Perfectly Preventable Deaths

29 Dog’s Tooth Violet

The morning light is bleaching through the garden, making green things grey and red things bright. I’m swollen up with worry about Catlin. I can’t stop scrolling through the things I’ve seen, making them turn sinister in my mind. Lon’s eyes on me, expressionless before they flicker back to Catlin’s form. His large hand snaking all around her hands. The tips of her fingers barely meet the first bend of his knuckle.

I stare too much at Lon, I realise. Taking him in. Do I read menace into innocence? Maybe she did fall over. She’s never lied to me before, not about important things like that. She knows I love her and will protect her. Something in this place has hurt my sister. No matter how much I want her to be fine, she isn’t fine.

I slip on my black boots, a jumper over my pyjama top, and pad down the stairs, trying to keep as silent as possible. Channelling a fox. Or something that doesn’t get noticed right away. A hedgehog maybe. Or a little badger.

I think of roadkill, swallow down the dread. I have been getting up earlier in the mornings to go out to the greenhouse and look at the plants. There is a sort of tension in the air that won’t relent. I pick off one of the thorny yokes that stuck to me on the walk through the garden. I crush it in my fist until it hurts and then I blink and blink and blink again. Squeeze my eyelids tight and harsh together. Scan for something. Writing on a wall. Familiar smell.

There’s something lost here, that I need to find.

When Catlin loses something, she prays to Saint Anthony. I don’t believe in saints, but there is something to this panic in my stomach. Back in Cork, Mam had a friend who died. It was cancer, but she always wondered if gaps the husband tore had let it in. Life doesn’t work that way, I told her then. I do not know that now. My certainty is gone. There’s magic in the world. And it’s more dangerous than I could have known.

I think of Catlin, trying to please Lon. I think of his arm around her. His mouth on hers in front of other boys. The egg-shaped bruise. Holding her back from hugging me that night, his knuckles white with tension on her shoulder. I think of his big hands clutching the back of her head when they kiss. I think of skulls. Of Bridget, Helen, Nora and Amanda. A girl can so easily turn into a ghost.

If something were to happen to Catlin … If he were to hurt her … I would never forgive myself.

On my way back to the castle, I catch sight of Mamó. She’s with the raven, digging up what looks like delph and meat, placing chunks and chips in a little jam jar full of water.

I stare at her until she turns to me.

‘Mamó,’ I say.

‘Madeline,’ she says.

‘Caw,’ says the raven.

Of course it does.

I glare at her.

She glares back.

Hers is better.

We both have work to do. Just different work. Time to get to it.

Brian’s car is in the driveway – he must have come back late last night. I find him in his office, sending emails. He looks tired; there are bags under his eyes. His hair is grey in parts and thin up top.

‘Madeline.’ His voice is glad to see me. I plonk two cups of tea down on his desk. He passes me two coasters.

‘Thank you, love. You’re up early.’

‘I was out in the garden.’

He sighs. ‘Trouble sleeping?

‘I wanted …’ I start but then get worried. I don’t want to put more on anyone than they can take. And he looks really stressed. ‘I didn’t want to bother you, but …’

His face turns serious. ‘Madeline Hayes, I’m here for you. Spit it out. I’ll see what I can do.’

I exhale slowly, then breathe in again.

‘Oh, Brian. It’s Catlin.’

‘All right.’ His voice is neutral. ‘Tell me more.’

‘She’s been seeing this older boy, and I don’t like him and I’ve heard some things.’

He doesn’t even pause. ‘Lon Delacroix,’ he says.

‘That’s the one.’

A long, long sigh from Brian. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘We’ll nip that in the bud.’

‘What’s wrong with Lon?’ I ask.

‘Nothing you could put your finger on.’ Brian looks beyond me, over my shoulder at the door frame. ‘There was something with a girl before. Helen. Allegations were made, and then the whole thing escalated. I don’t want him next nor near you girls.’

‘Helen Groarke,’ I say.

‘Yes,’ Brian says. My stomach jolts. Either he lied to her, or she to me.

‘Do you think he had anything to do with it? What happened.’ I cannot keep the shiver from my voice.

‘No one could prove anything,’ Brian tells me, with another heavy sigh. ‘But there was a suspicion. And that’s enough, more than enough, to nip whatever this is in the bud.’

‘He hangs around the school,’ I say, trying to keep my voice as close to neutral as I can. The words feel like a betrayal in my mouth. I can picture Catlin hearing us, her features twisting into anger, hate.

‘Does he now? He might want to rethink that.’ Brian’s face is grim. His voice is lower, different. I do not know this man, I think. Who is he?

‘I’ll have a chat with your mam,’ he says. ‘When she gets up. Don’t worry, Maddy. You did the right thing there, confiding in me. I’ll take care of it.’ His voice is sure, confident. This must be the kind of Brian he is at work, why people fly him all around the world.

‘Thank you, Brian,’ I say, and really mean it.

‘You look tired, Madeline.’ He reaches an arm out to take my cup. ‘The tea’s gone cold. I’ll put the coffee on.’

I do feel tired, I realise, all of a sudden. Exhausted even. Brian rises to go. ‘See you downstairs,’ he says, and walks out purposefully, like the business-dad he is.

His office is really warm. The underfloor heating must be turned way up, I think. The shrunken head is lolling just a little to one side, balanced on the dark wood of the lintel, all wizened and remoulded. Soft grey bread with nostrils, cheeks and eyes. Those features lie, the truth of them forgotten.

Corpses in the mountains, in the house.

I stagger up. I’m feeling very drained, for some strange reason. I press my hand to the wallpaper, feeling the soft relief of shapes. I haven’t been in here for more than a few minutes before. And never by myself. I haven’t had the time to take it in. I should move, I should head downstairs. Brian will be waiting. The wallpaper in his office is off-white – darker than cream, with patterns carved in. Can you say carved with paper? I don’t know. They look like they’re carved. There’s something natural about them. To the touch, it feels like the pelt of something. A solid, organic texture. I shake my head, trying to shed my mind-fog. Outside, I see the curl of the blue path to the courtyard, spot a little creature hurrying down the trail. I close my eyes. It could be a rabbit or a rat. A little dog. It’s hard to tell from here. It feels like I’m inside a computer screen, in a story or a film, and looking out but I can’t break the barrier between me and the world. I can’t get through. There’s something I’m not doing, and if I could just …

But, as my eyes swim, something like a pattern is developing. A sort of shape that’s underneath the shapes. There’s something wrong about it, like one section is slightly paler than the others. But not in colour. In another way. In something else. I touch my hand to that part of the wall, to the left of Brian’s desk, and it is warmer. There is something here. The wild roses and birds, linking intricately together. The cruel downturn of beak. The sharp of thorn and claw. I sigh, and press my hand harder against the wall.

It gives beneath my hand. It starts to open.