by Louise Beech
‘I suppose.’ Ryan took his finger away too. He stood up and stretched.
‘Shouldn’t we pack it up then?’ asked Chloe as he headed down the aisle, taking a cigarette from his pocket. ‘We can’t leave it here, can we?’
‘Knock yourself out.’ He was clearly done for the night.
Jess shrugged and followed him.
Chloe watched them leave. The candle flickered violently as they opened the door, then shut it after them. She wanted to call for them to wait, not leave her here alone with … With what? It was just her. Wasn’t it? She turned the main light on, hating the unpredictability of the shadows. Then she picked up the shoe box and knelt down to collect the letters and glass up.
A scream from the other side of the door stopped her.
Did the glass just move?
Who screamed?
The main light went out.
Chloe dropped the shoe box.
The door burst open and Jess came back into the room, breath ragged.
‘There’s a dead bird,’ she cried, running onto the stage and grabbing Chloe’s arm.
‘What?’ Chloe was cold, despite the warmth of Jess’s touch. ‘Where?’
‘On the windowsill in the boys’ toilets. It’s horrible. I can’t climb out near that.’
‘Was it … black … glossy?’
‘Yes.’ Jess frowned at her. ‘How do you know?’
It doesn’t matter, thought Chloe. Because you’re hanging on to me and I never want you to let me go.
‘I saw one,’ she admitted. ‘The other day. Dead as well. This is just … freaky. Where is it now? Where’s Ryan?’
‘Getting rid of it.’
He came into the room and joined them on the stage. Jess let Chloe go. Chloe’s eyes had become used to the dimness of the candlelight and the thin line of dying sun through the wooden window boards once again.
‘I put it in the bin,’ said Ryan. ‘Come on, it’s gone, you big wuss.’
‘I’m not,’ cried Jess. ‘Chloe said she saw one the other day too!’
Chloe bent to pick up the shoe box and glanced at the Ouija board. She was right; the glass had moved from the middle. It now stood next to the letter Y. Then, before her eyes, it moved slowly on to the O. She tried to speak, to tell the others, to stop them arguing about how it was possible such a huge bird had landed and stayed on that narrow windowsill. The glass moved again, to the U. Chloe bent to get the notepad and pen. Still, she couldn’t speak. It was as though her words were lodged in her throat to allow space for the ones forming before her eyes.
Now Jess was looking at her.
Chloe tried to blink, tried to communicate in some way what she couldn’t say.
Look, it’s working…
Look, I think I love you…
Look, it’s working…
Jess finally looked at the glass. It moved from the U to the D. Chloe wrote the letters down. Jess tugged on Ryan’s arm and he looked too. His mouth fell open like a door on an advent calendar. The glass moved from the D to the I. Ryan gulped and seemed also to be trying and failing to speak. It moved from the I to the D again. Chloe added the letters to her script. She held her breath. The candle danced. The glass moved, gathering speed now. When it was done, it returned to the middle.
They stared at it.
Their voices returned.
‘Did I just see what I think I did?’ whispered Ryan.
‘Well, I saw it too,’ cried Jess. ‘Oh my God. It actually moved.’
‘And we weren’t even touching it.’ Ryan bent down and put a hesitant finger on the glass. ‘How the hell?’
‘Maybe we all imagined it?’ Chloe knew the idea was ridiculous.
‘It’s you.’ Ryan looked at her.
‘Me?’
‘I knew it. You’re the one we needed.’
‘What do you mean?’ she cried. ‘I never touched it!’
Jess turned to her too.
‘No,’ Ryan continued, ‘I mean you’re the one with this spiritual ability thing. Like Amelia Bennett was supposed to have had. She was the girl who did the Ouija board with Daniel Locke and Harry Bond. The one who survived. You’re our weirdo.’
‘Thanks,’ said Chloe.
‘A witch,’ said Ryan with a grin.
‘I’m not a witch!’ Chloe was outraged. She was the nice one; the sweet girl whose hair her mum plaited while they watched TV, who never answered back and tried to make everyone happy.
‘Not a witch like in our play,’ said Ryan. ‘I read online that for this to work you need at least one person to be spiritually open – gifted, sensitive, psychic. Whatever you wanna call it. There were all these different words for it. Means the same thing though. Hundreds of years ago they’d have called you a witch.’ Ryan studied Chloe as though seeing her for the first time. Jess followed his gaze, her expression unreadable. ‘You made it work. We left the room and when it was just you, it happened.’
‘But I didn’t … It just…’ Chloe looked again at the glass, now still. She shook her head. ‘You said it was about the power of three. I looked it up. That’s supposed to be where the magic is.’
‘You still need one of that three to be … more sensitive.’
‘What did it say then?’ demanded Jess, interrupting him.
‘What?’ asked Chloe.
Jess motioned to the notepad in her hand. Chloe didn’t want to read it aloud; she was afraid to. She simply held up the piece of paper. Let them look at it. But she looked too. And remembered what Ryan had said about ‘Goodbye’. That the spirit must move the glass there or else they would still linger.
YOU DIDNT SAY GOODBYE
13
The Dean Wilson Theatre
February 2019
Chloe tries to remember the goodbye she and Jess shared, long ago.
Was there a kiss? Was there even the word ‘goodbye’? Didn’t they all just go their separate ways and never speak again? Why is the memory so vague? When Chloe reaches her fingers out towards it – towards the glass? – the image breaks up like disturbed water. She needs to get the name Jess out of her head – that’s not who she is now. She’s Ginger. She’s an actress. She’s going to be Esme Black.
She’s coming home.
‘You’re miles away.’
Chloe starts. Looks around. She’s walking along the corridor towards the backstage door with Beth, the newest usher. It’s Beth’s first shift and Cynthia has asked Chloe to use the fifteen minutes before the shift starts to give her a tour of the building. I think she might already know her way, Chloe had wanted to say. The middle-aged woman has replaced the bright-orange hair dye with blue and made sure her nails still match. And she smells of vanilla tonight, not lavender.
‘And she’s back in the room,’ Beth says.
‘Sorry.’ Chloe can’t help but be brusque, still not sure she believes Beth wasn’t backstage that weird night. Something about the woman just rubs her up the wrong way. She should try and be more welcoming though. ‘You drift off easily when you’re here sometimes. Wait until you’re seeing a show for the twentieth time and you could be the standby actor.’
‘I’ve been a standby for some big roles.’
‘You have?’
Chloe taps in the door code and takes them both backstage. She has always loved how deceptively quiet the passage leading to the door is; how on the other side of it – backstage – the theatre really comes to life. The show starts in an hour. The place is electric with the hustle and bustle of stagehands doing checks, costume crew making last-minute repairs and fixing wigs, and the stage manager running things. The new show, Bright Lights, Bright Life, is a lively musical about the seventies disco era.
‘What roles were you a standby for?’ Chloe asks Beth, leading her through the crowd of backstage workers and towards the fire exit.
‘I was on standby to play Ophelia at the New Theatre,’ gushes Beth.
‘Did you get to do it?’
‘No. The actress was th
e healthiest one I’ve ever known!’
Chloe opens the fire door, revealing the darkened carpark and loading bay at the back of the theatre. ‘We check all fire exits before each shift,’ she explains. ‘This one, and the two at the sides of the building.’
‘Why?’ asks Beth
‘In case there’s something blocking the door, or it’s jammed. Wouldn’t want our actors and patrons trapped inside a burning building.’
‘Depends on the show,’ laughs Beth.
Chloe laughs despite her irritation. Perhaps she has been too hasty in suspecting Beth was backstage that night.
They head back towards the front of the theatre. As they pass the Morgan Miller dressing room, Chloe tries not to look at the door. The lead actress – Anna Someone; Chloe can’t recall offhand – is using it and so far, no complaints. It’s empty. Beth pauses by the door and Chloe can’t resist glancing at it. It’s open. Messy inside. Garish, glittery costumes hang over the chairs, and chunky platform boots line the walls.
‘Is it true?’ asks Beth, peering inside.
‘Is what true?’
‘That Morgan Miller haunts the building. That staff hear her singing late at night.’
‘I’ve never heard anything,’ lies Chloe. She doesn’t want to go in, doesn’t want to look at the mirror; is afraid more words will appear at the top.
Beth frowns at her. ‘You OK? You’ve gone really pale.’
‘I’m fine.’ Chloe tries not to think of the other incident in the dressing room. The one she has tried to forget. The one that happened before she saw those words on the mirror a few weeks ago. Her scars ache; they always do when she’s tense.
‘I’ve been in there before,’ boasts Beth, smug.
‘You have? When?’
‘Way back, when it first opened. It was different then of course. The paint was new. Bright white. It wasn’t as shabby as it is now.’
Protective of her beloved theatre, Chloe says, ‘Well, what do you expect? That was twenty years ago. Guess I didn’t need to show you the building. You know it already.’
Since the announcement three weeks ago that Dust was returning, the whole place has been buzzing. Tickets for the entire month-long run sold out the morning of release. Ushers – mainly Chester – have been frenziedly sharing tales of sightings of Morgan Miller, insisting they have seen her ghostly apparition wandering backstage. Nina said when she was leaving through the fire exit one night, she absolutely, definitely saw her, dressed as Esme, waiting in the wings to go onstage. ‘She won’t be happy that someone else is playing her role,’ Chester said dramatically. ‘She’ll be here for revenge!’
‘What were you doing in this dressing room back then?’ Chloe asks Beth.
‘It was when Dust was on.’ Beth’s voice breaks a little. ‘I came here to find Morgan at the interval. I had some flowers for her – to show there were no hard feelings.’
‘Hard feelings about what?’
‘That she got the part of Esme Black. I auditioned too, remember.’
‘Of course.’ Chloe studies Beth. ‘You knew her then?’
‘Not really. Only from the auditions.’
‘And did you give her the flowers?’ asks Chloe.
‘She wasn’t here. I left them by the mirror. And just moments later, she was dead. Made me relieved I hadn’t succeeded in getting the role.’ Beth pauses. ‘It’s all a bit like … you know, that Scottish play.’
‘How?’ asks Chloe.
‘Well, the reason you’re not supposed to say it aloud, is apparently because an actor died in the first ever production, cursing all future shows.’
Chloe feels sure, somehow, that she had heard another reason.
‘Don’t you think Morgan Miller’s death might have cursed the new Dust?’ asks Beth.
‘Only if you believe that kind of thing.’
‘I suppose. Do you think they should have resurrected it?’
Chloe doesn’t answer. At first, she might have said no. She might have said no one should attempt to match it. But now it means Jess – no, Ginger – is coming back.
‘Who do you think killed Morgan?’ asks Beth.
‘I’ve no idea. I was only ten when I saw Dust. Can’t even really remember the murder part, I only know about it from reading things now.’
Beth shrugs.
‘Poor Morgan,’ says Chloe softly. ‘She was only thirty.’
‘About your age?’ asks Beth.
‘Yes. About my age.’
They head back to the box office, where Chester, Nina and Paige have arrived for the shift. The new radios have finally arrived too, and Cynthia is showing them how to attach the earpiece and make sure they’re tuned to the correct channel. Chloe is glad they can get rid of the old ones. She was sick of missing out on messages that others insisted they had received; sick of hearing strange ones no one else did.
‘Beth, you can tag along with Chloe on this shift,’ says Cynthia, handing her a lanyard with her name on it. ‘She’ll show you what’s what. Put a radio on and get used to all the messages we exchange, but don’t use it yet. Just observe what Chloe does tonight, and you can work on one of the doors alone next time.’ She then pats the pile of programmes and says, ‘Right, we need to be ruthless about selling these. Our target is at least a hundred and fifty a night.’
‘In your dreams,’ laughs Chester. ‘We don’t even have that many patrons in!’
‘That kind of attitude doesn’t sell anything.’ And Cynthia turns towards her small office, goes inside and shuts the door.
‘I thought the news about Dust would mean tickets for our other shows would sell well too,’ Chester says to Chloe. ‘It’s embarrassing having a half-empty theatre. Hey, did I tell you I might be in the newspaper?’
‘Now what have you done, Ches?’ smiles Chloe.
‘I’ve been in the press a few times,’ says Beth.
‘This journalist rang me,’ explains Chester. ‘I wasn’t meant to take it, but I answered the phone when the box-office guys weren’t here. He wants an exclusive on what it’s like to work in the most haunted theatre in the UK. His words, not mine. Of course, I’m happy to oblige!’
‘Does Cynthia know?’ asks Chloe.
‘Nah. Why does she need to?’
‘She did say at that last meeting that we should send all journalists to her.’
‘Fuck that, I want my moment!’
Chloe laughs heartily and grabs her pile of programmes. ‘Come on, we need to get selling.’
Beth follows her into the foyer, where people are beginning to arrive for Bright Lights, Bright Life. Some have clearly been to local charity shops and found faded seventies outfits to wear for the occasion. They buy ostentatious cocktails, and Chloe smiles, knowing they’ll be dancing in their seats by the end of the show. The show is enjoyable and she’s sad sales haven’t been better – the cast are a lovely bunch.
The evening passes without much incident; the show starts on time, latecomers are few, the audience are a tidy one and bring most of their rubbish out with them, and a few of them give a standing ovation. The new radios appear to work well; voices are clearer over their airwaves. Chloe is glad. No chance of mishearing strange words.
After the shift, Beth thanks Chloe for being helpful. As the ushers leave, Cynthia asks Chloe to wait behind in the box office for a moment.
‘You’re one of our longest-serving ushers,’ Cynthia says to her.
‘Six years,’ admits Chloe. Hadn’t she intended it to be a year at the most – just until she found success with writing or acting? ‘Chester’s been here longer than me though.’
Cynthia ignores the observation. Chloe knows the two of them have clashed a few times over the years.
‘I’m tired,’ admits Cynthia.
‘It’s a long show I guess.’
‘No, generally. I want to retire early, Chloe. At the end of the year, once Dust is over. I’m going to put your name forward to be trained as the next front-of-house duty m
anager. Would you be happy with that? I’d train you from June, I think.’
‘I … I guess, yes.’
But is she happy? This job wasn’t meant to be her career. She loves this place with all her heart – the staff, the shows, the whole thing – but it was supposed to cushion her until she made it in some way.
‘I was an usher for a few years first, as you know. I jumped at the chance when the last duty manager offered to train me up. You’re very loved here, Chloe.’
‘Am I?’
‘Of course.’
‘But … I just … pick up the glitter…’ The words come out before Chloe can stop them.
‘Pick up the glitter?’ Cynthia studies her.
‘Sorry. Yes. I saw Taylor Swift in concert, and she thanked everyone behind the scenes, those in the dark who we forget – the people who build the stage and do the lights, and pick up the glitter afterwards.’ Chloe realises she is close to tears. ‘That’s all I’m here for. To pick up the glitter.’
‘Oh, Chloe. You are the glitter.’ Cynthia squeezes her affectionately and then turns to her computer.
Chloe heads backstage to collect her bike, throat still tight with tears. Is she the glitter? Maybe she should take the job. When Jess comes to the theatre, Chloe won’t just be an usher; just a failed actress; just a failed writer. She’ll be training for a job with responsibility. She’ll be someone. She cringes at her desperation to impress a girl she hasn’t even known as an adult.