by Louise Beech
Later – long after everyone had gone – Ryan, Jess and Chloe loitered in the nearby bus shelter, fanning their faces with scripts in the evening heat. None of them had mentioned whether they were going back inside the theatre, yet none of them had put a hand out for any of the passing buses.
‘So who wants to do it?’ asked Ryan eventually.
Chloe glanced at Jess, who remained mute. ‘I do. But Ryan – no more bullshit. You should have told us how well you really knew Daniel Locke. And you’re only coming back in there with us if you tell us your real reasons for doing this.’
‘Who fucking put you in charge?’ Ryan stood up.
‘I did.’ The words came out of Chloe before she could think.
Ryan faltered. ‘Well, what are your reasons, apart from the obvious?’ He motioned to Jess with his eyes.
‘I want to talk to Morgan Miller.’ Chloe held his gaze, unafraid, bold.
‘Shit, that was weird, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘You reckon it’s really her?’
‘Let’s go and find out.’ Chloe paused. ‘But first … why did you really want to do this?’
‘OK, OK.’ Ryan looked at his feet. ‘I just want to be … well … rich.’
‘Rich? How’s a Ouija board going to help you do that?’
‘You heard what I said about Daniel and his exams. And Harry being able to control others.’
‘You don’t need some spirit to help you get rich,’ said Chloe. ‘You’re an incredible actor.’
‘That’s not enough though, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, don’t be fucking naïve, Chloe. It all comes down to money really. It doesn’t matter how talented you are if you can’t afford to go to the best drama school. I could be Richard fucking Burton, but I live in a council house with my single, drunk mother and eight brothers. I ain’t ever going to RADA. It’ll be a job in B&Q for me, if I’m lucky.’ Ryan kicked a loose stone into the road. ‘Jess’s mum will make sure she goes to RADA. She makes sure she gets extra singing lessons and all that shit. Fuck, she’ll probably pay for surgery, so she looks perfect too.’
‘Don’t talk about my mum like that.’ Jess’s voice was barely a whisper.
‘That’s not fair,’ added Chloe, despite feeling compassion for Ryan for the first time. ‘Jess can’t help it if her parents are more comfortable.’
‘I guess.’ Ryan shrugged, deflated now. ‘Sorry, Jess.’
Jess nodded, but still looked sad.
‘Shall we go inside, then?’ said Chloe.
‘Let’s,’ said Ryan.
And they did – with Chloe leading.
The stage was how it had been left after rehearsals: the cauldron to the right, a pile of wigs and capes to the left, and the dust – as always – dancing in the dying sunlight through the wooden slats. Wordlessly, Ryan took the shoe box from the cupboard and set things up. Jess lit the three candles, and Chloe sat cross-legged next to them with the pen and notepaper. They looked at the upturned glass and then at one another, faces orange in the glow. Then one by one they placed their fingers upon it. Jess’s new bracelet tinkled against it like ice cubes in lemonade. They moved the glass in a circular motion for a while and then stopped. Looked around at one another.
‘Am I still doing the questions?’ Ryan asked Chloe. Something had shifted. He was unsure. Not Macbeth now.
She nodded. Let him do it. He had begun the game – let him think he was still its master.
He inhaled and then spoke. ‘Is there anyone here with us?’
Nothing. The candles flickered in unison, three dancers hearing the same beat. Chloe looked towards the door, but it was closed still.
‘Is there anyone here who wants to talk?’ Ryan asked again.
They waited; breath held.
‘If there’s anyone there, make yourself known.’
Chloe felt a cool draught. She looked at Jess and was sure her face showed the same awareness of something. Then all three candles went out at the same time with a sizzling sound. The door was still closed. No one moved. Nor did the glass.
‘I think someone’s here,’ said Ryan calmly. ‘Tell us your name?’
The glass moved slowly. It did not scrape the way it had when Daniel Locke spoke to them. It was languid, lazy, somehow hypnotic. Chloe felt heat rise up her arm. She knew absolutely that if they had removed their fingers, it would still move. She whispered each letter as the glass touched them, wrote the words with her free hand.
I AM DUST
‘Can you tell us your real name?’ asked Ryan.
MORGAN MILLER
‘The actress who died?’ asked Ryan.
WE NEVER REALLY DIE
‘What happens to us then?’ asked Jess.
IM STILL HERE
I AM DUST
IM THOSE FRAGMENTS IN THE AIR
THE GOLD LIGHT DANCING THERE
THAT BREEZE FROM NOWHERE
Chloe could hear Morgan’s voice as the words formed – so speedily now that it was hard to keep up. But it wasn’t the song she had listened to on CD over and over, but Morgan’s voice live, just like that night at the theatre, the first time she ever sang it for a paying audience.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Ryan.
‘It’s the song,’ whispered Jess. ‘You must know it. The theme to Dust.’
‘Doesn’t mean it’s her,’ he said. ‘Everyone knows those words.’
‘Well, you didn’t,’ said Jess, and Chloe couldn’t help but smile.
‘How do we know you’re really Morgan Miller?’ asked Ryan.
NOTHING IS EVER WHAT IT SEEMS
She was playing with them, but Chloe didn’t feel it was malicious. Hadn’t she read that Morgan liked to have fun, to play tricks on her fellow cast?
‘She’s an actress, remember?’ said Jess. ‘Maybe in that other place she doesn’t even know who she is.’
‘Morgan, how old were you when you died?’ asked Chloe.
AGELESS
‘I don’t think it’s her,’ said Ryan. ‘Shall we get someone else?’
WHO DO YOU WANT RYAN
He looked surprised. ‘I … I don’t know.’
WHAT DO YOU WANT RYAN
‘I want to know if you’re really who you say you are.’
ARE YOU
‘Yes,’ he insisted. ‘I am.’
NOT EARLIER
‘What do you mean?’ He looked nervous.
Though the glass had moved languidly at the start, now it zipped from letter to letter to letter, making Chloe dizzy. And she heard it all. Heard Morgan’s soft voice as though she were sitting with them.
IS THIS A DAGGER
WHICH I SEE BEFORE ME
THE HANDLE TOWARDS MY HAND
COME LET ME CLUTCH THEE
Chloe recognised the speech from Ryan’s rehearsal earlier.
‘Yes. I was Macbeth then.’ He nodded, seemed relieved. ‘Have you been watching us? Where are you right now? Who are you standing the closest to?’
She isn’t standing, thought Chloe.
‘You shouldn’t ask that,’ she said.
‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t think we should. And don’t ask so many questions one after the other. Wait for an answer to each one first.’
IM NEXT TO THE WITCH
Was that a breath in Chloe’s ear? A lingering scent of perfume? A hand moving her hair?
Ryan smiled. ‘Who do you mean, Morgan?’
CHLOE
‘Told you,’ he said.
‘Fuck off,’ she hissed at him.
CHLOE
‘She likes you,’ grinned Ryan.
CHLOE
‘Who killed you, Morgan?’ he asked.
‘You can’t just ask like that,’ cried Jess.
‘Tell us Morgan. You must know.’
I HARDLY KNOW YOU
‘Is it really her, though?’ Ryan sounded annoyed. ‘I’m not convinced. We should ask her something only she knows. Like we did with Danny. You guy
s know all about her. What was her mum’s name? Don’t say it out loud now, just tell me if you know it.’
Chloe can’t remember. She once read a biography where they mostly interviewed her mother, but she can’t think what her name was.
‘I know,’ said Jess.
‘Don’t say it,’ hissed Ryan. ‘OK, Morgan, what’s your mum’s name?’
MUM
Ryan laughed.
DO YOU LIKE YOUR MUM JESS
‘Yes, I do.’ Jess looked put out.
I LOVED HER
IT WAS SIMPLE
SHE LOVED ME
IT WAS COMPLEX
‘What does that mean?’ demanded Ryan.
‘It’s from Dust,’ explained Chloe. ‘It’s a song about Esme’s mum.’
‘I love my mum,’ cried Jess. ‘I’m sick of you all saying stuff about her.’
‘I never have,’ said Chloe.
‘You did,’ she snapped at Ryan.
‘I’m sorry. I was just mad about mine.’
The glass moved again, pulling their fingers back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
I AM DUST
‘Yeah, you said that,’ cried Ryan.
YOU ARE DUST
‘What does that mean?’ asked Jess.
BOYFRIEND GOT ME TO DO IT
‘To do what?’ asked Ryan.
HE KNEW WHAT I COULD DO
‘Do you reckon she means that her boyfriend killed her?’ wondered Jess.
‘I’m sure it was proved that he wasn’t there when she died,’ said Chloe. ‘He had a solid alibi. He always looks heartbroken in interviews, and it seems genuine.’
‘Did your boyfriend kill you?’ asked Ryan.
Nothing.
‘Are you still with us, Morgan?’
Nothing.
‘I think she’s gone,’ whispered Chloe.
The glass moved to ‘Goodbye’.
‘Now what?’ asked Ryan
‘I’m exhausted,’ said Jess.
She looked it. Black shadows hung beneath her eyes like dark clouds too tired to move. Chloe realised she was tired too. She felt like she had been awake for days. This was what happened at the end of each session – a weariness that made muscles ache, bones throb, eyes heavy. Even though she could have talked with Morgan Miller forever, it was hard to find the energy to try.
‘Let’s go then,’ she said.
They did. But once they were in the street, Chloe realised she had left her phone in the theatre. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I can’t leave it there.’
Ryan’s bus rounded the corner. She knew Jess wanted to go and hang at his.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she said, trying to sound braver than she felt. ‘I’ll catch the next bus.’ She was disappointed that Jess didn’t argue, went so easily with Ryan. Her heart ached as much as her other muscles did.
*
When Chloe got home it was dark. Her dad was watching some cop show in the living room. In the kitchen, her mum was sorting the laundry, separating pink socks from blue. She looked tired. Her hair hung like tights from a washing line on a still day. Chloe watched her folding the worn sheets and was suddenly overwhelmed with love for this woman who worked two jobs and yet always had time to talk.
‘There you are,’ she said when she saw Chloe. ‘How was rehearsal tonight?’
‘OK.’ Chloe sat at the table.
‘Just OK?’
Chloe suddenly wanted to cry. ‘Mum, I feel … odd.’
Her mum sat down and put the laundry on the table. ‘You are odd, sweetheart. You’re my lovely, odd girl, like no one else.’
‘No, I mean … bad somehow.’
‘Oh, you’re not bad. Why would you think that?’ Her mum looked sad. ‘It’s hard being sixteen.’
‘They said I’m a witch.’
Her mum laughed gently. ‘Who did? And is that a bad thing?’
‘Yes! Witches are always ugly and evil. Look at Macbeth. They’re horrible.’
‘There are white witches too.’ Her mum looked serious now. ‘They always said your Grandma Rosa was one, you know.’
‘Did they?’
‘Yes. You know how special she was. She’d just know things. Sense them. Like if I called her up, she’d tell me she had known I would. She said she saw ghosts too. We used to tease her, but she did have this curious knack of knowing things she shouldn’t have.’
Chloe missed her acutely. It had only been a year since her death.
‘Remember when she wouldn’t let us set off for the airport that time?’ said Chloe’s mum. ‘There was that horrible car pile-up that killed ten people. And she had known. We missed our flight, but at least we were alive.’ She leaned over and touched Chloe’s cheek. ‘You’re like her. I feel like she’s still here because of you.’
‘We used to talk to each other,’ said Chloe.
‘I know, sweetheart.’
‘No, I mean … without speaking. Across the table, when you and Dad were there.’
Chloe’s mum studied her.
‘I love you,’ she said.
‘I love you too, Mum.’
That night Chloe slept heavily. Dreams came hard. A black bird in her room somewhere scratch-scratch-scratching. Something under the bed rustle-rustle-rustling. And Grandma Rosa whispered, my magic girl, my magic girl, my magic girl, without moving her mouth.
30
The Dean Wilson Theatre
June 2019
Chloe is supposed to be restocking ice creams before the matinee of an amateur production of Wicked. The freezer is right near the rehearsal room fire exit, and it’s the first Dust read-through. She can’t resist opening the fire door a crack and peering through, heart beating fast at the thought of Cynthia finding her. They have all been warned to keep a low profile as rehearsals get under way.
‘You should be as invisible around the building as you are in the auditorium,’ Cynthia said at a meeting last week, with a stern look in Chester’s direction. ‘Do your usual jobs with as little fuss as possible. Help where asked, but do not make a nuisance of yourselves. There will be lots of people milling around with equipment, so don’t get in the way.’
Could Chloe have felt any less important?
Pinch yourself, she thought. You might not even exist.
Now she puts a finger between the fire door and its frame, and spies on the cast. They sit around in a circle, scripts in hand, intense looks on faces. The large windows are all open; Ginger sits near one, her hair rippling like a golden waterfall in the breeze. Chloe recalls a similar heat long ago – the nights at the youth theatre when Mr Hayes flung open the fire doors to cool them down.
Chloe knows that Ginger will have already started doing research into the character and memorising the lines. That won’t have been difficult – when they were kids, they knew them all. For Ginger it must be like returning to a beloved childhood fairy tale. It must feel like coming home.
Ginger was never as good at playing Esme Black the housemaid as she was the ghost; she could never quite be as nondescript as the former required, but was magnificent when she died and returned as her ghost, all breath-taking beauty and seduction. Chloe fantasises that they could both play Esme; they could split it. She would make the perfect housemaid, part of the shadows, like now, longing for someone she can’t have. Ginger could take over when Esme resurrects as a ghost and finally wins Dr Chevalier’s love.
‘Who are you?’ reads John Marrs, pulling Chloe from her reverie. He wears jeans and a red T-shirt, but even in this everyday attire, when he speaks, he is Dr Chevalier. ‘I feel sure I know you, and yet you’re a mystery to me. Can you speak, strange creature? Can you tell me your name?’
Chloe frowns. Hears a similar line. Is there anyone here who wants to talk with us? Is that Ryan’s voice? Who were they speaking to back then?
‘Come closer so I can look at you,’ continues John as Chevalier. ‘Come over here and whisper your name in my ear.’
Next to him, Dean Wilson smiles an
d nods. He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks proud. Pleased. No wonder. His show is back in a big way. Chloe realises that two of the documentary crew are filming from opposite corners. One of them now grabs a handheld camera and kneels down beside Ginger as though in utter reverence. She speaks. Electricity runs along Chloe’s spine.
‘You know who I am, my love,’ she says, voice intoxicating. ‘My name is right there on your lips, next to your own…’
Chloe smiles; they are close to the big song. Will Ginger sing it, or will they simply play it? She has not seen her to speak to since the cast returned yesterday. They have not even passed in a corridor. When she took the rubbish out last night, Chloe stopped near the Ginger Swanson dressing room, as it is now called; there is a brand-new, not-tarnished gold star on its door, with her name at the centre. Chloe touched the star, aware her fingers were greasy from the job. She left a single fingerprint over the S, as though to say, I was here too.
‘I’m happy to sing it,’ Ginger is saying now.
Edwin Roberts looks thrilled, says, ‘If you’re sure, darling?’
She nods. Even from this distance Chloe can see her eyes are glazed with tears. What a moment for her. The cameraman gets closer. An expectant hush settles over the room. All the singing lessons Jess’s mum paid for were worth every penny. Beginning quietly, Ginger takes her rapt audience into the iconic chorus, breathy at first and then a deep, rich, warm vibrato.
