Eden Summer

by Liz Flanagan

  The celebratory mood vanished. Imo started crying again.

  Eden finished with a flourish, imitating Aisha. She put her paper away and spat every word at us, in case we missed her meaning:

  … haunted by a lipsticked shade.

  You seek revenge, you do.

  Just the subtle blade

  Of sharpened guilt, to send me

  Headlong after you –

  She stopped, mouth open, mid-line.

  Her face seemed to elongate, till it looked like that famous painting, the awful scream. Only no more noise came. Instead she froze there for a long moment, and then fled, her boots thudding on the wooden stairs.

  I shot from my seat.

  I heard Barwell barking, ‘Right, you lot! Stay here with Tom and Aisha – OK?’ Steps drummed after me.

  Outside was still and quiet, no sign of Eden. I ran for the house. ‘I’ll take upstairs, sir. You look down here.’ I checked Eden’s room, then mine. I did a quick sweep of the first floor, slamming each door open. Bathrooms. Nothing. ‘Eden! Eden!’ I threw myself downstairs. Three steps at a time. Nearly collided with Barwell and we both ran out through the back door.

  Rose was outside, on the terraced lawn, scanning up and down the valley. It was barely dark and the rain had stopped. The sky was darkening blue, a paler smudge over the horizon.

  Rose cupped her hands and yelled, ‘Eden!’ so loud it bounced back at us with a faint mocking echo.

  Barwell started losing it. ‘No, no, no. Not Eden. Not now. Shit, shit, shit.’

  ‘Neil?’ Rose was the together one. ‘Get a grip. Let’s think. What’s your guess?’

  ‘You don’t get it, Rose. Her sister was killed just last month. If anything happens to her … Why did I think this would be a good idea? Damn it all.’

  Rose ignored his panic. ‘If we get the car out, we can be after her in two minutes. Where would she go, Jess? Home?’

  ‘No.’ I was sure of it. I leaned on the railing and peered down the valley, at the steeply sloping fields that led down to the river, at the woods beyond. ‘Shh! Listen? What’s that?’

  ‘Just owls,’ Rose said. ‘Come on, we’ve not got long. Have you tried her phone, Jess?’

  ‘Course.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. This cannot be happening.’ Barwell was pacing up and down behind us. ‘What am I going to tell her parents? The head?’

  Barwell’s fear was contagious. My heart was speeding, my head spinning, still struggling to make the switch from elation to whatever this was. Eden had pulled the carpet from under us all right, but I didn’t know what it meant yet. I kept searching, staring into the darkness, the dense black shadows under the trees.

  ‘Let’s split up,’ Rose was saying, ‘I’ll take the car up to the village … Tom and Aisha will stay here—’

  Then I saw her. Down the bottom of the hill, moving fast, her bright hair still visible, a faint glimmer in the gloom. ‘There!’

  ‘Jess’s right, there she is. By the river. Shit.’ Barwell was already off, shouting over his shoulder, ‘Rose, stay here. I’ve got my phone. I’ll call if I need back-up. She’s had a tough time, this one. Handle with care.’

  ‘Here, take my torch.’ Rose passed it to me. ‘Ring me, OK?’ she called after us. ‘Or I’ll follow in ten.’

  We rushed downhill, in the narrow white glare of the torch. The steep track was rutted. I heard Barwell trip once, but we threw ourselves onwards. I was praying Eden wouldn’t disappear into the woods: we’d never find her then.

  The path ended with one last hairpin, turning flat and cobbled as it led to a small curved bridge. With all the rain this past week, the river was swollen and fierce, thunderingly loud.

  Eden sat on the narrow rim of the bridge, her feet dangling over a ten-metre drop. Below her, I could just make out a torrent of white, hurling itself into the darkness below.

  ‘Not the bridge,’ Barwell whispered. ‘What’s she playing at?’

  I froze. I yanked at Mr Barwell’s sweatshirt to stop him. If we startled her, she might slip.

  ‘Eden!’ I called gently. The sound was scrambled by the noise of the falls.

  ‘Eden, it’s Mr Barwell. I’ve come to fetch you, OK?’ His voice was strong and deep. ‘We’ll go back up to the house and talk, all right?’

  We crept slowly towards her. Step, pause, step: like cats stalking prey.

  Without looking round, she started talking. ‘Why me?’

  I could barely hear her. We went closer in.

  ‘Why does all the worst stuff happen cos of me?’ She raised her voice now. ‘I’m the kiss of death, and I’ve had enough of it. Of hurting people. If it’s all a test, y’know what? I’ve got my results. I admit it: I fail!’

  ‘No!’ I called. ‘You didn’t fail! You saved me. Stop it.’ I peered over the bridge, but it was just roaring darkness.

  ‘Eden!’ Barwell shouted. ‘Eden, come away from there. We’re here. We can just sit and talk, OK?’

  ‘I fail!’ she yelled into the damp air, full of noise. ‘I can’t do it. I messed up. Again.’

  ‘You didn’t mess up. Come on,’ I shouted, scared. I turned to Barwell and hissed, ‘What do we do?’

  ‘Take it slow,’ he answered me from the side of his mouth. ‘Don’t startle her, OK?’ The torch-glare wobbled. ‘Eden, please, turn round, come off the bridge, yeah?’ His voice was showing the strain now.

  ‘Why?’ Eden said, over her shoulder, quite calm.

  ‘Come over here, we can talk.’ Barwell seemed paralysed. He turned into a torch-bearing statue, five paces back.

  ‘Talk? I’m sick of talking. I’m even sick of drinking – doesn’t bloody work any more.’

  That’s when I realized she was drunk. Why hadn’t I thought of that? The afternoon naps, the morning grogginess – I’d put everything down to fresh grief.

  I felt a bitter rush of irritation, along with the fear. We didn’t have to be here. We could be sitting in the barn, feeling a warm glow, applauding the others. ‘Flipping heck. She’s just pissed. Not suicidal.’ I turned brisk, impatient. ‘We talk her down, get her back up the hill, it’ll be fine. Right, sir?’ Part of me was ready to do whatever it took to fix this and help Eden; another part was pouting and sulking inside me. Why did she have to do this? This was supposed to be a good week. Time out, in this lovely place. I was getting better, she was getting better. It was all working out, till now. But she could lose her balance and slip off the bridge before I could even reach her, so I had to take it seriously. I kept moving, biting down the urge to scream at her. Drama queen, get off the sodding bridge.

  ‘I’m sick of plodding on.’ Her voice was slightly slurring.

  Yeah, I’m sick of it, too, but that’s life. I was almost there. Slowly, slowly, I reached out and touched her shoulder, then passed my arm gently across her front, turning her gradually towards me, praying I had her weight. ‘Come on. Come off there. We can talk better down here, OK?’

  She was passive now, letting me steer her. ‘Sick of waiting for it to get better. Sick of everyone pretending. Sick of sympathy. Sick of my parents,’ she mumbled through her list. ‘Sick of my own head. It’s not pretty in there, no, sirree.’

  ‘Hey, it’s all right.’ I had her. ‘Come here.’ This wasn’t our way, but I’d have to take charge. I’d lead, and she’d bloody well have to follow, just for a bit.

  I tugged at her left leg, nudged it off the bridge onto the ground, then the other, so she was facing inwards again.

  She wouldn’t look at me. Her hair was loose, covering her face. She collapsed forwards, limp as a rag doll, onto the gravelly path.

  ‘It’s me, Eden. I don’t mind what your head’s like. We can sort it out.’ I slid down next to her, leaning on the stone of the bridge, supporting her into a sitting position. ‘You and me, we always do.’

  ‘S’too late now. This is bigger’n me.’

  ‘You listen to me, Eden Holby.’ I was babbling, as if my words could drown
out her pain and my resentment. I owed it to her, so I said the right thing and ignored my inner tantrum. ‘It’s bound to be tough, and I know I haven’t been there. I’m sorry. You’ve gotta let me help, OK?’

  ‘You’ve had an extraordinarily difficult time.’ Barwell chipped in with the official version, still not daring to get too close, as if we were made of fine china. Or dynamite. ‘But things won’t always be this bad.’

  ‘Eden, I was giving you space.’ I told her the truth: ‘Then I was trying to help. I’m sorry if it’s not been enough.’ I had tears in my eyes now, tears for her and for me, blurring my vision. ‘I mean, I know it’s not enough.’ I’d wanted to save her. I’d been in love with that idea this week, I saw now. Who did I think I was, her knight in shining armour? Don’t worry, Eden! Your sister may be dead, but you still have me! I wouldn’t even have come on the residential if Barwell hadn’t asked me to look after her. This wasn’t about me. It was about Eden.

  My fingers gripped her wrist, her warm skin, and finally it seemed to reach her.

  ‘No, Jess. You’re enough. It’s not that. I’m sorry.’ She looked over at Mr Barwell, ‘Sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have run out. Didn’t mean to spoil it. Just … jus …’

  Barwell crouched on his heels, watching, as she ran out of speech. He dared to come closer now.

  Her face stretched in a horrible grimace and she let out a high-pitched wail, pure pain. I caught the scent of spirits on her breath: she must have been drinking all day in her room. She started sobbing and rocking, holding her chest.

  ‘Shhh. It’s OK, it’s going to be OK.’ I grabbed her from the side, clutching her to me. My resentment evaporated, replaced by guilt.

  She snorted, a deep, snotty grunt that turned into a choking cough. ‘Well, that shows what you know. It is all my fault. Iona died cos of me.’ It all came out in a hiccupping confession. ‘We fought that night. Mum and Dad tried to stop us. I was miserable and I took it out on her. I wanted her to feel as bad as me. I said some vicious things. When she got in the car, she was furious. She was crying.’

  ‘B-b-but the police report said it wasn’t her fault,’ I stammered.

  ‘No –’ Barwell joined in – ‘the other car was speeding. It came around the bend on her side. There was nothing she could do …’

  ‘Ever tried driving when you’re in tears? There’s probably a law against it.’ She laughed and put on a stupid, serious voice: ‘No driving under the influence of alcohol, drugs or blinding tears.’

  ‘Eden Holby, you listen to me,’ I said. ‘Your sister died in an awful accident. Accident! That means it’s not your fault.’

  ‘It is, Jess. It’s completely my fault. Just like you getting attacked was my fault. I made you come out in the rain. I made Iona run off that night. I’m cursed, and it’s got to stop.’

  ‘That driver – the one who killed Iona – he paid with his life. Don’t think you have to pay for it too. This is hard enough without blaming yourself.’ Barwell’s voice was deep and gentle, but snagging on tears. ‘You have to listen to me: let this go. Nobody thinks it’s your fault.’

  ‘My parents do.’ She raised her head briefly. Her mascara was smeared around her eyes and her cheeks were slimy and damp in the light of the torch. ‘If it wasn’t for me and the things I said, Iona would not have been in that car, going around that corner at that moment.’

  ‘I can assure you they don’t. They love you. They’re worried about you.’ Barwell finally came and sat next to us on the damp ground, the three of us in a row, leaning on the bridge. ‘Think about them for a second. If you’d fallen in just now and I had to ring them and say you’d been in an accident, it would destroy them. They’d have lost everything. Can you imagine that?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, teeth chattering, seeming to lose steam. ‘I can imagine that just fine.’

  I saw Barwell take it, like a slap. He swore under his breath, ‘I’m sorry Eden. I know I can’t imagine what you’re dealing with. But please, keep going. It won’t always be so hard.’

  ‘We’ll get through it,’ I told Eden. I put my head on her shoulder and waited. ‘And I’m here for you. Anything you need. It will get better, I promise.’

  There was a long gap then, but I felt something change.

  When she spoke again, she seemed calmer, more sober, and it was almost worse. ‘Will it get better?’ she asked hoarsely. ‘When? I really hope it’s soon, because I’m not sure how much I’ve got left.’

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  5.33 p.m.

  I shake my head to clear it of these memories. I go through the gateway of the writers’ centre, feeling as though I am trespassing. I walk into the walled courtyard and grind to a halt, like I’m out of fuel. The dark stone of the poet’s house hums with life. There’s steam coming from a vent in the kitchen. I hear voices and laughter. Someone is playing a piano. I’m about to retreat when the door opens and I see a familiar figure coming out carrying a tray of mugs.

  ‘Rose!’

  She turns. ‘Jess! It is Jess, isn’t it?’

  For a moment I’m surprised she remembers me. Then I realize: it’s not every week that one of her visitors flees to the river in the middle of the last-night reading.

  But I’m wrong. That’s not the only reason she knows.

  ‘I’m so sorry. I saw the alert online, about Eden. Listen, go wait for me in the garden. We can talk. I’ll just deliver these teas.’

  I walk through the empty garden and look out over the valley. The sun’s low and golden, wrapping itself in light scarves of cloud. You can see the first tint of orange in the wooded hills. It’ll be autumn soon. Behind me, the front of the house is covered in a vine with bright red leaves, like splashes of blood in the sinking sun.

  ‘Here.’ Rose comes and hands me a mug of tea. ‘I’m sorry, Jess. What a horrible day for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a sip. The tea tastes weird and floury – soya milk, maybe? – but it’s hot and comforting. ‘So you saw the stuff about Eden we posted online?’

  ‘Yep. Shared it too.’ She turns to face me. ‘They’ll find her.’ Her blue eyes are calm and steady.

  ‘I’ve been looking all day. Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m here, except I’m retracing our steps, from this summer, and I just thought … I know I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘It’s all right. It was worth asking. But we’ve not seen Eden. I’d have rung the police if I had.’

  I am very tired all of a sudden. Rose is being so kind, but it only makes me want to cry. ‘Can I sit down?’ I back away blurrily for the bench against the front of the house. I put my head back against the stone and close my eyes to hide tears.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Stay there. I’ll bring you something.’

  I try to get a grip while she’s gone, letting the sun warm me, sipping my tea. It’ll be dark soon, and then it all gets harder. I imagine looking for Eden in the night, in the rain. I’ll never stop looking for her.

  Rose’s voice pulls me from that grim vision. ‘Jess?’ She’s holding out a plate piled with food.

  ‘Oh. I … I … I mean, thank you.’

  ‘It’s fine, it’s just leftovers. You feeling any better?’

  I nod.

  ‘Listen, I have to go. They need me inside. It’s their Friday-night showcase – remember that? Stay a while, eat that and leave the plate there when you’re done. I’m working till eleven, but I’m here, if you need help later, OK?’

  I’m ridiculously grateful, but she’s gone before I can find the words to say it. The plate is crammed with some kind of cheese pastry, potatoes and a grainy salad with beans and peppers. I eat it all fast, glad there’s no one to see, and lick my fingers afterwards. I go in and use the bathroom at the back of the barn, and then I’m off, out through the gates and away down the rough track to the river.

  I pause there, looking over the bridge, reliving that last time. The river is tame today – a kit
ten, not a lion – but the rocks look worse uncovered. They are slick and black, raw and sharp as teeth. If Eden had fallen, back then, they were waiting.

  The last of the sunlight filters down through the leaves, deep bronze. It catches the fine spray, making a halo, then a rainbow across the gorge.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s Mum. I can’t keep ignoring her. Plus there’s a chance by now she’s got good news. I tap to accept. ‘Hi, Mum,’ I say. ‘Any news?’

  ‘Oh my God, finally! Didn’t you hear me ringing? I’ve left five messages, Jess. Five! What the hell were you thinking?’

  To be honest, I’d stopped counting after three. I hold the phone away from my ear a little.

  ‘Where are you? Are you all right? I’ve had school on the phone. What was I supposed to say, that I didn’t know where my daughter was, either?’

  She is livid. Force-ten gale. ‘Mum, I’m OK. I told you, I need to look for Eden. And I’m fine. I can look after myself now, really. I’m up the clough, on the bridge. I was going to head past her old house next—’

  ‘What are you doing there? You can’t just wander the hills …’

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ I cut in, ignoring her.

  She sighs and I hear the anger draining away as she gears up to tell me something. ‘There’s no official news, just that …’

  I can hear the effort she’s making to control her voice now. My heart flutters, a moth against a flame, drawn to what will end it. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘It’s been on the news, local and national. There’re TV vans in town. Poor Claire and Simon. It’s bad enough without the media spotlight …’

  ‘What? What are they saying?’

  ‘Oh, love, I’m sorry. I don’t even know if it’s true. I mean, how could they know – unless the police leaked it or someone’s phone was tapped. These days, anything could happen …’

  ‘Mum!’ I snap. ‘Know what’s true?’

  ‘It’s the text, the one Eden sent this morning. They think it was a kind of …’

  ‘Yes?’ Finally! The truth about the text. About time.