She nods. ‘It’s being developed as an alternative treatment for CF. It hasn’t been approved here, but I’ve read about a few people who have gone to the Dominican Republic for it. It costs loads. Thousands – much more than Calum’s photos would have earned.’ Her eyelids droop shut. ‘I guess he’s looking for a miracle, in case things take another turn for the worse.’
My insides turn to ice. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that sooner?’
‘It doesn’t make any difference. It was still a shitty thing to do. He shouldn’t have gone behind our backs. Besides, he shouldn’t be trying to make decisions about my treatments for me.’ Her hand inches across the duvet, until her fingertips are touching mine. ‘But I think he deserves a second chance. If that’s OK with you.’
People make mistakes. I have. I can’t judge Calum for doing the same. ‘OK. Anyway, it’s Teacake who has to forgive him, not me.’ I look at my phone. Another ten missed calls since I last checked. ‘Actually, I think – I think I need to make a phone call too.’
Allie’s eyebrows lift. Even in the dim glow from my desk lamp, I see the fear, suspicion and anger flickering through her eyes. ‘Your dad?’
‘I promised my sister I would tell him if we were in trouble. I think it’s time for me to trust him,’ I say. ‘Plus, Rani will want to be with Teacake too. She’d want to say goodbye.’
Allie’s silent for a moment, fiddling absent-mindedly with one of her earrings, but then she nods. ‘OK. Let’s do it.’
The sun is coming up now. My mind is fuzzy with fatigue, and my words are beginning to slur. It’s far too early to ring anyone, or maybe far too late. But we take out our phones anyway, and we make the calls.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It happened on a Monday. It happened in November, in a place where we weren’t supposed to be. I should have been in double Maths, listening to Mr Anderson drone on about vectors and tangents. She should have been in the office she’d set up in what was once our guest room, doing her paperwork or responding to clients’ emails. Neither of us was supposed to be walking in the glen.
I couldn’t face school that morning; I was still recovering from Amy Williamson’s party the Saturday before. Part of that was the combination of vodka, Red Bull and Blue WKD that I’d drunk – my first two-day hangover, and hopefully my last – but most of it was down to the same reason I’d spent all of Sunday in my room locked in a WhatsApp fight and drowning out the world with music: Leah.
We had kissed three times by then. Once on my sixteenth birthday, back in October; once on Guy Fawkes’ Night; and once in the woods on an orienteering trip when we realized neither of us knew how to read a map and got completely lost. Each kiss was rushed, but each one lasted longer than the last. Each kiss was secret, but each one felt like a step towards something bigger. She didn’t want a label, but we were building up to something with a name. That’s what it felt like, anyway.
But that Saturday I walked into Amy Williamson’s kitchen and saw her kissing Joseph Macrae, and that ‘something’ – that thing that I’d thought we’d been building up to – it had crumbled. The argument we’d had afterwards, the messages she’d sent saying that this wasn’t who she was, that I wasn’t who she wanted, that the whole thing had been a phase and a mistake . . . all that had ground the rubble into dust.
‘I’m not going in,’ I told Mum when she came into my room at half past seven on Monday morning. ‘I’m not well. Got a migraine.’
She put her hand on my forehead. When I was wee, I tried once or twice to fake a fever by pressing a hot flannel against my forehead. This time, I didn’t even have the energy to fake a headache. It was obvious I wasn’t sick, but Mum just swept my hair out of my face and pulled the duvet up to my shoulders.
‘You can stay home with me today, then,’ she said. ‘Get some more sleep; I’ll give the school a ring.’
She came back at ten o’clock with a tray of tea and toast. She stayed with me as I took a few bites, telling me about some emails she’d had from an irate customer, then suggested we go for a walk in the glen. ‘You look like you could do with some fresh air. Clear that headache of yours,’ she said, grinning.
She’d been going on for months about how important my Highers were, how every lesson counted. I didn’t know why she was letting me stay off, but I didn’t argue; I was just happy not to have to face Leah, or Emma’s questions, or Joseph Macrae’s annoyingly handsome face.
I brushed my teeth, got dressed and pulled my hair back into a ponytail. I went downstairs, put my shoes on and walked out to the car. I can’t work out at which point things went off course. Maybe if I hadn’t paused to put my hair up, she’d still be here. Maybe if I’d forgotten something and run back to my room, she’d still be here. I know that if I’d said no, or if I’d gone to school in the first place, she would be.
But I didn’t. I got in the car, and we drove to the glen, and the unlikely became the inevitable.
Nowadays it’s just another bullet point on my long, long list of places to avoid, but back in November the glen was just one of the many spots Mum and I loved to go walking: a little green haven of birch and yew and elm trees, with a beautiful waterfall looking out towards the hills.
It was quiet that day, as always, and strangely sunny for November. We walked up the path, talking about school, Emma’s latest boy drama, my uncle Dinesh’s new girlfriend. I could feel my bad mood start to lift a little, until she brought Leah up.
‘Leah hasn’t been over for a while,’ she said, as we pushed open the gate leading into the glen. Or maybe it was, ‘What Highers is Leah doing again?’ Like so many things, I can’t quite remember. Whatever it was, she was skating around the topic, clearing a path for me to talk about her.
I didn’t take it. It felt good, being outside, with the fresh air clearing my thoughts. I’d even left my phone at home so I couldn’t check if Leah had sent any more messages.
So I changed the subject. Another time, I decided, as I followed Mum up the path towards the top of the waterfall. I would talk to her about it another time.
We left the path, then headed towards the clearing on the east side of the waterfall. It was the best viewpoint in the whole glen: you could see way out to the mountains topped with a dusting of snow. You had to cross the burn at the top of the waterfall to get there; the water was usually shallow, and there were stepping stones from one side to the other, past the sharp drop of the water’s edge and the rocky pool some ten metres below.
I’d crossed that stream dozens of times; Mum even more. The current wasn’t faster that day; the rocks weren’t slippery or frosty. There was nothing to suggest that trip would be different to any other.
If she was closer to the edge than normal, I didn’t notice. If the rock gave way, I didn’t see. But for some reason, she lost her balance. Her right leg kicked out; her arms spun around. She grabbed a branch overhead, and for a second she was still – but then came a crack, and the branch broke off in her hands.
‘Oh,’ she said.
And then she disappeared.
There was a crash: a snap of bones, a splash of water. Noises I’ve heard echoed dozens of times, each time another Being falls. A sound that loops over and over in my thoughts, in my nightmares.
After that, all I have are spots of colour. Her scarf, bright yellow, ensnared on a branch by the foot of the pool. Splashes of red across the rocks, spilling into the water. A dozen different greens, scratching at my arms and tangling around my feet. Then black.
Allie once told me her life had always been a conditional clause. Since that day, mine has too. If we hadn’t gone for that walk. If I hadn’t skived off school. If I’d never kissed Leah on my birthday. If Mum hadn’t got pregnant with me in the first place.
There are countless cases that could have kept Mum here. For most of them, I’m the only common factor. No matter how you work it out, the answer is the same: it was my fault, it was my fault, it was my fault.