by Olivia Levez
I’m looking after Spook for you, but he misses you, Willow. He hangs his head and looks fed up, and even refuses the pony nuts I give him as a treat. He loves you so much, Willow.
Spotty is the same as ever – i.e. stupid but fast. He still used to try to throw me at the top of Poacher’s Leap, before I got too big to ride him, but I’ve got him in hand. Honestly, give him an inch! We all miss you.
I’m sorry we couldn’t be friends, Willow. But I want you to know that I think about you, every day. I can’t bear to think of you out there all alone. Please come home. I’ll keep out of your way, I promise – it’s a big enough house!!!
And your room’s exactly the same as you left it. I made martyna clean around all of your little collections and not touch any of them.
I hope so much that you’re safe and happy. I read this letter out to Spook and he seemed to understand every word. He’s even kissed the bottom of it for you!
If you wanted to reply to this, I expect there’s a way to do it without telling anyone of your whereabouts. I’m sure I saw that on a programme somewhere.
Anyway, look after yourself.
Love,
Kayleigh-Ann x
P.S. Kisses from Spook: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxx
There’s a sort of smeary bit of smudged ink at the bottom, where it looks like she could have rubbed Spook drool over the page, but I can’t really see properly because my eyes have gone all shiny.
I stand up, just as the doors are hissing.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the tour guide. ‘I really need to get off. There’s been a mistake.’
Miss Vertigo
The pier is empty at this time of the morning, its decking freshly oiled for the holiday season. It looks clean and empty and new. There are no buildings – no little huts selling postcards and fudge and candles. Only the information office, covered with posters and flyers of future events.
Tightrope Extravaganza.
The Leap of Death.
Miss Vertigo.
I get my breath back after climbing the railings. Above me, along the entire length of the pier, from beginning to end, is a tightrope, strung up on scaffolding, ready for the opening ceremony.
Behind me, cars close in, and this time, even before I turn around, I know that it’s Scally. She shouts something, but I don’t listen; I’m staring up at the ladder, taking off my shoes. There is no resin to dust my feet with, so I take my chalks from my pocket and crush them against the beautifully oiled boards. Powdered pinks and lilacs and yellows. I dust down my hands and feet, stare up and –
‘Focus,’ says Lala, intense eyes gleaming. ‘Always, you need to focus.’
I begin to climb, one hand over another. My body feels strong. My mind feels free. I can hear the terns wheel and the gulls cry and the sea pulling and pushing at the shingle below.
More shouts. Somebody is rattling at the padlocked gates. I laugh, soundlessly. I have come home. This is where I’ve always wanted to be, where I belong, with the wind and the sea and the shrieking air. Confident now, I continue climbing until I reach the top of the platform. It is different to being up in the circus big top. Here, there is the extra push and pull of the wind. It is picking up now, after all of the calm, sunny days. But I don’t mind; don’t even feel fear as it tugs at my newly grown hair, my smuggler’s costume.
I love you, Suz.
I imagine you, somewhere far off, on the back of a seagull, dreadlocks fluttering, I imagine you, happy and free and flying. You’d never have been happy in this world of jobs and money and personal statements and career plans and applications and timetables and exams and institutions and systems and controlcontrolcontrol.
You were just Suz. A free spirit.
I stare out to sea, wind flapping more violently now, tearing at my sleeves. I wish I still had the costume that she made for me: mad and wild, with the beautiful, embroidered sari streamers that rippled and danced. A madder-than-mad world, according to Suz.
I am ready for my final performance.
I take a step forwards, ease my foot on the wire. It is thick and feels strong; there’s just enough give to make it feel safe. I have never done this without a safety net. My feet, first one foot and then the other, grip the cord, sure and strong.
Keep focusing, dumb ass.
So I do. I smile and stare at the flagpole at the other end of the pier, rippling, tugging. Best not look at that, not while it’s moving. I raise my gaze to the top, where a seagull stands still as stone.
There. That’s better.
Beneath me, my feet carry me forward, my arms outstretched, tummy taut as wire. I imagine steel ribbons running through the very core of me. Noises and whirrings drift up from behind, but I don’t think of them. They’re sawing through the locks.
I laugh. Continue my final walk. There is nobody to watch it, not yet, only the bead-eyed gulls, and the hushing sea.We are in collusion. They understand the wind and being free and the weather. They understand the need to fly.
A sudden gust, and my arms wobble down sharp right, but I realign myself, take a few breaths as I settle back on the wire. I am in the zone.
Footsteps, thudding. I feel the boards vibrate, but I am a million miles away, up in the air. I am walking on air. A voice, and it is Scally, as I knew it would be. My one rock in the storm. A cliché, but then sometimes clichés are closest to truth, aren’t they?
Because she’s always been there too, I suppose.
‘…down…don’t…stupid…’
The wind rips at her words, tears them into little pieces. I am over halfway now. What does she think she’s going to do? Climb up here after me? Not in that skirt, surely! The thought almost makes me laugh, and laughing’s not good, up on the wire. Smiling, yes. Keep that smile fixed, harsh and bright and glaring. Sear it into the spotlight because it’s the only thing you can do when your life’s been one long performance.
But not now. My face is relaxed, and I’m smiling because this is what I’ve always wanted.
My foot slips. There are gasps from below, and I think I hear my father’s voice –
Do I still call him Daddy? Do I?
– and someone else, higher, faster, frightened. So she’s come too, this time. But I find I don’t mind. All of that bitterness and vengefulness seems like it belonged to a different version of myself. Someone very young and fearful.
I am Phoenix now. My backline flutters, and I imagine the wings soaring off my tattoo, reaching out beyond my shoulders, shadowing the pier, darkening the sea. I wish I could juggle fire. If I still had your fire kit, Suz, I could add to my act, swallow and gulp and breathe fire while juggling devil sticks and –
‘…Wills…please…’
A voice, high and shrill. Beanie’s. Oh god, they’re all here, then, come to catch me at last. But I find I don’t mind, after all. All that running, all that chasing, when the only person I was running away from was myself.
Almost there.
But I don’t want this moment to end. It is my last performance, and it’s all for you, Suz, every bit of it.
Careful!’
This time I do fall. It happens so quickly, a gust of wind that makes me gasp and lose my footing, the sea spray – or is it rain? – salting my face with cold prickles. I cry out and topple, hands flailing wildly, but one lucky grab and I’m back, hands gripping the wire, hanging like Kahlo, gasping in the wind. I look down, and they’re all there: Scally and Daddy and Kayleigh-Ann. Behind her there’s Beanie, with what must be her new boyfriend. Below me, Daddy’s face is tight and white, really white. I see pure dread and fear, the fear of a father for his first child. And that’s when I know, that’s when I realise the real truth, the truth behind all the stories, the secrets, the lies.
Scally, she’s there too, ever stalwart. Thank you for keeping me company on my journey, even though you never knew it. And Kayleigh-Ann, hands wrapped protectively over an ever-rounding belly, sobbing with fear as she tries to comfort my
father.
The show must go on.
So I finish my little show, glad now of my strong shoulders, my powerful arms, those sturdy wrists of mine. It is a breeze to swing myself over the last bit and reach the end platform. There’s no need for applause. I have everything I need in the looks of relief on their faces. I half-clamber, half-slide down, and there’s Daddy, climbing up to meet me. Daddy’s all broken but he gathers me up and hugs me till we both break into tiny pieces. And he grabs me so tight, sobbing so hard, that I start sobbing too, and when I see Kayleigh-Ann, with that uncertain smile, rivers of melted mascara down her cheeks (I will so have to teach her to do better make-up), I reach out my hand and pull her into the hug too.
‘I’m going to call her Iris,’ she whispers into my shoulder. ‘After the ones that grow by the lake, under the willow trees. I’ve always loved your name, Willow. I wanted one just as nice.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry for everything.’
I have to be handcuffed, of course, it’s all procedure, and this time I don’t struggle, just let Scally lead me away, Daddy and Kayleigh-Ann following closely, because now I’ve got what I’ve always wanted. And all the time I’m looking back over that wide, morning-bright sea, and somewhere, over the bouncing water I hear you, throwing your head back and laughing.
‘You did it, Frog! You effing did it! I always knew you could…’
And then you’re gone, soaring away over the dancing waves on the back of that damned seagull.
Goodbye, Suz. Hope you enjoyed the show.
You’re free as a bird now; the darkness has gone. I think of all of the times that I thought I wanted to fly, too. I wanted to chase after dreams, wanted to be in the spotlight, wanted so much to have attention, all eyes on me, even while I was running.
But in the end, it was never about the flying, was it, Suz?
In the end, all I ever really wanted was to be caught.
www.rocktheboat.london
A Rock the Boat Book
First published in North America, Great Britain and Australia by Rock the Boat, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2017
This ebook published by Rock the Boat, an imprint of Oneworld Publications, 2017
Copyright © Olivia Levez 2017
The moral right of Olivia Levez to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved
Copyright under Berne Convention
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 978-1-78607-094-4
ISBN 978-1-78607-095-1 (ebook)
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Oneworld Publications
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London WC1B 3SR
England
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