Queen of the Night

by Leanne Hall

‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Oh, sweetie. That bad?’

  ‘Yeah.’ I’m unable to say much more than that. Ruth’s hands are soft against the nape of my neck. My hair crackles. ‘But, you know, I’m going to study hard this year,’ I tell her. ‘And then rule the world after that. I don’t need boys.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it. And now, magic has officially been worked. Although it’s not difficult with hair as beautiful as yours.’

  I check myself in the mirror. Ruth does have magic fingers. She’s somehow managed to twist my hair into a sleek forties hairdo, my hair rolling away from my face on either side. I turn my head and see some lazy curls tumbling down my back.

  When we emerge from the staffroom Helen has recovered from her despair and managed to cover all the windows with heavy drapes, put some breathy sixties French pop on the stereo, and pour a tray of champagne. She calls out from her position near the counter-slash-bar. ‘Nia, darling! You’re needed over here!’

  It must be after five because the front part of the shop is filling up fast. Lots of people have dressed up for the occasion, in dresses and suits and flashy seventies disco wear. I squeeze past a man in a safari suit to get behind the counter.

  ‘You have a visitor, honey,’ Helen says.

  I look across the counter and I see Wolfboy.

  He’s red in the face, from sunlight or embarrassment, I don’t know.

  ‘Nia,’ he says. ‘You look, um, incredible.’

  I don’t think I’m exaggerating to say that in this moment I am completely unable to produce sounds from my mouth. I look mutely across at Helen instead. Maybe if I pretend he’s not here, I can make him disappear.

  ‘I’ve already introduced myself to the gorgeous Jethro.’ Helen’s eyes twinkle even more than her caftan. She has the same look on her face that she gets when we bring her surprise doughnuts from the bakery.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ My voice is snappy.

  ‘Ortolan gave me her invite.’ Wolfboy holds up the printed curl of ribbon Helen used as invitations.

  ‘It’s a pity she couldn’t make it tonight,’ Helen says, ‘but I’m glad she sent someone in her place. Nia needs some more people her own age here, instead of all these old farts. Champagne?’

  Wolfboy shakes his head. I have my arms crossed, mostly to force away the image I have of him leaving the Darkness in his black night-time clothes and pale skin, and crossing into the sunlight and heat of the City. Crammed into a smelly train carriage, walking down the bright summer streets, all to come here. To see me.

  ‘So, you think I’m going to forgive you because you made a minor effort to find out where I work?’

  Next to me Helen fusses with trays of glasses, but I can tell she’s still listening. Listening with all her body, as if she could suck sound up through her pores.

  Wolfboy’s eyes are piercing blue and brimming with apologies.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, hands fidgety on the glass-topped counter.

  I look down at those hands, the too-thick hair growing there, a reminder that Wolfboy is not your average guy. Maybe my mum was right to protect me from him.

  ‘There’s nothing I can say other than that. I wanted so badly for the other night to go well, and it didn’t.’

  I teeter on the edge, staring back at him. He doesn’t flinch. He’s brushed his hair and put on a neat buttondown shirt for the journey. I have the barest thread of an idea forming in my mind.

  ‘Exactly how sorry are you?’ I say.

  16

  I take my place to the side of

  the catwalk, behind a microphone.

  ‘Welcome to the Emporium Shopping Night Fashion Parade,’ I say, following the cards Helen has written out for me. There are whoops and whistles. The guests have clustered around the stage, glasses in hand. ‘Tonight we hope to show you that, like good wine, fashion only improves with age.’

  I nod at Difficult Steve, his face lit blue from the laptop in front of him. It turns out he’s our saviour, offering to take care of the music. A Serge Gainsbourg song filters out of the PAs.

  ‘First up we have Ruth in a 1940s shirtwaist dress made from silk shantung, with a matching bolero.’

  On cue, Ruth slides out from behind a curtain and makes her way down the catwalk. The guests start clapping immediately, and Ruth smiles demurely at them, walking daintily in her dainty outfit.

  ‘Ruth wears shoes taken from our large selection of vintage ladies’ court shoes and carries a contemporary handbag made from recycled fabric.’

  Ruth sashays right off the catwalk. I look down at the next card, which is full of corrections. I hope I can decipher it.

  ‘Please welcome to the stage our male ubermodel Jethro, in a velvet riding jacket, pin-tucked silk shirt and tuxedo pants.’

  Wolfboy creeps out from behind the curtain and stands at the head of the runway. Ruth has coaxed his hair into a short ponytail. The tuxedo pants are waaaaay snug against his legs, and the maroon jacket hugs his torso. The silk shirt froths at his throat. He should be riding a stallion across the moors.

  I forget for a moment that there’s a microphone right in front of my mouth.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, and there are laughs and whistles. Wolfboy scowls at me, ruining his dashing look. I nod at him and he traipses down the runway. At first he’s stiff and awkward, but the audience is so enthusiastic that by the time he reaches the end he actually seems to be enjoying himself. He pulls a department store catalogue pose, hands on hips, squinting off into the distance, and then starts the return journey. He catches my eye with a grin and a wink, and I know he’s forgiven me for putting him up for public spectacle. I clutch my chest and place my hand melodramatically against my forehead—be still, my beating heart! Only I’m not acting, not acting at all.

  The smell of mothballs and perfume is strong behind the fur coat rack. But I don’t care because Wolfboy is next to me, warm by my side. We’ve dragged a couple of cushions behind the rack, and the only thing giving our hiding place away is Wolfboy’s long legs poking out the bottom. Downstairs the cash register dings regularly. I’d feel guilty for slacking off, only it was Helen who sent us upstairs with a bottle of champagne, mumbling something about them not making boys like that when she was young.

  Wolfboy hands me the bottle with a grimace. ‘Too sweet.’

  ‘I know I am,’ I say, and put the bottle aside. I don’t need to be fuzzy tonight. The mezzanine floor hums with bass underneath us. ‘Look, I also owe you an apology. I asked my mum about your phone call.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘No, it’s not really. There’s all the privacy stuff to begin with, but mostly she shouldn’t have said those things to you. And I want you to know that I would have called you back if I’d known.’

  ‘It’s done now. Let’s forget about it. I’m glad’—Wolfboy ducks his head—’I’m glad we’re sitting here now. Even if it does smell like a grandma convention.’

  In the low light I catch the silvery shine of something against Wolfboy’s shirt.

  ‘Is that what I think it is?’ I reach out and snag it. It’s Wolfboy’s lighter, and it used to belong to his brother Gram. It’s engraved with Gram’s and Ortolan’s initials. I flip it over in my hand. ‘So this is what we almost died for.’

  ‘We didn’t almost die.’ Wolfboy leans forward so the chain doesn’t pull on his neck.

  ‘It felt like it.’ I let go of the lighter.

  I remember our escape from Orphanville in the dusty tunnels and crying when I saw Wolfboy again. I’d left him on the roof with Doctor Gregory and his two bodyguards. When he finally made it down to the tunnel I was so relieved. Everything felt so much more that night, as if we were starring in one hell of a realistic movie.

  ‘What happened up there with Doctor Gregory?’ I ask.

  ‘I told you, didn’t I?’

  ‘Not really. You told me you jumped up on the wall and ran around the edge of the roof, and that you fought his bodyguards.’
<
br />   ‘That’s all true.’ Wolfboy takes the champagne, but then doesn’t drink, peeling off a corner of the label instead. ‘But I didn’t tell you what Doctor Gregory said to me. He said that he knew why I was different. And then he mentioned an institute.’

  An unpleasant stillness settles over me. I remember now, Wolfboy telling me he thought we’d been lured to Orphanville deliberately, that Doctor Gregory didn’t care about the lighter at all. I add that to what I learned last night about Paul and the Datura Institute.

  ‘Do you think he’s using Paul to get to you?’

  Wolfboy shrugs. ‘For all I know, it was Paul who went to him in the first place. I haven’t heard from Doctor Gregory in all this time.’

  ‘What. Did. He. Want. With. You?’ I get so worked up I slap his thigh for punctuation. Wolfboy turns his head and looks at me, blue eyes to brown. ‘I don’t know how things go in Shyness, but out there in the real world, grown men don’t show this much interest in nineteen-year-olds who aren’t their sons.’

  ‘I’ve got no idea.’

  Wolfboy produces a book from his pocket. I part the coats to let in more light so I can read, ‘SHYNESS: A young lady’s treatise.’

  ‘Look at the author’s name.’

  ‘Gregory,’ I breathe. ‘Related?’

  ‘No idea. It’s a common name. But look at this.’

  The page he shows me has a photograph of a young girl posed in an old-fashioned white dress. Her hand rests stiffly on a chair; ribbons gather at the side of her head. It’s difficult to tell her age because of the layer of wispy dark hair covering her entire face. It thins only around her eyes and mouth. She’s bucktoothed to an unfortunate degree.

  The caption reads: Infamous wild-child Nora Gregory.

  Wolfboy reads out the facing text. He has a halting, uncertain way of reading that makes me want to climb into his lap and stroke his cheek. ‘“Despite being afflicted with Night Sickness in her youth my grandmother, Nora, went on to marry and produce five children. Whilst there were a handful of similar Night Sickness cases during the Third Night, my grandmother’s affliction was by far the most severe on record.”’

  ‘Huh,’ I say. ‘Well, she is way hairier than you.’ I take the book out of his hands.

  The girl stares into the camera, almost with defiance.

  ‘She doesn’t look sick, and you don’t seem sick either. Is there anything else about her?’

  ‘That’s it. It jumps straight to planetary orbits after that. It’s a strange book. This girl Delilah’s diary and a history of Shyness at the same time. I found it a few days ago.’

  I thumb through the book until I find a section of journal entries. I read in a posh English accent. For some reason I always assume people long ago all spoke with posh English accents. ‘“Sometimes I feel like little Kay in the Snow Queen, who swallowed a shard of the devil’s mirror, and could only see ugliness in the world. Only I have swallowed a portion of shadow, and that is why I feel the way I do.”’

  Wolfboy doesn’t smile as I expect him to. He takes the book back. There’s a pause.

  ‘I was never going to actually go into the Datura Institute,’ I say. ‘I was trying to get a reaction out of you.’

  ‘Well, it worked.’

  I find Wolfboy’s hand in the darkness and grip his fingers. ‘What do you want to do now?’

  ‘I haven’t seen Paul since Saturday night. Finding him seems more important than figuring out this other stuff.’ The heaviness shows in Wolfboy’s voice.

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘After I saw you last night I ran into this guy I know, Tony. He told me that the blue people go to this club Umbra on Wednesdays.’

  ‘I hope Paul turns up before then. But if he doesn’t, that can be our next step.’

  I hesitate, remembering my words earlier to Ruth about studying hard and not needing boys. Did I really believe that, even when I was saying it? I take a deep breath and tell him anyway. ‘My mum is going away on Wednesday for a few days, and I’m home alone. I can come over to Shyness without having to make excuses. Our neighbour will be watching me, but I can stretch the rules a little.’

  I kick open the coats again. There’s no air in here.

  Wolfboy turns to me. I have a curiously mixed-up picture of him in my head, half memory of the velvetjacketed, ponytail dandy, and half what’s in front of me now, Shyness boy in black jeans.

  ‘Why do you want to help me?’

  ‘I’m an investigative journalist writing a secret article about Shyness,’ I say. ‘And you’re my main source.’

  I’m hoping he’ll move closer, but instead he holds up his blue-lit phone. ‘It’s Blake,’ he says. ‘Paul’s come home.’

  17

  I’m still arguing my case,

  even as Wolfboy unlocks his door. I’m so busy talking I barely register how odd it is to be at his house again.

  ‘Why can’t you talk to Paul yourself?’

  ‘I’m no good at talking, you know that.’

  The house is as quiet as it was the first time I was here. There’s a light on in the front room.

  Wolfboy lowers his voice. ‘Paul likes you. I’ll say the wrong thing.’

  ‘Paul hardly knows me,’ I say, as I follow him into the lounge room. A girl is curled up on the couch, book in hand. She’s moon-pale even by Shyness standards. At first I think I don’t know her, but then I realise I do.

  ‘Blake, do you remember Nia?’

  I wave. ‘Hi, Blake.’

  ‘Wildgirl, hi.’ She looks at me through an owlish pair of specs. ‘You came back.’

  ‘I couldn’t keep away.’ Blake has changed from the scared girl I met those months ago. Now she’s dressed in clothes that fit her and she talks directly to me. Her skin and eyes are clear.

  ‘You look so pretty,’ she says.

  I look down at my jumpsuit. I’d forgotten I was all dolled up still from the Shopping Night. ‘Thanks. It’s a killer going to the toilet in this thing, though.’

  ‘Where is he?’ asks Wolfboy.

  Blake folds her book and sits up. ‘In his room. I tried to talk to him when he came in, but…I moved in here so that I’d know if he left the house again. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Nia’s going to talk to him.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘What was the point of you coming with me then?’

  He’s right. I should be making my way home already instead of trailing him.

  ‘He won’t talk to me about his ex, but he might to you.’

  ‘Her name was Ingrid,’ says Blake.

  ‘And then try and casually slip something in about the Datura Institute and Doctor Gregory,’ Wolfboy adds.

  ‘Oh, that’s going to sound real natural.’

  ‘They did it,’ says Blake. ‘Paul had never done it with anyone before.’

  Oh, good god. Way too much information. I throw my hands up. ‘All right, everyone chill. I’m going in.’

  I walk up the dark hallway. Paul’s door is ajar. Words cannot describe how awkward and stupid I feel tapping on it. When he doesn’t answer I push it gently open. He’s sitting on his bed in darkness, looking at his phone, music playing quietly in the background. At first glance he doesn’t look capable of causing everyone so much worry.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, which I figure is an okay place to start.

  Paul looks up. He locks his phone and tosses it on the bed. It’s too dark to see his face properly.

  ‘Remember me? Wildgirl? We danced up a storm at Little Death that one time?’

  After a pause, Paul answers. ‘What are you doing here?’ His words are slow and thick, but the question is smart. I’m counting on him not being smart enough to figure out that this whole scenario is a little weird. It’s so obvious I’m Wolfboy’s messenger.

  ‘Just visiting,’ I say, keeping it simple.

  Tiny speakers sit to the side of the bed, producing tinny music. The chorus to this song sounds like it goes: pain, pain, pai
n, pain, pain. Paul doesn’t look at me sitting crosslegged next to his mattress.

  ‘Where’s Jethro?’ he asks. As if on cue Wolfboy walks across the floor overhead. An electric guitar starts up. We planned it that way so Paul would know Wolfboy wasn’t eavesdropping on us.

  ‘Not sure,’ I say, shrugging. ‘Around. Do you mind if I switch on a lamp?’ I don’t wait for permission.

  The light gives me a chance to see what everyone has been fussing about. Paul’s black hair could have been cut with gardening shears and he’s scarecrow skinny. But the real clincher is when he finally turns to me. His beautiful amber eyes look like cloudy honey. He’s seeing me without really seeing me. His sockets are lined with deep purple, the only spot of colour on his moon-tanned skin.

  ‘Lady In Red.’ He stares at my velvet jumpsuit. ‘Am I awake?’

  ‘I don’t know, you tell me: are you?’

  ‘There’s a girl in my bedroom, so it must be a dream.’

  ‘What about the other girl?’ I ask, crossing my fingers in case I’m being too blunt.

  Paul frowns, struggling to remember, or understand what I’ve asked him. Behind his struggle is the backdrop of music. The chorus is definitely the word ‘pain’ yelled over and over again, and the verses are pure wailing.

  ‘Ingrid?’ I say, when it becomes clear Paul can’t or won’t remember.

  Paul flushes with delight when I say her name, but a split second later his expression is of pure despair. A tear rolls down his pale cheek.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he says.

  ‘Don’t understand what?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ he repeats. He beats the heel of his hand against his forehead. ‘It doesn’t make sense. First she says it’s there, and then she says it’s not there. Where did it go?’

  I pull Paul’s hand away from his face. ‘Everyone is so worried about you, Paul. They’re worried you’re caught up in something bad.’

  ‘I’ve done bad things.’ Paul looks me in the eye, and for a moment his gaze is certain and true. ‘He’ll never forgive me.’

  ‘Who won’t forgive you?’