A Sea of Stars (7 page)

C
at's second icy scream comes after five days of her living with us and it shatters the dark night sky. I leap out of bed and race into her room. Mum and Dad thunder up the stairs and Cat's sitting up in bed with her eyes wide open, screaming and screaming at the wall.

“It's OK, Cat, sweetheart,” says Mum, rushing to her side. “We're here; you're safe.”

Mum wraps her arms around Cat to soothe her, but the shrill sound keeps coming and coming. I'm really worried about my eardrums splitting, about
Cat's throat breaking. I stand watching and the scream goes on and on and on. And it's worse than the one on the cliff because she's staring blankly and it makes me go cold inside.

“This is the night terrors Tania talked about,” says Mum. “She said we shouldn't be afraid, Maya, because Cat's not aware of what's happening. She's lost in a bad memory, poor lamb.”

“Thankfully, she won't remember any of this,” says Dad. “Tania told us we mustn't wake her when it happens or talk about it in the morning. That'll just make things worse.”

Cat starts thrashing about, trying to escape Mum's arms, screaming and screaming, as if someone is hurting her. Mum soothes and strokes her hair. Dad takes my hand and leads me downstairs to make some warm drinks for us. He takes one up to Mum and then snuggles on the sofa with me, while Cat's screams razor the silky smooth night to shreds. We try watching a movie, but it's impossible to concentrate, then Dad tries reading me a story, but focusing on that is even worse. So we end
up slumped and sleepy and snuggled, listening to music and playing cards. Just before 3am, Cat finally drifts off to sleep.

In the morning I feel like someone's stolen my body and put a huge heavy pumpkin in its place, like my eyes have been open since Christmas. I didn't feel this tired after my secret night on the beach with Anna. That day I felt lighter than a feather, like I was floating on air. I pull on some clothes and carefully, quietly, peep through Cat's bedroom door to see if she's awake. I expect to see her fast asleep in bed, or holding her breath and colouring in at her desk, but Cat's bed is empty. Her patchwork quilt is as straight and neat as her colouring in, and her puffy white pillows are stacked like a sandwich on the top.

Down on the next landing, Dad's still snoring. I creep into his and Mum's room and stand really close and watch them. Dad's lips puff out with his breath, Mum's mouth is droopy and little trails of dribble are spilling out. They look different when they're sleeping; it's as if someone's stolen my mum
and dad away and put waxwork models in their place. I shudder and go downstairs.

Everything's quiet and I go from room to room, looking for Cat. I check the kitchen and the sitting room, but they're empty. She's not playing in the den or watching TV or in Mum's studio or in the office or the bathroom or the spare room. I open the back door and creep outside. The sun's climbing higher in the sky and the garden path is warm under my feet. I shield my eyes from the bright light and watch the seagulls circle and swoop. I open my arms wide and stand on tiptoes and flap. I wish I could grow beautiful feathers and fly. When there are no places left to look for Cat, I start calling. Maybe she's hiding; maybe she's trying to have some fun.

“Caaaat,” I whisper, careful not to wake Mum and Dad. “Cat, Cat, Cat,” I say, loving the sound of her name on my tongue. “Are you hiding? Because, if you are, I can't find you and I'm too hungry to look any more. Let's go and get some breakfast and some juice. We could do some colouring in if you like. Or watch cartoons?”

Back inside, I listen for Cat's breathing. Maybe she's hiding in a corner somewhere, or behind the curtains. But all I can hear is the clock ticking and Peaches Paradise purring. Where are you Cat? I go round all the rooms again, hunting behind doors and under cushions, but she's not here. She's not anywhere and my heart starts bumping fast and I have this sick taste in my mouth because I know something must really be wrong.

“Caaat!” I call a bit louder, roaming backwards and forwards through the house. “Caaaat! Caaat! Caaaaaat! Come out now! This is getting silly. I've had enough of looking for you.”

Dad tumbles downstairs, his hair all sticky-up and wild.

“What's all the fuss?” he yawns.

“She's missing!” I say, pulling on my sandals. “Cat's not here! She's gone!”

“Gone?” says Dad. “What do you mean, gone? She can't have. Where?”

He runs round the house, searching and calling, not quite believing what I've said. Mum tumbles
down, bleary-eyed too. And then we're like the emergency services, rushing about, all blue lights flashing. We run outside and call, “Cat! Cat! Caaaat!” Mum's slippers slap the ground like cold dead fish off the boats and we run down the path, along the track and out on to the road, calling. Through a line of caravans, queuing for Mr Egbert's campsite, past a trail of campervans with surfboards piled on top.

“I don't believe this is happening,” says Mum, shakily. “Where ever has she gone?”

We race to the bay and into the Surf Shack Café.

“Has anyone seen, Cat?” Mum screeches. “She's disappeared; we've lost her!”

“Sorry,” says Rachel, balancing plates full of breakfast. “I haven't noticed her, but we've been so busy this morning, she could easily have slipped through.”

Then Dad notices the time.

“It's 11 o'clock!” he says. “I can't believe we slept so long.”

“We were up half the night, remember?” I say.

Mum tugs on Dad's arm.

“Yes, but we should've got up,” she wails. “I should've set the alarm. We should've been up for her. I can't believe I let this happen! What kind of mum am I?”

Panic writes across her face; memories of Alfie and lemon-cake days and big red screeching buses. Gus leaps into action. He calls the police and the lifeguard. Everyone in the café abandons their breakfast. They spill out on to the beach and wait for Gus to tell everyone what to do, which way to go, where to look. Then he turns to Luca and me.

“Look,” he says, “someone needs to be home in case she comes back. “Luca, you take Maya back to the house and wait there in case Cat returns. Call my mobile if she does.”

Our hearts pound faster than our feet as I show Luca the shortcut home. We scrabble up the cliff and I slip and cut my knee. But we keep on going, along the track, back to the path where our legs knock the roses. I turn back and look down at the
huge waves swirling and crashing below.

“She can't even swim,” I say, my eyes blurry with tears. “She won't stand a chance out there.”

W
hen we get back home, I'm so out of breath my heart's exploding in my ears. We race through the door and something feels really weird. I'm expecting the house to be deathly quiet, like when we left, but the radio's blaring away and Peaches Paradise is lying on the window ledge, smiling, basking in the sun and licking her paws like she's just been fed.

“Cat!” I shout, rushing into the kitchen. “Are you here? Are you OK?”

Cat smiles. She's sitting on a high stool, jigging away to a tune while she's whisking eggs.

Luca phones Gus and tells him to stop the search party.

“Where on earth have you been, Cat?” I screech. “We've been looking for you everywhere! We've been really worried!”

“Where have you been?” says Cat. “I thought you were still in bed! And what's to worry about? I only went to get some eggs from the farm shop – no big deal! The lady was really nice; she gave me some sweets.”

She sticks out a purple tongue to show me.

“No big deal?” I shriek. “Cat, it's a really big deal! You can't just wander off like that. I got up and you weren't here and we thought something had happened to you!”

“Something did happen,” Cat says, in a singsong voice, too bright for someone who spent half the night up screaming. “I was hungry, Peaches Paradise was hungry and you were all sleeping, so I thought, Breakfast time! Then I tried to find some eggs, but we didn't have any, so I took some money from the tin and went to the farm shop to get some. Then I
gave Peaches Paradise some eggs and sugar and jam, which she really loved, and I thought I'd make us all some breakfast. As a surprise! My brother thinks my omelettes are the best, so I thought you might like them too!” Her sharp eyes glint like knives in the sun, her voice is as cold as ice. “Special treat!”

“Look,” says Luca, “I'd better get back to the café. I'll leave you to it, OK?”

But I don't want him to go. I want him to stay and eat omelettes and pretend everything in our house is normal. I want to invite Anna over and then go down to the bay to surf.

“I'll be surfing later,” Luca says. “You coming down?”

“Maybe,” I sigh. “I'd like to, it's just…” I look at Cat, she's grating this big lump of cheese into a bowl. “I'll have to ask my mum.”

Luca disappears. I turn back to Cat.

“Mum and Dad are going to go crazy at you,” I say. “You're only ten years old, Cat – you can't just wander off.”

Cat glares. “You might be my sister now, but
you're not the boss of me, Maya!” she says. “I've told you already. No one tells me what to do! No one! I've been going out on my own since I was five and I know what I'm doing, OK? I can go anywhere. Even in the city.”

She pours oil into a frying pan, turns the hob on and stares at me with cold eyes that are all empty, like a room that's not been lived in for years.

“And you shouldn't be doing that either, Cat,” I say, leaning over and switching off the hob. “Not without a grown-up here. You might burn yourself. Even I'm not allowed to fry stuff without a grown-up around.”

Cat's eye's narrow until they're scary thin black strips of ice. I wish I could creep behind them and feel what it's like being her, all sharp edges and blackness and nibbles and screams.

She turns the hob back on and glares. “If I'd have waited for a grown-up to be around before I went shopping or made breakfast,” she snaps, “I would've died ages ago. My brother would've died too!”

Cat's words slap me in the face. I don't want
anyone talking about dead brothers. It makes my skin sting.

“But you're not going to die now, are you?” I snap. “There's always enough food in our fridge; it's never been empty. Your brother probably has enough food where he lives as well. But that's not the point. You have to ask if you want to go out somewhere and you're not allowed to fry when no one's around. It's the rules.”

Then Cat cracks, and pure egg-yellow poison runs out.

“I don't care about your rules,” she spits. “I don't care about any of you. I've told you that before! All I care about is growing up quickly so I can get back to my brother and take care of him. And I don't even care about this…” she says, swiping her arm across the worktop. The whisked eggs and cheese and oil and tomato sauce tumble off the surface and smash on the kitchen floor. “I was just trying to surprise you!” she screams. “I was just trying to be kind! But I shouldn't have bothered; get your own breakfast.”

Cat starts running again, splashing through the puddle of eggs and the smashed bowl, cutting her foot on the glass.

“Come back, Cat!” I say, sprinting after her. “You can't just run away all the time!”

She snarls and snaps. Her face is white with rage and reminds me of Mum's white knuckles on the day Susannah first told us about Cat. Mum races through the door with her bathrobe flapping. She opens her arms to catch Cat, but Cat dodges behind her and boofs straight into Dad. He catches her in his arms and swings her right up high, like he used to do to me when I was small.

“Hey,” he says, “what's going on here?”

Cat thrashes and flails in his arms.

“Leave me alone!” she screams, punching him.

She sinks her teeth into his arm until it oozes little red dots of blood.

“Ouch!” says Dad, holding her tighter. His eyes narrow and burn right through her. “OK, young lady, that's enough!”

I've never heard Dad's voice so low before, so
calm. I wish I could do something to help him. I want to charge into her and bash her down to the ground and smash her to pieces like the eggs.

“Don't hurt my dad!” I scream, rushing to Dad's side.

Cat starts kicking me, she catches my tummy with her foot and it really, really hurts.

“And kicking,” says Dad, tucking Cat's foot under his arm, “is not allowed! Not acceptable under any circumstances. Being angry is OK. But hurting other people is not!”

Mum pulls me into her arms. She holds me tight while Cat twists and spits like a deadly snake in Dad's arms.

“Let go of me!” she screams, pulling Dad's hair. “I hate you!”

Dad scoops her up higher and higher. Her fists bash against his chest. Her nails dig into his cheeks. Her screams slice the air and grate my skin like cheese. I hate her too. I don't care about her twinkle. My tummy's clenched so tight and I'm trying to blink back my tears, but they're
spilling over and over.

“If you calm down, Cat,” Mum says, “we can talk about it. We're here to help you, sweetheart. Whatever happened, we can work it out, I promise.”

“Get off,” Cat barks at Dad. “Leave me alone!” She jabs Dad's ribs with her elbows, winding him, but he doesn't let her go, he holds on tight. “I said, get off me! Leave me alone!” she screeches. “I hate, hate, hate you! All of you!”

She's a wild tornado, whirling in my dad's big, bitten arms, in our dad's big, bitten arms. And then something rips open in my heart.

“You're not the only one who's had a bad time,” I scream.

Cat stops thrashing. She holds her breath and stares right through me, as if she's not listening. But she is. I can tell.

“You're not the only one who's lost a brother and stuff,” I say. “I had a brother once!”

One huge silver teardrop plops on to Cat's cheek. Her lip trembles. She nibbles her nail. Her face
crumples up and she buries it in Dad's shoulder, then cries and cries and cries. She shakes and sobs and wails and trembles for ages and ages and ages.