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39
October 31, 4 a.m.
two hours until low tide
The clocks out in the hall start to chime four o’clock, and nobody says a word. My memories of that night did not appear on the TV screen. All we saw just now were some teenagers sitting around a bonfire on a beach in 1988. But it’s a night both of my sisters and Conor and I would rather forget. We’ve never really spoken about what happened after I caught Conor and Lily together. And none of them have ever forgiven me for what happened next, even though it was not my fault.
“I don’t want to see any more of this,” Conor says. He crosses the room and ejects the tape. “It’s only two hours until we can leave—less if we don’t mind getting our feet wet. I vote we just sit in silence while we wait. No more home movies. No more unhappy trips down the Darker family memory lane.” He crosses the room and throws the VHS on the fire. When it doesn’t catch light straightaway, he adds another log to the flames. But it isn’t a log in his hand; it’s another sky blue chair leg painted with white clouds.Someone has chopped up the chair Nana once painted for Conor and left it here to burn. He turns to stare at us.
“I don’t know which one of you is responsible for all of this, but I’m not playing along anymore. It’s sick—that’s the only word for what is happening here tonight. This ends now.”
“I don’t remember anyone putting you in charge,” says Rose.
“Someone needs to be. For Trixie’s sake. The poor kid doesn’t stand a chance growing up in this family. It isn’t as though Lily will ever win mother of the year.”
I’m shocked by Conor’s outburst, I think we all are, but most of all I’m shocked that Lily doesn’t respond. It’s not in her nature to stay quiet. She’s still just staring at the TV screen, even though there is nothing on it. Rose finds it strange too.
“Lily?” she says.
Trixie, who has been sitting next to me since I called her to the Scrabble board, walks over to Lily and taps her gently on the shoulder. “Mum?”
Lily’s head bows, as though she has fallen asleep. Her face twists toward us at an unnatural angle, and she looks a little faded. Like a watercolor painting of herself by someone who got bored halfway through.
“Lily!” Rose shouts as our sister falls sideways onto the sofa. She pushes Trixie out of the way and leans over Lily, checking for any signs of life. “Oh my god. She’s not breathing.”
“Mum!” Trixie screams, trying to get closer.
It gets very loud in the room very quickly.
“Don’t you dare die,” shouts Rose, starting CPR.
The words seem to detonate inside Trixie’s ears, and she covers them with her hands as Conor pulls her out of the way.
“There are strange marks on Lily’s neck,” I say, trying to help in any way that I can.
“Are those bruises?” Conor asks, noticing them too.
Rose shakes her head. “No. They look more like… burns to me. Come on, Lily. If you can hear me, I need you to breathe.”
The rest of us watch in silent horror as she continues with chest compressions and mouth-to-mouth. Trixie is crying, so am I, and I can’t process any of what I am seeing or hearing as I try to comfort my niece.
Eventually Rose stops and shakes her head. “It’s too late,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face. “She’s gone.”
“Are you sure?” Conor asks Rose.
“Of course I’m bloody sure.”
We all stare at Lily in silence, while the fire crackles and spits, and the VHS tape of that terrible night burns. Rose takes a woolen throw from the sofa and uses it to cover Lily’s body. Although I’m sure we’ve all seen them, nobody mentions the two objects that have been tied to her hands, which are still visible. We were in the same room as her, and we didn’t even notice. In one of Lily’s hands is a bottle of perfume, in the other a hand mirror, both held in place with red ribbons.
Lily
Daisy Darker’s sister Lily was the vainest of the lot.
She was a selfish, spoiled, entitled witch, one who deserved to get shot.
Lily was a jealous woman, too quick to complain and moan.
She wanted too much, but gave too little, and chose to make hate her home.
