I blow again.
Which is more important – sleep before school or not being a crazy person?
The second is probably not an option though. A spoon of solid honey in the tea. I crush the leaves some more and stir them round.
Clockwise?
Counter-clockwise.
Counter-clockwise, thrice or seven times.
Salt in hand, I pad my way upstairs. Across the floor and reaching under the bed in Catlin’s room. I slide the salt in. And then I go across the wing to Mam. The corridors are dark, the cornicing is twisted. I feel the hum of spiders spinning webs. Everything is sharper, more in focus.
I’m not sure if it’s panic or relief.
Mam is sleeping soundly, Brian beside her. It feels like more of an intrusion now. That she is not alone. That he is here. The blanket’s half off Brian’s torso, and in the moonlight it looks as if something’s written on his body. He snuffles, and he snuggles into Mam. I crouch down low and shove the salt beneath the bed.
When I rise, things look like they’re supposed to. A trick of the light. I make my way down the corridor, feeling exhaustion leach the tension from me. I could sleep for a week. I have three hours, and that will have to do. I climb into my bed and pull the covers over me.
I hear the night-time sounds of Ballyfrann. The rustle of leaves, the clanking of pipes, the screams of cats or foxes having sex. Catlin thinks it’s funny, but I hate it. I always wonder What if it’s a child? A child outside in pain and somewhere, lost.
When we were little, we had a book of stories from our dad. It had been his when he was very small. And some of them were cool, but some were frightening. There was this witch, her house had chicken legs. Her face melts to Mamó’s while I curl up in bed.
She used to lure young girls inside her house. And sometimes she would help you. And sometimes she would eat you. It was up to her. She had the power.
Until you ventured in, you couldn’t know.
Baba Yaga, Aoife from the children of Lir, Mr Fox, even the Virgin Mary. Scary folk, the kind you should appease. They all had secrets. Like here. It feels that way. Like everyone’s a door.
We should be careful.
11
Alder
Catlin isn’t in her bed when I get up. I’ve slept through my alarm. I’m so late. I throw my horrid polyester on and run downstairs. Catlin and Mam are sipping coffee at the kitchen table, like two women in an ad for espresso. Their hair is sleek, their faces are made up. A shaft of sunlight caresses their beautiful heads. I have a hole in my tights, I realise. Visible leg hair furzing through it.
‘What took you?’ asks Mam. Her tone is off. There’s something forced about it. Over-happy. Catlin’s face is casual. They have been talking about me, I realise. My mouth is open. I need to say something.
‘I didn’t sleep,’ I tell her, and leave it at that. Mam butters me a slice of toast. I stuff it in my mouth, and grab my bag. ‘Maybe I’m coming down with whatever Catlin had.’ My voice comes out more bitchy than I mean.
‘I feel much better,’ Catlin says to me. She’s dressed for school as well. Her uniform looks tailored on her body. Mine has an actual leaf sticking to it. I don’t know where it came from. Mam peels it off and puts it in the bin.
‘The state of you.’ I amn’t in the mood. Her face is softer though. ‘Maybe you aren’t well. We might have to give you some of Mamó’s special tea.’
I snort and shove my lunch into my bag.
On the walk to the bus stop, I ask Catlin what Mam and her were saying.
‘Nothing,’ she tells me, but she has a mask on, so I ask again.
‘Look,’ she says, ‘I think you know. She found it and she’s angry. But we have school, so you can’t get upset right now, OK?’
‘I can’t control when I get upset,’ I tell her. ‘That’s not a thing.’
‘I know,’ she says. ‘But it’s the usual nonsense about making a mess and being weird and do you need to see a counsellor and stuff. We’ve heard it all before.’
‘We have.’ I sigh, and Catlin’s eyes meet mine. The same shape and colour, but very different souls that live behind them. I can see her worry about me. Not the salt stuff – she doesn’t really judge me for that – but the conflict.
I hate the knowledge that a difficult conversation is coming. It’s like a handful of copper coins shoved down my throat. The weight inside my stomach, the tang of something awful coming soon. I swallow hard. I need to change the subject. Happy things, before I start to cry. I tell Catlin about Oona. How pretty and sound she is, and how she swims.
‘She sounds painful,’ Catlin tells me blithely.
‘Well, she’s not,’ I say. ‘I actually spoke to people around her. And they listened!’ It is sad that I say this so triumphantly. But here we are.
My twin glints at this.
‘Progress! I’m proud of you. Anything strange?’
‘Apparently Lon runs a youth club. With trampolines and drink?’ I screw my mouth into a very, very small mouth indeed, trying to communicate how excited I am not about the youth club.
Catlin is checking her phone. All her friends in Cork are fighting now that she is gone. Catlin was the cool glue that stopped everyone getting with each other and/or becoming enemies, apparently. Factions have emerged, and they’re all trying to get her onside. It’s like her Christmas. I watch as her fingers swipe and tap and press. She takes a picture of her outraged face. There is a pause.
‘Drink?’ she asks. My sister is predictable.
‘Drink, Catlin,’ I confirm. ‘Look at you. All gagging for the sauce.’
‘The hot, hot sauce,’ she says. And does a little dance. We have a hot-sauce dance. It is very graceful.
‘We need to join this … What’s it called?’ She looks at me.
‘The youth club.’
‘Urgh,’ she says. ‘It needs a better name. Like, something edgy.’
Oh, Catlin, I think. Please do not be the worst.
‘Yes,’ I tell her, ‘because Mam will love us going to the Doom Doom Hell Orgy Association.’
‘That’s not a very good name. Too many words.’
‘We could call it the Doom Doom Room for short,’ I snap at her.
‘That’s almost good.’ She grins. ‘We definitely have to join though. Unless there are, like, matching hoodies. Because those are terrible.’
Charley won’t like that, I think. It’s weird what a difference a few days make.
‘What have you got against hoodies?’ I ask her. ‘You have, like, four of them.’
‘I like the zippy ones,’ she says, making a zip with her hands, as if I don’t know what a zip can do. ‘But we wouldn’t get to pick the colour. Plus I hate being like everybody else.’
‘You really do,’ I tell her. ‘I like a hoody, me. It makes me feel all warm and safe like a fleecy tortoise. Ballyfrann could do with being cosier.’
‘I hate this stupid frost. Look at these, like, ice-trees. What even are they? WHAT ARE YOU, TREES?’ She gives a tree a kick. It’s pretty rude.
She looks at me. And in that moment I know that we are going to join the youth club. And that I will probably hate it.
I sigh. ‘The trees are fine, Catlin. They’re just being trees. Don’t mind her, noble oak.’ I rub its trunk. We’re almost at the end of the driveway.
‘I know they are,’ she says. ‘We kind of have to join, Maddy. We can’t just languish in the castle. Like ghost brides.’ She tosses her hair. ‘I don’t have the right nightdress to be a ghost bride. You can’t phone that shit in.’