by Louise Beech
Chloe retraces her steps.
It must be her; it must be Chester mentioning Dust the other day combining with the overactive imagination she has had since she was small. She remembers at school when a group of popular girls laughed at her portrayal of Cordelia in King Lear. One of them – cocky Carrie Meadows – ended up with broken arm after hitting a wall. She swore Chloe did it. When her mum grounded her for a week, Chloe insisted she hadn’t even touched Carrie. She hadn’t. She was sure of it.
Wasn’t she?
Now, Chloe stops in her tracks, aching at a sudden, vivid memory. Grandma Rosa had come to her bedroom one night after the broken-arm incident. She had kissed Chloe’s head and told her she was a magic girl. Though she didn’t say it in words, Chloe heard, ‘You should always contain your anger, only ever lash out for love.’
She and Grandma Rosa often spoke to one another without words. Thinking of it now, Chloe realises it is odd, though it had felt so natural at the time. At a crowded Sunday lunch table, Grandma Rosa would ask Chloe to pass the mint sauce without opening her mouth. Only Chloe heard, and would hand it over.
Hadn’t her grandma worn lavender perfume?
Yes. Is that why Chloe has just smelt it? She is missing her. Thinking about her. Yes. That could be it.
She looks around and realises that she is now on the stage. How did that happen? Chloe looks back, at the open stage door she can’t even recall opening – almost expecting to see herself walking through it.
She walks to centre-stage and faces the rows of empty seats, gentle rays from the night lamp, which is always on, flickering over them. She looks behind her at the swathes of black curtain shrouding the brick wall – rows of tall, still witches waiting to cast a spell. There is nothing like it, being on stage. That gut-churning fear before going on; the buzz from an appreciative audience; the feeling of being bigger and brighter than any star in the galaxy; the relief afterwards. Chloe has only experienced it on an amateur set – only stood here and imagined it in a theatre like this.
How must Morgan Miller have felt? The weight of that expectation on opening night. The thrill of being the chosen one. The fear of forgetting those infamous lines. The relief at those early rave reviews. The glory of success.
And then it was over.
Then she died.
Chloe looks at her watch That can’t be right. She looks again. It’s 01.32. Almost the middle of the night. How the hell did that happen? She should go. She turns but something stops her. Something turns her head. Something drags her gaze upwards, to the back of the auditorium.
There’s someone there.
There, as real as Chloe, yet as ethereal as a ghost: a woman – milky dress fluid, golden hair cascading, face obscured by a netted veil.
I’m still here…
Chloe imagines that the eyes beneath are grey but colour as she speaks. Imagines that the mouth beneath opens and familiar words pour out.
I am dust…
It’s Morgan Miller.
And Chloe thinks: I’ve seen you before.
Then she blinks and Morgan is gone. No. Not gone. She was never there. You imagined it.
Chloe realises her trousers are damp and touches her thigh with disgust. Has she urinated in fear?
No. She can smell it. It’s blood.
Blood?
Her scars are bleeding. Her wounds are open.
Then the night lamp goes out.
Blackness.
Chloe runs towards the light in the corridor.
She looks back just once and is sure for a moment that the lamp flickers back on – and that a large, black bird is standing on the ledge above it, feathers as sleek as oily water.
6
The Dean Wilson Theatre
January 2019
As promised, a week later, Cynthia holds a meeting in the upstairs rehearsal room. Props from Forget Everything You Know litter the half-white-half-mirrored room; walking sticks, dressing gowns and worn slippers form small, random piles as though left by a group of elderly swimmers. In contrast, a glitter ball and two cheap fur coats have been abandoned on a table, possibly items from upcoming show, Bright Lights, Bright Life. White tape crosses mark the wooden floor, so actors know where they have to stand when they’re on the real stage.
The ushers drag chairs noisily from the stack at the back of the room.
Nina grumbles that she’s missing an important audition for this. ‘I hope it’s just about Dust,’ she says glancing at Chester, ‘and not redundancies, like six months ago.’
He hasn’t mentioned the show for days, perhaps worried he had got it wrong after all. ‘If they’re getting rid of staff, it won’t be me,’ he whispers as they line their chairs parallel to the mirrored wall, doubling their number.
‘What I’d do to play Esme Black,’ sighs Nina, sitting down between Chloe and Chester.
‘You’re too old,’ sniffs Paige.
‘I’m only forty-two. My acting CV says I can do thirty-five to forty-five. Anyway, you’re way too young. Esme is thirty in Dust.’
‘Chloe would be perfect then,’ smiles Chester.
‘I doubt that,’ she says, her chest tight at the thought of it. She knows every line; the original script book is on her shelf, dog-eared and yellowing. But after the other night with the lost hours and footsteps on the stairs and a woman (just a woman, not Morgan Miller) in the theatre, she doesn’t want to think about the show.
‘You’ve got that vulnerability,’ says Paige. ‘I never saw Dust, I wasn’t even born, but I’ve always thought from the pictures that Morgan Miller lacked a softness. Yeah, she was magnetic and beautiful … but in the script Esme is sensitive.’
‘You can’t diss Morgan Miller,’ cries Chester, hand dramatically clutching his chest.
‘Because she died?’
‘No,’ he hisses, ‘because it’s bad luck.’
‘Oh, fuck off with your superstition,’ laughs Paige. ‘Nothing’s gonna happen cos we bitch about her! There is no bloody ghost.’
Chloe nods more vigorously than she intends. Is she trying to convince herself? Since that strange night on stage, she’s decided it was Chester mentioning Dust’s return that triggered her imagination. She was tired. She was spooked. The lights went out because there was a fault. That’s the only explanation.
‘They’d want a big star to play Esme,’ she says. ‘They wouldn’t want a nobody like me.’
The door opens, stopping a united cry of ‘Don’t be silly!’
Cynthia comes into the room, her customary court shoes clacking on the wood, followed by a middle-aged woman with bright-orange hair and matching nails, who sits on the chair at the end of the row. Chloe is sure she has seen her here at the theatre a few times, her hair changing as often as an experimental teenager’s.
‘First of all,’ says Cynthia, all business. ‘This is Beth and in three weeks she’ll be starting as an usher.’
‘Hi, Beth,’ everyone choruses.
She nods briskly at them all.
‘We’ll be interviewing for more ushers in the coming months,’ Cynthia continues. ‘You’ll understand why when I tell you what’s happening in September.’
Chester looks at Chloe, eyes wide; she shakes her head.
‘Well, guys.’ Cynthia smiles at them, clearly enjoying their rapt expressions. ‘This is exciting stuff, it really is. I doubt a single one of you doesn’t know about the show that opened this place – Dust.’ She says it softly, with reverence, the way many do. ‘There have been discussions for a good while about this, but I can now tell you that this year, on the twentieth anniversary of its opening, Dust will be returning.’
The ushers give an exaggerated‘ooohhh’.
Despite everything, Chloe’s first reaction is excitement. She pushes away any niggling doubt … simmering dread.
‘I know, I know.’ Cynthia laughs. ‘It’s going to be huge. This is why we’ll be taking new staff on. The official announcement will be tonight at nine pm across a
ll media platforms. Tickets go on sale first thing tomorrow. We anticipate them selling out in hours.’
‘How long will it be on for?’ asks Chester.
‘Four weeks,’ says Cynthia. ‘Then it goes to the West End.’
‘It’s coming here first?’ asks Chloe.
‘Yes, it’ll premiere here.’
‘Wow.’ Chloe knows it is usually the other way around.
‘What date does it start?’ asks Chester.
‘The first show will be Thursday, the fifth of September. Press night will be Tuesday the tenth. The cast will be here rehearsing from mid-June, so the meet-and-greet will likely happen then too, and you’ll get the usual chance to meet the actors.’
‘Do we know who they are?’ asks Nina.
‘Yes,’ says Cynthia. ‘They’ll be announced tonight too.’
‘Who are they, then?’ asks Chester.
‘I don’t know myself,’ Cynthia admits. ‘They want social media to go wild later so it’s been kept very hush-hush. Only those at the top know.’
So only Edwin Roberts, the artistic director, thinks Chloe.
‘There’s not much more I can tell you,’ admits Cynthia. ‘Just that we have some very exciting times ahead. It’s going to be hard work. The press will be all over this, especially in light of … well, the show’s history. Some may think … well, that the show should not come back. I want you to remain professional at all times. Journalists may try and get inside stories from you, but send them straight to me. In the meantime, make Beth feel welcome. She saw the original Dust…’
‘I actually auditioned for the role of Esme,’ says Beth, a little smug.
‘Maybe,’ whispers Nina in Chloe’s ear, ‘but she didn’t get it.’
‘Did you meet Morgan Miller?’ asks Chester, eyes wide.
‘I did.’
‘Wow. What was she like?’
‘It was only briefly. For about five minutes, before she went in and did that killer audition that got her the role.’
Interesting choice of words, thinks Chloe.
‘She looked like she knew,’ says Beth.
‘Knew what?’ asks Chloe, thinking of her murder.
‘That she’d get the role of Esme. She was pretty arrogant.’
‘I thought she was absolutely mesmerising,’ says Chloe.
Beth shrugs as though to say whatever. Then adds, ‘I don’t see how can anyone compete with an actress who literally died for her art.’
‘I’m sure the new actress will be tremendous in the role,’ says Cynthia. ‘Anyway, while I have you, I want to talk about the new radios.’
Remembering the eerie words she heard on the airwaves a week ago, Chloe asks, ‘Has anyone else been getting interference on theirs?’
No one answers. A couple shake their heads. Maybe she imagined it after all?
But then what about the words on the mirror?
What about the footsteps on the stairs?
The woman?
That horrible bird?
Chloe shakes away the questions and tunes out. She closes her eyes and hums in her head the chorus of the main Dust song: Forever, together, we are dust. Pieces of everything; pieces of all of us. For a moment she is sure it drifts in through the open door behind them, from the corridor where stone steps lead down to the dressing rooms, a haunting, lyrical, female voice. One she knows, first heard twenty years ago on stage. Chloe feels a whisper of breath on her neck and glances at Chester, but he’s absorbed in whatever Cynthia is saying. Beth looks at Chloe and that’s when she smells it.
Pungent lavender perfume. On Beth. Exactly the same as she smelt backstage the other night.
The song dies.
‘I think that’s it then,’ concludes Cynthia, pulling Chloe back into the room. ‘Thanks for coming.’
‘Who do you think killed Morgan Miller?’ asks Beth as they pack up.
‘How would we know?’ says Paige. ‘I wasn’t even born then!’
‘Did you work here back then?’ Beth smiles at Chester. ‘I think Cynthia did, didn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ says Chester. ‘But I had flu that first week. I dunno who killed Morgan. They interviewed the caretaker – can’t remember his name. He wasn’t arrested. Ruined his life though. Shit sticks and all that.’
Chloe moves closer to Beth, trying to smell her scent. ‘Why are you checking if Ches worked here then?’ she demands.
‘Just being friendly. I’ve been coming here a while, you know.’
‘Thought I knew you,’ says Chester.
‘I always thought her boyfriend, Clive, was an odd one,’ says Beth. ‘I read about them. They were the golden couple until she got the role in Dust. Apparently, things got a bit fierier after that, and they fell out. Jealous maybe.’
‘Best theory I read,’ says Nina, ‘was that she was into some sort of witchcraft and made a deal with the devil to get the role of Esme Black; she hadn’t realised the price she would have to pay.’
‘Silliness like that had better not make it to the newspapers,’ calls Cynthia on her way out of the room.
‘Were you backstage the other night?’ Chloe hisses at Beth when Cynthia has gone.
‘Me?’ Beth frowns.
‘Yes, you. I smelt the perfume you’re wearing now.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ Does Beth sound like she is protesting a little too heatedly? ‘And lots of people wear this perfume.’
‘I doubt it,’ whispers Chester.
‘Why would I be backstage?’ asks Beth.
Chloe shrugs, realising she is interrogating a new usher. She walks out.
Chester follows her down the stairs, and she’s glad.
‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘What was that about? You sound … I dunno, upset. You OK?’
‘Yes,’ she snaps.
‘Sure?’
‘Yes,’ she sighs, more gently. ‘Just tired.’
‘Don’t you wish you could have auditioned?’ he asks as she unlocks her bike. ‘For Dust?’
‘No.’ It’s the truth. She couldn’t audition, even if there was the chance. It’s a role where her arms would have to be on display. ‘I wouldn’t have a hope in hell. It’s going to be someone big, not for a failed actress who has to usher just to get near a stage.’
She is safe as an usher though, in her long-sleeved black shirt and trousers.
‘Oh, Chlo,’ sighs Chester, squeezing her arm. ‘Don’t say that; you’re a beautiful actress. I saw your Les Misérables audition for that amateur group. You were so … understated.’
Chloe smiles. ‘Understated doesn’t cut it these days. And I didn’t get the part, remember.’ She had been glad, knowing she would have turned it down anyway. She had just wanted to see if she could do it. And it turned out she couldn’t. ‘I prefer to write now. I’ve nearly finished the first draft of my script.’
It’s a lie. It’s barely an idea. And she hasn’t looked at it for a while. But she doesn’t tell Chester any of that.
‘Really?’ he says. ‘I’d love to hear it.’
‘Maybe when it’s done.’ Chloe feels shy.
‘What’s it called?’
‘I don’t know,’ she lies.
‘What’s it about?’ asks Chester.
‘Lost love.’ She laughs, embarrassed, and wheels her bike outside.
‘Like Dust,’calls Chester, as she rides away.
7
The Game
2005
It was Ryan who suggested the game; floppy-haired, adventurous, charismatic Ryan.
He was always their leader, always the one up for anything. The previous summer he’d had them spend the night in a supposedly haunted warehouse on the docks; the summer before that he’d insisted they camp in local woods where a dead baby was rumoured to have been found wrapped in a blanket covered with satanic symbols.
Jess more or less agreed to most things he said, though she’d flick her golden curls and shrug as though it meant nothing, not really. Chloe could see through
her nonchalance; she saw how much Jess studied Ryan when he played the clown with other girls. Jess would probably have played any game he wanted.
But in the summer of 2005, he wanted to do something much darker.
The three of them – Jess, Ryan and Chloe, all recently finished with their GCSEs – were at the youth theatre on such a sticky, hot July evening that drama teacher, Mr Hayes, had thrown open all the fire doors, desperate for a breeze.
Chloe had joined the drama group six years earlier, straight after she saw Dust and fell in love with the idea of being on the stage too. Jess joined at the same time; she went to the same school as Chloe, though they weren’t particularly close, not until acting lessons united them. Ryan came much later, changing forever the dynamics of their close twosome. He went to a different school, but Jess made sure she caught his attention with snug vest tops over her pert chest, and short skirts.
Chloe thought that boys were so predictable. So easily captivated by a hint of flesh. So easily seduced by a carefully chosen lipstick or the flutter of eyelash. She preferred a bit of mystery. A challenge.
Not Ryan.
On that sticky summer night, once the two-hour rehearsal for the summer show, Macbeth, was done, most of the drama group left promptly, gulping bottles of water and fanning themselves with scripts. Ryan caught Chloe and Jess on their way down the stone stairs towards the clunky, wooden doors.
‘Don’t leave yet,’ he hissed. ‘Wait around the back for me.’
The youth theatre occupied an old church on a busy street parallel to the docks, where cheap cafés and rundown pubs competed for a dwindling clientele. Viewed from across the road, the grey building could have been straight out of The Exorcist or The Amityville Horror. Ryan had made them watch a marathon of old films last week; Chloe had slept with the lights on ever since.
