Scarlett Part 10

'What's home-schooling like then?' she asks, biting into a cherry tomato. 'Is it a skive?'

'It's cool,' I tell her. 'I have to do two pages of maths every morning, but I get to study the things I want to as well, like crazy old Irish legends with swans in them. Dad and Clare let me work out here by the lough too they trust me, I suppose.'

Would they still trust me if they knew I was meeting Kian every chance I got? Probably not.

'Don't you get awful lonely?' Ros asks.

'Not really. It's good to have some time out. And it's not like I don't see anybody...'

'So. This Kian is he your boyfriend?' Ros wants to know.

'Kind of.' He's my best friend, anyhow. He makes me laugh, he makes me think, he makes me dream.

'Sorry we spoilt your afternoon, chased him away,' Ros says. 'No wonder you were cross.'

Holly takes a swig of icy-cool lemonade. 'Aw, come on, Scarlett,' she says. 'He wasn't really here, was he? Not really! You just said that to make us feel bad.'

'He was!' I protest. 'He was right here, till I went into the woods to meet you. Honest!'

Holly frowns. 'n.o.body could have disappeared that fast,' she says. 'We'd have seen him.'

'I don't know how he did it.' I shrug. 'And I wish he hadn't, but I'm not going to argue about whether he was here or not, OK? He was.'

'Fine,' Holly sniffs. 'It's no big deal. I just wondered if Ros knew him, that's all.'

'I don't know anyone called Kian,' Ros says. 'He must be a visitor, or a blow-in you know, like you, new to the area. I've not heard of any new families, though, and my dad runs Heaney's Bar in Kilimoor. If someone sneezes ten miles off, he knows about it.'

'I think he's a traveller,' Holly chips in. 'A gypsy. He's got black hair and a horse with feathery feet, hasn't he, Scarlett?'

That doesn't make him a traveller,' I point out.

'No, but it might explain how he knows the place so well he can disappear practically into thin air,' Holly muses. 'And it might explain why he's so secretive. C'mon, Scarlett, we're not that that scary why did he have to leg it the minute he heard us coming?' scary why did he have to leg it the minute he heard us coming?'

I don't have an answer for that. Being tracked down by Holly and Ros is not exactly the highlight of my day, but I'm coping. Kian could have coped too he'd have made Holly and Ros laugh, told them stories, charmed them with his blue-black eyes. Holly could have had a ride on Midnight, fed him apples from the picnic.

'Maybe he's from Dublin,' Holly muses. 'An orphan, sent here to live with his grandparents. Or a runaway, a fugitive from justice, living wild in the woods, stealing eggs and trapping rabbits to survive...'

I bite my lip, because this seems closer to the truth, even though Holly's version of it makes me laugh. 'He's just a boy,' I tell her. 'No big mystery'

Holly's eyes widen. 'He could be a ghost,' she whispers. 'The spirit of a boy who died back in the famine times, or maybe a tourist who got lost on the hills in winter, thirty or forty years ago.'

'You're nuts!' I laugh.

Holly chucks the last of the granary bread out on to the lough, and the three swans paddle furiously into the shallows, gobbling it quickly I scan them for signs of magic, enchantment, but they're just big white birds, greedy, bad-tempered, with snapping beaks and ruffled feathers, hungry, flapping, scrabbling for bread.

Finally, Mum has got the message. I won't speak to her on the phone, so she stops calling and starts writing letters instead.

I've been through this before. After Dad left, thick letters with bright Irish stamps would plop through the letter box. 'Does he think he can win you round with a letter?' Mum would scoff, ripping them into little pieces to drop into the pedal bin. Before long, I was doing it myself. Birthday cards, Christmas cards, letters, all went into the bin, like so much confetti.

Now it's happening all over again.

I sit by the lough with Mum's latest letter. I don't want to hear about private schools or last, last chances and letting people down. Instead, I smooth the paper out, folding it this way and that until I have made a small, perfect, paper boat. I launch it into the water, and a soft breeze catches it, pulling it out into the centre of the lough.

As I turn from the lough, there's the sound of a car door slamming in the distance, a movement in the trees to my left. This has been happening lately, since the start of the school holidays. Like Kian said, Lough Choill is on the tourist trail for some very keen sightseers. They come to look at the wis.h.i.+ng tree, to fish in the lough, to hike across the hills.

When I'm with Kian, we steer Midnight into the woods, silently, or gallop away down the loughside, out of sight. We make ourselves invisible. Today, though, I'm still waiting for Kian to show up, and I won't let the tourists chase me away. I take out my sketchbook and start to draw the little twisty hazel tree. Its branches are fluttering with wisps of rag and ribbon, and you can still see a red-and-pink sandal peeping through the leaves, if you know just where to look.

The men come striding out of the trees, dark-haired and flint-eyed, smoking and frowning, their eyes scanning all around. They look like brothers, with the same tanned, weather-beaten faces, the same lined foreheads, the same sad, unsmiling mouths. One has a moustache, the other a wide-brimmed hat with a red scarf tied round the brim and a feather in it. Both have the glint of gold round their necks and wrists, and flashy rings on almost every finger. They don't look like tourists. Not like any tourists I've ever seen.

I bend my head back to my drawing, and the men march past, as though I'm not even there. They walk right along the loughside, briskly, until they're out of sight.

Hazel, I label my picture. I label my picture. Coryllus avellana, Coryllus avellana, in Latin. in Latin. Choill, Choill, in Irish. The tree at the holy well. in Irish. The tree at the holy well.

I open my notebook and write for a while, listing down all the things that Kian has told me about the tree and the spring. According to legend, the wis.h.i.+ng tree is a gateway between this world and some ancient, make-believe world where time stands still.

In that world, in my imagination, the women have long hair and trailing dresses made of velvet, and the men look like extras from Lord of the Rings, Lord of the Rings, all bows and arrows and galloping ponies and hair that ruffles in the breeze. You might meet a king from under the sea, or a bunch of swans who turned out to be children, only bewitched. Magic still happens in that world, Kian says. all bows and arrows and galloping ponies and hair that ruffles in the breeze. You might meet a king from under the sea, or a bunch of swans who turned out to be children, only bewitched. Magic still happens in that world, Kian says.

Wish I could believe in all that stuff.

When I look up again, I see that the two men are walking back, more slowly this time, as though they are looking for something. When they draw level with the woods, they walk along through the trees, kicking at the undergrowth as though something is hidden there, waiting to be discovered.

They stop a few metres away, frowning.

'h.e.l.lo there, missy,' the older one says. 'Fine day we're having.'

I just stare. Missy? Please. Please.

'D'you live nearby perhaps?' he asks. 'You'd be local?'

Their accent is strong, lilting. I nod my head, very slightly.

The younger man, the one with the hat, steps forward, taking a crumpled piece of card from his s.h.i.+rt pocket. 'We're looking for someone,' he says, his voice low and gentle. 'A boy not much older than yourself, dark-haired, skinny. We thought... We thought he might be here, at Lough Choill. Have you seen him? Have you seen him at all?'

It's a school photo. A boy who looks a little like Kian is gazing back at me, his hair shorter and flatter, like someone just raked a comb through it. He's wearing a blue school jersey and a white s.h.i.+rt with a stripy tie, slightly askew.

It can't be Kian, though. This boy looks so sad, so lost, his dark eyes are dead, empty. There are dark smudges under his eyes, like he hasn't slept for a month.

'D'you know him, at all?' the younger man repeats. 'Have you seen him?'

My heart thumps in my chest, and my hands tremble as they grip the sketchbook. These men have come to take Kian, and I don't want them to take him. I don't think Kian Kian wants to be taken. I look at the two dark-haired men, keeping my smile bright, my voice steady. wants to be taken. I look at the two dark-haired men, keeping my smile bright, my voice steady.

'I don't know this boy, no,' I tell them. 'I live just down the lane. I come here every day, and I've never seen him. Sorry.'

I watch the light drain from the man's face, watch his eyes become as dead as the eyes of the boy in the picture. For a moment, I feel bad, but not bad enough to backtrack, change my story.

'I told you he'd not come back here,' the older man says. 'Why would he? Thanks anyway, missy'

They turn away, walking back towards the trees, the road. Then the younger man stops, takes off his hat and unties the scruffy red scarf from round the brim. He strides over to the wis.h.i.+ng tree, ties the scarf on to the highest branch he can reach and stands looking at it for a long moment.

My heart thumps. Has he seen Kian's rucksack, the bedroll, the hay, wedged out of sight in a forked branch? Maybe not. He turns, tips his hat at me and strides off, through the trees and away.

As if I ordered it specially, the midday sun is hot and the sky is a perfect, s.h.i.+mmering blue. I drop back on to the gra.s.s and close my eyes, letting myself drift. When I open them again, Kian is at the edge of the lough, leading Midnight along through the shallows.

I look at him, searching for traces of the sad-eyed boy in the photograph, but all I see are slanting cheekbones, unruly hair and eyes that s.h.i.+ne, darker than the lough. Was I right to stay silent? And do I tell Kian about the men who were looking for him?

Kian flops down beside me, grinning. There are wisps of hay in his black hair, like he's been sleeping in a barn.

'You took your time,' I tell him. 'Missed the best part of the day!'

'I found myself some work,' he grins. 'Raking hay for an old farmer guy in the next valley, stacking it up into hayricks. Twenty-five euros and as much hay as I want for Midnight. Same again tomorrow.'

'Cool.'

I pack my sketchbook away, bring out an apple for Midnight. The big black horse ambles over, taking the fruit from my hand softly with a nose like velvet. He crunches the apple with his big yellow teeth, and I push a hand through his mane, ruffling the red-ribbon braids, inhaling the warm, sweet, treacly smell of horse.

'OK, I'm jealous now,' Kian says. 'How come you never bring me apples?'

'I do, sometimes,' I grin. 'It's just that you never tickle my palm while you're eating them.'

'Could be arranged!' Kian makes a dive for my hand, and I swat him away, laughing. Seconds later, he's tickling my face, my neck, my ear, and I'm glad I lied to the dark-haired men this morning, because I need Kian to be here now, with me.

He leans so close to my ear I can feel his breath on my neck, and I know that he's just a heartbeat away from touching me, kissing me. My hair falls across my eyes, but when I shake my head and turn to Kian, he's stopped laughing, his face suddenly distant, distracted. He's looking towards the wis.h.i.+ng tree, where the red scarf from this morning flutters out in the breeze.

'My dad,' Kian says slowly. 'My dad's been here.'

Out in the centre of the lough, the little paper boat has sunk without trace.

It's after tea when I hear a m.u.f.fled yowl of pain from Holly's room. I run through and find her sitting in the middle of the pink quilt with a bag of frozen peas held against her nose. She's s.h.i.+vering and whimpering and chewing her lip.

Then I see the badge, its pin open and bent back at an unnatural angle. One of my old gold studs lies on the quilt, the b.u.t.terfly clip beside it. I realize that Holly's threats and jokes about piercing her nose were deadly serious.

'What are you doing?' doing?' I demand, horrified. 'Holly, this is a bad, bad idea!' I demand, horrified. 'Holly, this is a bad, bad idea!'

'Why?' Holly says through chattering teeth. 'I've got guts, OK? I can do it. It hurts, though and this is just the ice-pack bit!'

'Holly, can't we talk about this?' I say. 'You're nine. You can't have a pierced nose. And there's no way you can do it yourself! It's crazy!'

'Your friend did it,' Holly points out.

'She was older, and it was ears, not nose,' I argue. 'She was also nuts. I was there, remember? She swore like crazy, and there was a load of blood. Seriously, Holly, bad idea!'

'This will be easier.' Holly grins wickedly. 'Only one piercing to make. You've seen it done you'll help me, won't you?'

'No way,' I protest. 'Dad and Clare would go crazy.'

Holly lets the packet of frozen peas drop down on to the bed. 'Suppose so,' she says. 'We should be more honest with them, right? We shouldn't have secrets. No piercings, no sneaking out to the lough to meet strange lads...'

'Holly!' I say warningly. 'You promised not to tell!'

'Did I?' she says with a shrug. 'Can't remember. No, I think you're right. We shouldn't have secrets from Mum and Chris.'

'Holly, don't do this,' I whisper.

'I want my nose pierced,' she says coolly. 'Are you going to help, or shall I do it myself?'

I have never been blackmailed by a nine-year-old before. I pick up the bag of frozen peas and clamp it against Holly's nose, then test the badge pin for sharpness. A bead of bright blood appears at my fingertip. It's sharp, all right.

'Are you sure ' I begin.

'Sure,' Holly snaps. 'Get on with it, before my face gets frostbite.'

I remove the frozen peas and position the badge pin at the side of Holly's nose. It's a cute, tip-tilted, little-girl nose, with just the right amount of freckles scattered across it. I can't imagine it with a stud or a gold ring. It feels wrong.

'Go on!' Holly prompts.

I push the badge pin and she yelps and jumps across the bed, a trickle of red trailing across her top lip. 'Yow!' she shrieks. 'That's sore! Is it done?'

'No it was just a nick. Come here and stay still!'

Holly screws her eyes shut and stuffs a corner of the pink quilt into her mouth. I feel bad, like I'm preparing to amputate a leg without anaesthetic.

'Do it!' Holly says from behind the quilt. 'Please, Scarlett!'

So I do. I push the badge pin into her skin, but she jumps again and the badge pin slips and skids down to her top lip, where it slides through the soft skin like a knife through b.u.t.ter.

I have pierced my stepsister's top lip. A thick pool of crimson wells up round the stab wound and snakes down over my shaking hand. I pull the pin out quickly, but by then, Holly is screaming.

'It hurts! hurts!' she yells. 'Oh, oh, it hurts! hurts!'

'Shut up!' I hiss, clamping a hand across her mouth. 'Dad and Clare will hear! What did you have to move for? Look what you've made me do! And I told you it would hurt, didn't I? I told you!'

A river of thick, red blood pours down over my hand and drips on to the pink quilt. I sprint out to the bathroom and grab a cold, damp flannel and a box of tissues to staunch the flood.

Holly is crying now, little-girl tears, big gasping shudders of pain and shock. I realize with a sick, shaky certainty that nine is not old enough for this. Nor is nineteen, or even ninety.

'I'm sorry,' I hiss. 'I didn't mean to hurt you. I'm sorry, OK?'

'Is is it meant to b-bleed this much?' Holly wails, as the blood seeps through the tissue and drips on to her white T-s.h.i.+rt, blooming into a red-rose stain.

'I don't know,' I whisper. 'I can't remember. Shut UP, Holls, for goodness' sake! Please!'

But it's too late.

'Holly?' Clare calls up from the foot of the stairs. 'Scarlett? Is everything OK?'