Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1)

by Megan Tayte

  I had to hear it from Jude. He had to tell me. What he was.

  And my hands, the light… what I was.

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  A whole summer of searching for the truth, of searching for peace, and now this.

  I could not live with this. I would not live with this.

  I wasn’t scared now, wasn’t bewildered, wasn’t disbelieving. I was mad. I was mad as hell.

  My sister, lying.

  My parents, lying.

  Luke, lying.

  Jude, lying.

  And me, in the dark. Always in the dark.

  I was done with being lied to. I was done with being gullible little Scarlett and meek little Scarlett and ask-nicely-and-wait-patiently-for-answers little Scarlett.

  Jude would come to me. I would make him come.

  Beside me, Luke sighed in his sleep, and I shifted to see his face. Thick black lashes swept his cheeks and his lips were half-parted. He looked so peaceful, and I thought how alarmed he’d be to awake and find me furious for no reason I could explain. Because I couldn’t tell him; he’d think me insane.

  Perhaps I was.

  I lay quiet and still in his arms, watching the darkness outside the window soften with the first light of the coming dawn, and slowly I let his warmth melt my anger. But I held tight to my determination.

  I would make Jude come to me. Today.

  35: DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

  Monday’s child is fair of face.

  On Monday I blew my nose furiously until it bled, then hung out in A&E.

  I was sent home with some tissues plugged up my nostrils.

  He didn’t come.

  *

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace.

  On Tuesday I ‘tripped over’ a rock on the headland and lay in the bushes.

  A dog walker spotted me, and I pretended to be sunbathing.

  He didn’t come.

  *

  Wednesday’s child is full of woe.

  On Wednesday I knelt on my grandparents’ grave and sniffled for an hour.

  The reverend made me a cup of tea.

  He didn’t come.

  *

  Thursday’s child has far to go.

  On Thursday I went into the city, alone, at night and wandered around.

  I was propositioned by a cheery tramp who looked like Santa.

  He didn’t come.

  *

  Friday’s child is loving and giving.

  On Friday I stood on a cliff, on the very edge of a cliff.

  Chester ripped the pocket off my jeans hauling me back.

  He didn’t come.

  *

  Saturday’s child works hard for a living.

  Come Saturday, there was no option left.

  I would have to push further. I would have to hit Jude where it hurt.

  And then he would come.

  36: SHOW TIME

  The evening of the All That Jazz party was clear and dry, with a breeze that hinted of a wind to come. I parked in Twycombe square, in the same space I’d used the day I nearly drowned, the day I met Luke, the day I met Jude. For a Saturday evening it was quiet in the village; the only people in sight were an elderly couple sitting on a bench, holding hands and looking out to sea.

  I pushed back the passenger seat, kicked off my trainers and concentrated on strapping myself into my shoes. My fingers were clumsy tonight, and I worked my way through every blue word in my vocabulary before I finally secured the last buckle.

  I flicked down the sun visor and checked my appearance. My hair was up in a French twist, with a few tendrils left to curl around my face. I’d experimented with eyeliner, along with several coats of mascara and some green eye-shadow, and the result was that my eyes stood out wide and bright in my face. Coupled with the crimson lipstick and nails, it was a much more dramatic look than usual. Cara had been pretty devastated by my insistence at getting ready alone tonight. I hoped I’d done a good enough job to bring a smile to her face.

  There was nothing graceful about my exit from the car, but then getting out of a Mini wearing an evening gown and a pair of six-inch heels is no mean feat. I straightened my dress, grabbed my clutch bag, locked up and set off across the square, doing my best to keep steady despite the fact that all my weight was balanced on the balls of my feet.

  The elderly couple looked up at me as I passed. He offered a friendly, ‘Evening,’ and she gasped and said, ‘Oh, what a beautiful dress.’ I thanked her, wished them both a good evening and walked on. Behind me, I heard the lady say, ‘Do you remember, Frank, when we were that age, and I’d put on a nice frock and we’d go dancing?’, and I heard him say, ‘I remember, Jessie, and still you take my breath away every time I look at you.’

  Once again, I heard the party before I saw it – but this time, instead of a thumping bass beat, a mellow saxophone guided my step. At the door, I was met by a smartly dressed maître d’ who took my invitation and ushered me through.

  The living room was as I remembered it, but this time decorum replaced disarray. Gone were the half-cut young people slouching on sofas and having a riot; the room was full of people standing and perching delicately on furniture, men and women of every age in eveningwear. The colours were stunning – amid the blacks and whites of the men’s attire were golds and silvers and whites and greens and purples and blues in every shade. But not red, I realised. I was the only one in red.

  I scanned the room for Luke and Cara and found them over by the open back doors, talking to Kyle and Geoff and some other surfers. I wobbled on my heels at the sight of Luke, wearing a simple black suit with a white shirt and a black tie. Down on the beach, larking about with me in the surf, with his cheeky grin and his dancing eyes, it was easy to think of him as a boy. Here, standing tall with a champagne flute in his hand and talking animatedly to Si, he looked like a man.

  I took a moment to compose myself, and then began weaving my way through the crowd, smiling at the odd hello.

  Luke looked across. Saw me coming. His eyes dropped to my feet and then travelled slowly up my body, taking in the flare of the floor-length skirt, the tightly fitted bodice, the plunging neckline.

  I swallowed and concentrated on not tripping over anyone.

  Finally, I made it to the doors.

  ‘Hi, everyone,’ I said.

  There were several ‘Hey, Scarletts’ from the people around.

  ‘You look uber-glam,’ said Si smoothly, leaning in to plant a kiss on my cheek. ‘And thank you for the very generous donation,’ he added in a low voice.

  The evening, I’d learned, was in aid of a charity supporting local causes, including among them the coastguard who had searched for Sienna. I’d posted Si a healthy cheque earlier that week, making a sizeable dent in the account my father had financed for me.

  I smiled at Si and winked.

  ‘It’s The Dress everyone. Look, The Dress! And you wore the Vogue shoes!’ Cara was saying happily.

  ‘When it comes to fashion, Cara, I do as I’m told.’

  She grinned at me. ‘And look at the result!’

  I turned to Luke. He was still staring at me.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. I kissed him lightly, but his lips retained the very slightest suggestion of red lipstick.

  The kiss seemed to break the spell and he pulled me in for a hug. ‘Scarlett Blake, you look… wow,’ he whispered in my ear.

  I grinned. ‘Not too shabby yourself, Cavendish.’

  *

  If ever an evening was going to cure me of my loathing for formal events, this was it. The mood was upbeat, the atmosphere was relaxed, and the people were friendly and not remotely stuck-up. Only a few people from the party crowd at Drake’s Island were here; the rest were local supporters of the charity and friends of Si’s parents down from London.

  The sit-down dinner was held in a large white marquee entirely encompassing the back lawn. The side nearest the house was left open, to allow free fl
ow between the house, the decking and the marquee, but the east, west and south sides were covered in thick, white canvas, blocking out all view of the beach beyond. The design was deliberate, to draw the eye up, for the entire roof of the construction was transparent. With so much fading blue sky on view, it was like we were partying on a cloud.

  Luke and I were seated with Cara and Kyle, Geoff and Lucy, and Big Ben and his date, a confident, beautiful Amazonian girl who introduced herself, somewhat incongruously, as Mouse. Over the next couple of hours we laughed and chatted our way through five courses and two bottles of champagne – though I stuck to orange juice and, after their first glasses, so did Luke and Cara.

  After dinner, the tables were pushed back to create a dance floor, and a five-piece jazz band materialised in one corner and struck up a medley of classic tunes. At first we all sat and watched older couples get up and start waltzing, but then the beat picked up and younger people began joining in.

  Cara and Kyle were the first to stand up from our table – she undeterred by the impracticality of moving in her tight, trumpet-skirted gown; he undeterred by any hint of her struggling to walk and sweeping her easily onto the dance floor. Geoff was up next, requesting a dance of Lucy in a way that suggested he was something of a closet Regency romance aficionado. Big Ben took a little persuading, but it soon became apparent that Mouse was not a girl who would take no for an answer.

  Then it was just me and Luke at the table.

  ‘Dance with me?’ asked Luke.

  Reluctantly, I shook my head. ‘Sorry, I have this headache.’

  He looked concerned. ‘Shall I ask Si to find you some painkillers?’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I already took some. Just let me sit quietly. You go up and dance, though.’

  ‘Voluntarily? Alone? No way! I’m happy to sit here with you.’

  He entwined his fingers with mine.

  There was so much I wanted to say to him, but I couldn’t. So I sat silently, watching the dancers.

  After a time, as the darkness thickened outside and stars became visible through the roof, the songs gradually became slower and softer, and a soloist came out – a slight black lady dressed in a shimmering silver gown. She looked diminutive, demure almost, but when she began singing her tone was rich and powerful, so that shivers went down my back and everyone who wasn’t dancing turned to watch her. She began with ‘Feeling Good’, the song made famous by Nina Simone, and then moved on to a Cole Porter medley before slipping into Gershwin. Her rendition of ‘Summertime’ transported me right back to childhood; it was the lullaby my grandmother had sung to Sienna and me.

  When the opening chords to the next song sounded, I was already lost in emotion, and when Luke leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘Dance with me, Scarlett, please,’ there was nothing I could do but let him lead me onto the dance floor and fold me in his arms and sway me gently around. It wasn’t until the chorus that I recognised the song. The Gershwin brothers’ ‘Someone to Watch Over Me’. The meaning of the words made me squeeze my eyes shut tight in pain. This should have been our song now, our music – but it was not Luke I needed to watch over me this night; it was another boy.

  At the last bar of music I broke away. ‘I’m sorry, Luke. My head – it’s killing me. I need to leave.’

  He put an arm around me at once. ‘Okay, I’ll take you.’

  I shrugged his arm off. ‘No, no, don’t cut the evening short. I’ll be fine. I drove down – my car’s right outside. I can make my own way back. You stay here and see Cara home. I’ll catch you tomorrow, okay? We can spend the day together then.’

  He opened his mouth to protest, but already I was kissing him and then backing away.

  ‘I’ll text you later,’ I called. Then I turned on my heel and threaded my way through the people into the house.

  Si was in the kitchen, and I made my excuses – assuring him I was fine; nothing a good sleep wouldn’t remedy – and thanked him for a great evening. Then I walked through the living room and out of the house. On the road outside I stopped to unstrap the shoes. The hard concrete was a relief instantly. I walked quickly down the pavement, heedless of sharp stones digging into me, until I reached the promenade. I looked all about. Twycombe was deserted.

  As I stepped out onto the sand of the beach, the clock of St Mary’s chimed a quarter to midnight. In fifteen minutes, I would turn eighteen. From that moment on, I would be an adult – a woman – free to make my own choices. I was damned if I was going to carry on being powerless and in the dark.

  Halfway to the water I stopped. I scanned the beach to the front, to each side. Deserted.

  I closed my eyes and thought of my sister. I could almost hear her laugh in my ear, loud and raucous. A little deliberate drama, Scarlett? she’d have said. Who’d’ve thought you had it in you?

  ‘Head up, shoulders back, chest out, take no prisoners,’ I muttered.

  Show time.

  I dropped my shoes and bag to the sand.

  I pulled the pins from my hair and shook it free.

  I hitched up my dress.

  I began walking again, towards the sea.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickled. Someone was watching. Jude.

  I scanned the beach to the front, to each side. Deserted.

  I walked on.

  The wind had picked up and it whipped my hair about.

  I walked on.

  The crashing waves were louder now.

  I walked on.

  Still I felt eyes on me. I scanned the beach to the front, to each side. Deserted.

  I had hoped it wouldn’t come to this. I had hoped I’d done enough to replay history; to frighten him; to draw him out. But clearly he thought I was too sensible to follow my sister’s path. I had to prove him wrong.

  I walked on.

  My heart was pounding, my breath was tearing in my chest, and now I got it – why Sienna had started running. To outrun the screaming in the mind. To make sure there was no turning back.

  I broke into a jog, then a run. Then I was sprinting as fast as I could into the ocean. The cold was a shock against my feet, my legs, but I waded onwards, until I was knee-high in the inky black water.

  Then I stopped.

  Where is he?

  This was it; in all my imaginings, this was as far as I went.

  Where is he?

  I couldn’t swim out. I couldn’t go as far as Sienna. There was no storm tonight, but it was dark and it was cold and the undertow was strong and some of the waves were high enough that I had to jump as they flowed past me.

  Where is he?

  A big wave came. Too big for my liking. I jumped it, but some of it caught me. My hand still clutched the skirt of my dress, Cara’s dress, keeping it up, out of the water. But it was wet now. That was wrong. The dress mustn’t get wet. Dresses did not belong in the ocean. Girls in dresses did not belong in the ocean. A vision of my sister came to mind – floating in these black waters in a dress, in a dress. Floating. Dying. Dead.

  What was I doing?

  My sister died doing this. My sister died. The girl in the dress was Sienna. She wasn’t me.

  I turned my back on the ocean then, on my desperation, on my sister. I turned toward the shore. And there he was – Jude – coming for me finally, a figure in black running across the beach, shouting my name. A stab of shame sliced through me at the sight; shame that I had put on this terrible performance to draw him out. I would walk out, and I would apologise, and I would –

  A wave hit me from behind. A big wave. I lost my footing.

  I went under.

  37 : NEVER LET ME GO

  I should have just stood up. I wasn’t in the deep; I was near the shore. I should have stood up. But I was moving, spinning, at bewildering speed, and all was blackness – burning, biting, bruising blackness.

  I fought. I kicked. I twisted.

  My head broke the surface.

  I coughed. I blinked.

  The lights of Twycombe
came into focus, bright in the dark. Receding.

  I was moving. I was moving away.

  My dress was heavy and tangled around my legs, tugging me down.

  No. No!

  I kicked furiously against the current, striking out for shore. I kicked. I kicked. Still, the lights were smaller, dimmer.

  Waves were everywhere, swirling, surging, seething – a raging melange of foam and salt and inky water biting at me, pulling at me, thrusting upon me a solitary invitation:

  Death.

  I fought. For an eternity, I fought. Until the last wave crashed onto me and I inhaled a lungful of water. And I sank…

  … for all of a second before something grabbed the back of my dress and hauled me upward. Coughing and spluttering, I emerged from the black. I made out words:

  ‘… rip current… not against it… parallel with the beach… swim… swim…’

  The current was pulling me away; the hand gripping my dress was pulling me to the side.

  I kicked. I kicked. I kicked.

  I kicked.

  The sea let go of me. The boy beside me did not.

  ‘Scarlett… it’s okay, I’ve got you. We’re clear. It’s okay. Scarlett?’

  I stared at him. The figure on the beach. The figure running for the water. For me.

  Not Jude.

  Not Jude at all.

  Luke. His hair was matted to his head; his face was twisted with emotion. Fear. Anger. Pain.

  Oh God, oh no – he was never meant to see this.

  The momentum of the waves threw him into me. I looked around. We were some way into the cove, away from the current, near the west cliff.

  ‘Come on,’ Luke ordered. ‘Back to shore.’

  Mutely, I nodded.

  Keeping hold of me with one hand, he began kicking and slicing through the water with his free arm. But it was hard to swim while holding on, and he let go.

  ‘Swim!’ he barked.

  I struck out for shore, kicking hard though my body ached horribly with the effort. He swam beside me, close enough to bump into me often. The waves were buffeting us back to safety; we would be back in the shallows in a minute, no more.