Kiss of Death (9 page)

eight
AN UNKINDNESS OF RAVENS

“Waste not, want not!” Miss Carter says brightly from behind a long table set up in a corner of Fetters’s dining room. “Come and get your water bottles, girls!”

Next to her is Jane, holding a marker pen. The Wakefield Hall girls, used to this routine on any school trip, are lining up already, each taking a bottle on which Jane has marked their name, carrying it over to the tap at the dining room sink to fill it up.

Well, almost all of the Wakefield Hall girls. Plum’s sipping coffee with the St. Tabby’s posse, Susan by her side; she’s looking over, appalled, at the activity going on at the trestle table.

“What on
earth—
” she starts.

“We have a very strict environmental policy at Wakefield, Plum!” Miss Carter says, fixing Plum with a firm stare. “No bottled water, and names on all your water bottles so that you’re all responsible for your own plastic.”

“God! My AmEx is the only plastic
I
could give a damn about,” Plum drawls, “and I’m not exactly responsible with it.…”

Susan giggles appreciatively, which fires up Miss Carter.

“Right! You two are carrying everyone’s water to the coach!” Miss Carter snaps. “Now get on your feet this instant and come over here for your bottles!”

Plum bites her lip and reluctantly pushes the bench back from the table so she can get up, Susan following on her heels. The other girls fall in line behind Plum, even the St. Tabby’s ones. Miss Carter is the gym mistress, which means she’s more than capable of making Plum run laps around the grounds or do tons of press-ups if Plum doesn’t behave, and Plum can’t afford to get chucked out of Wakefield Hall, as her parents will go ballistic and cut off her trust fund if she gets expelled from two schools in a row.

“This is a very good idea,” Ms. Burton-Race says approvingly to Miss Carter. “Recycling bottles, using tap water …”

“Oh, Lady Wakefield’s terribly opposed to bottled water—she’s madly keen on waste-not-want-not,” Miss Carter says, smiling. “It’s the unofficial school motto.”

It’s true; my grandmother says she learned thrifty habits growing up in wartime. She recycles what she calls “kirbygrips,” hair grips whose plastic tips have come off; she insists that all the canteen’s leftover bread go to the Wakefield Hall hens; she even saves the last slippery oval of her Bronnley Royal Horticultural Society gardeners’ soap and sticks it onto the new one, to avoid wasting any. She regularly lectures us at morning assembly on ways to make do and mend, and occasionally she takes it into her head to stroll through the dormitories, looking for wastebaskets in which some unfortunate girl has thrown an empty toiletry bottle rather than walk down the corridor to the proper plastic-disposal bins. Naked terror of my grandmother’s spot checks has made us a school of nervous, obsessive recyclers, flinching at the mere idea of a teacher catching us coming back from Wakefield village with a newly bought bottle of Buxton water in our hands.

Miss Carter is supervising Plum and Susan as they load our water bottles into the plastic crate they came from. Plum is grumpy, but Susan reaches out to stroke her hair briefly, calming her down.

“Now carry them out to the coach,” Miss Carter says briskly. “Get the keys from Miss Wakefield.”

“My
nails,
” Plum moans, but she takes one end of the plastic crate; Susan already has the other.

“I’ll get the keys for you,” Lizzie offers, bustling away, as Taylor and I lean against the wall, enjoying the sight of Plum doing manual labor.

“Use your wrists to take the weight more,” Taylor says affably to Plum, who positively snarls at her as she staggers by.

“Everyone, grab your coats and scarves!” Miss Carter says. “And make sure you’re all wearing sensible shoes.”

“I don’t even know what sensible shoes
look
like,” Nadia says, tossing back her heavy mane of hair. Miss Carter glares at her.

“St. Tabby’s versus Wakefield Hall,” Taylor comments cheerfully. “Nice. It’s sort of like a cage match.”

But we have no idea how extreme the division’s about to become. Our destination—described last night as a “bracing scenic walk” by Miss Carter—turns out to be a hike up the mountain we saw yesterday, towering over Holyrood. It’s called Arthur’s Seat. From Aunt Gwen’s endless talk yesterday we know that’s it’s an extinct volcano, and it’s very high indeed.

“I’m
not
!” Plum wails as we disembark from the coach and take our water bottles from the crate. “I’m
not
going up there! You can’t make me!”

“Hill walking is very good for the quads, hamstrings, and glutes,” Miss Carter says, beaming evilly. “If you’re going to keep wearing miniskirts, Plum, you’ll want to make sure your legs are toned.”

Before us are the green grassy downs we looked over from the cemetery, soft, gentle rolling hills. Dogs are gamboling over them, off the leash, their owners jogging beside them or throwing balls for them to fetch. The grass is dotted here and there with tiny white daisies; a couple of young men on mountain bikes sweep dashingly past, turning their heads to check out our group, their T-shirts clinging to their lean frames.

And then we look up at the high peak of Arthur’s Seat, stony, steep, and forbidding.

“Cool,” Taylor says happily.

“No!” Plum pleads desperately. “My
asthma
!”

“Oh? Show me your inhaler,” Miss Carter says smugly.

Plum glares at her as Ms. Burton-Race says:

“Right, St. Tabby’s girls! Anyone who wants to climb Arthur’s Seat is more than welcome. The rest of you can join me and Miss Wakefield for a wildflower-spotting walk over the downs.”

“
All
Wakefield Hall girls, to me and Jane,” Miss Carter says as a breeze begins to lift our hair.

“It’s going to be windy up there,” Taylor observes as our group heads off to the foot of Arthur’s Seat, Plum staring longingly at the other girls, who have already stopped in their tracks as Ms. Burton-Race points down at something in the grass. Aunt Gwen leans over to check it out; I assume it’s a wildflower rather than dog poo. Nadia looks over at our intrepid posse and waves her manicured fingers rather tauntingly at Plum, while Sophia mouths “Good luck!” at Lizzie.

I know which of them I’d pick as a friend.

“Oh, and if I hear anyone complain, they’ll be helping the kitchen staff with the washing up tonight,” Miss Carter tosses over her shoulder.

She and Jane, I know, go on hiking holidays together every year; their sports gear is slick and aerodynamically sleek, leggings under snugly fitting zipped gray jackets piped with reflective strips, water bottles strapped neatly onto hip loops. Miss Carter’s bum, which we get a very good view of as she leads the way up the hill, is a miracle of taut, toned muscularity; it doesn’t wobble at all, even as she’s leaping and bounding up the shallow stone steps cut into the hillside. We’re in more motley clothes—you can tell which girls work out enough to have their own proper outfits and which ones have just brought the brown regulation Wakefield Hall tracksuit trousers that we wear for PE in the winter months.

And then there are Alison and Luce, the only volunteers from St. Tabby’s, clearly determined to make the point that St. Tabby’s girls can be tougher and sportier than anything Wakefield Hall can field.

“Race you up?” Luce says to Alison, loud enough so that she can be sure I’ve heard her.

“Great!” Alison says at the same volume. “I don’t see any competition round here, do you?”

“
God,
no!” Luce says, giving a high-pitched, totally fake laugh.

I bristle and glance at Taylor, expecting her to be on the balls of her feet already, about to take them on. But she shakes her head at me, frowning.

“Leave it,” she mouths as Alison and Luce take off, darting up the steps past Miss Carter and Jane.

“Good for you, girls!” Jane calls approvingly.

The steps are narrow and steep and we have to wait, often, for people coming down to pass us, or step aside, clambering over rocks to take shortcuts. Taylor and I take it in bursts, using the occasional forced stop to drink some water and do some quick calf stretches. Below us, Lizzie, Plum, and Susan toil up the hill, leaning on every railing and outcropping they can find, casting looks of agony at each other, but not daring to voice their misery out loud in case they get stuck with washing-up duty later on.

They’ve stopped on a bend almost directly below us, twenty feet down; Taylor uncaps her water bottle and leans over the edge of the rickety wooden railing, yelling:

“Hey! Want to freshen up a bit?”

She trickles a drop out, and with her excellent aim manages to land it on Lizzie’s head. Lizzie squeals in shock.

“No, Taylor! My
hair
!” she wails, clapping her hands to her scalp. “Please! It takes
hours
to do!”

Plum and Susan crane their heads back to see what’s happening, and promptly gape in horror.

“Taylor!
Please
don’t!” Susan pleads, her pale, beautiful face upturned to us, her hands actually pressed together as if she’s praying. Plum, of course, has ducked behind her, using her as a shield.

“Ah, I can’t do it,” Taylor sighs, recapping the bottle. “It’d be like stoning puppies.”

I want to laugh at that, but I’m too dizzy. Which is weird. Maybe I leaned too far over the rail, sending blood rushing to my head, but that doesn’t sound right. It’s not like I’m not used to being upside down. So it’s odd that, when I straighten up, I’m still feeling unsteady on my feet. I take a long drink of water, hoping that will help. The people we were waiting for have passed us by now, heading down, and Taylor and I set off again. I find myself reaching out to balance myself on rocks and the moss of the hillside, but Taylor’s in the lead, so she doesn’t notice, which I’m grateful for; she’d definitely take the piss.

We level out onto a mossy plain after ten more minutes, and I’m taken aback by how relieved I am that the climb is over. My muscles are working, my lungs pumping oxygen round my body just like they’re supposed to, but it’s as if I’m feeling everything from such a distance that my head might as well be floating a couple of feet above my body.

I look round, a little dazed. The view is breathtaking; straight ahead of me, across the plain, beyond the city, the sea stretches away, steely blue, rippling in the breeze. It’s the harbor of Leith, the port of Edinburgh, and I can see the far shore, hills rising on the other side, but nothing as high as where we’re standing. Clouds scud across the sky, and now that we’re not sheltered by the hillside, the wind is knife sharp, slicing through my fleece jacket and wool sweater. It wakes me up, clears my head. I take another long pull of water. Okay, I’m not feeling brilliant for some reason, but I’ve managed the climb, and if I came up, I can go down again. I’ll have a snooze in the bus on the way back to school till the dizziness passes.

“Come on!” Taylor’s saying impatiently, bouncing from one foot to the other. “What are you waiting for?”

“What?” I blink at her, confused.

And then I see that she’s pointing off to my left, where another steep hill rises sharply. It looks like it’s entirely made of rocks piled on top of each other in a sheer, uninviting peak.

“Oh
no,
” I mumble, but Taylor’s already taken off.

Reluctantly I follow her, and promptly turn my foot. Looking down, I see that the grassy ground is thickly scattered with stones. I do an awkward, barefoot-on-coals dance across them on tiptoe, scared of falling, unsure of my balance; by the time I reach Taylor, waiting for me at the foot of the peak, she’s snorting with laughter.

“That was the
best
imitation of Lizzie!” she says. “You looked
exactly
like her when Miss Carter’s making her run laps!”

God, I must be in even worse shape than I realized
, I think. I bite my lip, hard enough so that the pain gives me a much-needed shock. What I really want to do is slap my own face, but I don’t want to look like a loony in front of Taylor. She’s already turned to the rock face, and I see with huge relief that there’s a cleft in it; a couple of people are already farther up it, clambering and using the sides for extra leverage to pull themselves to the top.

I can hold on all the way,
I tell myself.
And then I’ll sit down and clear my head properly. Maybe Miss Carter’s got some sports drink or something with sugar in it.… That would help.…

There’s no point worrying about what’s wrong with me right now. I just need to get to the top of Arthur’s Seat and have a rest. Lizzie and Plum and Susan will be miles behind by now; that’ll buy me plenty of time before the group descent. I’ll have a good twenty minutes to sit—or even lie—down, close my eyes, and get hold of myself.

And whatever I do, I mustn’t panic. Must not, must not, must not …

It’s only the thought of being able to lie down that gets me to the top of the climb. My head’s spinning by now, as wobbly as a balloon tied to a stick. My hands keep slipping off the rocks on either side of me; I’m leaning forward so the front of my body’s almost grazing the slope, desperate to make sure I don’t fall backward. My legs are moving like a robot’s, carrying me up the hill as if someone else is pushing me. By the time my head rises over the last ridge, I feel as if I’m made of jelly.

I just manage to swing my legs up so I’m sitting on the rocks. Heaving myself on my bum a few feet away from the top of the cleft, so I don’t block access to it, I wrap my arms around my knees and lean forward to rest my head. It’s perishingly cold up here; wind gusts round the peak as loud as whip cracks. My teeth are chattering. I take long, slow breaths of ice-cold air through my mouth, pulling it deep down into my lungs, steam forming in front of my mouth as I exhale again.

A crow caws, gliding past on the wind, its black wings outstretched, one beady eye turned to the people clustered on the mountaintop. I half close my eyes and suddenly it turns into a whole group of crows, clustered together, their wings flapping in unison.