He didn’t want to come, I can tell that immediately.
That observation pops into my head a split second before I feel my legs begin to buckle under me. My head’s spinning. I can’t breathe. Someone behind me exclaims as I start collapsing, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
All I can see is Dan. Dan McAndrew, the boy who died last summer after I kissed him.
Dan McAndrew’s ghost is leaning against that car, looking as if he would rather be anywhere but here.
And then my legs give way completely, and everything goes black, and I can’t see anything. Not even Dan’s ghost.
PART TWO: SCOTLAND
twelve
THE BEST THING THAT COULD HAVE HAPPENED
I’m lying in something so soft that this is how I imagine it would be to float on a cloud. Soft and yielding and very very deep. I feel miles down, coddled in layers and layers of fluffy cloud. My eyelids are so heavy it’s as if they have weights on them.
I can’t open my eyes, but I can hear voices. Loud voices, but not right next to me. Muffled somehow.
“I can’t believe no one told her!”
“I thought she would know—”
“How would she know?”
“She might have known—”
“Someone should have told her anyway, just to make sure—”
A third voice cuts in, much lower, but it silences the other two.
“Will you two stop squabbling!” it hisses. “You’re right in front of the puir wee girl’s room!”
Something creaks. It’s a door opening. I hear footsteps, and I force my eyelids open, blinking because it’s bright. I see little flowers, lots and lots of little blurred blue flowers on a white background. The flowers come into focus, filling my vision. I try to turn my head and find that I can, and as I do the flowers slide sideways and I see a room. Big window with heavy blue curtains drawn back, wooden floors, a pale blue rug by the bed.
The footsteps reach me. It’s a woman in a corduroy skirt and a green jumper. The bed must be very high, because I can see a lot of her body even though I can’t tilt my head yet.
“Oh good,” she says in a very comforting voice, “you’re awake. The doctor said to come in and check on you. She would have been worried if you were passed out much longer. You hit your head a wee bit when you fell, apparently.”
“Passed out?” I manage.
“Och yes, dear, you fainted. Right in the middle of Ayr station. Causing such a commotion, I can’t tell you. You puir wee thing!”
She sets something on the table by the bed.
“Do you feel you could sit up, hen?” she asks.
I nod. She leans forward and helps me, putting pillows behind my back so I’m propped up.
“That’s better, isn’t it? I brought you a nice cup of tea, do you think you could take some?”
“Yes, please.”
She reaches to the bedside table, picks up a little tray, and sets it on my lap. There’s a milky cup of tea in a big cup and saucer, and a plate of what looks like chocolate slices. I pick up the tea and drink it down so fast I surprise myself.
“Thirsty, aren’t you?” says the woman, smiling. “Eat something too. It’s millionaire’s shortbread, I made it myself. The doctor says you need to get some sugar down you. For the shock.”
Dutifully, I pick up a piece of chocolate slice and bite into it. There’s caramel under the chocolate, and shortbread under that. It’s delicious.
“Tasty, eh? Good girl. Tea and shortbread, there’s nothing like that for setting you up again when you’ve had a shock.”
Listening to her has been very calming, a soft gentle flow of words that I sense she doesn’t need me to respond to. But everything’s coming back to me now: the boy I saw just before I fainted. Dan, leaning on the car. I saw Dan’s ghost. The teacup rattles on the saucer—it’s a miracle I don’t drop it. I look at her in panic.
“I saw . . . ,” I babble. “I saw . . .”
“Och, hen, you saw puir Dan’s twin brother, didn’t you now? No one told you he had a twin, did they? That was Master Callum you saw at the station, not a ghost. That’s what you were thinking when you fainted, wasn’t it now?”
I put down the cup on the tray and burst into hysterical tears. The next thing I know, she’s taken the tray from me and is sitting on the bed, hugging me. I sob into her woolly shoulder, a great flood of sobs that I’m completely unable to control.
“Moira, is she all right?” says another woman.
“She’s just had the shock of her life, Mrs. McAndrew,” answers the woman who’s hugging me. Moira. “But now she knows it was Master Callum she saw, she’ll be doing much better. Won’t you, hen?”
I nod into her shoulder, which is completely damp by now.
“Scarlett?”
I raise my head and make an awkward drag across my eyes with the cuff of my own sweater. Mrs. McAndrew, Dan’s mother, is standing by the bed.
I remember her from the inquest: It would be impossible to forget her because her coloring’s so striking. She looks like she’s out of a fairy tale, not a real, flesh-and-blood person. She’s very thin, with white white skin and red red hair. Her eyes are slightly slanted and greenish. I remember Mr. McAndrew, too—he was big and dark, his features all dragged down and saggy from grief. I realize that Dan and Callum must take after him, at least physically, because he was tall with big shoulders, just like his sons.
Callum wasn’t there at the inquest, of course. I could scarcely have failed to notice him, could I?
Though Mrs. McAndrew’s face is drawn and weary, she’s looking at me with concern, I can tell.
“Scarlett, I’m Flora McAndrew,” she says, her Scottish accent much lighter than Moira’s burr. “I’m so sorry no one told you about Callum. I think we all assumed you knew already that Dan had a twin. . . .”
I shake my head.
“What’s done is done,” says Moira, handing me a handkerchief. “Blow your nose, hen.”
“Are you feeling better?” Mrs. McAndrew asks as I honk into the hankie. “It must have been an awful shock, seeing Callum like that.”
“Yes, thank you,” I say, lowering the hankie.
She manages a sort of smile at me. “You had a long journey up here, you must want to wash and change. Why don’t we leave you alone for a little while? Moira’s unpacked for you and put away all your clothes. There’s a bathroom just next door, and you’ve got fresh towels on the dresser. Why don’t you have a shower, or whatever you want, and come downstairs when you’re ready?”
I realize that my scalp’s itchy and I’m probably a bit smelly. She’s absolutely right—I really need to wash.
“Thank you,” I say again.
Moira stands up and smiles at me. She has bright red hair, so bright it must be dyed, cut in a raggedy bob a bit like a doll. But from the lines on her face, she must be at least fifty or sixty. Oddly, the hair color suits her. She has very bright blue eyes, and they’re twinkling at me now. It’s a real smile, unlike Mrs. McAndrew’s, which is definitely forced.
I don’t blame Mrs. McAndrew for not being able to smile at me properly, I reflect as the two women leave the room, closing the door tactfully behind them. I don’t know if I’d be much good at smiling at the girl who might have killed my son, even if she didn’t mean to. But one very positive thing has come out of my fainting fit on seeing Dan’s twin brother. By complete chance, I’ve arrived at Castle Airlie as a victim, needing to be looked after. Someone who needs sympathy, rather than the mistrust I’d expect considering the circumstances.
I remember the voices I heard before Moira came in. Nobody realized I didn’t know Dan had an identical twin, so nobody thought to tell me. It wasn’t their fault, but it meant I got a terrible shock, and needed taking care of. So they’re starting off on the wrong foot with me—and that gives me a lot of extra leeway. I’m in a much better position to ask questions than I would be otherwise. As I climb out of bed and start pulling of
f my creased and rumpled and, yup, slightly smelly clothes, I realize that, weirdly enough, seeing Dan’s ghost is the best thing that could have happened to me.
I hope my clothes are okay. Both Moira and Mrs. McAndrew were wearing A-line skirts and sweaters, in an old-fashioned, we-live-in-the-country sort of style, and sensible chunky shoes. It’s actually the kind of thing I wear to lunch with my grandmother, but I didn’t bring any of those clothes here. I decided to put on a pair of jeans (dark blue, not black, because you’re not supposed to wear black in the country), a dark gray sweater, and a bright blue T-shirt that’s almost the same color as my eyes. And turquoise earrings, ditto. I think I look smart enough without being overdressed, but for all I know, I’ve got it completely wrong. It’s really hard to work out what to wear when you’re staying with people you don’t know that well. If you get it wrong, it’s so obvious that you don’t fit in, and then they’re never really that friendly with you for the rest of the time you spend there.
I cross my fingers that I’ve got it right.
But it may never be an issue, as I may fail to find a way downstairs and be marooned up here in this corridor forever. “Come downstairs when you’re ready.” It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? But I’ve been wandering along the corridor for ten minutes now, looking for a staircase, and I still haven’t found one. This place goes on forever. I thought I was about to find a way down when the corridor took a sharp left and became, for several meters, a sort of gallery, with small windows looking out over a rich marsh-green landscape outside. But at the end of the gallery, there’s nothing but another endless corridor hung with pictures, just like the one my room is on. There are doors on either side that I’m much too nervous to open.
I have to keep going, though. I shut my bedroom door behind me, and I’ll never recognize which one it is. I can’t go back even if I wanted to.
Downstairs, I can hear voices, but I can’t work out where they’re coming from. Still, I think I’m getting nearer. At the end of this corridor, it turns left again—that’s weird. I feel like I’m going in a circle. And then the perspective opens up unexpectedly to a huge landing. I’ve found the staircase, and it’s doubled. Two wide wings of stairs, carved from ancient oak, carpeted in a very faded pale blue and red pattern, swoop away from each other out over the great hall below, return to meet each other, and then join in one dramatic final descent to the hall.
This is a Scarlett O’Hara staircase. I’m not dressed for this. I should be wearing a huge crinoline skirt and carrying a fan. I pause at the top of the closer flight of stairs, getting up my nerve for the scary task of making this descent to meet the McAndrews, when a door below me slams and a boy’s voice yells:
“This is bullshit! She shouldn’t be here!”
I freeze.
“Callum, please . . .” I hear hurried footsteps, a woman’s heels clicking on a wooden floor.
“I had to pick her up and put her in the car!” Callum McAndrew, Dan’s twin brother, yells. “I didn’t even want to talk to her. You shouldn’t have made me go and collect her from the station.”
“I thought it would be easier for you—you’d have a bit of time alone with her—”
“Well, you were wrong, Mum, weren’t you?” he says bitterly.
“Oh dear,” Mrs. McAndrew wails, “I hope I haven’t made a dreadful mistake! I thought it would give everybody closure to meet her and talk about Dan . . . and she said she had something of his she wanted to give us back—”
“I don’t give a damn what she’s got of Dan’s!” Callum yells. “What could she have? She hardly knew him. And this whole closure thing’s ridiculous, Mum! You know we all think it’s ridiculous. Nobody wanted her here but you!”
“Your father thought—” Mrs. McAndrew starts weakly.
“Dad will go along with anything you say, Mum. You know that. Catriona and I always thought it was bollocks to invite her.”
I’m overwhelmed with the urge to run away and hide in my room for the next two days. The level of hostility Callum McAndrew has toward me is really intimidating. But then I think of my grandmother sitting behind that enormous desk, her spine as straight as if it were made from steel. My grandmother, who took over Wakefield Hall when my grandfather died, and single-handedly turned it into a school to stop it being sold out of the family. She’s never run from a fight in her entire life.
If I’ve inherited anything from her besides my Wakefield looks, hopefully it’s that courage. I have to start walking down the stairs; I might as well confront the worst as soon as possible. Slowly, reluctantly, I take one step down, and then another and another, my trainers making no sound on the carpet.
“Cal?”
Though this new voice is muffled, it’s a girl, definitely younger than Mrs. McAndrew. It must be the sister, Catriona.
I hear a door swing, and another set of footsteps. Craning over the edge of the balustrade, I see her crossing the enormous hall below me. It’s like a gigantic living room, with a fireplace at the far end that’s big enough to roast a whole horse in. The stone floor is partly covered here and there with carpets which would fill a normal room, but in this huge space, they look like small bedside rugs. There are groups of sofas, upholstered in velvet and big floral patterns, and lots of occasional tables holding silver candelabra and flower vases. The girl weaves her way around a couple of ancient-looking high-backed armchairs and I see her clearly: pretty, blond, slim, wearing jeans and a white sweater, her hair pulled back in a smooth ponytail. Although it’s standard country wear, her jeans are the latest cut and fit her perfectly, while her sweater, with its high ribbed waist and elegantly puffed shoulders, is obviously by some very expensive up-and-coming designer. She looks as if she’d smell of delicate, subtle perfume only available from a handful of sophisticated boutiques.
“He’s very upset, Lucy,” Mrs. McAndrew says rather unnecessarily.
My ears prick up. Lucy Raleigh, Callum’s girlfriend! Wow, it was definitely worth coming to Castle Airlie. In my first few minutes here, I’ve already found her. Relief rushes through me: this visit’s obviously going to be as painful as lying on a bed of nails, but it won’t be for nothing.
Lucy says in a worried voice, “Cal, sweetie . . .”
She disappears from view underneath me. They must all be standing at the foot of the stairs.
“I wish she’d never come here,” Callum says viciously. “I wish she’d hit her head when she fainted and—”
“Callum!” booms a man’s voice, so deep it resounds even in this gigantic space, as does his heavy tread on the wooden floor. “That’s enough!”
I turn on my heel. The last thing I want to do is walk into a fight between Callum and what I presume is his dad. A memory of Jase grappling with his father snaps into my mind, and though I can’t imagine that Callum and his dad are going to come to blows, that memory is so awful that it makes me want to run away till any conflict is over. I see Jase, so clearly that it brings a lump to my throat. I remember him struggling with his father on the grassy verge of the lake. I remember him wading through the shallow water, his face set and angry, to check if I was all right. I remember his soft lips on mine.
And then I push those memories down, stamping them away. I have to keep my focus on Dan right now. Thoughts of Jase will distract and weaken me—boys seem to have that effect, I’ve noticed before. One thing at a time. First I have to deal with the McAndrews and solve Dan’s murder. Then I can set my attention to working out why Jase’s dad is so hostile to me, and seeing if I can win Jase back.
Callum and his dad are shouting at each other, and, as the subject of their argument, I definitely don’t want to go downstairs to face that. I decide to sneak upstairs again till it’s over: I’m sure I can make it back up the carpeted stairs without anyone in the hall below noticing me. But, as I look up, I see movement in the gallery above me.
Someone’s there. And they’ll see if I run away.
I’m trapped.
So
I take a deep breath and walk down the rest of the flight of steps, to the point where it takes a ninety-degree turn, merges with the other wing of the staircase, and becomes a double-wide, imposingly dramatic final descent into the hall.
There they all are, at the base of the staircase. Mrs. McAndrew, thin and pale, with that flaming head of red hair: her long white hands are twisted together as if she were wringing them. Mr. McAndrew—I know it’s him, because I recognize him from the inquest. Older and graying at the temples though he is, now I see him again I realize how much he looks like Dan and Callum. And there’s Lucy, reaching up to touch Callum on the arm, so pretty and innocent-looking, with her porcelain skin and wide-set blue eyes, that it’s hard to believe Dan’s EpiPen might have been in her handbag when he was killed.
Finally, I summon up my courage and look at Callum, Dan’s twin. Glowering with anger, his strong dark brows pulled together, his green-gray eyes gleaming, his arms folded across his chest. Strangely, though his resemblance to Dan is uncanny, I can see the difference between them now. Dan was so happy-go-lucky, concerned to charm everyone, always cracking a smile. Callum looks like he’s never cared in his whole life what anyone thought of him and isn’t going to start now.
My trainers creak on a particularly worn-down stair, which groans and squeaks. Everyone immediately looks up at me in shock.
Talk about making a dramatic entrance.
Callum recovers first.
“You shouldn’t be here!” he yells, stabbing one finger at me in a gesture that leaves me in no doubt about who he means. I’m standing a few steps up, so he has to tilt his head back to look at me, but I still feel very intimidated by his aggression.
I don’t answer him. Partly because I can’t think of the right thing to say, but partly because it’s such an intense experience to be so close to the spitting image of Dan, who was the first boy I ever kissed. His lips, like Dan’s, are full and pink, his lashes long and thick. But his aura is so different. Dan was easy and approachable; his brother is bristling like a hedgehog.
Scarlet Wakefield 02 - Kisses and Lies Page 12