Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (15 page)

An old man digging over a vegetable patch in the blazing
sun, straw hat on, sleeves rolled up.

Two little girls hunting for potatoes with plastic
spades.

‘Grandad, why’ve you drawn all over your arm? When I did
that with my colouring pens Mother got super-cross.’

‘It’s not pen, Sienna. It’s called a tattoo. I was given
it many years ago as a reminder of my duty.’

‘What’s it say?’

‘Serviam.’

‘Servy-what?’

‘Serviam. It’s from a language called Latin. It means “I
will serve”.’

‘Like serving dinner?’

‘Not really. Like being a servant.’

‘A servant, Grandad! Whose?’

‘God’s. God’s servant.’

‘Urgh. Well, I’m never serving anyone!’

‘I see, Sienna. And what about you, Scarlett? Will you be
God’s servant?’

‘I don’t know, Grandad.’

‘That’s okay. In time, you’ll –’

‘Scarlett!’

The exclamation startled me upright. Which hurt. A lot.

‘Easy,’ said a voice.

I held tight to the rail alongside the bed, waiting for the
figure standing over me to come into focus. When it did, I was confused.

‘You?’

‘Finally!’ said Jude. ‘Do you know I’ve been here a while
trying to get your attention? You were totally zoned out, just staring at my
tattoo.’

‘Tattoo?’ I muttered. I didn’t associate the word with Jude.

He gestured to his inner arm, bare since his shirt sleeve
was pushed up. The word
serviam
was inked in Gothic script from the
crease of his elbow to his wrist along the arterial path.

‘Oh. You have a tattoo.’

‘Which you were staring at.’

‘I was dreaming, I guess. Weird dream. Grandad was
not
a tattoo kind of guy…’

‘Dreaming with your eyes open? That’s worrying. What
happened?’

Jude leaned in to inspect the wound on my head and I noticed
for the first time his pallor and the dark shadows that lay in the hollows
beneath his thick bottom lashes.

‘Oh!’ I said. ‘Are you ill?’

He shook his head brusquely. ‘Of course not. I’m fine. I was
just here… visiting a friend. Now answer the question: what happened to you?’

‘Hit a deer. Deer died.’

‘In your car? You crashed?’ He was staring into my eyes
intently. There was something different about his manner today, I thought. He
was usually cool, unflappable, but right now he radiated anxiety.

I was opening my mouth to relate the sorry tale when I
noticed that I had an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Metallic. And that I was
cold, too cold to even shiver. And that sleep was no longer desirable but
imperative; so, obediently, I closed my eyes.

‘Scarlett?’ Jude’s tone was urgent now, alarmed.

My head was like a pressure cooker, the pain building by the
second. Something wet trickled from my nose.

Jude swore vehemently, which seemed odd, and said, ‘Not you
too!’ which seemed odder still, but it was too much effort to open my eyes.

Then his breath was on my face, and his whisper ‘Hush now.
Just lie still’ was in my ear, and I felt hands on me, stroking my head, and I
was drifting away from the pain to someplace warm, someplace calm, someplace
safe.

*

The smell of coffee coaxed me awake. I peeled back an eyelid
to find Luke sitting on the chair beside the bed, cradling a steaming
polystyrene cup in one hand and his head in the other. He was staring down at
the floor.

‘Luke?’

His head snapped up. He looked done in.

‘Hey. How’re you feeling?’

‘Fine,’ I said automatically.

‘No, really.’

I thought about it. The fog of sleep was fast receding, and
I realised with a jolt that it was no lie – no nausea, no dizziness, no
headache. I felt a little tired, perhaps, but other than that, fine.

I sat up. ‘Really, I feel much better.’

He looked sceptical, but he managed a smile. ‘Good. Coffee?’
He gestured to the table beside the bed on which a second cup was sitting
alongside a stack of assorted chocolate bars.

‘Yes, please.’

‘Don’t get your hopes up,’ he said as he passed it over.
‘It’s foul.’

I took a sip. It tasted okay to me. Coffee was coffee in my
book.

‘So where’s Jude?’ I asked.

‘Jude?’

‘He was here, before – after you left me with the nurse.’

Luke stood up so fast he knocked a Mars bar off the table.
‘What was he doing here?’

I shrugged. ‘Visiting a friend, he said.’

‘And he just happened to spot you in your cubicle.’

‘I guess.’

‘Through a closed curtain.’

‘I don’t know – the nurse must’ve left it open.’

‘What happened?’

Luke’s demeanour was beginning to bother me. What was his
problem? I felt the need to defend Jude, who’d done nothing but check whether I
was okay, and… and what? What had happened at the end? I’d felt dreadful, and
Jude had been right there, over me, touching me. Comforting me, I guess, though
the intimacy of the gesture made me squirm.

Luke was a dog with a bone: ‘Scarlett, what did Jude say to
you?’

‘What does it matter what he said or did?’

‘
Did?
What did he –’

Footsteps cut Luke off. A doctor appeared in the cubicle –
the rotund white-haired sort with a bounce in his step and a twinkle in his
eye. Following a booming, ‘Good evening, young lady. I’m Dr Morris. I hear
you’ve taken a tumble,’ he took my pulse, looked in my eyes and felt my neck
and head. Then he leaned against the side of the bed and commenced his
interrogation:

‘Dizziness?’

‘Nausea?’

‘Visual disturbance?’

‘Numbness or tingling in extremities?’

‘Pain in your neck?’

‘Pain in your brow bone?’

‘Pain at the back of your head?’

‘Pain here? Here? Here?’

I answered no to each question. ‘Really, I feel okay now.’

The doctor turned to Luke, who had been sitting quietly on
his chair at the other side of the bed. ‘But she lost consciousness, yes?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I found her in the road.’

‘And she was unresponsive?’

‘She wouldn’t wake up.’

‘How long before she came round?’

‘I don’t know. A couple of minutes at least.’

I looked at Luke. Poor guy, no wonder he looked so wrung
out. It couldn’t have been pleasant driving up a country lane to find an
abandoned car and a girl collapsed in a puddle of blood on the ground and a
dead deer. No, wait – he said the deer had gone.

‘Scarlett?’

The doctor was talking to me, I realised.

‘Sorry, what?’

‘Are you having trouble focusing on the conversation?’

I flushed. ‘Um, no, I was just thinking about something…’

‘I see.’ He took a moment to look through my chart, and
said, ‘West Cliff, Twycombe.’ Then, ‘Blake.’ He looked up and studied me, and
then asked, ‘Any relation to Sienna?’

I caught my breath. ‘Yes. Sister. Why?’

The doctor was quiet for a moment; he seemed unsure what to
say next. He looked so serious…

The penny dropped. He must have been here when Sienna was brought
in that night – my parents had told me that the emergency services had worked
long and hard to save her, as had the doctors at A&E. Perhaps he had tried
to revive her. Perhaps he too was haunted by her death.

‘You treated Sienna?’ I said slowly.

‘I did.’

‘Th-thank you. For trying.’

Dr Morris frowned deeply. ‘I’m sorry there wasn’t more I
could do.’

I nodded and picked at the blanket over my legs. Beside me,
Luke stood up and came close and slipped his hand into mine.

‘She passed away then, I take it?’ said Dr Morris gently.

That seemed an odd question. I met his eyes – kind and full
of compassion. ‘Well, yes…’

‘I’m sorry for your loss. She was a lovely girl. So tragic.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘You saw her? The night she
died? April the tenth?’

The doctor shook his head. ‘No, it was Easter when I saw her
here in A&E.’

‘March?’ What the hell was going on?

‘Yes, the night she found out…’

Luke jerked beside me, but I squeezed his hand tight. I
didn’t look at him, didn’t voice my shock. Inside I was screaming,
Found out
what!?
But I merely nodded in what I hoped was an understanding manner that
invited him to go on.

‘Such a terrible thing to tell a young girl,’ Dr Morris
continued. ‘Eighteen; her whole life ahead of her. But she took it so well –
assured me she would be okay. She said her family would rally round. And she
mentioned a sister she was close to.’

The doctor gave me a sympathetic smile. I gripped Luke’s
hand grimly, my only anchor to reality.

‘I want you to know that I have thought of your sister often
since that night,’ said Dr Morris. ‘She was so dignified and calm in the face
of her diagnosis. Her strength and faith were inspirational. As a doctor, the
worst part of my job is relaying bad news, and she saw how it pained me. Your
sister; well, you should be very proud of her. I will never forget her kindness
to me as I stumbled through the words, or her response…’

Dr Morris closed his eyes and swallowed. I waited, frozen,
for him to finish. Finally, he opened his eyes, leaned forward and patted the
hand that I’d fisted on the blanket.

‘I think, I hope, that to know her reaction may provide some
comfort now. Scarlett, your sister looked me in the eye, gave me a beautiful
smile and said, “Don’t be sad. Death is only the beginning. And dying, after
all, will be an awfully big adventure.”’

The sunrise above the South Hams was glorious, every hue of
pink and orange and yellow imaginable daubed across the sky. Even once I
reached the motorway and the sun was above the treetops, my eye was drawn
heavenward to a warming sky – not a cloud in sight, just cavernous blue
stretching behind and beyond.

I drove slowly, mindfully, after the previous day’s drama.
Still, I felt fine in body. No aches, no dizziness and – to my surprise – only
a little bruising and a thin cut following the line of my eyebrow. I had woken
early while it was still dark with the idea fizzing in my veins that I would
make this trip, and given that I felt well, not even tired for once, and the
Mini looked to be unscathed by the accident, I’d decided there was no reason to
avoid the long drive.

Well, there was one: Luke, who would not be impressed to
discover I was on the road.

It had become clear last night that my accident had rocked
him, and that he would be happiest to see me safely tucked up in a hospital bed
for a good while where, as he put it, the most damage I could do was poking
myself in the eye with a pillow. He’d hit the roof when I refused the CT scan
Dr Morris offered (as a precaution; I checked out just fine), but there was no
way I was prolonging our time in the hospital. Although he didn’t like the
sound of my accident, Dr Morris could find no medical reason to keep me in
overnight, and he discharged me. To say that Luke was concerned at the thought
of me returning home to spend the night and the following days alone would be
an understatement. He argued with Dr Morris, he argued with the nurse, he
argued with me – but I was adamant: I wanted to go home. Finally, he gave in,
albeit grudgingly.

From the A&E department out to his van, Luke kept his
arm firmly around me, as if at any moment he expected me to collapse. Then,
from the car park to Twycombe, he kept up a steady stream of conversation and
looked at me anxiously if I didn’t answer a question promptly. The result was a
rather exhausting, tense journey.

When we reached my car, abandoned in the lane running up to
the cottage, Luke told me to sit tight in the van. He swapped vehicles and
roared off up the lane, leaving me staring at a dark shadow where the Mini had
been parked. Blood – my own and the deer’s. But where was the deer?

Luke appeared within a couple of minutes, jogging briskly
down the lane, and then he was back in the van and driving up to the house. He
parked as close to the front door as possible and raced around to help me out;
I think he’d quite happily have carried me, given half the chance, but I gently
pushed his hands away and told him I could manage.

Inside, I was in clean clothes and settled on the sofa in a
matter of moments but still Luke fussed about like a mother hen. Blanket? Extra
cushions? Television on? A hot drink? I had to smile when, ten minutes later, I
found myself curled up with a chicken soup-in-a-cup and the opening scene of
Sleepless
in Seattle
rolling on the screen – Mother’s bizarre provisions pack was
finally coming in handy, it seemed.

Luke insisted on staying, though I had a feeling that on the
cheesy old movie score something like
Terminator
or
Speed
may
have been more up his street. We sat side by side on the sofa, not quite
touching but almost. When we talked it was about the film – how frustrating the
story was; Luke did not bring up the subject of Sienna, and I was grateful for
that.

It was knocking on eleven o’clock by the time I ushered him
out of the door. He was determined to stay – just in case I needed him, he
said; he’d sleep on the sofa. But I was desperate to be alone, and in the end,
when he wouldn’t back down, I had to be blunt:

‘I need some space, Luke. Some time to myself.’

He flinched a little, but told me he understood.

There was an awkward moment as we said goodnight. Earlier,
he’d had his arm around me, holding me tight against him, he’d held my hand,
his thumb stroking mine, and it had felt easy and natural. But now that the
drama had passed, we were back to being a little shy, a little unsure.
Eventually, he leaned in and planted the lightest of kisses on the smooth skin
above my cut. Then, finally, he left me.

Now, this morning, I knew he’d be calling to check on me. I
wouldn’t lie to him, I decided. No doubt if I did, he’d go to the cottage and
find me out. I’d just have to hope he understood my need to travel today.

*

It was just gone ten o’clock when I arrived. I was surprised
to find the car park for St Augustine’s half full, and then the realisation
dawned that it was Sunday and of course the morning service would commence
shortly. It was unfortunate timing; I had hoped for peace and isolation here.

I drove out of the car park, took a right into a quiet residential
cul-de-sac and parked at the far end beneath a shady tree. Luke had called
twenty minutes before and, not having hands-free, I’d let it ring out. I
listened to his message – had I slept well? did I feel okay? should he pop
over? – but when I called him back I got his voicemail. I left a quick message
explaining where I was and that I was fine and promising to call him later.
Then I got out of the car, locked it and walked purposefully down the road.

A narrow alleyway between two houses led to the side
entrance to St Augustine’s, and it was this route I took now. With each step
the strains of organ music became louder – the hymn was unmistakable:
‘Jerusalem’. I found myself mouthing the words as I walked; they were as
familiar to me as any nursery rhyme. As a child, Father had drilled into us an
appreciation for English poets, and William Blake was his favourite. He loved
to tell people that we were descended from Blake, though whether that was true
I could never tell.

St Augustine’s came into view – an imposing grey-stone
church with a spire that could be seen for miles around. Unlike many old
churches in England, this one was in immaculate condition, from the landscaped
grounds to the shiny new roof, for this was a church attended by the affluent
Hampshire set. People were milling about at the front entrance, but I turned
away and walked quickly along the winding path that led to the rear of the
church.

The graveyard was large and climbed up a long, gentle hill.
The Blake family plot was at the top, overlooking the village and the
surrounding countryside. There, nestled in the heart of the grand, greyed tombs
and monuments, between Grandmother Anne Blake and Great-Uncle Henry Blake, was
a white marble monolith. The inscription was simple:

Sienna Elle Blake

What seems to us a sunset

Is a sunrise in another land.

To the side of the burial plot was a wooden bench, donated
to the graveyard years ago by my parents and bearing a plaque commemorating my
grandfather, Walter Blake, and inscribed with a John Donne quotation:

One short sleep past, we wake eternally

And death shall be no more.

I sat down and drew up my knees and rested my chin on them.
Then, staring at my sister’s grave, I let the grief I had been holding back for
these past hours have voice at last.

‘Sienna,’ I whispered as regret blurred my vision and my
chest clenched tight.

My brave, brave sister. All these months I had been so hurt
and angry – furious with her for a decision I perceived to be selfish and cruel
and thoughtless of those who loved her, those who were left behind. But it was
me who had been selfish and cruel: I had been focused on my pain, my loss, and
had given little thought to the pain she had been in.

Now, with Dr Morris’s inadvertent telling of the truth, the
earth had shifted on its axis. She had been dying. I didn’t know what of; I
could hardly press Dr Morris for details – but certainly at Easter she had been
delivered a death sentence. I remembered one of her cryptic emails now:

The end is coming; no escape.

In typical Sienna style, she had taken that in her stride
and faced death head on. There would be no long, slow crawl towards death for
my sister. No quietly wasting away. No losing control of herself and her life.
She would not allow her family to watch her go; she would not put us through
the pain of the long goodbye. I knew well the words she’d offered Dr Morris, in
comfort: “Dying, after all, will be an awfully big adventure.” As a child, we
had loved
Peter Pan
; had begged our nanny to read it at bedtime. Sienna was
Peter – she would never grow up if growing up meant death could claim her. And
so, one night, she walked into the sea and simply surfed into oblivion.

For the first time since that day I had been summoned to the
headteacher’s office, I understood. The relief was overwhelming. The weight
that had been pressing in on me for all these months, haunting me, was gone,
leaving only aching sadness that my sister was gone.

Hunched over, I cried until I was empty, purged. Then, when
it was finally quiet inside, I sat back, letting the sun dry the last of the
tears. I thought of Sienna, lying beneath the grass at my feet, and then I
thought of her watching me from above. I looked up. I smiled.

My purpose in coming here was fulfilled. But the graveyard
was empty and the air was sweet with the scent of freshly mown grass and the
sun beating down was warm and I found I didn’t want to leave this place where I
had finally found peace. I lay down on the bench.

Now the catharsis of tears had left me able to think beyond
Sienna, there was only one thought plaguing me: where was the deer? It had
died; I had been sure of that. But when I thought back to the events of
yesterday afternoon, how sure could I be of anything? I’d hit my head hard
enough to give me visual disturbances, after all – all that dizziness and
blurring and altered light perception.

The sky above was pulling me in – it was such a vivid,
beautiful shade of blue. Like Luke’s eyes, I thought dreamily; or Sienna’s
chunk of chalcanthite on my bedside table; or the strange bluish glow I thought
I’d seen yesterday when the deer…

I sat up.

I looked at St Augustine’s. How many times in childhood had
I sat in its pews and listened to sermons about miracles of God?

I looked at my hands. What was it my grandfather had said in
that weird dream I’d concocted?
Will you be God’s servant?

Closing my eyes, I tried to put myself back in the lane
yesterday afternoon; to recall how I’d felt as I’d touched the deer. I
remembered willing it to be calm and to feel no pain, then my heart pounding
and cold creeping up me. I tried it now – sending the same push of energy out.
I opened my eyes. Same old hands. Nothing miraculous at all.

‘And there you have it,’ I told myself. ‘Proof indeed that
you’re a sandwich short of a picnic.’

The peal of a church bell made me jump, and soon the
bell-ringers were in full flow. The sound was joyous, celebratory, and all at
once any thought of some magical healing seemed ridiculous. I had simply
overestimated the extent of the deer’s injuries, that was all. It had got up
and walked off. End of mystery, I told myself firmly – it was time to move on.

The bells were signalling that the service was over; people
would be leaving now. I decided to wait them out before returning to my car.
But the appearance of two figures around the back of the church put paid to
that idea. They were walking along the path that led to the top of the
graveyard, their heads bowed.

I was in no mood for company, and quickly, before they could
see me, I got off the bench and crouched behind a tall, thick gravestone.

‘Why you insist on us coming every Sunday I’ve no idea. I
don’t think I can take another week of that bloody sermonising reverend
spouting Bible verses at me. “Whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but
have eternal life” indeed. What does
he
know of loss?’

‘For Christ’s sake, woman, he’s trying to offer comfort.
Have you no respect for a man of the Church? And you know
exactly
why we
come here.’

‘Yes, to save face! To put on the proper charade of the
grieving couple!’

Their footsteps stopped nearby. There was an angry snort,
then:

‘Well, it’s all we can do now, isn’t it? I don’t see what’s
so bad about making a show of respect before our friends.’

‘Friends! What friends? None of those people in there care a
jot for us. It’s all part of the ruse, the pretence. It’s a bloody pantomime.’

‘Elizabeth, I won’t have you speak that way about people who
have been nothing but pleasant to us. My God, the things they’ve overlooked…’

‘Meaning me, I suppose? Because I lack your breeding?
Because my parents were just normal, simple folk? Good grief – the effort I’ve
gone to over the years to be your ideal trophy wife!’

‘Yes, I imagine drinking like a fish and taking to your bed
when life doesn’t suit you is quite an effort.’

There was a muted shriek.

I bowed my head and closed my eyes. It was painful to be in
earshot of such a venomous exchange, especially here, in a holy place of rest.

The row raged on:

‘Well, you should have thought of that before you married me
then, Hugo.’

‘Believe me, Elizabeth, I wish I had.’

‘And I wish I’d never married you, you bastard!’

‘I’ve no doubt you do. But then what would have become of
the girls? No decent schooling, no – ’

‘
Girl
, Hugo.
Girl
– singular. Scarlett is all
I have now.’

There was a hush, and I peeked out around the gravestone.
They were a sorry pair, my parents, standing at Sienna’s graveside. Both were
rigid with arms crossed defensively; both looked like they’d happily murder the
other would it not sully their designer clothes. Not for the first time in my
life, I wondered why they had ever married – the best I’d ever seen between
them was cold indifference; the worst, the enmity that was evident now.