Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (12 page)

‘It’s okay, Luke,’ I said.

He shook his head. ‘It’s not, though. I do try to keep a
level head, but she winds me up so much, you know? And we’ve never been that
great at communication. And now I find she’s seeing this Kyle…’

‘He seems nice,’ I said.

‘Hmph,’ was Luke’s response.

I rubbed my temples. ‘I’d better call it a night. Thanks for
the lift.’

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Me too. I’ve got peace talks with a
wayward sister to negotiate in the morning.’

A shimmer of tears blinded me, but through the blur I caught
the beginning of movement as Luke leaned towards me, and I quickly opened the
door and hopped out.

‘Scarlett?’

‘’Night, Luke,’ I said in as bright a tone as I could
muster.

‘Scarlett, are you upset with me?’

‘See you Monday on the beach.’

‘Scarlett…’

I slammed the door and headed to the house. Seconds seemed
like minutes as I extracted the house key from my pocket and fumbled the door
open, conscious that Luke must be watching. Finally, I was pushing open the
door and stumbling in and closing it behind me.

I waited. Nothing for several moments, then the van’s engine
revved and I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. I listening to the hum of the
van recede. When the only sound I could hear was the whimper of the wind and
the hoot of an owl, I finally released the breath I’d been holding and slid
down to the floor. I leaned my head back against the solid comfort of the
hardwood door and closed my eyes.

Upset? Of course I was. I was a melting pot of feelings.

Disappointment, hurt – because I had thought Luke liked me,
but how could he when I was the same age as his sister whom he patently thought
was just a kid, too young for love?

Fascination, wariness, confusion – because of everything
that other boy, Jude, had said, and everything he hadn’t.

And beneath all the layers of emotion, a wrenching,
consuming one: grief. Because I too had once had a sister I loved enough to
bicker with. But as always, she had got the last word and executed the perfect
dramatic exit: head up, shoulders back, chest out, take no prisoners.

The next morning when I awoke I was surprised to see that it
was just six thirty a.m. I had got into the habit of sleeping until at least
eight – later when I could get away with it – as a means of combating the
fatigue that stalked me; and given that it had been gone one in the morning by
the time I crawled into bed last night, I’d anticipated surfacing at lunchtime
at the earliest. I squeezed my eyes shut against the pale light filtering
through the thin cotton curtains at the window, and tried to slip back into the
dream I’d been having – something about my grandmother and a plate of chocolate
chip cookies and a children’s lullaby and a blinding light. But after a few minutes
I had to concede defeat. Shattered though I was, sleep was elusive.

I pulled on a robe over my pyjamas and dragged myself
downstairs. The red sandals lay where I’d discarded them the night before,
strewn on the floor, and the splash of colour in the shadowy hallway seemed
garish and loud. I pushed them to one side with my bare foot, grabbed the post
off the doormat and padded into the kitchen. On automatic pilot I popped a
couple of painkillers and then poured hot water on instant coffee granules and
burned some toast. Usually, I would sit at the kitchen table to eat, but today
fresh air beckoned, and I unlatched the back door and stepped out.

The garden was south-facing, and at this time of day the
cottage cast a wide shadow that encompassed the terrace, so I dragged a chair
across the lawn to a patch of sunlight and stretched out my dew-drenched feet
to dry. The combination of super-strength coffee, a good dose of carbohydrate
and a blast of the great outdoors soon took effect, and my thoughts began to come
into focus. At the forefront of them was the row last night.

I had been unfair to Luke, I realised. His overprotective
attitude to his sister wasn’t a reason to be down on the guy. It was obvious
that he was just trying to be a good big brother. What was it Cara said the day
of the Chester chase?
Try finding someone to see the latest paranormal
romance movie with. I ended up seeing The Bewitching Hour with my brother – my
brother!
I had to smile. Poor Luke; I bet he’d cringed his way through
that. Mind you, judging by the intense look in his eyes last night as he’d
slipped on my shoes, Luke wasn’t so far from being a romantic himself.

Would he have kissed me? I wondered. What would it have felt
like? I closed my eyes and pictured it – him leaning in, eyes locked on mine,
his hand reaching out to cup the back of my head, his dark lashes drifting down
to shutter his eyes, and then his lips brushing mine, fleetingly at first, and
then more firmly, until…

My eyes flew open.
Good grief, girl, get a grip!

So I liked him, that much was evident. Had I ruined things
last night by shutting him out at the end? I hoped not. Would he call me?
Should I call him?

I sighed through my last mouthful of toast. Life had been a
lot simpler before boys surfaced on the radar. Yes, boys plural. Because it
wasn’t just blue eyes lodged in my mind, but smoky grey ones too. At least I
knew what it was I felt for Luke. But Jude… he made me nervous. He’d been
nothing but friendly to me, yet I struggled to be around him. Digging deep, I
could admit that there was a level of attraction there – he was like something
off a Parisian catwalk; what was there not to admire? And given that I was also
attracted to Luke, the duplicity made me feel guilty. But it was Luke who made
me melt inside when he smiled at me, whose touch made my stomach fizz; it was
Luke I’d wanted to kiss last night. With Jude, it was something else –
something I couldn’t define. Something so intense I wanted to run from it, from
him. But then last night it hadn’t only been me running, I realised, as I
remembered his lame ‘Something’s come up’ excuse. Would we talk again? Somehow,
it seemed inevitable.

I drained the last dregs of coffee and swapped the mug for
the letters I’d brought out with me. The cottage on the cliff was the Twycombe
postman’s first stop each morning; ideal if you wanted a gas bill at
six-something a.m.; less ideal if you wanted a lie-in given the noisy exhaust
on his van. I flicked through the stack – a council tax bill addressed to
Mother; a marketing mailshot advertising bacon-flavoured porridge; a letter
addressed to my grandfather asking for donations to an animal charity; and,
finally, a fat envelope with my name on the front and a logo I recognised at
once: University College London. I slid open the flap and peered inside – maps,
pamphlets, information sheets and a letter headed ‘The schedule for Freshers’
Week next month’. Next month? I realised with a jolt today we were into August;
I was indeed due to leave the cove next month.

I should have pulled out all the contents and got stuck in.
After all, this was what I wanted, university. Wasn’t it? I’d certainly thought
so, enough to spend countless hours studying to secure the grades. And when
Sienna had suggested a flat-share, I’d been excited at the idea of us being
together, proper sisters again. Though I’d always hated big cities – all those
people! – I’d caved easily when she told me to apply to a London university.
‘The fun we’ll have, sis!’ she’d declared. I told myself it
would
be
fun, if I shook off being so… well, me. It would be a turning point, I decided.
A mouse would be trampled to death in the city – I’d be forced to find my
voice.

The shine of the plan had dulled a little before Sienna’s
disappearance, when Mother had let slip that it wasn’t in fact Sienna’s idea
that we room up in London together. Father had made it a condition of putting
Sienna through drama school in the city; he expected me to keep his wayward
daughter on the straight and narrow. Angry, I called Sienna and told her I was
looking into a place in the university’s halls of residence. But she was so
persuasive, my sister, and by the end of the call she had me
almost
convinced that she’d missed me terribly over all these years at separate
schools, and she couldn’t wait to live with me.

Then she was gone, just a name on an email header. And then
she was really gone. The flat in Chelsea that Father had bought for us stood
empty, waiting, and the assumption was that I would move in come the autumn and
start term, as if nothing had changed, as if life just went on without her.
Father’s assumption. Mother’s assumption. And mine, until recently.

I’d come to Twycombe for just a couple of months, to get
close to Sienna, to try to understand, to find closure so that I could move on.
But I’d begun to see that I felt different here. Calm. Light. Liberated. More
myself, somehow. It was going to be hard to give that up.

From this spot, on the cove side of the garden, I had an
excellent view of Twycombe Bay. The tide was in, and the waters were a deep
blue with swells big enough to have attracted a handful of wave worshippers. At
this distance, the surfers were no more than black splodges dancing on the
blue. All at once, I felt a pang to be out there with them – to make the most
of every moment I had in the cove.

I sat up straight. Could I?

Until now, my only foray into the water alone had been my
disastrous first attempt at surfing. Though I’d logged many hours since then
and had become a fairly capable surfer, it had always been with Luke at my
side. But wasn’t the whole point of the surfing lessons to handle myself out
there?

The idea of surfing without Luke was unsettling – with him
near me, I felt safe. But it was also a little appealing. I couldn’t rely on
Luke forever, and I liked the thought of being independent. More importantly,
it may help me to get closer to the other surfers, which I’d failed miserably
to do so far. At least one of the group knew more about my sister’s last days
than I did – if Katie was right then one of them had been seeing Sienna.
Perhaps the mystery guy was one of the surfers out there right now…

That settled it: without wasting a moment more on pondering,
I hurried into the house, changed into my wetsuit, grabbed my board and took
off for the cliff path.

*

Twenty minutes later, out on the water, I was suffering from
a serious case of perma-grin. The sun on my face, the wind through my hair, the
bracing water, the rush of catching a wave and riding it – I was awake, I was
alive
.
The experts had it all wrong: forget bran flakes, forget herbal tea, forget
meditation, forget yoga stretches;
this
was how to start a day.

I was surfing alone, to the side of the cove where Luke and
I spent the early evenings, keeping a respectful distance from the five other
surfers out on the water. But after a while I heard someone call my name, and I
turned to see one of them – a guy – beckoning to me. I paddled over, and as I
got closer I recognised Geoff, the carpenter guy from the kitchen the night
before.

‘Hey!’ he said warmly. ‘We don’t bite, you know.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to intrude.’

‘Don’t be daft.’

Geoff turned to the other surfers sitting on their boards
nearby and jesting with each other as they waited for the next good wave. I
recognised them as being part of the tipsy football match the night before.
They were brilliant surfers, every one, and intimidating for their daring on
the waves.

‘Hey, you lot,’ said Geoff. ‘Meet Scarlett.’

Four sets of eyes swung round to stare at me.

I swallowed nervously and managed a wobbly smile and a ‘Hi’.

‘You remember Scarlett? Friend of Luke. And Jude.’

I blinked at Geoff – he’d been on the ball last night, then,
to see me with both guys.

The Luke/Jude association seemed to satisfy the other
surfers, and their nods and ‘Heys’ were easy and warm.

‘Scarlett, this is Liam, Andy, Duvali and Big Ben,’ said
Geoff, pointing to each surfer in turn.

Liam was a skinny, freckled guy with a gap-toothed grin;
Andy was memorable chiefly for the astonishingly vast mop of ginger curls springing
out from his head at all angles; Duvali was an olive-skinned hunk with hawkish
eyes; and Big Ben was blond and brawny and, well, big.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I said and groaned inwardly. Could I
sound any more rod-up-the-backside polite and ladylike? I scouted about for
something – anything – to say that would ingratiate me. ‘Who won?’ I attempted.
‘The football?’

It was music to their ears. Duvali launched into a ‘We were
robbed!’ tirade about a sozzled ref and a midfielder moving a rock goalpost,
with the other guys pitching in here and there with ‘Offside, he was’ and
‘Goalie ducked the penalty; I saw it’. I tried to keep up, but frankly much of
the terminology sounded like a foreign language to me. Still, by the end of the
story the guys were bobbing right near to me and an amicable atmosphere had
sprung up.

Then Geoff let out a yell and pointed toward the horizon,
and we all spun around to see a beauty of a wave heading our way. Chitchat
abandoned, we fell stomach to board and began paddling furiously into a space.
When the wave surged up behind we launched to our feet and took the wave in a
line, and for a serene second we glided together, arms outstretched, the
perfect choreographed surf.

I was the first to fall, of course. Quickly. I kicked
upwards, feeling the reassuring tug of the leash around my ankle confirming my
board was somewhere close by. My head broke the surface just in time to see
Geoff crash down to my left. I craned my neck, looking for the others, and
spotted them a way across the water – still on their feet, coasting on the last
of the wave as it broke.

‘Not bad,’ Geoff called to me. ‘That’s me done. Got a
kitchen to fit over Plympton way. You staying out?’

I was tempted, but my limbs were heavy and my head was
buzzing and I knew I’d be pushing my luck. I shook my head. ‘Nah, I’m done.’

We’d drifted in to where the natural shelf of the ocean
floor brought the depth up to standing level, and so we could wade back to the
beach. Geoff headed to his kit where he’d dumped it by the west-side rocks, and
I sat down, taking my time rubbing the sand off my feet before shoving them
into my trainers so that I could rest a little before the walk home. Geoff
settled down beside me. I caught my breath – he was keen to chat, it seemed.

‘Did you have fun last night?’ he asked as he worked on
stuffing his wetsuit into a plastic bag. He’d executed an impressively quick
change from neoprene to denim, I realised.

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Si’s a great host.’

‘He is. He’s real generous, you know – booze on tap. And such
a laugh. A top bloke.’

And handsome and gregarious and spilling over with
confidence – he was describing Sienna’s ideal type, I realised. I leaned
forward. ‘He seems well liked by everyone…’

‘It’s the parties, I guess. Si attracts quite a flock.’

I thought about Sienna, about the fact it had been a Si
party she’d exited right before walking into the sea for a suicidal surf. ‘And
girls?’ I asked, then blushed. I sounded like a girl with a crush. ‘I mean,
he’s so well tailored, I wondered whether he was… gay?’

Geoff threw his head back and laughed. ‘Not likely! Oh no,
Si loves the ladies.’

Did he now.

‘And surfing. He’s usually out here with us in the mornings.
Must be sleeping it off today.’

‘His house is amazing…’

‘Yeah. It’s a Ryan Cavendish design, you know.’

‘Cavendish?’

‘Your surf teacher, Luke. Didn’t you know his dad was an
architect?’

The word hit me hard. Was?
I opened my mouth to ask
what had happened to him, then realised, to my horror, that I already knew.
Cara had told me her parents had died in the accident that had mangled her
legs.
Oh, Luke
, I thought.

Geoff was watching me closely. ‘You two together?’ he asked
in a tone that was trying too hard to be casual.