The Furies

by Katie Lowe

  She stood, frozen, staring back. ‘Robin,’ I hissed. ‘Come on.’

  She looked at me, briefly, and then grinned – that too-familiar grin, white hot with suggestion. ‘Nah,’ she said. ‘Come on. I’ve got an idea.’ She rubbed her hands together like a cartoon villain, as Vincent Price cackled again. I snorted, the candy-floss sweetness catching in my throat.

  She walked over, and I followed, a few steps behind. I looked again at the shirt, his eyes following mine; he brushed at it as though rubbing an invisible stain, beer splashing from the open bottles as he did so.

  ‘Hey there, mister,’ Robin said, her voice sweet, coy; young. ‘Who are those beers for?’

  He smiled – overconfident, one chipped tooth revealing itself. ‘People old enough to drink.’

  ‘Great,’ she said, reaching for the bottles. He raised them high in the air, mockingly. She turned back to me. ‘Well, this one’s clearly all talk.’

  ‘Typical,’ I said, playing along, hoping he didn’t hear the nervous catch in my voice. ‘Let’s go.’

  He lowered the beers, licking at a spot on his hand. ‘You can have them,’ he said. ‘But then you owe me.’

  ‘Pfffft.’ Robin rolled her eyes. ‘Not interested. Thanks.’ She began walking away, lit gold by the Ferris wheel glowing behind. The rolling lights seemed to be moving a little too fast, dizzyingly bright. I closed my eyes.

  ‘I’m just teasing,’ he said, quickly. ‘God. Don’t like to play, do you?’

  ‘Are you kidding? I love games.’ She took two bottles in a single snatch, and handed one to me. ‘Wanna ride the big wheel?’

  He looked at me, neither of us completely sure who she was speaking to. ‘You do it,’ I said, taking a sip from the bottle – lukewarm, his thumbprint on the rim. The very thought of being off the ground made my stomach roll up into my chest. ‘I need a break.’

  She grabbed his arm. ‘Alright. Take me … What’s your name?’

  ‘Mike,’ he said. She snorted, and he blushed. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Come on.’

  They stumbled up the metal steps, footsteps seeming to echo through my teeth. I sat on the bottom step, only to be brushed away by a park attendant; walked across to the Wurlitzer, and leaned against the side, feeling the ride’s steady rumble behind me. I closed my eyes, and waited for the nausea to pass. I fumbled in my pockets for the wrap I’d had earlier, but it was gone – no doubt stolen back by Robin’s creeping hands.

  When I opened my eyes, they were high in the air, her legs pressed up against his in the yellow car, swinging playfully back and forth. She was saying something, her face animated – playing her most utterly charming self. By the time they reached the ground, the two of them were arm in arm, whispering and giggling (he possessed an oddly high-pitched laugh, like a child’s).

  She gestured to me to follow, and I felt a twinge of envy, a little tug in my chest – as I always did, whenever anyone who wasn’t Alex or Grace captured Robin’s attention (and even, sometimes, when they did – though I wouldn’t admit this at the time). I’d come to blame – superstitiously, I suppose, or merely as an excuse – the bonding spell, the scar in my palm that still shone silver-white that occasionally wrenched me from sleep with a sharp, vivid pain, which disappeared the moment I opened my eyes. It’s why I want it to be just us, I told myself. Because we’re one person when we’re alone. In hindsight, however, beyond the white-hot flush of youthful jealousy, I suppose it was just that. Still, at the time, I felt it, the frustration coiling heavy in my chest as I followed them from one stall to the next.

  ‘I’m going to go,’ I said, as he missed his third throw on the coconut shy. I’d hoped to sound cool, nonchalant – but as I heard myself speak, the tone was that of a petulant child left out of some playground game.

  She spun around. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going. I’m not just going to be your third wheel while you cheat on Andy.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘You hate Andy.’

  ‘Yeah, but still … I’m tired. I want to go.’

  ‘No, you don’t. You just need a second wind. And anyway, a)—’ she raised one finger ‘—me and Andy are over.’

  ‘For real this time?’

  ‘Wow. Thanks for the sympathy.’

  ‘I just mean—’

  She hissed, raised another finger. ‘And b),’ she said, with a quick glance over her shoulder, a playful smile at Mike, who was purchasing three more tokens for the game, determined to win her a toy. ‘You don’t really think I’m going to sleep with him, do you?’

  ‘Well, you’re acting like you’re going to.’

  ‘After what he said? Fuck that.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘“Hey, ladies,”’ she said, in a low, nasal voice. ‘“Wanna ride my dick?”’

  ‘I told you to ignore him,’ I said, rolling my eyes. ‘You were the one that wanted to …’

  ‘Wanted to what?’

  I shrugged. ‘Give him what he wanted.’

  ‘You seriously think that’s what I’m doing?’ She groaned. A passing child pointed and laughed, and she made a face at him, pulling her bottom lip with her fingers, revealing gums burning red, receding from teeth. ‘Christ, Violet,’ she said, as his mother pulled him stumbling away. ‘How thick are you?’

  ‘Well, what are you—’

  ‘Wait and see. Just …’ She wrapped her palms around my wrists, threading her index finger under my bracelet. ‘Please stay? Pretty please?’

  I knew I would. Still, I pretended to waver, looking over her shoulder at Mike, who was trying to persuade the stall attendant to let him buy a toy outright. ‘Fine,’ I said, at last. ‘But if you start making out, I’m leaving.’

  She leaned in, kissed me on the cheek. ‘Deal. Now let’s get this idiot out of here before he hurts himself.’ She turned to him. ‘Are you trying to cheat?’ she said, playfully, every phrase sharpened to a point. ‘What a fucking loser.’

  She hooked her arm through his, and leaned in, her hair brushing his shoulders, a move I knew well. I’d been on the receiving end of it many times, as she wheedled some class prep out of me, or tried to persuade me to come and do something stupid and irresponsible. It always worked. It was working now. ‘Let’s go back to your house,’ she said, looking up at him.

  ‘Why?’ he said, pulling away a little.

  ‘Because I don’t want to spend all night surrounded by screaming kids.’

  He stopped, raised an eyebrow; wobbled a little in place. ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Old enough to know better.’

  I laughed, in spite of myself, at the line – ridiculous, overblown, like something from a bad film – a laugh that made the two of them turn to me, briefly, as though surprised to find me there. ‘Come on,’ I said, feeling my cheeks turn pink. ‘Let’s go.’

  He stared at me a moment, then looked back at Robin, eyes glassy in the light. ‘Okay,’ he said, finally, and the two of them began walking ahead, footsteps out of rhythm, stumbling a little as they tried to keep a single pace.

  I rooted numbly through my pockets, wondering if Robin might have dropped a wrap or something in there. (She was always without a coat, except in the coldest weather, when she’d be wrapped in tattered fur, patchy with overuse, using my pockets to store the things too small for her bag, or too big to be tucked inside her bra. Sometimes, in the mornings, I’d wake up with pieces of her in there – little trinkets, treasures dusty with sand, pieces of paper folded into angular creatures. She’d never asked for any of them back, and so my dresser drawer was filled with them, a piecemeal gallery of half-remembered nights.)

  Tonight, however, there was nothing. Each step out of the vivid bloom of the fair seemed to pull me a little further down, my eyes seeming to burrow deeper into my skull as the darkness drew in. ‘How far is it?’ I asked, softly; either they didn’t hear, or they chose not to respond.

  By the time we reached his flat (in a weath
er-beaten concrete block, stairwells reeking and slippery underfoot), the two of them seemed a world unto themselves, his hands occasionally moving from her shoulder to the small of her back and below. She didn’t push him away, but feigned a stumble, his arm reset around her neck; I cringed each time their dance began again.

  He unlocked a dark-green door, paint chipped and peeling, and held it open for the two of us. When I lingered, he shrugged and followed Robin inside, while I waited, counting the seconds, willing away the looming sickness. I’d collapsed into a lull that made the air crackle uncomfortably at my skin, waves of goosebumps rising and falling with each step – that bleak hour when one wonders why on earth it all seemed so appealing and you vow (on the lives of second-tier friends and relatives, just in case) to never again so much as consider drink, drugs, or any other vice. The ascetic life, or a transfer to either nunnery or prison, seems – for a little while – an alluring idea.

  Robin’s head peered around the doorway. ‘Come on,’ she hissed, reaching for my hand, pulling me in, the crushed black wings of her eyeliner crumbling at the points.

  I remember the musty, fetid smell of damp; the green-painted walls, dull, Formica countertops; the brown corduroy sofa, battered and stained; the dirty lino floors that squeaked underfoot. A skateboard, propped by the door, under a pile of scuffed shoes and tattered trainers. Dim streetlight orange oozing through the windows, draped with yellowing blinds.

  ‘Nice place, huh?’ Robin whispered, turning to me.

  ‘Lovely,’ I said. ‘Can we go now?’

  She looked around, casting eyes up and down. ‘Hey, Mike … Got any booze?’

  He slumped on the sofa, and pointed to the top of the fridge, where several half-empty bottles sat, sticky with dust. Robin took my hand, and we stood, rifling through the bottles. ‘Peach fucking schnapps?’ she said, turning to him. ‘You gay or something?’ He clicked the remote, the room flickering as the PlayStation whooshed to life, music crackling from the TV as he picked up a controller and began to play.

  ‘Nerd,’ she whispered to me.

  ‘I think we should leave,’ I hissed back.

  ‘I think you should relax.’ She pulled out a tiny bag of powder, a yellow face grinning on the front, and poured it onto the glass chopping board, splitting the parts with a steady knife click. I looked around and spotted a grubby bottle of vodka on a high shelf. I climbed onto the counter, grease sticking to my knees and palms, and handed it down to Robin.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ she said. She clicked the cap, and took a sip, grimacing as she swallowed; handed the bottle to me, shaking her head. ‘Salud,’ she said, as I tipped my head back, the lukewarm vodka burning the cut-apart ridges of my mouth. I winced; closed my eyes tight, seeing stars, and leaned against the sink, bending backwards slowly, feeling every vertebra crack.

  Music began to hiss from the stereo, overlapping with the roar of cars and horns coming from the TV. She spun the wheel, and the volume rocketed, rattling the plates and cutlery reeking in the sink. I stepped away, dizzy, the rhythm still thudding between my fingernails, and flopped down beside Mike on the sofa. He didn’t notice, too absorbed in the fizzing lights of the game.

  Robin sat on his other side, the board on her lap, scratching out white lines on the surface. She nudged him, once, then again with more force; the car skidded off the road and he groaned, set down the controller as she handed him the board. ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘Party fuel.’ Her eyes flickered to me, then back to him. ‘Go on,’ she said, rolling a note between her fingers. ‘Or are you scared?’

  He snatched the note, rolled it a little tighter. In the glass, I saw his features turn mask-like, exaggerated, as he leaned over, adjusted himself, and took a phlegmy, sickening snort. He shook his head, eyes closed, and passed the board to me, before Robin pulled it away. ‘She doesn’t want any of this.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I said, reaching for the board. ‘Give it to me.’

  She stood, eyes narrowed, and placed the board on the floor, a cloud of powder swelling with the impact. ‘Violet, listen to me. You need to sit this one out.’ She turned to him. ‘So what do you do?’

  I don’t recall his answer; had already lost interest (more accurately, I was never interested – though I suppose had he said something vaguely interesting I might have paid more attention). I plucked the vodka from the table, and took another sip, rolling it around my tongue, my anger petulant, childish. Slowly, I shuffled forward. She can’t tell me what to do, I thought, bitterly.

  As I rose to stand, he gripped my wrist tight, thumb pressed between bones. ‘What the—’ I began, wrenching my arm away. He didn’t loosen his grip. For a split second, I felt the crush of branches underneath, the hands pressed against my shoulders, collarbone straining beneath; blinked back to the moment, and turned to him, my free hand peeling his fingers away. His eyes bloodshot, pupils like pinpricks, he swallowed, shook his head, and coughed. I pulled again, and he let go, leaning back into the well of the chair and closing his eyes.

  I looked at Robin, then back at him, as a single streak of blood rolled from his nose to his chin.

  I looked at her again, her mouth open, tongue set between teeth. ‘Robin … What the hell did you just do?’

  I suppose there are moments, best (or at least most commonly) experienced in the heady years of adolescence, when a girl decides who – or what – she is going to be.

  Girls who chase boys, who twirl their hair and walk through clouds of chain-store perfume, learning their allure. Girls who like books, who revel in their solitude, and lonely girls who don’t; girls who eat, and girls who don’t. Girls with piercings, tattoos, scars. Angry girls, who bare their teeth and scratch at their arms. Unironic boy-band pink-clad girls, who scream and wail and live in every breath. Girls who read Vogue and spend their Saturdays with jealous hands on clothes their allowances won’t afford. Girls who long to be mothers, and their own mothers who long for their youth. Art girls. Science girls. Girls who’ll make it out alive. Girls who won’t.

  And then, there are the invisible girls: the ones nobody thinks to be afraid of. The girls who hide in plain sight, flirting and giggling; girls for whom sugar and spice is a mask. Girls who spark matches and spill battery acid on skin. Girls for whom the rules do not apply.

  I reached for Robin’s arm. ‘Is he …?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘You don’t think—’

  ‘Hang on.’ She leaned over, placed a hand flat against his chest. I felt my breath still for a moment as we waited; almost imperceptibly, her hand rose and fell, and she pulled it away. ‘He’s fine,’ she said, wiping her hand on her skirt.

  ‘He doesn’t look fine,’ I said, watching the beads of sweat forming, one by one, on his forehead, his skin a chalky white. ‘What was that?’

  ‘I don’t know. I found it at Andy’s.’ She snorted, turned to me with a grin. ‘Told you you didn’t want any.’

  ‘Are you seriously laughing right now? He might be—’

  She glared at me. ‘Chill out, Violet. You’re being weird.’

  ‘I’m being weird?’ She parroted the words back in a high-pitched voice, fingers like puppets in the air. My head ached, my skin ablaze, hot with fury.

  ‘Robin, please,’ I said, the words thin, forced (sounding for all the world like her imitation of me, much to my frustration). ‘I don’t think we should be here. We should call an ambulance, and then we should go.’

  ‘They think it’s okay to treat us like shit,’ she said, as though continuing some thought I’d missed. ‘They’re all the fucking same.’

  ‘He didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Are you kidding? He’s got, what—’ She leaned in towards his face, pointing at the sallow spaces under his eyes, the cracks in his damp skin. ‘Ten years on us? And you can’t tell me he didn’t know that, because he asked.’

  ‘And you said old enough!’

  ‘Like he didn’t know better,’ sh
e said, rolling her eyes. ‘Like he couldn’t have said, “You know what, actually, I’m a grown man, and I’m going to take responsibility for my actions, apologize, and walk away from this situation I got myself into.” Please.’

  ‘Oh, because you’re such a great example of taking responsibility for your actions.’ I felt my stomach drop, the words thoughtless, torn from bitter roots.

  She flinched. ‘Excuse me?’

  The CD caught and skipped, a brittle beat; I heard footsteps outside, the two of us frozen as a figure in silhouette passed outside. She stared at me, the tendons in her neck braced, flickering as she leaned over and stopped the disc. ‘Not taking responsibility for what?’ she said, after a moment.

  I looked down at the floor, a scuff mark black in the tile. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘Tell me what you meant, Violet.’

  ‘No.’ I heard my own voice, petulant, like a child facing a furious parent; closed my eyes as she stepped towards me, fists clenched tight, knuckles pressing through flesh. She sighed, the tension seeming to ease from her and into the air, prickling my skin.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, quietly. She reached out and placed her thumb on the white scar in my palm, nail catching in the nook. ‘Please, Violet. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  I sighed, not looking up. ‘When we were at the Dean’s house … I found something. In the garage.’

  She said nothing, though her hand seemed to tighten, just a little, around mine. I went on. ‘He’d been writing about … Well, about you. And Alex, and Grace. And he said …’

  I trailed off, nervously; looked up. ‘Spit it out,’ she said, her voice cold, eyes flashing golden in the street-lamp glow.

  ‘He said you killed her. The three of you. Because she was going to tell him about the society.’

  She took a long, shuddering inhale, the pause seeming to go on for minutes as I waited for her to speak. A siren howled in the distance, the gulls cackling overhead. ‘That’s what you think?’ she said, softly. ‘You really believe that?’

  I said nothing, willing her to tell me I was wrong. This, the simple act of denial – a laugh, maybe, a giggle – this might have been enough to make me doubt myself. We stared at each other, the room thick with dead air.