Daisy Darker(40)

When one of them died, all of them lied, and pretended not to see.

Daisy Darker’s nana was the oldest but least wise.

The woman’s will made them all feel ill, which was why she had to die.

Daisy Darker’s father lived life dancing to his own tune.

His self-centred ways, and the pianos he played, danced him to his doom.

Daisy Darker’s mother was an actress with the coldest heart.

She didn’t love all her children, and deserved to lose her part.

Daisy Darker’s sister Rose was the eldest of the three.

She was clever and quiet and beautiful, but destined to die lonely.

Daisy Darker’s sister Lily was the vainest of the lot.

She was a selfish, spoilt, entitled witch, one who deserved to get shot.

Daisy Darker’s niece was a precocious little child.

Like all abandoned ducklings, she would not fare well in the wild.

Daisy Darker’s secret story was one someone sadly had to tell.

But her broken heart was just the start of what will be her last farewell.

Daisy Darker’s family wasted far too many years lying.

They spent their final hours together learning lessons before dying.

The part about Trixie has been crossed out.

‘Oh my god,’ Lily whispers, staring at the chalk words and covering her nose and mouth with her hands, as though praying to a God I know she does not believe in. ‘It’s coming true,’ she says quietly, then turns to look at us all. ‘It’s. Coming. True.’

‘What’s coming true?’ my mother asks.

Lily is shaking now. She points up at the poem, searches the faces of our family for any sign of understanding and finds none. But I know exactly what she means, even if I’m too scared to say it out loud. There is a low rumble of thunder in the distance outside. I hadn’t noticed how hard it was raining. The storm is getting closer, and the house feels bitterly cold. Lily’s words tumble too quickly out of her mouth for the rest of the family to keep up.

‘Nana’s poem on the wall. Can you not read it? Am I not making sense? It’s a poem about us. Dying. One by one. Nana is dead, Dad is dead, and now Trixie is—’

‘Missing. She’s just missing. We’ll find her,’ says Rose.

‘It’s just one of Nana’s silly poems,’ says my mother.

‘How do you know that she wrote it? I don’t think it looks like her handwriting. Anyone could have sneaked down here in the night and written a poem on the wall,’ Conor says unhelpfully, as though thinking out loud. I remember the chalk I saw on his jeans earlier, and the way he quickly dusted it off. He’s been quiet for a long time, and everyone turns to stare at him.

‘You’re right,’ says Lily. ‘Your name isn’t up there. Maybe you wrote it.’

‘Maybe we should stop wasting time and look for Trixie,’ I say.

Before anyone can answer, there is another rumble of thunder, but this one is so much louder than the last. Nancy sways a little and grabs the side of the kitchen table to steady herself.

‘Are you okay?’ Rose asks.

‘I’m fine. Honestly,’ Nancy says. ‘It’s a headache and I’m just tired, like all of us. We need to find Trixie. Why don’t you lot check upstairs, and I’ll carry on looking down here?’

‘Good idea,’ says Lily. She never listens to anyone except our mother.

Rose, Lily, Conor and I run upstairs, calling Trixie’s name, before each disappearing into a different bedroom to search. I start in the one Lily and Trixie shared last night.

This used to be my sisters’ bedroom whenever they stayed at Seaglass when we were children. It’s bigger than mine, but I suppose there were two of them. Everything is very much the same as it was then, with ghastly pink carpet, pink curtains and floral wallpaper. My sisters were girly girls. I can still see the dark rectangles where they used to stick their posters when we were here for the summer holidays – always boy bands for Lily, cute animals for Rose. There are two beds on opposite sides of the room, two little tables, two windows, and a wall of built-in wardrobes.

‘Trixie?’ I whisper, but there’s no reply. All I can hear is the rain lashing the window, and the sea crashing against the rocks outside. This is still a room of two sides. Lily’s bed is unmade, with clothes on the floor around it, and her bedside table is a mess of magazines and make-up, even though she’s only been here for a few hours. On the other side of the room, and in stark contrast, Trixie’s bed is neatly made. All I can see on her bedside table is an old book she must have borrowed from Nana’s library, and a glass of water.

I get down on the floor and look beneath the beds, but there is nothing there. I hear another deep rumble of thunder in the distance and have an overwhelming urge to hide. Storms at Seaglass seemed to be a regular occurrence when we were little girls, both the emotional and literal varieties. I remember being so scared by the sound of thunder outside – or shouting downstairs – that I would often run in here at night. Fear was one of the few things that seemed to unite me and my sisters when we were children.

A storm at Seaglass is not the same as a storm in London, or anywhere else that I have lived. Being in a storm here, on this tiny island, feels like being on a rickety old ship in the middle of the sea, one that will surely sink if the waves get too high. We used to hide together under the beds in this room when life got too loud – Lily under one, Rose and I huddled under the other. Then we would count the number of seconds between the lightning and the inevitable thunder that followed, to know how many miles away it would strike. I find myself counting again now.