The Furies

by Katie Lowe

  ‘You’ll need it,’ Robin added.

  I took the bottle, feeling the liquid lapping at the sides, the smell rich and coppery. I felt dared, caught out. I took a sip, winced; took another, feeling the warmth paint a line through my chest.

  Robin smiled, taking the bottle from me. I felt my cheeks flush hot, a sense of being cocooned, warm hands on my skin. I could see why Mum liked it. ‘So … Are you in?’

  I looked at her. ‘In what?’

  ‘The club, idiot,’ she said, knuckles brushing my arm. ‘Thought ol’ Annabel might’ve scared you away. She’ll kill you if she smells weakness.’

  ‘No way,’ I said, flushing at the thought. I’m not weak, I thought, as though saying it might make it true. ‘I’m in.’

  The truth was, I wasn’t sure how I felt. I wasn’t sure I believed any of it, though Annabel had told the story with such conviction it seemed impossible that it could be anything but true. But either way, I thought, what’s the harm? Being one of them like this is still better than being alone. And yet, as I said the words, there was a shudder of doubt I couldn’t place – what I suppose in hindsight one might call intuition, though in the moment it seemed like fear.

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘Promise?’

  ‘… Really?’

  She grinned. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I promise.’

  A lighter clicked behind me, and the distinctive sweet smell of cannabis ripened the air. She leaned back, took the joint from Alex, and turned back to me. ‘You’ve got so much to learn.’

  I laughed. ‘Like what?’

  She shook her head. ‘All in good time,’ she said, taking a long, thoughtful inhale. The town glowed a hazy orange in the distance, lights fading, one by one. Grace absent-mindedly played with her hair, searching out split-ends in the dim light; Alex leaned over to catch the wine bottle as a gust of wind toppled it from a precarious position in the grass. ‘It’s getting cold,’ she said, to no one in particular.

  There was a rising rumble in the east, and Robin rolled onto her knees. ‘About time,’ she said. I looked at the sky, waiting for the lightning to flash, but the sky was still. The noise grew louder, a shuddering constant. She grabbed my hand, and pulled me to my feet. ‘Ready?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get ready.’ She looked at me, illuminated by the white light that came from behind, growing brighter with the volume of the roar, unmistakable now: the thunder of an oncoming train. I turned to Alex and Grace, who stood poised beside me, faces blank, staring into the light. My heart began to pound, pulse thudding in my temples; the back of my neck was hot, palms slick with sweat, Robin’s nails against my skin. I wondered, briefly, if they were about to push me onto the tracks, the thought vivid, real as a nightmare.

  ‘We can’t …’ I began, the words drowned out by the train’s mechanical roar. I saw dark flashes of memory, fragments of the past. Morbid visions of burned-out eye sockets and fingernails peeled back: the girls pulled me forwards, and we ran, the rush of air pushing us stumbling onto the opposite bank. I turned and saw dead faces through the glass, wearing my wild-eyed grin like a mask.

  ‘See?’ Robin said, panting, laughing. ‘Feel alive, don’t you?’

  I nodded, breath still catching in my throat. She passed me the end of the joint, still somehow smouldering, and I took a drag, feeling my heart shuddering beside my lungs; a feeling pleasant, while one is young enough not to picture it at last giving out, with one final, bitter thud. ‘Fuck,’ I coughed.

  Alex laughed. ‘Yep.’

  When the silence fell again, it was transfigured, a physical presence lingering in the air. I followed the girls through a gap in the fence, careful not to disturb the tattered memorial tied to the post. ‘GONE TOO SOON’, it said, the face smeared and washed away. They walked between the tombstones and their ink-stain shadows, passing from one row to the next. Grace looked at me, eyes hollow in the dark, and smiled. ‘Nearly there.’

  At the end of the graveyard, seemingly as far as possible from the church itself, they stopped. A row of squat, overgrown tombstones, crawling with moss, tall grass all but covering the names etched into their faces. Robin took a sip of wine, and splashed a little on the ground below. ‘A toast,’ she said; the girls smiled, the ghost of a laugh. She turned to me. ‘So let’s talk about Annabel’s story. What did you think of the ending?’

  ‘It was good. I mean, I liked it,’ I whispered.

  ‘You can talk normally,’ Alex said. ‘They can’t hear you.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘Right.’

  ‘A question for you,’ Robin said, rocking back and forth. ‘Let’s say you’re Margaret Boucher. Why would you invoke a bunch of ancient underworld revenge demons if you weren’t planning on exacting some revenge?’

  ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Rhetorical, Violet, rhetorical. Because, duh.’ She leaned against the tombstone beside her, tapped it twice. ‘Mr Edward Cooke,’ she said. ‘Claimed Margaret cursed his cows so they wouldn’t give milk. Died a month after the burning, gored by his own bull.’ She pointed to the next. ‘Mrs Elizabeth Moran. Told the witch finder she’d seen Mags worship the Devil. Three months later, a candle from her own, personal altar caught on her dress, and poof!’ She motioned with her hands. ‘Finger-lickin’ good.’

  I laughed. ‘You’re insane.’

  ‘It’s all in the death records,’ Grace said, softly. ‘It’s like a massacre.’

  ‘Right,’ Robin replied. ‘Because that’s exactly what it is.’

  She pointed to another, and another. A man who’d claimed she’d poisoned the well, drowned; a woman who said she’d given her nightmares, crushed by a falling beam as she slept. We walked the length of the yard, the tombstones placed together, at a distance from the church – their superstitions seeming to confirm the unnaturalness of it.

  ‘But that’s not all,’ Alex said, as we reached the end of the row. ‘All these dead parents left behind daughters. And Elm Hollow – now run by Ms Boucher’s second-in-command, who are all busy mourning her loss – takes them in. Trains them to be upstanding young ladies, real pillars of the community. And for the lucky four who get advanced study classes …’ She trailed off.

  ‘This is my favourite,’ Robin said, brushing moss from the rim of a cracked tombstone. ‘Jane White. Invited Ms Boucher’s lover to stop by for a little supper, if you know what I mean. Poisoned by a leaf of belladonna in a glass of milk.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Deadly nightshade. You’ve heard of that, right?’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  A silence fell, for a moment. ‘I didn’t even know that was a real thing,’ I said, and meant it. I’d always assumed it was a fictional creation. Like magic. And curses. And vengeful demon spirits.

  ‘I know. Nor did I. Don’t sweat it,’ Robin said, rooting through her pockets for another cigarette. The hiss of burning tobacco was the only sound. ‘Kinda funny that’s the thing you’re incredulous about, though, dipshit.’

  ‘Good point,’ I said, laughing in spite of myself. She was right. This was all madness, a fairy tale run riot.

  Alex handed me the wine bottle, and I drained the last sip, sediment blacking my tongue. The girls watched me, a ribbon of tension hanging between us. I felt my skin chill, gooseflesh on my arms, a white-hot current down my spine.

  ‘So …’ Robin began at last, looking up at the moon. She looked back at me and smiled – a smile I’d come to know, the last dark laugh before a dare. ‘Remember that promise you made about being in?’ An owl cracked its wings above, and the four of us flinched at the sound.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Alex said, laughing. ‘That’s ominous.’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘Count me in.’

  Crows cawed overhead, the morning sky a cruel and vivid white.

  I clung desperately to sleep, feeling the cold pinch of sweat and dew on my forehead, the pitiless dry scrape at the back of my throat. My stomach rolle
d once, then again, and I staggered to my feet, past the steaming embers of the fire we’d made, and into the long grass, retching as quietly as I could.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I heard somewhere behind.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, wondering if the force of desperately wanting it to be true might be enough to make it so. ‘It’s me. I’m alright.’ I wiped my lip on my sleeve, winced at the acid smell; rolled my sleeve inward to hide the stain.

  Robin snorted, her voice hoarse with smoke. ‘Poor Vivi can’t hold her drink, huh?’

  ‘Nope,’ I said, sitting down beside her with a thud. She was cross-legged, rolling yet another cigarette, fingers fumbling over each other. Grace sat with her arms around her knees, her hair a tangled, black mess. Alex’s head rested on her bare shoulder. She rolled an almost empty water bottle towards me, and I drained it in a single gulp. I felt better for a moment, and then much, much worse. I lay down and closed my eyes, sun shining red through the skin.

  Memories began to surface, one by one, like bubbles in champagne. Each disappeared before I could catch it; running, falling, laughing. Robin climbing down from the holy font, wiping spit from her lips; putting two fingers in the wine and pressing them to my head, saying something I couldn’t recall. A sharp, cold thud, metal through the air. A laugh, first shy, then riotous, a howl, a call to come and see.

  ‘Hey,’ Robin said. I opened my eyes with a start. She stood over me, nudging my shoulder with her boot. ‘Time to go, Sleeping Beauty.’

  I sat up, and groaned as the world tipped forwards. She laughed, and held out a hand. ‘No offence, but you look like shit.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I brushed the grass from my legs and back, and prayed for a moment of stillness, the trees swaying a little in the distance.

  ‘Hurry up, for fuck’s sake!’ Alex shouted, already approaching the tunnel. ‘I need a shower before class.’

  ‘Oh god,’ I said, imagining my mum realizing I was gone, that I’d never made it home. In the months before the accident, I’d begun to ‘act out’, testing limits by arriving home two or three hours late. I left the question of where I’d been to my parents’ imaginations. (Though I’d been reading on the beach, or lurking in the library … Still, their assumptions had resulted in both the attention I craved and a gratifying sense of injustice at the fact they would assume the worst.) I’d been ‘grounded’ each time, a punishment that allowed me to spend more time in my room, alone, uninterrupted. That, I suppose, was the point.

  Now, however, I imagined Mum pacing the halls, frantic, growing ever more furious, giving way to terror as the dawn crept in; I imagined the punishment I would receive when, inevitably, I walked home, hung-over and ashen, stinking of smoke. Being grounded, now, when the girls had at last let me in, would be more than I could bear.

  Robin kicked my bag upright, and bent to pick it up. ‘Seriously, get a move on,’ she said, handing it to me and walking away, arms outstretched as she balanced along the silver curve of the rail.

  The girls talked without focus all the way home, Robin seemingly determined to fill the silence, until we parted at the mermaid statue staring out to sea. I walked home slowly, stopping to buy mints and a pint of milk (Dad had always had a glass of milk on the rare occasions he was hung-over: usually only New Year’s Day), and saw my reflection, gaunt in the windows of empty cars.

  I turned my key in the lock, heard voices inside, murmuring. I waited for Mum’s slippers pacing down the hall, the relief and anger on her breath.

  And yet, when I entered, there was nothing.

  Mum’s feet hung from the end of the sofa, room hot with sleep and stale sweat, the voices crackling from the TV. A glass of wine spilled on the floor, glass upturned, cracked. I went to my room, relief at my absence having gone unnoticed curling into something else, some bitter-tasting thing. I shook it off, changed my clothes, and went to school, slamming the door behind me as I left.

  Chapter 5

  Clutching a steaming coffee (no milk, but three packets of sugar – I was yet to fully accustom myself to the taste), I slid into the booth beside Grace and flicked open a packet of cigarettes I’d purchased en route (Lucky Strikes: Robin’s brand), opening them to the girls without a word. Grace shook her head; Robin took two, placing one in her breast pocket for later.

  In the weeks since my introduction to Annabel’s advanced classes, Alex and Grace had warmed to me considerably, helping me to catch up on the classes I’d missed.

  ‘Nice coat,’ Grace said, running a hand through the tattered fur. ‘Is it real?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said, though I wasn’t sure; I’d stolen it from Mum’s cupboard, shaking off memories of her and my dad in faded photographs, faces rose-lit by snow.

  ‘You know you gotta inhale, right?’ Robin said, her face expressionless, blank.

  ‘Sore throat,’ I lied, watching as she took a long drag – too long, I suspected, proving a point – and exhaled three rings above.

  ‘Where’s Alex?’ I asked, finally.

  ‘She’s en route. She got back kind of late last night,’ Grace said.

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘Some dinner thing. Her mum made her go. “Networking”, whatever that means.’

  ‘The life of the hideously wealthy is one of many inconveniences, darling,’ Robin added, mocking Alex’s low drawl.

  ‘Everyone here’s hideously wealthy,’ I said, a tinge of bitterness in my voice – a hangover, I suppose, from years of being poor. Robin and Grace looked at each other, then back to me.

  ‘Are you serious?’ Robin said. She took a sip of my coffee, and grimaced. ‘What have you done to this?’

  I stared at the two of them, utterly lost.

  ‘Well, we must be dressed sharper than I realized,’ she said, at last. ‘We’re on scholarships. She’s the academic nerd; I’m here on creative skills alone. That’s why we’re in Annabel’s class. Christ,’ she said, leaning back and sipping her tea. ‘You didn’t think I was in there on the strength of my brain, surely? I’m literally teacher’s pet. Even I don’t know why she let me in. I mean, it’s not like drawing’s going to help her take over the world, or whatever it is she’s planning to do.’ She looked at me, expectantly.

  ‘I … I hadn’t really thought about it.’ And in some way, it was true: I’d already identified the mark of the scholarship kids. I recognized it – the shyness, the furtive looks – because I felt it too. Robin and Grace, though – they went about campus with such assured confidence, reflected in the way everyone looked at them … They couldn’t be on scholarships. They belonged there more than anyone else.

  Robin laughed; Grace smiled as she emptied another sachet of sweetener into her mug.

  ‘But Alex isn’t on a scholarship?’ I said, finally.

  ‘God, no. Her mum’s loaded,’ Grace said. ‘And …’ She leaned in towards me. ‘She and Annabel go way back. Although,’ she added, lowering her voice, ‘Alex’s mum doesn’t know she’s in her class. So don’t mention it if she’s there.’

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  Grace coughed and nodded almost imperceptibly towards the door; Alex was approaching in dark glasses, heels clicking on the tile.

  ‘I’m so fucking hung-over,’ she said, dumping a glossy leather bag on the table and sauntering over to the counter. ‘Anyone want anything?’

  ‘Coffee – black as your soul!’ Robin called back. Alex raised two fingers in response, and ordered two coffees, both black.

  ‘If her mum is home,’ Robin whispered, ‘she’s a big shot, and she knows it. Total bitch. Be warned.’

  ‘Anyway,’ she said, abruptly, as Alex approached, ‘I liked it, but I don’t know if you guys would be into it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Alex said, sliding in beside me.

  ‘Just some movie.’ Robin shrugged. ‘Not your thing.’

  Grace swiftly changed the subject, and I lit another cigarette, Robin resting her coffee on a tattered sketchbook, doodling in its marg
ins.

  For all the grandeur to which I’d become accustomed on campus, Alex’s house still came as something of a surprise. Tucked deep among the canopied streets of what my dad had once referred to as ‘Snobbery Avenue’, the house sat far back from the road, a curved path leading from the wrought-iron gates to the main building. Across the lawn was a squat cottage Alex called the ‘Potting Shed’, but which looked to be roughly the size of my house. ‘It’s for guests,’ Grace whispered as we passed. ‘Although her dad lived there for a while during the D-I-V-O-R—’

  ‘I can spell, you know!’ Alex shouted from up ahead.

  ‘You can? Really?’ Robin said, elbowing Alex, who pushed her back – a little forcefully, I thought, though Robin didn’t seem to mind. I wondered why anyone would break up when they lived in a house like this. If my mum and I could avoid each other in our cramped, tired little house, it seemed as though you could go days here without knowing anyone else was even there.

  The other girls kicked off their boots in the hallway and disappeared into one of the many rooms off to the side. I knelt and began to untie my laces, unnecessarily, looking around at the paintings that hung on the walls: stone busts and sculptures of the sort I’d only ever seen encased in glass. I brushed the tips of my fingers on the bronze arm of a woman whose eyes sparkled green, braced for some alarm to sound, a stern guard to appear.

  ‘Come on, Violet!’ Robin shouted, from what by now sounded like several rooms away. I followed the sound of glasses clinking, drawers opening and closing, a stool pulled along a stone floor, and found the girls in a wide, brightly lit kitchen, like something from the magazines Mum used to buy.

  ‘What happened? Get caught by the ghost?’ Robin said, patting an empty stool beside her. I sat, palms cool on the marble counter.

  Alex snorted. ‘Trust me, Dad’s not coming back.’ She pulled two bottles from a wall criss-crossed with a huge grate. ‘Left the wine collection, at least.’

  ‘Ah, oui, oui,’ Robin said. ‘Your finest Chianti, garçon.’ She tapped two fingers on my thigh. ‘I’ve always wanted to say that.’ I laughed, and she squeezed, her hands tender, nails sharp.