The tingling warmth of Jude’s touch. The
blood on my elbow that never was.

The campfire on the beach. Lurching towards the flame. A
hand there so quickly, pulling me back.

The little boy, Max, in the corridor. The blue light.
‘Holy
shamoly! What are you doing?’

The island. The ghost. The missing journey home.

The deer. The dead deer that upped and walked away.

The man limp in a chair. My hands over his heart –
knowing
I could mend it.

The light I couldn’t see, the light that awed and beckoned.

Bert gone.

Jude gone.

I ran the memories around and around in my mind, looking at
them from every angle, shuffling them, spinning them, subverting them. But
however I arranged the images, no fundamental truth emerged. There were too
many gaps. I needed more. Only one person could answer my questions, and there
was no way to track him down. He wasn’t someone you could find; he was someone
who found you…

… when you’re in trouble,
said a little voice at the
back of my mind.

I started, and Luke stirred beside me and mumbled in his
sleep. I lay still as he drifted off again, though it was near-impossible not
to jump out of bed and start pacing.

Was it true? Did Jude and I cross paths only when I was in
need? His finding me at the hospital and on the island certainly made sense. At
Si’s party? Well, I’d been a bit tipsy and near a fire. And I supposed his
surfing could be construed as staying near me in case I drowned. But at the
graveyard the day we met I wasn’t in danger. I was just sad. Did that count as
being in need? Sadness and despair, like I’d felt today at Bert’s. Before Jude
showed up and… and…

Oh God.

There was a word for it, for what he was, for what he did. A
word that simultaneously awed and terrified me. A word so fantastical I
couldn’t say it, couldn’t think it, could only picture another of Grandad’s
Bible quotes pinned above his desk:

For He will command his angels concerning you to
guard you in all your ways.

I had to hear it from Jude. He had to tell me. What he was.

And my hands, the light… what
I
was.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Oh
God
.

A whole summer of searching for the truth, of searching for
peace, and now this.

I could not live with this. I would not live with this.

I wasn’t scared now, wasn’t bewildered, wasn’t disbelieving.
I was mad. I was
mad as hell
.

My sister, lying.

My parents, lying.

Luke, lying.

Jude, lying.

And me, in the dark. Always in the dark.

I was done with being lied to. I was done with being
gullible little Scarlett and meek little Scarlett and
ask-nicely-and-wait-patiently-for-answers little Scarlett.

Jude would come to me. I would
make
him come.

Beside me, Luke sighed in his sleep, and I shifted to see
his face. Thick black lashes swept his cheeks and his lips were half-parted. He
looked so peaceful, and I thought how alarmed he’d be to awake and find me
furious for no reason I could explain. Because I couldn’t tell him; he’d think
me insane.

Perhaps I was.

I lay quiet and still in his arms, watching the darkness
outside the window soften with the first light of the coming dawn, and slowly I
let his warmth melt my anger. But I held tight to my determination.

I would make Jude come to me. Today.