Your Turn to Die

by Sue Wallman

  Poppy’s face lifts.

  “Take your time,” says Jakob. “You can’t rush a prediction.”

  “Yes, walk three times round the room, and come and sit in the circle and hold hands,” I say.

  We exchange amused glances as she walks ceremoniously round the attic.

  “Concentrate, Pops,” says Ivy.

  She steps over the tea lights and comes to sit between Jakob and me, upright and solemn. She knows how to work a pause. “Someone in this house will die,” she says slowly.

  The words hover in the candlelight as we look at each other, with shock that turns to a deep sense of unease. Poppy nods before anyone has a chance to ask her if she’s sure.

  “You can’t have that,” I say.

  “What have you been watching on TV?” asks Jakob.

  “Is this to do with Dad?” asks Ivy.

  Poppy sucks her lips inwards. Life hasn’t been easy for her. “I don’t know why I said it.”

  Ivy’s pushing me towards the open window, holding the knife near my throat. I grip the edge of the window seat. Panic dissolves my thought processes. I hear my screams mixed with Rose’s. She didn’t want to die either. My nails dig into the grooves she made decades before me.

  “Help!” I scream. “Please help me!”

  I imagine Alice was at the other end of the house when Doug pushed Rose through the window. Did she help her husband bury her sister because she was scared of him?

  “Nobody’s coming,” says Ivy. She throws the knife on the floor. “I don’t need that yet.” She places both hands round my neck. “You and Tatum had such a morbid fascination with the body in the garden! It’s terrible how your imaginations spun out of control, and it ended in tragedy. Tatum shoved you out of the window, as if you were Rose.” She’s crying.

  I can barely draw air into my lungs. I hit out with my arms but I can’t make contact with her.

  Keep fighting.

  Little by little, Ivy is pushing me towards the open window, head first, but I’m on my back. It feels as if my neck might snap. I see orange and black shapes. There’s a rasping noise coming out of my mouth.

  “I fought Tatum. I tried to save you. I chased her to the woods. There was a knife and a shovel. We fought really hard. I was injured badly with the knife. The one on the floor. It’s waiting for me.” She sniffs through her tears. “I’m sorry, Leah. I’m so sorry it had to happen like this.”

  I’m running out of time.

  I can’t hold on to the window seat any more. I hear Ivy’s sobs. The orange shapes have gone. There is only darkness. Please no. I’m going to fall.

  I think of the rush of air when I’ve jumped off the triangulation point at Chandler’s Hill, the thrill and panic of falling.

  Now there’s fear and nothing else. I kick one final time. A fast ballerina kick—

  I’m dragged back. My head bumps over the windowsill. My throat feels constricted but I can breathe.

  I smell something familiar. Aftershave. “You’re safe, Leah.” It’s Steve.

  He lifts me up and takes me to the sofa nearest the window. I know that because it’s lumpy underneath my back. I recognize the shape of those lumps.

  “Please, Leah, open your eyes,” he says. “I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t know what. We shouldn’t have left you here. I’m sorry.”

  I want to say thank you. And sorry.

  Mum’s voice next.

  Evan’s voice.

  Sirens.

  It’s over.

  I open my eyes.

  THIRTY-ONE

  At first I said I’d never go back to Roeshot House, but when Evan got in touch to say he hoped I could be there when the birdhouse went up in June, I reconsidered. I said he should invite Jakob and possibly Tatum, but in the end neither could come – Jakob because he was playing his violin in a concert, his arm finally healed, and Tatum because her parents wouldn’t let her come anywhere near Pinhurst or our families again.

  Evan says he’s picked June because the roses up the side of the garage will be flowering, and as soon as we turn into the driveway I see them. They’re dramatic reds and pinks, and masses of them. It’s odd being here in summertime: half the house is in full sun, the other in shade, and the garden is noisy with birds and insects.

  There are eight of us: Mum, Steve and me, Evan, Clive, Evan’s mum and sister Lily, and Margery. Evan and I hug, and it’s nowhere near as awkward as I thought it would be, and I say polite hellos to the others. We stand next to each other for the odd little ceremony. Clive says a few words about remembering a sixteen-year-old who’d had her life cut short. Evan steps forward to hang the birdhouse on to a hook and we clap, which feels appropriate and cheesy at the same time. He’s painted the name Rose up the side farthest away from the house so it’s kind of private. Margery says there’s going to be a proper headstone in the Pinhurst graveyard for her, but I reckon the birdhouse wins, hands down, as a memorial.

  Afterwards we walk to the back of the house, passing the place where Rose most likely fell, and where I almost did. Steve places his arm round my shoulder as I look up at the attic window. I don’t shrug him off. I catch the faint smell of aftershave and it makes me feel safe.

  Clive says there’s toughened glass up there now and the new window doesn’t open. This day isn’t about Ivy, but I can’t help thinking of her in the secure unit.

  We play croquet on the patch of immaculate lawn in front of the conservatory with the set Margery bought for the house. She makes sure we stick to the rules, and the game gets fierce. I want to remember this scene: an odd mix of people in the sunshine, laughing, and the satisfying tap of a mallet against a ball.

  Mum wins. She’s quite a competitive person on the quiet.

  We go back to Evan’s house for lunch, and after we’ve eaten, he and I go to his workshop and I see the most recent birds he’s carved. Evan’s started selling them in the gift shop in Riddingham for crazy-stupid prices. I’ve arranged to buy one at mates’ rates to give to Steve for his birthday.

  I tell Evan that Steve hasn’t shed his annoying habits, but he’s all right when you get to know him properly, and Mum thinks he’s the greatest.

  Evan wraps the plump little sedge warbler up in tissue paper, then gives me a wooden heart he’s made. It fits nicely into my hand, like a pebble. I’m glad I had my first kiss with him. He was there for me on Skype when I needed him as I tried to process what had happened, but I recognize our thing was never going to be long-term. He’s going out with someone from the village now, and she sounds nice.

  I doubt I’ll ever come back to Pinhurst. Sofia says I have to go to a party with her at New Year. She’s still going out with Dan, but it’s gone down a few notches, so we’re back to sitting on the sea wall a lot.

  Not long after I’ve come back from Pinhurst for the birdhouse ceremony, Evan messages to tell me about a photo his dad found lodged behind the chest of drawers in my bedroom at Roeshot House. He sends the image through: it’s of Doug with Alice and Rose, posing at an event in evening outfits, only they’re not ready for the shot. Alice is talking to someone you can’t see, and because Rose is side-on to the camera, you can see Doug’s hand on her bottom, pushing her towards him so her chest is up against him. He’s laughing; Rose isn’t. I forward it to Jakob, and say I bet we were right to think the stone dragon finally brought Alice luck when Doug was struck down dead. Jakob replies with exuberant shock-face emojis and a meme of a dragon looking very pleased with itself. We send it on to a journalist in Riddingham who’s been writing stories about the case.

  We’re much more in touch, me and Jakob. Most days we check in with each other to see how life is puttering along and, occasionally, what atrocities our parents have committed. The Amigo days are over, but Jakob and I will always be friends. We don’t know much about what’s going on with Tatum. We know from the police investigation that she’s recovering still, and a month ago she started posting film clips on Instagram, so we hope she’s OK. />
  Among other things, Ivy was diagnosed with fabricated or induced illness (FII), also known as Munchausen’s syndrome by proxy. She liked the attention of Poppy being ill. Auntie Gabs’s spiralling dependence on medication made it easy for Ivy to take on the role of her sister’s kind and dedicated carer. Pesticide was discovered in Poppy’s banana milkshake powder. Ivy confessed she would switch to an uncontaminated mix during days leading up to any blood tests.

  Poppy’s slowly getting better, but her psychiatrist says the psychological effects will be with her for a long time. They have a social worker now, while Auntie Gabs is getting back on her feet and coming to terms with everything, and Poppy’s granny on her dad’s side has moved in with them.

  Last week Poppy came to stay with Mum and me for a few days and was noisier than I’ve ever known her, and much more healthy-looking. Her favourite thing was sitting on the sea wall with a bag of chips.

  She asked if Steve is going to move in with us, and I said, “Who knows?”

  But not in an angry way.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Linas Alsenas, my fantastic and supportive editor, I couldn’t have done this without you, thank you. Eishar Brar, thank you too for your always-helpful comments.

  Thanks to Sean Williams for creating another creepy cover that fits so well with the others. Olivia Horrox, you are a brilliant publicist, and being at Hay Festival with you and Sarah Lough last year was a real highlight. Thanks to the rest of the talented Scholastic team.

  Becky Bagnell, my agent, thank you for continued help and friendship.

  Thank you to Jakob Asp who won a bid to be a character in Your Turn to Die in aid of Authors for Grenfell, and to Donna David and her daughter Sofia who were outbid at the last moment but donated anyway.

  A special mention to students at Esher High School, especially those who hang out in the library even when it’s not raining. Thank you to Barbara Smith for her in-house promotion of my books, and to the awesome library monitors.

  Many thanks to the book bloggers and booktubers who’ve reviewed my books, and to readers who’ve taken the trouble to contact me. Hello to Kian!

  Thank you to lovely friends who’ve kept me bouncing along this year, and my family whose support never wavers.

  To my daughters Phoebe, Maia and Sophie, you make me proud. Thanks for the chats and laughs, and for answering my strange questions.

  Also by Sue Wallman:

  Mae believes she’s lived all her life in Hummingbird Creek, an elite wellness retreat, because her father is a psychiatrist there. But when Mae breaks the rules, the response is severe. She starts questioning everything, and at the Creek, asking questions can be dangerous.

  Skye is looking for an escape. Her sister died in a tragic accident and her parents think a camp for grieving teens might help her. But when she arrives, Skye starts receiving text messages from someone pretending to be her dead sister. Skye knows it’s time to confront the past. But what if the danger is right in front of her?

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  First published in the UK by Scholastic Ltd, 2018

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Ltd, 2018

  Text copyright © Sue Wallman, 2018

  The right of Sue Wallman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her.

  eISBN 978 1407 18437 1

  A CIP catalogue record for this work is available from the British Library.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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