Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  My head was like a pressure cooker, the pain building by the second. Something wet trickled from my nose.

  Jude swore vehemently, which seemed odd, and said, ‘Not you too!’ which seemed odder still, but it was too much effort to open my eyes.

  Then his breath was on my face, and his whisper ‘Hush now. Just lie still’ was in my ear, and I felt hands on me, stroking my head, and I was drifting away from the pain to someplace warm, someplace calm, someplace safe.

  *

  The smell of coffee coaxed me awake. I peeled back an eyelid to find Luke sitting on the chair beside the bed, cradling a steaming polystyrene cup in one hand and his head in the other. He was staring down at the floor.

  ‘Luke?’

  His head snapped up. He looked done in.

  ‘Hey. How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said automatically.

  ‘No, really.’

  I thought about it. The fog of sleep was fast receding, and I realised with a jolt that it was no lie – no nausea, no dizziness, no headache. I felt a little tired, perhaps, but other than that, fine.

  I sat up. ‘Really, I feel much better.’

  He looked sceptical, but he managed a smile. ‘Good. Coffee?’ He gestured to the table beside the bed on which a second cup was sitting alongside a stack of assorted chocolate bars.

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ he said as he passed it over. ‘It’s foul.’

  I took a sip. It tasted okay to me. Coffee was coffee in my book.

  ‘So where’s Jude?’ I asked.

  ‘Jude?’

  ‘He was here, before – after you left me with the nurse.’

  Luke stood up so fast he knocked a Mars bar off the table. ‘What was he doing here?’

  I shrugged. ‘Visiting a friend, he said.’

  ‘And he just happened to spot you in your cubicle.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Through a closed curtain.’

  ‘I don’t know – the nurse must’ve left it open.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Luke’s demeanour was beginning to bother me. What was his problem? I felt the need to defend Jude, who’d done nothing but check whether I was okay, and… and what? What had happened at the end? I’d felt dreadful, and Jude had been right there, over me, touching me. Comforting me, I guess, though the intimacy of the gesture made me squirm.

  Luke was a dog with a bone: ‘Scarlett, what did Jude say to you?’

  ‘What does it matter what he said or did?’

  ‘Did? What did he –’

  Footsteps cut Luke off. A doctor appeared in the cubicle – the rotund white-haired sort with a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his eye. Following a booming, ‘Good evening, young lady. I’m Dr Morris. I hear you’ve taken a tumble,’ he took my pulse, looked in my eyes and felt my neck and head. Then he leaned against the side of the bed and commenced his interrogation:

  ‘Dizziness?’

  ‘Nausea?’

  ‘Visual disturbance?’

  ‘Numbness or tingling in extremities?’

  ‘Pain in your neck?’

  ‘Pain in your brow bone?’

  ‘Pain at the back of your head?’

  ‘Pain here? Here? Here?’

  I answered no to each question. ‘Really, I feel okay now.’

  The doctor turned to Luke, who had been sitting quietly on his chair at the other side of the bed. ‘But she lost consciousness, yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I found her in the road.’

  ‘And she was unresponsive?’

  ‘She wouldn’t wake up.’

  ‘How long before she came round?’

  ‘I don’t know. A couple of minutes at least.’

  I looked at Luke. Poor guy, no wonder he looked so wrung out. It couldn’t have been pleasant driving up a country lane to find an abandoned car and a girl collapsed in a puddle of blood on the ground and a dead deer. No, wait – he said the deer had gone.

  ‘Scarlett?’

  The doctor was talking to me, I realised.

  ‘Sorry, what?’

  ‘Are you having trouble focusing on the conversation?’

  I flushed. ‘Um, no, I was just thinking about something…’

  ‘I see.’ He took a moment to look through my chart, and said, ‘West Cliff, Twycombe.’ Then, ‘Blake.’ He looked up and studied me, and then asked, ‘Any relation to Sienna?’

  I caught my breath. ‘Yes. Sister. Why?’

  The doctor was quiet for a moment; he seemed unsure what to say next. He looked so serious…

  The penny dropped. He must have been here when Sienna was brought in that night – my parents had told me that the emergency services had worked long and hard to save her, as had the doctors at A&E. Perhaps he had tried to revive her. Perhaps he too was haunted by her death.

  ‘You treated Sienna?’ I said slowly.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Th-thank you. For trying.’

  Dr Morris frowned deeply. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do.’

  I nodded and picked at the blanket over my legs. Beside me, Luke stood up and came close and slipped his hand into mine.

  ‘She passed away then, I take it?’ said Dr Morris gently.

  That seemed an odd question. I met his eyes – kind and full of compassion. ‘Well, yes…’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss. She was a lovely girl. So tragic.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You saw her? The night she died? April the tenth?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No, it was Easter when I saw her here in A&E.’

  ‘March?’ What the hell was going on?

  ‘Yes, the night she found out…’

  Luke jerked beside me, but I squeezed his hand tight. I didn’t look at him, didn’t voice my shock. Inside I was screaming, Found out what!? But I merely nodded in what I hoped was an understanding manner that invited him to go on.

  ‘Such a terrible thing to tell a young girl,’ Dr Morris continued. ‘Eighteen; her whole life ahead of her. But she took it so well – assured me she would be okay. She said her family would rally round. And she mentioned a sister she was close to.’

  The doctor gave me a sympathetic smile. I gripped Luke’s hand grimly, my only anchor to reality.

  ‘I want you to know that I have thought of your sister often since that night,’ said Dr Morris. ‘She was so dignified and calm in the face of her diagnosis. Her strength and faith were inspirational. As a doctor, the worst part of my job is relaying bad news, and she saw how it pained me. Your sister; well, you should be very proud of her. I will never forget her kindness to me as I stumbled through the words, or her response…’

  Dr Morris closed his eyes and swallowed. I waited, frozen, for him to finish. Finally, he opened his eyes, leaned forward and patted the hand that I’d fisted on the blanket.

  ‘I think, I hope, that to know her reaction may provide some comfort now. Scarlett, your sister looked me in the eye, gave me a beautiful smile and said, “Don’t be sad. Death is only the beginning. And dying, after all, will be an awfully big adventure.”’

  PART 2: FRAGMENTARY BLUE

  21: SUNRISE

  The sunrise above the South Hams was glorious, every hue of pink and orange and yellow imaginable daubed across the sky. Even once I reached the motorway and the sun was above the treetops, my eye was drawn heavenward to a warming sky – not a cloud in sight, just cavernous blue stretching behind and beyond.

  I drove slowly, mindfully, after the previous day’s drama. Still, I felt fine in body. No aches, no dizziness and – to my surprise – only a little bruising and a thin cut following the line of my eyebrow. I had woken early while it was still dark with the idea fizzing in my veins that I would make this trip, and given that I felt well, not even tired for once, and the Mini looked to be unscathed by the accident, I’d decided there was no reason to avoid the long drive.

  Well, there was
one: Luke, who would not be impressed to discover I was on the road.

  It had become clear last night that my accident had rocked him, and that he would be happiest to see me safely tucked up in a hospital bed for a good while where, as he put it, the most damage I could do was poking myself in the eye with a pillow. He’d hit the roof when I refused the CT scan Dr Morris offered (as a precaution; I checked out just fine), but there was no way I was prolonging our time in the hospital. Although he didn’t like the sound of my accident, Dr Morris could find no medical reason to keep me in overnight, and he discharged me. To say that Luke was concerned at the thought of me returning home to spend the night and the following days alone would be an understatement. He argued with Dr Morris, he argued with the nurse, he argued with me – but I was adamant: I wanted to go home. Finally, he gave in, albeit grudgingly.

  From the A&E department out to his van, Luke kept his arm firmly around me, as if at any moment he expected me to collapse. Then, from the car park to Twycombe, he kept up a steady stream of conversation and looked at me anxiously if I didn’t answer a question promptly. The result was a rather exhausting, tense journey.

  When we reached my car, abandoned in the lane running up to the cottage, Luke told me to sit tight in the van. He swapped vehicles and roared off up the lane, leaving me staring at a dark shadow where the Mini had been parked. Blood – my own and the deer’s. But where was the deer?

  Luke appeared within a couple of minutes, jogging briskly down the lane, and then he was back in the van and driving up to the house. He parked as close to the front door as possible and raced around to help me out; I think he’d quite happily have carried me, given half the chance, but I gently pushed his hands away and told him I could manage.

  Inside, I was in clean clothes and settled on the sofa in a matter of moments but still Luke fussed about like a mother hen. Blanket? Extra cushions? Television on? A hot drink? I had to smile when, ten minutes later, I found myself curled up with a chicken soup-in-a-cup and the opening scene of Sleepless in Seattle rolling on the screen – Mother’s bizarre provisions pack was finally coming in handy, it seemed.

  Luke insisted on staying, though I had a feeling that on the cheesy old movie score something like Terminator or Speed may have been more up his street. We sat side by side on the sofa, not quite touching but almost. When we talked it was about the film – how frustrating the story was; Luke did not bring up the subject of Sienna, and I was grateful for that.

  It was knocking on eleven o’clock by the time I ushered him out of the door. He was determined to stay – just in case I needed him, he said; he’d sleep on the sofa. But I was desperate to be alone, and in the end, when he wouldn’t back down, I had to be blunt:

  ‘I need some space, Luke. Some time to myself.’

  He flinched a little, but told me he understood.

  There was an awkward moment as we said goodnight. Earlier, he’d had his arm around me, holding me tight against him, he’d held my hand, his thumb stroking mine, and it had felt easy and natural. But now that the drama had passed, we were back to being a little shy, a little unsure. Eventually, he leaned in and planted the lightest of kisses on the smooth skin above my cut. Then, finally, he left me.

  Now, this morning, I knew he’d be calling to check on me. I wouldn’t lie to him, I decided. No doubt if I did, he’d go to the cottage and find me out. I’d just have to hope he understood my need to travel today.

  *

  It was just gone ten o’clock when I arrived. I was surprised to find the car park for St Augustine’s half full, and then the realisation dawned that it was Sunday and of course the morning service would commence shortly. It was unfortunate timing; I had hoped for peace and isolation here.

  I drove out of the car park, took a right into a quiet residential cul-de-sac and parked at the far end beneath a shady tree. Luke had called twenty minutes before and, not having hands-free, I’d let it ring out. I listened to his message – had I slept well? did I feel okay? should he pop over? – but when I called him back I got his voicemail. I left a quick message explaining where I was and that I was fine and promising to call him later. Then I got out of the car, locked it and walked purposefully down the road.

  A narrow alleyway between two houses led to the side entrance to St Augustine’s, and it was this route I took now. With each step the strains of organ music became louder – the hymn was unmistakable: ‘Jerusalem’. I found myself mouthing the words as I walked; they were as familiar to me as any nursery rhyme. As a child, Father had drilled into us an appreciation for English poets, and William Blake was his favourite. He loved to tell people that we were descended from Blake, though whether that was true I could never tell.

  St Augustine’s came into view – an imposing grey-stone church with a spire that could be seen for miles around. Unlike many old churches in England, this one was in immaculate condition, from the landscaped grounds to the shiny new roof, for this was a church attended by the affluent Hampshire set. People were milling about at the front entrance, but I turned away and walked quickly along the winding path that led to the rear of the church.

  The graveyard was large and climbed up a long, gentle hill. The Blake family plot was at the top, overlooking the village and the surrounding countryside. There, nestled in the heart of the grand, greyed tombs and monuments, between Grandmother Anne Blake and Great-Uncle Henry Blake, was a white marble monolith. The inscription was simple:

  Sienna Elle Blake

  What seems to us a sunset

  Is a sunrise in another land.

  To the side of the burial plot was a wooden bench, donated to the graveyard years ago by my parents and bearing a plaque commemorating my grandfather, Walter Blake, and inscribed with a John Donne quotation:

  One short sleep past, we wake eternally

  And death shall be no more.

  I sat down and drew up my knees and rested my chin on them. Then, staring at my sister’s grave, I let the grief I had been holding back for these past hours have voice at last.

  ‘Sienna,’ I whispered as regret blurred my vision and my chest clenched tight.

  My brave, brave sister. All these months I had been so hurt and angry – furious with her for a decision I perceived to be selfish and cruel and thoughtless of those who loved her, those who were left behind. But it was me who had been selfish and cruel: I had been focused on my pain, my loss, and had given little thought to the pain she had been in.

  Now, with Dr Morris’s inadvertent telling of the truth, the earth had shifted on its axis. She had been dying. I didn’t know what of; I could hardly press Dr Morris for details – but certainly at Easter she had been delivered a death sentence. I remembered one of her cryptic emails now:

  The end is coming; no escape.

  In typical Sienna style, she had taken that in her stride and faced death head on. There would be no long, slow crawl towards death for my sister. No quietly wasting away. No losing control of herself and her life. She would not allow her family to watch her go; she would not put us through the pain of the long goodbye. I knew well the words she’d offered Dr Morris, in comfort: “Dying, after all, will be an awfully big adventure.” As a child, we had loved Peter Pan; had begged our nanny to read it at bedtime. Sienna was Peter – she would never grow up if growing up meant death could claim her. And so, one night, she walked into the sea and simply surfed into oblivion.

  For the first time since that day I had been summoned to the headteacher’s office, I understood. The relief was overwhelming. The weight that had been pressing in on me for all these months, haunting me, was gone, leaving only aching sadness that my sister was gone.

  Hunched over, I cried until I was empty, purged. Then, when it was finally quiet inside, I sat back, letting the sun dry the last of the tears. I thought of Sienna, lying beneath the grass at my feet, and then I thought of her watching me from above. I looked up. I smiled.

  My purpose in coming here was fulfilled. But the graveyard w
as empty and the air was sweet with the scent of freshly mown grass and the sun beating down was warm and I found I didn’t want to leave this place where I had finally found peace. I lay down on the bench.

  Now the catharsis of tears had left me able to think beyond Sienna, there was only one thought plaguing me: where was the deer? It had died; I had been sure of that. But when I thought back to the events of yesterday afternoon, how sure could I be of anything? I’d hit my head hard enough to give me visual disturbances, after all – all that dizziness and blurring and altered light perception.

  The sky above was pulling me in – it was such a vivid, beautiful shade of blue. Like Luke’s eyes, I thought dreamily; or Sienna’s chunk of chalcanthite on my bedside table; or the strange bluish glow I thought I’d seen yesterday when the deer…

  I sat up.

  I looked at St Augustine’s. How many times in childhood had I sat in its pews and listened to sermons about miracles of God?

  I looked at my hands. What was it my grandfather had said in that weird dream I’d concocted? Will you be God’s servant?

  Closing my eyes, I tried to put myself back in the lane yesterday afternoon; to recall how I’d felt as I’d touched the deer. I remembered willing it to be calm and to feel no pain, then my heart pounding and cold creeping up me. I tried it now – sending the same push of energy out. I opened my eyes. Same old hands. Nothing miraculous at all.

  ‘And there you have it,’ I told myself. ‘Proof indeed that you’re a sandwich short of a picnic.’

  The peal of a church bell made me jump, and soon the bell-ringers were in full flow. The sound was joyous, celebratory, and all at once any thought of some magical healing seemed ridiculous. I had simply overestimated the extent of the deer’s injuries, that was all. It had got up and walked off. End of mystery, I told myself firmly – it was time to move on.

  The bells were signalling that the service was over; people would be leaving now. I decided to wait them out before returning to my car. But the appearance of two figures around the back of the church put paid to that idea. They were walking along the path that led to the top of the graveyard, their heads bowed.