by Louise Beech
Jess looked at him. She knows.
‘OK,’ began Ryan. ‘When they were doing the Ouija board, they got these … powers.’
‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ snapped Chloe.
‘You could call them abilities, I suppose. Some spirit on there said they just had to ask.’
‘For what?’ asked Chloe.
‘Whatever they wanted. This spirit said it could grant them anything. Harry Locke wanted to be able to control people. Get them to do anything he wanted. While they were doing the Ouija board, at school he seemed to be able to ask a person for something just once, and they did it.’
‘Like what?’ demanded Chloe.
‘He got this girl to undress on stage, in assembly.’
‘What the hell? No. You’re lying.’
‘I was there. I saw it.’
‘Was she drunk? On drugs?’
‘No. Harry said he whispered it to her before she went on stage to play in the school orchestra. And she just laid down her trombone and stripped. School went wild. Mr Phillips ran on stage to cover her up.’
Chloe shook her head. ‘I bet Harry paid her, did something else to persuade her, just so he’d look like he had these so-called powers.’ She paused. ‘And what about your friend Daniel?’
‘He wanted to get all As in his mock exams. His dad used to hit him with a belt when he didn’t succeed.’
‘And?’
‘He got an A in every single one,’ said Ryan.
‘Maybe he just revised really hard?’
‘I know that wasn’t the case. He never went to the physics exam and still got an A.’
‘Did the girl…’ Chloe couldn’t think of her name. ‘Did she ask for anything?’
‘Amelia. No. She didn’t want to. She had this weird … I dunno, psychic gift or something, like I told you. She has this air about her. I can’t explain it.’ Ryan looked at Chloe. ‘The same as you have, I guess.’
Chloe shook her head. ‘Me?’
‘Yeah. Danny told me that it first worked when there was only Amelia in the room. Like you, when it first worked for us. He said it would never work if she wasn’t there. She was the gifted one.’ Ryan paused. ‘The witch.’
The word made Chloe nervous, the way we are when someone points out a truth about us that we don’t like; a truth we don’t want others to know; a truth we’re afraid to look at more closely.
She tried to let Ryan’s story sink in. It wouldn’t. It sounded like those whispered rumours that get more and more outlandish as they are passed on. ‘And what powers do you want?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Why are you really doing this?’
‘Why is it about me?’ Ryan spat at Chloe. ‘We all had reasons we started this. Jess hoped I’d fuck her, and I have.’
‘What?’ Jess looked mortified.
‘Sorry.’ Ryan kissed her cheek as though that might appease her. ‘I wanted you too. We wanted each other. That’s why we both did this. You know how much I care about you.’
Jess blushed and said nothing.
‘No, that’s not all.’ Chloe narrowed her eyes at Ryan. ‘There’s something else you wanted.’
‘What were your reasons?’ Ryan glared back, the knowledge black in his eyes. ‘You must have had them too.’
The glass began to move then, its scrape seeming sharper to Chloe than previously. The three of them followed its tantalising trail, whispering the words aloud as they appeared. The two remaining candles flickered furiously.
IM STILL FUCKIN HERE
‘Daniel,’ whispered Ryan.
I KNEW YOU WANTED TO PLAY
‘I miss you,’ admitted Ryan.
FUCK YOU
Ryan looked crestfallen.
‘Maybe he’s different … over there … on the other side, wherever he is.’ Chloe spoke kindly, feeling sorry for Ryan. ‘We need to say goodbye to him. We all know it, don’t we? This is getting out of hand, and we said at the start that we’d end it if we didn’t like how it went.’
COWARDS
‘He’s just playing with us,’ said Chloe.
ID LOVE TO PLAY WITH YOU CHLOE
‘Say goodbye,’ she urged them.
‘Just to him?’ asked Ryan.
‘To all of them,’ said Chloe.
‘No.’ Ryan shook his head.
‘Yes. I think it’s time to end it.’
I WILL END YOU
‘Say goodbye,’ insisted Chloe.
It was clear Ryan didn’t want to stop; it was just as clear that Jess would still do what he wanted. Chloe put her finger on the glass. She realised then that she could do this alone. It would work just for her. Remember how, she thought. Will it and it shall happen. Push. And Chloe did it again; she pushed. And the glass began to shift towards ‘Goodbye’.
It settled there. She took her finger away. Waited. Nothing.
‘There,’ she said. ‘We’re done.’
Chloe stood. Another candle went out. Just one remained, fighting valiantly to stay bright, the last warrior standing. The late sun made dust dance between the window slats and the stage – fairies frolicking. Chloe felt like a weight had been physically lifted from her shoulders. The curious feeling that someone was standing just behind her abated. Had they closed whatever door they had opened? That was how the website she visited had described doing a Ouija board – you open a door. But once open, it was forever unlocked, even if you shut it. Once you had been through it, a part of you belonged there forever.
‘So that’s it?’ Ryan sounded as whiney as a five-year-old.
‘That’s it. Let’s pack it away.’
As Ryan reached for the glass, a low rumbling sound vibrated around them. His hand paused mid-air. Chloe would see it there like that, long after, as though he was a puppet on a string. They were all puppets. They were all on strings. She knew then – in a blinding flash – that they would all dance a dark dance until the spirits were done with them. They had tricked her. The weight was not gone. The watching someone had not left. The rumbling continued. Then smoke filled the air, billowing like bloated snow clouds.
Then she realised.
It was the cauldron. At the side of the stage. It was shaking and steaming and bubbling.
‘What the fuck?’ whispered Ryan.
Chloe approached it.
The movement stopped abruptly. She leaned closer and looked inside it. Nothing there.
‘The glass,’ said Jess.
Chloe turned. It was moving again. Fast. From letter to letter. They could hardly keep up, hardly string the words together. Chloe whispered it and felt like her voice changed. Ryan and Jess must have heard it too, because they stared at her, mouths open.
BY THE PRICKING OF MY THUMBS
SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
‘Macbeth,’ said Jess. She didn’t even correct herself.
OPEN LOCKS WHOEVER KNOCKS
‘The witches,’ said Chloe. She knew the lines by heart.
‘Who is this?’ asked Ryan.
DONT GO
‘We are,’ said Chloe. ‘We’re done.’
YOURE NOT EVEN STARTED
‘Who are you?’ asked Ryan, anyway.
THEY KNOW
‘Who do?’ he asked.
THE GIRLS
‘And who are you?’ he asked.
I AM DUST
Chloe shivered. She looked at Jess. Jess held the look. They both knew the three words. Had sung the line many times. Had acted out the role in their bedrooms, dressed in long nightgowns. Had said they would do anything to be the star of such an iconic show.
‘Who are you?’ repeated Ryan.
But Chloe and Jess didn’t need to ask. They watched the glass move. Watched it evoke the name they were fascinated by. Watched it change everything.
MORGAN MILLER
26
The Dean Wilson Theatre
May 2019
The DW Theatre green room is no longer that colour, instead it’s now painted burnt orange. There are thick, cream curtains
at the windows, new sofas, and chunky coffee tables offering platters of food. It’s all been updated for the cast of Dust, who will be arriving at any moment for the meet-and-greet, with writer of the show, Dean Wilson.
This lively event is a big thing in the theatre; a time when staff gather to welcome the cast of a new show for the first time. It’s hosted by the artistic director, Edwin Roberts, and usually happens on the first day of rehearsals, but because the marketing department wants to boost the show’s media coverage they’re holding the event two weeks early. Members of the press – both local and national – are here, standing around with their recording devices and eating vol-au-vents and crisps.
Chloe, Chester and Beth are the only ushers who could come. They group together by a yucca plant, eyeing the food, but not daring to eat it before the cast arrive. Cynthia keeps wandering over, reminding them to be careful if interviewed by any journalists. It is Beth’s first meet-and-greet; her hair is the same orange as the new walls.
Chloe feels sick and tries to hide it with laughter.
It’s been two months since she saw Ginger.
Two months since their weird experience in the dressing room. Since the kiss. Since Ginger quite literally ran away. There has been no contact. Chloe has desperately wanted to get in touch. She has written a private Facebook message and then deleted it, wondering if Ginger ever does the same. She has opened her wooden box late at night and wanted to slice her flesh with the knife; to watch the pain trickle away with her blood. Only writing the script has stopped her.
It’s almost finished. She’s not quite sure what she’ll do when it’s complete. How she will not think about Ginger. Not cut. Not bleed.
‘I’m off to the loo,’ says Beth, startling Chloe.
‘I’m going to mention it to him,’ says Chester when she’s gone.
‘Mention what to who?’
‘Tell that hot journalist over there that Beth was here when Morgan Miller died,’ he says.
Ever since Chloe told Chester that Beth was in Morgan’s dressing room the night she died, he won’t let it go. He cosies up to Beth at every opportunity and casually swings their chat around to that night. Oblivious to his motive for asking, she brags about how she would definitely have had the role of Esme if Morgan hadn’t auditioned too; that the producers said she had star quality.
‘Cynthia’s watching,’ hisses Chloe. ‘Seriously, don’t mention Beth. You could get in real bother.’
As though he’s heard their conversation, the journalist by the window approaches, running his fingers through his hair as if he’s on a catwalk. ‘Are you both ushers?’ he asks, looking up through his fringe, all Princess Diana.
Cynthia glares at them from across the room, a tuna and cucumber sandwich curling in her right hand.
Yes, just ushers, thinks Chloe.
‘She’s going to be a duty manager soon,’ says Chester, overly dramatic as usual. ‘And she’s writing a show. Tell them, Chloe, this could be your moment. She’s going t—’
‘Do you believe the theatre is haunted?’ the journalist asks, ignoring Chester’s words. ‘Have either of you ever seen the ghost of Morgan Miller?’
‘Oh, I have,’ declares Chester. ‘Every time I’m round the back. No one dares take the rubbish bags out alone, you know. We hear her singing. I’m very spiritual, you see. I could have been a medium. I—’
‘Dean Wilson is coming tonight,’ he interrupts. ‘He’s been a recluse since the original Dust. Do you think he feels guilty about Morgan Miller?’
Chester opens his mouth, but Chloe cuts in. ‘You’ll have to ask him that when he comes.’
‘There must be lots of talk about her murder here,’ continues the journalist. ‘You guys must know more than most. Anything you’d like to share?’
‘Well,’ begins Chester, touching the man’s arm and leaning close, ‘there is this usher who—’
Chloe speaks over him: ‘No, there’s nothing.’
‘But he—’ the journalist tries.
‘Nothing,’ she repeats. ‘Chester, we’re going.’ And just as Beth returns to the green room, Chloe drags him away.
‘What?’ he demands. ‘I wasn’t going to say her name, just tease them with a few hints.’
‘You’re obsessed.’
Chloe pulls him into the corridor as Cynthia makes her way across the room. They hide behind the pillar at the top of the stairs. Photos of the current show’s cast line the wall; the Dust cast’s pictures will be hung there too at the end of the meet-and-greet. Chloe has already seen Ginger’s. It was in the box office yesterday, on top of the pile. For a split second Chloe was sure Ginger winked at her as she passed them. She is flawless in it; a goddess.
‘Anyway,’ says Chester. ‘I have gossip.’
‘What’s new, Ches? You always have gossip.’
‘But this is big. I saw it on Cynthia’s computer.’
Chloe laughs. ‘I have no idea how you’re still here, snooping around like you do. Ches, you have to stop, I’d hate it if you left.’
‘They’re going to be filming a documentary,’ he says.
‘Who?’
‘Some film company. About Dust – when the rehearsals start. I reckon it’s because of the huge national interest. Because of the murder not being solved. And us being haunted, of course.’ Chester claps his hands, face bright. ‘We might be in it! I’ll totally make sure I am. I might just happen to wander past when filming takes place, my hair all perfect and my walk all sexy. I’m going low carb from tomorrow. The camera puts ten pounds on you, you know.’
The sound of feet on the nearby stairs – heavy, light, heeled, scraping – interrupts them. For a moment, Chloe’s heart stops. She recalls the footsteps that night backstage. How long ago that seems now. Chester squeezes Chloe’s arm and peers around the pillar.
‘It’s them,’ he hisses.
The Dust cast.
Chloe steps forwards too and peers down the stairwell. Leading the troop is Edwin Roberts followed by members of the executive and marketing team. Chloe feels sick. She knows Ginger is among them, somewhere. She recognises John Marrs first. In West Side Story his black hair was long and wild; now it’s cut short for the role of Dr Chevalier. He looks like he has lost weight, his chiselled jaw now bladelike. Chester stares, mouth open. Chloe shakes her head at him, and they move aside for the procession as Edwin Roberts reaches the top step, fedora angled and face unreadable. He’s closely followed by Dean Wilson, who they recognise from the black glasses he always wears in publicity pictures.
Last – like the superstar after the supporting act has finished playing – Ginger rounds the stairwell. Chloe sees her hands first; her long, red nails against the metal bannister. The fingers are white like she’s gripping it for dear life. Is she nervous? Chloe remembers their fingers touching as they settled on an upturned glass, long ago.
Ginger steps into the corridor. Chloe smells her; it’s the expensive perfume she tested the other day in Debenhams and can’t recall the name of. They make eye contact. In the blue flecks of Ginger’s irises, Chloe sees their past. She sees them singing the songs from Dust in a car on the way somewhere. Now, Ginger looks away first and follows the rest of the group into the green room.
‘Honey, she wants you,’ whispers Chester.
‘She doesn’t.’ Chloe is embarrassed. He doesn’t know about the kiss, or her rejection, or that they haven’t spoken since that meeting in March.
‘Come on,’ he says, heading for the green room. ‘We don’t wanna miss this.’
Chloe isn’t sure she wants to go in there. Isn’t sure she can stand being just an usher when Ginger is there too, glamorous, admired, somebody; isn’t sure she won’t feel utterly worthless when all of the cast are introduced and welcomed. Chester looks back at her, hand against the door.
‘I’m not in the mood,’ says Chloe. ‘I’ll be downstairs.’
He looks disappointed but doesn’t argue.
Chloe goes to the empt
y box office. There’s no point going home and coming back in two hours for the evening shift. She picks up the glossy picture of Ginger and traces the curve of her face with a finger. She puts it back in the pile and tidies up the brochure and flyer cupboard to keep busy until everyone comes back. Cynthia is first to arrive, her face like thunder.
‘Bloody Chester,’ she sighs. ‘You’d think he was one of the cast!’
Chloe decides not to ask and heads back up to the green room to relax before the shift.
‘Can you make sure it’s tidy?’ Cynthia calls after her. ‘Chester and Beth have made a start now the cast have gone to the rehearsal room for a meeting.’
Yes,I’ll pick up the glitter, Chloe thinks.
In the green room, Chester and Beth are putting paper cups and leftovers into a bin bag, him grumbling loudly about them just being a pair of skivvies.
‘What am I, a fucking cleaner now?’ he asks Chloe.
She gets a bin bag and helps them. ‘So what was it like? What did you learn?’ she asks.
‘That John Marrs is gorgeous,’ gushes Beth.
‘Yeah, but he knows it,’ says Chester. ‘He’s lucky that he doesn’t have to compete with a dead actor. Everyone will compare Ginger to Morgan Miller, but no one remembers who played Chevalier last time, do they?’
‘It was an actor called James McAllister,’ says Beth. ‘His career died after Dust ended.’
‘Anyway, I think I prefer that Abel Thingy who’s playing Esme’s brother.’ Chester chucks a load of sandwiches into the bag. ‘Dean Wilson was dead nice, wasn’t he? – So humble. Handled it really well when that journalist suggested he should feel bad about his show. And Ginger was lovely. Even when this other journalist asked if she was scared she’d end up murdered too.’
