Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  Back at school, the plan, which I’d been formulating since the day after I heard the news, had been simple enough:

  1. Finish out the summer term, sit my final exams and get the hell away from Millsbury Prep School for ever.

  2. Go to Hollythwaite and convince Mother to let me summer alone at my grandparents’ before university term commenced.

  3. Drive the five-hour journey to Twycombe, Devon, open up the deserted cottage and then…

  Well, the next bit was admittedly more mission than plan:

  4. Investigate tirelessly to discover the truth.

  I’d achieved steps one to three: it was the first day of July and I was here, in Twycombe, with the whole summer to myself stretching ahead. But as for step four: my first attempt at getting closer to understanding Sienna’s state of mind had flopped spectacularly.

  Or had it? I thought back to those moments on the board when death had called. Did she hear that call? Did she shiver at its seductive allure, or did she seek it out eagerly?

  ‘Terrible accident’ were the words my headmistress had used initially. But then, when I wouldn’t be placated – not by Mother’s desperate, clinging hugs and not by Father’s evasive, simplistic explanations – new details emerged: ‘a party; certainly drinking, quite possibly drunk’… ‘not in her right mind’… ‘surfing alone’… ‘dark; such poor visibility, so cold’… ‘sea was wild, stormy’… ‘went down; never came up’. Only one word was unuttered, but it echoed through.

  Suicide.

  The facts were clear: in January my older sister Sienna had run away from her boarding school (a different one to my own; she had insisted on that) and had installed herself in the village of Twycombe, breaking a window to get into our grandparents’ old cottage. She used a trail of emails to lead Father and Mother on a wild goose chase across the country, putting them off her scent, and spent more than three months here. What she did in that time is unclear, but from the tone of her cryptic emails to me it was evident that she was troubled:

  Blackness. It’s consuming, and I do fight it, sis, you know I’m a fighter, but I can’t hope to win.

  Such a rush! Such power! All these years of prison, now I’m free – now I’m something.

  The end is coming; no escape. But I mustn’t fear it, we mustn’t fear it.

  I wrote back of course, angry, demanding she fill the gaps. But each day a new email would arrive with no indication that she’d even read my last. And I rolled my eyes at it: typical melodramatic, me-me-me Sienna.

  Then the emails had stopped. And an ominous feeling had begun to gnaw away at me. And two days later I was pulled from my English class and escorted to the head’s office, where my parents were waiting to tell me that my sister had drowned.

  Fast-forward two months and there I was, staring at her empty chair at my grandparents’ table – always hers, because it was the prettiest, with small pink roses hand-painted onto the wood – and trying to fathom where to start in uncovering the truth that I refused to believe had died with my sister. For no explanation had been good enough; no suggested reason for her crazy, selfish, terrible act had made sense. Yes, she was wild and destructive and had a flair for the dramatic, but she loved life, loved it.

  We were so different, my sister and I: she the gregarious, fearless adventurer, sauntering, stomping and sashaying through life, and I her perfect foil, the girl on the periphery – studious, sensible, reserved. As she dreamed of a career on a West End stage, I’d been nose-deep in books, quietly securing a place at university. While her idea of fun had become ‘cavorting’, as Mother put it, off-campus with an ever-expanding circle of friends, the most interesting my social life got was a movie marathon in the school common room where girls circulated tubs of both sweet and salted popcorn.

  It hadn’t always been that way. As young children, with only ten months between us in age, Sienna and I had been close. We’d had to be: when solid, stable parental love is a thing of fairy tales, not reality, you cling to what you can to keep afloat. So we built our own special, private world, complete with rag dolls and skipping rhymes and midnight feasts held under the covers that would end in us falling asleep in a tangle of limbs and biscuit crumbs. Then, we were peas in a pod, down to matching jaunty ponytails and corduroy pinafores. Though our colouring differed and Sienna was a touch taller, people would sometimes mistake us for twins. They would watch us closely, studying us, delighting in spotting similarities. I loved that. But Sienna never did.

  As we grew up, my sister became more determined to be differentiated from me – from it all: Mother, Father, our stiff upbringing, our strict schooling. And somehow, in retaliation, or perhaps in support, I moved across the divide to sit as her polar opposite. It was easier to let her be the ‘big’ sister in every sense, and to creep into the background. But sometimes, when we saw each other on a rare weekend at home, Mother would say something cutting, or Father would say nothing at all, and I would catch Sienna’s eye and a moment of understanding would pass between us. Then I’d know that we were still as we’d ever been: sisters; and that meant something to us both.

  I did not know why Sienna had run away. I did not know why she’d hidden and lied and stayed in touch with me but in a veiled, confusing way – never letting me in. I did not know why she had gone into the sea that night. I did not know why she had sunk into the deep. But I did know this: she had loved me. And I couldn’t come to terms with the fact that she had done this to me, to us. As I explained to our mother, who was beside herself at the thought of me being here now, in the place that had stolen her first-born, I needed to find some reason in the madness.

  This morning was a start, I told myself firmly. No harm done, other than making an idiot of myself in front of some local lad I’d known way back when. Now, I’d better pull myself together. I needed answers. I had to find out what had kept Sienna here for months; what she had done in her time here; who she had befriended – the background to that terrible day. As much as my nature and current mood begged me to play the hermit, I had to get out there. The answers weren’t within these old stone walls, but out in the village, in the cove.

  Because someone in this sleepy little community knew what had happened the night the raging sea claimed my sister, and I was damned well going to find them and make them tell me.

  4: THE GUY IN THE GRAVEYARD

  A narrow hedge-lined lane took me from the west cliff down to the heart of the village. Even in my beloved red Mini Cooper – I preferred to think of it as vintage rather than old – it was a tight squeeze, and I tooted the horn at blind bends to deter any cocky four-by-four owners from mowing me down. At the end of the lane I came to a fork – left to the nearest city, Plymouth; right to the village of Twycombe. I swung the wheel to the right; I’d have more choices for shopping closer to Plymouth, but the village was the only place that held my interest.

  I parked in the centre, overlooking the green square that served as a meeting place for the elderly, a play space for the children and a venue for all community events, from the summer fete to the December nativity. Beyond stood the pretty nineteenth-century church of St Mary’s, with its turreted clock tower, and a short promenade beside the beach. The main streets, along two sides of the square, formed the hub of the community, incorporating a post office, a cafe, a dive shop, a pub, a small grocery store, a fish and chip shop, and a tourist shack selling all manner of beach paraphernalia, from buckets and spades to enormous inflatable sharks. A scattering of houses grew out from this centre up the hill behind, an eclectic hotchpotch of architectural styles and colours, all built to make the most of the superb ocean views.

  That was it; that was Twycombe. It was a small place, mainly inhabited by locals. There was a trickle of tourists in the summer months, but most found the long, winding access route via narrow lanes too hair-raising and chose the nearer Bigbury beach – bigger, sandier, with a wide car park and public toilets. But there was one group that happily navigated through the lanes to g
et here, usually first thing or in the evening: surfers. It was no Newquay, but the natural cut of the cove created pretty decent waves here (so I’d read online. I’d read a lot about surfing since Sienna).

  I started out at the grocery shop, cruising the aisles and picking up whatever took my fancy. After a lifetime of eating boarding school meals and those cooked up by Marnie, the housekeeper at Hollythwaite, having the freedom to choose was rather exhilarating. Once the basket was full to overflowing I surveyed its contents and realised they were a jumbled mix, none of which cohesively formed a meal – tinned custard, black grapes, chocolate digestives, dried spaghetti, cheese slices, fizzy orange, cornflakes. I decided I didn’t care. My summer; my way.

  Groceries squeezed into the micro-boot, I headed over to the post office to survey the ‘staff wanted’ notices. Money wasn’t an issue – I had plenty in my account courtesy of my father, who thought love was measurable in pounds sterling – but I wanted to make my own. Plus, working would get me out of the house and bring me into contact with people. Labourer and bookkeeper I rejected at once. I dithered briefly over cleaner, but then shuddered at the thought of scrubbing toilets and moved on. Personal assistant sounded a bit dubious. Dog walker – now that was interesting. Animals and I had always got on; it was one of the few characteristics that Sienna and I had shared. Dog walking sounded easy enough, plus the ad said four hours a day, which would give me plenty of time for myself and everything I planned to do here. I transferred the number from the ad onto my phone.

  Last stop: the imaginatively named Dan’s Dive Shop. It was packed full of all manner of diving equipment, but there was a decent section for surfing too, and that’s where I headed. I was examining a sleek board when the man himself appeared at my side.

  ‘Hello there, love. I’m Dan. What can I do for you?’

  His tone was polite, but betrayed a hint of confusion – no doubt he’d looked at this slip of a girl in her jeans and cardigan and seen no hint of either courageous diver or gnarly surfer.

  I nodded at the portly middle-aged man, eyes watering at the neon-yellow wetsuit he was wearing. ‘How much for this one?’

  On the scent of a sale, Dan cheerily related an utterly exorbitant price. When my eyes bulged, he swiftly added, ‘It’s premium this one, ya see. Excellent craftmanship. Cuts through the water like yer proverbial knife through butter. Good news is, we have it in your size.’

  He gestured to a board that dwarfed me. I thought of the guy on the beach, Luke – his anger over my amateur board. The other extreme, the very top end of surfboards, would surely be the best choice. But the size of it! As if the sea didn’t scare me enough, I was expected to ride this enormous thing on it? I gritted my teeth.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ I said. ‘Can you deliver? My car’s a bit…’

  ‘No problem,’ declared Dan. ‘My man-with-van’ll drop it round for you. Teatime, shall we say?’

  ‘Perfect, thanks.’

  ‘Address?’

  I rattled it off, pretending not to notice the shocked look on Dan’s face.

  ‘Right-ho. Now, if you’ll be surfing, I’m sure you’ll be needing…’

  The next five minutes passed in a blur of neoprene and leashes and wax; sounds rather kinky, but it was actually, Dan assured me, essential kit. To give Dan his due, he may have looked like a fluorescent banana, but he knew his stuff when it came to effective upselling. I caved on most items – I really had no clue what I needed for conquering the waves – but stood firm on the ‘pimp my board’ stickers that Dan was determined to sell me.

  Finally, the sales were rung up, paid for and scheduled for delivery, and with a shake of Dan’s moist hand, I was out of there.

  Pleased with my day’s work, I put the key in the car door, ready to head home, but I found myself looking at St Mary’s church. What the heck, I decided. It wasn’t like I had any place to be.

  I crossed the green square, skirting around two elderly men playing petanque and a sunbathing woman, and pushed open the old wooden gate that led into the churchyard. Here, the world quietened and stilled beneath the shady limbs of ancient oaks and beech trees. Set into the thick stone wall above the great wooden door was a stained-glass window, and I paused to take in the vivid colours of an angel and a baby bathed in heavenly light. Then I walked slowly down the gravel path that led into the deserted graveyard.

  As I walked, I carefully scanned each weathered gravestone. I noticed a plot with stones all bearing the name Cavendish. The surfer yesterday, he’d said his name was Cavendish, I thought. I walked on, and on. The graveyard was surprisingly big for a church serving such a small community; but then Twycombe’s history dated back hundreds of years, and many of those lying beneath had departed this world so long ago that there was no one alive now to remember them – to polish granite, clear away weeds, lay fresh flowers. Stone after stone I examined, reading each epitaph sombrely, but none were the words I was seeking.

  Then, finally, I found them. They were in the far corner of the graveyard, tucked beneath a weeping willow. I sank to my knees on the cool grass, and breathed out deeply.

  In life they had shared everything and in death they were no different – two names on one simple grey stone, Peter and Alice Jones. I had not come to my grandparents’ funerals, though I’d wanted to. Mother was adamant that it was no place for a child, though I was hardly that. It hurt that I did not get to say goodbye, for these people were home to me, the source of the happiest memories of my childhood. They had been good to me, and it had felt disrespectful not to say goodbye.

  As final resting places go, it was perfect. Serene, sheltered and right in the heart of Twycombe, which they’d loved. One day, when the time came, I thought I should like to be here too. Perhaps Sienna would have wanted that. The thought made the hole within me ache. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head back and allowed myself a moment to let the pain surface, to let her absence be felt. There was a moment of stillness inside, and then the dam broke. I wondered how, after all these weeks, there could be any tears left.

  A noise from behind startled me, and I tore my eyes open and swung round. I couldn’t make out anything other than grass and gravestones. But then, in the opposite corner, I caught a flash of movement.

  I looked away and hastily mopped up tears with a sleeve. I was embarrassed to be caught out like this, publicly venting feelings that were private. I thought perhaps I’d wait quietly and hope the other person got the hint and left, but then a frantic thumping sound and a high-pitched squealing ripped through the calm. An animal; it was an animal, and it sounded distressed.

  I rose quickly and picked my way across the uneven grass. After several paces I realised my mistake – it was an animal, but there was a person too. Male, judging by the cropped hair and square shoulders. From this angle, coming up behind, it was hard to judge what was going on, but then I saw strong hands gripping grey fur and the creature thrashing and shrieking in a way that conveyed terror, and I didn’t think, I just ran.

  ‘What are you doing! Stop that! Leave it alone!’

  The man didn’t so much as flinch, but remained kneeling over the creature, pinning it down – it was a rabbit, I realised as I closed the distance, its eyes wild, its fur matted.

  Just as I took the final steps, determined to stop him, the man – no, boy, I realised; he couldn’t be much older than me – turned and looked at me and smiled. And I pulled up to a stop so suddenly I had to reach out and grab the nearest headstone to steady myself. That this boy had the delicate looks of a model, that his hair was so blond it was almost white, that his eyes were a startling smoky grey – all of this was true. But that was not what made my breath catch in my throat and my heart rattle in my chest. His hands, his hands that were firmly holding the rabbit to the ground – they looked… wrong. Surreal. Like something out of the church’s stained glass.

  I stared.

  The boy looked at me for a beat, warmly, openly, the smile fixed on his face. Then he returned his
gaze to the rabbit and released his grip. The rabbit quietened at once and stood hesitantly. It sniffed the ground, then hopped away under a gap in the stone wall and out of sight.

  I looked once more at the boy’s hands, and they were just hands. In focus. Not… ethereal, as I’d thought. A trick of the mottled afternoon light slanting through the branches of the oak above; it must have been. Still, I stared at them, bemused.

  ‘… been a fox…’

  He was talking to me, I realised, his voice melodic.

  I started and looked up, away from his hands. Which were definitely not glowing.

  ‘I said, it must have been a fox that got it. I’ve seen them around the church. Still, it soon bounced back…’

  I found my voice again; was surprised by its hardness. ‘What were you doing?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Calming it, I suppose.’

  I shook my head, confused, replaying the scene I’d stumbled upon – this boy restraining the rabbit; the rabbit frightened and in pain. Was he torturer or saviour?

  Before I could make up my mind, the boy was on his feet and moving sinuously towards me, hand outstretched, and from deep inside panic swelled. I backtracked quickly. But my heel met the edge of an old horizontal grave marker and I fell backwards. An elbow broke the impact, and a jolt of pain shot up my arm.

  The boy halted in his advance and raised his hands before him in a gesture of surrender. ‘Hey, sorry!’

  I touched my elbow and felt dampness seeping through the fabric of my cardie: blood.

  ‘You okay?’ said the boy, crouching down beside me. It struck me that this was the second time today a stranger had had cause to ask me this.

  I nodded but said nothing. I couldn’t work out whether this boy was friend or foe.