twelve
“WHAT IF I’M NOT THE HEROINE?”

Before we all went our separate ways after our visit to the cemetery, Callum took my mobile number, and Ewan must have taken Taylor’s. They texted us today to let us know that Mac Attack was doing a gig in a pub within walking distance of our school, hoping we could come. I never saw the text, of course, because I haven’t switched on my phone again, but Taylor got hers and was very keen for us to go.

Whereas Alison and Luce, as Taylor deduced, checked out the Mac Attack page on MySpace and saw there that the band was playing tonight, opening for someone called Nuala Kennedy. I introduce them both to Callum and Ewan, and watch with amusement as they babble compliments to the boys and say how much they liked their playing at Celtic Connections.

“Well, thanks!” Ewan says, beaming cheerfully and jumping down from the stage to shake their hands in a way that should be silly, because it’s a bit formal, but is actually charming. “What did you think of the MySpace page? I’m still tinkering with it—you got any suggestions?”

He couldn’t have asked a better question. Luce, who’s always been a computer whiz, dives into her bag, bringing out an iPad, which she turns on, logging on to MySpace to brainstorm with Ewan. Their heads meet as they scan down the Mac Attack page, Ewan enthusiastically narrating what he’s done with it so far.

He may not be the front man of the band, I think, but he’s got the personality for it. He loves meeting new people, chatting them up—unlike Callum, who’s more the strong and silent type.

I look at Callum, who’s doing a final tuning up of his violin, his chin squashed into it, an expression of serious concentration on his handsome face. He has the photogenic looks; there’s a reason why, on the CD jewel case, Callum’s in the center of the group, looking brooding and mysterious. But Ewan’s the one who’ll be great in interviews and for working the fans, who’ll send out chatty MySpace bulletins and project an infectious enthusiasm that will keep them coming back.

They’re a great team, I reflect. Like me and Taylor.

As if he’s read my mind, Ewan’s looking round for her now.

“Hey! Taylor!” he calls across the bar, waving at her, a big smile on his face, completely unembarrassed about yelling a girl’s name across a crowded space.

Taylor grins back at him, even raising a hand to wave, calling a degree of attention to herself that she would usually very much dislike. But it’s impossible to resist Ewan. He’s like a big friendly dog—not the brainless retriever that I’ve compared Lizzie to in the past, but a sheepdog who wants to round everyone up, collect us all into one big party together.

“Catch you later!” he calls, jumping up onto the stage and going over to grab his guitar.

I nod at Alison and Luce, and they actually smile back at me.

“See you after the gig,” I say, noticing that they’ve softened considerably toward me. Alison even says:

“Great!”

Luce is bending down to slide her iPad back into her bag. And as she does so, I can’t help noticing something else in there. It’s a notebook, looking very old-fashioned next to the iPad, its cover battered and half torn off with wear, so that I can see the page beneath it, covered in Luce’s small, neat writing. White paper, printed with a faint pale-gray grid of tiny boxes.

That’s why the paper of the note left in my and Taylor’s room looked so familiar, I realize. Luce has always had notebooks like that, all the years I’ve known her.

I turn away, processing this information, my brain racing. I’m suddenly aware of how very much I don’t want Alison and Luce to have been behind the attacks on me. There’s a real, physical pain in imagining friends to whom I’ve been so close turning on me so aggressively, playing tricks on me that could quite easily have led to my being seriously injured, or worse. I’m refusing to believe it, thinking up reasons instead that absolve them of guilt.

Lots of people have notebooks like that, I tell myself.

“So it went well?” Taylor asks as the members of Mac Attack—squashed together on the very small stage—raise their instruments.

“Really well,” I say, hopping back up onto my stool. “I said sorry a lot, but what mostly swung it was knowing Callum and Ewan. Alison and Luce were really excited to meet them.”

“Hmm, it’s actually pretty neat,” Taylor says, considering this. “You dumped them for a cool party, but then you make up for it by introducing them to some cool musicians. Sounds fair to me.”

It is neat. I think Taylor meant that more in the American way, where “neat” seems to be a general term of approval; but it’s neat in the English sense too, which means that everything has turned out tidily, tit for tat, no loose ends hanging.

“The only thing is,” I say slowly, “I just saw a notebook in Luce’s bag that’s exactly like the paper from the note that was left in our room after the smoke bombs went off.”

“Huh.” Taylor digests this. “You didn’t see a stencil, did you?”

I shake my head.

“Nah, that’d be too easy,” she says dryly. “Whoever did it, if they have any sense, that stencil’s in the bottom of the trash by now.” She looks thoughtful. “All I’m going to say right now,” she adds, “is that there are tons of notebooks like that. Lots of girls at school have them. On its own, it doesn’t prove a thing.”

I nod, feeling relief at her words that’s disproportionate to what she’s actually said, because she hasn’t truly acquitted Alison and Luce of suspicion. I really, really don’t want it to have been them; I’d give a great deal to have it proved, here and now, that they’re innocent of everything but being snotty to me. Mercifully, just then Mac Attack launch into their first song, and the music’s loud and tuneful enough to distract me from the complicated tangle of my thoughts.

I sit back on my stool, propping my back against the wall, retrieving my glass of cider and watching the band, feeling the tension in my body dissipate as they play. It’s not just that they’re really good, or that, in their kilts and tight black T-shirts, the muscles in their arms working as they play their instruments, they’re also very easy on the eye. Being in a crowded room, everyone listening to the music, their attention completely focused on the boys onstage, is more of a relief to my sore heart than I could possibly have imagined. I’m in company, but no one’s talking to me. No one wants anything from me. I can just be myself, let my thoughts wander, be soothed by the music, happily anonymous.

I let out a long, quiet sigh as the violin swirls high above the other instruments, winding a sweet, piercing tune around us, drawing everyone into an enchantment, smoothing out any rough edges. Across the roomful of people seated at the tables I see Alison and Luce tilting their heads back, staring up at Callum as he leads the group, the violin and bow like a conductor’s baton. And I see the leather bag slung over the back of Luce’s chair, the bag that contains the notebook that’s sent me spinning into awful speculations.

It’s just a notebook in a bag, I tell myself. It proves nothing. No way could Alison and Luce be vindictive enough to put me in that much danger—not once, but twice.

Vindictive. Of course, when that word pops into my brain, Plum’s name is the first one that immediately follows it. And no, I can’t see Plum running around getting her own hands dirty lighting smoke bombs. But I can easily picture her getting someone else to do that part while she shoves me over a stair rail and slips a nasty note into my room for me to find.

And out of everyone on the school trip, Plum is the sneakiest. Her twisted, conniving brain is more than capable of coming up with something as clever and cunning as composing a hate note with a stencil.

I think about Plum and Nadia, heads together, walking round Holyrood Palace, laughing at their own jokes, looking at the world with identical expressions of superiority and disdain. Examining their nails, heads cocked to the side, as if their fingertips were the most important things in the world.

If Plum and Nadia have teamed up again, we could all be in a lot of trouble. They ran St. Tabby’s like their own personal kingdom, with Plum as the princess and Nadia her head lady-in-waiting. No detail escaped them; they spotted, and ruthlessly trampled on, every tiny attempt by a girl to step out of the sphere to which Plum and Nadia had assigned her. It’s no wonder that Luce and Alison are flourishing now that Plum has left St. Tabby’s, enough to experiment with smart clothes and new hairstyles without fear of ridicule. Clearly Nadia on her own isn’t strong enough to crack the whip over everyone’s backs at once.

Their feuding brought them both down. It got Plum expelled from St. Tabby’s, and saw Nadia’s powers weakened without Plum’s authority to back her up. But if they’ve reunited—realized that they’re much stronger together than they are as deadly rivals—they’ll be more dangerous than ever.

And who but me would they decide to target first? Plum hates me, and though I have dirt on her, she knows that I play fairer than she does. Which means I wouldn’t use that photo I have of her unless I have solid proof that she’s behind the attacks. And Nadia has used me and Taylor in the past. She’s very well aware how resourceful we can be. It would be very easy for Plum to talk Nadia into launching a preemptive strike.

And who would they get to do their dirty work? I ask myself.

The answer comes immediately: Lizzie. Who’s now new best friends with Sophia.

Between them, Lizzie and Sophia have the brains of a ginger tomcat (a notoriously stupid animal). But they’re both born followers. They’ll wear what Plum says, go where Plum goes, laugh when Plum says something mean, jump when she snaps her fingers. Plum probably has plenty of embarrassing information on both of them: that’s how she operates. Enough to make them do her dirty work, certainly. I don’t think they’d stoop to pushing me over a stair rail for Plum, but they’d certainly let off smoke bombs, as long as they were given clear, detailed instructions. And they’d lie to protect her with the straightest of faces. Lizzie and Sophia would swear up and down that black was white if Plum told them to do it.

Perhaps that’s why Lizzie and Sophia are hanging out together on this trip. The sidekicks are bonding: partners in crime.

I’ve been so absorbed in speculation that I haven’t noticed the music changing as songs end, or the audience applauding after each one. But that must have happened; Mac Attack’s set must be over, because the people around me are pounding their feet on the boards and yelling “More! More!” as Callum, Ewan, and the other boys bow at the waist, faces flushed. Then Callum says into the mike:

“And now we’re really lucky—Nuala Kennedy is going to join us for our encore before she plays her own set, so put your hands together for her, ’cause she’s a really big deal—”

Callum’s pronounced it “Noola,” but I know it’s written Nuala, because her name is in big letters on the posters for tonight that are stuck up on the walls. She walks onto the tiny stage carrying a flute, a slender woman in a floral dress with what I think of as classic Irish prettiness—white skin, dark hair, and small, delicate features. She smiles at the audience, raises the flute to her mouth, and starts to play, the sound of the flute sweet and throaty and so beautiful that I hear people in the audience sigh with pleasure. Mac Attack join in, and after a little while I realize that the tune is really familiar: it’s the song Callum sang at Celtic Connections, “The Blooming Bright Star of Belle Isle.” Sure enough, Nuala Kennedy takes the flute from her mouth and starts to sing the chorus in an exquisite clear soprano, Callum chiming in with the harmony. I can tell from his concentrated expression how hard he’s focusing on his singing, and when the song finally winds to an end, he’s pink in the face and frowning with the effort.

“Let’s hear it for Callum, eh?” Nuala Kennedy says into the mike, over the wild applause. “We’re all trying to get him to sing more, and he’s not too shabby, is he?”

Alison and Luce, I see with amusement, actually scream at this, as if they were twelve-year-olds at a Disney teenybopper gig. And they’re not the only ones. Other female cries of appreciation turn Callum’s face from pink to red now.

“He’s gonna have to get used to it,” Taylor yells in my ear, grinning. “All the girls squealing for him.”

Callum’s blush is fading, but still present, by the time he and the rest of Mac Attack have packed away their instruments, clearing the stage for Nuala Kennedy’s band, who are setting up now. He and Ewan cross the room to where Taylor and I are sitting, pausing to slap a couple of boys’ hands in high fives. Although Callum and Ewan texted us asking us to come, it’s still hugely flattering to watch them walking toward us; there’s no denying that having boys play really good music, then jump down off the stage and come to find you, is one of the coolest things that can happen. I wriggle on my barstool with excitement. Even Taylor, I see, glancing at her, is holding on to her seat with both hands to stop herself jumping down, to avoid looking too eager: her eyes are sparkling and she’s smiling with anticipation.

“You were great!” she exclaims to them. “And she was right, Callum—you should sing more.”

“We’ve all been saying that,” Ewan says, smiling at her. “He’s the one with the voice. And a band needs a singer to really make it.”

“I always thought Dan was the one with the voice,” Callum says, looking down. “You know, Ewan. He could charm the birds off the trees.”

Ewan looks sober at this mention of Callum’s dead twin, and I hear myself say:

“No reason you both couldn’t have good voices, is there? I mean, you looked just like each other—why couldn’t you both be good singers too?”

Callum’s gray eyes meet mine, genuinely shocked, though it seems that what I’ve said is the most obvious thing in the world. He looks lost for words. Luckily, just then Alison and Luce come up, shyly handing Ewan and Callum CDs of theirs bought at the Celtic Connections concert that they want the boys to personalize, and that’s enough distraction for Callum to get himself together, swallow down the tears that I had the feeling were prickling at the back of his throat.

“I hate to say this,” Taylor announces, “but it’s, like, nine-thirty, and I have to allow for getting us a little bit lost walking home.”

“You have to go?” Ewan says, looking so dejected that I hope Taylor is over the moon at how obviously keen he is on her. “Oh, no! We were hoping you could hang out for Nuala’s set—she’s amazing.”

“We could walk you back to your school afterwards,” Callum says hopefully. “It’s Fetters, right? We know the way.”

“We have a ten o’clock curfew,” I say regretfully.

“Really?” Ewan’s eyes widen. He has incredibly long, curling eyelashes, I notice. Like his long, curly red hair, but darker. “Can’t you, I dunno, sneak in later or something?”

“The Wakefield Hall teachers are really strict,” Luce pipes up, determined to be part of the conversation. She’s as tenacious as a Chihuahua. And wow—now I look at her, standing next to Callum, she’s noticeably taller. Surreptitiously, I tilt my head sideways and down; yup, Luce’s must-have, this-year-everyone-at-St.-Tabby’s-is-wearing suede slouchy boots end in what must be four-inch stiletto heels. Blimey. Luckily, Luce is skinny enough that they look nicely in proportion to her body; her legs are pin-thin. I’m always worried that I’ll look a bit like a pig on stilts if I wear stilettos at all, let alone ones that high.

“Yeah, our gym teacher and Scarlett’s aunt are waiting by the front door of the school with a big clipboard and a horsewhip,” Taylor drawls.

“Your aunt?” Callum says to me.

“She’s a teacher at my school,” I say glumly. “Geography. I have to live with her, too.”

“Man,” Callum says respectfully. “I thought my life was bad.”

This is really black humor, because, more than anyone, I know a lot of pretty bad things that have happened in Callum’s life; but somehow, it makes both of us smile, and in that moment, it’s as if the whole room fades away, and it’s just Callum and me, smiling at each other.

“Right!” Taylor says a bit too loudly. “Time to go!”

It’s cold outside, and very dark. As the door of the Shore closes behind us, we all involuntarily turn to look back at the bar with a sigh of regret. Nuala Kennedy’s started to play, and the sound of her flute is so beautiful and haunting that it’s like a spell to pull us all back inside, into the warmth and the light, the clinking of glasses, the music—and, to be perfectly honest, the boys. Everything we want right now is inside the Shore, and as we start to walk away down the riverside, hugging our coats and jackets tight around us against the wind from the sea, we’re all silent and gloomy for a while; it’s pretty miserable to be leaving a place where several handsome boys want you to stay.

The pavement’s too narrow for us all to walk together. Luce and Taylor, both natural organizers, have pulled a little ahead, consulting Taylor’s iPhone, Luce’s piping voice describing the route she and Alison took coming to the Shore. I shove my hands in my pockets and glance at Alison, who’s tugging her beret down to cover her ears.

Sensing my eyes on her, she looks over at me.

“I didn’t know you knew Callum that well,” she says. “I mean, I saw you talking to him at the concert, but I thought he was more a friend of Plum’s.”

I huff out a laugh.

“No, he’s definitely not a friend of Plum’s,” I say. “I know him because of—well, because of his brother. Dan.”

Alison nods; she remembers Dan very well, from all those times we used to stare longingly at him, the best-looking boy in Plum and Nadia’s whole carefully selected group of beautiful people, with his floppy fringe and his easy smile. It’s true, as Callum says, that Dan could charm the birds from the trees. But, as their sister Catriona once said, Callum’s worth twice of Dan.

I hope Callum comes out from Dan’s shadow one day.

“He’s really cool,” Alison says wistfully. “And I do think he’s got a good voice. He should definitely sing more.”

“You should post that to his MySpace page,” I suggest. “I’m sure he’d love to read that.”

“Yeah, I could!” Alison perks up at having found a way to contact Callum, on whom she clearly has a massive crush. “That’s a great idea!” She smiles at me. “He’s got his own page as well as the band’s one. I friended him on both of them.”

I can’t help feeling smug that I knew Callum before he and Mac Attack started to take off. It means that he’ll never think of me as a fan, but as a friend, which is a huge difference. It wasn’t exactly news to me that a good-looking boy who gets up onstage and plays in a band, let alone one who sings songs about beautiful maidens he’s madly in love with, is like catnip to girls. But knowing it and seeing it in action are very different things. I remember the girls surrounding Mac Attack at Celtic Connections, how frenzied they were, and I’m really glad that Callum will never see me as one of them.

We’re just passing the little bridge again. I turn my head, wanting a last glance at the Waters of Leith before we branch away from them; I’m hypnotized by how calm and beautiful the dark water is by night, with just a faint reflection of the moon through clouds.

And then I jump in shock and stumble on the pavement. Because I think I see a figure slipping over the road across the bridge, into the shadows cast by the building on the far side. I’m not surprised that someone else is out at this time of night; there are a few other people on the street, coming out of restaurants or bars, commenting on the cold to each other in quiet voices, waiting at the bus stop. But there was something surreptitious about the way that person moved that raised all the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Did you see that?” I ask Alison, my voice sounding higher and more panicked than I mean it to.

“What?” she says blankly.

“Oh … nothing …”

I don’t want to seem like a paranoid idiot, seeing menace everywhere. I may be out late, or late-ish, but I’ve got three other girls with me; nothing bad’s going to happen to me in this much company.

As we turn up a dark street, Taylor looks back to check we’re following.

“What’s up?” she asks.

“Scarlett thought she saw something,” Alison says, which makes me sound like a total idiot.

“It was probably a seagull,” I say quickly—there are a couple of gulls hopping round some rubbish bins farther down the street, looking for food to scavenge.

But I know it wasn’t.

“You okay?” Taylor asks, dropping back and slinging an arm over my shoulder. This is so unlike her that she must feel that I’m really in need of reassurance. And it’s definitely comforting to have an arm around me; but that immediately makes me think of Jase, how well we fit together when we walk, my arm round his waist, his round my shoulders, and I feel incredibly confused. All the feelings of missing him, of anger that he’s not here, roar back into my mind, filling it up so much that I forget to answer Taylor.

Alison’s caught up with Luce, and they’ve just turned a corner down another narrow, cobbled street. As they disappear momentarily from view, straight ahead of Taylor and me I spot the figure again, pressed back against the shuttered doorway of a shop front. As if he’s trying not to be seen.

It’s only because my senses are hyperalert that I see him at all. I’m sure it’s a him now—the height and the width of the shoulders make it very unlikely that it’s a woman. He’s medium height for a man, not as tall as Jase. Stockier, with a build like Callum’s.

“Taylor!” I grab at the hand she’s clasped on my shoulder. “Look—there is someone! Over there!”

“We go down here,” Taylor says a split second after I start to talk, the pressure of her arm turning me down the side street.

“No! Back there!” I pull at her, trying to make her go back. “Didn’t you see someone standing in that doorway?”

It seems to take ages to turn Taylor around, and by the time we swivel back the shape in the shop front is long gone.

“Nothing there,” Taylor says unnecessarily. “Come on, we need to hurry to make it back to the school before ten.”

Our feet sound very loud on the cobbles as we walk faster to catch up with Alison and Luce.

“I can’t be seeing things,” I say, “not after half a pint of cider.…”

“You’re just wound up,” Taylor says reassuringly, her arm still pulling me along. “You’ve had a really weird day.”

“Yes, but …” I pause. “I’m sure I saw someone. A guy. I mean, I could tell you what his build was like, even.”

“Scarlett, there are shadows everywhere,” Taylor says firmly. “I mean, look around you! Plus, Edinburgh’s a really creepy city. There’s a reason Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and tons of ghost stories were set here, you know.”

“I suppose so,” I say doubtfully, because it’s beginning to seem like Taylor’s trying to talk me out of what I’m pretty sure I saw with my own eyes. Which isn’t like Taylor. One of the crucial things about our friendship is that we trust each other’s instincts; I couldn’t imagine telling Taylor she hadn’t seen something she was sure she had.

“I just—” I start, and then I’m sure I hear something off to our right. There’s another street running parallel to the one we’re hurrying down, quite close, as this part of Leith is a warren of little alleys, and I could have sworn I heard light, muffled footsteps tracking ours. “Did you hear that?” I ask, my voice rising nervously again.

“Scarlett! You’re freaking me out!” Taylor snaps. “That’s leaves blowing on the pavement! We’re not suddenly in a horror film, okay? ’Cause that’s exactly what you’re sounding like!”

I snuffle a laugh at this, because I do sound exactly like the whiny heroine of one of those endless Scream or Final Destination films, running around insisting she hears a monster while all her friends tell her she’s being an idiot.

“Nearly there!” Luce calls from up ahead, and she’s right; we emerge suddenly onto a wide road, the stone wall that borders Fetters’s grounds right opposite us.

“Nice work,” Taylor calls back approvingly.

“We should step it up—it’s nearly ten,” Luce says, and we start to jog as a taxi ticks past us, turning in to the drive. We reach the main door on the dot of ten, Plum, Nadia, Susan, and Lizzie tumbling out of the taxi, giggling at having just made curfew.

“Here you go,” Plum says, throwing some notes through the window at the cab driver. “And an extra twenty for getting us here on time.”

I’m ridiculously relieved to be out of that shadowy maze of streets and back in the brightly lit hallway of Fetters, even with Aunt Gwen glowering at me as she crosses my name off her list, even with Plum and Nadia showing off by talking loudly, once the teachers are out of earshot, about the divine cocktails they just sank at the bar on the fourth floor of Harvey Nichols’s department store—“and they have a wraparound terrace you can smoke on, it’s fabulous, and the views are really quite nice, considering we’re in bloody Scotland.…”

Back in our room, Taylor and I shove the chest of drawers in front of the door.

“Just to be safe,” Taylor says, with such elaborate casualness that I know she’s actually taking this quite seriously.

Having the door blocked should make me feel absolutely secure. Still, when we turn out the light and curl up in the narrow twin beds, I lie in the dark room, listening to Taylor’s slow, steady breathing, unable to turn my brain off. Maybe it’s because I had an extra nap when I passed out this afternoon that I can’t fall asleep as easily as Taylor. But one unpleasant thought after another is cascading through my mind.

Am I making too much of my impression that Taylor seemed to be dragging me along just now, stopping me from seeing the guy who might have been there, might have been following us? Is it just a weird coincidence that he looked a bit like Callum—who must, surely, have been back at the Shore, listening to Nuala Kennedy’s set? And why would someone want to follow me at all? Is there anyone I can trust a hundred percent?

Tonight, pulling me along the cobbled street, Taylor mocked me out of my panic, telling me I sounded like some nervy victim from a horror film. But, it occurs to me now, the girl in horror films who no one takes seriously is usually right. There is a monster out there that wants to kill her.

I take deep breaths to calm myself down. The heroine always survives, I tell myself. Even if she has to run around for hours making an idiot of herself and screaming her head off, she fights back in the end. She always survives.

But then I have an even worse thought.

What if I’m not the heroine?