Death Wish (The Ceruleans: Book 1) (8 page)

As the month of July wore on, my days settled into a
pleasant routine. Mid-morning I’d arrive at Bert’s and collect Chester, and
we’d go for long, rambling walks around the village and along the cliff paths
in either direction, pausing for a picnic lunch in the noonday sun. On
returning Chester I’d stop and visit for a while with Bert, and then the rest
of the afternoon was mine to do with as I liked – browse the internet, read a
novel on the beach or, most often, meet Cara.

It was hard to resist her constant appeals for a
shopping/coffee/beach/gossip buddy. Life was never dull with Cara. She was
always upbeat, with a refreshingly open perspective on the world (‘See that
guy? Yep, the one selling the
Big Issue
. Yes, the one with the big beard
and the scars. Hot, isn’t he?’), and her self-confidence was infectious.
Wherever we went, heads turned – and I didn’t think it was because of her
disability. She was one of those people with beauty inside and out, someone you
gravitate towards because she makes the day lighter.

The hours with Cara helped balance out the loneliness of
living in the cottage alone, but as fun as they were, there was another time of
day I most looked forward to. Early evening every weekday I would meet Luke for
a lesson, and it was when walking across the beach towards him, answering his
easy smile with one of my own, that I felt lightest. In a few short weeks I
transformed from sack of spuds on a board to a credible surfer. With Luke’s
encouragement I finally got the hang of balancing, and from there wiping out
became rarer and Luke and I began to cut about together side by side.

Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed to me that my
development was closely tracked by the surfing fraternity; I would catch the
odd member watching, from time to time, and I was totally stoked when a couple
gave me a ‘nice form’ one afternoon as I dried off on the beach. There was only
one surfer, though, in that set who pulled my attention – the blond-haired boy.
He had not approached me since our first meeting, but sometimes I felt his gaze
on me, and it seemed to me that he chose to surf towards the middle of the
cove, closer to my beginner’s area.

As my skill on the board grew, so did my confidence, and I
surprised myself by developing a kind of fearlessness in tackling waves. Luke
seemed to relax, realising that I wasn’t about to drown or dash myself on the
rocks, accidentally or otherwise. I still caught him casting dark looks towards
where the others surfed sometimes, but he said nothing more about them to me.

When surfing wasn’t the topic of conversation, we talked
about all sorts. I learned that he lived up the hill behind the village in a
salmon-pink house. That he had two jobs – a cook five days a week at a pub
three coves over, and man-and-van whenever a local job came up. That he was a
total foodie, and dreamed of one day opening his own eatery. He was easy to
talk to, and he didn’t quiz me but let me volunteer what information I was
happy to share – so I told him a little about my school, my degree course, my
memories of summers here in the cove and even, in a mad moment, of my growing
passion for
Quincy ME
courtesy of Bert, which made him laugh long and
hard.

There was just one subject that, by silent agreement, we
skirted around: family. I had no desire to talk about my distant father and my
needy mother; less still to delve into the murky area of the loss of my sister.
And in turn Luke said nothing about his family to me, for whatever reason, and
I respected his right to privacy.

Meanwhile, between the summer job and learning to surf, I
dug about as much as I could, trying to unearth clues as to Sienna’s movements,
moods and motivations in her last weeks. I spoke to obscure classmates from
Sienna’s school, who, it transpired, knew very little about her beyond memories
of wild partying. I carefully unpicked the hard-drive of Sienna’s laptop which
I had Mother send me, but found nothing more interesting than a morose poem
about fire ripping through a rain-soaked city. I pushed myself to talk to local
people as I walked Chester, and when the awkward moment arrived where they
acknowledged who I was, I asked, ‘Did you know my sister?’ The answer was only
ever, ‘Knew
of
her.’ I struggled to find anyone who’d actually been
close to Sienna, and I began to wonder just how isolated she had been here. (
So
why stay?
I wondered.) Only the surfing gang remained to be probed, and
they were seriously intimidating.

One rainy afternoon I pushed my complaining car up the M5 to
Bridgwater where Katie, Sienna’s best friend from school, lived. We met in
a cafe by the railway station, and from the outset Katie was unbearably
distraught – a steady flow of tears leaking mascara down onto her white
sweater, the odd sob causing people in the cafe to pause mid-sip and gawk at
us. I did my best to shush her, but she was implacable and, when it came to
answering questions, incoherent. As I sat quietly, waiting for her to calm, it
struck me that I’d been here before, many times, with Mother. She and Katie
would have got along famously. Perhaps, I reflected, that was the attraction
for Sienna; perhaps in some warped way she felt closer to home when around
Katie.

Finally, after a good five minutes of waiting, I snapped.
‘Katie! Stop it. Now.’

The coldness of my tone brought her up short. She stopped
mid-sob and stared at me.

‘She was my sister, my
sister
– you get it? If I can
sit here calmly, so can you. Now answer me this…’ I leaned closer, fixed her
with my eyes and said, ‘Were you in touch with her?’

Katie blinked. Opened her mouth to speak, then shut it
again. Blinked. Looked down at her coffee. Blinked. Looked back up.

‘Katie,’ I said, gentler this time. ‘Please. You have a
sister, I know. How would you feel…’

At that the tears welled up in her eyes again, and I braced
myself for a fresh wave of histrionics. But she nodded slowly, and then,
finally, out it all spilled – how she’d helped Sienna sneak out of her dorm and
driven her to the station, and the continued contact they’d had thereafter,
until two days before Sienna’s death.

‘The emails just stopped,’ she said. ‘I just thought, you
know, that she was holed up with some guy, and she’d be online soon enough to
dish the dirt. But the next thing I knew Mum was calling me, and she said, she
said…’

She dissolved into a fresh bout of tears. I reached over and
patted her hand awkwardly, and she looked up at me.

‘How could she do that to herself? I can’t get my head
around it. There was this girl at our school. Camilla. Her father, he lost
everything – the credit crunch or house prices or something. He went into the
garage and got in his car and gassed himself. Camilla, she was never the same.
And Sienna and I – we talked about it then, and after. She didn’t get it, why
he would do that. Leave his family behind. Hurt people. For Sienna to… it
doesn’t make sense.’

I didn’t know what to say. She was echoing my own words to
Mother and Father in the days after the news broke. They had dismissed me –
denial, Father had told me, was the first stage of grief. When I’d refused to
let it go, refused to accept that was how my sister had died, he’d contacted a
support organisation for those bereaved by suicide. I’d read the pamphlets. I
understood that questioning why, why, why was part of the natural response of
those left behind. Still, I needed to at least try to find answers. And now,
here was someone who’d known Sienna, known her well, who was similarly shocked
by the manner of her death. It was unsettling.

‘She was happy, I thought, you know,’ Katie went on. ‘She
emailed me often, told me about surfing – said it was awesome, the best high.
She sent a picture of herself with the gang. She was seeing one of them, I
think.’

I had been swilling around the dregs of my coffee,
half-listening and half-thinking about the lies Katie had told my parents, but
at her last words my heart leapt and I looked up sharply. ‘Who, who was she
seeing?’ I demanded.

But she either didn’t know or was determined not to tell me.
All I got was that he was ‘some surfer dude, and hot – really hot’. I asked to
see the picture, but she hadn’t kept it. Teeth gritted, I told her pleasantly
that should she find it, perhaps in her deleted items folder, could she please
forward it to me. Wide-eyed, she nodded.

Having wrung everything out of her, I left Katie to finish
her third black coffee. The last I saw of my sister’s best friend was through
the window of the cafe as I drove away. Head back, she was laughing, hand
placed flirtatiously on the barista’s arm.

Back home, I puzzled over the new information. If Katie was
right, Sienna had been involved with someone in Twycombe. Was it even relevant?
Sienna was hardly a nun; she had a steady stream of boyfriends, each as
meaningless to her as the last. Had something more happened here – had she been
serious with some guy? Who? And did her death have anything to do with him? Why
hadn’t she told me about the relationship – God knew she loved to tell me juicy
details, dangle in front of me her desirability and conquests as a ‘Look at me,
and then look at you, poor sis, all single’.

It might have been something, or it might have been nothing.
But for now, it was the only thing I had to go on. I was fast mastering
surfing, and in doing so had a good understanding of what had attracted Sienna
to the pastime – and even the crowd that came with it; it hadn’t escaped my
notice that some of the surfer guys were pretty fine. But I was no closer to an
understanding of how she had let the sea claim her. I thought about it often
while riding a wave, and especially when I lost my balance and entered the
water, and still it felt wrong to me. It seemed, then, that the next step would
be to find this bloke she’d been seeing. And for that, I needed an in with the
surfing crowd.

I pondered the problem for days; even mentioned to Luke it
might be fun to join them out there, but that idea was met with such an
appalled look I didn’t have the guts to push any further. Then, late one Monday
night, Cara inadvertently became my saviour with a text:

P.A.R.T.Y.! This Friday night, Surfer Si’s place. Say
you’ll come?

My first thought was,
Hell no
. Party? That was
Sienna’s scene, not mine. But I quickly realised this was the opportunity I
needed – Si, I knew, was a family friend of Cara’s latest squeeze (‘Lovely
Kyle’) and one of the surfer crowd. Si was the only one who lived in Twycombe;
hence his house – right on the beach, so Cara had told me – was the gang’s
designated party pad. It was there that Sienna had spent her last evening, and
it was there, I decided firmly, I would spend this Friday night. I texted back:

Sounds good, count me in.

Then I had a moment’s panic as I mentally surveyed the
contents of my wardrobe. What to wear to a house party full of surfer types?

Dress code?
I texted.

Sexy
, was the quick reply.

Well, that ruled out every outfit I had, I thought. Cara was
effortlessly sexy; would look amazing in a bin liner. I was more of a jeans and
casual top type – would that cut it? Suddenly, I was all sweaty at the thought
of this party, and my fingers hovered over the keys of the phone, ready to
type,
Oops, forgot I’ve got plans that night
, but she beat me to it.

I’ll come round before and help you get ready. Little
tipple, music up loud, do your hair…

I could just picture Cara’s eyes sparkling as she
contemplated the makeover she’d been coaxing me towards these past weeks. Oh
hell. But there was nothing for it.

Great, you know where to find me,
I texted.
See
you then.

After Tuesday’s lesson, Luke announced he had to work both
the day and evening shifts at the pub on Friday, so couldn’t make our lesson
then. But to make up he had the whole day off work on Thursday, and he offered
to take me out for lunch. Was it my imagination, or were his perpetually
flushed cheeks a shade darker as he spoke?

The impromptu speech took me aback – while I enjoyed the
time I spent with Luke, we’d never strayed beyond the daily beach meetups, and
I wasn’t sure what to make of this invitation.

As if reading my mind, he added, ‘Just, you know, as
friends. I just thought you’re stuck here most of the time with walking
Chester, and you’ve done so well with lessons, a day off couldn’t hurt. And you
could swap your days with Bert.’

I could feel my own cheeks colouring to match his own; what
a pair. Keen to put him out of his misery and draw a line under this awkward
moment, I said quickly, ‘Great, yeah, that’d be good.’

Thursday dawned glorious with a promise from the BBC
weatherman that it would be the hottest day of the year so far. I dithered for
much too long in front of my wardrobe wondering what to wear, which was
entirely pointless as I eventually settled for the old-reliable
vest-top-and-jeans combo. I deliberated over footwear; usually I wore tatty
trainers, but thinking of the heat, I opted for sandals instead. I’d got into
the habit of tying my long hair back for walks with Chester and surfing
lessons, but today I decided to leave it swinging free down my back. After a
moment’s thought, I added a touch of mascara to my lashes; wouldn’t hurt to
look my best.

Surveying my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I realised I
looked a different girl to the one who’d arrived here weeks before. My skin was
tanned, my hair was lighter, and although the dark shadows under my eyes were
still there, hidden beneath a layer of concealer, there was a spark in my eyes
that had been missing for a long while. There was something else too, a
crawling of butterflies in my stomach at the thought of a day alone with Luke,
and I decided I rather liked it.

Ten o’clock on the dot, as agreed, I heard the rumble of
Luke’s van in the lane and I hurried downstairs, grabbed my bag from the bottom
banister and flung open the front door. He was getting out of the van as I
emerged, and I almost ground to a halt at the sight of him: plain white
t-shirt, rumpled beige shorts, white-ish trainers. I was so used to seeing him
in black neoprene, I realised. He looked
good
.

‘Morning! You all set?’ He smiled easily at me.

I took in the state of the van – caked in mud. I knew
yesterday he’d helped clear a whole heap of junk from an old house and taken it
to the local dump; I could just imagine the smell and the creepy crawlies that
remained.

‘How about I drive?’ I offered.

‘You sure?’ He looked a little concerned. Perhaps he was thinking
of the total lack of coordination I’d demonstrated to him in our early surf
lessons. Many times.

‘Yep,’ I said cheerily as I rummaged in my bag for the car
keys. ‘I love driving.’

Ten minutes later I was doing my best not to laugh at the
sight of tall, well-built Luke folded into the passenger seat of the old Mini,
his knees not far off his chin. Instead I tried to concentrate on his
directions as we weaved through lanes I’d never encountered before. I’d tuned
the radio to the local station and Elbow’s ‘One Day Like This’ blasted from the
tinny speakers. It just about drowned out the occasional moan from Luke as he
whacked his head on the roof.

‘Nice car,’ he commented.

‘Thanks. My father wanted to buy me a Chelsea tractor, but I
figured this was more me-sized. And more my budget.’

‘You bought it yourself?’

He sounded surprised – he knew my family was loaded then.
‘Yes. Back at school I worked Saturdays tutoring kids in town. Saved up. She’s
all mine.’

‘I’ve a soft spot for classic cars. Though this one’s a
little…’

‘A little what?’

‘A little
little
.’

‘Not really. You can fit twenty-seven people in here.’

‘Come again?’

‘Twenty-seven people.’

‘You’ve had
twenty-seven people
in this car? Where
were you, Lilliput?’

‘Not my car, but the same model. It’s the Guinness world
record for the number of people in a Classic Mini.’

We hit a bump and Luke rubbed his head. ‘That is a weird
world record to set.’

‘Not half as weird as the longest fingernails ever. Or the
heaviest weight lifted by a tongue. Or the fastest time to enter a suitcase.’ I
realised, abruptly, that Luke was staring at me, and added quickly, ‘There’s a
website. I was bored the other night…’

He grinned. ‘I’ll have to check it out.’

Several twists and turns later we passed a sign welcoming us
to Heybrook Bay and entered a tiny coastal village. On Luke’s instruction I
weaved down the hillside and parked in the car park of a pub – the Eddystone
Inn.

‘My grandparents lived here,’ explained Luke as we climbed
out of the car and I took in the scene. It was beautiful. Totally isolated,
with just a scattering of houses overlooking the sea. ‘C’mon, it’s a cove I’m
taking you to.’

He led the way along the coastal path – to our right, a
steep, gorse-strewn hill; to our left, a sharp drop to massive rocks and
white-tipped waves. We walked for several minutes, single file for the path was
narrow and windy, before we emerged on a grassy bank overlooking a wide expanse
of rocks and an outcrop jutting out just off shore, dark against the blue blue
sky.

‘This way,’ said Luke. ‘There’s a route down.’

He went ahead, and I clambered down behind him, over age-old
rocks worn smooth by the endless ebb and flow of the tides, until finally my
sandals were crunching on shells and pebbles. We were in the tiniest cove I’d
ever seen.

‘I used to come here a lot as a kid,’ said Luke. ‘Other
people come, of course – mainly villagers – but you often get it to yourself
for hours at a time. It’s the most peaceful place I know.’

I sat on a ledge cut into a big rock and breathed in the
strong scent of seaweed that transported me straight back to childhood. ‘It’s
heaven,’ I told him.

He grinned, glad I saw the magic of the place too.

‘Are you up for some climbing?’

I looked dubiously at my sandals, then kicked them off and
rolled up my trouser legs. ‘Definitely.’

We passed an hour clambering on the many rocks, inspecting
rock pools, collecting shells and generally acting like children in explorer
mode. The tide was out and the water shallow near the shore, so we paddled out
to the massive rocky outcrop and climbed partway up it. The view out to sea and
back at the land was pretty amazing, and we sat quietly for a while, just
taking it in. I asked about an island to the west that jutted out of the ocean
like a triangular wedge; I thought I recognised it.

‘It’s called the Mewstone,’ said Luke.

‘I remember it,’ I told him. ‘You can see it from the far
corner of the cottage garden. When we were kids, we used to fantasise about
living there – our own private island.’

It had slipped out, and that little word, ‘we’, made me
ache. It was just me now.

Luke opened his mouth to talk, and suddenly I was afraid of
what he would say, afraid he’d touch that bit of me that ached and break it
wide open.

‘Race you down!’ I called, and quickly scrambled back down
the rock. A shocking idea that resulted in me slipping and landing on my butt
in the water.

Luke was quickly – nimbly – at my side. ‘Are you –’

I covered mortification with laughter. ‘An idiot? Yes.’

‘Here.’ He held out a hand to me. I hesitated for a moment,
and then took it. His hand was warm and a little rough. And dry. He pulled me
up and surveyed my jeans, clinging limpet-style to my legs.

‘Sun’s blazing now,’ I said. ‘They’ll soon dry if we sit for
a while.’

He looked dubious, but followed me to the beach where we
kicked aside the bigger pebbles to create a clear patch and sat down, side by
side. Instinctively, as I’d done on the beach all my childhood, I began sifting
through the surrounding rocks and shells, looking for ‘keepers’. Here, many of
the rocks were amber-coloured and marbled with a smooth, creamy trace, and I
weighed different ones in my hand, enjoying the smooth feeling of the stone
against my skin. Then I realised I’d been sorting rocks rather than talking to
Luke. I looked up, embarrassed, to see what I’d missed – and smiled. Luke had
been busy picking out the rounded grey pebbles; the more symmetrical, the
better. I teased him about it, and he laughed and confessed he was a stickler
for order amid chaos.

‘Here,’ he said eventually, after a forage at his left side,
away from me. He handed me a piece of green glass, its edges curved and
softened and its surface frosted by the tide. ‘When I was a kid, I thought
these were pirates’ treasure. My grandad was always telling me about Sir
Francis Drake – hero to the English, pirate to the Spanish. He sailed from
Plymouth, you know…’

I stared at the green glass in my hand as Luke carried on
briefing me on Vice Admiral Drake. What was it the boy in the churchyard had
said? My eyes were green like the jewels of glass that washed up on the beach.

Luke, seeming to realise that he’d lost my attention with
his brief history lesson, checked his watch and suggested it was time to move
on. I snapped back to reality – guilty to realise I had been thinking of that
other boy while here with Luke, and then confused by the guilt; surely I was
free to think of whoever I liked?

The climb up the rocks and the walk along the narrow path
proved a little trickier this time around, with my still-very-wet-jeans
weighing me down.

At the pub car park Luke said, ‘I have another place in mind
for lunch. But first, do you need to change your jeans?’

I really did. The denim was cold, soggy and sticky. ‘They’re
fine,’ I lied.

‘Do you have a change of clothes with you?’

I eyed the boot of the Mini, which was full of bags ready to
be dropped off at the charity shop. ‘Not… really.’

‘I’ll look away while you change, if that’s what you’re
thinking…’

‘It’s not.’

‘Oh.’

I sneezed.

‘Scarlett, do me a favour?’

‘What?’

‘Get changed.’

‘Right.’

*

A half hour later we were weaving down steep, tiny streets
that looked to be designed for horses rather than cars. I had a vague idea that
the houses we were passing were quaint and colourful, but I was too busy
gripping the steering wheel to look properly as we descended. How Luke had
expected to get his van down here I had no idea. Finally, we reached the bottom
of the hill and pulled up.

I eyed the sandy expanse on which Luke had told me to park.
‘Er, this looks a lot like…’

‘A river bed? It is. Newton Creek. That side’ – he pointed
to a smattering of houses on the northern bank – ‘is Newton Ferrars. This side
is Noss Mayo. Tiny village. But the pub is great. When you can get to it. Got
to watch it when the tide comes in, or you lose your car.’ He saw my
expression. ‘Don’t worry. I checked the times; we’re fine.’

Still, I gave my little car a reassuring (goodbye?) pat as I
locked it up.

‘You ready?’ asked Luke, and I saw his eyes flit down
momentarily – again. The car boot was full of old school sports kit, and I’d
ended up in a hockey skirt. An ugly one. Bottle-green. Which clashed
horrendously with my pink vest. But it had been a choice between the skirt, a
leotard and baggy-kneed jogging bottoms.

I tugged the skirt down as far as it would go (which wasn’t
far; it was two sizes too small) and managed a breezy, ‘Which way?’

Luke gestured along the sand to a white stone inn set right
on what would be the waterfront when the tide was in. Clearly, despite the
difficult access, the Ship Inn was a popular haunt, but Luke spotted a couple
gathering their things at an outside table on the deck and darted across to
claim it. I followed him and sat down.

The next two hours whizzed by in a blur of sunshine and
people-watching and chat. Luke was such easy company, and he often made me
laugh – once to the point of choking on my lasagne. But then, during one
anecdote involving Luke attempting to cook a lobster that refused to die in the
pot, there came a turning point. It was such a simple gesture, casual and no
doubt meaningless – the breeze picked up and caught my loose hair, blowing a
section across my face, and Luke reached over and brushed it away. But all I
could think of was the feeling of his touch on my skin, and the intimacy of the
move, and the way it made me feel cared for in a way I’d never been. Suddenly,
the realisation hit me: I was falling for this boy.

I thought furiously as I did my best to keep up with the
conversation (the lobster had escaped the pot now and Luke was grappling with
it on the kitchen worktop). In a sense, this was the simplest, most natural
development in the world. Who else but Luke? He was kind and generous. He
didn’t judge me. He didn’t crowd me or probe into my business. In our lessons,
when I rode a wave he cheered me on. When I failed to conceal my exhaustion and
wobbled in his company, his arm was straight out, steadying me, and his voice
was soft and deep as he asked, ‘Hey, you okay?’ And there was no denying that
he was attractive, that I was attracted. His physique made me feel protected,
safe; and those eyes…

Now, just being close to him made my heart beat a little
faster. Every time he shifted I caught his scent on the breeze – a hint of
spicy aftershave and something else, something that made me think of freshly
baked cakes. His lips as he talked were mesmerising. What would it feel like to
kiss them? Under the table I felt the heat of his knee dangerously close to
mine. A part of me willed him to touch me.