Page 30 of A Cornish Love Story
‘It was pitch-black,’ I said hotly. ‘Tiny and dusty and … when it’s that dark, and you can’t get out, you imagine all sorts of things are in there with you.’
‘It sounds horrible.’ Ethan put his arm around me, bringing me close to him. ‘Being trapped, no matter where it is, is one of the worst feelings.’ He spoke into my hair, his lips brushing my head like feathery kisses. ‘Have you had a lot of panic attacks?’
‘It was a one-off, thankfully.’ I didn’t add that I sometimes felt that tightness at home, the slight shadowing at the edges of my vision when things went wrong with Mum, when she seemed really unwell or, conversely, when she was at her brightest and most challenging. The twin pressures of losing her and being stuck with her long after school ended competed for awfulness in my thoughts.
‘We can’t get trapped in here, at least,’ Kira said.
‘Unless that window jams,’ Orwell pointed out. ‘Or something’s blocked our exit.’
‘A particularly possessive rat with opposable thumbs?’ Freddy raised an eyebrow.
‘Imagine if there’s something lurking in here, waiting to pounce,’ Ethan said, and I got the impression he was genuinely worried, not trying to add to the scares.
I squeezed his hand. ‘If there’s anyone lurking here, it’s the characters from the Cornish Sands series, the Rosevar family going about their days – and we just can’t see them. Perhaps all the little creaks, the rustling sounds, are them. They’re probably wondering what we’re doing here.’
‘OK, dude, was that supposed to be comforting?’ Freddy asked. ‘Because you missed the mark.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, but I wasn’t really. I loved imagining the characters existing outside of the books – those gorgeous love stories that were hard won but so worth it, the glamorous parties in the breathtaking clifftop gardens. They weren’t real, but they were people I’d come to care about, living and loving and dying in the house we were sitting in. ‘It’s just … if I ever get to be a writer, I want my books to make people feel all the emotions that series makes me feel.’
‘You’re going to be a writer?’ Ethan asked. ‘You’ve never said.’
‘Notgoingto be. I want to be.’
‘If you want to be one, then you will be. You can do whatever you decide, Georgie.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said, but inside I was unfurling, a flower blooming at his belief in me. I snuggled against him. ‘Thank you, though.’
‘Who’s your favourite?’ Kira asked. ‘Not that I’ve read any of them.’
‘Amelie and Connor,’ I said. ‘They’re the couple in the last book, and I thought they’d get their happy-ever-after like the other heroines and heroes, butConnor went to America and left Amelie behind. Sometimes I imagine them reuniting here. Although,’ I added with a laugh, ‘that’s going to be harder now I’ve seen inside. It’s not exactly a luxury mansion any more.’
‘It might be again one day,’ Ethan said. ‘A place this grand can’t stand empty for ever.’
I closed my eyes, imagining a future for Tyller Klos, and that’s when I heard it: a sound behind me, in the shadows. I must have invented it, but every hair on my body prickled to attention.
‘What is it?’ Ethan squeezed my shoulder. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah,’ I said shakily. ‘I’m fine.’
‘You look like you’ve seen something horrible.’ Kira was peering at me.
‘Not seen.’ I burrowed into Ethan’s side, wishing he was between me and the black void of the hall. ‘I thought I heard something.’
‘Something more than our furry friends?’ Orwell asked.
‘I don’t know, but … it sounded like someone laughing. Or sobbing.’ I swallowed. ‘It was hard to tell.’
‘No fucking way.’ Freddy sounded horrified.
‘It was my ears playing tricks on me,’ I said quickly, sensing my fear travel round the room. ‘It can’t have happened.’
‘It can’t,’ Orwell confirmed.
‘But maybe …’ Ethan glanced at his watch, usinghis torch to illuminate the face. ‘It’s ten to midnight. I think we can safely say we’ve spent enough time here.’
I expected a protest from Kira, saying her birthday wasn’t over, but everyone took Ethan’s words as an instruction. We retrieved our empty bottles and cans – because we were hardcore teenagers but we weren’t litterers – and shoved full ones into pockets and bags. Then we made our way wordlessly through the house, retracing our steps, my gaze fixed firmly on Freddy’s legs in front of me, and not on those dark hollows where I thought the strange sounds had come from.
Once we were back on the solid tarmac of the road, relief pulsed in my veins. The moon was higher now, its silver sheen coating everything, so we didn’t need our torches to light the way back into the village.
