Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
brAM
‘Right,’ I say as I stop in front of the duck-egg-blue door.
‘You need two things. The first is in here.’ I nod to the shop behind me, and Lucy’s face pinches in curiosity.
Her cheeks are still pink from crying, small flecks of make-up smeared under her lower lashes where she’s tried to wipe them.
If anything, I think it makes her more beautiful – real and raw.
I could kiss her right now, but I remind myself of what a bad idea that would be.
Instead I just smile and push open the door of the shop.
It smells amazing in here, warm and sugary sweet, and there’s a little brass bell over the door that rings dramatically every time it’s opened. The sound takes me right back to my childhood, sneaking in to buy penny sweets with the pocket money my dad brought me when he was off the boat.
My chest tightens with the memory, piling on top of the tight knot of anxiety I still feel after seeing Moriarty in the flesh. Because yes, it turned out that he and Lucy’s boss were one and the same. Of course she’d have to be pining over some idiot like that.
I haven’t seen him in over a decade, and there was a part of me that expected him to have some kind of sinister, supernatural energy about him, like maybe he was a vampire too, and that’s why human me could never stand to look at his face.
I mean, it would make sense – he’s press after all.
Bleeding people dry is practically in their job description.
But no. He’s just a prick.
‘What’s your favourite flavour of fudge?’ I ask Lucy, trying to distract both of us from our dark thoughts.
Her smile is slower than usual, but it’s there. ‘If I say vanilla, will you laugh?’
‘No.’ My brows pull together. ‘Why would I laugh?’
She shrugs. ‘It’s boring.’
I shake my head. ‘It’s classic.’
Her smile comes quicker the second time, and I mentally high-five myself for managing to make her feel better.
I grab a packet of vanilla for her and some strawberry and cream fudge for me – don’t judge, it’s the best – and take it to the counter to pay.
The man who owns this shop has worked here since the dawn of time, and though we never remember each other’s names, he always recognises me.
We chat about the festival and about the bar as he puts the sale through, and when I say my thank-yous and leave, I see Lucy watching me curiously.
She’s still looking at me as we step back out onto the street.
‘What?’ I ask, putting the fudge into the pockets of my jacket, still around Lucy’s shoulders, and she shakes her head.
‘Nothing.’
My brows pinch. ‘That didn’t look like a nothing expression.’
I reach to adjust the collar of the jacket around Lucy’s neck. I’m playing with fire getting my arms out in the sun like this, but I just can’t bring myself to take it back. Not yet. Seeing it draped around her shoulders makes me feel like the hero in some mid-budget American high school film.
‘You’re just not who I was expecting you to be,’ she says, and at those words, my instinct is to freeze. Does she somehow know my secret? She doesn’t seem like the type, but was that a subtle threat?
I huff a cautious laugh. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
When she meets my eyes, it’s like a zap of electricity transfers between us – a surge of something I’ve been feeling for a while finally being reciprocated. In that moment, I know she’s not threatening me at all. She’s flirting with me.
Against my better judgement, a chorus of angels sounds in my head.
‘You should,’ she says, the ghost of a smile on her face, and she holds eye contact a beat too long for it to be unintentional. ‘So,’ she continues, while I try to wrestle back control of my faculties, ‘what’s the second thing I need?’
‘You’ll see,’ I reply with a smile, and then I reach for her hand again.
I tell myself it’s because she could still be upset about the Jon thing, or because it’s busy in town now and I don’t want us to get separated, but the truth is that I can’t help myself.
There’s something a little magical about the way her hand fits into mine – about the way that her fingers tighten around my hand every so often. It makes my chest ache every time.
Oh my God, I’ll stop. I’m just embarrassing myself now.
Even if it is all true.
I lead Lucy back over the bridge and through winding streets crammed with weird and wonderful sights until we reach the foot of the 199 steps.
I watch her mouth drop open as she takes them in, her eyes following the cut of the stone up and around the hill, the church only just visible above the yellowing tufts of grass.
‘I think I remember these,’ she says, eyes alight. She turns back to me. ‘We’re going up?’
I nod, watching the flow of the crowd climbing up and down the steps. It’s absolutely rammed today, as I knew it would be, but where we’re going will be quieter. Quiet enough, anyway. When I see a gap, I tug at Lucy’s hand, pulling her into the space, and together we begin to climb.
‘W?adek would want me to tell you that these are the steps that Dracula runs up in the form of a black dog after his ship is wrecked,’ I say. ‘It would be important to him that you know that.’
She nods seriously. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’
‘You ever read Dracula?’
‘I have not.’
‘Ever plan to?’
She thinks for a moment. ‘Probably not.’
‘Fair enough.’ I chuckle to myself. ‘I wouldn’t tell W?adek that though. Tell him it’s on your to-be-read list or he’ll infodump every last bit of Dracula trivia that he knows.’
We’re around halfway up when I notice that the faint sting of the skin on my arms has grown into a familiar itch, and when I look down I can see red clusters of hives beginning to form between the inked designs on my skin. Dammit.
I didn’t notice that I’d stopped until I feel the tug of Lucy’s hand in mine. She stops too when she feels resistance, spinning back to look at me with an expression of shock on her face.
‘Bram, oh my God,’ she gasps as her eyes follow mine to the angry red weals on my skin. She reaches out as if to touch one but stops just short. ‘Your arm!’
‘It’s a reaction,’ I tell her, ‘to the UV rays in sunlight. I usually wear sunblock when the sun’s strong, but I don’t have any on my arms because I wasn’t expecting them to be exposed. So they’re just getting a bit angry.’
In my defence, none of that is a lie.
She shrugs out of my jacket and hands it back to me with a sheepish smile, which transforms into a long look which could be anything from concern to intrigue.
‘You’re allergic to sunlight?’ she asks eventually, her voice careful and slow.
I mean, no, but it’s as good a way to explain it as any.
‘Essentially, yes.’
She nods, brows pinching tighter. ‘Does anything soothe it? Aftersun? Holy water?’
My laugh bursts out a little too loudly, and I disguise the moment of panic by rummaging in my jacket pocket for my pill box.
‘Antihistamines help with the itching,’ I say, and swallow down the small white pill without water, trying not to grimace at its bitter taste.
Let’s be honest, I need to claw back some cool points in case she finds out about my prescription sunscreen.
There’s really no sexy way to explain that.
‘Come on,’ I say instead, popping the collar on my jacket. It’s already begun to smell of her perfume, and I sneak a lungful when she’s not looking. It’s fresh and sweet, floral, but with a warmth that reaches fingers deep into my chest. I just want to breathe it in forever.
In a cool way, obviously.
We reach the top of the steps, and I lead her through the graveyard and around the side of the church.
It’s a path I must have taken hundreds of times, but every time I get here, to this spot, I feel the same rush of relief.
I don’t know if it’s the view, or the cliff, or the way that the wind seems to hit you from two directions at once, but somewhere along the line, this bench in the shade of the church became my sanctuary.
There isn’t much I haven’t processed here over the years.
Grief, heartbreak, fear, loss.
Immortality.
‘This is the second thing,’ I say, and I turn to face Lucy, who is visibly confused.
She turns, taking in the surroundings. ‘What am I looking for?’ she asks, and I can’t help but chuckle at her bewilderment.
‘This is Heartbreak Bench,’ I say, gesturing to the bench behind me. She follows me the three strides it takes us to reach it and sits beside me.
‘This,’ I say, patting the worn wooden slats beneath us, ‘is where I come when I’m feeling bad.’ My fingers move to the brass plaque on the back of the bench: a memorial to a person I never knew. ‘It always makes me feel better.’
She blows out the tiniest of breaths. ‘A graveyard makes you feel better?’ There’s incredulity in her voice, but no judgement.
It makes me smile again. ‘Absolutely.’ I shrug. ‘’Cause I figure that, whatever’s happened, at least I’m still on top of the ground and not underneath it.’
Her eyes widen. ‘That’s … pretty dark.’
I laugh, motioning vaguely to myself. ‘Hi, I’m Bram. Nice to meet you.’
That makes her laugh too, and for a second there’s something in the air – some beautiful tension in the way she meets my eyes.
It’s like a connection, that same thread pulling me in.
For a second, nothing else exists, and it doesn’t matter what my golden rule is or that we’re within spitting distance of a church, or that we’re surrounded by goths taking questionable selfies with the headstones.
Old Bram – human Bram – would have given in to this feeling. He’d have pulled Lucy in for a kiss without a moment’s hesitation. He wouldn’t have worried about doing the right thing, or about timing, or about consequences. But I’m not him anymore, and this version of me has a lot more to lose.
I break the eye contact before I lose myself in it, scanning the coastline as a distraction.
The wind is sharper up here, but it’s still a beautiful autumn day, and I can feel the warmth of the sun through the leather of my jacket.
The sky’s a deep blue, which reflects a little in the water, itself choppy and textured and glinting with small reflections of the sun’s rays.
I silently hope I’ve put enough of my factor 500 on to stave off any more skin issues.
Around us, a strange collection of people mill about: goths in their finest, hikers walking around them, families enjoying what could be the last warm day of the year. I watch an old couple walk a dog down the path until they vanish through the gate.
It’s only then that I chance a look back at Lucy.
She’s looking out to sea, over the fence and across to the jut of the twin piers into open water.
Her brows are pulled together in concentration, her lips parted just a little as she appreciates the view.
I can’t resist doing the exact same thing.
Only, if I’m being really honest, I’m not looking out to sea.
It’s a little while before either of us speaks again, and it surprises me that she’s the one to break the silence first.
‘It is actually beautiful up here,’ she says, not quite pulling her eyes from the horizon.
I nod, though I know she can’t see it. ‘You know what makes it better?’
That breaks the spell, and she turns to me, brows pulled together.
She shakes her head, and I pull the two bags of fudge from my pocket with a flourish.
I’ve found I can survive on human food, and though I do best on a meat-only diet, I can’t resist the odd treat.
And this fudge is worth every last stomach cramp.
I could write a song about the smile that blossoms across Lucy’s face as she sees the packets. More than one song, in fact. Probably a whole album. She is otherworldly. And in a good way – not like me.
She takes the bag of vanilla fudge when I offer it and pops a square into her mouth, closing her eyes in delight as the flavour hits.
A little rush of pride rattles through me.
I’ve frequented every sweet shop in Whitby in my time, and I know for an absolute fact that the duck-egg-blue shop that I can never remember the name of does the best fudge in town. It’s better than sex.
Ok, it’s almost better than sex.
‘What flavour have you got?’ Lucy asks, pulling me from my sinful thoughts before I have time to fall down the rabbit hole.
‘Strawberry and cream,’ I reply, and she bursts out laughing. I raise an eyebrow.
‘I’m sorry.’ She’s trying to contain herself, but there’s a wobble of mirth in her voice. ‘It’s just … not very you.’
I raise a hand in mock offence, and pluck out a piece of my fudge with the other, brandishing it in front of her. ‘I think you’ll find that this is the colour of blood and bones, so…’
‘Super-goth.’ She nods solemnly.
‘The gothest.’
We both laugh and it makes my whole body sing with delight. I feel like a teenager, like the slightest crumb of her approval or attention could send me into a soaring high. I know I need to stop this, but I can’t quite bring myself to.
‘So,’ I ask her, ‘how’s Heartbreak Bench working out for you?’
She finishes chewing and swallows, one thumb moving to brush fudge crumbs from the curve of her lower lip. My traitorous eyes track its course.
‘You were right,’ she says. ‘I do feel better now.’
My nod is as smug as hell.
‘But I do feel like there’s an imbalance here,’ she continues, brows knitted, and it makes me frown. I’m not sure if she’s serious or not.
‘How so?’
‘I mean…’ She turns the paper bag around in her hand as she thinks. ‘I’ve had two emotional breakdowns now, and you’re still yet to have a single one.’
My laugh escapes as a cartoon ha! ‘Stick around,’ I say, unable to keep the smile off my face. ‘It’ll happen.’
She smiles too, warm and wide. My chest squeezes tight at the idea that I did this – I distracted her from that bellend Jon with my silly little bench and three quids’ worth of fudge.
I mean, if he doesn’t see this beautiful, smart woman in front of his face then he’s an idiot, plain and simple.
But the fact that he was kissing a married woman too? Jesus.
Suddenly the thought trips a switch in my brain, and I’m right back there, swinging my bedroom door open to find my fiancée riding Dean fucking Ratcliffe like she had a race to win.
Nausea races up my throat, the familiar burn of embarrassment and betrayal swirling like a storm in my guts.
I feel like I need to run. Or fight someone. Or—
‘Bram?’
When I turn, Lucy’s looking at me with a knot of concern between her brows. The look in her eyes cuts my panic off at the knees.
‘Mhmm?’ I say, through my mouthful of unchewed fudge, willing away my spiralling thoughts.
‘I’m ready to talk about Millie now.’