by Jade Wright
My head is throbbing from the wine.
I blink back the black spots that blur my vision.
He's wearing dark blue overalls which makes me think he must be the grounds-keeper.
“Shouldn't be here alone,” he mutters, shaking his head repeatedly.
I tell him I'm sorry, watching his tongue sliver over his scraggly moustache.
“Suffer little children who walk on my grave...” the man hisses after me. My skin crawls.
I hurry away, my head pounding.
Low hanging branches lacerate my arms as I fight my way to the gate leading out of the graveyard.
When I reach my sisters place I fall to my knees and sob. I cry for everything I've been holding in for weeks. I cry for my sister and for the other missing girls. I cry for Michael and for all of the hurt he has caused. I cry for my stack of unopened boxes filled with everything that reminds me of the life I used to have.
When I've finally pulled myself together I text Luke.
I just want to feel something. I crave the feeling of being desired.
He sends me his address and tells me to come over. I knew he would.
His place is immaculate.
I'm impressed that someone his age has a place like this.
There's a lot of rustic wooden furniture, vintage leather seats and animal skin rugs. It's simple but classy.
There's a black and white portrait of Dame Ninette de Valois by his liquor cabinet. I'd recognise her anywhere.
She was the founder of Royal Ballet back in the thirties. I'm impressed he has something so special up on his wall. He really must have a deep-rooted passion for ballet.
I tease him about two bright floral pillows that he insists his mother bought him as a house-warming gift. They look atrociously out of place.
At first glance the place seems too good to be true but as I wander around I start noticing little things here and there. There's no hand-soap in the guest bathroom and most of the cupboards are bare.
I open his fridge and have to laugh. There's one unopened low-carb beer at the top and a plate with a huge half-eaten lamb knuckle on it.
There are a few bottles of different hot sauce and a small carton of almond milk that's out of date. I want to ask him where all his stuff is but he comes up behind me and starts planting kisses down my neck. I let him lead me to the bedroom.
I'm cupping his balls in my hand and listening to him groan into my hair.
It's still weird touching another man after years of being with Michael.
Luke's dick is smaller. Not bad, but definitely smaller.
It's an awful feeling to be disappointed in its size.
At least he knows how to use it.
I wonder when the memory of Michael's body will disintegrate. I wish it would hurry up.
Comparison is the thief of joy, as Theodore Roosevelt once said. Having only been with one guy for so many years, it's hard for me not to compare.
Luke is nothing like Michael. He's barely got any hair on him.
I'd often run my fingers through Michael's hair while I lay on his chest, my head slowly moving up and down with his breathing.
Luke doesn't even have hair on his legs. He's chiselled and toned, he doesn't have the slight beer belly Michael was always complaining about.
It's a body so young and foreign to me. I don't actually know if I like it.
Luke nips at my neck, jolting me back into the present moment. He runs his baby soft hands down my back, across my hips and lands his fingers right on my clit.
He starts to rub vigorously until I quake into him.
My orgasm is fierce, angry. So much pent up frustration releases from me in uncontrollable spasms.
I gasp, clawing at his sweaty back while he flips me onto my stomach and squirts all over my bare back.
I collapse onto my stomach over the damp sheets, stained with us. It felt hurried, quick. Just what I needed.
He grabs his t-shirt and wipes his warm juices off of me.
He isn't a cuddler, which I'm strangely happy with. I'm not really ready to get affectionate with another guy in that way yet.
He can be incredibly affectionate before and during sex, but when it's over he jumps up and moves on to something else.
Now he heads into the shower. The steam leaks through the door, slowly filling his bedroom. It steams up his windows so I can't see outside.
I roll over, content in his bed, enjoying the smell of sex on my skin.
Like most of his house, his room is pristine despite the mangled bedsheets.
I'm so curious about him that I can't quite help myself when I peep into his bedside cabinet.
I recognise it immediately, the pink leather embossed with her initials.
R.I.B.
Robyn Isabella Brady.
I touch the gilded edges of my sisters journal. It was hidden beneath old receipts, ripped open condom wrappers and a packet of sleeping tablets.
I can hear Luke humming in the shower, scrubbing himself clean of me.
I take the book out and open it up.
There's a message written in the middle of the first page, a note from our last foster mother.
I have the same message in my own journal that looks exactly the same.
'Journalling is like whispering to one's self and listening at the same time,' - Mina Murray, Dracula.
Robyn wrote in her journal more than me. The pages are full of her swirly writing in black pen.
I fan the pages through to the last entry, dated just over four months ago.
I'm reading fast. The writing isn't as neat as it is on the previous pages.
I catch sight of Luke's name, of the words, 'I can't do this anymore.'
The geyser jolts violently as Luke turns the shower off. I gasp, drop the book back and slam the drawer closed, my breath hitched.
I wrestle my way into my clothes which were strewn around the room.
I'm pulling on my boots when the bathroom door opens. He's stagnant in front of me, a towel hanging loosely on his bony hips.
He leans over me, so closely I can see the iridescent colours in his eyes.
I want to scream, to demand an explanation.
What have you done to my sister?! But I am mute. Frozen.
His breath is hot against my skin.
His touch I found so debilitating just minutes ago now repulses me.
I'm shocked by the sting as his big open hand connects with my side.
He squeezes my love-handle, hard. His look is menacing, not flirtatious at all.
“You'd better get going,” he says, freeing me.
I vault out of his house as fast as my shaking legs will allow.
*
River pants anxiously, nestled between my legs as I stare out of the window.
I haven't left the sofa for hours.
I should go to the police, get a search warrant. Find my sister.
The thing is, I know the police here. They'll seize her journal as evidence and forget about it.
They'll probably end up losing it.
It will disappear just like she did.
They'll question him, he'll lie. They'll let him go.
I cannot let that happen.
Whatever is inside Robyn's journal must hold vital information.
I need to get it from Luke's bedside drawer.
CHAPTER 3
I'm awake before the first ray of sunlight creeps through my curtains.
The clouds hang heavy over the still lagoon, pinks and purples swirling through the morning sky.
I splash cold water onto my face, attempting to ease my bloodshot eyes.
Last night I stared up at the ceiling for hours, feeling the tender parts of me that had been invaded by Luke.
I think of him now, lying in his gigantic four-poster bed... my sisters journal tucked away right next to him.
He has to know what happened to her. Why else would he be keeping it?
A hadeda ibis bird penetrates t
he silence with a guttural squawk. River bolts to the window to chase it away.
As I finish my coffee I think about what I have to do. How I have to be around Luke.
I need him to invite me back to his place so I can get that book. If that means pretending to want him, so be it.
Robyn needs me.
After shovelling some avocado on toast into my mouth I take the short walk to the school, trailing through the graveyard. My brogues crush fallen protea petals scattered from the howling gale as I wind my way around the tombstones.
There's a dank smell all around me, filling my nostrils.
I wrap my coat tightly around me as I hurry on, eager to get away from the stench of death and decay.
I'm somewhat relieved when I make it to the school gates.
There's more people milling around the campus than usual and as I get closer, I notice camera crew amongst the crowd.
My heart plummets, heralding bad news.
Not another one, I hope.
My jaw is clenched.
One of my ballet students, Chloe, darts over to me, forgetting her usual poise.
There are tears in her eyes.
“Ms. Brady, I'm so glad you're here!”
“What's happened?” I ask, looking around for some sort of clue.
“Ms. Evans, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to come with us,” a police officer addresses Chloe.
She doesn't let go of my hands as she bursts into tears.
I'm stunned silent.
“Your parents will meet us at the station,” the officer tells her.
“What's going on here?” I demand, feeling suddenly protective of my student.
Hungry eyes are all around us, wanting the same answers that I do.
“Ms. Evans was attacked in the school parking lot this morning.” It is only now that I notice the scratches and red marks on Chloe's neck.
The buttons on her school shirt have been ripped off.
“We have reason to believe this is related to the disappearances that have taken place lately.”
My stomach drops.
Chloe cowers away from the police, wrapping her arms around herself.
Everything is spinning; the world goes quiet... until my eyes land on him. Luke. Strolling casually up to a group of students, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, heedless of the chaos going on all around him.
When the frenzy of the local media abates, the headmaster calls the entire school faculty and the students to the hall.
I'm perched on a stool beside Cody, listening to the murmur of everyone filling the room.
I catch snippets of conversations. Some girls are accusing Chloe of lying.
“She's such an attention whore,” one girls snarls and a handful of others seem to agree.
Some aren't so sure.
“That's another dancer targeted. Something is definitely going on!”
The names of all the missing girls are mentioned. Robyn's name is among them.
Theories and rumours are spread.
Cody shakes his head at me, a grim expression on his face.
The other teachers chat amongst themselves, none of them looking at me. They've all kept their distance from me since day one.
Cody's the only one who has made the effort. I look down at the watch on his wrist and stare at the hand tick, tick, tick.
“Quiet please,” the headmaster booms as he enters the room.
Everyone shuffles in their seats, stopping mid sentence.
The only sound now is the heavy breathing from everyone waiting on tenterhooks.
Over two hundred pairs of eyes are on the headmaster and teachers.
I can feel their eyes piercing into the back of my neck.
“As I'm sure you're all aware, Chloe Evans was attacked this morning as she arrived in the school parking lot. As she was getting her backpack from the back-seat someone came up behind her and tried to drag her behind the bleachers. She did not get a good look at whoever did this, she said it happened too fast. Her injuries are not serious but she is, understandably, traumatized. Five young ladies have already fallen victim to someone unknown to us. Robyn Brady,” the principal takes a moment to look down at me. I flush, not knowing where to look or how to respond. Cody rubs my shoulder softly.
“Angela Thompson, Corrie Turner, Susan Butterworth and most recently, Jessica Nicholls. Their whereabouts is still under investigation. We cannot lose hope. I can assure you that the police are working tirelessly to find them and the perpetrator behind this. We know these disappearances are all linked. Whoever is doing this seems to be targeting -,” he pauses to clear his throat.
“Dancers.”
The murmurs start up again. Everyone glances over to the remaining ballet students who are practically quivering with fear.
“However,” he shouts over the frenzied whispers.
“I urge you all to take the utmost care both on and off campus. Walk in pairs. Do not isolate yourself. Be vigilant and look out for one another. While we want things to continue on as normally as possible, until this situation has been put to rest certain measures need to be put into place.
The local security company is here to teach you a bit more about safety. I ask you to give these men your undivided attention. I will not allow another student to go missing on my watch. Thank you.”
He exits and allows a group of men kitted out in bullet proof vests, wielding batons and handguns to take over.
I twist in my seat, noticing how the usually glazed eyes of the students are wide open with focus. All except for Luke. He's crouched over in his seat, his phone illuminating an amused smile on his face.
By the end of the day five of my students have quit their roles in our upcoming ballet production, Giselle. We no longer have enough dancers to make this show work.
I can't say I blame them. Their ghostly maiden costumes hang limply from hooks in the dressing room. There is no one dancing to the sweet, ethereal sounds of Adolphe Adam's symphony.
My only hope is that Chloe will come back and take up her role as the peasant girl who falls for a deceitful nobleman, Albrecht, ever so coincidentally played by Luke.
Albrecht causes Giselle to die from a broken heart when she discovers he's betrothed to someone else, despite his seducing her.
It is in the second act that I have lost my dancers.
They were the Wilis, the spirits of maidens who had all died after having their hearts broken. I shiver as I realise how prevalent this story is.
No wonder the girls don't want to dance as ghosts, let alone dance at all.
As the story of Giselle goes on, the ghostly maidens summon Giselle from her grave through dance. They get their revenge on men by dancing them to death.
As the Wilis move on to target Giselle's lover, she saves him and herself from becoming one of them.
I swallow hard as Luke enters the hall, sword in hand.
There's no denying he looks devilishly handsome in his noble finery, leaning against our autumnal backdrop.
“Heard my sweet Giselle won't be in today. What should we do now?” he wiggles an eyebrow at me.
It's just the two of us, alone. I know what he's getting at.
My blood boils but I manage a seductive smile as I saunter over to him. I'm rolling the can of pepper-spray the security company had given to me around in my hand.
They'd donated a can to every student and staff member at the end of their chat with us.
My ruffled blouse has been left open enough to see my cleavage. His eyes fall there unapologetically.
“We can't keep doing this at school, Luke,” I whisper into his ear.
I let him watch me bite my lower lip.
He groans, rearranging himself in his tight leggings.
Steve, Giselle's hilarion, strides into the room, interrupting us. He's wearing a mottled fur costume and a vexing smirk on his face.
His role is the gamekeeper who is also in love with Giselle. He's suspicious
of Albrecht and attempts to warn her but she doesn't listen.
He's still far enough away for me to be able to whisper, “your place after class...”
CHAPTER 4
Luke asks me to sit in the living-room when I get to his place.
For a moment I'm thrown off-guard. I'd expected us to head straight to his bedroom.
I do as I'm told and nod when he offers me a drink.
I have to appear normal. Get him to trust me.
He sits beside me and traces his fingers along my knee. He's sipping on what smells like neat whiskey.
Every part of me wants to shake him off of me but I allow his fingers to creep up my leg.
“Piper, I need to say something,” he looks at me with a seriousness I'm not familiar with. He's usually so playful and cheeky.
I blink up at him, eager to get this over and done with.
“I'm a little worried about you,” he says.
I try to speak, to ask him what he means but he interrupts me.
“This isn't anything serious. You know that right?” he's wincing at his words.
I almost scoff. The little shit thinks I'm falling for him!
I sit upright on the sofa, faltering.
“I've seen the way you look at me. Frankly I think it's becoming a bit obvious to my friends. They keep talking about how you want to... bang me. They can tell. If this is going to continue you really need to be more discreet, babe.”
The nerve of him! His fingers are venturing further north.
However baffled I am, I'm also momentarily humiliated.
The other students are talking about me this way!?
I'm flushed with embarrassment and want to curl into myself until I remember why I'm here. I've got to get that journal.
“Look, Luke-” I say, licking my freshly painted lips.
I force myself to smile at him.
“I definitely don't want this to stop! That's why I said we shouldn't do it at school any more. We both just need to be more careful, right?” I'm running my fingers through his hair, caressing the back of his neck. Goosebumps rise to the surface of his skin. I've got him.
He rests his head against my shoulder, pressing his lips to my collarbone.
