I Am Dust

by Louise Beech

  And hopes she’ll like the gift.

  40

  The Dean Wilson Theatre

  August 2019

  Ginger is already in the bar, sitting on a stool, ever elegant, even in jogging bottoms and a fitted pink T-shirt, and with her hair clipped up in a messy bun. As Chloe approaches her, heart hammering, she realises that Ginger can’t be embarrassed about being with her if she’s happy to meet in such a public place. She could have suggested somewhere more fashionable on the marina, far from here. And Chloe doesn’t mind now if staff see them. She wants to sing her happiness at being with Ginger to all.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, sliding into the next seat.

  The show finished half an hour ago now, so the place is almost empty. An older couple sit on the bar stools opposite, and a group of women sit in the chairs in the window.

  ‘Hey, you.’ Ginger’s smile is intoxicating. ‘What are you drinking?’

  Looking at Ginger’s glass of Prosecco – and smiling when she remembers the Sunday mag story that she’s supposed to be avoiding sugar – Chloe says, ‘Same as you.’

  ‘Colin,’ Ginger calls to the barman, who promptly arrives with an adoring face. ‘Another one of these please.’ He looks at Chloe with a knowing smile.

  ‘So how were rehearsals?’ asks Chloe.

  ‘Intense. We all know it now, and we’re desperate to get on the actual stage for dress rehearsals. It’s not the same doing it with the set taped on the floor.’

  ‘It’s being built next week, isn’t it? So exciting. I can’t wait to see you as Esme, in full costume, on stage, under the lights. Oh, Ginger, this must be like a dream for you!’

  ‘It is.’

  The Prosecco arrives, and Chloe sips it. She notices that there’s a newspaper on the bar. The headline is ‘Ginger Swanson Parents Blame Dust for Divorce’. ‘Oh my God,’ she says, picking it up. ‘Are they still writing about it? How crass. And to blame the show. Are you OK? I felt like you were blaming yourself last time.’

  ‘Oh, it’s fine.’ Ginger waves a dismissive hand. ‘You know what the papers are like. It’s a story and it’ll sell. They don’t know the truth. That my mum and dad were never what you’d call a perfect match.’

  Colin approaches to take Ginger’s empty glass away, but she asks for another. When he returns with it, he points to the newspaper story and asks, ‘Would you mind signing that for me?’

  Wordlessly, Ginger finds a pen in her bag and signs it with a dramatic flourish, across the word Dust, as though to emphasise its importance to her. Chloe notices another headline and pulls the paper towards her: ‘New Clue in Morgan Miller Case Revealed To Be Earring’.

  Chloe almost falls off the stool. She sees – as clearly as though they are also in the newspaper – other words. FIND MY EARRING. What do they mean? Then she sees the three of them; herself, Jess, and Ryan. Sitting cross-legged. Fingers on an upturned glass. FIND MY EARRING.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Ginger’s words pull her back into the present.

  ‘She told us.’

  ‘Who did? What?’

  ‘Morgan Miller. On the Ouija board. Back then.’ Chloe skim-reads the article while Ginger continues asking questions. The item sent to police from someone claiming to know who killed Morgan was a single pearl earring. It’s being tested now for evidence, and hopes are that whoever sent it in will be named within weeks. ‘She told us that we should find her earring,’ cries Chloe. ‘I just remembered it. The word earring must have triggered it. And it says here that’s what the police have.’ She looks at Ginger.

  ‘Shit.’ Ginger looks at the newspaper. ‘I can’t exactly remember, but you do, and it can’t be a coincidence.’

  Chloe thinks again of Beth. What had she said earlier before Chester interrupted them? ‘It was tiny, just—’ Tiny? Just what? She remembers that night backstage, the lavender perfume.

  ‘Do you think we should contact them?’ wonders Chloe.

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God, no.’ Ginger looks aghast. ‘Imagine how we’d be treated? Two grown women saying they used a Ouija board fourteen years ago and think they spoke to Morgan Miller, and she told them to find her earring? We’d be a laughing stock. I’m an actress. I can’t have that kind of scandal attached to me.’

  Chloe is stung.

  It would be OK for her to have such a scandal attached to her?

  More gently, Ginger asks, ‘Why do you think we can’t fully remember what happened back then? I’m sure Ryan once said it was common, that teens forget using the Ouija board until they meet up again, but it must be more than that?’

  Chloe thinks about it. ‘Maybe it’s like PTSD or something. You know, when something is so traumatic the person buries it. And then later in life, something happens that brings flashes of memory back to them.’

  ‘You don’t sound convinced.’

  Thinking of Chester saying that we choose what we remember, Chloe says gently, ‘No. I think we chose to bury it…’

  ‘Why?’

  Chloe decides not to answer. ‘Look, what do we remember about when we used the Ouija board?

  ‘I remember Ryan suggesting it. I remember rehearsing for Macbeth. And now…’ Ginger pauses, her voice breaking with obvious apprehension. She takes a large gulp of Prosecco. ‘You found out that those three teens did it before us and they’re all dead. Chloe, that chills me to my bones. Tell me exactly what happened to them?’

  Chloe describes how Daniel walked out onto a busy road, that not long after that Harry did the same, and that just four years ago Amelia died by suicide. She doesn’t mention her unease upon reading that Harry had suffered hallucinations and blackouts, and was an extreme self-harmer. It’s too familiar. Too close. Too painful. Too unsettling.

  ‘Shit,’ whispers Ginger. As she reaches with a trembling hand for the glass, she almost knocks it over. ‘Shit.’

  ‘I know,’ murmurs Chloe. ‘I know.’

  ‘I wish we had never…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Ginger looks like a five-year-old waking from a nightmare. Then she shakes her head. ‘So we know we spoke to Morgan.’ She glances at Chloe. ‘I think you triggered that memory. But who killed her? How can we remember if she told us that?’

  ‘Let me touch your hand again,’ says Chloe.

  Though she knows that they need to remember, Chloe suddenly wants to forget about the past and enjoy this. To enjoy Ginger sitting here, beautiful and real. She wants to bury the words she said to Chester before Ginger arrived here at the theatre, how she’d felt that if they met again, something terrible would happen. She wants to forget the creepy words on the dressing-room mirror and the voice on the radio and the haunting sound of her name floating out of the dressing room. She wants to forget everything and kiss again. She wants to know how Ginger feels but is afraid to ask.

  ‘OK,’ says Ginger.

  Chloe touches her hand. Holds it to her chest the way Grandma Rosa did when she was small. Last time, she saw the dagger, dripping in blood. This time she sees Morgan Miller. Alive. Real. Now. Walking past the bar, her hair in rollers as though for the show, her lips crimson red. The vision is so vivid that Chloe can’t understand why Colin the barman and Ginger don’t turn and watch her go by.

  Chloe.

  She realises then.

  ‘I know you,’ she says aloud.

  ‘Of course you do.’ It’s Ginger, face creased with concern, glass now empty in her hand. ‘It’s me.’

  ‘No, the voice. One I’ve been hearing. It’s her. Morgan. It’s been her the whole time.’

  ‘You’re creeping me out.’ Ginger pulls back in her seat.

  ‘I am?’ Chloe feels sad.

  ‘No, all of it.’ Ginger pauses. ‘You have always been a bit magic, though.’

  The word falls heavily; magic.

  ‘Shit, you…’ Ginger begins, but then looks nervous.

  ‘I what?’

  ‘I don’t know if it
’s that word – magic – but it just … it just triggered this memory. There was a time, back then … there were these men. They broke in or something and you…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sent them on their way.’

  Chloe feels sick. She doesn’t want to talk about it anymore. She wishes none of it had happened. But if it hadn’t she wouldn’t be here with Ginger now. She just wants them to go back to her dressing room. Wants their yin and yang hair to entwine once more.

  ‘I have something for you,’ Chloe says, remembering.

  ‘You do?’ Chloe can’t read Ginger’s face.

  Chloe takes out the velvet box and puts it in Ginger’s perfectly manicured hand, the red matching her long nails.

  ‘What is it?’ she asks.

  ‘Open it.’

  The tissue paper rustles as she reveals the miniature ghost.

  ‘Oh, Chloe, it’s beautiful.’

  ‘To represent Dust. I remember your mum said she would always buy you one for each show you acted in.’

  ‘And she did,’ says Ginger, holding up her arm. The tiny charms shiver at the motion. ‘You clip it on,’ she says.

  Chloe attaches the ghost to the bracelet, placing it next to the theatre mask she bought all those years ago.

  ‘I’ll treasure it.’ Ginger touches it tenderly. ‘It was very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Chloe lies.

  ‘No, it’s a great deal.’

  Chloe finishes her drink and finds the courage then to say, ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had time to read my script?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’ Ginger continues to study her bracelet and Chloe can’t help but feel she doesn’t want to look at her. ‘I printed it out and read it on my breaks.’ She still won’t look at her.

  Chloe’s heart sinks. Ginger doesn’t like it after all. Is she trying to be kind? To not say what she really thinks. But she said it was beautiful when she saw Chloe performing it onstage.

  ‘You can tell me the truth.’ Chloe tries not to sound put out. ‘I’m a big girl.’

  ‘Has anyone else read it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’ve not sent it anywhere?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wouldn’t yet. I thought it was … quite good.’

  Quite good? Chloe knows an insult when she hears it. She has read enough reviews of shows here to know a veiled slur.

  ‘Oh.’ She doesn’t know what else to say. She can’t decide if she’s more hurt about the words she toiled over being so casually dismissed, or by the thought this might mean Ginger doesn’t care about her.

  ‘Look, I’m no expert.’ Ginger shrugs.

  ‘You’re an actress and you read scripts. You must know which ones you’ll consider doing and which you won’t. Is mine one you’d take on?’

  Ginger doesn’t answer. Colin drops a glass and it shatters, making them both jump.

  ‘Sorry,’ he says, disappearing, presumably to find a brush and pan.

  The silence then is vast. Chloe notices their black silhouettes in the glass of the nearby Dust poster, so it appears that Ginger and she are Esme and Chevalier’s shadows. They are alone now. All the patrons have left.

  ‘You said it was beautiful,’ whispers Chloe, desperate to fill the quiet void. ‘That day…’

  ‘Maybe that was the way you performed it.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ lies Chloe. ‘It’s only a first draft.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Ginger seems to latch on to the excuse. ‘It is. And I mostly liked it. I thought Abigail was engaging and some of the scenes were good, but it needs more polish. That’s all. Maybe we could go over it together one day?’

  ‘I’d like that.’ Chloe thaws a little. Maybe she’s being oversensitive. She knows literary critique is essential for improving work. And this could be a chance for them to see one another more.

  As though hearing her thoughts, Ginger says, ‘The only thing is that rehearsals are about to get even more intense now, so it could be a while before we can meet properly like this. I’m sure you understand?’

  But what about our kiss? Chloe wants to ask. What about the other night?

  ‘Of course,’ she says instead.

  ‘I know we’ll cross paths around the place.’ Ginger’s phone buzzes in her bag and she takes it out and reads a message, her face expressionless. ‘Sorry, I have to go now.’

  Are they not even going to talk about what happened between them?

  ‘Ginger,’ ventures Chloe. ‘About … you know…’

  Ginger puts a warm hand on Chloe’s arm. The ghost and the theatre mask settle cold against her skin. Chloe studies them to brace herself for what’s coming. ‘I find you attractive,’ Ginger says softly. ‘I think in different circumstances, maybe we could, you know, but now … well, I have so much on…’

  Different circumstances? Isn’t this the perfect circumstance? Both of them here, in the theatre they dreamed as teens of performing in. It’s as though it has been written in the stars. But apparently Ginger can’t read the heavens; she gets up and puts her bag on her shoulder. ‘I have to get changed. I promise we’ll catch up again when this is all over.’

  ‘We’re closing now,’ says Colin, wiping the bar down.

  Chloe stands too and the room begins to sway. Ginger’s face stretches white and ghostlike in front of her. The ceiling with its strings of gold lights blurs; the walls close in.

  And Chloe blacks out.

  When she comes around Colin is fanning her with a stained tea towel, and Ginger is holding her hand. She doesn’t want to let it go. Wants to say, ‘I don’t care if you hated my script and I don’t care if you’re busy now, I’ll do anything if we can just see each other again, the way we did the other night.’ But she is mute. She sits up, rubs her head. ‘I’m fine,’ she insists, embarrassed. It’s been months since a blackout happened. In fact, the last time was when she first saw Ginger.

  Colin scuttles back to the bar.

  ‘You really should see a doctor about this,’ says Ginger.

  ‘I have,’ she sighs. ‘It’s just something that happens now and again.’ She shakily gets to her feet again.

  ‘You sure you’re OK?’ Ginger obviously wants to get away.

  ‘Yes. You go.’

  Chloe watches her head for the corridor that takes you backstage. A large curl has fallen from Ginger’s bun and swings enticingly. Chloe remembers when she approached the mirror that night. How Ginger had looked up at her, lips slightly parted, a question in her eyes. What was it she had done then? Remember how. Will it and it shall happen. Push. The words had seemed familiar; sent a thrill along her spine. And she had done it; she had pushed. And Ginger had moved towards her.

  Now, just as Ginger reaches the doors to the corridor, Chloe pushes.

  Just to see.

  Just to try it again.

  The moment is one of comedy.

  And Chloe laughs. She can’t help it. Ginger flies forwards and lands in a heap in front of the doors, the contents of her bag scattering on the floor, more curls falling free from her bun. Then Chloe feels terrible and hurries over, picking lipsticks and tampons up and handing them to her.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Ginger wipes her knees and stands. ‘It was like … like someone pushed me. But … how?’ She is trembling. Then she looks at Chloe. Two emotions flit across her face. The first is recognition; she remembers something. The second, Chloe has seen on her face once before. A long time ago.

  It’s fear.

  And Chloe realises then that she prefers this fear to when Ginger couldn’t look at her at all.

  41

  The Game

  2005

  Yellow Teeth edged closer to Chloe. The heat in the theatre built to fever point, as though the empty cauldron nearby was smoking again. She heard Ryan and Jess approach from behind the velvet curtain. Perhaps they felt they should support her; perhaps they felt the power of three against two was enough; perhaps they too felt the fire of outrage a
t these two intruders daring to smash their glass and disturb their time with Morgan Miller.

  ‘Come on, let’s leave ’em to it,’ said the smaller of two men.

  ‘They’re just fucking kids,’ said Yellow Teeth, eyes still on Chloe.

  He gathered up some of their letters and threw them in the air with a challenging grin. As they scattered, Chloe saw a picture from one of her favourite childhood books; she saw the scene from Alice in Wonderland where Alice is attacked by playing cards. It’s at that moment in the story that Alice wakes up.

  Chloe felt like she woke.

  ‘Pick them up,’ she told Yellow Teeth.

  He grinned again. ‘Make me.’

  Chloe…

  Will it and it shall happen. Push.

  Had Morgan Miller said those words to her all along? Chloe felt her spine uncurl, strengthen. And she did it; she pushed with everything she had, and Yellow Teeth’s face changed for a split second – from leering to pure horror – before he flew backwards and off the stage, landing heavily against the front pews, broken glass crunching beneath his splayed boots. Chloe was as surprised as he was. She gasped. Turned and looked at her friends. Jess stared at her with an emotion she had never seen in her eyes before – fear. Chloe looked back at Yellow Teeth.

  And she remembered.

  Carrie Meadows. Mocking her portrayal of Cordelia in King Lear at school. How she had flown at a wall, broken her arm. And Chloe swore she hadn’t done it.