I Am Dust

by Louise Beech

  Then she sees Chester.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she cries, beyond happy to see him.

  ‘EBay,’ he laughs. He’s dressed in a red waistcoat and matching polished shoes. ‘How could I miss this?’

  ‘EBay?’

  ‘People have been selling their tickets there. I paid stupid money, but I don’t care. I’m here.’ He squeezes her arm. ‘I’m actually going to see bloody Dust!’

  Chloe can’t help but be infected by his joy. He has been everything to her this last week, coming over, offering his shoulder. She told him what she heard Ginger say. She had to tell someone, and it had been impossible to hide her pain when he asked why she hadn’t come for his leaving drinks. He insisted Chloe send him her script, assured her no one could take it, and that he would say he had read it long before anyone else.

  But it wasn’t whether or not Ginger could succeed in stealing her work that kept Chloe awake at night.

  It was that she could even think of doing it.

  ‘Have you got your phone on you?’ asks Chester now.

  ‘Of course not, you know we’re not allowed.’

  He gets his out, swipes, and taps the screen. ‘Look at the news today,’ he says, showing her.

  ‘“Who Will Die?”’ she reads aloud. ‘Is that seriously an actual headline?’

  He nods. ‘They’re speculating about whether someone else will die tonight when Dust opens. Sick, eh? And then on the next page they’ve released some of the letter that was sent to the police with that earring.’

  ‘What does it say?’ Chloe leans closer to Chester. For a moment she thinks of what Beth said earlier: He’s trying very hard to deflect it away from himself. No, that’s ridiculous; he’s just a gossip.

  ‘Something about how the person who sent the earring to the police has kept it in all this time and just can’t anymore. He or she thinks justice should finally be done. Police think it’s written by a man though.’

  ‘That could suggest a woman killed Morgan, then.’

  ‘How so?’ asks Chester.

  ‘It could be the killer’s boyfriend or husband who sent the letter. Maybe he’s known all these years that she did it and finally decided to tell the police.’

  ‘I suppose. It’s trending too.’ Chester shows her his Twitter feed – the most popular hashtags are #Dust #DustIsBack #WhoKilled- Morgan and #WhoWillDieTonight. Someone has posted a picture of Ginger with blood dripping from her chest and written ‘Morgan’s killer is coming for you’.

  What is wrong with people?

  ‘Jesus,’ whispers Chloe.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ asks Chester, putting his phone away.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘About Ginger? The script.’

  ‘Just do my job and go home.’

  ‘For a whole month? What if you see her?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Chloe shrugs. ‘I’ll deal with that when it happens.’

  ‘I still can’t believe it. What an absolute bitch. You should actually report her. And Edwin Roberts. That’s the real scandal. The fucking artistic director talking about nicking someone’s script.’

  ‘Please, Chester, you must keep this to yourself.’ Chloe grabs his arm. ‘I mean it. I’ll decide what I’m going to do when I get a chance to think.’

  He nods. ‘How can you not absolutely detest her?’

  Chloe looks at him. Remembers how it felt to push Ginger that time. Remembers the fear in her eyes. Remembers the buzz. Thinks that if she pushed even harder, she might do more damage. Would she do that? Then the radio crackles. Words whisper softly in Chloe’s ear. ‘Never … be … under … one … roof…’ She frowns. Who said it? Is she hearing things again?

  Now she feels … ready.

  ‘Are you OK?’ asks Chester.

  ‘I think so.’ Maybe she imagined the words. Maybe she has all along. ‘Look, I’d better get on.’

  ‘OK. That slag from Propaganda is supposed to have a ticket. I’ll go find him. See you at the interval.’ Chester disappears before she can ask if he knows whether Morgan’s boyfriend or the caretaker are in the crowd.

  The radio crackles again and Chloe waits, ready. But it’s just the techie announcing that they are ready to open the auditorium. Cynthia radios that ushers should get into position. Chloe is on the main doors, taking tickets. The announcement on the tannoy follows, voice excited: ‘The theatre is now open if you would like to take your seats for Dust.’ Despite all that has happened since Chester said, ‘It’s coming back’, despite the strange voices, despite Ginger ripping her fucking heart out, Chloe shivers. This is it. The big night. This is her theatre, and this is her favourite show.

  She opens the doors. Smiles. And takes tickets from excited patrons. Unlike usual – when people hang around in the foyer until the last minute, drinking – they’re desperate to see the set and pile through the doors, gasping when they first see it. A beautiful middle-aged woman, her hair piled up on her head, smiles radiantly at Chloe as she hands her ticket over.

  ‘Lynda Swanson,’ she says. When Chloe doesn’t respond, she adds, ‘Ginger’s mum.’

  ‘Of course.’ How could Chloe not have realised? ‘Oh my God. It’s been years. You must be so proud.’

  ‘I am, darling. She was born for it, wasn’t she?’ And she sweeps into the theatre.

  When the techie says on the radio that there are just three minutes to go, the foyer is completely empty. A Dust flyer skims the floor, caught in the breeze from the doors as they open.

  There’s a latecomer. A man. He looks unsure. The suit is designer, and the aftershave preceding him smells expensive. He reaches into his trouser pocket, retrieves his ticket, and approaches Chloe. That walk. A hint of arrogance. A hint of teenage swagger despite looking early thirties. The floppy hair now less thick but sharply cut. The face. He looks at Chloe and he clearly recognises her, just as she does him.

  Ryan…

  And she still can’t think of his surname. Did they ever know?

  ‘I came to see Jess,’ he says, even though she hasn’t said a word.

  ‘Ginger,’ says Chloe softly.

  ‘Ginger,’ he repeats. His eyes are sad, more lined now.

  ‘She’s very good.’

  ‘I knew she would be.’

  Chloe has a million questions. What did you do with your life? Where have you been? Did your dreams come true? You look wealthy, but are you happy? Can you remember what happened when we used the Ouija board? But there’s no time now. The radio crackles. She anticipates those words again. She’s ready. But the techie just says that there’s one minute to go.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t know you worked here. You look well.’

  She takes the ticket from him.

  Their fingers touch.

  And Chloe sees it all. She sees it the way you see highlights from a previous TV episode when you’re waiting for the next one. She sees the three of them. The dusty stage. The Ouija board. The last time they did it. God, she sees it all.

  ‘That’s so weird,’ whispers Ryan. ‘I just…’

  ‘I know. Me too.’

  ‘What was that?’ He studies her and smiles. ‘You always were a witch.’

  ‘I was, wasn’t I?’ She smiles too. ‘You’re in the front row. Lucky you.’

  He nods. ‘I had to be. It’s good to see you. Have to catch up properly at the interval. Or afterwards?’

  On the radio, the techie says it’s about to begin. ‘You’d better go in,’ she says.

  He nods at the programmes; she tells him how much and he gives her ten pounds.

  ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’ He looks at the glossy cover.

  ‘She is,’ says Chloe.

  Then she closes the doors after him, and the show begins.

  YOU THREE NEVER BE UNDER ONE ROOF.

  But now they are.

  Now they are, and it’s her roof.

  47

  The Game

  2005r />
  Sitting cross-legged around the Ouija board, Jess, Ryan and Chloe were still in costume; Jess’s red velvet dress was damp beneath her arms and the two charms – the witch hat and theatre mask – tinkled when she moved; Ryan had put his crown back on as if he was saying that he was the leader tonight; Chloe wore her long witch robes but she had flung the itchy wig in the cupboard.

  When they began over a month ago, Ryan had called it a game. He had told them the rules, but along the way they had bent them to fit their needs. ‘We’ll shut it down if it gets weird,’ they had agreed. ‘We’re in control,’ they had said.

  Chloe knows now that they all lied.

  Not only to one another in saying they would end it if necessary, but to themselves. Morbid curiosity, youthful bravado and teenage love had joined the three of them, on a dusty stage in a church. Now autumn was a breath away. Now it was too late in August for the dying sun to penetrate the boarded-up windows and light the room. Ryan had left a lamp on in the nearby backstage room, and it filtered gently through.

  ‘Last time then,’ he said, positioning the letters.

  ‘Last time,’ repeated Jess.

  ‘Last time,’ said Chloe softly.

  ‘Exam results tomorrow.’ Ryan lit the three candles. The third one wouldn’t light easily; he managed on the third match. Three, three, three. ‘I’m fucked. We should’ve done this before we did our exams, and I might have passed them all.’

  ‘You don’t even know that you’ve failed yet,’ sighed Chloe.

  ‘Of course I fucking did. Thank God I’m good-looking, eh?’

  ‘My parents are selling our house,’ said Jess. ‘My mum wants me to go to college in London, so I have a better chance of making it as an actress.’

  ‘Lucky you.’ Ryan couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice. ‘I’ll be stuck on that fucking council estate with my family for years.’

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Chloe could hardly say it. ‘You never told us.’

  ‘Yeah, they only just told me.’

  Chloe studied the two charms on Jess’s bracelet so she wouldn’t cry. So much ending. So much change. She wasn’t ready. Jess had asked Chloe earlier about her improvisation during the witch scene, saying maybe she should write her own show. ‘Imagine if you did,’ she’d gushed. ‘You could write it and I’d star in it.’ And as much as she adored Jess, she had thought, No: my words, my role.

  ‘You ready?’ asked Ryan.

  No, Chloe wanted to say. No, I’m not.

  ‘Right, let’s just ask for Danny Locke and the powers, shall we?’ Ryan put a finger on the upturned glass. ‘That’s what I really want.’

  ‘We can get to that,’ said Chloe. ‘I want to talk to Morgan Miller again. One last time. Don’t you guys? The last time we had her here, she told us a woman had killed her. A woman who used a Ouija board with her and who wanted the role in Dust too. Who has her earring. We need her to tell us her name. If it’s going to be the last time we do this, I want to know.’

  ‘She’s right,’ said Jess. ‘Let’s ask for Morgan.’

  ‘OK.’ Ryan paused. ‘She might not even come.’

  ‘She’s already here,’ said Chloe.

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Jess.

  ‘I saw her. When I was on stage.’

  Jess stared at her. Was it in awe? Disbelief? Admiration? Whatever it was, Chloe enjoyed the moment. Then Jess smiled – she looked like an angel in the glow – and Chloe smiled back. And they both put their fingers on the glass at exactly the same time, neither leading, neither following.

  ‘Is there anyone here with us tonight?’ asked Ryan.

  Nothing. Chloe smiled, wondering if the spirits liked to tease, make their audience wait.

  ‘Is there anyone here to talk to us? Morgan Miller – are you there?’

  A slow, seductive scrape drew their eyes downward – the glass was moving. Morgan. Chloe smiled. Only Morgan moved it so deliberately. Subtle perfume lingered on the air. Shadows moved behind Jess.

  I DONT FALL I FLY

  I DON’T DIE IM FREE

  ‘Wherever your heart beats,’ finished Jess and Chloe together.

  ‘Let me guess,’ said Ryan. ‘Another song from Dust.’

  ‘It’s her,’ said Jess excitedly.

  Chloe was thrilled too. She still couldn’t quite believe the iconic star was talking to them, three everyday teenagers.

  ‘Hi Morgan,’ she whispered.

  I AM DUST

  ‘You are,’ Chloe smiled.

  YOU WILL BE DUST

  ‘That’s what I want,’ said Jess.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Chloe.

  Jess looked for a moment like she had regretted her words. ‘That’s it,’ she admitted eventually. ‘I want to play Esme Black one day. In Dust.’

  ‘But I doubt the show will ever come back. When it shut down, Dean Wilson became a recluse and said he’d never let it be staged again, didn’t he?’

  ‘Things change, don’t they?’

  YOU WILL BE DUST

  ‘Will I really, Morgan?’ cried Jess.

  ‘You got the powers, Morgan’ interrupted Ryan. ‘When you did the Ouija board. You said we just had to ask. We were gonna ask Daniel but we’re asking you now. Give us the powers. We know what we want.’

  WHEN THE DUST SETTLES YOU WILL KNOW

  Chloe knew that was meant for her. Morgan knew what she wanted tonight. Was she going to speak directly to each of them in turn?

  MONEY NEVER GAVE ME MORE

  THAN MY HEART WOULD LET IT

  What does that mean?’ asked Ryan.

  A LESSON IN THE CURRENCY OF LOVE

  DON’T FORGET IT

  ‘It’s from Dust again,’ said Chloe. ‘From the song about Chevalier’s greed as a young man.’ She realised it was meant for Ryan. A warning about the power he was hoping for. But would he listen?

  ‘I’m asking you, Morgan,’ continued Ryan. ‘I need more money than I’ve ever seen or held. I know I can act, I know that, but I want the chances that Jess’s mum gives her, that all the rich kids have. I want to go to London too. Follow my dreams.’

  SOMEONE ELSE IS HERE FOR THAT

  ‘Someone else?’ Chloe’s heart sank. ‘No, we want you to stay. Please, tell us who killed you, Morgan?’

  ‘Who else is here for that?’ asked Ryan.

  WHEN THE DUST SETTLES YOU WILL KNOW

  ‘Can’t you tell us now?’ begged Chloe.

  ‘Who’s here for that?’ repeated Ryan.

  And then Chloe knew. She could feel it. Morgan had gone. The glass stilled, but only for a moment, as though ownership had switched, and the new owner had taken a breath first.

  She saw him. Like she had that first time, so long ago it seemed now. Sitting behind Ryan. Cross-legged. A teenage boy. Grinning. Face bloody; the crimson flow from the ragged gash across his forehead pretty in the flickering light. Daniel Locke. Ryan’s best friend. The glass moved.

  YOURE READY

  ‘Is that you?’ asked Ryan. ‘Dan?’

  YOU ARE ETERNAL THREE

  ‘We are.’

  READY FOR THE POWERS

  ‘We are. But how? Tell us how. Morgan Miller said we needed three of us and we just ask. Can we ask you?’

  SPEAK IT ALOUD

  ‘That’s all?’ Ryan looked thrilled.

  ‘You really believe it can happen?’ asked Chloe. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jess, unsure. ‘It can’t be that simple.’

  ‘But he died,’ said Jess. ‘He asked for the powers and he died.’

  ‘That was suicide,’ said Ryan. ‘Doesn’t mean it was directly to do with the powers he got. Not really.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Chloe shook her head.

  ‘He was just a troubled kid,’ said Ryan. Like you, thought Chloe. ‘He might have done that anyway, even without the Ouija board. Don’t we only ever do what we really want to do? No one forces us.’

  NO ONE HAS TO DI
E

  SPEAK IT ALOUD

  ‘I will, Dan,’ said Ryan, his face manic in the glow. Chloe felt a strong breeze around them and wondered if the others did too. Before they could argue with him, Ryan spoke. ‘I want wealth. Riches beyond anyone’s wildest dreams.’

  JESS SPEAK IT ALOUD

  As though hypnotised, Jess said, ‘I want to be Esme Black. One day, I want to play her and be a superstar.’

  They both looked at Chloe.

  ‘I only want to know who killed Morgan,’ she said, softly. ‘I don’t care about any powers. I just want her to come back and tell us. Are you still there, Morgan?’

  Nothing. Then the glass moved violently.

  ALL THREE

  ‘Chloe did hers earlier,’ cried Ryan. ‘On stage. Her spell. She asked for Jess.’

  Choe glared at him.

  ‘What?’ Jess frowned. ‘Asked for me?’

  ‘That’s all three of us,’ cried Ryan manically.

  ‘No, it isn’t. I didn’t—’ The moving glass interrupted Chloe’s words.

  IT IS DONE THEN

  Ryan smiled.

  THERE IS A PRICE