I Am Dust

by Louise Beech

  I’m still here; I am dust.

  I’m those fragments in the air,

  the gold light dancing there,

  that breeze from nowhere.

  For a moment, Chloe thinks she hears another voice singing too; a ghostly echo.

  A hand lands on her shoulder and she jumps back, covering her mouth to supress a gasp. But it’s just Chester. She closes the fire door as quietly as she can, heart wild.

  ‘You scared me.’ She shoves him.

  ‘What you doing? Ah, the rehearsals. I might go in and see if they want anything – like me!’ He laughs heartily. ‘Cynthia’s looking for you. Come on, we’ve got to sell at least five million programmes. Look – you’re melting the bloody ice cream.’

  Chloe realises she has left the freezer top open. ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ She grabs two boxes of Vanilla, closes it, and follows Chester back to the box office, wishing she could stay and listen to Ginger all day.

  Wicked drags relentlessly that afternoon. It’s performed with zest by the young cast, but being a college production, the set is cheap and the props fall over at inopportune moments. Chloe turns her radio down low, nervous about hearing strange messages, and thinks about Ginger. About their kiss. The warmth of her mouth. The feel of her spine. Lost in thought, she almost misses the cues for the interval. Chloe and Beth then stand at the front of the stage, preventing patrons from climbing up the steps or stealing backstage. They often try, wanting to see the haunted dressing room for themselves.

  ‘I reckon they’d be disappointed,’ says Beth, her hair crimson today, lips matching.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Audience members. If they got to see the dressing room. It’s so much smaller and less glamourous than the press paints it to be.’

  ‘It’s nicer now,’ says Chloe. It has been painted crisp white for Ginger, and the original Dust poster has been replaced with the new one.

  ‘Yes. It is.’ Beth leans closer, whispers, ‘Never say anything to anyone, but I have something from the original room.’

  ‘You do? What do you mean? How did you get it? What was it?’

  Don’t ask so many questions one after the other, she suddenly thinks. Wait for an answer to each one first. She has said that before. But when?

  ‘When I went there … that night.’ Beth says the last two words with emphasis. ‘When I saw Morgan Miller and—’

  ‘Wait, you said you never saw her that night. You said you just left flowers in her dressing room.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’ Beth seems agitated. ‘I mean when I tried to see her. And then I did, just for a second. Anyway, I took—’

  At that moment, Cynthia marches into the auditorium. ‘You shouldn’t be standing chatting,’ she snaps. ‘Can one of you please stand stage left and the other stage right, like I’ve asked you to a million times.’

  They split up and guard the stage separately.

  After the shift, Chloe tries to catch Beth and finish their conversation, but Cynthia grabs Chloe first. ‘I’m going to start your duty-manager training at the end of the month,’ she says. ‘Then, by the time Dust is on, you’ll be in charge on some shifts.’

  Chloe heads backstage with two greasy, stinking bin bags, excited at the thought of not having to do this anymore; of not having to pick chewing gum off the seats and popcorn off the floor and carry old beer to the sink. But then she loves it too. Loves the banter with the other ushers. And that would change.

  Distracted, she crashes into someone near the dressing rooms. It’s one of the film crew; a young man with a BBC lanyard and a bushy hipster beard.

  ‘You’re one of the ushers, aren’t you? Can we do a short interview with you?’ From the way he asks, he clearly expects her to respond with an eager ‘yes’.

  ‘With me? Oh.’ The bin bag is dripping coke onto the concrete and Chloe knows she’ll have to clean that up. ‘I’m not sure. What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Well, we’d like something spontaneous, you know, an everyday usher talking about how things have changed here with the return of Dust. We think you’d offer a nice contrast, especially in your uniform.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Chloe looks down at it, at coffee stains and damp armpits.

  ‘The plain-black kind of, you know, working-class apparel. A northern accent too – that would be great against the actors.’

  ‘Ginger’s from here,’ says Chloe.

  At that moment, Ginger comes out of her dressing room. She looks lovely; fresh, clean, immaculately dressed. Chloe is embarrassed about her appearance, about the sweaty hair on her forehead, about the mascara she knows is smudged at the corners of her eyes.

  ‘Ginger.’ The cameraman looks besotted. Chloe is forgotten.

  ‘Seth,’ she smiles. ‘I’m done for the day, so I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?’

  When he’s gone Ginger asks Chloe, ‘Are you finished now too?’

  ‘I just have to clean that up.’ Chloe points at the coke spillage; it’s like blood at a murder scene. ‘Then I’m more or less done.’

  ‘Do you want to meet for coffee? We can have that talk.’

  ‘That talk?’

  ‘About our past,’ Ginger murmurs.

  ‘Of course.’ How could she have forgotten? ‘Can you give me fifteen minutes?’

  ‘I’ll meet you in the bar?’

  ‘OK.’

  Back in the box office Chloe grabs the mop to clean up the coke spillage but Chester pulls her into Cynthia’s empty office, his face full of gossip. He swipes his phone screen and opens Twitter.

  ‘Look what’s trending,’ he cries. ‘Someone sent a letter in.’

  ‘A letter? To who?’

  ‘Look – just bloody read it!’

  The hashtag is #WhoKilledMorganMiller; and the latest posts all link to a newspaper article. Chloe clicks on one of them. Chester is trembling with anticipation next to her. The headline is ‘New Clue in Morgan Miller Mystery’. She skims through, taking in random sentences, odd words. It seems the police have received a letter and an unnamed item from someone who claims to know the killer. The item apparently puts its owner in the dressing room with Morgan Miller that night. The letter is currently being analysed by a handwriting expert.

  ‘It could be fake,’ says Chloe. ‘Everyone is mad for Dust at the moment. Everyone’s contacting the press and posting stuff about their theories. For God’s sake, I read something last night by a man who reckons Morgan Miller is still alive and living somewhere with Elvis and Hitler.’

  ‘Doesn’t sound fake. The posh papers are running the story too.’

  ‘Wonder what it is?’ muses Chloe.

  ‘What what is?’

  ‘The new evidence. The unnamed item.’

  Chloe frowns. Remembers what Beth said earlier. I have something original from the room. Does she still have it? Or is it with the police now?

  ‘What?’ asks Chester studying her.

  ‘Nothing.’ No point telling him and having it blown all out of proportion. ‘Anyway, I have crap to clean up and then—’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I’m meeting Ginger.’

  ‘Ooooh. You go get yours, girl!’

  31

  The Dean Wilson Theatre

  June 2019

  Chloe wishes she had brought something to change into. She has tidied her hair and borrowed some of Chester’s body spray, but as she approaches Ginger, sitting elegantly on one of the new barstools, her hair a cascade of curls down her back – her beautiful back – Chloe feels ugly. The scars on her thighs throb, reminding her of previous self-hatred, of insecurity about her looks, her abilities, her life. She takes the seat next to Ginger, but stumbles and briefly slips off the stool.

  ‘You were incredible,’ she says as she recovers herself.

  ‘Was I?’ Ginger smiles, a little shy maybe. ‘When?’

  Embarrassed, Chloe realises she’ll have to admit she was watching the rehearsal. ‘Oh, I heard you singing earlier. I was working ne
ar the fire exit. It gave me goose bumps.’

  ‘Thank you. I can’t describe how it felt. I still can’t quite believe I’m here, playing Esme Black. It’s utterly surreal. Like I’ll wake up and…’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘And I’m sixteen again, and we’re singing that song in my bedroom.’

  Chloe smiles. Colin, the friendliest barman, comes up and asks what she wants. She orders a latte. Ginger has a black coffee in front of her. Chloe knows from an interview for a Sunday magazine that she is dieting for the role, avoiding all dairy, fat and sugar.

  ‘They were good days, weren’t they?’ says Chloe.

  ‘They were. Until…’

  ‘Until what?’

  Colin puts a steaming latte in front of Chloe. She sips it and waits for Ginger to respond.

  ‘Until the Ouija board, I think. Then it all got … weird. What do you remember about it?’

  ‘If you’d asked me ten minutes ago, I’d have said not much. But sitting here with you, hearing you say those words, it all starts to take shape. Seriously, it’s like it comes out of a fog. If I look at you, I can see more of it.’ Chloe pauses, letting it in. ‘Does that sound odd?’

  ‘No. I feel that way too. Whose idea was it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doing the Ouija board,’ says Ginger.

  Chloe looks around, realising that maybe they should have this conversation privately, but the foyer behind them is deserted. The main doors are locked open, letting the warm June day colour the floor with gold. It’s that lull between the two shows; between the older patrons who prefer the matinee and the younger audience who come in the evening. Chloe wonders, would she really want to talk about this in Morgan’s – no, Ginger’s – dressing room, though? What might such a topic evoke in there?

  ‘I think it was Ryan’s idea.’ Chloe sees him for a moment. Hears him. We’re going to play a game. ‘And we both went along with it. You did because you liked him … and I did because…’

  ‘Because?’ asks Ginger softly, holding Chloe’s gaze.

  ‘You know why.’ She says it more harshly than she intends.

  As though to save Chloe’s embarrassment, Ginger changes the subject. ‘God, I had the worst dream yet last night. I woke up drenched in sweat. There were these birds, hitting the window. Bang, bang, bang.’

  Chloe shivers because she too has been dreaming about them. But she doesn’t interrupt Ginger.

  ‘I even went and looked out of my hotel window at three in the morning, sure they would be piled up in the street. But there was nothing there. Then I dreamed there were these three witches chanting spells. This smoking cauldron. This … ghost. This … woman.’

  ‘The witches is because of… the Scottish play.’

  Ginger laughs. ‘You still believe that old superstition? I do remember Ryan getting annoyed when I wouldn’t say Macbeth. But fuck it. Macbeth.’ Ginger says it boldly. For a moment, Chloe imagines them being struck down by lightning.

  ‘That’s what the play was that summer,’ says Chloe. ‘That’s what we were rehearsing when we did the Ouija board.’

  ‘God, yes. That would explain the dream. But the birds? Shit, that was eerie.’

  ‘I think I used to dream about birds too.’ Chloe isn’t sure why she puts it in the past tense. She pauses. ‘Wait. Maybe there was one. An actual bird. Yes. I think right before we did the Ouija board. I saw one. Black. Glossy. Yuck.’

  ‘Shit, yes. Me and Ryan found one somewhere too. On a windowsill.’

  ‘I can smell it,’ whispers Chloe.

  ‘My mum is quite superstitious about dead birds. Says it’s an omen of death.’

  ‘Well, it’s definitely a bad omen for the poor bird!’

  Ginger laughs, head back, and the sound is musical. Then in a switch as quick as a breath, she looks more serious. ‘I just feel like … something is coming.’

  ‘Something good?’

  Ginger doesn’t respond; Chloe didn’t expect her to.

  ‘It’s connected to those days,’ Ginger says at last. ‘What else do you remember?’

  ‘Don’t think I’m weird … but can I touch your hand?’

  Ginger nods. Chloe leans nearer and takes hold of her slender fingers. They warm within the protection of her own. And she begins to see something. She closes her eyes. Tries to let it in. This feels like something she has done before and yet never done. She sees the three of them, their fingers on a glass, the glass moving speedily between letters. She sees Ryan with a knife. No. Not just a knife. A dagger. In Macbeth. She sees it dripping with blood…

  Chloe…

  Who said that?

  ‘Chloe.’ It’s Ginger. Chloe opens her eyes. Drops Ginger’s hand.

  ‘What was that?’ asks Ginger.

  ‘I don’t know. I just thought I’d be able to see more if I touched you.’ Hadn’t Grandma Rosa often clutched Chloe’s hand to her chest and told her things that then happened?

  ‘And did you see anything? You looked … scared.’

  ‘No,’ lies Chloe, afraid to share the image of a blood-soaked knife. It’s probably her overactive imagination. Being with Ginger ignites her. It creates so many churning feelings, like the different ingredients in a magic potion. ‘I think when we all did the Ouija board that we – I don’t know – got cursed or something. Can you remember why we all stopped and never saw one another again?’

  ‘No. That’s the least clear of all. I sort of remember starting it. I can see the three of us with our fingers on that glass. I think one day it just started moving. And we got spirits. We spoke to dead people. Jesus, that sounds so crazy now. I can’t believe I’m a grown adult sitting here saying that.’

  ‘But we did.’ Chloe finishes her latte. ‘We did.’

  ‘Who did we speak to?’

  ‘Wasn’t there some boy Ryan knew?’

  ‘There was,’ cries Ginger. ‘A boy who had died in a car crash or something horrible.’

  Daniel Locke. The name drops into Chloe’s head. She must google him later. She feels sure he died in an accident. She won’t mention him now. She’ll see what the story is first.

  ‘Do you think it would work if we did it now?’ wonders Ginger.

  ‘Yes.’ Chloe knows it absolutely, and it terrifies her. ‘But I never will.’

  Edwin Roberts crosses the foyer then, his overly polished shoes catching the light as though winking at them. He doesn’t look at Chloe but touches Ginger on the arm and says, ‘Sorry to disturb you, darling, but would you mind meeting me and Seth for a quick chat. He’s got a great idea about some footage of you outside the back of the theatre and the light is just right now.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ she says, standing up.

  Edwin heads towards the backstage corridor and Ginger follows. Halfway across the foyer, she looks back.

  ‘What was it you were performing on the stage last time we met?’ she asks Chloe. ‘Was it the script you told me about?’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’

  ‘It was gorgeous. Can I read it?’

  ‘Oh gosh, I don’t know.’ Chloe feels shy.

  ‘What do you plan to do with it?’

  Perform in it, thinks Chloe. Be it.

  ‘I haven’t really thought,’ she says.

  ‘I’d be honoured if you’d let me read it. See you soon.’ And she disappears in a whirlwind of perfume and curls and shapely legs, in full possession of Chloe’s heart.

  32

  Chloe’s Bedroom

  June 2019

  When Chloe gets home, she goes to her bedroom and takes out her laptop. She types ‘Daniel Locke’ into the search engine. There’s plenty of information, though most of the stories are at least ten years old. He died aged just sixteen in April 2005 after walking out onto the A63 late at night. One story claims he had been suicidal for weeks. Another says it was an extreme game of dare, something popular in the high schools at the time. Another says that he and two friends had been doing a Ouija board and been pos
sessed by spirits.

  Who were the other two?

  Their names are in one of the stories – Harry Bond and Amelia Bennett. Chloe types each of them into the search engine. The stories about them are fewer, but they’re there. And it is enough. Enough to learn that both of them are also dead. Chloe exhales and looks away from the screen for a moment.

  Is that a bird on the windowsill outside? Staring in at her?

  She blinks.

  No; it’s just the way the nearby tree has cast a shadow on the glass.

  She looks back at the screen. Decides to read. According to one website, Harry Bond was in a mental hospital for a year, suffering from hallucinations and blackouts, and trying to harm himself in extreme ways. Chloe feels a growing unease as she reads on. Upon release, he stayed out of the headlines, until two years later when he too walked in front of traffic on the A63. Amelia Bennett doesn’t feature in as many stories, but those available say she died just four years ago; it was suicide.

  Chloe closes the laptop, realising her hands are trembling.