Perfectly Preventable Deaths

by Deirdre Sullivan

  I stagger over, look at Catlin’s face. Her eyes half-open. And then, my vision pinching out of me, I’m dimming, dimming. It starts to hurt properly and I get cold. I get very cold. I lie beside my sister on the bed. My hand curls out to hers. Before I fade away I feel her take it. Just a little squeeze, but she is back. Her hand is cold. It isn’t stiff though. The wax of her is warm enough to mould. Pliable. And that’s a sign. I take that as a sign.

  I close my eyes. When I open them again, the world is black but I can hear the movements of her hands, the little gaspy breaths that come from Catlin. Hearing’s next. It’s weird to moan and not to hear your voice. I know I’m making sounds but I can’t hear them coming from my throat. I murmur things. I keep on saying things in case she hears me.

  I love you, you’re my sister. It’s OK. I love you, Catlin. It will be all right.

  Then

  smell.

  I

  hardly

  notice,

  except relief.

  The tin of blood,

  the dull stone-rot of cave I do not miss.

  Then there’s speech,

  then I can’t move at all,

  and lastly touch.

  The soft fur of the blanket on my face,

  the pinch of light,

  the warmth of Catlin’s hand.

  I can’t feel warmth or cold inside my body.

  It’s only blank.

  It’s only faded nothing.

  Did it work?

  42

  Lavender

  (for sleep and acne)

  It all comes through in flashes. Sudden bursts.

  Mam’s face, mouth open in a tiny little O.

  A squeezing of my hand, and something soft and wet against my cheek.

  The taste of blood I think might be my own.

  Lavender, bay leaves, sage and earth and something I can’t … something … something else.

  My name. My name. A voice that says my name.

  And everything at once – and I wake up.

  ‘Drink this,’ Mamó says, and passes me a cup of something cold and brown. I take it, drink it in one draught.

  I try to speak, her hand upon my forehead. My mother’s face. My mother’s face and Brian’s.

  ‘You don’t understand, Brian. He did this in our house.’

  ‘I promise you. I promise you …’ His voice is sad and I do not hear what he promises.

  ‘What would the police do? Sheila, he would gut them.’

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘I know you are. That doesn’t make this fine.’

  ‘… They need my care. Or they will both be dead inside a week …’

  I make it to the door and Catlin’s there. She’s breathing, up and down. I see her face. Oh God. Her face.

  Little flashes.

  ‘Skin across her jaw is knitting back …’

  Mamó is leaning in. ‘She’s on the mend.’ She coughs into a tissue. Is that blood?

  Mam rubs my face. I close my eyes and lose her.

  I want my mam. My voice. ‘I want my mam.’

  ‘Ridiculous …’

  ‘Look, the child agreed …’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  Everyone is pale. They look so tired. Ashen grey.

  Cold. My skin. My skin is very cold.

  Morning. Oona at the bedside. She holds my hand but I can’t see her eyes.

  ‘… Call the guards on you …’

  ‘And tell them what? What would you tell the guards, Sheila?’

  ‘I wish that …’ Brian’s voice.

  And Mam says, ‘Don’t.’

  43

  Gravel Root

  (fever, stomach acids, UTIs)

  I wake. Mam is beside my bed. She’s sleeping in a chair. I look around. Nothing much has changed. The tapestries the same, the sheets I chose before we moved here. The wood’s a little greener through the window. The sky is grey. The clouds are heavy still.

  ‘Mam?’ I say. I touch her, and she screams, and I start back.

  ‘Oh, sorry, love,’ she says, and leans in and hugs me. ‘It’s just a surprise. I think I was asleep. Or half asleep.’

  I say that’s OK. She looks at me again and I feel awkward. My hair is in a braid. They’ve changed my clothes.

  ‘Catlin?’ I ask. She nods at me. ‘Oh, Maddy. What you did …’

  She holds me close. My mother holds me close.

  I say, ‘I want to see her.’

  She nods again, and helps me over to her room. The candles around the little altar quenched. The statues clean, their blank eyes staring out. It’s such a bright room. Pink and gold and colours. And she’s so pale. My sister is so pale. A wraith. A ghost, all dappled crimson red and bluish white.

  I get a head rush, walking unaided now. There is a wobble and Mam takes my arm. She looks so old. Do I look old as well? I’m still sixteen. I think. I kind of want to ask, ‘What year is this?’ and shake her, but I don’t think she would take it very well.

  Catlin lies there. She still looks like a corpse. But she’s alive. A breathing corpse. Her skin resembles skin, at least the texture. Her hair is falling out. Mam collects a clump of it from the pillow. Gathers it. Puts it in her pocket.

  ‘I have a little box,’ she says, ‘for it. I can’t throw out the bits of her.’

  ‘Like baby’s curls,’ I say.

  It’s almost sweet.

  What grew back is starkly port-wine-stained. I wonder if it’s on her torso too. I don’t want to lift blankets, disturb her. She opens up her eyes. And smiles.

  ‘Hi, Mad,’ she says.

  ‘Hey, Catlin.’

  She grins at me, and closes her eyes to sleep more. Her smile is still the same. I clamber into bed beside my sister. We lie together in this horrid world.

  Mam sits on the edge of the bed. I look at her. ‘What’s happened since that night?’ I ask. ‘Have you found …?’

  I don’t want to say his name. I don’t want Catlin in her dreams to hear it.

  Mam shakes her head. ‘Brian looked, and Mamó too – with her … you know.’

  I nod at her. I do know.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ Mam says. ‘I mean – I couldn’t help her. And now I can’t help you.’

  ‘You can,’ I say. ‘You love me. That’s enough.’ It isn’t really. I’m just saying words. I can’t change fate, but maybe I can make her feel a little bit better.

  Mam takes my hand. ‘You remind me so much of your father, love,’ she says. ‘I wanted you to have a safer life, with better things. When he died, parts of who he was died with him. There are things I can’t touch, things that scare me and I don’t know why …’

  ‘Witchcraft things?’ I ask.

  She flinches. And she nods. ‘I can’t remember much. His plants. That book. After the fire there was …’ I see her reaching, losing it. ‘It’s gone. I’m sorry … and I am sorry for hurting you, before. I didn’t remember what he was. I’m losing it again; it’s leaving me. But I knew that it was dangerous. That it killed him. I didn’t want that … for you.’

  I wait for more, but she sighs heavily and gives me the tightest, fiercest hug, before straightening up the sheets around us. She turns the light out as she leaves the room. The door-click soft. I settle down in bed beside my sister, and try my best to follow her in sleep.

  44

  Tansy

  (joint pain, fertility)

  We wake up in the dark. There’s nothing. I cannot see the walls. I hear her breath.

  ‘So, Mad, are you awake?’ Her voice a whisper. Huskier than normal.

  ‘You sound …’

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I might give up the smokes. It’s from the … throat stuff.’

  I nod.

  ‘I can’t hear you when you nod.’ She tugs the duvet.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Madeline, what happened in the cave?’ Her voice is scared. ‘Mam says y
ou’re moving downstairs in a week. When we’re better.’

  Oh. Right.

  I nod and then she kicks me. I kick her back. And then we both go quiet. I’m the first to speak.

  ‘You tell me your bit, then I’ll tell you mine. Sound fair?’

  I do not hear her, but I know she nods.

  And she starts talking.

  ‘Me and …’ she says, and her voice takes a while to shape his name, ‘… Lon decided to run away. We decided it inside a dream I had. I wasn’t sure. If it was really real until it was. I mean, the doors and caves. And magic. He could do things with his eyes and with his hands. Before, I mean. I didn’t know. You knew,’ she asks, ‘that it was something?’

  ‘Some of it,’ I say. ‘He showed up in my dreams once, by mistake, and weird stuff happened. But, even before – that night with the fox, the things that Mamó did, and I did too. Like, she thinks I have an instinct for it, or a talent – collecting things is part of it as well.’

  ‘There’s so much you didn’t say to me. I wonder …’

  I wait for her to finish, but her eyes glaze and she dry-swallows. I hear her move her tongue around her mouth. She sits up, takes a drink of water. Drains the glass and pours another one and drains it too.

  ‘I get so thirsty now, Mad,’ she says. ‘Remember before, when I tried to make myself drink eight glasses for my skin? Now it’s more like twenty. My mouth is always just so dry.’

  ‘You came back,’ I tell her. ‘That can’t have been easy on your body.’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘I suppose it can’t. So. Me and Lon.’

  The way she says his name. My eyes fill up.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I tell her. ‘You didn’t know. And even if you had …’

  She doesn’t move, just keeps on speaking, speaking.

  ‘We went to the cave and it was nice at first. He’d brought a picnic. Then I saw names carved in the wall. One of them was Helen. And I asked him, if he’d brought a girl here before, and he went quiet, but said that yes, he had. But it didn’t mean as much as now with me. And he took a chisel. What, in retrospect, was he doing with chisels in his cave? Anyway. Hindsight.’

  She takes a breath. I touch her foot with mine.

  ‘So we started kissing and things and I’d decided this was going to be when I would lose it. Because I love … loved. Because I loved him so much. And also, when you run away with a boy to a sex-cave, what else is going to happen? I mean, it makes for a great story. Even if it doesn’t work out well, you have the story. I remember thinking that. Which, ugh.’

  She sighs. I say, ‘You don’t have to keep telling me this. If you don’t want to …’

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You gave up stuff for me. And you should know. How stupid I was. God, I was so stupid. He wore an ankh, for God’s sake. And that smell. You told me he was gross.’

  ‘Well, I am a lesbian,’ I say. ‘So he wouldn’t have been my type, even if he weren’t a monster or whatever …’

  And there it is. Unspoken things all out. The weight of words, not put down, but shared.

  ‘What?’ she rasps. ‘You turned lesbian without me?’ She sounds incredibly taken aback, as though there were a form I should have filled in or something.

  ‘Catlin, this isn’t about you,’ I say. ‘A lot of things are at the moment, but my sexuality is kind of … mine. It’s not an adventure, or a bit of gossip. It’s part of me.’

  She nods almost imperceptibly.

  ‘I get it. Fair enough. I didn’t mean that you had to, like, OK it with me first or anything, but this is huge. How did you know … or did you … Oh, with Oona?’ Her eyebrows widen. There are things she didn’t miss, even when she was missing things.

  ‘Yes and no. It’s complicated – go on, I want to hear your story first.’ I nudge her.

  ‘But your one’s got no murder and some lesbians,’ she complains. ‘It’s probably loads better. OK, so …’

  My sister loves to talk. She’s still my sister. She takes another drink.

  ‘You’d think I’d pee way more,’ she says. ‘With all that I’ve been drinking. Being back from the dead is honestly not great.’

  ‘I know, right?’ I say. ‘I know you’re more of a half ghost than me. I am only, like, ten per cent resurrected or something, but still. I get these headaches.’

  ‘With the colours? God, they’re awful. Anyway, I’ll finish about Lon. There isn’t very much left of the story. Basically, I cleaned up after the picnic and he kept telling me how to tidy up and I just kept doing it, like I didn’t mind being given orders. Which is not like me. I mean, I really wanted to please him. I just am not sure why. And there was the wall. The wall with all the names. I asked him about it and he said it was tradition in the village, for boys to take the girls they loved to the cave. And to carve their name into the wall. That it meant that it would be forever. I asked him if he’d carve my name as well. I even said please.’ Her voice is bitter.

  ‘I didn’t think to notice if the writing was the same. Like, that could have been a useful handy clue. You would have noticed that, I think.’ Her hands rat at the sleeve of her pyjamas. I hear the thumb on fabric, swishswishswish. My hearing might be sharper now, or something. Prey animals do have that. Clever ears.

  They know what happens while you aren’t listening.

  To you.

  Or those you love.

  Inside the gaps.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault, Catlin,’ I tell her again.

  ‘Mmm,’ she says. And then there is a pause. When she starts talking again, her voice is quieter. Gravel whispers, trailing through the night.

  ‘We started kissing, doing stuff. I really wanted him. I mean, he was my soulmate. And forbidden.’

  She meets my eyes and smiles a rueful smile. Her hands are trembling.

  ‘So … Lon and I did various things to each other. And then, I got a cramp in my leg. And I tried to push him off, but he wouldn’t move and I looked over, saw the list of names with different eyes. Like I was another on a list. A thing to do. A thing you can cross out. I didn’t like it and I tried to push him off again. And then …’ She swallows.

  ‘I don’t think I can talk about the rest. I mean. My face and body. You can …’ She gets out of bed, switches the bedside lamp on. Lifts up her nightdress.

  Her body’s more port wine than it is skin.

  ‘The pieces that grew back,’ she says, ‘are the red. The bits he didn’t eat are the way they always were. I’m basically a piebald. Only human.’

  I hear her legs twitching against the bed-sheets. ‘He comes back sometimes. Sometimes in my dreams, he’s coming back.’

  What can I say to that? I don’t know where he is. He could be anywhere.

  ‘I mean,’ she says, ‘this happened in my house. And I remember thinking, I’m at home. At home and this is happening. I mean, it’s weird that our home has a secret murder cave.’

  ‘The murder palace,’ I say.

  ‘I know,’ she says. ‘I called it. Mam should have listened. Should have stayed in Cork.’

  I put my arms around her and I hug her.

  ‘I love you,’ I tell her.

  She snuggles in.

  ‘Me too, Mad. So much. But now you have to tell me about Oona,’ she says, her voice sounds calmer now, more gossipy. ‘Are you a couple now?’

  And I tell her stuff. I tell her about the girl I love, and how she doesn’t really feel the same, so that I don’t have to tell her about the bargain I made to save her life. I don’t yet know what it means, not fully. I mean, I know it’s seven years. But there’s the soul as well. What will that mean?

  My brain is racing, full of fears and thoughts.

  Catlin sleeps. I think about the feeling of the sheets and of the warmth and of the breeze that drifts inside the room. I get up, feel with my hands around the walls, looking for the place the breeze could come from. The window’s raised a little. I relax. I wonder is that what we’ll do here now? Always l
ook for secret murder caves? Can we relax somewhere where it happened? Will we go back to Cork?

  Oh God.

  I can’t.

  I can’t go anywhere.

  For seven years.

  The sooner it begins, the sooner it can finish.

  A deal’s a deal. It’s time to settle up.

  45

  Persimmon

  (balance)

  When I arrive at Mamó’s flat, I push the door. It’s still not locked to me. I wait a while at the threshold, swallowing back a growing sense of dread. This is where my future is now. I can’t escape it. There is no way out. I’ll be a witch. My legs are still a little weak. The walk down here seemed very long and steep. I take a breath. I venture slowly in.

  When we moved here from Cork, I knew exactly what we left behind. I don’t know now. What I am sacrificing.

  The light from lamps is dim here, almost candlelit. The shadows flicker, but the place is cosy. There’s a sense of safety. Home and hearth. Cushions on the couch. She’s in an armchair. And suddenly, the guilt I have been holding back ploughs through me.

  There he is, little Button, nestled at her feet, his face all bandaged up. I feel sick. He’s bigger now, less of a tubby bundle. He sees me, and he hisses and bolts. He knows what I became that night for Catlin. That in a way I’m just as bad as Lon.

  Mamó’s eyes on mine. Reading all that’s written on my face.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I say, ‘that he came back.’

  ‘He would have died,’ she says, ‘and then the sacrifice would have been made. I couldn’t take the chance.’

  ‘Did it take you long,’ I ask, ‘to find him?’ My voice comes out all heavy. I feel as if I will cry. I don’t like looking at the thing I did. I don’t like what I was. Or what I am.

  ‘A while. He tried to run, but he was very weak, and took some healing.’

  ‘We all did.’ I look around. She gestures to the sofa, and I settle. ‘Mamó?’

  She moves her head.

  ‘Thank you for Catlin.’

  ‘You know she’ll never be the same again,’ she says.

  ‘She has been through a lot.’ The daubs of red.