Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  Buzzing, euphoric, queen of the damn ocean, I thought, but I stuck with the more reserved, ‘Amazing.’

  He grinned at me. ‘Not too shabby. We’ll make a surfer of you yet.’

  His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself grinning back. I’d bloody done it, and what’s more, I’d bloody loved it. Finally, I realised, I understood the attraction for my sister – wild, pleasure-seeking, larger-than-life Sienna.

  I had a feeling that this surfing business may be pretty addictive.

  11: ONE OF THEM

  As the month of July wore on, my days settled into a pleasant routine. Mid-morning I’d arrive at Bert’s and collect Chester, and we’d go for long, rambling walks around the village and along the cliff paths in either direction, pausing for a picnic lunch in the noonday sun. On returning Chester I’d stop and visit for a while with Bert, and then the rest of the afternoon was mine to do with as I liked – browse the internet, read a novel on the beach or, most often, meet Cara.

  It was hard to resist her constant appeals for a shopping/coffee/beach/gossip buddy. Life was never dull with Cara. She was always upbeat, with a refreshingly open perspective on the world (‘See that guy? Yep, the one selling the Big Issue. Yes, the one with the big beard and the scars. Hot, isn’t he?’), and her self-confidence was infectious. Wherever we went, heads turned – and I didn’t think it was because of her disability. She was one of those people with beauty inside and out, someone you gravitate towards because she makes the day lighter.

  The hours with Cara helped balance out the loneliness of living in the cottage alone, but as fun as they were, there was another time of day I most looked forward to. Early evening every weekday I would meet Luke for a lesson, and it was when walking across the beach towards him, answering his easy smile with one of my own, that I felt lightest. In a few short weeks I transformed from sack of spuds on a board to a credible surfer. With Luke’s encouragement I finally got the hang of balancing, and from there wiping out became rarer and Luke and I began to cut about together side by side.

  Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that my development was closely tracked by the surfing fraternity; I would catch the odd member watching, from time to time, and I was totally stoked when a couple gave me a ‘nice form’ one afternoon as I dried off on the beach. There was only one surfer, though, in that set who pulled my attention – the blond-haired boy. He had not approached me since our first meeting, but sometimes I felt his gaze on me, and it seemed to me that he chose to surf towards the middle of the cove, closer to my beginner’s area.

  As my skill on the board grew, so did my confidence, and I surprised myself by developing a kind of fearlessness in tackling waves. Luke seemed to relax, realising that I wasn’t about to drown or dash myself on the rocks, accidentally or otherwise. I still caught him casting dark looks towards where the others surfed sometimes, but he said nothing more about them to me.

  When surfing wasn’t the topic of conversation, we talked about all sorts. I learned that he lived up the hill behind the village in a salmon-pink house. That he had two jobs – a cook five days a week at a pub three coves over, and man-and-van whenever a local job came up. That he was a total foodie, and dreamed of one day opening his own eatery. He was easy to talk to, and he didn’t quiz me but let me volunteer what information I was happy to share – so I told him a little about my school, my degree course, my memories of summers here in the cove and even, in a mad moment, of my growing passion for Quincy ME courtesy of Bert, which made him laugh long and hard.

  There was just one subject that, by silent agreement, we skirted around: family. I had no desire to talk about my distant father and my needy mother; less still to delve into the murky area of the loss of my sister. And in turn Luke said nothing about his family to me, for whatever reason, and I respected his right to privacy.

  Meanwhile, between the summer job and learning to surf, I dug about as much as I could, trying to unearth clues as to Sienna’s movements, moods and motivations in her last weeks. I spoke to obscure classmates from Sienna’s school, who, it transpired, knew very little about her beyond memories of wild partying. I carefully unpicked the hard-drive of Sienna’s laptop which I had Mother send me, but found nothing more interesting than a morose poem about fire ripping through a rain-soaked city. I pushed myself to talk to local people as I walked Chester, and when the awkward moment arrived where they acknowledged who I was, I asked, ‘Did you know my sister?’ The answer was only ever, ‘Knew of her.’ I struggled to find anyone who’d actually been close to Sienna, and I began to wonder just how isolated she had been here. (So why stay? I wondered.) Only the surfing gang remained to be probed, and they were seriously intimidating.

  One rainy afternoon I pushed my complaining car up the M5 to Bridgwater where Katie, Sienna’s best friend from school, lived. We met in a cafe by the railway station, and from the outset Katie was unbearably distraught – a steady flow of tears leaking mascara down onto her white sweater, the odd sob causing people in the cafe to pause mid-sip and gawk at us. I did my best to shush her, but she was implacable and, when it came to answering questions, incoherent. As I sat quietly, waiting for her to calm, it struck me that I’d been here before, many times, with Mother. She and Katie would have got along famously. Perhaps, I reflected, that was the attraction for Sienna; perhaps in some warped way she felt closer to home when around Katie.

  Finally, after a good five minutes of waiting, I snapped. ‘Katie! Stop it. Now.’

  The coldness of my tone brought her up short. She stopped mid-sob and stared at me.

  ‘She was my sister, my sister – you get it? If I can sit here calmly, so can you. Now answer me this…’ I leaned closer, fixed her with my eyes and said, ‘Were you in touch with her?’

  Katie blinked. Opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again. Blinked. Looked down at her coffee. Blinked. Looked back up.

  ‘Katie,’ I said, gentler this time. ‘Please. You have a sister, I know. How would you feel…’

  At that the tears welled up in her eyes again, and I braced myself for a fresh wave of histrionics. But she nodded slowly, and then, finally, out it all spilled – how she’d helped Sienna sneak out of her dorm and driven her to the station, and the continued contact they’d had thereafter, until two days before Sienna’s death.

  ‘The emails just stopped,’ she said. ‘I just thought, you know, that she was holed up with some guy, and she’d be online soon enough to dish the dirt. But the next thing I knew Mum was calling me, and she said, she said…’

  She dissolved into a fresh bout of tears. I reached over and patted her hand awkwardly, and she looked up at me.

  ‘How could she do that to herself? I can’t get my head around it. There was this girl at our school. Camilla. Her father, he lost everything – the credit crunch or house prices or something. He went into the garage and got in his car and gassed himself. Camilla, she was never the same. And Sienna and I – we talked about it then, and after. She didn’t get it, why he would do that. Leave his family behind. Hurt people. For Sienna to… it doesn’t make sense.’

  I didn’t know what to say. She was echoing my own words to Mother and Father in the days after the news broke. They had dismissed me – denial, Father had told me, was the first stage of grief. When I’d refused to let it go, refused to accept that was how my sister had died, he’d contacted a support organisation for those bereaved by suicide. I’d read the pamphlets. I understood that questioning why, why, why was part of the natural response of those left behind. Still, I needed to at least try to find answers. And now, here was someone who’d known Sienna, known her well, who was similarly shocked by the manner of her death. It was unsettling.

  ‘She was happy, I thought, you know,’ Katie went on. ‘She emailed me often, told me about surfing – said it was awesome, the best high. She sent a picture of herself with the gang. She was seeing one of them, I think.’

  I had been swilling around the dregs of my co
ffee, half-listening and half-thinking about the lies Katie had told my parents, but at her last words my heart leapt and I looked up sharply. ‘Who, who was she seeing?’ I demanded.

  But she either didn’t know or was determined not to tell me. All I got was that he was ‘some surfer dude, and hot – really hot’. I asked to see the picture, but she hadn’t kept it. Teeth gritted, I told her pleasantly that should she find it, perhaps in her deleted items folder, could she please forward it to me. Wide-eyed, she nodded.

  Having wrung everything out of her, I left Katie to finish her third black coffee. The last I saw of my sister’s best friend was through the window of the cafe as I drove away. Head back, she was laughing, hand placed flirtatiously on the barista’s arm.

  Back home, I puzzled over the new information. If Katie was right, Sienna had been involved with someone in Twycombe. Was it even relevant? Sienna was hardly a nun; she had a steady stream of boyfriends, each as meaningless to her as the last. Had something more happened here – had she been serious with some guy? Who? And did her death have anything to do with him? Why hadn’t she told me about the relationship – God knew she loved to tell me juicy details, dangle in front of me her desirability and conquests as a ‘Look at me, and then look at you, poor sis, all single’.

  It might have been something, or it might have been nothing. But for now, it was the only thing I had to go on. I was fast mastering surfing, and in doing so had a good understanding of what had attracted Sienna to the pastime – and even the crowd that came with it; it hadn’t escaped my notice that some of the surfer guys were pretty fine. But I was no closer to an understanding of how she had let the sea claim her. I thought about it often while riding a wave, and especially when I lost my balance and entered the water, and still it felt wrong to me. It seemed, then, that the next step would be to find this bloke she’d been seeing. And for that, I needed an in with the surfing crowd.

  I pondered the problem for days; even mentioned to Luke it might be fun to join them out there, but that idea was met with such an appalled look I didn’t have the guts to push any further. Then, late one Monday night, Cara inadvertently became my saviour with a text:

  P.A.R.T.Y.! This Friday night, Surfer Si’s place. Say you’ll come?

  My first thought was, Hell no. Party? That was Sienna’s scene, not mine. But I quickly realised this was the opportunity I needed – Si, I knew, was a family friend of Cara’s latest squeeze (‘Lovely Kyle’) and one of the surfer crowd. Si was the only one who lived in Twycombe; hence his house – right on the beach, so Cara had told me – was the gang’s designated party pad. It was there that Sienna had spent her last evening, and it was there, I decided firmly, I would spend this Friday night. I texted back:

  Sounds good, count me in.

  Then I had a moment’s panic as I mentally surveyed the contents of my wardrobe. What to wear to a house party full of surfer types?

  Dress code? I texted.

  Sexy, was the quick reply.

  Well, that ruled out every outfit I had, I thought. Cara was effortlessly sexy; would look amazing in a bin liner. I was more of a jeans and casual top type – would that cut it? Suddenly, I was all sweaty at the thought of this party, and my fingers hovered over the keys of the phone, ready to type, Oops, forgot I’ve got plans that night, but she beat me to it.

  I’ll come round before and help you get ready. Little tipple, music up loud, do your hair…

  I could just picture Cara’s eyes sparkling as she contemplated the makeover she’d been coaxing me towards these past weeks. Oh hell. But there was nothing for it.

  Great, you know where to find me, I texted. See you then.

  12: LOBSTERS, EH?

  After Tuesday’s lesson, Luke announced he had to work both the day and evening shifts at the pub on Friday, so couldn’t make our lesson then. But to make up he had the whole day off work on Thursday, and he offered to take me out for lunch. Was it my imagination, or were his perpetually flushed cheeks a shade darker as he spoke?

  The impromptu speech took me aback – while I enjoyed the time I spent with Luke, we’d never strayed beyond the daily beach meetups, and I wasn’t sure what to make of this invitation.

  As if reading my mind, he added, ‘Just, you know, as friends. I just thought you’re stuck here most of the time with walking Chester, and you’ve done so well with lessons, a day off couldn’t hurt. And you could swap your days with Bert.’

  I could feel my own cheeks colouring to match his own; what a pair. Keen to put him out of his misery and draw a line under this awkward moment, I said quickly, ‘Great, yeah, that’d be good.’

  Thursday dawned glorious with a promise from the BBC weatherman that it would be the hottest day of the year so far. I dithered for much too long in front of my wardrobe wondering what to wear, which was entirely pointless as I eventually settled for the old-reliable vest-top-and-jeans combo. I deliberated over footwear; usually I wore tatty trainers, but thinking of the heat, I opted for sandals instead. I’d got into the habit of tying my long hair back for walks with Chester and surfing lessons, but today I decided to leave it swinging free down my back. After a moment’s thought, I added a touch of mascara to my lashes; wouldn’t hurt to look my best.

  Surveying my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I realised I looked a different girl to the one who’d arrived here weeks before. My skin was tanned, my hair was lighter, and although the dark shadows under my eyes were still there, hidden beneath a layer of concealer, there was a spark in my eyes that had been missing for a long while. There was something else too, a crawling of butterflies in my stomach at the thought of a day alone with Luke, and I decided I rather liked it.

  Ten o’clock on the dot, as agreed, I heard the rumble of Luke’s van in the lane and I hurried downstairs, grabbed my bag from the bottom banister and flung open the front door. He was getting out of the van as I emerged, and I almost ground to a halt at the sight of him: plain white t-shirt, rumpled beige shorts, white-ish trainers. I was so used to seeing him in black neoprene, I realised. He looked good.

  ‘Morning! You all set?’ He smiled easily at me.

  I took in the state of the van – caked in mud. I knew yesterday he’d helped clear a whole heap of junk from an old house and taken it to the local dump; I could just imagine the smell and the creepy crawlies that remained.

  ‘How about I drive?’ I offered.

  ‘You sure?’ He looked a little concerned. Perhaps he was thinking of the total lack of coordination I’d demonstrated to him in our early surf lessons. Many times.

  ‘Yep,’ I said cheerily as I rummaged in my bag for the car keys. ‘I love driving.’

  Ten minutes later I was doing my best not to laugh at the sight of tall, well-built Luke folded into the passenger seat of the old Mini, his knees not far off his chin. Instead I tried to concentrate on his directions as we weaved through lanes I’d never encountered before. I’d tuned the radio to the local station and Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ blasted from the tinny speakers. It just about drowned out the occasional moan from Luke as he whacked his head on the roof.

  ‘Nice car,’ he commented.

  ‘Thanks. My father wanted to buy me a Chelsea tractor, but I figured this was more me-sized. And more my budget.’

  ‘You bought it yourself?’

  He sounded surprised – he knew my family was loaded then. ‘Yes. Back at school I worked Saturdays tutoring kids in town. Saved up. She’s all mine.’

  ‘I’ve a soft spot for classic cars. Though this one’s a little…’

  ‘A little what?’

  ‘A little little.’

  ‘Not really. You can fit twenty-seven people in here.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Twenty-seven people.’

  ‘You’ve had twenty-seven people in this car? Where were you, Lilliput?’

  ‘Not my car, but the same model. It’s the Guinness world record for the number of people in a Classic Mini.’

&nbs
p; We hit a bump and Luke rubbed his head. ‘That is a weird world record to set.’

  ‘Not half as weird as the longest fingernails ever. Or the heaviest weight lifted by a tongue. Or the fastest time to enter a suitcase.’ I realised, abruptly, that Luke was staring at me, and added quickly, ‘There’s a website. I was bored the other night…’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll have to check it out.’

  Several twists and turns later we passed a sign welcoming us to Heybrook Bay and entered a tiny coastal village. On Luke’s instruction I weaved down the hillside and parked in the car park of a pub – the Eddystone Inn.

  ‘My grandparents lived here,’ explained Luke as we climbed out of the car and I took in the scene. It was beautiful. Totally isolated, with just a scattering of houses overlooking the sea. ‘C’mon, it’s a cove I’m taking you to.’

  He led the way along the coastal path – to our right, a steep, gorse-strewn hill; to our left, a sharp drop to massive rocks and white-tipped waves. We walked for several minutes, single file for the path was narrow and windy, before we emerged on a grassy bank overlooking a wide expanse of rocks and an outcrop jutting out just off shore, dark against the blue blue sky.

  ‘This way,’ said Luke. ‘There’s a route down.’

  He went ahead, and I clambered down behind him, over age-old rocks worn smooth by the endless ebb and flow of the tides, until finally my sandals were crunching on shells and pebbles. We were in the tiniest cove I’d ever seen.

  ‘I used to come here a lot as a kid,’ said Luke. ‘Other people come, of course – mainly villagers – but you often get it to yourself for hours at a time. It’s the most peaceful place I know.’

  I sat on a ledge cut into a big rock and breathed in the strong scent of seaweed that transported me straight back to childhood. ‘It’s heaven,’ I told him.

  He grinned, glad I saw the magic of the place too.