by Louise Beech
Two years ago she dated an actress who was in the Christmas show – Ellen, who played a flamboyant Tinkerbell – but Chloe froze when things went further than kissing, and neither of them addressed it. Ellen left to go and sing in London.
Chloe thinks again of Jess Swanson.
‘Jess,’ she whispers to the room.
She sees her gorgeous, smiling face in the flicker of candlelight. Hears the pop of pink bubble gum. Smells cigarettes and cheap perfume, and something she can’t identify. Where were they? When was it? Why is Jess suddenly so vivid now when she hasn’t been for years? Chloe wonders what Jess is doing now. She has searched for her a few times online in the past and found nothing. Did she go to RADA in London as she dreamed of doing? Or did she do something completely different – after all, we often don’t end up living our childhood dreams. Did she find love? Get married? Have kids?
Would Jess mind Chloe’s scars?
Would she kiss them better?
Stephen Sainty’s words on the radio pull Chloe from the thoughts.
‘Well,’ he says in a rich voice, ‘after months of wild speculation as to whether the Dean Wilson Theatre would do it, I can announce that, yes … yes, they are. This evening I’m very excited to share with you that Dust, the musical that launched them, will return this September for the twentieth anniversary of the theatre’s opening.’
Chloe sits higher up on the bed.
‘It will run for a full month,’ continues Stephen, ‘and tickets will be on sale from nine am tomorrow. I never got to see it back in 1999. Did you? Were you part of the production? Did you go more than once? Did you know any of the cast? Do phone in and let me know if you were part of it in any way. I’d love to hear how you feel about its return.’
Chloe is curious too.
‘Of course,’ says Stephen more softly, ‘we can’t avoid mentioning the real reason the show has never been performed anywhere for twenty years – the fact that Morgan Miller, who took on the iconic role of Esme Black, was murdered in her dressing room during the interval on the fourth night. Do you think it’s right that the show returns when her murder remains unsolved? Should the Dean Wilson Theatre leave well alone and have some respect for her family? Is this just a way to boost ticket sales after a disastrous run of mediocre shows? Call in and let me know what you think on the usual numbers, or message me on Twitter. Make sure you use the Dust hashtag. After the break, we’ll have the list of big names taking part in the show. You don’t want to miss that…’
Chloe checks Twitter on her phone for comments, using the #Dust hashtag.
Bring it back I say! Can’t bloody wait! #Dust
Wonder which actress will dare take on #EsmeBlack #Dust
I won’t go see it. Just horrible. #Dust
Disgusting. Next they’ll be telling us Madeleine McCann is going to play the lead role. #Dust #DontBringItBack
Chloe is disgusted by the mention of that poor, still-missing girl. What is wrong with people?
Should she share what she thinks of the show’s return? What would she say? Is she happy that it’s returning? She’s not even sure. She worries that it might ruin her memory of the original; that the new Dust won’t come close to the magic she witnessed that first night at the theatre.
Stephen Sainty’s rich voice fills the room again: ‘OK, folks, it’s time for the next big announcement of the evening, and you’re hearing it first, here on WLCR. So … who will take on the roles of Gerard Chevalier and Esme Black in Dust?’
Chloe realises she is holding her breath.
‘I can announce,’ says Stephen, ‘that West End superstar, John Marrs – who has been wowing audiences for the past six months as The Phantom in The Phantom of the Opera – will take on the role of Gerard Chevalier.’ Stephen pauses, as though for dramatic effect. ‘Chosen for his ability to transcend any part he undertakes, agent Roberta Green said, “Marrs is perfect. He will resurrect Chevalier and bring his own, unique slant to the part.” I agree. Not only will he bring in the crowds, but I reckon he’ll make Dust his own.’
Chloe isn’t sure; Marrs’ scandalous affairs have dominated the headlines far more than his work recently. She can’t deny that he will make a powerful Chevalier, but will he bring the magic? Yes. Yes, he will. She saw him in West Side Story five years ago and he made a passionate Tony.
She refreshes her Twitter feed.
O.M.G #JohnMarrs I definitely would! #Dust
This just got HUGE! #JohnMarrs #Dust
John Marrs couldn’t carry a box of chocolates never mind the role of Chevalier! #Dust
Chloe wonders who’ll carry Esme though.
‘I know you’re all wondering about Esme Black,’ says Stephen. ‘Well, that’s the biggest surprise of all. Producers have gone with a lesser-known, rising star. Apparently, much like Morgan Miller twenty years ago, she blew them away with her audition. So, who is she? Her name is Ginger Swanson and she’s a thirty-year-old actress whose other roles have included small parts in Wicked and The Sound of Music.’
Chloe has never heard of her, but she frowns at the surname. She refreshes Twitter again.
Who the hell is she? #GingerSwanson #Dust
She. Is. Hot. #GingerSwanson
Wasn’t she that slag off #EastEnders #Dust
‘Swanson has released a statement, saying that this is a life-changing opportunity for her,’ continues Stephen, ‘especially since the role is not only her biggest so far, but it will bring her back home. She said that she can’t wait to return and show her hometown what she can do.’
Chloe’s heart contracts. Hometown? It can’t be. She types ‘Ginger Swanson’ into the search engine on her phone and waits for the images to load. Then she clicks on the first one, a black-and-white portrait on Wikipedia, and there she is, smiling enigmatically, head turned slightly away from the photographer, blonde hair teased into soft waves, lips moist and dark.
It’s her.
Jess.
Jess Swanson.
Despite the differences – ones that could be due to subtle surgery – it is clearly the teenager that Chloe last saw … when? When was it? Her mouth is perfect, much fuller than Chloe remembers; the eyebrows are sculpted into gentle arcs; the cheekbones are defined; the chin more pointed. But her eyes – those are the same.
I got lost in them, thinks Chloe.
I still am.
Jess Swanson, her first love, is coming back to Hull. To the Dean Wilson Theatre. Chloe can’t quite believe it. Will she remember her? Then she feels a twinge of shame, of embarrassment. Jess – no, Ginger now – is returning as a star. As Esme Black. And Chloe is just an usher with an unfinished script in her bottom drawer.
She reaches for the wooden box.
For the knife.
No.
No. Reach for something else. Reach for…
Chloe takes out her laptop, clicks on the file unopened for weeks. She looks at the title page. She Haunts Me by Chloe Dee. Why doesn’t she finish it? Hell, she needs to start it properly. What is she afraid of?
Because I don’t know how it’s supposed to end, she thinks.
Jess Swanson is coming back.
Maybe she will find out.
11
The Game
2005
Once their three fingers touched the upturned glass, Chloe sensed that none of them were sure if they should proceed. She looked at Jess, face red in the LED lights, and then Ryan, frowning at the letters on the makeshift Ouija board as though willing something to happen right away.
Chloe pictured them again as the three witches in Macbeth. She knew all the lines, all the spells. But you never say the play title aloud in a theatre. Not ever. The reason you have to call it ‘the Scottish play’ instead is because it’s believed that the witches’ incantations were adapted from actual books of black magic; that they could bring real evil to life.
Was that what Chloe, Jess and Ryan were going to find?
‘What now?’ asked Jess.
‘How am I supposed to write with one hand?’ asked Chloe, realising how hard this would be.
‘Can you two just relax?’ snapped Ryan. His brow was damp, and Chloe wondered if it was more than the heat from the lights. ‘We’re not supposed to take our fingers off the glass at any point during this so…’
‘Why?’ asked Jess.
‘It breaks the connection. So, if you need to do anything or ask something else, let’s get it out of the way first.’
‘Shall we turn the stage lights off?’ said Jess, looking as flustered as him.
‘That’s bad luck too,’ whispered Chloe.
Anyone involved in the theatre knew that you never leave a stage entirely dark. Superstition has it that mischievous spirits will play pranks on a darkened stage, so most companies leave a light on at all times.
‘We’ve got the candle,’ said Jess. ‘And it’s still light outside – not that much gets through the window boards.’
Sighing, Ryan got up and went to the small technician’s table in the corner, behind the rows of pews. He flicked a switch and the room descended into sputtering shadows. All they had to see by was a line of fading sun between the window boards and the stubby candle’s flame. In this dimness, everything looked different; more ominous; the colour of nightmares. Even the dust particles seemed to pirouette more malevolently.
Ryan rejoined them. ‘Right,’ he said with obvious impatience. ‘Chloe, can you put the notepad next to you and write that way while the finger of your non-writing hand is on the glass?’
‘I suppose. It might be a bit of a scrawl though.’
‘We can write it up properly later,’ Ryan sighed.
‘How long will it take?’ asked Jess.
‘How long will what take?’
‘This. I mean, how long do we have to do it for it to work?’
‘It might not work this time,’ said Ryan. ‘It might not work ever. But we won’t know until we try. It can take a bit of practice. We probably need to do it at least three times a week to really get things going.’
‘So nothing’s gonna happen tonight?’ asked Jess.
‘Look, I don’t know. It might. Depends if anyone is…’
‘What?’ asked Chloe.
‘Open.’
‘You mean among the spirits?’
‘No. Among us three.’
‘Oh.’ Chloe wondered if he had one of them in mind.
‘Are we ready, then?’ asked Ryan.
Chloe and Jess nodded.
‘OK, fingers back on the glass.’
They placed them carefully, as if they were expecting a manicure. Chloe frowned. Was that an electric surge as her fingertip touched the cold base? Did she imagine it? Maybe. Her hair tickled her cheek as though someone had blown on her. She looked for the source of the draught, hating how dark the room was without the red floodlights. The door was closed. Had it been closed the last time she looked? She couldn’t remember. Their three shadows swayed like bad, grey, drunken versions of the real them.
‘Are you ready then?’ asked Ryan.
Jess nodded. Chloe couldn’t get over how hot her extended finger felt; she wanted to rip it away, not do this, not follow.
But was she following?
Why did it now feel like she was leading?
As if her finger had been there first?
‘OK, we have to move the glass in a circular motion,’ said Ryan.
In the candlelight, Jess’s face was rapt. Chloe’s heart felt tight with jealousy.
‘Follow my guidance,’ Ryan went on. ‘We need to push it gently around the circle a few times to warm it up.’
Chloe felt the glass move and wondered for a moment if it was Ryan’s doing, or if something had worked already. She could imagine that it would. The heat along her finger, the breath she was sure she’d felt on her neck earlier, the dead bird – it all had her believing something would happen. That anything could happen.
When they had moved the glass around inside the circle of letters a few times, Ryan stopped it in the centre, between the words ‘Hello’, ‘Goodbye’, ‘Yes’, and ‘No’.
‘OK,’ he said and inhaled.
They inhaled with him; a collective preparation.
‘Is there anyone here with us who wants to talk?’ Ryan asked in his most authoritative tone.
Jess giggled. The sound was musical to Chloe, and she smiled too.
Ryan glared at them both. ‘You have to take it seriously,’ he hissed. ‘It won’t work if you don’t, and if it does, you won’t get good spirits.’
The girls fell quiet.
‘Is there anyone here with us?’ demanded Ryan. ‘Is there anyone from the other side who wants to talk?’
Chloe imagined a ghostly voice filling the void. What would it say?
‘If there’s anyone there,’ continued Ryan, ‘make yourself known to us somehow. Move the glass and tell us your name.’
Chloe watched the glass, willing it not to move. She wondered if Jess did too. If it didn’t move, they could just abandon this game and go off into the sunset together, leaving Ryan to find some other willing – or stupid – participants.
‘Is there anyone there?’ he asked again. ‘Does anyone want to talk?’
A sound from backstage – rustling, like someone had shaken a carrier bag.
‘What was that?’ Jess pulled her finger from the glass.
‘Damn,’ cried Ryan. ‘You’ve broken the connection now.’
‘What connection?’ laughed Chloe. ‘We haven’t connected with anyone!’
‘We might have. How do you know?’
In the flickering light Ryan’s face was for a moment pure evil; his eyes bloodshot, the lines beneath them black, his mouth a gaping hole. Chloe shivered despite the room being an oven after baking all day in the summer sun.
‘I heard something,’ insisted Jess. ‘You did too – I saw you all jerk.’
She got up and went backstage. Chloe heard her rummaging around. Ryan still looked furious.
Jess came back, shrugging. ‘I can’t see what it was. But you heard it.’ She looked at Chloe. ‘Maybe we should stop. What if it’s … something … ghostly.’
‘If it’s something ghostly, then we need to continue,’ cried Ryan, almost manic. He grabbed Jess and pulled her back onto the floor. ‘Fingers on the glass. Come on. Both of you. Can’t you feel it?’
‘Feel what?’ Jess whispered.
‘I dunno.’ He looked around at them. ‘Something has shifted.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Chloe, wishing she hadn’t.
‘I’m not sure. Come on. Keep your fingers on the glass, no matter what.’ He paused. ‘Is there someone with us? Is there a spirit here who made the noise just now? Are you able to move the glass and spell out your name?’
Then the glass began to move.
12
The Game
2005
Chloe looked at Jess. Jess looked at Ryan. He avoided her eyes.
‘That was you,’ Jess snapped at him. ‘Ryan! You moved it. I felt you do it.’
‘Well, for fuck’s sake, you two aren’t doing much, are you?’
‘You can’t cheat,’ cried Chloe.
‘I’m just trying to get you two to take it seriously. You’re not concentrating.’
‘I am,’ insisted Jess. ‘I want it to work.’
‘Come on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s do this. No more messing.’
Chloe looked out at the rows of empty pews, at the black lines against grey. Was that someone in the back row? Someone watching them. She blinked and looked again. Nothing. No one.
‘Is there anyone here who wants to talk to us?’ asked Ryan again.
Chloe’s finger throbbed now.
‘Let us know somehow if there’s anyone here?’ he asked.
She didn’t suppose it mattered how he worded it. A thought came suddenly to her that almost had her laughing out loud. She stifled it though. Ryan would lose it otherwise. What if the spi
rit was foreign and had no idea what Ryan was saying? Or did everyone speak the same language on the other side?
After ten more minutes of Ryan asking the question in different ways, he stopped. He looked at them. Shrugged.
‘Guess it’s not going to happen tonight,’ he sighed.
‘You said it might take a few times,’ said Jess.
‘I suppose.’
‘Maybe you have to be patient,’ she said.
Chloe realised he didn’t want to be; he wanted what he wanted, right now. Though they didn’t go to the same school as he did, Chloe had seen how he flirted with the girls here during rehearsals. How he made each of them feel like she was the only one sunbathing in the warm rays of his charm. How he had them fetching things for him, helping him with his lines at the click of a finger, lighting his cigarettes when he flashed a smile.
Chloe wished she had that ability with Jess. But it wasn’t in her character: she was the happy-go-lucky one at school, the girl who was too sweet to be bullied, too soft to be chosen for sports teams, too nice to stand out. Forgettable.
‘We’ll just have to come again tomorrow night,’ Jess said, and took her finger off the glass.
Chloe removed hers too. She was happy to come back. Not for the game, but for Jess. She started planning what she might wear. What perfume she might borrow from her mum to make Jess lean close and ask what it was, like she had once in biology.
