‘Me either,’ said Angelika. ‘She gets on at my stop.’
Ravenswood rubbed his chin.
‘She's probably just late,’ Holly offered.
‘Okaaay,’ Ravenswood said, drawing out the word, his eyes glassy. ‘Moving on. Jez...’
Violet couldn't hide her smile. Rowan's vacancy glowed and hummed. She locked eyes with Holly across the circle and Holly’s mouth was a tight straight line. Violet smirked back and smoothed her hair.
One step closer.
***
VIOLET
‘Act Four Scene One is an iconic scene that everyone should recognise.’ Ravenswood rubbed his hands together. ‘Thunder. Three witches enter.’
Violet, Holly and Lila, the three witches, stood before the white board at the front of the drama room. Violet looked out at the plastic chairs lined up in three rows like a makeshift theatre. The cast were watching, waiting, their attention hitting her face like a harsh spotlight. Ravenswood's forehead was furrowed, Angelika stared back smugly while Wayne yawned and scratched himself.
Violet’s line was first. She inhaled through her nose in preparation but her lungs were clogged. Her chest was as tight as a locked safe. She tried to force her breath down into her diaphragm, a technique from her acting books but the seconds ticked by and she stood there in silence, with their judging eyes on her.
Her pulse accelerated and her mouth was sticky, as if crammed with peanut butter. Real actors get nervous, she reminded herself, even in rehearsal and in front of losers like this. Holly looked across, and the pity on her face forced Violet to blurt out the first stanza.
‘Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.’
Holly was next to speak, and then Lila. Violet puffed her flannelette shirt away from her body to hide her imperfect body, and wrapped her lips over her crooked teeth. A few more months of Saturdays behind the counter at Terri's and she'd have enough to pay for her own braces. Despite whatever her mum said. Her mum didn’t understand and their disagreement was just another example of how Violet could only rely on herself.
It was Violet’s line again.
‘Round about the cauldron go,
In the poisoned entrails throw.’
The poetry rolled off her tongue and a hint of her technique returned. The words resonated and hummed inside her rib cage and her nerves dissolved.
‘Double double toil and trouble,’ the three said in unison.
Despite these famous words, deep down Violet felt hollow. These weren’t her words. Lady Macbeth was scratching under her skin, desperate to get out.
Violet swallowed hard and smacked her lips to moisten her gluey mouth. Lila picked up the next line then Lionel entered the scene.
In a flash, it was Violet’s line again but her memory was blank. The others waited in tense silence. Her stupid brain was letting her down. She'd spent all night learning these lines. She knew every word. Her script lay at her feet on the carpet but she refused to pick it up. Violet’s cheeks burned red as Holly mouthed the next word at her.
‘Speak,’ Violet stuttered.
What was wrong with her? She found her lines again but stumbled and mispronounced sweaten. After another scraping gulp, she repeated the word hoarsely and continued on to the next line.
Her skin was hot and a hammer thumped behind her eyes. She had to concentrate. Every moment was critical, every word crucial. There was so much to focus on: her breathing, the words, the poetry, her marks. They all whirled around and contorted inside her. There were too many things to think about, too much to go wrong.
Violet left her body and floated up to the ceiling. She listened to her own trembling voice as if she was another cast member watching from the back of the room and she was disgusted.
Focus, idiot.
She yearned for the West End or Broadway but she couldn't get through a bit part in a suburban high school play at the arse end of nowhere. Who did she think she was? Did she really think she was so special?
Her voice was so nasal and her tempo stilted. She was flapping her arms and mumbling like a Grade Seven in their first play. Ravenswood was right. Look at her bad teeth, her fat thighs. How could she ever be a leading lady? Ha. Alan Wolf would never even notice her.
Violet’s hands were shaking, and for the first time ever she was grateful for the lines she shared with Holly and Lila, glad to be hidden amongst the others, and relieved to reach her final line.
‘Our duties did his welcome pay.’
The witches exited the scene and Macbeth took up the story. Violet scuttled off stage and slumped back down in her chair in the front row, her head bowed.
She shook her head and laced her fingers through her hair, keeping her eyes on the carpet. Her breathing was ragged in her throat. She was better than this. It was all their fault. All of them. She swivelled in her seat and scrutinised all the others, taking note of each and every face.
But every eye was focused on the blonde imposter, Angelika.
Violet gritted her teeth. They would not drag her down. They would not get to her. She was better than all of them. Hard work would win the day as her mother always said. Violet was not afraid of work. She was not afraid of anything – except a life of mediocrity.
Her perception narrowed as she looked down at the floor, until there was blackness all around her like a tunnel. All her confusion melted away and everything was in sharp focus. She was Lady Macbeth. The limelight was hers. She heard her standing ovation and the adulation raining down on her like a sun-shower.
This is how it is meant to be.
Violet tightened her fists as her power returned, crackling through her body once more.
She knew exactly what she had to do.
***
THE DARK HAND
I have shown you glimpses, given you a taste.
Are you hungry?
I have been waiting for you. Patiently.
The Bard knew exactly what he was doing.
It is not only poetry you hear, the ancient call to me is wrapped up in his words.
He followed my instructions perfectly.
It was part of our deal.
His offering for his eternal fame.
I always keep my bargains. Let his story be a promise to you.
I always keep my bargains.
His name will be known for the rest of time, due to me and our agreement.
I didn't let him down and I'll never let you down.
I keep my promises, unlike them.
So little one, what does your deepest heart desire?
I can help.
I can make it happen.
You know I can.
Chapter 7
HOLLY
Holly heard the fumble in Violet's voice from her first breath. She winced as she watched her friend fray at the seams. Violet stood in a muddle, her insomniac eyes glazed and faraway, her cheeks as red as a post box. Holly even had to prompt her line and she didn't bite her head off. Violet was spiralling downwards fast.
When their long scene was over, Violet slumped into a chair and stared down at her feet. A heavy lump lay in Holly's stomach. In one way, Violet was right. She didn't understand her. She'd never felt such an overwhelming desire for anything. Not like this. Not like her.
‘That wasn't too bad?’ Holly said with a forced grin, as Lionel and Kon, the tall but acne-cheeked Year 9 boy, ended their scene and Angelika stepped up.
‘It was shit. I was shit.’ Violet shook her head and rubbed the toe of her boot on the carpet. Holly reached out for Violet's shoulder but pulled away before she touched her red and blue flannelette shirt. They'd never been the touchy-feely types and now was not the time to start.
‘It's all their fault,’ she muttered.
‘Who?’ Holly blinked.
Violet glanced up. This time her face was different, her grimace was gone. She gleamed with an unnatural light. The hairs on the back of Holly's neck bristled and she didn't know why.
‘I have to stop them. I c
an't let them ruin everything like this. I must stop them.’ Violet slammed her fist against her leg. ‘I will stop them.’ She burst out laughing and Holly's chest tightened. Violet turned to her with an accusing finger. ‘Don't get in my way.’
Holly stood open-mouthed, unsure what to say next.
‘Murder!’ called Angelika from the front of the room.
Holly gasped, her breath jamming in her chest.
‘And scene. Well done, everyone. Let's have a quick break,’ Ravenswood said. ‘But don't leave the room. Violet, can I see you for a moment?’
‘It's starting.’ Violet smirked as she stood up and strolled over to him.
Holly let out her breath. Ravenswood must have heard what she said. Finally, someone would stop Violet.
Jacinta flopped into the chair next to her, her spiral notebook under her arm. ‘Got a Dispirin?’
‘You too?’ Holly asked
Jacinta nodded and rubbed her forehead. Her graceful fingers were scabbed across the knuckles.
Holly frowned. ‘What—’
‘Netball last night,’ Jacinta gave a half-hearted chuckle and hid her hands away. ‘The goal defence from St. Mary's was a right bitch.’
Holly laughed awkwardly but only half-listened as Jacinta jabbered on about the after-party on Friday at Kon’s.
Something told Holly to keep an eye on Jacinta.
***
VIOLET
‘Angelika, can you come over here too, please?’
Angelika glided over and Violet suppressed a growl.
Ravenswood took his glasses off his nose with a sigh. ‘We have a situation...’
Violet’s stomach flipped, but she kept her face like a mask.
‘It appears Rowan has left the play.’
Violet bit down on her smile.
Angelika blinked. ‘What happened?’
‘She's not here as you can see.’
‘Maybe she's sick?’ Angelika shrugged.
‘I called her house and no one answered.’ Ravenswood shook his head. ‘I left a message. But she spoke to me yesterday. She was having doubts about the whole production. I told her to sleep on it. I guess she decided not to come back. It would have been nice if she'd let me know.’
Angelika chewed a fingernail.
‘I realise unexpected things happen in life but I don't have time for unreliable people.’ Ravenswood flicked his hand. ‘Now, this leaves me with a vacancy for an understudy.’
Violet's eyes shone. She tilted her head back.
‘Violet. I know you know all of Lady Macbeth's lines. And you've proven yourself in other productions. Would you like to be Angelika's understudy?’
Angelika's neutral face slipped for a millisecond, revealing a flash of contempt. Violet smiled slyly.
‘Of course,’ she replied, her voice calm and controlled. It was not the apology she'd dreamed of, but it was acceptable and the outcome was the same.
‘Good. Thank you for stepping in. I appreciate it.’
‘With any luck I won't need to take over,’ Violet said with a raised eyebrow. ‘But I'm happy to help out.’
‘Excellent. Pay close attention during the blocking. I need you to shadow her.’
Violet nodded.
The drama room suddenly seemed brighter, as if someone had turned up the dimmer switch. The first sunlight in days peeked between the trees and in through the windows, and cast golden beams across the scratchy blue carpet tiles.
Angelika smiled falsely, and Violet noticed her wringing hands.
One step closer.
It was all coming together.
***
TOBY
The empty theatrette sat in the windowless core of the school building but in the lighting box up high, Toby felt a little bit better. The dark never usually worried him, not like his silly little sister. Even now in Grade Six, Tamara freaked out if the hallway light went off during the night. He didn't mind the dark. Night-time was nice in Beacon Hill, he liked cruising around the quiet streets by himself with no one bothering him, tunes in his ears.
Toby adjusted the risers and intensified the light on the small stage below, but the colour wasn't quite right. It was too stark. He rubbed his chin and checked Mr Ravenswood’s instructions again, his list was a scribbled handwritten page covered in crossed out lines and corrections. Toby scratched his head and squinted. He flicked through the remaining lighting gels in the box but there were only a handful of the thin tinted plastic squares left, the others were cracked or faded. Mr Ravenswood had a grand vision of what he wanted but he was a bit overly optimistic about the possibilities of lighting. And Toby wasn't a miracle worker.
He looked down through the wide viewing window over the tiered rows of seating. There was always something weird about an empty theatre. Usually he liked being alone but all day long his skin had prickled as if someone was watching him. But the others were all across the corridor rehearsing in the drama room. Toby had tried to convince himself the strange feeling made sense, that theatres were built specifically for being watched. But what had that skinny girl said about curses?
Toby shivered and pulled his hood over his head. Having lost his black fingerless gloves somewhere out there in the dark, he blew on his fingers. He pushed the riser to full wattage. A crack projected across the stage floor. His shoulders slumped as he sucked on his teeth. Another lighting gel torn.
Toby riffled through the last few gels in the box. This one might be too sunny for Ravenswood's grim Macbeth but beggars can't be choosers, unless Ravenswood was willing to dip into his own pocket.
He turned up the house lights. In an instant, all the shadows disappeared and with them, the magic of the theatre. The bright house lights exposed the badly painted scenic backdrop, the patched stage floor, the crosses of gaffer tape and scuff marks.
Gel in hand, Toby climbed out of the box and into the theatre. He hummed to himself to fill the silence as he dragged out the tall ladder and climbed three metres up off the ground. He slipped out the torn gel and inserted the new square of orange cellophane. Heat radiated from the still warm unlit bulb.
As he took a step back down, the light switched on full bore and blinded him with intense orange light. Toby whipped up his hand to cover his eyes but stumbled backwards. He scrambled in mid-air for the metal rung. The tips of his fingers grazed the ladder and he lunged forward and grabbed hold tight. The ladder shook on its four spindly legs.
‘What the hell?’ he panted and pressed his body flat against the ladder, his heart thumping like a techno bassline.
Above him, the light faded away again to nothing.
‘Who's there?’ he yelled, shielding his eyes against the harsh house lights. He scoured the rows of empty seats and squinted at the lighting box up the back but the headrests of two empty chairs were clearly visible through the window.
‘It's not funny,’ he said as he climbed down, knees and hands trembling.
The sound of giggling trickled down from the back of the theatre. He stopped as he reached the stage floor and looked around again. Girls.
‘You could have killed me,’ he said, his tone deadly serious. ‘Come out. This isn't funny.’
The giggling came from behind him now.
Toby spun around. No one could move that quickly. With only a few feet of bare stage between him and the scenic drop, he should have heard footsteps. The hairs on his neck snapped up to attention.
‘Enough,’ he shouted.
A naughty laugh drifted across the theatrette, coming from the left. Toby was quicker this time and caught a glimpse of something black. It slid along the sides of the theatre and skirted around the blurry edges of the light.
Toby gulped.
The inky shape was too slick. People didn't move like that.
He blinked his eyes in double time and sucked in a slow breath. ‘Hello?’ He inched across the stage and peered into the dark.
But there was only carpet, steps and a wall.
‘You, idi
ot. See. It’s nothing,’ he muttered. But his stomach kept churning. ‘Right. That's it. I'm off the bongs from now on.’
Toby jumped off the stage into the aisle and headed back towards the lighting box, shaking his head. He'd been all alone in the dark for too long. Whatever it was, it was gone now.
As he walked up the centre aisle, the tip-up seats on either side of him began to flap.
Up and down.
Clang. Clang.
‘What the...?’ His breath snagged in his throat.
Up and down.
Clang. Clang.
‘Who's there?!’ he yelled.
The chair seats banged and waved at him in rows, as he hurried towards the back of the theatre and the safety of the lighting box. He twisted his head from side to side as he went, looking for who was responsible but there was no one there.
The seats rippled like waves and clanged like deafening applause.
Then something smacked Toby in the head. Hard. He stumbled and skidded on his hands, clunking his head against the metal beam securing the seats to the floor.
Toby rubbed his scalp and turned, dizzy and disorientated, to see the culprit. A theatre seat, torn from a row, sitting sat all alone in the middle of the aisle. Toby gaped.
The girlish giggle drifted up the empty theatrette like a gas leak.
‘Who are you?’ he whispered.
‘Toby,’ the voice replied, breathy and taunting.
He flinched.
There was no one there.
He hauled himself back up to his feet, his head throbbing, his stomach quivering.
A second seat flew up the aisle like a frisbee thrown by invisible hands.
Toby ducked and the plastic seat whizzed over his head and clattered to the ground.
‘Ha! Missed!’
He sprinted up the aisle towards the far back row as a third seat whistled through the air. The solid plastic frame bashed against his head and Toby cried out. He tumbled into the back row of seats as everything went to black.
Seconds later, Toby woke up to pain. He opened his eyes to see chairs flapping all around him. The chairs thwacked at his head and grabbed at his fingers and his clothes. He rolled onto the carpet on his hands and knees and scurried towards the lighting box. He reached up for the door handle as another chair missile crashed into his knuckles.
The Flower and the Serpent Page 11
