Scarlett - Cathy Cassidy [22]
‘OK,’ Clare says. ‘You can be Scarlett Murray. That’s fine.’
‘I’m not Scarlett Murray either. Just Scarlett.’
Clare nods her head, frowning slightly. ‘Just Scarlett. OK.’
The ache in the pit of my stomach is back, and that choking feeling in my throat. ‘I don’t feel well,’ I say to Clare. ‘I haven’t for a while. I felt bad on Thursday, at school, and it just got worse as the day went on.’
Clare narrows her eyes. ‘OK. So – you were feeling, what, sick? Headachey? Feverish?’
I nod, because I felt all of those things, and that was just the start. ‘It got worse when Miss Madden started up with that Irish stuff. I had sort of an ache, here –’ I press a fist against my chest – ‘and here, in my throat, so I could hardly speak. My heart was thumping too. Do you think it’s serious?’
‘Could be a panic attack.’ Clare bites her lip. ‘What were you doing, in Irish? What was the work?’
‘Some worksheet,’ I mumble.
‘Was there a theme?’
‘The family’ I whisper.
She puts an arm round me, and I want nothing more than to burrow into her soft, warm body and cry until the hurt goes away. I can’t, though, because if I did that, there’d be no going back. Instead, I shake her arm off my shoulder, roughly. ‘Don’t!’ I growl. Just don’t, OK?’
I feel the anger rising like a tidal wave, flooding my body and making my hands shake. I slam out of the cafe, and even though I’m limping a little I’m halfway down the street before Clare catches up with me. She grabs on to my sleeve, pulls me round to face her.
‘Scarlett,’ she says. ‘Scarlett. It’s OK!’
I shake her off but she grabs me again, hanging on this time. ‘Count to ten,’ she says softly. ‘Then take some nice, steady yoga breaths and let the anger go.’
‘Leave me alone!’ I scream, and the cry seems to split the air around us. ‘Leave me alone,’ I repeat, my voice no more than a whisper now.
‘I can’t,’ Clare says calmly. ‘I won’t, Scarlett. I’m here, OK?’
‘I don’t want you,’ I choke out.
‘I know, and I’m sorry’ Clare says. ‘But I’m here all the same.’
I turn my head away and fight to keep back the tears because I don’t want her sympathy and I don’t want her help. She’s the enemy, and I can’t let myself forget that.
Not now – not ever.
There’s a sound like hail against the little window of the sky-blue room with the nursery border. Then again, I may have imagined it, because you imagine all kinds of stuff, lying alone in the dark trying to keep the bad thoughts at bay.
The room is silent, apart from the gentle swoosh of the swing tree, rustling in the breeze, and some sheep in the field beyond the garden. I snuggle back into my pillow.
Then I hear it again, and I’m sitting bolt upright, my heart thumping. I slide out of bed, edge across to the window and peer out from behind the curtains. And there it is again, a shower of gravel flung up against the window from the garden below, making me jump, making me laugh.
A boy with black hair is standing in the moonlit garden, grinning up at me, arms folded. Behind him, in the shadows at the foot of the garden, I can see a large, dark shape browsing through the flower beds, crunching the blooms from Clare’s roses. Midnight. I like that horse.
I unlatch the little window and lean out into the night. ‘Kian!’ I whisper. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Keep your voice down,’ he hisses. ‘C’mon! Quick!’
I shut the window and dress quickly, heart racing. The cottage is silent, sleeping, as I creep down the stairs. Nobody turns a light on or calls out. I pocket an apple from the fruit bowl, pull back the latch on the back door and slip out into the darkness.
Kian is sitting on the tyre swing, swaying slightly. A stalk of mint from Clare’s herb garden dangles from his smiling mouth.
‘Hi,’ I whisper.
‘Hi,’ he says, nodding at my bandaged foot and saddo sandals. ‘Like the footwear.’
‘Mmm. Super cool.’
Midnight appears behind me, snuffling at my pocket for the apple. He sniffs, draws back his lips and crunches into the fruit with huge, yellow teeth. His nose is unbelievably