Forget Me Not (The Ceruleans: Book 2) (14 page)

Luke was laughing.

‘What?’

‘The house up there,’ he said, ‘was Maud’s guesthouse.’

‘Oh!’

‘It’s not so bad once you’re on the island. Then you forget
the cliffs. It’s just the house and the garden and the sea and the sky. Like
living on a cloud. I wanted to show you – if I could coax you over the bridge. I
asked Maud if she could arrange it with the new owner, but she said no. Said
he’s really reclusive.’

I stared up at the house, so high above, and wondered about
the man who lived there, isolated, in such a vulnerable position.

‘Whoever he is,’ I said, ‘he’s either a very brave man or a very
foolish one to live there.’

‘Brave,’ said Luke firmly.

‘What makes you say that?’

He smiled and brushed away a strand of hair that had caught
the breeze and was whipping around my face. ‘Because I happen to know someone
quite like him. Lives alone in an isolated house pretty close to a cliff.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘her. No, I have it on very good authority
that she’s not at all brave, but actually
spectacularly
stupid. To the
point of mistaking socks for real-life predatory animals.’

He laughed again and I thought how much I loved that sound,
how it wrapped around me like a comfort blanket.

We walked, hand in hand, down to the waterline, where the
waves lapped the sand. Without a word, we began a game of chicken with the
water – standing at the last point a wave had touched, and daring the next one
to come wet us. In Twycombe the result, invariably, on an incoming tide was
soggy trainers. Today, in this sheltered bay, with waves so gentle, we should
have been the all-conquering victors, and for a short while we were. But then
we got distracted and… well, it turned out that it was kind of hard to see a
wave coming with your eyes closed. There was a decided squelch in each step we
took home. I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything. I had officially been
kissed senseless.

The annual Newquay night surf – the central purpose for our
trip – was an iconic event on the UK surf calendar, attracting the very best
surfers. None of us were competing, but Si, Liam and Duvali were thinking of
entering next year, and wanted to scope it out. Plus, with a bar on the beach
and a DJ blasting out beats into the night, it was a partying surfer’s dream.

We arrived in the evening, when the sun was hovering above
the ocean, and already the men’s competition was well underway. We used a few
picnic blankets to stake our claim on a patch of sand, and sat down to watch.
The waves were big enough to demand expert surfing, and that’s what the men on
the boards delivered, over and over. They were poised, they were fearless, they
were fast, they were free.

‘How they must feel right now…’ I said to Luke beside me.
‘Kind of makes you want to grab a surfboard, doesn’t it?’

‘Then why don’t you?’ He caught my look and added, ‘There’s
a women’s comp, you know. If you practise, I think you could enter next year.
I’d come and cheer you on…’

Next year. I wouldn’t be here next year.

Ignoring the squeeze of my heart, I said, ‘Surfing with you
in the cove is enough for me. I want to do that.’

‘Tomorrow evening?’

‘Tomorrow as soon as we get back.’

He laughed at my impatience and kissed me, but not for long
– a shout went up and we broke apart to watch a surfer take the biggest wave
yet. I watched him surf. I watched all of them surf. The whole scene – the
dancing surfers, the gold-tipped waves, the sky streaked with pink – was like a
painting in a gallery you just can’t turn away from. Mesmerising. Only this
scene was ever-changing: every minute the sun sank a little further and the
light changed, until eventually the reds and yellows of the spectrum were gone,
leaving only blue.

When the sun set there was a second of disorientation all
round as the event organisers turned up a series of very bright floodlights
directed to illuminate the main section of the beach and sea. Then a cheer rang
out and gathered strength: the party had begun. Within an hour the atmosphere
had transformed from chilled to electric. A live band was bashing out what Si
informed me was ‘funky bounce rock’, and everywhere people were dancing and
shouting and laughing and drinking. The buzz was brilliant – but agonising. I
had a headache, a bad one, and all the painkillers I had on me hadn’t shifted
it. So when Luke headed off to the Beach Bar to get us another round of drinks,
I took the chance to slip away from our little base of operations, which was
situated ear-splittingly close to a stack of speakers, in search of a little
calm.

I walked down to the water and watched the surfers. In the
dark they were streaks of yellow and orange and green and pink neon. The wind
had picked up, and with it the waves. They appeared black now, and I moved
closer, searching for some remaining trace of blue. And then a hand on my arm
yanked me back. I shrieked.

‘Scarlett! It’s me.’

‘Jude! What the hell!’

He pulled me along a little way, so that we were right at
the edge of the floodlights’ reach, half in the light and half in the shadow.
Then he turned me to face him.

‘What were you thinking?’ he demanded. ‘Right then.’

‘What?’

‘What were you thinking?’

I’d never seen him so agitated. I tried to shake off his
hand on my arm but he held on grimly.

‘Jude, please – you’re scaring me.’

‘
I’m
scaring
you
! Scarlett, what were you
doing at the water’s edge?’

‘Watching the surfers.’

‘That’s it?’

‘Well, what the hell else would I be doing?’

He let go of me abruptly and exhaled loudly.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said, rubbing my arm.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry. When I saw you walking to the
water I thought… I thought you were going in.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Why wouldn’t you? Sienna did...’

In a second I understood:

‘How many more sunrises do you think I have?’

‘How many do you need to say goodbye?’

‘All of them.’

‘Are you sure?’

I hadn’t realised then what he meant. Now I did. Sienna
hadn’t lived out her natural life, hadn’t taken every moment she could have,
hadn’t allowed anyone – herself or others – to suffer through her illness.
She’d chosen an end point. She’d killed herself. I could do the same. I
should
do the same?

Suicide.

I saw a woman on a bleak and windswept clifftop. Crying.
Tortured. Desperate. Placing her baby in the arms of a benevolent stranger. And
then stepping back, and falling, and falling, until jagged rocks ended her pain.
She had chosen that death. She had chosen Death.

It hurt,
it hurt
. Pain, deep in my head. Hot.
Horrific. I grabbed my head and I staggered and I felt Jude catch me and I
heard his voice in my ear but I couldn’t respond; it was hard enough just to
breathe.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Please. I can’t do what she did. I just
can’t.’

‘Then
don’t
. Don’t do that.’

Something shifted in my head – I felt it, I felt the
pressure lift.

‘Is the pain better?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ Abruptly, I realised I was sitting on the sand and
Jude was crouched in front of me. ‘Did you heal me?’ I asked.

He shook his head and said gently, ‘I can’t heal what’s in
your head, Scarlett.’ He let go of my hands and used the sleeve of his jacket
to wipe my cheeks. They were wet, I realised; I’d been crying.

‘It never even occurred to me before,’ I told him. I needed
him to understand. ‘And now I see why Sienna did it, and I should do it too,
for her, to go to her quickly…’

I’d pictured Sienna’s death many times. I’d pictured her
underwater, serene in her surrender as she sank, gracefully, into the darkness.
But when I reimagined the scene with me as the subject, it was entirely
different. I was thrashing about, screaming silently.

‘I
can’t
, Jude. I just can’t do that! All those
months, grieving Sienna, that was the root of it all – I could never understand
because I could never do that.’

For the first time that night he smiled. ‘Scarlett,’ he
said, ‘you’re a Cerulean through and through.
You shall not kill,
remember? We believe that life is sacred, a gift. We believe that none of us
have the right to take a life, any life. It’s
good
to think that. It’s
–’

‘There you are!’

I always thought ‘jumped guiltily’ was a figure of speech,
but there was nothing innocent about the way both Jude and I jerked at the
sound of Cara’s shout. I turned to see her walking the last few feet towards
us. She was smiling, but there was a sharpness in her eyes that made me wonder
how long she’d been watching us talk.

‘Hi, Cara,’ I said in what I hoped was a relaxed tone.

‘What are you two doing sitting over here?’ she said. ‘In
the shadows. All alone.’

Jude took over: ‘Scarlett felt rough. I brought her over
here for some air.’

Pretty much the same line he’d given Luke outside the club
the night before. Apparently, this was his go-to excuse for being huddled up
with me. But whereas Luke had melted quickly into concern, Cara was still
regarding us with suspicion.

‘Right then,’ I said, getting up off the sand. I lurched a
little on the uneven surface and Jude, already on his feet, reached for me. I
caught the look on Cara’s face at that little intimate gesture and stepped back
smartly.

‘C’mon, Cara,’ I said, sliding my arm through hers, ‘lead
the way to the bouncy funk.’

‘Funky bounce rock,’ she corrected automatically as I tugged
her away. Once we were out of Jude’s earshot, she stopped in front of me, so
that we were face to face. ‘Scarlett,’ she said seriously, ‘what was all that
about?’

‘I had a headache. I sat down for a bit. Now I feel better.’

I figured the truth was my best weapon against my perceptive
friend. Eyes narrowed, she weighed me up. Then, finally, she relaxed.

‘Idiot,’ she said, poking me hard in the ribs. ‘I told you
to lay off those energy drinks. Take my advice: stick to rum.’

*

The night surf formally ended at eleven o’clock with an epic
firework display. My head complained at the booms and bangs, but my heart did
not – leaning against Luke’s chest, his arms wrapped around me, I knew this was
a precious memory in the making, one I would come back to in my mind again and
again…
after
.

The fireworks were exploding in a frantic rhythm, but I was
calm as I watched them. The feelings Jude had awakened earlier were gone now,
burnt out as quickly as the shower of sparks from a rocket. If anything, that
little incident on the fringe of the light had made me more resolute than ever
to focus on life now. Jude was right that life was sacred. I should treasure
it.

A quick succession of explosions illuminated the entire bay.

‘It’s beautiful here,’ I said. ‘Isn’t it?’

Luke’s arms tightened around me. ‘It’s beautiful here
because you’re here.’

‘Soppy,’ I teased.            

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But you have that effect on me. You make
me soppy. You make me happy. You make me… you make me want do crazy things and
amazing things and…’ He leaned in close and growled in my ear another kind of
thing.

‘Cavendish,’ I said through my grin. ‘Are you drunk?’

‘Yes. On you.’

‘And a
little
bit of beer.’

‘I only had three bottles! It’s you, Scarlett Blake. You
make me feel this way. Do you know, this is the furthest I’ve come from home
since Mum and Dad died? You make me want to live bigger. See more. Do more.
With you.’

I stepped out of the circle of his arms, so that I could
turn around and look up at him. He was so happy; I didn’t think I’d ever seen
him so happy. Reaching up, I cupped his cheeks. They were hot under my hands,
and full with his smile.

‘What if this moment was all we had?’ I said. ‘What if there
was no more, just this – just you and me on a beach watching fireworks? What
would you do next, Luke?’

For a moment he just gazed at me, and I counted one, two,
three flashes of red from the sky reflected in his eyes. Then he reached for me

and there was no beach

and there were no fireworks

and there was no sadness

and there was no longing

there was only that kiss, and it was everything, and it was
endless.

When the weekend ended, so too did the summer, it seemed. We
returned to an autumnal Twycombe with a biting sea breeze and a sky so thick
with cloud that glimpses of blue were rare. In a matter of a fortnight,
t-shirts were swapped for jumpers, ice-cold sodas for mugs of tea and
sunglasses for umbrellas. Surfing was harder: wilder, colder. The cottage was
draughty and gloomy, and a thick woollen cardigan became essential wear. Even
walking Chester on the beach was more of an effort – I had to steel myself to
shrug on a coat and step out beneath the glowering skies.

When I look back now on those last weeks in September and
October, before everything changed, it strikes me how hard I tried to live the
fantasy not the reality. If my life were a movie, I wanted this to be the
montage sequence – a fast-paced, inspiring collection of scenes epitomising a
life well lived. Shining, happy faces. Beautiful backdrops. Endearing
kookiness. An upbeat backing track by a really cool band.

In truth, the song was wrong – too slow, too poignant. And
occasionally, as if the movie director were set on subversion, a scene cropped
up in the mix that undermined the theme. A recycle bin full of empty painkiller
boxes. A dog barking at a frying pan in flames. A tiger stalking around the
cottage garden.

But I blazed on regardless. I brushed aside the headaches
and the odd moment in the cottage when I seemed to have lost a slice of time. I
didn’t worry about the spate of little accidents that befell me – so I was
clumsy, absentminded; so what? I refused to think about when the end would
come, and how my final moments would play out. I was polite but distant with
Jude, urging him to back off for now, let me live my life. (He did, but he
watched me often, I knew; I felt his eyes on me.)

Bucket-listing, I suppose you’d call it: in those last
weeks, I did anything and everything I thought was important and meaningful, or
not remotely meaningful but sheer fun.

I packed a picnic and took Luke back to Heybrook Bay, where
we climbed on the rocks and collected shells and paddled until our feet were
numb.

I worked my way through the South West Coast Path’s
recommended dog walks with Chester, taking in the very best of Devonshire
scenery and country pubs along the way.

I bought a pogo stick and mastered the art of kangarooing
around the drive of the cottage.

I sat through a Bella–Edward–Jacob marathon with Cara, all
five films back to back, ten hours, Twihard.

I visited Grannie Cavendish and read to her the entire Hans
Christian Andersen compendium.

I talked Luke into driving to Babbacombe Model Village, an
hour away, where we spent an afternoon as Gullivers in the land of Lilliput.

I rang in for a competition on a local radio station and won
a year’s supply of yoghurt for naming five Greek gods in ten seconds.

I had a stab at teaching Chester to doggie surf: disastrous
but hilarious.

I hung out with a partially blind loggerhead turtle called
Snorkel at Plymouth’s National Marine Aquarium.

I travelled to Stonehenge and lay naked amid the ancient
stones and hundreds of other blue-arsed participants for photographer Spencer
Tunick’s latest live nude installation.

I took Luke to the theatre for a touring production of
Chicago
,
then gave him a reprisal of ‘And All That Jazz’ back home dressed in one of
Cara’s basques.

I blew more than two hundred pounds on an eighteen-inch
Double Chocolate Dream Gateaux from Patisserie Valerie and took it over to Luke
and Cara’s along with three forks.

I joined Si and Duvali letterboxing on Dartmoor,
orienteering and solving clues and generally clambering about in the mud.

I booked a one-day culinary course at River Cottage HQ,
where Luke and I learned to make artisan breads.

I called my mother once, twice.

I went zip-wiring with Cara: fifteen metre-high platform,
one hundred and fifty metre-long descent wire dangling over a lake.

I threw an early Halloween party at the cottage for all the
surfing lot, with carved pumpkins and cobwebs and spider cookies and brew-ha-ha
punch and blood orange martinis and a ‘Monster Mash’-led soundtrack.

I wangled tickets for an Ed Sheeran concert at the Pavilion
and took Luke, and when Ed sang our song from the folly, we kissed, and kissed,
and kissed.

I loved it, every minute. I was frenzied, unstoppable,
relentless, like an artist in the throes of creation or an addict on the very
pinnacle of a high. I told myself I could go on like this forever – forever was
here, now, after all. But by the time leaves were carpeting the ground and cold
October rains were misting the cove, the spirit was willing but the body was
weakening.

Jude warned me, of course, that it was coming: the turning
point. His pessimism may have been valid, but it was depressing, and so I
ignored him at all turns. But later, afterwards, I would wish I had listened.
For Luke’s sake.

*

‘
That
is one funny looking animal.’

‘It’s awesome.’

‘It’s got a Gonzo from The Muppets thing going on with its
nose.’

‘Look – it’s coming over.
Gorgeous!
’

‘What is it? Some kind of anteater-pig-hippo descendent?’

‘It’s a tapir, Luke. Closest relatives are rhinos and
horses.’

‘What are you, some kind of zoologist?’

‘Nope. It says on the sign… look. ’

‘I’d rather look at –
oof!
’

I turned around to find Luke stepping back smartly from a
small toddler bearing an enormous plastic lightsaber.

‘Sorry! Sorry!’ called a harried-looking woman hurrying down
the path towards us. ‘Ivor! Naughty. You
don’t
run off.’

‘Piggie-’ippo!’ explained the toddler to his mother,
pointing a pudgy finger at the enclosure beyond.

‘Tapir, actually,’ Luke told little Ivor knowledgeably, then
winked at me.

I looked at the two of them together, my gentle giant with a
tiny person at his knees. Something inside me ached at the sight. I tugged on
Luke’s hand to pull him away. ‘It’s freezing out here. Coffee?’

‘Make it a hot chocolate and you’re on.’

We headed up the hill to the warmth of the restaurant, hand
in hand, the sound of Ivor’s ‘Mummy, a peer! Mummy, look: a peer-piggie-’ippo!’
echoing in our ears.

It was by no means a day for a zoo trip: the weather was
cold with grey skies leaching out intermittent drizzle. We’d been planning to
come to Dartmoor Zoo before now, but had been waiting for blue skies. Then this
morning, when I’d woken up with an empty Sunday stretching ahead and the
ticking of the clock thrumming through the cottage, I’d called Luke and told
him to grab his wellies – today was the day, weather be damned. In fact, he’d
turned up in his usual trainers (now leaden with mud), but at least he’d been
willing, if a little perplexed by my sudden urge to see capybaras and coatis.
He’d long since stopped commenting on my energetic, seize-the-day mentality,
opting instead to sit back and go along for the ride.

And it was worth it. Even on a gloomy day like this, it was
impossible not to appreciate the magic of this small, family-run zoo, tucked
away down winding lanes and set on a hillside with spectacular views over the
surrounding countryside. There was a simplicity to the place that set it apart
from other zoos I’d visited: commercial ones, jam-packed with animals and
burger stands and play areas in vibrant primary colours. Here, it was all about
the animals. Big enclosures with intelligent designs allowed visitors to get
intimately close to animals that roamed around their spaces with confidence,
masters of their domains. Here, no depressed raccoon stared miserably out at
you from its cell, no deranged wolf ran in endless loops around its cage; here,
when they set the birds of prey free for the flying display, they came back.

But it wasn’t just the animals who were relaxed here, it was
me too – despite my block-of-ice feet, despite the mud splattered up my jeans,
despite the headache building at my temples. In the restaurant, I watched Luke
as he told a story of the first time he ever saw an elephant, as a young boy.
His eyes were bright with the memory, his cheeks flushed fit to scald, his
smile brilliant. And I thought, this, right here, I could just stay here:
eternity.

‘Scarlett?’

‘Huh?’

‘You were doing it again.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Zoning out.’

‘Sorry.’ I plastered a smile on my face. ‘Elephant. The
zoo.’

But he didn’t smile. He put down his mug and stared at me
seriously. ‘Where do you go when you do that? You look so serious.’

‘Nothing, nowhere – really.’

He sighed. ‘I get it. You’re a private person. And I try not
to pry. But I worry about you.’

I reached over and laid a hand over his. ‘Really, you don’t
need to. All tickety-boo over here.’

‘You know I’m here, though, right? If you need to talk.’

‘I know.’

‘Is it your sister?’

‘There is no it!’

‘Sorry!’ He raised his hands. ‘I just…’

I looked out of the window, then back to him. ‘The rain’s
stopped. Where to next?’

He stared at me for a long moment, and then looked down at
the map laid out on the table. ‘Big cats,’ he said. ‘Along here and then up to
the top – see?’

‘Great! Just give me a moment.’

I kissed him and then walked casually across the room to the
toilets. Once inside the ladies’, I sank onto a toilet seat and knocked back
four painkillers. I allowed myself a couple of minutes with my eyes closed,
leaning against the side of the stall. Then I emerged, splashed some water on
my face, blinked away the fluttering lights in front of my eyes, fixed a smile
on my face and headed back out to Luke.

It wasn’t a long walk from the restaurant to the top corner
of the park where the big cats prowled. But it seemed to me that with each
step, the pain in my head ramped up a gear.

At the lynx enclosure, I leaned on a wall.

You’re okay. Just breathe.

‘You all right?’ Luke was looking at me.

‘Fine!’ I said. ‘Look, there it is – by that tree.’

At the cheetah enclosure, I took deep breaths and stared at
a sign until the dancing lights calmed.

Not here. Not with Luke.

‘Scarlett? You’re kind of white.’

‘Just cold.’

At the lion enclosure, I staggered and had to grab the fence
to stay upright
.

No, no, no, no, no.

‘Scarlett, hey – what is it?’

‘Tripped. Stupid wellies.’

But by the final big cat enclosure, fear had crept past the
barriers I’d erected in my mind, insidious and cold – so cold, and yet it fuelled
the pain like petrol oozing onto a fire.

Oh God, oh Luke.

‘Scarlett?’

It was waiting for me, as I knew it would be: the tiger.
Sitting still and silent on top of a pile of rocks. Magnificent, majestic – a
velvet-pawed predator exuding power and intelligence. I stared into its hungry
eyes, fixed on me.

‘Can you see it, Luke?’ I whispered.

‘See what?’

‘The tiger.’

‘The tiger? Yes, of course I see it. It’s right there.
What’s –’

‘The Ancient Chinese believed he was the protector of the
dead.’

My knees gave out. Luke’s hands were on me quickly, pulling
at me, but not fast enough to stop me sinking to my knees on the wet, stony
path.

‘Scarlett!’

His voice was loud, frightened, but I couldn’t look at him –
I was locked in the gaze of a mighty beast that was slinking towards me now.

‘Scarlett, you’re scaring me – talk to me – what’s wrong?’

But there were no words, only white agony eating through my
head. And then I was sinking, and the tiger was swimming beside me, and someone
was shouting my name, but it didn’t seem important now that I was in the ocean,
in
it, and I had to fight, I had to try to get to the surface, but it
wasn’t water pressing down on me, it was the sky: I was on the beach and it was
dark and there were so many stars, a million pinpricks fusing fast into one,
bright brilliance.

I heard Luke calling my name, but my ears were filling with
the roar of nothing, and the light was blinding and so damned white.

Jude,
I thought.
I need Jude
.

But I couldn’t hold on for him. There was nothing to do but
let go.