by Louise Beech
‘I know. Don’t worry, sweetheart. They won’t expect you to perform. I’ve been updating Mr Hayes on how ill you’ve been, and he said if you were still ill tonight, they would somehow make do with two witches.’
‘You can’t have two,’ cried Chloe, getting up. ‘You need three.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘To have a shower.’ Chloe knew they would be doing a final rehearsal this afternoon before the big night. ‘I have to get to the theatre.’
‘But you haven’t eaten for days,’ cried her mum, following her onto the landing.
‘Will you make me an omelette or something then, please? I’ll eat it when I’m dressed.’
‘OK. But I’m worried about you. Should we get the doctor to look you over fi—’
‘I’m fine.’ Chloe slammed the bathroom door.
45
The Game
2005
When Chloe walked into the theatre, it felt like she was coming home after years. Like she had been away for much longer than two weeks and was returning a new person. And with the illness behind her she felt invigorated.
The stage was set for Macbeth. Since so many scenes took place at night and in gloomily lit castle rooms, it was an inexpensive play to put on. The backdrop was painted black, with grey sheets hanging here and there, and the cauldron pushed to one side. Ryan and Jess were rehearsing the scene where Macbeth declares that he no longer intends to kill Duncan. Lady Macbeth, outraged, calls him a coward.
‘When you durst do it,’ said Jess, face flushed in the lights, velvet dress threadbare yet stunning on her. ‘Then you were a man. And to be more than what you were, you would be so much more than the man.’
Lady Macbeth was questioning her husband’s manhood as she gained more control over him. It was Chloe’s favourite Jess moment, not only because she was captivating, but because she outshone Ryan. She felt a brief pang of jealousy at the pair of them, but it passed. She had missed them – both of them.
Then she felt powerful. Like Sleeping Beauty, waking after a hundred years, having survived the third of the three wishes at her christening. Chloe might not have a lead role in the show, but she realised she didn’t want to recite anyone else’s words. She wanted to recite her own; write her own. Create a spell. Perhaps that’s what all lines in plays were; spells.
She Haunts Me.
The words came to Chloe then. What did they mean?
The scene ended and Mr Hayes applauded, breaking into her thoughts. The rest of the room clapped too. Mr Hayes saw Chloe, looked surprised, and came over. ‘Good to see you,’ he said. ‘How are you, dear? Your mum was terribly worried. Are you here to see the show tonight?’
‘No, I want to perform.’
‘Perform?’ He looked doubtful. ‘Are you sure you’re up for it?’
‘I’m sure, I feel good. I know my lines. Please, I want to.’
Jess joined them. ‘You’re back,’ she smiled, and it was the old Jess. The Jess before Ryan and Ouija boards and kisses.
‘I am. To play my part. Please let me, Mr Hayes?’
‘Oh, do let her,’ cried Jess. ‘It won’t be the same with two witches!’
He laughed heartily. ‘I guess not. OK then. You’ll need to do a few run-throughs though.’
Chloe didn’t mind. She would do anything. They rehearsed hard all afternoon. Then it was time for something to eat before the big night – a treat of pizza that Mr Hayes laid on for everyone. Chloe sat with Jess and Ryan in the back pew, her appetite back with a vengeance. Ryan picked at his food and told Chloe he was glad she was better.
When he disappeared to the toilet, Chloe asked Jess, ‘Have you seen much of him?’ She was afraid to ruin their happy reunion, but curious.
‘A bit, yes. Not, you know, sexually or anything. He’s hardly been interested in that recently. He’s still obsessed with doing this one last Ouija board session. When we came off stage earlier and he saw you were back, he grabbed me and told me that it was meant to be. You were here for that reason.’ Jess paused. ‘Is it true?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Chloe. ‘But I woke up feeling better this morning. And then I realised what day it was, and I knew I had to come. I have to talk to Morgan Miller.’ She thought about telling Jess what she had seen while she was ill, but something stopped her. ‘I haven’t stopped thinking about her. You?’
‘I guess. I reckon if we do it one more time, Ryan will shut up, and we can get on with … well, with whatever life holds.’
Whatever life holds.
At 6.30 the theatre opened, and the audience – mostly families of the performers – filed into the pews. Chloe peered around the curtain and saw her mum and dad in the fourth row, reading the black-and-white programme Mr Hayes had put together. She caught their eyes and waved, knowing how concerned her mum had been.
Backstage, Mr Hayes ran around as though his backside was on fire, helping to style hair and calming last-minute nerves. The whole cast was squeezed into a tiny room with just one mirror, so it was bedlam. Chloe and Jess shared an excited ‘this is it’ look while Ryan stared at his gold-plated, cardboard dagger with ill-disguised disappointment.
Then, at exactly 7.32, the lights on the pews went off and the LED lights shone on the stage. The audience fell quiet and the wind machine whirred into blustery action for the first scene, in which the witches chant their opening lines during a storm.
The show had begun.
It went well. More than well.
Ryan outdid himself. His despairing delivery of the ‘tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow’ speech seemed to come from another man; a man who had reduced the entire cast to a handful of dust. Chloe heard the audience gasp a few times. She could hardly believe it was him. Why did he long for endless money when the talent he had was priceless? Was she naïve to think that this alone would get him what he wanted?
Jess, of course, was beautiful.
Chloe watched from the wings as she shone. ‘Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts,’ she cried. ‘Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe, top-full of direst cruelty.’ She was Lady Macbeth, willing to do whatever was necessary to seize the throne; the real steel behind Macbeth.
And then it was Chloe’s favourite of her own scenes: the three witches in the cavern, chanting spells around their cauldron – lit red in the middle – with rumbling thunder from the sound machine nearby. Chloe’s solo line was ’Tis time, ’tis time!’, which she cackled with relish. Then all three circled the cauldron, reciting ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ Chloe wasn’t sure when smoke began to rise from it, but it buffeted and spiralled as though a fire had ignited there.
Was this a new effect that had been put in place during her absence?
No – Elisha and Ella, her fellow witches, looked just as confused. The audience must have thought it part of the show though as they ooo-ed softly.
Then Chloe saw Morgan Miller at the back of the room.
Standing behind the pews. Wearing white. Smiling. Glowing. Encouraging. As clear as when she had appeared in Chloe’s room while she was ill. Morgan smiled. Chloe gasped. Then words came out of her mouth; words she did not control.
‘On this Friday…’ she whispered. ‘So bright … the hour of Venus … blessed night … perform this rite … let her love me … let her love me … let her love me…’
The other witches looked unsure and paused in their incantations. Chloe knew without turning that Mr Hayes was glaring behind the curtain. Then Elisha – perhaps hypnotised by Chloe’s words – repeated them too. Finally, Ella joined in. When they were done, a breath in unison, and the three of them concluded with, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn and cauldron bubble.’
The show went on. The audience clearly thought it was part of the script, perhaps modernised, adapted. When her scene was done, Chloe staggered off stage, feeling light-headed again now.
‘What the hell was that?’ hissed Mr Hayes.
‘I
… don’t know…’ It was the truth.
‘Are you ill again? I should never have let you perform. Thank God that’s your last scene.’
‘The audience were loving it,’ said Ella.
‘Yeah, they were captivated,’ said Elisha.
Chloe collapsed on a beanbag in the small room, her heart racing. What had she said? Was it a spell? Hadn’t she pictured Jess when she said it? She wasn’t sure how long she sat there, young actors racing by, changing costumes, but before she knew it the audience were applauding vigorously, and she had to go back on stage for the bows.
Chloe caught her mum’s eye. She was crying, looking proud, mouthing, ‘You were amazing.’
Afterwards, the high. The room buzzed. Chloe told her mum she would be staying behind to celebrate with the others, then joined them, laughing and high-fiving. Later, still in full costume, crown atop his unruly hair, Ryan found Chloe in the girls’ toilets.
‘You can’t come in here,’ she cried.
‘That spell you did. Did you make it up? It was pretty cool.’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted, not able to meet his gaze.
‘It was about Jess, wasn’t it?’ He said it kindly for once.
Chloe didn’t respond.
‘You can’t force someone to love you, you know,’ he said. It sounded so mature that she finally looked at him. ‘If you do that kind of spell you’re never, ever, supposed to ask for the heart of someone specific.’
‘What? How do you know that?’
‘I was in a play last year. The lead character did something like that, and she just ended up three times more in love with the man she wanted. And he never loved her back. It’s not ethically right or something. Doing love spells. I was the man.’
‘It was only words,’ whispered Chloe, not believing that.
‘I know you don’t like me much,’ said Ryan.
Chloe shrugged. She realised then what he really wanted – to be liked, to be adored, to be loved. That was the true reason for his pursuit of making it as an actor. ‘You’re not so bad,’ she said.
‘My friend died,’ he said sadly, taking off his crown and looking at it. ‘My dad’s hardly around much now. My mum drinks and has too many kids. Is it so wrong for me to want something that’s just mine?’
‘No,’ said Chloe softly.
He looked at her, that glint back in his eyes. ‘Now I think we do should do some real magic,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Is Jess up for it?’
He nodded.
And they all stayed behind one last time.
46
The Dean Wilson Theatre
September 2019
The Dean Wilson Theatre foyer is as beautiful as the Dust stage; all creams and whites and golds. The usually bare dining tables are covered with linen cloths; on top small jars of amber lights twinkle. Gilt-framed black-and-white shots of the last dress rehearsal line walls softened by white drapes that move like ghosts every time the doors open. From the ceiling, strings of lights add to the atmosphere. It’s opening night. It’s packed. And the atmosphere is electric.
Chloe keeps thinking about the dead bird on her doorstep.
The film crew get shots of the crowds and interview random patrons, who are more than happy to gush for the cameras. Cynthia is wearing the frilled shirt and bow tie she always saves for special events, and is rushing around, making sure everything is just as it should be front of house. The ushers on shift are wearing crisply ironed shirts – they’ve had three emails this week reminding them to be smart tonight – and they mill around the foyer, smiles on faces and glossy programmes in hands.
Chloe stands in front of the box office and looks at the front cover again – it’s the black-and-white image of Ginger and John Marrs as Esme and Chevalier swept up in a passionate embrace, and is overlaid with gold lettering, just like on the posters. Cynthia has explained that they expect to sell a lot – to fans hoping to get them signed by the actors – so Edwin Roberts has decided they should be ten pounds instead of the customary five.
‘That’s pretty steep,’ said Beth, flicking through it.
‘Fans will pay it though,’ said Paige.
Chloe imagined Chester having plenty to say about that and missed him desperately.
‘You’re quiet, Chloe,’ Cynthia said then. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘Just a big night, isn’t it?’
Now she opens the programme and finds the page about Ginger. Reads the biography describing her ascent to fame because of the iconic show. Looks at the pictures of her at various stages of rehearsals. Touches her beautiful, lying, devious, betraying face and tries to bury the anger churning in her gut.
We can’t just … steal it. Can we?
‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?’
Chloe looks up. ‘I’ll have three,’ gushes a man in a Dust T-shirt. ‘My mum and her carer didn’t get a ticket so I’m getting them one. Do you reckon the actors will come out and meet fans afterwards?’
‘We can’t promise anything,’ says Chloe, forcing a smile. Cynthia told them earlier that the cast said they might pop out, if all goes well, but it isn’t set in stone.
Chloe doesn’t want to see Ginger. She can’t bear to. She’s glad she has been away from the theatre for the last two weeks. She doesn’t know what she might have said or done if she’d seen her. And she doesn’t know what will happen if she sees her tonight, so she plans to get away as quickly as possible afterwards and avoid backstage in between. She hardly even wants to see the show now; it’s ruined for Chloe before it even starts.
The dead bird comes to her again. Black, stiff, eyes cold and wide, on the step as she opened the door to leave the house that afternoon. She couldn’t bear to touch it and had housemate James put it in the bin. She hasn’t dreamed about birds for a while; she wonders if Ginger has.
Now, her scars ache. Every night for the last two weeks she has cut again, desperately wanting to calm the fiery rage, to release the pain of the only woman she has ever loved betraying her in such a cruel way. Cut, bleed, release… Lying on sheets speckled with blood, she recalled being in Jess’s room, way back, while they were using the Ouija board. Talking about what it must be like to be dead. Wondering where the soul went. Where feelings went. Your essence. And Chloe had wondered what it would be like to no longer love Jess.
Does she know now?
She hates Ginger right now with every bit of energy she has. She’s angry. Hurt. But does she love her?
Yes. Still.
And she hates them both for it.
To distract herself from these thoughts, Chloe joins Beth at the main doors.
‘Are you excited?’ Beth asks, her hair ashen grey now, perhaps to tie in with Dust.
Chloe just wants to weep.
‘Yes,’ she lies. ‘You?’
‘God, yes. I never thought they would beat the original, but I think they just might have done.’ Beth sells two programmes to a family. ‘You’re going to ask me if I took that pearl earring, aren’t you?’
‘No,’ says Chloe, not even sure if she was.
‘The item I took is probably way less valuable. And I still have it – it hasn’t been sent in to the police. It was just this little goblet trinket.’
Chloe suddenly sees Ginger’s charm bracelet. Their whole history dangles from it; the Macbeth witch hat; the theatre mask; the tiny ghost. How could she even think of stealing her script? How could she? After all they have been through.
‘I think it might have come off a costume,’ continues Beth. ‘It was lying there on the floor. I just wanted a memento, I guess.’ She looks at Chloe. ‘I was with Morgan when I took it.’ Beth pauses. ‘It was me, that night.’
‘What?’ Has Chloe heard her right?
‘Backstage,’ Beth says. ‘That night. Just before I started working here. Yes, it was me.’
‘Oh. That.’ And Chloe realises Beth means the footsteps she heard backstage that time. �
�It was? But why were you there?’
‘I don’t know. I wanted to … see her dressing room. Because, yes, I was there the night Morgan died. I might have been the last to see her alive. But I didn’t kill her.’
Does Chloe believe her?
Edwin Roberts squeezes past them. Usually, on such an important night, he might tell them not to stand gossiping, but he clearly can’t look at her. Yes, you turn away, thinks Chloe. You turn away. The strength of her anger is so great that she fears she’ll set the programmes on fire.
‘I reckon you should look at Chester more closely,’ says Beth.
‘Sorry?’ Chloe frowns.
‘Ever questioned him?’
Chloe laughs. ‘Chester? No. He wasn’t even there that night.’
‘He wasn’t working that night, you mean. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. He could have got in. And if you wanted to kill an actor, wouldn’t it be easier not being on shift?’
‘That’s ridiculous. He doesn’t even have a motive.’
‘All I’m saying is that he’s trying very hard to deflect it away from himself. He’s accused just about everyone. Got himself sacked in the process.’
At that moment, Cynthia emerges from the throng, face thunderous. ‘How many times have I told ushers not to stand gossiping. If Edwin sees you, he’ll go mad. Get mingling, get selling, and get smiling.’
Chloe weaves through the crowds. She recognises a few journalists. She wonders if Morgan Miller’s boyfriend Clive is here; if the caretaker whose name she can’t recall now is. The Dust theme song filters through the speakers, prompting smiles from the patrons. Ginger’s melodic voice taunts her. ‘I’m still here; I am dust. I’m those fragments in the air, the gold light dancing there, that breeze from nowhere.’
