by Louise Beech
Don’t fall for it, Chloe wanted to say.
Jealousy clawed at her chest.
Don’t let him get away with it.
She glared at him, willing him to step away, to leave Jess alone.
Will it and it shall happen.
Push.
Where did that thought come from?
Ryan jumped back, away from Jess. ‘What the fuck?’ he cried, looking around.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jess touched his arm, but he flinched.
‘Someone pushed me!’ he cried. ‘Jesus. What was that?’ He looked over at Chloe, still standing on the stage. ‘Did you see anything?’ His eyes flickered with fear.
‘Me? No. Nothing.’
‘We should go,’ said Jess, and Ryan didn’t argue.
They headed into the corridor. Chloe didn’t want to stay here alone, even with the lights on, so she followed them without looking back.
Outside, at the bus stop, Jess lit a cigarette with shaky hands. It was dark now and the lighter’s flame cast a soft, shimmering kiss on her mouth.
‘Are we meeting again tomorrow night then?’ asked Ryan.
‘There aren’t any rehearsals tomorrow.’ Jess inhaled, hard.
‘Does it matter?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘I’m not coming.’ Chloe, again, was surprised by the words that left her mouth.
‘Why?’ Ryan stopped with a cig halfway to his mouth.
‘I just … look, it was interesting … different. But none of us know what we’ve started. We did it, something happened, and that should be enough.’
‘That’s what’s so ace about it,’ cried Ryan.
Chloe saw the bus come around the corner. She put a hand out for it to stop. ‘You coming?’ she asked Jess.
Her friend shrugged; looked at Ryan.
‘We’re gonna hang a bit longer,’ he said, eyeing Chloe. ‘You go. See you tomorrow. Let’s meet here at seven.’
Chloe ignored him, said goodbye to Jess and got on the bus.
It was the loneliest journey. Drunks got on and off. A group of teens hunched over a small games console, shouting at the screen. She was probably the same age as they were but felt a million years old; a million miles distant from them. That morning Chloe’s mum had ruffled her hair and asked if she was OK, said she looked a bit down. Had anything happened? she wanted to know.
Had anything happened?
There weren’t enough words.
‘I guess she’s just a proper teenager now,’ joked her dad, kissing her forehead.
Or a witch.
16
The Dean Wilson Theatre
February 2019
One of a theatre usher’s main jobs is to stop patrons using a phone during the performance; this isn’t just about stopping them taking pictures of the set, but about not distracting those watching the show, and more importantly those on the stage. Chloe hates confrontation and dreads seeing those tell-tale lights dotted around the auditorium. If she’s not quick enough to get to them, sometimes a technician snappily announces on the radio that there’s someone using a ‘bloody phone’.
If an usher was caught with their own phone in the theatre during a shift, they would likely be instantly dismissed. But tonight, Chloe is taking that chance, though she did put it on silent, and she does pop out into the small vestibule between the two exit doors when she has to read and respond to the next message from Jess.
Or Ginger, as she is trying to get used to thinking of her.
Since she pressed ‘confirm’ on her friend request two weeks ago, they have chatted a few times. It took a few tense days. Though she had agreed to the connection, Chloe was too nervous to write to her; and Jess never sent anything either. Then – out of the blue one night – a small picture of Jess appeared at the top of Chloe’s phone screen. It made her heart contract; a message.
Hi, remember me? I was Jess Swanson back in the day!
‘I’ve never forgotten,’ Chloe whispered to herself.
Except she has. A lot of it. But not the feeling.
Hi, she typed back, of course! We went to the same school and youth theatre. Huge congrats on the big role! Can’t believe you’ll be in Dust. Amazing!
It went from there – easy chitchat, not every day – maybe every other – not that Chloe was counting. Nothing deep, just exchanges of hi, gossip about people they remembered from school, and Jess asking what it was like to work at the DW and saying she was excited to be coming there. For some reason, when Chloe chatted with Jess, a void cracked open and memories Chloe hadn’t known were there slithered out, like lava laden with debris – the dusty stage at the youth theatre, a box with letters and a glass in it, and three shimmering candles.
What did it mean?
What had they been doing?
Earlier tonight, when Chloe arrived for her shift, Jess sent her the most intriguing message so far:
What are you doing in two weeks?
Nothing, Chloe wanted to type. Absolutely nothing if it involves seeing you in any way.
There was no time to respond properly, so she hid her phone in her trouser pocket – something she had never done in six years – and went into the foyer to start work. Chester looked at her but said nothing; he was lucky he had never been caught on Grindr while at the back of the theatre.
Then, as she took tickets on the main door, Chloe felt her phone vibrate. She was dying to check it. Once the lights went up in the auditorium, and Bright Lights, Bright Life started for what felt like the hundredth time, Chloe tried to check her phone without anyone seeing. She could just make out the words of another message.
I’m coming home if you’re around…
Now, midway through the first half of the show, she goes into the small vestibule between the exit doors and types: I can be around yes.
She waits to see if Jess starts typing back right away, knowing if she doesn’t soon, she’ll have to go back into the theatre. After two minutes and nothing, Chloe goes back into the dark, wishing she didn’t have to. She feels the phone vibrate in her pocket and chances another look.
Fab! I’m home 2 March for a few days. It’ll be weird. Been so long.
Chloe isn’t sure if she’s working then, but she’ll swap if she is. Ring in sick if no one can cover it. Her heart races inside her chest. She’s going to see Jess again. No, she’s going to see Ginger.
At the interval, Chloe dashes to the toilets and in the privacy of a cubicle, she sends another message.
It’ll be great to catch up. Can’t wait. X
Within seconds Jess responds: Let’s meet at the DW. I wanna see the place.
Disappointed, Chloe writes, OK. Talk soon. X
She returns to the foyer, distracted now; misses the‘one minute until the end of the interval’call on the radio and then just manages to shut the doors a split second before the lights come up. Beth – hair now a vivid yellow – sits on the opposite side of the auditorium, jumping up the millisecond someone gets a phone out. She’ll soon tire of that. Against her thigh, Chloe’s phone is quiet. She doesn’t want her first meeting with Jess to be here. It isn’t because she’s ashamed of her much less glamorous life, though this is true; it’s more than that.
An actual dread.
A feeling of intense foreboding.
Chloe shakes her head – she’s just being silly.
It’s probably because of all the gossip flying around the building at the moment. Last week, Chester said that he thought this ‘new actress’, Ginger Swanson, looked perfect for the part, but the role of Esme Black was like the Oscar curse. ‘You know what that is?’ he said. ‘Loads of actors have won an Oscar only to have terrible luck afterwards. I reckon this show won’t do Ginger any good in the long run.’
Chloe shrugged his words off, but she can’t shrug off the weird things that have happened recently. The strange voice on the radio. The voice calling her name backstage. The words on the mirror. The footsteps. The bird. The spooky note between the pages of her sc
ript.
She wonders suddenly if it’s because she has finally overcome her self-harm addiction. Has this somehow affected her mind? Has that lack of release done something to her? Is she seeing and hearing things because she no longer cuts? No – that’s dangerous territory. If she blames that then she’s giving herself an excuse to start again. God, she wants to right now. She fingers the scars through her trousers; wants to create more.
A voice in Chloe’s earpiece rescues her. ‘Five minutes until the end of the show.’ One of the technicians. On stage, a woman hangs from a disco ball, singing about the night she learned to dance. Chloe knows all the words.
The radio crackles again. Someone else speaks. ‘Never … be … under … one … roof…’
No. These are new radios. No. Chloe leaps from her seat and runs into the foyer.
‘Who said that?’ she demands into the microphone.
After a moment the technician asks, ‘Said what?’
‘About the roof,’ stammers Chloe, embarrassed.
‘You’re hearing things,’ he snaps.
She goes back into the auditorium, red-faced and unnerved. Every time the radio crackles, she tenses. But there are no more words.
When the show finishes, and the glitter is collected up, the ushers go to the box office as usual. Chloe is quiet, afraid that she’s losing her mind. Cynthia doesn’t look happy and keeps them behind.
‘Right,’ she says, holding up a newspaper.
Chloe knows what it is; she also knows that at her insistence, and probably because he was scared for his job, Chester gave anonymous comments instead of grabbing his moment in the limelight.
‘One of you is responsible for this, and I think I know who.’ Cynthia pushes her charcoal glasses up her nose and reads angrily from the double-page spread. ‘“A Dean Wilson Theatre staff member, who prefers to remain unnamed, said that he thinks the return of Dust will destroy all of those involved. He told us exclusively that the curse of Morgan Miller is alive and well, and it’s true that she haunts the shadowy corridors of the theatre.”’ Cynthia scans the page and continues at another segment. ‘“Our informant told us that he thinks Ginger Swanson is taking a huge risk in assuming the role of Esme Black. Not only does he think it could ruin her career, but that her very life could be at risk.”’ Cynthia scans the page again. ‘“When asked who he thought had killed Morgan Miller, he revealed that the belief among staff was that a jealous actress who also auditioned for the role had taken the ultimate revenge. He added that he had a theory on exactly who it was but couldn’t share it for fear of the repercussions.”’
Cynthia slams the newspaper on a desk and glares at Chester. ‘Well?’ she demands.
‘Well, what? It wasn’t me.’
‘You’re our only male usher,’ she snaps.
‘Did it say usher? No. Staff member. It was probably Edwin Roberts.’
Someone stifles a giggle.
‘You’re not seriously suggesting that the artistic director would say that kind of trash?’
‘Why not?’ Chester asks. ‘Ticket sales of our other shows went up yesterday after it came out.’
‘You are on very thin ice.’ Cynthia is red with rage. ‘I can’t prove it was you, but I’m keeping my eye on you. And the rest of you – if I see anything like this anywhere, there will be trouble.’ She goes into her office, slamming the door.
‘Was it you?’ asks Beth.
‘As if,’ he says. ‘Was it you?’
‘It bloody wasn’t!’
When they’re alone in the foyer, Chloe tells Chester he should be sensible now. He shrugs and says he might be. They huddle together by the garish Bright Lights, Bright Life poster.
‘What’s your theory, then?’ she asks him.
‘On what?’
‘You know what. In the paper. This actress that apparently killed Morgan Miller. Who did you mean?’
He laughs. ‘No one in particular. I was just shit-stirring.’
‘Beth took flowers to Morgan Miller in her dressing room the night she died.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Yes. She told me.’
‘Oh my God.’ Chester looks genuinely shocked. ‘It could have been her then.’
Chloe thinks about telling him about the night she smelt Beth’s perfume backstage but decides against it. She can’t be sure it was her, can she?
‘Weird that she started here in time for Dust coming back,’ says Chester.
‘I suppose…’ She lowers her voice. ‘I’m meeting Jess.’
‘Jess who?’
‘Swanson. Or Ginger Swanson as she is now.’
‘What?’ He grabs her hand. ‘You know her? You never said.’
‘We went to school together,’ she admits.
‘You kept that quiet.’
‘We’ve been talking on Facebook. The thing is…’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Chloe changes her mind.
‘You like her.’ Chester shoves her playfully. ‘You do. I can tell. She your schoolgirl crush?’
She was more than that, Chloe wants to say.
‘Oh my God,’ he cries. ‘You’re going to have an affair with Esme Black!’
Chloe laughs. ‘No, I’m not! We’re just meeting. First time since…’
‘What?’
‘School,’ Chloe says eventually.
‘Your face glows when you talk about her.’
‘Does it?’ She puts her hands over her cheeks. ‘You can’t say anything to anyone. I mean it, Ches. You can’t go to the press!’
‘Never about you.’
‘I had to tell someone,’ she admits. ‘I have this really odd feeling though…’
‘It’s called sexual arousal, darling.’
‘No.’ Chloe shoves him. ‘I just mean … I think we did things when we were kids. No, not like that. I mean … things I’ve not thought about since. Things that are coming back to me. It’s like I’d forgotten it all somehow. But weird things have been happening. And I feel like if we meet…’
‘What?’ Chester’s voice is soft.
‘I feel like something terrible could happen.’
‘We all feel that way with someone new,’ he says. ‘And Chloe?’
‘Yes?’
‘We never forget. We choose not to remember.’ He touches her cheek gently. ‘Gotta go. Got a date with that slag who works behind the bar at Propaganda.’
Chloe watches him go. She hasn’t the courage to leave via backstage tonight. She exits through the front doors, holding her coat tightly to her body against the icy wind, and goes all the way around the outside of the building. At the back, she unlocks her bike and pedals home, tears cold on her cheek and fears hot in her head.
17
Chloe’s Room
February 2019
In her room, Chloe reaches into the wooden box and takes out her script. She hasn’t written any more since she last held it. She whispers the title on the front: She Haunts Me. She read some of the pages the other night and wasn’t happy with them. What is it so far? An idea. An outline. It’s about a woman called Abigail who, after a family tragedy, goes alone on a three-month cruise to recover. There, each night in the piano bar, she watches the ghost dancers – the people paid by the ship to accompany solo travellers on the dance floor. One – a beautiful woman – is never asked to dance. Abigail is fascinated by her.
Tonight, Chloe is too distracted to write. She checks her phone again, praying for that little icon of Jess’s face at the top of her screen. No – no more messages. Nothing from anyone, not even from Chester with updates on his date with the slag whose name she doesn’t think he has ever shared. She shakes the pages of her script. Frowns. Nothing falls out. The note is gone.
YOU DIDN’T SAY GOODBYE
She searches in the wooden box, frenziedly pulling out the old photos, tickets and mementoes. No note. She looks around the small room, on her bedside table, under the bed. Nothing. Is she going mad? Did she imagi
ne it? She must have done. She really must have done.
Beneath everything in the box, the knife glints; a silver smile. It whispers to her. No – it’s more than a whisper. It’s an instruction. One she hasn’t thought of in so long. Cut, bleed, release. Cut, bleed, release.
No. No.
Find something to distract.
Chloe takes out her laptop and opens the She Haunts Me document. After a moment she starts typing. The words tumble from her. She cuts and spills blood onto the page. She severs flesh and feels. She doesn’t stop until her fingers throb and there is no more, and she blacks out.
18
The Game
2005
Against her better judgement, Chloe went to the youth theatre the next night. She found Jess sitting on the front steps of the church, smoking and texting someone on her phone. Perhaps because of the heat – or perhaps to tease Ryan with the soft curve of her neck – she wore her yellow hair up, tied with the frilled scarf she’d bought the previous week. Denim shorts skimmed her creamy thighs; on the pocket was an intricate unicorn Chloe had drawn in physics when they were bored.
‘Hey, you,’ said Jess, looking up with a warm smile.
Chloe’s breath caught and she couldn’t respond straight away. She sat next to her and took a cigarette she didn’t want.
‘I didn’t think you’d come,’ she said eventually, though she had only turned up hoping Jess would. ‘You looked really sick last night. Are you OK? Why don’t we tell Ryan we wanna do something else?’
‘I’m fine,’ insisted Jess, stubbing out the cigarette with a scuffed trainer. ‘Me and Ryan talked last night, and I reckon it was just the intensity of it. Anyway, he said…’ Jess seemed to change her mind about sharing it.
