Dark Soul Experiments

by Bre Hall

  “Is it?” Alfie asked.

  Peter let go of Ren and stood toe to toe with Alfie. Ren twitched closer, ready to throw herself between them if she had to. Alfie noticed her movement and took a step into the hallway.

  “If you really cared for her well-being like you say you do, then you would stop hindering this process,” Peter said.

  Alfie’s voice echoed. “I just don’t know if I believe everything you’re saying.”

  “There’s no way to prove it to you,” Peter said. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “Well, I don’t.”

  “I’m sorry, then.”

  “I trust you, Peter,” Ren said. Both Peter and Alfie turned to look at her. She reached a hand into the tin can, centimeters away from the tooth. She inhaled sharply. “Don’t kill each other while I’m gone.”

  Her fingertips kissed the top of the relic and, in a chaotic swirl of color, in a gut-dropping rush, she was folded through the chasm and into an old world. She met the ground hard and as her vision cleared and ears attuned, she began to take in her surroundings.

  On either side of a wide stretch of cobbled street stood red-bricked, square buildings, their facades flat, looming with window panes reflecting the cloud-blotted sky. Clusters of chimney stacks sat idle on rooftops. A warm, sea-tainted breeze flowed up the street. She moved quickly up Sackville Street, headed toward the Liffey, the river that sliced the city in half.

  “Lizzie,” she heard to her right. She held up a hand to block out the afternoon sun and saw the silhouette of her best friend Mary Keogh skittering across the intersection, right in front of a new, electric tram. The driver tolled a bell to warn Mary, but she kept moving, passing in front of the machine, giggling.

  “You’re mad,” Lizzie said as Mary skipped up beside her. They fell into Lizzie’s usual, quick pace, their long, shapeless skirts swishing along with them.

  “Not as mad as you,” Mary said. “Where’re you headed?”

  “I’m—”

  “No, let me guess,” Mary said. “You’re coming back from the quays after having a long, hard look at that paver lad.”

  “He’s called Michael Gorman,” she said, blushing. “If you care to know.”

  “Couldn’t care less,” Mary said, her thin, straight nose flicking skyward as if she were one of the old aristocrats that once lived in the heart of the city before most of them abandoned it for posh dwellings in the outlying villages. Then, Mary cracked a smile. “Is he handsome?”

  “Only the prettiest fella I’ve seen in the whole of my life,” Lizzie said. “He’s got these gorgeous green eyes that pierce me to the core and his arms, my word, the shape to them is indescribable.”

  “You sound infatuated.”

  “I’m in love with him,” Lizzie said, her chest light, airy. “Absolutely in love.”

  “What do you two talk about?”

  “Talk?” Lizzie asked.

  “Yeah, you know, talk,” Mary said. “One person opens their mouth and words fall out, then the other person does the same.”

  “Oh,” Lizzie said. “No. We haven’t spoken.”

  “Never?”

  “Well, once I nearly tripped over a missing cobble and he said, ‘look out miss,’” Lizzie said. “But otherwise, no.”

  “How can you be in love with a man you’ve never even really spoken to?” Mary asked.

  “I watch him, you see,” she said. “I sit on the edge of the street opposite his work and just watch.”

  “You’re going to get yourself arrested.”

  “Am not.”

  “Or locked up in an institution.”

  Lizzie shook her head. “I’m going to talk to him tonight, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “He asked you to a dance?”

  “No,” she said. “But I overheard him and some of the lads talking about going to the Palace Bar around nine o’clock tonight.”

  “And what? You’re just going to saunter over to him and profess your undying love for him?” Mary chuckled.

  “I’m still sousing out the details.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Mary said.

  “To keep an eye on me?”

  Mary shrugged. “I just want to see the show.”

  “Who says I’ll let you come?”

  “Me,” Mary said. “What scheme of yours haven’t I been a part of?”

  Bits of Lizzie’s childhood flashed by. Her and Mary stealing bread from a shop on Henry Street and being chased down an alley by the rotund shop owner. Both girls playing hurling in the streets with a group of kids that lived in their tenement. They had used tree limbs as hurls and a beat-up old sliotar. Finally, the girls around age nine, splashing in rain puddles in Lizzie’s Mammy’s Sunday high heels and being nearly beaten to death afterward, side-by-side, with a wooden spoon.

  “Alright, you can come,” Lizzie said as they crossed in front of the Rotunda near Rutland Square. “We’ll have to do something about your hair of course.”

  “What’s wrong with my hair?” asked Mary.

  “Nothing,” Lizzie said. “For a fifteen-year-old.”

  “I am fifteen.”

  “Exactly,” she said. “But Michael is nearly twenty. We’ll have to make you look older if we want him to think you and I are the same age.”

  “We are the same age.”

  “Ah, sure, I don’t look it,” Lizzie said. “I look eighteen at least.”

  “Right,” Mary said. “And I’m one of the women who flounce around outside of the Shelbourne Hotel after sipping on champagne all afternoon with my friends.”

  “I do look eighteen,” Lizzie said. “Mammy said so last week.”

  “Your mother is blind as a bat.”

  “She is not.”

  “Cop on, Lizzie,” Mary said.

  “Fine. I’ll let you fix me up too.”

  “We need kohl, then,” Mary said. “To define our eyes. Older girls always wear it on nights out.”

  “I haven’t two pence to my name.”

  “We’ll use some from the fireplace, then,” Mary said.

  “That’s not right.”

  “Who’s going to tell the difference?” Mary asked. “My older sister does it all the time.”

  “We should have rouge on our cheeks, too,” Lizzie said. “Only I haven’t got any.”

  “Mammy had some,” Mary said. “I’ll sift through her old things in the trunk Da keeps under his bed.”

  “You know what else we need?” Lizzie asked.

  “What?”

  Lizzie pulled at the skirt of her blue dress. Dull colored. Fabric worn. Hem frayed where it dragged the ground. “New dresses.”

  “What are you on about? New dresses?” Mary honked out a laugh. An elderly woman shuffling along with a cane glared at her beneath thick wrinkles. “If we can’t afford charcoal for our eyes, how are we going to pay for a pair of dresses?”

  Lizzie smiled. “I know just what to do.”

  They took another step toward home. Just then, the city began to writhe and twist like an angry snake and Ren slipped from Lizzie’s body and fell into a swirl of color, her whole being racing toward her present life. With a clunk, she landed back in the chair in Peter’s kitchen. She blinked out at Alfie, hands wrapped around the back of a chair across the table, and then at Peter, still seated beside her.

  “Are you alright?” Alfie asked.

  “Yeah,” she nodded. Her skin itched as she adjusted to being back in her body again.

  “See,” Peter said. “I told you she’d be fine.”

  “I still don’t trust you,” Alfie said to Peter.

  “Sun’s going down,” Peter said, ignoring him. “You two should get home.”

  “Just one more regression,” she said, nearly out of breath, reaching for the tin again, needing to see what became of Lizzie. Peter snatched it away from her and pushed the lid down tightly. She frowned. “Hey.”

  “It’s late,” he said.

&nbs
p; “We just got here.”

  “No,” Alfie said. “We’ve been here for two hours.”

  Ren looked to Peter for explanation. “Regression time varies. It doesn’t seem to abide by the laws of time.”

  “Clearly.” She glanced at the tea tin, feeling the pull of the tooth inside. “I’m just so curious about what happens to her. Charlotte lived during the middle of the war. It wasn’t uncommon to die the way she did. But Lizzie’s just a girl, living in a city, chasing boys with her friend. How does she die?”

  Peter stood, sliding the tin can next to larger canisters that once held sugar and flour on the counter by the sink. It looked like something ordinary among them. Not at all special. He turned back, leaning against the edge of the counter.

  “I’m not telling. You’ll have to find out yourself,” Peter said. “Sorry.”

  “We better go,” Alfie said, stepping into the dark hallway.

  Ren stood up and began to button up her jean jacket. “So, I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter?”

  “Yes.” He took a long stride and grabbed her upper arm tightly. He pressed his lips close to her ear. So close she could feel the warmth of his breath curl around her skin. “Leave the watch dog at home, okay?”

  She should have jerked away. Rolled her eyes. Stood up for her friend. But she didn’t. Instead, a blush spread over her cheeks and she couldn’t help but be hyper-aware of Peter’s hand on her arm. She nodded absently and said, “Okay.”

  chapter

  13

  THE NEXT DAY AFTER SCHOOL, she was pulling her bike from the rack near the front of the building when the front doors stuttered open and a streak of tropical colors, khaki, and bleach blonde hair buzzed into the harsh sunlight. Ren’s hands stilled on her bike. Her heart sank deep in her chest.

  “Are you sneaking off to Peter’s without me?” Alfie asked.

  Judging from the tone of his voice Ren couldn’t tell if he was hurt or not bothered at all. Knowing how Alfie felt about Peter, she would bet he was bothered. If she ditched him for Peter, she’d never hear the end of it. He’d pout for days. Claim she didn’t respect his opinion. Blah, blah, blah.

  “I wasn’t going to Peter’s, actually,” she said.

  “Oh?” Alfie cocked his head to the side. “Are you done with your little experiments?”

  “I’m just not in the mood today.”

  “Your tutor won’t be happy about that,” he said.

  “He’ll get over it,” she said, but already she could feel the pull of the relic. It made her fingers itch, her heart pound. She longed to touch Lizzie’s tooth. To escape to Dublin. Plus, she wanted to see Peter again. She knew he’d be in better form without Alfie there to set him off like a landmine. But she knew she’d have to hang with Alf for a few hours, play the part. “Do you want to do something?”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “We could comb through Richard’s. Like old times.”

  “By old times you mean like last week?”

  She swung a leg over the cruiser’s worn saddle. “You coming or what?”

  Alfie unlocked his bike from the rack, climbed on, and began to pedal. They took off across the teacher’s parking lot and rode the white line on the side of the street until the asphalt turned to red brick and the paint disappeared. A few blocks later, they rolled into downtown Wynn and headed straight to the antique shop.

  The door to Richard’s chimed, and the man himself poked his head around the stacks of magazines on the counter. Richard frowned, furrowed his unruly grey eyebrows, and refocused his energy on gluing the head onto a Hummel figurine, which was missing several important body parts.

  “Anything new, Richard?” Ren asked.

  “I got my hair cut,” he grumbled, wiping his completely bald head with his palm.

  “You don’t have any hair,” she said. “I meant did you get anything new in the shop?”

  Richard grumbled something indiscernible and waved a hand to a shelf across the room. They walked to it and began to dig through ceramic figurines, porcelain tea cups, and old toys from the fifties and sixties.

  “He’s cheery today,” Alfie said sarcastically.

  “Isn’t he always?” Ren fastened a small tiara littered with a display of glass diamonds to her head. She found a cigarette holder, sans cigarette, near the tiara and put it in her mouth. She pulled a stuffed, black cat from a shelf above and gazed up at Alfie with her best haughty look. “Who am I?”

  “Cruella Deville?” he guessed.

  She rolled her eyes. “Imagine the cat is orange.”

  “That doesn’t help.”

  “Orange cat,” she said. “Tiara. Cigarette holder.”

  “Yes, I can see all of that.”

  “Think old.”

  Alfie’s eyes ignited. “Oh. Mrs. Keegan.”

  Ren’s mouth dropped open. “The high school Spanish teacher? That Mrs. Keegan?”

  “Yeah,” Alfie said.

  “No.” Ren slapped his arm. “I’m from a movie, you idiot.”

  “Mrs. Hannigan?” Alfie asked. Ren shook her head. “Mrs. Doubtfire?”

  “Alfie.” She clenched her teeth so hard it hurt her jaw. “Use your head.”

  “Um,” he looked her up and down, then shrugged. “I give up.”

  She tossed the cigarette holder back on the shelf. “I was Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

  “Roman Holiday has always been my favorite Hepburn,” Alfie said, turning over a statuette of an ancient Egyptian with only one arm intact.

  She scrunched up her nose. “I could have sworn your favorite was Breakfast, because of the writer.”

  “It’s definitely up there on the list,” Alfie said. “But, no.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly have access to a moped and a cone of gelato, so…” She moved down the aisle. Fished through a small pile of objects that consisted of a porcelain plate with Elvis Presley’s face on it, a few wrinkled handkerchiefs and a gold pocket watch. An intricate Celtic knot was engraved into the cover. She clicked it open. The face was in pristine condition. Shimmering marble with gold Roman numerals. She immediately thought of Peter and his wall of clocks. She bet he would go crazy for it.

  “Richard,” came a familiar voice down the back hallway.

  Ren froze. Her hand curled around the pocket watch, her heart beating thick in her palm, drumming against the metal.

  Meredith.

  Ren had never seen her stepmother give Richard’s Antiques a second glance, let alone step foot inside the shop. Ren grabbed Alfie by the shirt sleeve and dragged him behind the shelf with her. She ducked down so that only her eyes peeked out over the top of the antiques.

  “What is it?” Alfie asked.

  “Shh,” Ren said as Meredith click-clacked into view, her blonde curls bobbling.

  “I’m going now,” Meredith said, stopping in front of the counter to talk to Richard.

  “I bet they’re lovers,” Alfie whispered. Ren punched him in the arm. Twice.

  “You’re sick,” she said.

  “Did everything work out okay for you?” Richard asked.

  “Yes,” Meredith said, reaching into her purse. She snapped open her wallet and slid Richard a one-hundred-dollar bill. “It was perfect.”

  “What is she paying him for?” Ren whispered.

  “I told you,” Alfie began, but Ren glared at him and cracked her knuckles. That shut him up.

  “Same time tomorrow?” Richard asked.

  “I’ll be here,” Meredith said, then started toward the door. “Goodbye, Richard.”

  “Later days,” Richard said, then set back to work immediately on his Hummel.

  When the bell on the door clanged and a flash of Meredith’s curls whisked past the front window, Ren stepped out from behind the shelf. She marched straight up to the counter.

  “What was that?” she demanded.

  “What was what?” Richard asked.

  “Why was Meredith here?”<
br />
  Alfie shuffled up beside her. As she and Richard conversed, she caught Alfie in the peripheral vision of her good eye twisting his head back and forth, between them, like a tennis match.

  “No reason,” Richard said. He pointed to the pocket watch curled into Ren’s fist. “Are you gonna pay for that?”

  Ren put the watch on the counter and gave Richard a wrinkled twenty-dollar-bill. She kept on about Meredith. “She paid you one-hundred-dollars, Rich. There must be a reason.”

  “It’s none of your business,” Richard said. He handed her a receipt, no change. She slid the watch into the pocket of her jean jacket.

  “She’s my stepmom. She’s technically family,” she said. “So, it is my business.”

  “It’s confidential,” Richard said. “Family or not.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Sorry, kid. I took an oath.”

  “An antique keeper’s oath?” she asked. “Customer-owner confidentiality or some bullshit like that?”

  “Watch your language,” Richard said. “Other customers could be browsing. They don’t want to hear your filthy mouth.”

  “Come on, Rich,” she said. “Why was Meredith coming in the back door?”

  “She wasn’t coming in the back door,” he said. “She was coming up from the basement.”

  Ren grinned, ear to ear. “What was she doing down there?”

  Richard shook his bald head. “I ain’t saying another word.”

  “You can trust me,” she said.

  The old man was silent. He adjusted his glasses and drew a thin line of super glue around the break in the broken Hummel’s arm.

  “Richard,” she pried.

  Richard started to whistle. It was a tune she didn’t recognize. Sounded jazzy. He pressed the detached, ceramic arm against the glue, not uttering a word.

  “Fine,” she said. “Don’t tell me. I’ll just go down there myself.”