Fairytales for Wilde Girls (19 page)

 

Sex, Drugs and Grape Tomoyaki

Father was still home when Isola went downstairs for breakfast. Surprisingly, he'd made a bowl of sweetened porridge, and he nudged it towards her as she flopped tiredly into her seat.

‘Are you sure you're right to go to school?' he asked gruffly, scrubbing at his whiskery cheek. ‘It's all right, if you don't wanna . . .'

Isola avoided his gaze. ‘I'm fine, Dad. The doctor just said I got a bit dehydrated –'

‘You could have called me.'

‘It's all right, James was in the area and I didn't want to –'

‘Not just for that, Isola. When you get lost or, you know, if you're worried about your friends doing something stupid – even if I'm just across the street, or on the other side of town, or asleep, or whatever . . . Well, you call me.'

Isola stirred a teaspoon of sugar through her porridge, blushing into her orange juice. ‘Thanks, Dad.'

He waited for her to finish eating, then cleared his throat noisily. His keys were jangling about his knuckles. ‘Come on. I'll drive. That wood's looking a bit . . . rotten.'

She opened her mouth to argue – where was this sudden burst of protectiveness coming from? – but closed it abruptly, knowing that, with everything that had been happening in Vivien's Wood, it wasn't safe for her, even during the day, with brother-princes by her side.

 

Grape was waiting by Isola's locker, her eyes wide and nervous as she scanned the corridors for her approaching friend. Isola had already spotted her and slunk up behind a thicket of blue dresses; for some reason, she felt nervous, and also, strangely angry.

‘Hey, Grape,' said Isola softly, and Grape jumped in fright.

‘Isola! Hey! Are you okay? What happened to you? Why haven't you answered your phone?'

‘Got confiscated,' she said vaguely, twirling her combination lock. Father had returned her phone the night before, and Isola had been flooded with her best friend's worry. But Isola hadn't replied, and she still wasn't sure why.

‘Oh Sola, I tried to visit you – Jamie called me, and he was really shocked that I didn't already know what had happened. And I'm so sorry, I know you went in after us, but we were just having a bit of fun and we didn't get lost, I never thought
you
would . . . I mean, you practically
live
there, it's insane that you'd get . . . and I know I've been a shite friend, I had too much to drink and I didn't even realise – oh, I'm sorry!'

Isola had felt a freezing sensation run rat-like up her spine at Grape's use of the word ‘insane'. ‘You're sorry,' she repeated, in a strangely icy voice. Grape looked confused, and still worried, chewing her lower lip. ‘Sorry for almost getting
yourself
killed, or
me
?'

Grape looked horrified and Isola felt her cheeks reddening like bitten apples – how could she explain the utter helplessness she had felt when the party wolfpack had disappeared into Vivien's Wood? How could she redirect the rage she felt, not at Grape, not really, but at herself for letting this happen?

Grape had put herself in incredible danger and Isola couldn't even tell her
why.

And wasn't it
her
fault, really, for disturbing the corpse, for attracting its mindless wrath? Wherever Isola went she brought danger. Edgar had been safer under the power station, in his old home on the other side of the valley, yellowing as his kidney failed, where Isola couldn't reach and taint him . . .

‘I
told
you to stay out of the damn woods!'

Isola was yelling now; girls bustling past had slowed, rubbernecking at the unfolding drama, and Grape looked steadily sicker while Isola felt something small and warm and Grape-coloured inside her turn to ice.

‘Isola, please, listen. Edgar called me yesterday – he couldn't get in touch with you, he was worried! And –' Grape seemed to falter then steel herself, lifting her chin slightly. ‘I am, too. But please, Isola, I'm so,
so
sorry I didn't notice you missing, but please stop yelling, everyone's staring and you're getting hysterical –'

Hysterical
: psychologically unwell, from ‘hystericus'. Latin for ‘of the womb'.

Because lunacy and
la feminine
always seemed to go hand in hand.

Isola saw red.

‘I am NOT!' shouted Isola. ‘I'M NOT LIKE MY MOTHER!'

‘What, I never said . . . Isola, wait!'

 

Sitting alone in conservative Sex Ed class, it was more difficult than usual to concentrate on the sterile and mechanical depiction of women as baby machines, of sex as a function and not a desire. Girls whispered behind her. They knew Isola had spent Saturday morning in hospital. No more than that, of course, but still they bounced around phrases like ‘stomach pumped' and ‘completely drunk' and ‘slut' and ‘freak'.

‘I heard she slept with the birthday boy,' snickered one girl.

‘Probably couldn't think of a better present,' replied another.

‘Or a cheaper one,' added Bridget snidely, and the wicked giggles peppered Isola like spitballs lodging in her hair. Her legs were aching too, and she knew that if she lifted her dress, she'd find more bruises circling around her legs; another set of black stripes.

 

Mother Wilde's Lock and Key

Father took her to and from school every day after that.

Isola leaned her cheek against the glass as they drove down the gravelly road, glimpsing the forest –
my forest,
she thought furiously – as a tangled, deadly thing. Father had not banned her outright from entering it, but without her twice-daily hike through Vivien's Wood the gloaming domain felt less under her control – wild, not
Wilde
– and she shifted in the car seat, fiddling with the radio station, wondering whether this strange feeling could constitute fear.

 

One evening, Mother had left a note, composed entirely of ransom-letters cut out from the newspaper.

Gone to church. Be back later. Love you – Mum.

‘Dad, do we have a church?'

‘Yes, Roman Catholic,' growled Father, picking cornflakes out of his beard. Another of his here's-one-I-prepared-earlier dinners.

‘I mean, a church we go to.'

He coughed into his coffee mug, shook his head. Burnt bean-flakes rose to the surface like fish food.

‘What about Mum?'

‘She was raised in it, I guess. Her Ma was pretty religious. Said she'd never speak to us again if we didn't get you baptised.'

This was the same grandmother who envisioned a conservative world but gave up on her earthbound dreams when she got
Do Not Resuscitate
tattooed across her sagging chest.

What Mother Asked Father (and Isola Overheard) When the Death Anniversary Rolled Around Again

‘Do you think that's a type of suicide? Not choosing to finish, just . . . choosing not to continue.'

She exchanged a meaningful look with her own reflection in her teacup. Isola didn't think it would work so soon. Only the night before, a tearful Mother had reclined on the lounge in one of her best dresses, drinking wine the colour of the River Seine. Sometimes Mother got theatrical when she was depressed. She had fingered the rim as though she was waiting for Madame Guillotine to fall; the crystal had warbled, angel-voiced. Isola had laced Mother's next glass with the thimbleful of faeriedust Rosekin had sprinkled on her.

Suddenly joining a church may not have been Isola's initial idea of the first step on the road to wellbeing, but at least things were changing.

Already, it seemed, things were healing.

 

Mother, buttoned in a coat with the pink pinch of cold in her cheeks, announced her arrival with a ceremonial slamming of the front door.

‘Mum!' said Isola, and though she'd practised the exclamation all evening, she couldn't keep the shock from her voice. ‘Where'd you go?'

‘Didn't you get my note?'

‘Yes, and it made me assume you'd been kidnapped!'

Mother deposited her handbag on the couch and unravelled her scarf one-handedly. ‘Well, I went of my own free will, baby. It's a little church near your school that I thought sounded interesting – I read about it online.'

The bag toppled off the couch and its contents rolled out – lipstick tubes, a tabloid magazine, a pamphlet for weekly group meetings.

It had been an ocean of blue moons since Mother had last ventured past the rosebushes. Too long for these sudden things – for make-up and celebrity gossip and a shiny new interest.

Isola narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘Was there a seedy-looking club next door? And a stupid sign out front?'

Mother actually laughed, then lassoed Isola in the scarf and planted a kiss in her dimple. ‘It's all right, Sola. I haven't joined any mad cults. It was just a nice cup of tea with some new faces.'

Isola snuck the pamphlet upstairs. Alejandro read it over her shoulder.

Possession and Other Spiritual Ills

What Your Doctor Doesn't Tell You About Mental Health

And What Our Church DOES

The insignia heading the pamphlet was a red heart tattooed with a keyhole at its centre: the Church of the Unlocked Heart.

 

Moon Clue

A few times a week, Isola stole into the High Street florist after school and secretly ripped the heads off tulips. She left them scattered along her windowsill and in the corners of every room and in the attic eaves where mice nested.

But like Grandpa Furlong before her, Rosekin wasn't coming back.

Winsor was hanging around more than usual; she seemed convinced that, if her cousin returned, she'd be back at Number Thirty-six. Isola was pleased the faerie was remaining positive, but unfortunately the circumstances hadn't brought them closer. In fact, Winsor was being more insufferable than usual.

The ringed bruises seemed permanent on Isola's legs now. They didn't bloom yellow-white when she jabbed them anymore, but they still ached like pools of stoppered blood, and every now and then another twin set appeared.

She was striped from the top of her thighs to her knees. She'd resewn the hems of all her shortest skirts.

Now and then, she also felt little sharp pains around her throat. She felt constricted. Like a strangled bird.

‘What's that?' asked Christobelle, who was splayed in the tub.

‘What?' Isola twisted her neck in the mirror and saw it: a red mark on her collar, shaped like a crescent moon. She rubbed the steam off the mirror and clutched her towel tighter.

Christobelle motioned her closer, and as Isola bent obligingly, she traced the hot banana moon. ‘It looks like a kissing bruise.' The mermaid giggled, and Isola pulled away.

‘Someone's been kissing the dead birdies then, too,' added Winsor, who had squeezed uninvited under the bathroom door.

Isola chucked her toothbrush, but the faerie dodged it. ‘Get out, Winsor!'

‘Only wanted to suggest it. I've seen all those birds and rabbits and things, too, Princess Prissy.' Winsor bared her fangs. ‘Maybe you'll go the same way.'

‘I said, get out!' Isola retrieved a fly swat from the bathroom cabinet and waved it menacingly.

Winsor's green eyes glittered. ‘Maybe that's why your princes left. Maybe
she's
getting rid of them to clear a path to
you
!'

‘GO AWAY!' Isola kicked open the bathroom door, threw the faerie out on a riff of hot steam, and slammed it shut. She blocked the gap under the door with a wet towel and and glared at Christobelle. ‘And thanks for your concern, Belle!'

‘You're welcome.' Christobelle nonchalantly flicked her fin in Mother's freshly made bubblebath. ‘I stopped in on that little pond in Vivien's Wood, you know,' she said suddenly.

Isola turned away from the cabinet, her expression shocked. ‘When?'

‘Today. Looks positively awful in there, Isola. Like death.'

‘Don't say that,' muttered Isola, turning away. Christobelle had been saying such cruel things of late; Isola wondered if she was angry with her for bringing Florence upon them, like she was at herself.

Isola found what she was looking for – Father's razor, which she inspected intently. Mother's initial manic burst of happiness had gone the way of the others; she continued attending weekly meetings, but moved sluggishly upon her return. The few short showers she'd managed to take turned back quickly into long, languid baths, and Isola felt nervous about the next impending breakdown. The short-lived high told her, like an omen, that the low would be harsh.

‘I'm sorry, Isola.' The mermaid held out her arms, beckoning her closer. ‘Please, come here.'

Isola slipped the razor behind the magic mirror, which made a frowning face in steam at her, as though it had felt the sting of it.

‘Sorry,' said Isola. She rearranged the bottles in front of it and then went to sit on the rim of the tub.

Christobelle leaned forward and took Isola's chin in her cold hands. ‘Look at those bright eyes,' she sighed, her single red eye searching Isola's face. ‘You know, I used to be beautiful.'

‘You
are
beautiful,' said Isola, slightly embarrassed as she wriggled free. ‘Now get going, Mum's coming up any minute.'

The mermaid's long fingers curled around the slippery rim of the tub, her shell-pink fingernails tapping the ceramic. ‘Isola,' Christobelle said slowly, letting the beats drop in dollops from her tongue.

‘
Christobelle
,' mimicked Isola, rolling her eyes. ‘C'mon, I haven't got time for this.'

The mermaid reached out and gently brushed Isola's hair back. Her red eye was huge and unblinking. She smiled, and said her name again.

‘I

so

la.'

Bullet-quick, Christobelle seized Isola and slammed her into the bathtub, flipping and pinning her to the bottom with all her cold weight.

Isola opened her eyes underwater and panicked. She lashed out with her knees, her elbows, her nails; she fumbled for the surface, but the water ceiling didn't break. She seized a fistful of Christobelle's hair, and the red mass immediately reacted, weaving itself around Isola's throat. She tried to scream for Alejandro and the word came garbled. She thrashed and the bathwater sloshed, but she couldn't break the mermaid's grip. Now her mouth was full of seaweedy red hair, which snaked down her throat towards her lungs . . .

Finally Isola's nails caught the heart-shaped shell over Christobelle's missing eye; she prised it off. Through the soapy water Isola saw the looming hollow, the place where Christobelle's beloved sailor might well have cut out her heart.

Christobelle's remaining eye blazed wide and redder than fire. Furious, then something else. The mermaid raised her hand, her fingers brushing the gaping hole, and with a look of terrible shock Christobelle wrenched herself away, her weight lifting, and Isola followed. The bathwater roiled tsunami-like and Isola vomited water over the tiles. She crouched in the shallow end, gasping for air.

Feeling a hand on her shoulder, hearing a whispered, ‘Princess, I'm so sorry,' Isola lashed out, shoving Christobelle away. The mermaid dissolved into instant bubbles as Isola's palms hit the bottom of the tub and the bathroom door swung open.

‘Oh, you've run my bath, thank you,' said Mother in a tired voice. ‘But – oh, Isola! What happened?'

‘I fell,' she choked out, unable to resist sweeping her hands through the water, as though checking to see whether the mermaid had hidden herself in the shallows. Shakily, she climbed out of the tub.

Mother kissed her hair. ‘Silly thing,' she said, unable to distinguish between the bathwater and the tears that flowed hot and unchecked down her daughter's cheeks.

 

Summons didn't work. Like Grandpa Furlong and Rosekin before her, Christobelle didn't answer the one call that always got through – her name. Isola, a towel wrapped over her wet clothes, still shaking with the fear of their last encounter – and the fear there'd never be another – called her name in every room of the house. She turned on all the taps and plugged every sink, trekking endless wet footprints, and still the mermaid did not answer.

Isola called the only person she could.

She tumbled from the car before James had even killed the engine and ran down the dunes, kicking up whirlwinds of sand, stubbing her toes on broken shells and the burnt-out campfires left by drunks and partying teenagers.

‘CHRISTOBELLE! COME BACK!'

Isola ran along the dark beach, cupping her hands around her mouth, shouting to her fourth prince: ‘BELLE! PLEASE! I'M SORRY! COME BACK!'

Only the west wind answered, and maybe a whale somewhere, a creaking shipwreck, a skeleton bolted to the floor of an underwater cave.

James sought Isola out in the rock pools, where she stood knee-deep in water, clutching the hem of her dress. Luminescent jellyfish bobbed past in a night-time parade. He pulled a pack from the inner lining of his jacket. His fingers danced over the cigarettes in their casket, and each stick quivered from the sudden gust of cold air and fear of their impending demise. Selecting the lucky sacrifice, he struck a match and martyred it between frozen lips.

‘Did you lose something?' he muttered, and it was so true Isola burst into tears, and James didn't hug her, his eyes instead on his cigarette's lit tip, as though wary of burning her if he got any closer.

The Seventh Princess: An Instalment

‘The third dragon was Cruelty.'

Fists of rain beat the window, and the foundations of the house shook fitfully.

‘The fifth brother, the kindest, wandered while searching thickets for wildberries, when he came across the third dragon. It was splayed across the field, nursing its foreleg and moaning in pain.'

Lightning knocked out a cloud stone-cold; the night sky was a boxing ring. Mother continued.

‘The dragon begged for assistance in his hour of need. Because of his innate kindness, the prince went cautiously to his aid. He reached out to touch the dragon's bloodied scales, muttering soothing words, and the prince never did a kind deed again in this world.'