Perfectly Preventable Deaths

47 Nettle

Catlin’s hair is growing in downy fuzz, like ducklings have, but white. She’s fine with it – I mean, there’s always dye if she gets bored – but the port-wine stains have been bothering her. Her face looks different. Less like her own face. She has been applying the concealer that make-up artists use to cover up tattoos. She orders it in bulk.

‘Brian has the money,’ she says. ‘I asked for laser treatment, but he said it wouldn’t work. Because of stupid magic.’

‘Magic is stupid,’ I tell her. I spent a lot of today moving things downstairs to my new room and I resent it.

‘My teeth might fall out too,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that disgusting? With fingernails and hair, it all comes back, just maybe a bit different, but if your teeth go, that’s it. Dentures for life.’

I feel awkward. I don’t know what to say to her. I mean, she’s always been the pretty twin. But now she looks like all the things she’s been through. What she is. A girl that should be dead.

And I still look like me. Only more tired. Big dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. From puzzling out what’s happening and what might happen next.

‘I don’t care anyway,’ she says to me, rifling through her drawers looking for something. ‘I don’t want to be pretty. Remember when we wanted Galway boyfriends?’

‘Yeah,’ I say. Her eyes fill up with tears. I go to touch her shoulder and she tenses. ‘Don’t touch me right now.’

I move my hand back. Put it on my lap and watch her breathe. I didn’t save her. I just saved her life. My sister’s broken.

‘Every night,’ she says, ‘I see him there. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.’

My phone buzzes on the bedside locker.

‘Who is that?’ Catlin asks.

‘Oona,’ I say.

‘You going to meet up?’ she asks.

‘We’ll see,’ I say. ‘I’m basically a servant. So there’s that. And also, she was kind of mean to me before. But I don’t have a soul. And she is hot.’

‘Not as hot as you. You’re a badass witch,’ she says.

‘You just think I’m beautiful because I look like you,’ I say.

‘Not any more,’ she says, with something between a laugh and a sob. I reach for her again, get pushed away.

‘Mad, it’s fine. I’m getting used to it, you know?’

I nod. Though I don’t know. How could I know?

Catlin is opening up a drawer, and rifling through it. She pulls out a small, wooden box.

‘Sit down and let me try this.’

‘What?’ I ask, already sitting down.

She unwraps a deck of cards from white raw silk.

‘Let me read for you,’ she says. ‘You’re not the only one who can do magic.’ She wiggles her fingers and makes what I can only describe as paranormal sounds. A lot of whoooooing.

‘Are you going to stop that?’ I ask.

‘Never,’ she says. ‘But look, if you’re worried for the future, this might help. I’ve been trying to learn a bit about the cards and what they mean. I found this deck in the library, and I thought – you know – wouldn’t it be nice to have a future?’

‘It would,’ I say, and when we look at each other our eyes begin to shine, so we look away.

‘I can’t get a handle on mine,’ she says. ‘It’s all “two of swords, death, wheel of fortune”. And I want to know what’s going to happen. Not what has already.’

‘It’s not real though,’ I say.

‘It’s hard to tell,’ she says, ‘what is and isn’t real. Do you ever wonder where you got it from, Madeline? The talent, or whatever it is you have that makes that old bitch want you.’

‘I tried to ask Mam, but she gave me nothing,’ I say. ‘There’s stuff about Dad, but she can’t remember properly. Or won’t. Mamó told me that maybe this … was something I inherited … that Hayes was an old name … And I think that maybe Dad could have been something like I am.’ I sigh. ‘I wish I knew for sure.’

Catlin looks up from the deck, her eyes on mine. ‘I have this memory, of being small, and waking up in the middle of the night. And the walls of the room were on fire. But it wasn’t warm. It was just there – like a film projected on our bedroom walls. But when I reached to touch it, I could feel it. And I don’t remember how old I was, but I was small because we still had railings on our beds. And I don’t remember any more. Just that one flash. That moment. I think that Mamó must be right. That Dad was a witch – or the male term for witch. Warlock, or whatever.’ She rolls her eyes.

‘Mamó calls herself a wise woman sometimes,’ I say. ‘But maybe there are other kinds of witches with wands and hats and things. I mean, it’s possible … you never told me about the fire on the wall. I know you had bad dreams but …’

Catlin’s eyes on the cards, shuffling and shuffling, her knuckles white. There is a pause, and then her voice is small, a little frightened.

‘I didn’t have that memory before. It came back, Mad, when I did. Things feel changed. All warped. All turned around. It’s like there’s more of the world to see, and all the little details bleed together. It’s all these little pictures, but I have to work to make the big one out.’

‘Like a mosaic.’

‘Something a bit like that. And if I remember that, maybe there’s more to come. And we can work on Mam. I mean, we’ve both been through a lot. And I, for one, am fully prepared to milk it.’

‘You have a point.’

‘I mean, I got murdered. Full-on murdered. And you … you’ve given so much to get me back …’

‘Catlin,’ I say, my voice low, ‘I wonder – how Dad died; if he was killed. I mean, in the forest. It sounds a bit … like … what happened with the fox … a sacrifice or something …’

Her face is grim. ‘I see that. Earth and fire. Jesus Christ.’

‘I know,’ I whisper.

‘All we can do is keep searching, and nudging, I suppose. Now, stop terrifying me, and let me read you. Please.’ Her eyes meet mine.

‘OK,’ I say, and watch her small hands shuffling the cards. They’re bigger and thicker than playing cards, and they smell like old books and incense. The backs of them are covered in geometric patterns and stars.

‘Choose three,’ she says.

I do.

She turns them over.

‘Death: that’s probably me. It doesn’t have to be an actual death. It could mean a big change. A metamorphosis.’

‘That could be me as well,’ I say. ‘I mean. I had all of this lovely soul and now I don’t know … Actually, Catlin – this mightn’t work, what with all the soul I don’t have.’

‘You don’t need to have a soul to have a future. I mean, look at Lon – out there, in the great wide open, looking for the next girl.’ She says it like a joke. It’s not a joke.

I don’t know how to respond, so I turn over the next card.

It’s the moon. I stare at it.

‘Is that a lobster?’ I ask.

‘Yes, and a little dog,’ Catlin says. ‘He’s cute. This card is about intuition. And it’s upside down, which means …’ She scrolls through the app on her phone, which is not very mystical of her, but I’ll be knee deep in mystical junk soon, so it’s fine.

‘Insomnia. Unusual Dreams. Mysteries Unveiled. Release of Fear.’

‘Yup. Yup. Nope. Nope,’ I tell her.

‘Well, finding out that you were a witch and that Lon was a serial killer is kind of an unveiled mystery?’ she says.

‘I suppose – there are too many mysteries that still have their veils on though,’ I say.

‘Hmmmm.’

Catlin turns the final card with a flourish.

‘Oh. OK,’ she says. ‘This one I like.’

It’s a big hand appearing in the sky with a stick.

‘I get a wand!’ I exclaim. ‘Or Mamó is going to hit me with a stick. Definitely one or the other.’

‘Shh,’ she says. ‘This is actually a nice one – it’s about potential. It’s, like, the seed of something good is there. Waiting for you.’

‘Oh.’ I look at the hand-stick again, green leaves growing out of it, and flowers.

‘Spring is coming,’ Catlin says. ‘Maybe you should visit Oona, bring her a little present. Like a stick with leaves on?’

‘She would love that.’ My tone is wry.

‘The French love sticks; it’s the same shape as their bread. Facts.’ Catlin says this like she has a doctorate in what French people are like.

‘You’re really good at sounding like you know stuff.’

‘Look. Madeline. You’ve lost your soul. You’ve lost your freedom. You’ve lost a bit of your sister. What else could go wrong? Go get the shift.’

‘Urrrgh,’ I say. ‘Don’t call it that.’

‘What’s the French word? Oh, I know this. Baiser. Go get the baiser.’ She grins.

‘Stop being supportive.’

‘Never. I am going to have a little Pride parade for you in Ballyfrann.’ She cackles. ‘Just me, you, Mam, Oona and maybe Brian all in rainbow colours, marching down main street.’

‘I hate you and everything about you.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Now, go get that girl.’

She stares at me. I stare back. Neither of us blinks. I wonder for a second if I have magic unblinking snake powers now that I have no soul, but once I’ve thought that I immediately need to blink and Catlin does a small victory dance.

I send Oona a message, see if she’s around. She replies right away. I smile, and Catlin says, ‘Aww,’ and I tell her where she can go with her patronising little sounds, but it doesn’t come off as seriously as I meant it because I have this stupid big grin still on my face.

I get my coat and walk through the forest. I see the down of birds tangled on brambles. I see the thickets full of green and bright. Everything’s awake, I think. It’s lovely. Slowly I meander through the woods. I meet her halfway up the mountain path. We walk back down together, towards the castle grounds, talking about everything and nothing. School, and her dad. My headaches and the magic, and how everything has changed, will change again.

She is here, and listening to me, and I am grateful.

I want to ask her about Claudine, but I don’t. I’m not strong enough to be that sort of friend to her just now. I need more distance. We walk till silence falls. I had wondered, whether I’d fancy her now. Without a soul, if there would be a lack of feeling there. I shouldn’t have bothered. I still notice her eyelashes, the way they cast a shadow on her face. So long and dark. The soft look of her skin. I smell her scent.

‘Madeline.’ Her hand brushes my wrist. By accident. On purpose. I don’t know. My stomach lurches, batting at my heart.

‘I think,’ I say, ‘that we should just be friends.’

She looks at me. I look at her.

‘Oona, I like you a lot. I mean, of course I do. You’re amazing. But you don’t feel the romantic stuff as deeply as I do. And that’s fine.’

I’m staring at the trees ahead.

‘But if we … well, I can see it getting harder and harder, and I would hurt, and lose you in that hurt. And I need to be careful right now, because I’m so … I don’t have any more inside me to give.’

I feel the wobble in my voice,

‘Oh, Madeline,’ she says, so gently that it makes me catch my breath.

All she would have to do is reach for me, and I’d lose all resolve. Get lost inside her. But she puts her hands inside her pockets, and we walk through the grounds, beside the wells, around the physic garden. I tell her snatches of what happened. Not very much. Lon killed Catlin, I made a deal. It’s hard to talk about, outside of family. But she gets it, or gets the fear of losing who you love. Her family is strange as well, compared to what people expect from people. I tell her about losing my soul, and how it hurt, like, really, really, hurt, but I don’t notice that pain now; there isn’t an absence. I’ve heard that when people have something amputated, sometimes they still feel it there, a phantom limb. Maybe I have a phantom soul.

When I am twenty-three, I don’t know where or who or what I’ll be. And it’s the same for her. I mean, I could keep hoping. If I wanted, I could keep on hoping.

But I won’t.