Starblood (The Starblood Trilogy) (13 page)

‘You’re all tense again, Belladonna,’ Raven says, her eyes peering above the sepia pages. ‘Why do you worry so much?’

So it is Storm Constantine’s post-apocalyptic techno-pagans again
.
Hermetech
, one of Raven’s comfort blankets and a book she returns to at least twice a year. Donna shrugs and takes another bite.

‘I blame the dairy. It makes you twitchy. Give it up and see how much better you feel.’

‘It’s not the dairy, Raven. I’m just worried about Sarah.’ Donna stares at Raven, willing her to understand the source of her tension. The message falls on closed ears.

‘Star’s an adult and if she’s with Satori I say good for her. She’s been without it for too long. It just isn’t natural. Speaking of which…when do you plan to reach sexual maturity?’

‘Miaow, that hurts. Fuck, you can be a bitch sometimes, Raven.’ Playfully kicking her friend’s hip, Donna chews her pizza with a theatrical volume. It has the effect she desires and Raven recoils behind her book.

‘Cough, lesbian,’ Raven says, giggling.

‘Cough, slut,’ Donna replies.

‘Seriously girl, you need to get some. If you’re not careful you’ll be a dried up old hag by the time you’re thirty.’ Raven has closed the book and put it on her lap. Her eyes are fixed on Donna’s face waiting for a reaction.

‘I’ve seen too many women lose themselves in bad relationships, Raven. Look at you and he who shall remain nameless. You’re one of the strongest women I know and yet you’ve hardly stopped crying. Is it really worth it? What can you gain that is so valuable it’s worth losing yourself?’

Donna returns Raven’s stare. She watches as her friend’s nose wrinkles and her eyes narrow. They stare at each other in pregnant silence for what seems like hours but is really just a few minutes. Neither woman has an answer.

Eventually the lines across Raven’s nose unfold again and she shrugs. ‘I don’t know. I can’t help myself, Donna. When I fall for a man I fall hard. It’s the most wonderful feeling. It’s the real magic. I wouldn’t change it if I could. I really wish you could feel it too.’

‘Maybe I do. I think I’m in love with Sarah.’ Donna bites her lip. She shouldn’t have said it.
Can Raven be trusted with the truth?

‘Oh sweet Belladonna, I know, but you really don’t have a chance, my love. Star’s a poster child for the straight life. She’s never gotten over Satori. I doubt she ever will. Those two will probably end up married with half a dozen kids and just as many cats. Goddess knows I’m as jealous as you are, for different reasons of course. We have to accept it. She’s our friend. She should be happy.’

‘He doesn’t make her happy,’ Donna’s eyes feel hot.
This isn’t fair.
You don’t get to be the sensitive caring one. You’re an emotional cripple. How can you tell what will make Sarah happy?

‘He could if she let him,’ Raven answers. Breaking eye contact, she picks her book up again and opens it.

You’re wrong, Raven, but I could make her happy. I could make her forget her parents, all those lonely years when no one cared enough. She could paint and I would work and we’d be happy, holed up in our cottage, complete with rose garden. We could have cats.

Donna picks up her plate and Raven’s empty mug and carries them in one hand, allowing the glazes to scrape against each other. The sound is a howl of anguish. She pretends not to hear Raven’s complaints. With as much noise as possible Donna empties the kitchen sink and fills it with water and detergent. Glass knocks against glass, metal against metal as she churns the foamy liquid around the dirty plates and dishes. The act of washing the dirt away, bowl after bowl, glass after glass settles her. She feels calmer when the work is done, ready to read. Silently, she flops onto the sofa beside Raven and picks up her book.

‘Le Fanu, good choice,’ Raven says.

Donna ignores the attempt at reconciliation. She doesn’t want to talk.

Chapter 20

Sarah makes her apologies at five o’clock and gathers her bag and coat. She sees Steve hovering. He is so close.
Does he plan to kiss me?
She edges away from him and lifts her hand to wave.

‘Can you come back tomorrow?’ he asks.

Her hand, lifted ready to wave, hovers in front of her eyes. She looks away from Steve’s eager smile and at her forefinger. The print from the Kaballic volume has gathered at the tip. It is not, however, smudged black or grey. Instead tiny letters and symbols cling to her skin.

‘What are you looking at?’ he asks.

She holds her palm towards him, but he shrugs, either not seeing or understanding. She looks again at the traces of language on her skin.
Why can’t he see them?

‘Nothing,’ she says, shaking her head.

‘So can you?’ he asks again.

‘Um…maybe. I’ll call you,’ she says and walks towards the front door.

He opens the door for her. She can feel his eyes at the back of her neck as she walks away from him.

‘Goodbye,’ he calls after her.

Donna and Raven are sitting, with drinks and cigarettes, in the living room when Sarah returns. There are bowls of chips, onion rings and bean burgers on the coffee table.

‘May I?’ Sarah asks Raven.

Raven nods. She looks tired. Another hard week at work Sarah suspects, but she knows better than to ask.

‘Where have you been all day?’ Donna asks her.

Sarah hesitates before answering. She knows the reactions her news will inspire before she opens her mouth. ‘Steve’s,’ she says.

Raven lifts her head and smiles. Donna frowns.

‘Oh, Sarah,’ Donna says. Disappointment drips from every syllable.

Sarah fills her mouth with food and looks at her feet. The bean burger sticks to her tongue. Chewing it makes her jaw ache. Her stomach rebels, and gasses gather in her oesophagus. She decides to forget food and use the bathroom before it is claimed by the others.

‘I’ll have my bath now so we’re not all queuing for it later,’ she tells them.

Donna’s frown deepens, and Sarah wants to scream,
no I didn’t fuck him
, but she decides not to justify her actions and leaves her friend to her thoughts. At the door of the bathroom, she lingers for a moment. Her friends are speaking in hushed tones. She knows their subject. When she was going out with Steve things got a little crazy. One evening Donna came home from work to find her passed out. Another time Raven caught a glimpse of the little cuts along her arms, the ones she always tried to conceal. They blamed it on Steve, maybe they were right.
Or maybe it isn’t only Steve who is wrong for me.

She runs a bath and sinks into the scalding water. Her skin feels alive in the heat. She submerges her head, watching the bubbles escape her lips one by one until she has to rise and gasp for dry air. The cuts on her arms are healing into tiny white lines. The fresh cuts on her thighs sting in the hot water.

Cleansed, she leaves the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her wet body. Her hair needs to be dried quickly or her natural curls become unruly. Shivering with cold, she blasts her head with hot air and teases the curls into wild ringlets, then aggressively rubs herself dry. Naked, she stands in front of the mirror. Stretching her limbs out in turn, she rotates like an ice-skater to view every inch of her skin. Her body is slim without being waif-like; she doesn’t hate it although she wishes her breasts could be bigger, like Donna’s and Raven’s, which stand proud above their corsets and bustiers.

Cross-legged on the floor in front of the mirror, she is unable to resist a glance at her pubis. Pale pink lips are hidden by her naturally auburn hair, in contrast to the ebony colour on her crown. She leaves them natural as a defiant gesture against Raven’s draconian rules about what is Goth and what isn’t.

She pulls her make-up bag closer and leans forward. First she applies white foundation mixed with a touch of pale translucent, not quite white skin but so pale as to look dangerously anaemic – her signature shade. Then she draws over her pale eyebrows with a
nearly black
pencil and paints heavy lines of black liquid eyeliner over her eyelids, she finishes these in a small flourish, ivy-like spirals tonight. Above this line she carefully brushes potent red, shading as she applies the colour. She adds a touch of the same shade to the skin below each eye, just where they meet the bridge of her nose. Then finally she adds mascara to create dark and dangerous lashes. Not as dramatic as Raven’s false eyelashes. She tried those once; her eyes ran all evening, and she hasn’t touched them since.

Realising she hasn’t chosen what to wear she opens a wardrobe crowded with velvet, lace, net and shiny PVC. Every item is black: shadows to hide behind. Her invisible world. She owns nothing like Donna’s long white dress, which glows under the black light of the nightclub. It takes too much courage to be seen. Donna looks amazing wearing it of course. Her friend’s individual sense of style shines from under the cloud of rules and regulations. Yet, Sarah realises, she has never heard Raven criticise any of Donna’s outfits.

Sarah returns her attention to her wardrobe and pulls a knee length net tutu from the crush of clothes. It springs into life. She sees her micromesh sleeved bustier on the higher rail and lifts it off the hanger. It catches on a buckle as she pulls it towards her, and she lets go, fearing it might tear. She pushes the swivel chair from her computer desk across and balances precariously on the seat. The top freed, she examines it closely. There is a slight wrinkle on the back. She tries to smooth it out, gently pulling the fibres back to their proper positions. Satisfied that it looks okay, she spreads it out on her bed with the skirt.

Underwear has to be the black strapless bra. She searches her drawers for it, shorts for underneath the tutu plus black and red striped over knee socks. Jewellery next – she brings down her bat-shaped, wooden jewellery box and selects a large silver ankh pendant and eight silver rings including her favourite Whitby jet. Opening another cupboard, she looks at her choice of boots and shoes. All her spare money is spent on clothing and footwear. She has eight pairs of boots and four pairs of shoes. Arranged in two rows they face towards her now for inspection. She reaches for the pair of black
New Rocks
.

Outside her room, she can hear the roar of a hairdryer and under that the sound of Donna’s stereo blasting out
Deine Lakaien
. Saturday evenings, the only times she feels existence is more than a series of mundane chores. The life she grinds away each day at work is restored to her in full during these few hours before the nightclub.

It is almost half past eight. She checks her nail polish. The shiny black lacquer is chipped on one nail. She fixes it and blows on the paint until it dries hard. Time to get dressed.

At five minutes past nine she relaxes in the living room with a long glass of absinthe and 7up, listening to
Baby Turns Blue
. Raven and Donna are still getting ready.

Donna arrives next. She sinks onto the velvet couch beside Sarah and grabs her hand.

‘Are you okay?’ Donna asks.

Sarah nods.

‘You know, I didn’t mean to upset you earlier – push you away,’ Donna says.

‘I know. I just didn’t…’

‘Expect the Spanish Inquisition?’ Donna finishes.

They both laugh and Donna’s finger automatically brushes over her scar. Sarah looks at her friend. That scar – a constant reminder of what it means to be Goth. Hugging her friend, she remembers how it happened. They’d been in a bar celebrating Donna’s promotion at work. A drunken boy, so young and yet so full of rage, had pushed into them. It had happened so quickly, the glass smashing, the bottle slicing the air. They’d been told Donna was lucky not to have lost her eye.
Lucky!

‘Does my make-up look okay?’ Sarah asks.

‘Beautiful,’ Donna answers.

Donna’s stare burns into Sarah’s eyes as she reaches out and brushes something away from the top of Sarah’s cheek, a mirror image of her earlier move. A perfect sphere of water rests on the tip of Donna’s finger.

‘You’re always so sad,’ Donna says. ‘Why?’

Sarah shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. I guess, maybe…oh I…I didn’t expect the…’

‘Spanish Inquisition,’ they say together.

‘I’m here. Whatever it is, Sarah, I’ll listen. You can’t carry on like this. Where’s the vivacious, young perky Goth I know and love?’

‘Don’t make me cry. I’ll have to do my make-up again.’

Donna nods and lifts her glass to her lips. Before taking a large gulp she whispers. ‘I love you.’

They huddle together, drinking and waiting. At half-past-nine the doorbell announces Freya’s arrival.

Donna arranges bottles and glasses on the hinged coffin table: vodka, absinthe, orange, Jagermeister and four bottles of Bud. Freya sits alone in a high-backed chair, shuffling her pointed boots across the wooden floor. She has tied purple ribbons in her hair, which look great against the blonde. Sarah tells her this.

‘Thanks,’ Freya mutters, staring at her footwear.

‘So, what have you been up to today?’ Donna asks Freya.

‘Ivan was competing in this kayaking race in the Gower. Mum and Dad, we all went to cheer him on,’ Freya says. ‘He came second. We only got home at seven. Didn’t think I’d even make it tonight.’

‘Second, that’s great,’ Sarah says.

‘Yep, we’re all proud of him. You know Ivan. Things come easily for him.’ Freya looks at the door.

‘She won’t be much longer,’ says Donna.

‘Huh?’ Freya grunts, absentmindedly.

‘Raven’ll be ready soon. Do you wanna drink?’ Donna asks, nodding towards the alcohol-laden coffee table.

Freya reaches for a beer and the bottle opener. She drinks the cold beer straight from the bottle. Sarah watches her. She cannot understand Freya. A newcomer to the scene, she quickly adopted Raven as a mentor, yet remains unchanged by Raven’s cajoling – unmarked – still blonde and still Freya.

‘Why don’t you dye your hair?’ Sarah asks Freya. She notices the look of warning Donna throws towards her, but keeps going. ‘Blonde takes colour so well. You could be pink, purple, blue…anything.’