‘Scarlett, enough!’ Dad sighs. ‘I know you’re angry and I know you blame me, but you have to see that you can’t go on behaving like this. You need firm boundaries, rules. And as soon as that ankle is better, you’re going back to school.’
Yeah, right.
It’s lunchtime, and I’m sitting in a cafe with Clare, eating mozzarella wraps and sipping tall glasses of milk. We are in Castlebar, almost an hour’s drive from the cottage, because in this crazy, middle-of-nowhere place that’s how far you have to go to get to a proper hospital.
I’ve had my ankle X-rayed, been told there’s nothing broken and that I’m a very lucky girl because wedge heels with ribbon ties are the deadliest form of footwear ever invented. Maybe. The new, flat Velcro-strap sandals Clare just bought me in a hiking shop down the street have got to be the ugliest, that’s for sure. Sadly, there wasn’t a whole lot of choice – I needed something that would fit over my hospital bandage, end of story.
‘Good food,’ Clare says, polishing off her wrap and hoovering up what’s left of the salad and crisps. ‘Shall we have pudding? Your dad won’t be expecting us back for ages…’ The waitress wanders over and Clare orders strawberries and cream while I opt for chocolate cake.
‘I’m mad about strawberries, with this pregnancy,’ Clare says. ‘It’s a real craving…’
I roll my eyes and start fiddling with the menu because I really don’t want to hear about Clare’s pregnancy It’s the final betrayal – proof that Dad has moved on. He’s got everything he wants now – a country cottage, a stay-at-home wife, a cute little girl with her hair in bunches and a new baby on the way.
Then, guess what, I turn up on the doorstep like a redirected parcel and everything goes sour.
Clare takes the menu out of my hands. ‘This must be hard for you,’ she says. ‘I can see that you might be feeling angry, lost. Please give us a chance, though – we really want this to work.’
And I really don’t.
‘What actually happened at school, Scarlett? What made you lose the plot?’
I blink. It’s such a simple question really, but one that Dad never thought of asking. I take a bite of chocolate cake, but it’s too dry, too rich. It sticks in my throat, along with Clare’s question.
‘Dad enrolled me as Scarlett Flynn,’ I say at last. ‘I’m not Scarlett Flynn any more, OK?’
‘OK,’ Clare says. ‘You can be Scarlett Murray. That’s fine.’
‘I’m not Scarlett Murray either. Just Scarlett.’
Clare nods her head, frowning slightly. ‘Just Scarlett. OK.’
The ache in the pit of my stomach is back, and that choking feeling in my throat. ‘I don’t feel well,’ I say to Clare. ‘I haven’t for a while. I felt bad on Thursday, at school, and it just got worse as the day went on.’
Clare narrows her eyes. ‘OK. So – you were feeling, what, sick? Headachey? Feverish?’
I nod, because I felt all of those things, and that was just the start. ‘It got worse when Miss Madden started up with that Irish stuff. I had sort of an ache, here –’ I press a fist against my chest – ‘and here, in my throat, so I could hardly speak. My heart was thumping too. Do you think it’s serious?’
‘Could be a panic attack.’ Clare bites her lip. ‘What were you doing, in Irish? What was the work?’
‘Some worksheet,’ I mumble.
‘Was there a theme?’
‘The family’ I whisper.
She puts an arm round me, and I want nothing more than to burrow into her soft, warm body and cry until the hurt goes away. I can’t, though, because if I did that, there’d be no going back. Instead, I shake her arm off my shoulder, roughly. ‘Don’t!’ I growl. Just don’t, OK?’
I feel the anger rising like a tidal wave, flooding my body and making my hands shake. I slam out of the cafe, and even though I’m limping a little I’m halfway down the street before Clare catches up with me. She grabs on to my sleeve, pulls me round to face her.
‘Scarlett,’ she says. ‘Scarlett. It’s OK!’
I shake her off but she grabs me again, hanging on this time. ‘Count to ten,’ she says softly. ‘Then take some nice, steady yoga breaths and let the anger go.’
‘Leave me alone!’ I scream, and the cry seems to split the air around us. ‘Leave me alone,’ I repeat, my voice no more than a whisper now.
‘I can’t,’ Clare says calmly. ‘I won’t, Scarlett. I’m here, OK?’
‘I don’t want you,’ I choke out.
‘I know, and I’m sorry’ Clare says. ‘But I’m here all the same.’
I turn my head away and fight to keep back the tears because I don’t want her sympathy and I don’t want her help. She’s the enemy, and I can’t let myself forget that.
Not now – not ever.
There’s a sound like hail against the little window of the sky-blue room with the nursery border. Then again, I may have imagined it, because you imagine all kinds of stuff, lying alone in the dark trying to keep the bad thoughts at bay.
The room is silent, apart from the gentle swoosh of the swing tree, rustling in the breeze, and some sheep in the field beyond the garden. I snuggle back into my pillow.
Then I hear it again, and I’m sitting bolt upright, my heart thumping. I slide out of bed, edge across to the window and peer out from behind the curtains. And there it is again, a shower of gravel flung up against the window from the garden below, making me jump, making me laugh.
A boy with black hair is standing in the moonlit garden, grinning up at me, arms folded. Behind him, in the shadows at the foot of the garden, I can see a large, dark shape browsing through the flower beds, crunching the blooms from Clare’s roses. Midnight. I like that horse.
I unlatch the little window and lean out into the night. ‘Kian!’ I whisper. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ he hisses. ‘C’mon! Quick!’
I shut the window and dress quickly, heart racing. The cottage is silent, sleeping, as I creep down the stairs. Nobody turns a light on or calls out. I pocket an apple from the fruit bowl, pull back the latch on the back door and slip out into the darkness.
Kian is sitting on the tyre swing, swaying slightly. A stalk of mint from Clare’s herb garden dangles from his smiling mouth.
‘Hi,’ I whisper.
‘Hi,’ he says, nodding at my bandaged foot and saddo sandals. ‘Like the footwear.’
‘Mmm. Super cool.’
Midnight appears behind me, snuffling at my pocket for the apple. He sniffs, draws back his lips and crunches into the fruit with huge, yellow teeth. His nose is unbelievably soft, like warm velvet.
‘He likes you,’ Kian says.
‘He likes apples,’ I correct him. ‘But hey, I’m not proud!’
Kian vaults up on to Midnight’s back, pulling me up beside him. I’m so close I can smell the mint on his breath. Down at the end of the garden, Midnight picks his way carefully over a bit of tumbledown wall, half-hidden behind Clare’s workshop. We ride out across the field, down towards the woods and the lough.
‘So,’ says Kian into my ear. ‘Everything OK, the other night? No hassle from the Gardaí?’
I shake my head. ‘They didn’t quiz me about strange boys on horseback, if that’s what you’re asking.’
‘Good,’ Kian says as we enter the woods, dark silhouettes of trees closing round us. ‘I don’t get mixed up with them unless I can help it. How about the ankle?’
‘It’s not broken, just badly twisted,’ I say. ‘The doctor kept going on about wedge-heel sandals, but I blame the tree roots.’
‘Obviously.’
‘All the same, next time I run away, I’ll plan my footwear better.’
‘Running away’s overrated,’ Kian says. ‘You just drag your troubles right along with you.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ve got plenty of them,’ I grumble.
‘You could always stick around,’ Kian says softly. ‘It’s not so bad. This is my favourite place in t
he world – kind of timeless, magical.’
I grew up in London, with grey pavements and neon skies and litter. The only magic I ever saw there was when someone decorated the bus shelter outside our house one night, with spray-can graffiti in a dozen different colours. ‘That’s not magic,’ Mum had sniffed. ‘It’s vandalism.’
Midnight moves slowly along the dark woodland path, hooves crunching over leaves and twigs. Suddenly, an owl swoops past us, ghostly pale, the breeze from its wings cool against my cheeks. I’m grinning in the dark, I realize, eyes wide.
‘See what I mean?’ Kian whispers.
We come out of the woods right by the hazel tree at the tip of the lough. Kian dismounts and I slither down beside him in the moonlight. Midnight drifts off, cropping grass, and I sit down beneath the hazel tree. Kian flops beside me, just a breath away. A crescent moon hangs silently above us, painting the world with silver.
‘I can see why you like it,’ I admit. ‘I guess I’m just not a country girl. Maybe I’ll get to like it too!’
Right here, right now, I feel safer, calmer than I have in a while. I’m not sure it has anything to do with the woods and the lough, though. Maybe more to do with a skinny boy with dark eyes, raggedy black hair and slanting cheekbones.
‘Stick around, Scarlett,’ he says again.
‘Don’t know where else I can go,’ I admit. ‘I was aiming for London, the other night, but Mum doesn’t want me there. Nobody wants me here either, not really. Maybe Holly, but then she’s nuts to start with.’
‘Who’s Holly?’ Kian asks.
‘My stepsister,’ I explain, trying out the feel of the word in my mouth. It’s weird, alien, like the piercing when I first got it. Like the piercing, I guess I’ll get used to it.
‘So – happy families, right?’ he says. ‘Think you’ll settle in?’
‘They don’t need me,’ I tell him. ‘Dad’s moved on, got his new wife, new daughter, new baby on the way. What do they want me for?’
‘No idea,’ Kian grins. ‘Can’t see the attraction, myself. Bad-tempered, skinny kid with ketchup hair and poor taste in footwear…’
‘Hey!’ I protest. ‘I have great taste in footwear!’
He raises one eyebrow, his gaze flickering over the scary Velcro walking sandals. ‘Sure you do,’ he laughs.
I know he’s teasing me, but I want to be cool, I want to be wild. I want to be a million miles away from a nice family girl in sensible shoes. I want Kian to know that.
I let the gold stud click against my teeth, so that he sees it. He doesn’t look disgusted, like Mum when she first saw it, or horrified, like Miss Phipps. He isn’t shocked or impressed, like Holly, Ros and Matty. He just looks curious, maybe a little sad.
I wish I’d kept my mouth closed.
‘OK,’ he says. ‘Why d’you do that?’
‘Don’t know’ I shrug. ‘It seemed like a good idea at the time.’
Like about a million other good ideas I’ve lived to regret. What are you meant to do when you’re crying inside and nobody even notices? You can shout and swear and stamp your feet, get into trouble at school, dye your hair paintbox-red. You can stay out late, skip school, tell lies, break things. You can even pierce a hole through your tongue and scare old ladies on the bus, but don’t expect anyone to see what’s happening inside. They never will.
‘Whoever you were trying to shock, I hope it worked,’ Kian says.
‘Fat chance,’ I reply.
There’s a silence, and I flop back on the grass, watching the ink-black sky through the branches of the wishing tree. Kian is beside me, a whisper away through the rustle of long grass.
‘It’ll be OK,’ he says into the dark, so softly he could almost be talking to himself. ‘Everything’ll be OK.’
I close my eyes, shutting out velvet skies and silver stars and wizened hazel branches silhouetted against the moon like gnarled fingers. The ground is cool, the grass soft, and I can hear Midnight chewing grass and Kian breathing and the sound of the lough sighing gently against the shore. It feels like home.
When I wake, the sky is lighter, streaked with apricot and peach. Kian is shifting too, stretching and yawning, and Midnight stands a little way off along the loughside, drinking, swishing his tail, making little huffing noises through his nostrils.
‘It’s daylight!’ I panic. ‘I have to get back. If they think I’ve run off again, they’ll just about kill me.’
‘OK. No problem.’
Kian whistles softly and Midnight lifts his head, shakes his mane and strolls lazily towards us, round belly swaying.
The woods are waking up, birds singing in the trees, red squirrels darting through the branches. The light is cool and dappled green, and there’s a sharp, fresh smell of morning. We ride through the woods and come out into the lane, just a little way from the cottage.
‘It’s early’ Kian says as I slip down from Midnight’s back. ‘Well before six. They won’t be awake.’
‘Did we really stay out all night?’ I ask, amazed.
‘Not all night. I didn’t call for you till after twelve.’
‘You’re a bad influence,’ I tell him. ‘Dad wouldn’t approve.’
‘How about you? Do you approve?’ He reaches down from Midnight’s back and drops a kiss right on the tip of my nose, so light, so quick, it’s no more than a little breath of air.
‘Did I dream you?’ I ask him as he wheels Midnight round in the lane. ‘Seriously. Are you sure you’re real?’
Kian laughs. ‘I’m not sure of anything,’ he says, turning down the lane, back straight, shoulders level, tanned fingers knotted into Midnight’s tangled mane. He looks back over his shoulder, grinning. ‘So long, Scarlett. Dream on.’
I creep under the covers at dawn, feeling warm and shivery and full of hope. I can’t stop smiling because I’ve never known a boy like Kian before, a boy who makes me feel safe and special, a boy who wants me to stick around.
I don’t know much about him. I don’t know his surname, his age, his address or phone number. I don’t know the name of his favourite band, his hopes, his dreams, his likes, dislikes. I don’t know if any of this matters.
I’m falling for him anyway.
I know Kian is a bad-news boy – anybody who calls for you at midnight with a handful of gravel is unlikely to be a boy scout. Mum and Dad and Clare would not approve, but then, I don’t approve of them either, so what does it matter?
I close my eyes, and my head fills with pictures of a black-haired boy with sunbrown skin, a boy who laughs easily, talks softly. I can see the sunrise painting the water silver, see a big, black horse wading out into the water to drink. It happened, and it was magic, it was mine.
I can hear people moving about downstairs, laughing, talking. Sunshine peers through the crack in my curtains, warming my face and arms, and there’s a gorgeous cooked-breakfast smell in the air.
I rub my eyes.
‘Scarlett, breakfast’s ready!’ Dad shouts up. ‘Don’t let it go cold!’
I roll over, burrowing down beneath the quilt. I don’t do family breakfasts, especially not with this patched-up excuse for a family. But isn’t it kind of a waste of sunshine to lie in bed all day?
I wash quickly, drag on some clothes and hobble downstairs. In the kitchen, Dad is frying eggy bread like he used to do when I was little, and Clare is dishing out baked beans, grilled mushrooms, tomatoes, fried onions, potato cakes. There’s not a sausage or a bit of bacon in sight, and my mouth twitches into a smile before I can hide it. It’s a vegetarian brunch, and it looks fantastic.
‘We’re eating outside,’ Clare says. ‘Go on and sit down.’
I mooch out into the garden, where Holly is setting the table with a red spotted cloth and pouring orange juice into glasses. I look around for evidence of Kian and Midnight, but there’s nothing. It’s like last night never happened.
Dad and Clare come out, carrying mismatched china plates laden with food.
‘French toast
!’ Holly exclaims. ‘Yum!’
‘Eggy bread, we used to call it,’ Dad says, trying to catch my eye. ‘It was your favourite, Scarlett, remember?’
‘Think you’re mixing me up with someone else,’ I say coldly. Does he think he can buy me with a cooked breakfast and a shared memory?
‘Well, it’s definitely my favourite,’ Holly says chirpily. ‘From now on, anyhow. I think I might go vegetarian, like Scarlett. I wouldn’t miss meat, except for sausages, and you can get ones made out of tofu or something, can’t you? Do smoky bacon crisps count?’
‘Let’s not do anything hasty.’ Dad frowns.
‘Why not?’ I chip in, just to bug him. ‘If Holly wants to give up, I’d say the sooner the better. The average person eats over a thousand chickens, twenty-three lambs, eighteen pigs and four cows in a lifetime. Think of the lives you’d be saving, Holly!’
‘Right,’ says Holly, looking slightly alarmed. ‘And do crisps count, did you say?’
‘Absolutely,’ I say with conviction. ‘Everything counts.’ I spot a couple of chickens scratching about under the table for scraps. ‘Why would anyone want to eat these little guys?’
‘I don’t,’ Holly decides. ‘I won’t. I’m going to do it – go veggie. Will you help me?’
‘Of course I will,’ I tell her, and I’m rewarded with the kind of bright-eyed, adoring look I’ve only ever seen on spaniels before. ‘It’ll be cool – you won’t regret it, Holly.’ But Dad and Clare will, and that, of course, is half the fun.
Dad scoffs the last of the eggy bread, eating it spread with strawberry jam, the way we used to.
‘Jam?’ says Clare. ‘Disgusting.’
‘You’d be surprised.’ Dad grins, winking at me.
Holly rinses the empty jam jar with the garden hose, and wafts around the garden picking flowers to arrange in it. She has some seriously sad habits. ‘Mum,’ she calls up from the end of the garden. ‘Something funny’s happened to the flower bed!’
Everybody wanders down to take a look. The flower bed is full of crater-like holes where Midnight’s hooves sank into the soft soil last night, and the flowers are either eaten or trampled. It looks like a small herd of elephants has been to visit.
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