Kiss of Death (12 page)

I tilt my head back to look up at him, wanting to kiss him, wanting to see my own happiness reflected back at me in his golden eyes. And that’s where it all falls apart. As soon as I look at him, he’s dragged away from me as if a giant hand in the small of his back pulled him off, sucking him into the dark as if he were a toy, as if he weighed nothing at all. He mouths “Scarlett!” desperately at me as he disappears. I watch his body become tiny, arms and legs thrown out like a starfish, shrinking to the size of my thumb, vanishing into blackness.

And then I know the ground’s coming up to meet me, faster than I thought. It’s the fall at Castle Airlie, or the one at Arthur’s Seat. Rocks below me, sharp and unyielding. I brace myself, pointlessly, because there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from smashing into them, breaking every bone in my body—

I wake up panting for breath.

You can never actually die in dreams. I read that somewhere. Your mind won’t let you have that kind of trauma. So just before the killer’s about to break through the door, or the werewolf’s about to rip out your throat, or you’re about to crash into the rocks, you wake up, wild-eyed and covered in sweat.

So much for sleep being restful.

eleven
SCHRÖDINGER’S CAT

I gave up physics lessons at fourteen. Lucky me. Talking to Taylor about American schools versus English ones, I’ve learned with horror that over there they make you do all sorts of subjects till you’re eighteen; maths, science—
algebra,
even. It sounds terrifying. In the UK, you get to pick about eight subjects you do exams in at sixteen (O-levels) and then three or four to specialize in after that (A-levels), which means you get to give up all the stuff you hate (because you’re appalling at it) much earlier. I did have to do maths O-level, because it’s pretty much mandatory for everything in life, apparently; the way our teachers bang on, you’d think they wouldn’t even let you be a traffic warden unless you had maths O-level.

But honestly, I’m not a science person. I don’t like it much, and I have a strong sense that the feeling is mutual. Wrapping my brain around physics was like trying to carry a lot of sharp objects in a flimsy sheet of clingfilm. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and, eventually, painful, as the sharp objects ripped through the thin plastic and fell heavily onto my feet.

Which makes it particularly weird that, right now, the only way I can properly express the way I’m feeling is with a couple of physics metaphors.

My body is walking by Taylor’s side down a narrow street whose dark cobbles are shiny in the occasional flare of an orange streetlight; it must have rained earlier, when I was passed out having nightmares about falling down a rabbit hole. Taylor is absorbed in navigating our progress through a maze of turns on her iPhone Google Maps app, its screen glowing in her hand, so we’re not talking. Which suits me perfectly, as my brain is equally occupied with working out my state of mind about what happened with me and Jase this afternoon.

There’s this famous physics hypothesis—I think that’s the right word—called Schrödinger’s cat. Basically, a scientist called Schrödinger imagined he put a cat in a box with a radioactive device thingy (
Nice
. Clearly an animal lover) which would give it a fifty percent chance of survival. So, when he opened the box, the cat would be exactly as likely to be alive as it would be to be dead. But his question was: Before I open the box, what state is the cat in? Alive or dead? And his answer (as I understand it) was that the cat is both.

Physics seems to have a lot of those examples—neither one thing nor the other. Like waves and particles. You can see light as a wave or as a particle, depending on how you look at it. It’s both things at the same time. There’s no single, clear truth; it’s entirely in the eye of the beholder.

That’s how I feel about Jase and me. The cat in the box, the light that can be both wave and particle, is our relationship. I don’t know if it’s alive or dead: it’s both things at the same time.

On the live side, I love Jase, and he loves me. Just thinking of him, let alone being with him, makes me feel wonderful, complete, and secure in a way I’ve never been before.

While on the dead side, he won’t come to see me when I’m frantic to be with him. And I told him a few hours ago that I was breaking up with him.

I reach my hand down to my phone, a smooth, narrow rectangle snug in the hip pocket of my jeans. And I realize why the metaphor of Schrödinger’s cat popped into my head: it’s because of the phone, which I still haven’t turned back on since my fight with Jase. When I do, it’ll be exactly like opening the box. If Jase has rung me back, or texted me, the cat will still be alive. But if he hasn’t—if he’s decided that being with me is just too painful, and he needs to make a fresh start somewhere far away from Wakefield Hall and all the family memories—then my phone won’t have any message icons flashing on it.

The cat will be dead.

I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment to make sure I don’t cry. I have a lot of eye makeup on and I don’t want to show up at our destination looking like a deranged panda.

“Are we nearly there?” I ask Taylor, narrowly avoiding turning my heel on a cobblestone. I’ve got my skinniest jeans on, tucked into slim leather boots, a fashion I always said I wouldn’t wear (because Plum does, and I don’t want to look like a Plum-bot). But when I tried it on this evening, I had to admit I looked good. Taylor and I have been working out a lot, and my legs are lean from all the running.

I want to dress up as much as I can this evening. It’s like some sort of challenge to Jase—which is insane, of course, as the whole point is that he’s not here to see me. But I feel a really strong need to go out looking fabulous, to prove that I’m not the kind of girl who crumples into a wet heap of misery just because she’s had a fight with her boyfriend.

“Oughta be,” she says, tilting the screen a little. “If this alley comes out where I think it does …”

And then we both gasp, because the narrow street we’re walking down has led us to the curve of a little river, right in the center of town. Like a canal in Venice. Or at least, that’s what it looks like in the dark. Edinburgh doesn’t seem all that keen on streetlights; its attitude, apparently, is that if you don’t know where you’re going, that’s your problem. Oh, and if you fall in the canal because we haven’t put any railings round the edges, don’t come crying to us. It’s not a city for wimps.

As my eyes adjust, however, I can see that the stretch of water widens in the distance. The tall buildings surrounding it part to make room as the river swells into a basin, boats moored along one side, and then what looks like a lock beyond, opening into a wide mouth that leads to—

“That’s the Irish Sea,” Taylor says, pointing into the dark. “Over there. They told us today at the castle that Leith was the port for the whole of Edinburgh. This is called the Waters of Leith. These were all mills along here, and warehouses for unloading everything from the ships.”

We stand and look around for a little while at the dark, imposing buildings looming over us, the Waters of Leith lapping gently at our feet. As I’ve noticed before, Edinburgh isn’t cozy, and I’m realizing that it’s a city built for cold weather, with thick walls and small windows to keep the chill out. That’s why it can look as if the houses are almost turning their backs on you, unwelcoming; the warmth is all tucked away, not for public consumption. Along the right bank of the river is a series of restaurants and bars, and they, too, aren’t as bright as the ones in London, the heavily leaded panes of windows glowing gently rather than lit up like beacons to show off the people inside. Even the Pizza Express, one of a chain you see everywhere, has a more discreet sign, its logo a subtler blue than it would be farther south.

There’s a bridge to our left, and I want to cross it, or at least stand halfway over it and watch the water below, dark and heavy like oil. But Taylor’s already heading down the pavement that borders the river, and I follow her reluctantly.

“You’re off in your own world,” she comments, turning her head to check me out. “Are you still feeling weird from this morning?”

“Sort of,” I say. “I had funny dreams.”

I haven’t told her that I talked to Jase, or how disastrous the conversation was. Which is completely unusual; normally I would have thrown myself on her neck as soon as she got back from the Edinburgh Castle visit, spilling everything. But Taylor’s keeping stuff from me. I know it as surely as I know my own name. And that makes me a lot less likely to confide in her.

The other completely unusual thing is that under normal circumstances, Taylor would hear the catch in my voice that I can’t control, and would know that I was lying. But she doesn’t. She just nods, her hair flopping, as she looks across the street at the pubs and restaurants, working out our destination.

“Yeah, I’m not surprised,” she says, gesturing that we should cross the road, navigating us through black-painted bollards that must once have been used for tying up ships’ ropes. A car approaches, but stops just short of us, its lights flashing as the driver indicates that they’ll wait for us to walk in front of it.

“Blimey,” I mutter as we nip across the road. “That would
never
happen in London.…”

The Shore bar, where we’re headed, has a heavy wooden door that even Taylor, with her upper-body strength, has to muscle open; when she does, the flood of warmth and light and music inside is like a tonic to my soul. I hadn’t realized till this moment how much I needed this. I’d have stayed curled up on my bed if Taylor hadn’t insisted on dragging me out, saying that we had a free night and a ten o’clock curfew, and we’d be idiots not to make the most of it.

I catch sight of us in a tarnished old mirror set into the ancient wood paneling of the pub walls; for a moment I don’t recognize us, me with my makeup and my hair piled up on top of my head, Taylor actually wearing some mascara, in her new leather jacket with a ton of zips and dull silver piping. It’s fantastic on her; she looks sort of androgynous and, to be perfectly honest, very sexy. I know better than to tell Taylor she looks sexy, as she’d start heaving her guts up, but with the mascara emphasizing her green eyes and making her long lashes look endless, and even a little lip gloss (clear, but
still
, quite an achievement for me, who made her put it on), she’s turning heads. I see guys glancing sideways at her, and I realize for the first time that her swaggering walk, her take-no-prisoners stare, is like a challenge to some boys. Two of them, sitting at a table, are looking at her and whispering to each other.

I’m not going to be outdone by my friend in the cool stakes. As she looks around the room, I shoulder my way to the bar and wait to be served, my feet tapping to the Celtic music playing on the sound system. Cutlery and glasses clink behind me and I look over to see a dining room off the main bar, white-covered tables and a roaring fire going, flames dancing in the hearth.

“What can I get you?” the barman asks me, easily, no hesitation about how old I am.

Nice.
There’s a guy and a girl serving, and luckily I’ve got him. I think a girl would be a lot more aware of another girl’s age.

“Two halves of cider, please,” I say, trying to sound like I order alcohol every evening, like it’s no big deal to me.

He pauses for a moment, checking me out, making sure I’m over sixteen, which is the legal drinking age for cider; I know, because I’ve had it with Jase before.

“Who’s the other one for, hen?” he says in a friendly voice.

“Her,” I say, jerking my head toward Taylor, who’s found a couple of barstools by the far wall, and is sitting on one, hands jammed in her jacket pockets, swinging her legs. I know that, like me, she’s putting on a bit of a front, trying to seem like she comes to pubs all the time; she’s aiming for cool, and actually it’s coming across as sulky and bored, which is absolutely perfect. One glance at Taylor’s world-weary demeanor, and the barman’s flicking down the pump handle for two half-pints of cider without another word being said.

I’ve rarely felt so grown-up in my life as I do crossing the pub, my heels tapping on the ancient wooden floorboards, a brimming glass in each hand, wiggling through the rickety tables, trying not to blush as young men pull their legs aside for me and check me out as I pass. It’s like this whole evening is a rite of passage: getting dressed up, coming out to a pub with my best friend, buying a drink without the humiliation of having to show my Tube photocard as proof of age.

I hand one of the glasses to Taylor, who takes a long thirsty pull at its contents. Her double-take is like a comedy routine: her eyes bulge in shock, and her cheeks puff out with an effort not to spit back what she’s drinking as she claps her free hand over her mouth. Confused, I sip some cider myself in case it’s off or something, but it tastes fine: sharp, bubbly, apple-sweet. I set the glass down on the little wooden shelf that runs round the wall, under the dappled old mirrors, where it glints pale orange in the light from the sconce above.

“What?” I ask, taking the glass from Taylor so she doesn’t spill it.

“It’s
alcohol
!” she blurts out, suddenly looking years younger than she did a moment ago.

“Well, yeah! It’s cider!” I drink some of hers. “It isn’t very strong.”

“This is, like, in
public
!” Taylor says. “What if they ask for IDs and kick us out?”

“You’re sixteen, Taylor,” I point out. “Nearly seventeen. It’s legal here.”

Actually, technically I think it’s only legal if we’re with someone who’s over eighteen. But no one’s going to give us a hard time—not unless Taylor keeps shrieking loud enough so they notice. I jerk my head at her, telling her to keep it down.

“What did you think cider
was
?” I hiss, confused.

“Apple juice!” she says, eyes wide. “Cider’s apple juice! They sell it in
Starbucks
!”

I start giggling, and slide Taylor’s glass onto the shelf next to mine.

“Not over here they don’t,” I say. “Here we let the apple juice ferment a bit.”

“Oh! Like
hard
cider,” Taylor says, the penny visibly dropping. “I’ve heard of that.” She reaches for her glass and sips a little more. “Wow. It’s kind of nice.”

I roll my eyes. “To think I thought you were the cool one tonight.”

“I suppose you’ve been drinking at pubs since you were five,” she says sarcastically.

“My grandmother started giving me a little bit of wine with dinner when I was fourteen,” I say smugly. “Watered down. She says it stops you binge drinking when you’re older.”

“God,” Taylor says. “Your grandma could get sued for that in the States.”

But I’m not listening, because the pub door’s opened again and I recognize the girls who’ve just come in. Alison has a cute woolly beret tilted sideways on her head, but the long, straightened strawberry-blond hair spilling down her back is unmistakable. The final confirmation is Luce’s tiny frame just behind her. She’s wearing a padded coat for warmth, but she’s skinny enough to belt the coat at her waist, a look that would make most of us resemble a duvet with a string tied round the middle.

“Oh
no
!” I say, nudging Taylor and making her almost spill her cider. She glances sideways, takes in the sight with one swift glance and turns away just as fast.