The castle’s high on a hill, above a deep gorge, dark and looming, lit up from below with orange lights that make it look imposing and eerie in equal measure. It’s hard not to be impressed.
“Ooh!” Lizzie squeals, looking to the left instead, which seems to be Edinburgh’s main shopping street. “Topshop! And H&M! And Accessorize! They have them all here, too!”
“Of course they have the same shops here, Lizzie,” I say, rolling my eyes. “We’re still in the UK.”
“Glad to hear you have your priorities right, Lizzie,” Miss Carter says rather sarcastically. “Forget the centuries of history at Edinburgh Castle! Robert the Bruce; Mary, Queen of Scots, giving birth to James the First; Oliver Cromwell invading Scotland and capturing the castle … But no, just focus on Edinburgh’s shopping opportunities, why don’t you?”
The coach turns to the left, dipping down an incline. Edinburgh is really striking; all the buildings are high and made of gray stone, and uplit against the black night sky. It isn’t cozy or welcoming; it’s too stark for that. But it’s definitely stunning: wide streets, dark churches, imposing gray buildings.
And apart from Edinburgh’s beauty, I feel a huge sense of relief at simply being somewhere new. Wakefield Hall has so many confused memories for me now; every place that Jase and I kissed, everywhere that was special to me, is overlaid now with fear and sadness.
Because I’m scared that Jase and I will never be together like that again.
Taylor and I stare out the window as the coach takes a turn at a large, impressive roundabout, and lumbers down a hill. Shuttered shops loom close to us, tall apartment windows rising high above them, golden light filtering from behind closed curtains relieving the starkness of the city’s architecture.
“I had no idea Edinburgh was so steep,” Taylor says as we grab the seat backs in front of us, bracing against the incline. “It’s like San Francisco.”
Eventually the hill levels off and we’re driving along a road with stone walls on either side, turning into a short stretch of grassy parkland. Another coach passes us, coming in the other direction, flashing its lights briefly in acknowledgment as we veer slightly onto the grass verge to make room for it. And then we’re pulling up outside yet another imposing gray stone building.
“This is Fetters School,” Miss Carter announces as the doors open. “We’ll be staying here for the half-term week. It’s a boys’ school,” she adds, “so you may not find all the creature comforts you’re used to.”
There’s a palpable stir of excitement at this news—boys!—which Aunt Gwen promptly crushes. Her favorite hobby is killing people’s dreams.
“Of course, as it is half-term, the boys are off on holiday,” she informs us with a note of triumph in her voice. “Fetters is empty apart from us and a skeleton staff.”
“I think she likes giving us bad news,” Lizzie says sadly to Susan as we clamber down from the coach and drag out our cases. I feel a sudden wash of exhaustion flooding over me; it’s been a long day. We were up before seven this morning to give us time to get into central London and catch the train from King’s Cross. I can’t wait to pull my clothes off and fall into bed.
But the last surprise of today is still to come. As we bump our cases up the entrance stairs and through the main doors of the school building, the girls in front of us stop dead, causing a ripple effect; I bump into Lizzie, in front of me, who in turn bumps into Susan.
“What’s going on?” Taylor says from behind me as her suitcase knocks painfully into my legs.
“I dunno,” I say, wincing. “But ow.”
“Girls! Please!” Aunt Gwen calls impatiently, and we all tumble forward into the hall, stumbling on each other’s suitcases.
You can tell Fetters was built as a school, not the stately home that Wakefield Hall was before my grandmother bowed to financial reality and turned it into an upmarket girls’ penitentiary. Fetters’s entrance hall is institutional-looking, painted pale blue, with noticeboards hung between each set of paneling, and lit with violently bright fluorescent strip bulbs that illuminate the hall so brightly there’s no place to hide. Immediately, I spot the cluster of girls standing at the back, gathered around a reception desk.
That’s what caused the Wakefield Hall girls to stop in their tracks. Plum, who’s leading the way, is staring over her Vuitton suitcases at them, her body tense. Because it’s the St. Tabby’s contingent—Nadia, Sophia, Alison, Luce, and the rest of the smart set. They’re staring at us with the same dismayed and appalled expression that I imagine our own faces are wearing.
“You’re staying here too?” Plum blurts out angrily.
“Jane! Clemency!” Ms. Burton-Race calls from the desk, where she’s flipping through pages on a clipboard. “Fast work, eh? We’re on Corridor E, and you and your girls are on Corridor B. Just below us. Nice and cozy.”
She beams at Miss Carter and Jane.
“I’m so glad we decided to join forces!” she says cheerfully. “It’s going to be lots of fun all going round Edinburgh together! And so much better for the environment—we can share one coach, instead of using two!”
Plum’s glaring at Nadia. Alison and Luce are staring scornfully at me. I try to give them an apologetic look in return, but they peg their chins high in disdain and turn away as soon as my eyes meet theirs.
“Oh boy,” Taylor mutters behind me.
I couldn’t have said it better myself. “Lots of fun” is not exactly how I would have summed up the coming half-term week.
“Uh, Scarlett?” Taylor says, and if it were anyone but her asking, I’d call her tone distinctly nervous. Taylor doesn’t do nervous. But still …
I turn my head, which feels as heavy as a ten-pound weight (actually, on reflection, it is a ten-pound weight, I suppose) and stare at her, my eyes glazed with exhaustion. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, dressed in the red pajamas with white Scottie dogs on them that she bought from Victoria’s Secret in America. Taylor has lots of pajamas from Victoria’s Secret, and I crave them all.
“Scarlett?” she says again, bending over to get a good look at my face, because it’s tilted to one side on the pillow.
I’m completely drained. Turning my head used up the last surge of energy I had.
“I can’t believe this,” I say in a small, dull, tinny voice, like a suicidal robot. “It’s like my entire past came back to haunt me, all in one day.”
Taylor nods.
“Callum, plus Alison and Luce,” she says soberly.
“Yeah. I feel so bad about them. Alison and Luce, I mean.”
“Tomorrow you need to talk to them,” Taylor advises.
“I sort of feel I should go and find them right now,” I say. “They’ll be sharing a room. But I can’t move.” I try to wiggle my toes, and can’t even manage that.
“When we get some free time, you can find them and go off by yourselves,” Taylor says, “and basically apologize your ass off.”
“Yep,” I agree.
“I mean, you were completely in the wrong. You just have to fall on your sword and hope enough time’s passed now that they’ll forgive you.”
“Yeah,” I say more faintly.
“Of course, when people feel totally betrayed by their friends,” Taylor continues, warming to her theme, “that’s really hard to do. Forgive them, I mean. Because the trust is gone. They’ll say lots of nasty things to you and you’ll have to sit there and agree with everything.”
“Not helping now,” I mutter, but she’s on a roll.
“You’ll have to pretty much crawl on your hands and knees over broken glass,” she says. “And even then, there’s no guarantee—”
“Stop!” I snarl. “Not helping!”
I manage to drag myself up to sitting, and then catch the glint in Taylor’s eyes.
“You did that deliberately,” I accuse her.
She grins.
“You have to wash and get into your pj’s,” she says. “You were just lying ther
e like a corpse in your stinky clothes. I had to do something.”
“You could just have told me I ponged,” I say, sliding off the bed and walking over to the far corner of the room.
The rooms here at Fetters are pretty basic compared to what the Wakefield Hall girls get. Twin beds with mattresses that feel like they’re stuffed with horsehair; two rickety old cupboards that smell, frankly, of trainers and jockstraps; and just one desk, over which I’m sure the two boys who share this room fight incessantly.
I pull off my hoodie, T-shirt, and bra and start running the water in the sink; I’m too tired and beaten down to feel like having a shower. When you’re depressed, being completely naked under running water can be too much, too raw to cope with. Or maybe that’s just me.
“It’s weird that they have sinks in all the rooms,” I say as I give myself a quick wipe-down with a soapy washcloth.
“Probably for the boys to wee in,” Taylor says cynically. “Better that than out the window.”
“Ugh!” I look down at the sink, scanning it for yellow marks. “That’s disgusting!”
“You grow up with an older brother, you know just how gross and disgusting boys can be,” she says, climbing into bed. “Honestly, it put me off them for years.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say, using my washcloth to turn off the taps, then remembering I have to brush my teeth. “Do you and Seth get on all right? You never talk about him much.”
“That’s the whole family situation,” Taylor says, yawning. “It’s just easier not to. But yeah, Seth’s cool. He used to try to mess with me when I was younger, but I responded with maximum force.” Even over the noise of my electric toothbrush, I can hear the grin in her voice. “He gave that up after a while. We’re not, like, superclose, but we have each other’s backs now.”
“Sounds nice,” I say a little wistfully, rinsing my mouth and pulling on my own pajamas (H&M flannel, and not half as nice and fluffy as Taylor’s). “Shall I get the light?”
“Sure. I’m—uh, knackered,” Taylor says, careful with her pronunciation of the English word.
I giggle.
“Very good,” I say, yawning too, and turning off the light. I crawl into bed. “Ooh,” I say. “Sheets and blankets instead of a duvet. Weird.”
“I know,” Taylor says. “Very old-school.”
“Funny,” I say appreciatively.
“So, Scarlett?” she asks, her voice sleepy now. “The Callum thing? What’s up with that?”
I feel myself frown.
“There is no Callum thing,” I say. “It was a total shock to see him again, but he was really nice about it. I mean, it was nice of him to want to say hi to me just by ourselves, after everything that’s happened.”
“Yup,” Taylor says a little dryly. “Very nice of him.”
I’m not an idiot. I know what she’s pointing out. That I keep using the word nice, when it’s not precisely what I mean.
“He’s really handsome,” I say frankly, “and he’s pretty cool. I’d be blind if I didn’t notice how handsome he is.”
“And deaf,” Taylor points out. “All those girls screaming his name after each song.”
“Yeah.” I grin, remembering the barely-teens with their high-pitched squeals. “But still, there is no Callum thing. When we kissed—”
I blush in the dark, thinking about it; maybe one day I’ll be sophisticated enough to be completely cool about kissing cute boys, but that’s a long way off yet.
I clear my throat.
“Um, anyway, when that happened,” I mumble, “I never thought I’d see him again. For, you know, obvious reasons. And then we went back to Wakefield, and Jase and I got together, and now …” I sigh. “Now I’m in love with Jase.”
It should be such a happy thing to say. Because Jase loves me back. He told me so. I should be incredibly happy to be in love with a wonderful, gorgeous, caring guy who’s in love with me.
The trouble is, Jase told me he loved me and promptly got on his motorbike and rode away. That was months ago. I haven’t seen him since.
I remember seeing the red taillight of the bike fading into the dark. It sounds really romantic put like that, doesn’t it? But what I’m learning, the very hard way, is that things that sound romantic in books or films are often horrendously painful in real life. And not pretty or rose-tinted at all.
So here I am, in love with a boy I might never see again.
Nicely played, Scarlett.
“But you don’t know where Jase is,” Taylor says simply. “Or what he’s doing. Or when you’ll see him again.”
I gulp.
“Sorry,” she says, sounding repentant. “It’s just that—”
“No, you’re right,” I say miserably. “Good friends tell you the truth, not just what you want to hear.”
“I could try to be a bad friend,” Taylor offers.
I sniffle in maudlin amusement.
“I’m in love with Jase,” I say in a small voice. “I can’t just turn that off like a tap.”
“Of course not,” Taylor says gently. “I was just asking.”
“We never talk about who you like, Taylor,” I say, and not just to distract myself from the enormous lump in my throat. “I mean, it’s all about my messed-up love life, all the time.”
“Yours is a lot more dramatic than mine,” Taylor points out.
“Yes, but it shouldn’t be all about me.” I yawn, deeply now. “Tomorrow we’ll talk about you … who you like … if you like anyone.… Oh God, I started talking about you and now I’m going to sleep.… I’m sorry.…”
But Taylor’s already snoring heavily. I just have time to think No! That’s going to keep me awake all— before I fall asleep myself as if someone hit me over the head with a brick.
My heart is pounding with excitement, because I’m about to meet Jase. I’m running down Lime Walk, the wide avenue lined on either side with tall linden trees that runs along the Great Lawn at Wakefield Hall and leads to the bottom of the stepped stone terraces rising to the old house. Where Jase is waiting for me.
My feet tangle in vines, and I kick them free. My trainer laces are working loose, but I keep running. I cut down across the Great Lawn to avoid the vines, but the grass is surprisingly high—why hasn’t Jase cut it? It’s at my ankles, but it’s growing so fast I’m having to leap higher and higher to move through it—now it’s almost up to my knees, slowing me down as if I’m wading through water. And the school bell’s ringing, calling me back to the next lesson, which means I’ll have no time with Jase at all.
But I might not even get to school. I might never see Jase. Because the grass is rising higher, up to my chest, my neck—I’ve got my hands up now, desperately pushing it away, trying not to choke, and the bell’s ringing louder and louder—I’m going to be in such trouble if I miss class—
I’m thrashing my head from side to side. I wake up gasping, the blankets and sheets caught in a tight twist around me as if someone tried to mummify me in my sleep. And that wasn’t the only part of my dream that was real; the room is actually vibrating with the reverberations from the bell, which is pounding out in a long scream of emergency—
Emergency. Alarm bell.
“Taylor!” I scream, throwing the bedclothes off.
She’s stirring, moaning in her sleep, and I dash over, grab her shoulders, and pull her up and out of bed.
“Fire alarm!” I yell. “Fire alarm!”
I hear voices outside the room now, footsteps pounding down the corridor. I know that sometimes you’re not supposed to open the door when there’s a fire, but I think that’s when it’s hot to the touch: I jam my palm against the wood and it feels okay. Plus, the door handle isn’t burning. I drag the door open and turn to see Taylor stumbling out of bed, still half asleep.
“Come on!” I say, and then I do something I never thought I’d be reckless, or desperate, enough to do: I slap Taylor hard on the cheek, so hard that my palm stings.
“Aah!�
� Her eyes snap fully open and she shakes her head like a boxer recovering from a punch.
Sensibly, I nip behind her so that she can’t hit me back, and start pushing her through the door. The corridor is full of smoke, and as we exit the room, it suddenly intensifies into a thick, blinding cloud. I cough. People are calling from the left, and we turn that way; I think I hear Miss Carter scream:
“Girls! Girls! Over here!”
We start down the corridor, feeling our way, trying not to stumble and trying not to panic; I can’t believe how thick the billows of smoke are, settling around us like a heavy gray pall.
And then I hear it.
“Scarlett!” calls a faint voice behind me. “Scarlett! Help!”
I twist around, stopping in my tracks, squinting in a vain effort to see anything, anything at all. But I can’t.
“Scarlett! Help!” comes the voice again.
There are rooms beyond ours down the corridor, at least four or five before the back staircase. Someone could still be in her room—someone who turned an ankle or something, getting out of bed in a panic. And—my brain flashes back to earlier this evening—the St. Tabby’s girls are in the corridor above ours. One of them could have come down the stairs, running for the front door, tripped and fallen—
“Taylor?” I call, but she must have gone ahead without realizing that I wasn’t hard on her heels.
I’m alone in the smoke.
It’s a lightning-fast decision. I can’t leave someone behind. Not when I’m the only person who knows there’s a girl back there.
I turn and go as quickly as I can back down the corridor, yelling:
“Who’s there? It’s Scarlett! Are you okay?”
“Scarlett!” the voice comes, fainter now, as if she’s being overwhelmed by the smoke. “On the stairs—”
Alison? Luce? I practically sprint for the fire door, dragging it open, choking as a fresh wave of smoke hits me. Doubling over, I’m overcome by long, racking coughs, and too late I think: Wet hand towels—you’re supposed to get something wet and put it over your mouth—I could have grabbed some and put them under the tap in our sink—ugh, why is it that you always forget what to do in an emergency, even though you’ve seen it in the films a hundred times—
Kiss of Death Page 4