Roadkill (LiveWire) (20 page)

I really can’t ask him what he intended, where our supposed relationship was headed. Part of me wants to ask if he really thought I was weak enough to become his puppet in my final dare. Those girls would probably have laughed too, if you told them they would end up jumping off a cliff on the say so of a madman. In my heart I know he would have killed me too, just like all the others. And he still will if I screw this up…

It’s not the car that killed Rose. I didn’t ask, but Leo/Alexander is not stupid, he would have ditched the offending vehicle, splashed with her blood. Anger is good, and I slam into the car, adjusting the seat, trying to remember where the accelerator is. Brakes I’ll worry about later.

He stands at the chalk marks, and it’s just like last time, only no cheering crowd, no vodka shots. Just him and me. Leo’s water bottle is wedged next to the gear stick, and I know now is the moment I must make sure. On pretence of checking my seat I slide a hand into my pocket and almost dreamily, unscrew the plastic water bottle lid, tipping the white powder into the drink. A quick shake and I put it gently back.

Checking my mirror carefully I even indicate to pull out, thinking it’s pretty dark, remembering, oh bugger, the headlights. Mentally I scrawl FAIL on an imaginary driving test sheet. The examiner shakes his head, and waits for me to redeem myself.

The road is still clear, so I drive under the bridge and quickly spin round, praying they haven’t added security cameras or something. Leo is poised, my watch glows at 2am. I hastily flash the lights once, twice, and hit the accelerator. And stall the car. It bucks and bounces, and a huge juggernaut storms past, overtaking in the fast lane, blasting a derisive tune on his horn. FAIL. Wrestling the car back to the start point I am drenched in sweat, breathing fast, my hands slippery on the wheel.

In the headlights Leo is doubled over laughing, and my resolve hardens, I can almost see Rose’s broken body slumped in the middle of The Road. Go! She’s not here beside me as I thought she’d be; this is wrong. I close my eyes as Leo starts his run. I would never try and cheat with the car, and I guess I’m just relying on fate to guide me, but as I speed the car straight at him there is never any doubt that he will make it. Not only make it but gracefully leap the barrier and head across the southbound carriageway as well.

Relief and rage swamp me in equal amounts. I’m useless, not even able to avenge my sister when it’s handed to me on a plate.

“I win that one Caz! Love the driving by the way, I’m sure Top Gear would give you a job as the next Stig if you don’t get into art school. Oh yeah, you don’t even have the guts to apply,” he comes closer and snatches the keys. “Sure you don’t want to back out of this one? Last chance.” His laughter is manic and evil, and my confidence reappears. Kind of.

“Get on with it Leo!”

This time we have a long wait as car after car roars past in a steady stream of exhaust fumes and filth. Treacherously I am starting to feel tired. Sliding my hand my pocket the knife slips cool and powerful into my hot hand. I could just end it now, looking at him lounging against the bonnet, cigarette in hand, watching me with that disdainful amusement. But I can’t, because I’m not like Leo.

“Were you ever Leo? I mean when you really were ever really like that?”

He is surprised, flicking the cigarette into the bushes, where it sparks, then thankfully dies, “No,” he says finally, “I hated people like that. Losers.”

But I know he is lying, he played the part too well, at some point in his life he must have been shy, shambling, a kid nobody looked twice at, or maybe they did look twice and he was ridiculed. But he will never tell, and I know I’m only interested because I am putting off the inevitable moment when I must copy my sister. Dead Hour is nearly over and still no sign of her.

“And your mum?” I know it’s crazy to keep niggling but I can’t help myself.

He grinds a cigarette underfoot, slowly, viciously, and I am so afraid I can hardly breathe. We are too close suddenly, eyes locked. I can feel his breath on my face, the warmth of his body.

“My mum is dead Caz. The woman you met? She’s my cleaner,” he snorts with amusement, “She was happy to pretend to be my mum, whenever you were around. I just told her you’d had family bereavement and were a bit mentally unstable. Almost prophetic you might say…”

It is all I can do not to hit him, “I’m mentally unstable? Hallo? At least I don’t go around pretending to be some geeky kid, playing with other people’s lives because I don’t have one myself. You can’t ever go back you know, to what you were.”

His eyes narrow in fury, “I already told you I was never like Leo. He was a creation just for you. The beginning of our game.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

The traffic has cleared, “Just get in the car.” I tell him, resolve hardening. There is no point asking him to explain, because it hasn’t occurred to him he has done anything wrong. No doubt The Vultures would speak long and wisely about grief for his mother, and the way he has expressed it. But he isn’t sick. He is mad. Other people survive bereavement without losing the plot. Maybe. A flame of anger flashes and burns, deep inside my heart….right where the pain is. The fire on the embankment? The random bracelet thing with Anita? Even his constant suggestions that Matt and Ash were into drugs…..My best friend has been screwing with my life for too long. Six months too long….how did I not notice it was all a lie?

The moon moves behind a cloud
, afraid to watch, while I take
a sprinter’s start, hearing Leo revving the engine, spinning the car deftly, stamping on the accelerator and heading for me with terrifying speed. As before the headlights blind me, and I try to judge but end up leaping outwards, sprawling and scrabbling like a scared rabbit. A split second and I nearly make it. But then I trip, falling into the path of several tons of murderous metal; like a toddler failing on those first shaky steps. The car is upon me, and I realise I don’t want to die. I really
,
really don’t.

Some force, a flash of fire I never knew I possessed, sends me up in a soaring jump, like a hurdler at the finish line, straining every muscle. I almost pull it off, but at the last minute my injured leg lets me down, the burn dressing ripping and the searing pain sending my body off balance. Clipping the corner of the windscreen, tumbling spread-eagled and gasping onto the tarmac, I lay helpless.

I watch almost dreamily as the impact sends the Corsa slightly off course, careering into the left hand lane.

Judg
ment no doubt impaired by my little cocktail in his water bottle, I think dully, as the car begins to spin, slowly, inevitably. Sparks fly from the bumper as it dodgems into the concrete pillar of the bridge, exploding into a mess of flame and twisted metal. The corsa bounces across the carriageway, smashing the crash barrier, before disappearing down the far embankment with a huge bang.

I lie where I am, in the middle of the fast lane, no strength to move. He is gone on the wind and the flames. Rose’s death is avenged. Do I feel better? Reaching pathetic, futile hands towards the safety of the gravel and middle of the road, I am retching, stomach churning. Turning my sore head I spit blood away, and throw up right on the cat’s eyes. The pain in my leg burns and my whole body aches with bruises. Suddenly she is here, her hair brushing my bleeding face, her sharp, peppery scent filling my nostrils.

“Rose?” I croak, even though the Dead Hour must surely be over. Somewhere in the distance a siren is blaring.

“Love you Caz.” So faint I could have imagined it, carried away on the starry night.

A lorry thunders past on the northbound carriageway, while I huddle like a half dead animal, wind lifting my wet hair, sweat and blood soaking the tarmac. Just like hers must have done. I lay my face down, cheek cold and tearstained against the stones, and I cry, sobbing like I will never stop.

Love you Rose…

Epilogue
.

I didn’t build a school in my gap year, run a marathon, climb a mountain, but I did make it to Mexico, Canada, Asia, and Australia. All those places, and I took my sketch book with me, sitting in busy city cafes, lying on flea filled backpacker beds in grim hostels, and here I am at last, back in Mexico, communing with the ancient ghosts in Tulum, alone amongst the ruined temples and quicksilver lizards.

People ask if I’m scared travelling on my own. The answer is no, all the strangers in the world don’t worry me because they are just that, strangers, and I know to a certain degree I have to be wary of them. I know I have to be careful of who I invite into my home, my life. My grief for my friendship with Leo, differently shaped than my grief for Rose, will always be a part of me, but as I watch the red gold sun set over the turquoise ocean, I’m close to happy.

I look back and think yes, she was brash and bossy and she trailed me along like her comedy sidekick sometimes. But she loved me, and it was her clumsy way of trying to show it; of trying to help I guess. I didn’t realise it at the time, and apparently neither did she, or indeed my psychopathic ex-best friend, but I didn’t need that kind of help. I’m doing just fine on my own, and without Leo’s dramatic and terrible intervention, I think I would have discovered that quite soon for myself.

The last dazzling rays of light stroke my hair with gilded fingertips, and I lie on the warm stone, idly listening to the ancient whispers that drift like mist around the ruined Aztec temples.

The police tried to reassure me that Leo had become unhinged by his mother’s death, and finally, as he told me himself, sought help from a counsellor who suggested he cope with his grief by taking up a new interest; a game or sport. Although obviously I never met Leo’s personal Vulture, I am quite sure he or she probably meant tennis, or chess…not killing vulnerable girls. It was not my fault they said firmly. Apparently he had long displayed sociopathic tendencies, starting when he was at school, and escalating as he found an outlet for his controlling behaviour in LiveWire. A belief in superiority, and an inability to portray normal emotions, disdain for those he felt were beneath him…I know the report by heart, and in a way it does help. A bit.

The final game, although not his idea, had a twist that appealed to his vanity, his sense of importance, but he lucked out and ended up in a ball of fire. For a while his half imagined, blurred face behind the shattered windscreen, haunted my dreams. It was, for that split second when he hit me, Leo behind the wheel, not Alexander.

My best friend was a murderer. He killed my sister, and he meant to kill me. It’s not pretty however you say it.

It’s been three years since I left the UK, and I’m ready to go home now. My tickets back to London sit in my voluminous rucksack, and my phone bleeps, almost sacrilegious in this calm, beautiful place. It’s only Matt. He’s looking forward to seeing me he says, will be at the airport, and can’t wait to show me his new flat. Smiling I flick through a previous message from my mum, wishing me luck ‘back home’. Turns out she’ll be staying in Australia with Garry. Which is fine. No really! I’ll be living in London, you see, attending St Martin’s.

Maybe I’ll win the Turner prize and I’ll be famous. Or maybe not. Either way I’m still just me, and the world seems to be okay with that. And best of all? Finally, I’m okay with that too…
             

DAISY WHITE lives on the South Coast, near Brighton, UK, loves vintage clothes (especially 1920’s hats!), champagne, and bacon sarnies (with brown sauce). She writes in a derelict garage block – great in the summer, bit cold in the winter……..To relax she likes to take part in ‘adventure races’, the muddier the better and if there’s a freezing river to be swum at night; that’s perfect. So far this year, top races have been the ‘Stinger’ half marathon along the South Downs, the Hangover Five, and the infamous Kamikaze Race.

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www.daisywhiteauthor.co.uk

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