Scarlett Part 4

'Where are you going?' Miss Madden calls out as I stride across the gra.s.s, tearing the worksheet into shreds as I walk. Ripped paper flutters out behind me like confetti.

'Scarlett Flynn!' she screeches. 'Come back here!'

I reach the gate and turn slightly, my head held high. The sun is warm on my back but there's a slight breeze, and my head feels clearer than it has all day. Miss Madden is hanging out of the window, calling the name of a girl I can barely remember, a girl who no longer exists. Behind her the cla.s.s have gathered in a pale-faced clump, fascinated. They seem very far away.

I walk out through the open school gates and don't look back.

The trouble with Kilimoor is that there's nowhere to run to. The main street doesn't have one single normal-looking shop, just an alarming egg-yolk yellow pub called Heaney's Bar, which seems to have a post office and greengrocer's attached. There's a sweet shop that sells sherbet lemons and pear drops straight from the jar and a dusty craft shop selling Aran cardigans and harp-printed tea towels.

I fish out my mobile, hold it at arm's length and take a picture of myself cross-eyed, tongue lolling. Messed up again, Messed up again, I text Mum. I text Mum. Coming back 2 London. Scarlett x. Coming back 2 London. Scarlett x.

Not that she'll be bothered. She still hasn't called.

I find a bus stop, count my cash and wait half an hour for a tiny minibus to appear.

'I need to get to Knock Airport, please,' I say to the driver. 'Do you go straight there or will I have to change?'

'Ah, now,' he replies. 'I'm going the other way.'

'To Dublin?' I ask, because I know you can get ferries from there. The driver just laughs.

'No. You're about as far from Dublin as it's possible to be,' he says. 'Now, you could take the bus to Castlebar, and change there for Knock, but the Castlebar bus went an hour ago. And if it's Dublin you're wanting, you'd best take a bus down to Galway and pick up a coach going east. The Galway bus goes from over the road, by Heaney's. You've just missed it.'

My face falls. 'Is there another one?'

'Friday,' shrugs the bus driver. I stand on the pavement and watch him drive away.

I slump into a little cafe that has red-and-white checked tablecloths and order a bottle of pop and a cheese sandwich for later. The woman at the till squints at me suspiciously.

'You're not local,' she says. 'On your holidays? Staying nearby?'

I push three quid across the counter, ignoring the questions. After all, I am on the run.

Ah, no, pet, you need euros,' the woman says, pus.h.i.+ng back my pound coins. 'Didn't you know?'

I panic. n.o.body told me the money was different in Ireland. Can you get euros with a cash card? If not, I am in deep trouble. I need a bus ticket, a plane ticket, a way out of this nightmare.

'I'll leave it,' I say. 'I'm not really hungry.'

There's a racket in the street outside, a horribly familiar racket. I duck out of sight behind a potted palm as the Morris Traveller looms past, gasping to a halt across the street. Dad gets out, white-faced, scanning up and down. He starts going in and out of the shops, grimly, one by one. It doesn't take a genius to figure that the word is out about my Great Escape.

I sneak out of the cafe while Dad is looking for clues in a rundown shoeshop filled with fur-trimmed slippers and shamrock-print wellies. Buy one, get one free, Buy one, get one free, the sign says. I cut down an alleyway and follow a footpath along the edge of some fields until I'm well clear of the village, climbing higher and higher up into the hills. Without the cash for bus fare, it looks like I'm walking to Dublin. Maybe I can stow away on a ferry back to England? the sign says. I cut down an alleyway and follow a footpath along the edge of some fields until I'm well clear of the village, climbing higher and higher up into the hills. Without the cash for bus fare, it looks like I'm walking to Dublin. Maybe I can stow away on a ferry back to England?

I walk until my feet hurt, over the crest of the hill and down into the valley, past small blue loughs that s.h.i.+mmer in the afternoon sun. I climb up the far side of the valley, walk on along the ridge, then drop down on the far side, edging my way down the slope. The gorse and bracken gives way to a woodland of silver birch. My stupid shoes slip and slither, and blisters bubble beneath my toes.

I take cover in the trees, wedge heels crunching over dead leaves and broken twigs. I find a path, then the path fizzles out and I'm back to stumbling over tree stumps and fallen branches, squidging through soggy bits, slipping on mossy stones. Twigs stroke my face like scratchy fingers.

The trees thin out and I find myself on the sh.o.r.es of another lough, a long, dark blue stretch of water that glints and s.h.i.+nes. Inside the fluffy red rucksack, my mobile erupts into life. I fish it out, snap open the cover.

'h.e.l.lo?' I say.

'Scarlett! Where the h.e.l.l are you?'

'Hi, Mum,' I reply. 'Nice to speak to you too.'

'Scarlett, don't get clever with me,' she snaps. 'Your dad's just been on the phone. What d'you think you're playing at?'

I sit down on a tree stump, cradling the phone. 'I'm not playing, Mum,' I tell her. 'I'm coming home.'

'Scarlett, that just isn't on,' Mum says. 'We agreed this was the best solution, and you won't even give it a fair trial!'

We agreed? agreed?

'I've sent you six text messages,' I tell her. 'And a picture, today. How come you only reply when Dad calls you?'

'I had an important presentation yesterday, and then dinner with the clients,' Mum says icily. 'I'd have called tonight, obviously.'

'Well, thanks,' I quip. 'It's great you can fit me into your busy schedule.'

I can hear Mum fizzing with anger. 'Actually, Scarlett, I was in the middle of a meeting when your dad called. I could do without having to deal with this kind of stunt on your very first full day in Ireland. You can't just walk out of school!'

'I did,' I point out. 'It'll save them the trouble of expelling me.'

'You're going back,' Mum says.

'I'm coming home,' I reply. 'Please, Mum. I hate it here. n.o.body wants me. It's a dump. Don't make me stay.'

'Scarlett, don't be ridiculous. Where are you exactly?' Mum asks. 'Are you still in Kilimoor? Chris is out of his mind with worry. Promise me you'll stay put. Just stay still, wait for Chris. He'll sort things out.'

'Mum?' the word comes out kind of mangled. I close my eyes, press my fist against my mouth.

'Scarlett?' she says shrilly. 'Are you still there? Listen to me. It's time you stopped acting like a kid with a tantrum and started to make the best of things. Just grow up and get on with it.'

I snap the phone shut, run down to the water's edge and throw the mobile in one perfect, curving arc right out into the lough. It glints silver as it breaks the surface with a splash, then sinks without trace.

I turn away, furious, marching along the sh.o.r.e, but within minutes I trip, scrambling over a knot of gnarled tree roots, falling heavily I've torn one of the ribbon ties on my sandal, and a hot, burning pain shoots through my left ankle. My eyes p.r.i.c.kle with tears of anger, but I won't cry. I never cry not since Dad left, anyhow. It'd be like letting him see how much he hurt me. Crying is for kids. I scream instead, a bloodcurdling yell that startles the birds and shakes the treetops before tailing off to a whimper.

I pull off my wedge heels and fling them away into the trees ahead of me, because they've ripped my feet to shreds and I don't care if I never see them again as long as I live.

I hobble along the sh.o.r.eline, my black tights all ripped and holed, but I can't put any weight on my twisted ankle and I have to give up. There's a tree up ahead, a little twisty tree with soft green leaves that sits at the head of the lough. A bubble of water trickles through its bony roots, and little flashes of red peep through the leaves as I approach. Scarves and rags are tied into its branches, like ribbons in a little girl's hair. Weird.

I blink. Up in the foliage, one of my red and pink wedge sandals hangs, dangling from a tangled loop of ribbon. I sit down, leaning my back against the trunk, letting the icy water run over my toes, looking out across the lough.

My ankle is hurting like crazy, and now I can see it's swollen too. Perfect. I close my eyes, wondering how I have managed to make such a mess of my life. If it's all about choices, I guess I just pick the wrong ones, time after time after time.

The light is fading, streaking the sky with icecream colours vanilla, strawberry, raspberry ripple. If I'm not careful, I'll be spending the night here, burrowing down into the dry leaves, resting my head on a fallen branch. It doesn't seem like such a bad idea.

If this was a kid's fairy tale, birds and dormice would fetch me magical blankets woven from spider's web silk or velvet moss, because it's getting chilly now. I wouldn't be sitting alone by a deserted lough in the middle of nowhere, hacked off, clueless, hungry, cold. I'd have met wolves and woodcutters, witches and dwarves and handsome princes to make my dreams come true.

Yeah, right. Even the birds and the dormice are staying out of my way.

I wish I didn't feel so alone.

Suddenly, on the edge of my vision where the sh.o.r.eline curves round towards a distant rocky headland, something is moving. I can't see clearly at first, because of the fading light and the soft pink glow of the sunset, but then my eyes stretch wide with disbelief.

The horse comes out of the sunset, galloping along the edge of the lough like something from a dream. I can hear the thud of its hooves on damp mud, see the water splash out around it. It's a stocky black horse with a flash of white at its forehead, hooves feathered with cream-coloured hair that's damp and crimped from the lough. It slows as it turns from the water's edge and comes towards me, shaking its head and blowing hot air through flaring nostrils.

The rider looks down at me, his dark eyes s.h.i.+ning, black hair flopping across his face. His T-s.h.i.+rt is faded and worn, his jeans are frayed and one brown hand is twisted into the horse's mane.

'I've been looking for you,' he says.

Of course, a boy from the lough could look right into my soul and turn it inside out. He wouldn't need to ask questions. He'd just pull me up beside him on the big black horse and we'd gallop into the water, splas.h.i.+ng through the shallows and out towards the silver-pink horizon.

That doesn't happen. When he says 'I've been looking for you,' I snarl right back with 'Yeah? Well, looks like you've found me now.' He raises one eyebrow, just a fraction, and I cover my mouth with my hands so that nothing else mean and spiky can leak out.

'You're the English girl,' the boy says. 'Half of Kilimoor is talking about you. Figured you'd be halfway to the airport by now.'

I shrug. 'I'm heading for Dublin.'

'So,' he says. 'You're going in the wrong direction.'

The black horse wheels around a little, scuffing up the mud. 'You must have walked six or seven miles over the hills,' the boy tells me. 'You're on Lough Choill, not far from your dad's place.'

'No way!' My cheeks burn until I guess they're about as red as my hair.

'Did you hurt yourself?' he asks, looking at my swollen ankle. 'What happened to your shoes?'

'Lost them.'

The corners of his mouth twitch into a smile. 'Don't tell me, red stilettos?' he asks.

'Funny. Red wedge heels, actually, with ribbon ties.'

'Ah. Much more sensible, obviously' His eyes flicker up to the leaves above my head, where one sandal still hangs from a branch, spinning slightly. 'You found the wis.h.i.+ng tree then? Most people tie on rags or scarves, not sandals.'

'Wis.h.i.+ng tree?' I echo. 'What's that?'

'This tree,' the boy says, wheeling the black horse round in a circle. 'The old hazel that marks the spring, the holy well. The water has healing properties, and people come and tie cloth on to the branches to ask for a wish, a prayer, a favour. It's either very holy or very magical, depending on who you believe!'

'I don't believe any of it,' I say coldly. 'It's rubbish.'

'Sure.' The boy laughs. 'Don't tell me you've never made a wish.'

'Wishes are for losers.'

'No, wishes are for dreamers,' he says. 'My name's Kian, and the horse is Midnight. I'm guessing you're Scarlett, right?'

'Maybe,' I reply carelessly.

'Red hair, fluffy bag, a scowl that could turn milk sour.' Kian considers. 'Yeah, you're Scarlett. Want a lift back to your dad's?'

I look at him carefully. He can't be much older than me thirteen, fourteen at most. His eyes are darker than the lough, his grin is wide and lazy, and his accent dips softly like a whispered song. I love the sound of his name Kee-an, soft and lilting. There's something strong about him, something cool. He peers at me through a tangle of black, jaw-length hair.

'So. You wanting a lift or not?'

'Not back to Dad's,' I say. 'How about Dublin?'

He looks back at me steadily, his lips twitching into a smile. 'You're joking, right?'

'Do I look like I'm joking?'

I get to my feet, trying for a don't-care att.i.tude, but my ankle gives way and I grab on to Midnight's bridle for support. I breathe in sweet hay and the thick, warm, treacly smell of horse, and somehow it reminds me of a little girl with big dreams and a shedload of wishes that didn't come true. Midnight pushes his nose against my neck, nuzzling gently. It tickles.

'Don't think you're running far on that ankle,' Kian says. 'Better get it X-rayed.'

He wheels the horse round and I look for a saddle to grab on to, but there isn't one. Instead, he leans over and hauls me up in front of him like a sack of potatoes, and I wriggle and yelp and fold one leg over until I'm facing forward. It's way higher up than I imagined.

Midnight sways dangerously beneath me, moving off along the path. 'I don't like this,' I say.

'You'll be fine,' Kian says. 'We'll go slowly. Relax.'

'Dublin then?' I ask hopefully.

Kian laughs. 'I don't think so not with that ankle, and half the countryside out looking for you. Another time, OK?'

'Yeah, right,' I huff. The truth is, though, I don't even know where I'm running to any more.

I take a deep breath in. Kian wraps his arms round me and buries his fingers in the horse's mane, and I see that his wrists are threaded with bracelets made of plaited leather, braided cotton, beads. We turn away from the twilit lough at a slow walk.

Midnight knows the forest paths, picking his way through the undergrowth while twiggy trees ruffle my hair and clutch at my legs. By the time we've pushed out through the trees and into the tiny lane, I'm leaning back against Kian, relaxed enough to let go of the tight knot of hurt that's been eating at my guts for days. The sound of Midnight's hooves on the road is like a heartbeat.

'Your dad's cottage is just along the way,' Kian says into my ear.

All that walking, and I just found my way back here.

'Not Dublin?' I ask Kian.

'Not tonight, Scarlett.'

When we get to the cottage, the dream is shattered. A weird kind of police car is parked outside in place of the Morris Traveller.

'Is that the police?' I gulp.

'The Gardai,' Kian whispers. 'The Irish version. I told you your family were worried. No need to mention me, OK? Let them think you made your own way back. I'll see you around.'