Starblood (The Starblood Trilogy) (21 page)

When she opens the stall door Raven is standing there. At first Star goes to embrace her old friend, wanting to share with her the wonders of her new relationship and describe in detail the passions she is experiencing. She reaches over to touch her flatmate’s arm but Raven moves away, just one step but the rejection cuts Star like a knife.

Narrowing her eyes, she looks at Raven’s face. Her make-up, perfectly drawn, depicts a trio of bats around one eye. Her lips are almost black in colour with only a hint of deep purple berry, ripe and full, ready to be eaten. She feels desire for this image of gothic perfection, but fights it. She loves Lilith and a life with Raven would be no life.

‘I fucked Satori,’ Raven says proudly. Her words are full of poison.

Star stares at her. The words echo around her mind without any meaning attached to them. Each syllable floats like an autumn leaf caught in a zephyr. She watches them dance in the air until the weight of them crashes through her skull. Raven fucked Steve. She had waited until Star was out of the way and taken him. Star shakes her head to deny the image of Raven and Satori’s bodies moving together. It fills her brain. She starts to shake as nausea threatens to overtake her.

Something wakens in Star’s belly. It writhes in a fury, which energises her arms still further than the drug. She grabs Raven by the shoulders and pulls her into the stall. Raven’s ankles buckle as her platforms slip on the wet surface. Star is upon her. Lifting the woman’s head by her hair, Star smashes Raven’s cheek against the porcelain toilet. She lifts the once-immaculate face and forces it downwards again and again, pummelling her against the grubby white seat, now streaked with ribbons of red.

When Star releases her grip Raven slouches onto the floor. Star hurries out of the stall and stares in the mirror. Blood is splattered across her arm and shoulders.

‘Fuck,’ she curses and grabs green paper towels to wet them in the sink. She rubs at her skin trying to erase the stain. The paper’s roughness scratches her; she feels its burn but the red just deepens in tone. Growling, she throws the towel to the floor.

She hears people chatting outside the bathroom door. Head bowed, she rushes past them back to Lilith.

The stairs seem to move as she reaches them. She clings to the rail and takes each step in turn. The rise and fall of each tread makes her feel sick, her head spins and blood pounds in her ears. She cannot hear the music. All she can hear is the whoosh in her head and the crack of Raven’s skull as it breaks.

Reaching the bottom, she stands swaying. Which direction? She sees a swirl of bodies on the dance floor. Donna and Freya are there. They face each other, enjoying the music. She starts towards them then remembers she came with Lilith tonight. Her eyes search the darkened room looking for her lover.
There, sat at a table near the bar.

‘We have to go,’ she whispers urgently into Lilith’s ear.

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘I think I killed Raven,’ Star whispers.

Lilith laughs.

‘I’m not joking. We need to leave now.’

Leaving the jacket unclaimed in the cloakroom, they hurry out of the club.

Lilith is still smiling as they walk under the bridge towards Vermelho Road. Star burns with frustration and anger.
Doesn’t she believe me?

‘Why are you grinning?’ Star yells.

‘You don’t have an aggressive bone in your body, love,’ Lilith answers. ‘Why would you kill your friend?’

Star stops walking and stands in the shadows. She needs to be in the darkness, not wanting to see the expression on her lover’s face when she makes this confession.
Will Lilith leave me, or will she take pity and help me through this?
‘She told me she fucked Satori.’

‘Satori?’

‘Steve, my ex,’ Star clarifies.

‘The magician,’ says Lilith.

Star nods. Not a title she would have given Steve but she supposes it does describe him. Now she regrets the darkness. She wants to know what thoughts Lilith is hiding from her.

‘You know him?’ Star asks, starting to walk again.

Lilith keeps pace with her. ‘Only from your numerous and vivid descriptions.’

Is that jealousy? Is this it? Will Lilith leave me now?
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.

‘It’s Okay,’ Lilith soothes. ‘In France it would be a crime of passion not murder.’

‘Here it’s murder. I have to get away.’ Star pauses. ‘Will you come with me? If I promise never to mention Steve or Raven again, will you come? I don’t think I can do this alone. I’m so frightened.’

They’re under the streetlights now and Star can see Lilith nod.

‘Gather what you need from my room. I’ll get some transport.’

Walking along Vermelho Road, without Lilith beside her, Star sees far more of the underbelly of the city than she would have liked. She passes women, pinned against brick and stone walls, being pumped by strangers. Each face resting on their aggressor’s shoulder has eyes either closed or glazed in some drug induced fugue. She sees bodies sprawled in bliss with needles still attached to their arms, and men in doorways bristling with the threat of violence.

She hurries past them all and up the stairs to Lilith’s bedsit. For the second time in a week she packs. Her velvet bag is stuffed with clothing. Looking at the items she brought into this new life, she realises that none of them are practical; they are all pure vanity.
Is that what my life is now? Image.

She rushes back down the stairs and is met by Lilith in a black estate car. Without question she settles in the passenger’s side and hauls the bag onto her lap.

‘Throw it in the back,’ Lilith says.

‘I’m okay,’ Star says. ‘Let’s just get out of here.’

They move away and join the motorway at the next roundabout. Star cuddles her bag, looking out through the car window at the passing lights of houses then, when they leave the city behind, the lights of stars.

‘Wales or Scotland?’ Lilith asks her as they approach the merging of two motorways, two routes to different lives.

‘Scotland,’ Star answers. Lilith increases her speed and joins the M5.

Chapter 32

In a valley, nestled between mountains of black clothes, lies a woman: Donna. Her eyes are closed but she isn’t asleep. In the background Alexander Veljanov pleads melodically ‘
Love Me to the End
’.

The wardrobe and drawers hang open, gaping at Donna in disbelief. Textiles, books and CDs are strewn across the unmade bed. Donna tries to remember the room tidy. It feels like years since she last sat here with her friend. Her memories are hazy, but she is certain this is not how Sarah’s bedroom usually looks. Sarah’s parents will arrive tomorrow and the maelstrom might be one too many blows for them. Donna is not certain whether Sarah left the room like this or if the police made this mess. The door had remained locked until yesterday. Donna hadn’t wanted to betray her friend’s trust.
What does that matter now? What does anything matter?
Sarah and Raven are gone, and Donna is alone.

She doesn’t bother to sit up when she hears the doorbell ring.
It is him – bastard! Well he can just fuck off and crawl under his stone like the slimy, evil fucker he is.
Fuck off! Fuck off! Fuck off! I’m not getting up. I’m not letting you in.
When the glass smashes Donna jolts upright, heart pounding, her mouth dry as desert sand. She cannot swallow. Shaking her head to deny him entry, she stares defiantly at Sarah’s bedroom door. For five minutes she sits frozen, her heart racing ahead of the music, her hands balled into fists, until she realises Steve isn’t inside the house. As this realisation settles on her like a childhood blanket, she falls back between the clothes and breathes deeply. Sarah’s smell, still clinging to the unwashed clothes, fills Donna’s nostrils.

‘Why?’ she asks.

Opposing desires juxtapose themselves in Donna’s head. Part of her wants to get drunk and fall asleep here, among Sarah’s belongings. Feel close to her friend again before she is evicted from the flat – from this life. Another part wants to hunt for Sarah, shake her and slap her until she tells Donna the truth about what happened. A third part wants to help, tidy the room, meet with Sarah’s parents, be strong for her friend – now, when she is needed most. Pushing them all aside for the moment, Donna reaches for the boxes beneath Sarah’s bed: her paintings.

Fingers close around empty air and she jams her head under the divan, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. Sarah’s boxes are gone, her paintings, her paints and her other box, the one Sarah thought she kept secret: the razor blades.

Why is Sarah so unhappy?
Everything is always so important to Sarah. Where others might coast through life, Sarah struggles. Her art is always broken somehow – incomplete, as though some piece of her is missing.
What did she lose and why did she never tell me, her best friend?

Donna imagines the police poring over Sarah’s paintings, analysing them, making judgements.
What will they make of the black and red portraits?
Donna shudders.
What will they believe as they look at Sarah’s face and see demons jabbing, tearing at her scalp with spears and claws?
It has always been one of Donna’s favourite pieces. One she wishes she could have kept. The painting is beautiful, disturbing, like all Sarah’s fine art. Damning though to anyone who doesn’t know the context, and part of that context will arrive tomorrow. She tries to imagine what Sarah’s parents are feeling now, but she cannot. Donna’s own experience of parental love is unconditional. Her mother accepts everything and still loves her. From the few stories she shared when they drank or got stoned together it seems as though Sarah’s parents are different. Perhaps because Sarah is an only child, or because her parents were almost forty when she was born, already set in their ways. Maybe, in part at least, it could be these things. But Donna blames it on religion, Sarah’s bohemian lifestyle and her obsession with the unusual, anathema to their Christian faith. Donna cannot imagine such a family. At the time she had brushed it all aside as fantasy and hyperbole, the product of a young woman’s despair at not being heard, not being understood. Now Donna isn’t certain, and if she stays here she will meet the ogres tomorrow. One plan of action is scored through in her mind. She will not tidy for them. Let them see the disarray, it represents their baby well.

Two choices remain: to follow or lie here and remember. Donna tries to remember Sarah happy. Memories of them skipping along the streets, arms linked, singing ‘we’re off to see the wizard’, flood into Donna’s head. Holding Sarah’s mesh bodice top over her face, she cries. As the fabric dampens Sarah’s scent fades and saltiness, like the sea in winter, replaces it. Donna grabs another garment from the pile: a stocking.

‘I love you,’ she whispers.

Donna feels Star’s fingers in her hair and hears the hiss of straighteners.

‘I love you too. I don’t know what I’d do without you,’ Sarah replies. ‘There…beautiful.’

Donna turns to face her friend. ‘Thank you.’

‘So what do you think of him?’ Sarah grins, her eyes are wide, hopeful, expectant.

‘Who, Steve?’

Sarah nods.

‘I’ve heard he’s really weird.’

‘Oh?’ Sarah replies, looking hurt. ‘He seems nice to me, intelligent, gentle. He’s interested in what I think.’

‘Aren’t they all at first? Look, it’s just I’ve heard he’s really into magic.’

‘What kind? Tricks or magick?’ Sarah emphasizes the final k with a click of her tongue.

‘Magick. Alistair Crowley, the word is the law, heavy fucking shit Sarah.’

Sarah scratches the base of her skull, staring intently at the floor. ‘He doesn’t seem…’

‘I’m just saying what I heard. I hardly know the guy.’

Why didn’t I tell her not to date him? Would Sarah have listened? Would she still be here? I should have stopped her.

‘He goes to Club Midian every week. He doesn’t have a job. I think Freya’s brother knows him pretty well. You could ask her.’

Sarah nods. ‘Magick.’

‘That’s what I heard,’ Donna feels her heart soften. ‘Of course, it could be lies and exaggeration. You know how people are.’

Sarah glows, just for a split second, a moment no longer than a blink, her skin flashes with a golden light. Then it is gone and Donna never sees it again.

Why didn’t I talk to her about it? Why did I pretend nothing happened?
A part of her wants to ask Sarah’s parents when they arrive but she is certain no good would come of the question.

‘Where are you?’ Donna asks.

The room offers no reply.
How do you follow someone if you don’t know where they’re going?
The urge to see her friend makes her scalp prickle.
If Sarah was here what would I do? What would I say?
Donna imagines Sarah sitting at the end of the bed. Questions form but dissolve on her tongue. Accusations stick in her throat. She reaches across and takes Sarah’s hand. It feels cold and insubstantial. There is no solidity in this illusion. Donna concentrates harder, trying to feel cool, slender fingers grip her hand. One by one the fingers form. Donna can feel their gentle pressure against her skin. Trying to focus only on the sensation, she breathes deeply. She wants to move closer, feel her friend’s arms around her, but she doubts her imagination could create an illusion big enough. Her extended arm starts to ache. Gravity tugs at its weight. The fingers fade. Unable to hold onto them she yells. ‘Fuck!’

There is no holding back the tears, she doesn’t even try. They come and she hopes they might wash away a little of the sorrow. Rocking herself gently, backwards and forth, tears choking her so that the words sound like hiccups, she sings a slow, haunting melody from Sarah’s favourite band. The hiccupped lyrics and screams of frustration echo around her swaying torso. Sarah is gone. Sarah is gone and she’s not coming back.

It takes at least six rings before Donna realises she can hear the telephone. The spell is broken and she races to answer it.