The Furies

by Katie Lowe

  I shook my head, feeling a sob swell in my chest, the hot stab of it. ‘Don’t, Robin.’

  ‘She thinks we murdered Emily.’

  A sharp intake of breath. ‘What?’ Alex whispered, softly.

  ‘She thinks we murdered her, and—’ She laughed, a cruel bark. ‘She thinks that’s so, so cool. So cool, in fact, that she nearly killed a guy, last night, just to prove she’s one of us.’

  ‘No, I didn’t— I—’ I stumbled, the situation spiralling, lost to me.

  ‘Why would you—’ Alex began.

  ‘You don’t understand. I didn’t—’

  ‘Don’t lie, Violet,’ Robin spat. ‘You’re pathetic at it.’

  I stared at her, stunned. ‘I’m not lying. I—’

  ‘Yes, you are.’ She stepped towards me, her breath hot, ammoniac; I felt the cut on my hand begin to bleed, my own nails clawing deep. ‘You’re a liar,’ she said. ‘A filthy, ugly, slutty liar, and—’

  ‘Robin, stop. Stop.’ Grace put a hand on her shoulder, and she wheeled around, knocking Grace backwards.

  ‘And you—’ Robin wiped her hand on her shirt, a bloody stain on white. ‘You act like you’re so innocent and sweet, just because Daddy’s a—’

  I heard the glass shatter before I realized what had happened, the movement so fast I wondered if she’d done it with the sheer force of her anger. Robin turned and looked at the broken window, Alex’s hand still raised and trembling.

  The four of us stood in silence, the realization a piercing, bitter horror. The devouring, fanged cruelties; the Furies, the girls we’d become.

  The door opened with a creak, and we turned, caught. Annabel looked at us, blankly, and sighed. ‘Girls,’ she said, coldly. ‘You should go home.’

  I looked at Alex and Grace, expecting them to say something – an apology, an excuse – but they stared down at the floor, Alex’s fists still clenched tight.

  ‘Go,’ Annabel said, finally. ‘All of you. Go home and get some sleep. You are excused.’

  I sat at the foot of the stairs, the TV too loud in the living room: an advert for some children’s toy whirring. I caught my mum’s thought in the air as it passed: It was a thing Anna would’ve liked. Would’ve clung to, selfishly, shoulders braced and tiny arms flecked with marks as she hid it out of view – as though by looking at it, we were stealing it away.

  The phone was still in the drawer. I pulled it out, rested it on my knees at the foot of the stairs; dialled Robin’s number, picked at the wallpaper as it rang, and rang, and rang, almost hypnotic in its steady rhythm. I closed my eyes, rested my head against the wall. ‘The person you have dialled cannot be reached at this time,’ a clipped voice said, abruptly. I clicked redial, waited again. ‘The person you have dialled cannot be reached at this time.’

  I clicked redial again, and it rang: four, five rings. And then, a muffled click. A silence. The cold whirr of the dial tone. I dialled again, entering the numbers carefully, whispering them aloud as I pressed each key. It didn’t ring. Just a steady beep, beep, beep. There was someone there – and they’d cut me off. I swallowed, throat raw, jaw stiff and cracking. Robin’s phone had caller ID.

  I heard Mum move in the living room and rolled heavily back to my feet. I didn’t want to talk – not to her. Not now. I took the phone, unspooling the cord behind me as I dragged it up the stairs, as far as it would reach. She’ll call back, I told myself, stumbling back to bed, door open just a crack, so I could hear. She’ll call back, soon. She has to.

  But the phone didn’t ring.

  The next day, I made weak tea in a dirty cup, and drank it in bed, where I sat cross-legged, surrounded by books, whose glossy prints swam in front of my vision, lush greens and blues, bodies naked and fat and joyous. I could barely remember what the coursework project was: simply that I’d checked these books out, weeks earlier, in an attempt at ‘research’.

  The phone rang. I jumped up, and ran to the top of the stairs, answering with a breathless, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Good morning! Is that Miss Violet Taylor?’ a voice said, cheerfully.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, feeling my heart stop, a moment, and snap back into some offbeat rhythm. I didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t her. Wasn’t them.

  ‘I’m Daniel Mitchell, from the Evening News,’ he said. ‘I was wondering if you had a minute for a quick chat.’

  I froze. ‘What about?’

  ‘You’re a student at Elm Hollow, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, flatly, steeling my voice.

  ‘Good. It’s a great school, isn’t it?’

  I didn’t reply. He went on. ‘I’m told you were receiving some “one-on-one” tuition from Mr Holmsworth – the Dean of Students, who recently passed away?’

  I flinched. Who had given him my name? And why?

  ‘I thought you might be able to answer a few questions for me. If you’re not too busy, that is?’

  It could have been anyone, I supposed, one of Nicky’s friends, caught up in the excitement, alighting on my name as a way to differentiate herself or the others – a sliver of gossip so minute as to have been overlooked, attention instead squarely on the others.

  But it could, too, have been one of them: Alex, perhaps, trying to deflect some roving eye onto me. Why? I thought, nervously. What would that achieve?

  ‘Miss Taylor?’ the voice said again, distracting me from my thoughts.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, clearing his throat. ‘I’d be curious to know whether you felt like he was acting in any way strangely in the run-up to his death. Any suspicious behaviour, anything like that?’

  ‘I don’t … I don’t know.’

  ‘You were reasonably close, weren’t you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You must have had quite a close working relationship to … Well, for him to drive you home late at night. You must have felt you could trust him. And he you,’ he added, his tone bright, despite what seemed like a sliver of implication in it, which cut cold through my skin.

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Can’t reveal my sources, you know.’

  I thought of Alex’s reaction when Robin had told her about the ride: the accusation, the threat in her tone. Who else could have known? Who else would it be?

  ‘They’re lying,’ I said, coldly.

  ‘Is that so?’ he said, as though the question were rhetorical, a theory needing thought. ‘It really doesn’t matter if you did – get a lift with him, I mean. You’re not in any trouble. If anything, I’m trying to work out if your other teachers should have … Well, should have known.’

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘That there might well have been some kind of …’ He clicked his tongue, thoughtfully. ‘Some kind of predator on your school campus.’ I wondered if his way of speaking – the mid-sentence pause, the repetition – was a tic, or an odd journalistic technique, delivered for effect.

  ‘I know you’ve been through rather a lot already, Miss Taylor,’ he went on, filling the silence. ‘I imagine you’re still reeling from the loss of your father – an accident, was it?’ I felt the floor shudder underfoot, gripped the bannister for support. ‘And to lose your little sister at the same time – awful. Really awful. So I can’t imagine how you must be feeling about this near miss. And Violet – may I call you Violet?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay then. Miss Taylor it is. But you know, it’s okay to be scared. Anyone would—’

  ‘I’m not scared,’ I said, flatly.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I’m not scared. Not of him.’ I paused (my own dramatic pause, now – I wondered if it was catching, this strange inflection). ‘I’m scared of other people, yes,’ I said, the words seeming to gather their own momentum, beyond my control. ‘But I was never scared of him. You’re being lied to, sir. By whoever told you what you think you know. If I were you, I’d go back and talk to them.’


  I hung up, the phone hitting the receiver with a clatter, hands shaking. What was that about? I thought, with a creeping horror. What are they doing now?

  I peered through the window of Robin’s front room, saw my reflection peering back, threw a handful of gravel at her window, as she’d done so many times at mine. After the call, I’d dialled her number over and over again, with no response. I’d tried Grace, too; then Alex. Feverish with panic, my thoughts crushed into one another like waves against the docks, fear rolling in, chased away by sheer force of will, the rushing, endless chant: They wouldn’t tell. They wouldn’t.

  But the will hadn’t been enough. I’d staggered down the stairs, thrown my bag over my shoulder, and walked, knees shaking and calves wracked with every step. It was mid-afternoon, and the coffee shop was almost empty, Dina perched behind the counter with a book. ‘Have you seen them?’ I asked, breathlessly. She stared at me, coldly, and shook her head. ‘Not all week.’ She shrugged. ‘Long may it continue.’

  I walked the pier, the mildewing creep of evening clotting in the air. The mermaid, too, was surrounded by kids who seemed younger, unfathomably younger, than us (though, I supposed, it couldn’t have been by much. I simply felt older, ground down by experience: burned out and shucked away). The gates to Alex’s house were locked, the buzzer hissing unanswered, lights off inside, and Grace’s house looked empty from the street, though I was too afraid to knock.

  Robin’s, then, was the last place I tried.

  ‘Excuse me,’ a voice said, the front door opening with a crack. ‘You might have rung the bell.’ I recognized Robin’s mum from the photos I’d seen in the hall: homely, in a way I’d always wished my own mum could be; giving the impression of one whose hugs would be soft, reassuring. She looked me up and down with something resembling disgust, and I felt suddenly, briefly ashamed; aware of myself, shadowed with exhaustion.

  ‘Mrs Adams?’ I said, offering a wide, apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone was home.’

  She stared at me, saying nothing.

  ‘I was looking for Robin?’ I said, my cadence rising, as it so often did in front of adults. (I’d been corrected, often, at my old school for doing just this – yet at Elm Hollow nobody seemed to mind. Our teachers’ minds, I supposed, were on loftier ideals – leaving such things among the pitifully minor concerns of the public-school teacher whose aspirations have long dried up.)

  ‘And you are?’ she said, crossing her arms across her broad chest, a button in the centre about to burst.

  ‘Violet Taylor. Nice to … nice to meet you,’ I said, nervously.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So you’re the famous Violet.’

  I nodded, a little swell of pride blooming in my chest. ‘Yes, Miss.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Violet,’ she said, stepping back towards the door. ‘Robin isn’t home. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call again.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t want you in my home. I don’t want you anywhere near my daughter.’ She slammed the door shut, and I stepped forward, too late, the glass panel shaking with the force of her on the other side.

  I knocked, once, then again; slammed my palms against the door. ‘Mrs Adams!’ I shouted, a crack in my voice. ‘Robin?’

  The door swung open again, and I stepped back, caught by surprise. A man stood in the doorway, Mrs Adams lurking just behind, the expression on her face one of satisfaction, of victory. The man looked down at me with eyes I recognized: Robin’s.

  ‘Who are you?’ I said, belligerently.

  He laughed, the same mocking scoff I’d heard from Robin, endlessly. ‘You should go, Violet.’

  ‘Who are you?’ I asked, again, the realization creeping, tendrils black and cruel. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I’m her father,’ he said, his voice calm, flat. Patronizing.

  I remembered our first conversation, first moment of closeness: ‘Hey! My dad’s dead, too,’ she’d said, and I’d apologized for bringing it up. It was impossible. She wouldn’t.

  ‘Her stepfather?’

  He raised his brow; I felt the briefest flicker of satisfaction, noting his surprise. ‘No. Her father. Now please,’ he said. ‘It is time for you to leave.’

  He closed the door again, and I beat my hands against it, furiously. I caught myself, suddenly, pressed against the door; felt ashamed of the violence of it. Turned around, walked across the lawn, crushing flowers in their carefully laid beds as I stepped into the street. I looked up at the windows, a mobile of paper birds hanging Technicolor in Robin’s, the notes we’d passed hung with invisible threads. ‘Robin!’ I called, throat scratching with old smoke and sickness; the curtains below twitched, Mrs Adams’ shadow darkening the door.

  ‘What was that about?’ a voice said as I stepped back into the street.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Nicky,’ I said. ‘What are you doing? Are you … Are you following me?’

  She snorted. ‘No. God, no. I’m sure you’re super interesting and all, but … No. My boyfriend lives just up there.’ She gestured up the hill, towards the townhouses that overlooked the rest of the town. ‘But seriously – what have you done to piss her off?’ she added, undeterred.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said, walking away, Nicky tripping along just behind.

  ‘I always thought her mum was kind of nice. Unlike her,’ she added, pointedly.

  ‘Oh yeah – she seems it.’

  ‘She’s a teacher. She was at my primary school, but I wasn’t in her class, although Johanna was, and she always said …’

  I stopped listening. What just happened? I thought, still burning hot with anger. And where is she if she’s not at home? My thoughts seemed to trail one another into the dark, as I tried to piece together what had happened, Nicky still chattering endlessly beside me. Maybe she’s at the clinic again, I thought, though I didn’t believe it; relived instead the way Alex and Grace had stared, open-mouthed, when Robin had told them what we’d done. What I’d done. They wouldn’t tell anyone about that, I thought, as my mind volleyed back: Would they?

  ‘Come on, Violet. It’s going to be so fun.’

  I swatted Nicky away. ‘I hate those guys.’

  ‘Which guys?’ She straightened a little as we passed a shop window, flicked out her hair, two thick strands stuck sweating between her shoulders. A car beeped as it passed; she flattened her skirt against her legs and giggled, a clumsy imitation Monroe.

  ‘All of them. They’re gross.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘If you like girls, you can just say it, you know.’

  ‘I don’t like girls.’

  ‘Alright, alright,’ she said, smiling. ‘Just … Well, I don’t think they’re gross. They’re just boys. But it’s going to be such a good party. Everyone’s going to be there.’ She paused. ‘Well, almost everyone.’

  I sighed, knowing I was being teased, knowing she was about to tell me something she knew I’d want to know. I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction, and yet … ‘What do you mean?’ I said, at last.

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe you know more about it than I do already. They’re your friends, after all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, Verity Farron said she saw the police at Alex’s house yesterday morning. She and Grace haven’t been at school since.’

  It was as though the world had stopped; the street pulled back with a sickening lurch. ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘So weird.’ She paused. ‘Anyway, are you coming or not?’

  ‘Where?’

  She nudged my shoulder with a fist. ‘The party.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Duh, Violet. You are so scatty. I don’t know how you get from one moment to the next.’

  I took a deep breath, steadied myself. ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I pointed to the street we’d just passed. ‘Doesn’t your boyfriend live up there?’

  ‘I was just keeping you company,’ she s
aid, smiling. ‘But I can take a hint. I’ll see you around, Vivi.’ She reached up and kissed my cheek, gently; I didn’t move, couldn’t. Violet, I thought, stiffly. Only Robin calls me Vivi.

  That night, I dialled her number three times, four; no answer. On the fifth, it didn’t ring. I pictured Mrs Adams pulling the cord from the wall, pulled taut between fat fingers, skin carved white with bleach. ‘Bitch,’ I said, staring into the receiver. ‘You absolute bitch,’ I said, again.

  I knew I wasn’t helping matters; wondered if it was a kind of harassment, this constant calling. Whether she’d call the police, if the girls hadn’t called them already. If they hadn’t told them what we’d done – the three of them, stories matched to counter everything I could possibly say, making the murder mine, and mine alone.

  I sat on the floor, pinching the skin on my stomach between finger and thumb, missing the comfort of who I’d been before: childish, soft, all puppy fat and soft joints. I didn’t recognize myself now, the rounds of my knees turned sharp and squared off; bony feet and hands, mechanics and pulse beat visible through skin. How I’d let myself become this person I didn’t know – it was a process that seemed as easy as falling, absorbed with thoughts of the girls, of being one of them: of skipped meals and neat drinks and moments passed forgetting.

  And all, it seemed, for nothing. I’d given all of myself away, both soul and flesh. All I could do was wait.

  I shuffled downstairs, made a cup of tea (the milk sour, bags sticky with damp), and sat on the sofa next to Mum, who eyed me nervously, as though afraid of what new cruelty I might inflict upon her. I reached for the remote, and flicked through channels aimlessly, looking for some mindless distraction. The air was thick with sour breath and rotting food, a plate upturned on the side-table, chips in mayonnaise turned translucent, sticky with decay. I bit my lip; tasted blood, the bitter acid in my throat.

  Mum reached gingerly for my foot, and squeezed, and for a moment I wanted to tell her everything: to confess it all, and start again. I wanted to bury my forehead in her bony shoulders, let her run her fingers through my hair; wanted her to hold me, as she’d done before, and tell me I was a sweetheart. Her sweetheart.