‘Yeah.’ It was more syllable than word. My sister needs this, Eddie, I think. Please try to care.
Eddie has a babyish, open face and wouldn’t have gotten the time of day off Catlin in our old school. I look at Catlin’s face and notice an almost imperceptible twitch. She was tallying. Eddie runs his big, thick fingers through his tufty, red hair and doesn’t notice.
‘We live there now,’ she offers.
He says, ‘OK.’ As though castles were caravans.
We eat in silence.
Sometime later, a terrible thing happens. Catlin says to Charley, ‘I like your pixie cut.’
And Charley says, ‘Thanks,’ and bites into her sandwich, like she doesn’t know that when a girl says a nice thing to you, you have to say one back. I can sense the hairs on the back of Catlin’s neck pricking up. Her brain scrolling through all the things about her you could compliment. Her hair, her skin, her eyeliner, her brogues. The little cameo she’s wearing with the Infant of Prague on it. She looks at me in semi-desperation. What is wrong with these people?
I look at Catlin.
‘Smoke?’ I say.
She smiles.
I haven’t started smoking or anything, but escape from social situations is a beautiful thing. When you are a pretend smoker, you can take off for ten to sixty minutes and no one will ever know. We sit at the back of the overgrown school garden, behind a bush, beside a wrought-iron gate. Our fingers move along beside each other, turning flaking brown to something skeletal.
‘Don’t let them get to you,’ I tell my sister.
‘I won’t,’ she assures me, sucking her cancer stick to ash in twenty seconds flat and lighting another.
‘A woman after my own heart,’ says a smooth, deep voice. It’s a lanky yoke of a man. Staring at us through the railings. He’s wearing a leather jacket, jeans. A white T-shirt. His hair is slicked back. All that’s missing is the motorcycle and he’d be a 1950s bad boy from the wrong side of the tracks. He puts a large, pale hand on the gate and hops it easily. Dusts off his trousers.
Smiles and waits for us to be impressed.
Only one of us is. Catlin raises her eyes to his, shoulders back, boobs out.
‘You’re Brian’s new children, right?’
‘Stepdaughters,’ I tell him. I want to say ‘step-women’, but that might sound even creepier than children, to be fair. Who says the word children in a flirty manner? Predators, I think. I glare at him.
He holds out his hand.
‘My name is Lon Delacroix. Short for Laurent Delacroix.’ His voice is warm. He raises both his eyebrows plaintively as if to say, Don’t leave my hand alone.
Catlin nods, and takes the strange boy’s hand. Her eyes light up a bit. She’s found a snack. I look at the poor fecker. He doesn’t know what he’s in for.
He chats to us as though we were people until the bell rings, and I can feel it nourishing my twin. An older man, but not like creepy old. Like, college-age. Lon seems grand, maybe a bit up himself though. What’s he doing sneaking around the schoolyard, like? It’s odd.
On the way back into class, Catlin pokes me in the ribs again. She gets the same place almost every time. It’s sore. I can feel a little bruise beginning to form. A little purple welt of boy-potential. The day passes as days do, and by the end of it I’m exhausted. Meeting new people is hard. I feel like I’m doing a series of job interviews and if I don’t get the job I’ll end up lonely for the next two years, doing my homework and watching Catlin flirt with inappropriate older men. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, but it wouldn’t be ideal.
We’re quiet for most of the bus ride home. Listening to the Ballyfrann kids interact. I feel like they have cast us as observers. It’s weird and things, but also a little bit refreshing. Why should they be our friends, like? They don’t know us, and we don’t know them.
Travelling back, the sky already dimming, I listen to the rattle of the bus. The bright of the cat’s eyes in the headlights. The hedgerow alongside the road is patchy, bare. I count seven white crosses on the roadside. A cluster and another and another. A little pattern in this unkempt place. The whirr of tyre on road grates loud, louder. Nails on chalkboard, scraping danger deep into my brain. Anything with wheels can be a weapon. I need to leave. I’m stuck. I’m stuck. I’m stuck.
I look at Catlin, on her phone again. Her face is focused, glowing with intent. The other students talk. I can’t hear what they say, not exactly. More the hum of it. Mixing with the harsh metallic clicks. We’re trapped inside a metal shell together. Counting crosses passing on the road.
Eight.
Nine.
Ten.
Eleven …
Mamó slices past us in a blood-red tin can. I only catch a flash of hemp and hair, but I know it’s her. A wave of recognition laced with anger. No wonder there are crosses on the road if that’s the way the locals drive.
Twelve …
Thirteen …
I think of the small shrew we saw this morning. Its little paws. The moisture on its nose. We’re so close to nature here. Lots of hidden life. And hidden death.
5
Juniper
(contraceptive, also good for teeth)
When Mam was pregnant with the two of us, we were nestled so close together in her womb that for a while the doctor thought that we might be conjoined. I’m glad we weren’t. Catlin would probably make me do all the hard jobs. Tweezing eyebrows. Hoovering and such. And I’d have to sit around closing my eyes while she kissed all the boys. All of them. Including Lon. The only item on her Ballyfrann to-do list.
That would be more punishment than fun. I would not like to be so close to that side of her life. The messiness of lust and indecision. In fairness, though, Lon might be in for a world of hurt. She’s made more than one boy cry. Once through an entire hurling match, during which he scored several times. Which only made him sob harder. ‘Because I knew I’d never score Catlin again.’ I imagine Lon’s perfect face crumpled up with sorrow. I don’t know what that would even look like. When I picture Lon in my head, his face is expressionless.
Our first week in school has passed without any major incidents. We haven’t set anything on fire, or made any enemies. Or friends. The Ballyfrann kids are grand, but it’s hard to spend time with them when Catlin keeps taking increasingly long smoke breaks to flirt with Lon.
‘He’s easier than they are, Mad,’ she tells me, as I awkwardly hang out beside her.
‘I get it, Catlin,’ I say, leaning against a sycamore tree, feeling the mulch of leaf under my boots. ‘But it’s not easier for me.’
‘I’m not stopping you from hanging out with them.’
Only we both know that she kind of is. I’m fairly independent in a lot of ways, but new groups of people isn’t one of them. And it’s hard to say it out loud, because it shouldn’t have to be said, but as I open my mouth to try, there he is.
Lon fecking Delacroix.
‘Catalina!’ he exclaims. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’
Catlin exhales a long thin curl of smoke.
‘Lon,’ she says, with a smile.
It’s not her real smile. It is her smile for boys.
‘Maddy,’ Lon says, with more warmth than he should be allowed to feel for me. He should not be the person who is soundest to us here. I know it’s for Catlin, so it’s something like a lie, but it’s annoying.
‘Hi, Lon,’ I say, taking out my phone and scrolling through pictures of our old life in Cork while playing a mournful power ballad in my head.
‘That’s a nice phone, Madeline,’ Lon says, completely ignoring my ignoring. ‘Mind if I take a look at it?’
I look at Catlin.
Catlin looks at me.
I look at my phone.
Sadly, like a child relinquishing the last Haribo in the pack to a mean auntie, I pass it over.
‘What’s the PIN?’ he asks.
And Catlin tells him.
Urrgh.
H
e scrolls around for a bit, in silence. The screen glares at him like it was me.
‘Ha!’ he says, and hands it back to me with a flourish. ‘I took the liberty of sending myself your numbers, ladies.’ He grins. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Actually …’ I begin, but Catlin stops me.
‘Bit desperate of you, to be honest,’ she says. ‘Come on, Maddy, we better get back to class.’
‘See you tomorrow?’ Lon asks.
‘No school tomorrow, Lon,’ I remind him.
We walk away and don’t look back.
As we turn into the building, Catlin squeaks at me, ‘I can’t believe he took our numbers!!’ Her tone of voice has changed to something like glee.
‘I know,’ I say. ‘It’s a bit much.’
‘No, it isn’t. It was suave.’
‘Suave is such a disgusting word. Suave.’ I make a face like I’ve vomited a bit in my mouth.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the word suave. And there’s nothing wrong with a boy being interested in us.’
‘In you,’ I correct her.
‘Well, in fairness, I’m the one who talks back, Maddy.’
‘I’m not jealous. Like, I don’t talk to him because I don’t like him that much.’
‘Then stay with Charley and them at lunch.’
I make the vomit-in-my-mouth face again. But this time it is sad pretend vomit. The vomit of my own limitations. The vomit that holds me back when all I want is to be a normal human who can hold conversations and make friends.
When we go back into class, the first thing my twin does is check her phone.
I pay attention, take notes and try not to worry about things that mightn’t happen. Focus on the things I understand.
6
Calendula
(for harmony and scars)
It’s a pale autumn day, bright skies and sharp winds that sliced through the green wool of my jumper earlier, as I gathered mint for the water jug. I was almost grateful to the chill. I needed a distraction from Catlin, who woke me up this morning with an enthusiastic, ‘Morning, Maddy. Would you like a coffee? Let me tell you about the sexy dream I had featuring Lon. In detail.’
And then she did.
She is the worst person I have ever met, and I would sleep for a hundred years rather than re-hear that. I don’t like the idea of her meeting someone right away. She shouldn’t get a safety blanket when she’s supposed to be my one. I need help interacting with the tiny group of people who live here. It’s weird there are so few. Aren’t villages supposed to be, like, communities, where everyone knows everyone’s business and things? I suppose they probably know all our business already. We just haven’t learned theirs.
People are always going in and out to Mamó, sometimes with mysterious boxes and eyes full of tears. That’s probably half of what they pay her for. To keep their dirty small-town secrets like a crap priest. I legitimately saw someone handing her a brown envelope yesterday. It looked like it was full of old dry leaves. She glared at me as she stuffed it in her pocket. I was peering from a turret window so she couldn’t have known I was there. And it’s not like she has resting glare face. She was just glaring in case someone was watching. For fear they’d feel un-small for even a second.
Catlin brought up Lon eighteen times today. I started counting after number five. Now, in fairness, they have been messaging on the regular. I did not reply to the single message he sent me.
Hello Maddy. This is Lon. Now u have my number. And three smiley-face emojis.
I don’t trust people who smile too much. They’re either too happy, or lying. I’m glad he had the good sense not to show up in my dreams, rescuing me from things. But that’s kind of not on him, that’s on my lovely sensible subconscious that doesn’t go wild over people within seconds of meeting them. I don’t really get the whole fancying-people thing. I mean, there are people I prefer seeing to other people. And people who smell better than other people. But I’d generally prefer to read a book, or complain about something. Which is fine, like sexuality is different for different people. And for me it is mysterious and intimidating and possibly another way to fail. When you’re attracted to a person, your brain releases chemicals. You lose your appetite, you might not sleep. Your heart rate increases and you feel what sounds a lot like panic. Catlin doesn’t mind that sort of thing – she wants to be swept up, to fall and burn. But burning is a horrible sensation. And falling’s not much better. Some people die of fright on the way down.
I have spent a good part of the day watching Catlin prance about in an old smoking jacket she found in the attic. She is always finding things in the attics here. Brian’s dad bought up a lot of estate sales, so the castle is full of boxes of old things; Brian says he doesn’t know the half of it, in that voice he gets when he talks about his dad. The deeper one. Our stepdad clearly has daddy issues. He is lucky to have ended up with someone like Mam. And we’re probably lucky to have ended up with him, even if it’s only so Catlin gets to live in a flea market where everything is hers for the taking.
Catlin is grumpy that nobody from school has messaged her or added her on anything. ‘Not even Layla,’ she moaned, as if it is a truth universally acknowledged that Layla is terrible. ‘And she’s staff.’
‘Layla’s all right,’ I tell her. ‘And she doesn’t work for us. Her dad works for Brian. That’s a different thing.’
Catlin might need to check her brand-new privilege. We’ve only been living in a castle for about fifteen seconds. What is she at with her ‘staff’? I don’t like the idea of people having to be nice to us because our stepdad is rich. People should be nice to us because Catlin is charismatic and I’m also there. It is the way of things. At least it was.
Instead of scavenging cool things from our stepdad’s house, I have been spotting old women. One very particular old woman. Every time I visit my plants, it seems Mamó is in the garden, looming. And then I have to say an awkward, ‘Hi,’ and she might nod at me if she feels like it, maybe. My skin gets all crawly around her. Like I’m slightly allergic. And who knows? Maybe I am. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing to have happened. I’m pretty sure I heard her call the raven ‘Bob’ earlier. While feeding it a piece of raw meat. It’s finger-tongue reached out from the beak to stroke the meat before it gobbled it and croaked its thanks. I’m not sure why I got the urge to spy on her a little. It’s like when you have a big spot, and you hate it, but throughout the day your fingers keep coming back to it. Pressing against it, feeling the little ache. The new disgust. Mamó is a big spot on the face of my life here. And I need to stop picking at her. Or find a good concealer.
At least we have a library, where Catlin flops down on the fainting couch with a deep sigh of existential dread. ‘Ballyfrann is a ridiculous place and I want to go home. Where is my butler?’
Brian doesn’t have servants. Just Layla’s dad, a lot of dust-cloths and a cleaner we never see, who comes for two hours a day. Catlin is very disappointed.
‘Higgins would have ruined both his career and your chances with the beautiful Ultan,’ I tell her. ‘It is hard right now, but you’re better off this way.’ I nod my head as though I am an expert on juggling imaginary boyfriends. Which in fairness I could well be. They are imaginary.
She’s draped despairingly along the couch, like an old-timey woman in crisis. I run my fingers through her hair, untangling snares like roots, like an old-timey maid who isn’t sure what to do in said crisis, but knows the importance of good hair. I do what I can.
‘Everybody hates me. Except Lon.’
Fecking Lon and his constant messaging.
I grit my teeth. ‘I think you mean that they don’t love you yet. Except Lon,’ I say. ‘They will though. It’s a given.’
‘No, it’s not, and Lon doesn’t love me – he’s just being, like, welcoming or something.’ She waggles her eyebrows and flashes of sexy fireman Lon reappear in my subconscious.
I shudder. Pointedly.
�
�Stop,’ she says. ‘He’s nice, and kind of hot, and he works in Donoghue’s so he’s probably our best chance for alcohol and shenanigans.’
‘Who says shenanigans?’
‘I do. I say shenanigans now.’ Her voice is full of the certainty that comes from not second-guessing every word that leaves your mouth, or regretting that you haven’t.
Donoghue’s is the local pub, and it does not look like a shenanigans sort of place unless you enjoy yelling at GAA players and singing Republican ballads. Which I, as a rule, do not.
‘He’s fifty-seven,’ I tell her.
‘He is not! He’s probably, like, nineteen? Maybe twenty.’
‘He’s eighty-three,’ I say. ‘He showed me his ID. It was sepia. And the date-of-birth part just said “yore”.’
‘Stop it. He’s four years older, five tops.’ There is a pause. My sister smiles. ‘He’s … mysterious. Intriguing.’
I snort. Lon is as mysterious as a man who offers to show you the puppies he has in the back of his beat-up van. Everything cool about him is suspicious. Leather jackets, old paperback books by important men. Cigarettes that smell like long-dead grandfathers. All things that can be bought. A bit considered. I like my crushes artless. And with pens.
‘He’s kind of desperate,’ I say. ‘You could have that anytime you wanted, then send it back like a bad sandwich.’
‘Ah now,’ she says, but I can see her smiling. It’s nice to be desired. Or so I’ve heard.
We go downstairs for dinner. We are pretending that we are fitting in more than we are. It is very easy. Mam and Brian are all about each other. Cooking together. Going for mountain walks. Watching television curled like kittens on the sofa. It is extremely unimpressive and I hope it will eventually stop.
I’m happy for them though. It’s weird to think of this being a house for only Brian. All the space; you’d get lost in your thoughts. So isolated. I don’t think that it would be good for me. If I were him. Which clearly I am not.
And he is fine. Enjoying his roast potatoes, and the lamb, drizzled with a glaze they made from scratch. His voice is high for a man’s, and quiet. But when he speaks my mother listens, her face intent. She’s made a new best friend. And it is lovely. But it used to be the three of us, and now it feels like we are two and two. On different teams.
Perfectly Preventable Deaths Page 4