The Furies

by Katie Lowe

  ‘Shhhh,’ she said. She placed the corkscrew on the doll’s lips, and began to turn, the plastic breaking with a soft pop. ‘Keep your secrets, poppet; keep them close. Let our will be your fate.’ She looked at me, and I took the corkscrew, pulling at the handle as I spoke, a ragged void torn horribly in the doll’s face, eyes still bright and smiling.

  ‘We curse you, poppet, for what you have done, and bind you from the things you are yet to do. Let the Furies take your breath, and the Fates cut your thread.’ I stared at her. This sounded more serious than ‘just a pinch’. She snipped the ribbon, and the doll landed in the bin with a clatter. ‘Hold your breath,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hold your breath.’ She popped the lid off a thin, glass bottle and poured a glutinous, black substance into the bin, turning the doll’s hair snake-like, the tear in her face making her the Medusa, screaming back. Even with my breath held, I caught the chemical smell in the back of my throat, bittersweet like petrol, nail polish, cough medicine. The match sparked, and I realized what she was about to do.

  ‘Don’t—’ I said, as she dropped it from high above, the bin’s contents bursting into vivid, red flames, the black smoke monstrous, stink of plastic and burning hair.

  I threw open the window, and Robin held the bin out into the rain, wincing as the steam swelled around her arms. When she finally pulled it in, her hands were singed red, skin peeling back. ‘Fuck,’ she muttered, dropping the bin to the floor. I kicked it upright, the plastic burning my toe. ‘I guess that’s why they say to do it outside,’ she said, drily.

  ‘And that’s why you’re meant to make it out of … anything but Sindy,’ I said. We looked at each other, and down into the bin, where the doll’s torn face had melted into a rictus smile, arms bent and hair melted into a solid, stinking mask. Our eyes met again, and we laughed. It was a giggle at first, descending into a riot, laughing until our ribs ached and our jaws grew tight.

  When we finally gained something like control (punctuated with the occasional snort, a hiccup, a giggle) she peeled the doll from the base of the bin and held it upside down, between two fingers. ‘I’ll put this back,’ she said, and disappeared into the hallway.

  I lay back, heard the door click, felt her lie beside me, fingers intertwined. I turned to face her, and she looked away, a half-smile on her face. ‘I’m knackered,’ she said, voice barely more than a whisper, as she began to fall asleep, the hollows in her neck rising to meet bone. ‘That was too funny.’

  We fell asleep on the bed holding hands, our bracelets resting beside one another as we slept. When I woke up, she was gone, an origami bird propped on the pillow beside me. I unfolded it, fingers smudging the still-wet ink. ‘See you in class. Love you.’

  I sat up, still smiling, the curtains flapping in the breeze. It was a day I’d want to keep, a memory fixed in amber. I reached for my diary, the words – the story of our perfect, thrilling day – already arranging themselves in my mind.

  On the side table, I felt empty glasses, crush of ash and stone, abandoned papers, and used-up pens – but no diary. I peered behind the table, between it and the bed; in the drawers, and under the feet. I turned everything upside down, tearing at the pieces, mess scattered and thrown. I retraced my steps, memories, every moment since I’d seen it last.

  But still, it wasn’t there.

  When I arrived at the tower the following day, I found the girls staring at me, wide-eyed. I walked across to the table, where the three of them sat huddled around a book; felt a shudder of realization as I recognized the torn pages and smudged ink.

  My diary.

  My secrets: now theirs.

  I remembered what I’d written, the words I’d meant to tear out and throw away: the horror of what had happened with Tom scratched into the page while it was still raw, though it had faded with each passing day. Now, knowing they’d seen it – knowing they’d read the words, known the vivid burn of shame – I felt violated, once again.

  I looked at Alex and Grace, listened to Annabel, picked up the thread.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘it might be better to live our lives in pursuit of those things that unite both worlds: the real, and the imaginary. Perhaps we should see ourselves drawn not to the future, not towards what I imagine, to you, seem like impossible boredoms, repetitions, and tiny deaths, but to the magic of our own, unique pasts. And the past we share with those who came before, for whom lived experience was the pursuit of those things that make our hearts beat a little faster in our chests, and fill our lives with a little more magic, our souls vibrating with the thrill of identification.’

  She closed the book, looked at each of us in turn. ‘Perhaps we should exercise our minds, follow our beliefs, and our wills just the same. Maybe that’s just living. Or maybe it’s the path to the sublime.’

  The bell rang, and she looked around as though surprised. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose that’s all for today. And if you could work out whatever’s going on between you before our next class, I’d be very much obliged.’

  Only when the elevator began its mechanical roar did any of us speak, and then all at once. Alex and I turned to Robin, each shouting about our respective stolen books. Grace stared down at the pages, inky fingers tinged blue-black; Robin, apparently delighted to be at the centre of it all, sat in Annabel’s chair with a half-smile.

  We were interrupted by the bells above, and fell silent, glaring at each other as the chimes rang overhead, the birds fluttering in response. When they stopped, Robin sat up, elbows on her knees. ‘Can we all just chill out? Just for a minute?’

  Alex and Grace stared at her, Alex passing a fleeting glance at me as I sat down. I blushed, caught sitting on command, and considered standing up again.

  ‘Remember when Annabel did that class on revenge?’ Robin said, grandly, though with a look in her eye that suggested she was more nervous than she’d admit, unsure of her approach, like someone walking a little too close to a sheer drop. The slight crack in her bravado stilled me, and I blinked, reminding myself why I was angry – but the full force of my earlier fury failed to quite materialize as it had moments before.

  ‘Robin—’ Alex began.

  ‘And she said,’ Robin went on, one hand raised, ‘women owe it to each other to seek revenge for those wronged?’ She looked at Grace, for a moment, and then to me. ‘That it’s, like, a right?’

  ‘A need,’ Grace said. ‘She said it was the foundation of sisterhood, I think.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Robin said, beaming. ‘So when an opportunity for revenge presents itself, we owe it to the sisterhood to take it – don’t we?’

  Alex turned to me. ‘This is a really bad idea,’ she said, softening her tone. ‘It’s too dangerous.’ Behind her, Robin pulled faces, mimicking her concern. ‘There are other books, with other spells, but—’

  ‘But this one actually works,’ Robin said. ‘Which is exactly the point.’

  I looked at her, then at Alex, then Robin again.

  ‘What does it say?’ I said, finally. Alex groaned, pushed back her chair, and walked over to the east window, looking down at the Quad below.

  ‘The Furies may be invoked in order to restore order and reclaim power from those who abuse it. In summoning these goddesses, one asks divine justice to do its work in the mortal realm, to counter the sins of evil men.’

  ‘And?’ Alex said, turning back to face us. ‘What else does it say there, Robin?’

  Robin scowled. ‘These rites must only be performed when the situation truly demands it, and even then should remain in the hands of experienced practitioners only.’ She paused. ‘It says that about basically everything, though. And anyway, we’ve got experience.’

  ‘You’ve what?’ Alex glared at Robin and sighed. ‘You know what? I don’t want to know.’ She sat down beside me. ‘Violet, what happened to you sounds horrible, and he absolutely shouldn’t have done it … But don’t let her talk you into this. It’s a stupid idea.’


  I bristled at her tone, exhaled slowly through my teeth. ‘Patronizing bitch,’ I’d called her, secretly, after one too many sugar-sweet vodka drinks. I saw a flicker of a smile pass Robin’s face and wondered if she was thinking of that same night; thinking, too, that Alex had all but assured this kind of reaction, an urge to prove her wrong. Robin threw her arm around me before I spoke, and I flinched, pulled away.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No. Forget it.’

  Robin stared at me, tendons twitching, corded, in her neck. ‘What do you—’

  ‘Just drop it, Robin. I don’t want to.’

  I slammed the door behind me as I left, the girls silent, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I paused a moment, half-expecting to be called after, followed, perhaps. But as the elevator rattled up, they didn’t move.

  Instead, they remained silent, as though waiting for me to leave.

  I read the words over and over, trying to ignore the relentless tap of his pen against the page. The soporific warmth, smell of dust burning on the radiator (dead skin, I thought, charred flesh). I chewed my lip, scraped off the crisp, chapped skin, and smeared it, blood-red, on the page.

  Outside, the reception gate rattled shut, locked with one click, then another. Mrs Coxon’s heels rapped a fading rhythm down the hall, and disappeared, the main doors closing behind her. I’d come to resent that sound, the last movement, the deathly click: it seemed that, during our evening sessions together, the Dean and I were the only people – the only living things, in fact – left on campus.

  He stopped a moment, and looked up. ‘How are you getting on?’

  ‘Fine,’ I said, a slight petulance in my voice. I turned back to the notebook I’d been poring through, the Dean’s handwriting so small as to have been incomprehensible during my first weeks of work, though by now – to my strange satisfaction – I’d become fairly accustomed to the loped scrawl, all capitals and crossings-out. My task was rote copying, moving scrawled entries onto index cards I’d occasionally find pinned in strange configurations on the wall.

  Occasionally I’d come across a name I recognized – from the mossy tombstones we’d stood beside on that first night, or scratched in the margins of books I’d pawed through in the tower, waiting for Annabel’s class to start, their meanings unclear, the links to the passages they sat beside oblique and seemingly random.

  ‘I’ve heard quite a few sighs,’ he said, smiling. ‘Are you sure you’re …?’

  I sat, for a moment, watching him; a little uncomfortable at the way his eyes peered into mine, as though he knew something, anticipating the moment of reveal. ‘It’s just,’ I said, looking away, ‘what’s this story got to do with anything?’

  I knew, of course, what it was – recognized the name: Jane White, Ms Boucher, the belladonna in the milk. And yet his notes told nothing of her death – only that she’d lived in the town during the trials, and had died, mysteriously, mere weeks before Boucher had burned. It was pointless work, a waste of both of our time.

  He glanced out at the Quad, the evening light silvery, buildings clipped by a low mist. All week, fog had clung to the buildings, the last gasp of winter. The campus was barely visible but for the squares of light glowing patchwork in the mist; the golden faces of the clock tower, the Campanile’s four moons. I’d avoided Robin and the girls, though they continued to watch me, their pitiful looks serving only to make the shame deepen and twist in my gut.

  ‘I suppose this is a little dry,’ he said, thoughtfully. He turned back to me, and smiled; rose, heavily, from his seat. ‘Come on. Let’s go for a walk.’

  I stared at him, chest tightening at the words, the voice, the echo of Tom. ‘It’s fine, sir,’ I said, softly. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just …’ I trailed off, fear reaching my throat, an icy grip.

  ‘Violet?’ he said, after a moment.

  ‘I …’ I felt my voice tremble, tried again for a distraction. ‘I had a fight. With my friends.’

  He sat down, slowly. ‘Which friends?’

  ‘Robin, and Alex, and Grace,’ I said, a little stab of shame as I named each in turn. I was telling tales, being childish. They’d never forgive me if they knew.

  ‘Hmmm …’ He folded his arms, jacket straining a little at the seams. Since Tom, I’d been newly aware of the size of boys, the strength of them; the Dean, now, seemed to loom large, broad-shouldered, capable of … I closed my eyes for a moment, the thought spiralling beyond grasp.

  ‘You know,’ he said, softly. ‘Usually I’d suggest you try to resolve it. It doesn’t do to have arguments lingering.’ He clicked his tongue, thoughtfully. ‘But in this case, I’ll admit, I’m not sure.’

  I looked up; stared at him, a flicker of anger, flame pinched between finger and thumb.

  ‘When you’re your age,’ he went on, ‘it can seem like friendships are the most important thing in the world. But sometimes that makes us blind to the fact they’re not good for us.’ A lamplight fizzed in the Quad, the office light shuddering in response. ‘I know it seems impossible,’ he said, smile benevolent, imagining himself sage. ‘But sometimes it’s better to have no friends than bad ones.’

  I felt a sting, sharp and hot, in my chest. The cruelty of the implication. Without them, I thought, what friends do I have? There was Nicky, I supposed, but our friendship was hollow, superficial. It was patronizing, what he’d said, but – to my shame – not untrue. Without them, I was alone. I remembered the longing I’d felt, before, when I’d imagined myself among them – and yet now I was, I was throwing it away. And for what? Because Robin wanted to get revenge on the boy who’d made me—

  ‘Violet,’ the Dean said, reaching a hand for mine; he bit his lip, a gesture I’d seen countless times, a tic. I flinched, heart thudding, viciously, and stood, stumbling back towards the door.

  ‘Don’t,’ I said, tears choking me, drowning. ‘Don’t come near me.’

  He stood, stunned, by the desk; raised both palms, slowly, before bending to pick up my bag and coat from the floor. He stepped forward, handed them to me, and reached for the door handle, inches from my hip.

  There, he paused, the moment interminable. The smoke in his hair, tang of aftershave, cloying with sweat.

  ‘Violet,’ he said, again. I closed my eyes, tears catching on my lashes, and felt the breath of him, too close, too much.

  He pulled the door open, and I ran, silently, into the welcoming night.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ I said, breathlessly, the words spilling out. ‘We need to do it. We need to make him …’

  I heard a door close, muting the chatter from inside Robin’s house: the first time I’d dialled her number. Before, I would have grasped at details, hoping to catch some thread of her, the banal secrets of the home life she rarely mentioned but for the occasional eye roll or groan.

  ‘Are you sure?’ she said, softly; a strange nervousness to her, a glimmer of something resembling fear.

  I paused. ‘Don’t you want to?’

  ‘Mum!’ she called; I flinched, pulled the phone from my ear. ‘Put the extension down. It’s just Grace.’ There was a soft click between us, a heavy silence. ‘No offence. She just knows Grace, you know.’

  I murmured something in response, my determination deflated by the interruption.

  ‘If you mean it,’ she said, her voice a low whisper, ‘I’m in. But you’ll need to persuade the others. They’ll do it, but only if they think it’s for you.’

  In the living room, Mum rolled up from the sofa, shuffling towards the kitchen, hands gripping surfaces which shook and rattled with the impact. I looked down at my hands, the bruises and cuts faded, now, to nothing; heard Robin’s breath in the receiver.

  ‘Okay,’ I said, the word seeming to lighten me, a relief. ‘Let’s do it.’

  Chapter 9

  My memories of the cove were framed in the sticky sweetness of childhood, playing among the ruins of the old brickworks, hiding among the tiny caves that appeared in the cracks on the dusty cliffs that su
rrounded the hidden bay. Sea water lapped at the honeycombed buildings shot with beeswax light, dripping through windows of what might once have been a fairy-tale castle, all spires and chimneys – the old brickworks.

  I imagined myself a lost princess, peering through gaps, plucking hermit crabs and starfish from the algae-covered walls. After my sister was born, we never went back, the path leading down to it impossible to negotiate with a pushchair. By the time she could walk, it was known more for its appeal to drop-outs and hippies camping to watch the sunrise (based on a calendar of which few residents of the town could keep track) and misguided teenagers looking to score pot.

  Or maybe I was just old enough to see it for what it was.

  Either way, I hadn’t ventured down the narrow path, through the elm trees that sprung from the cliff above, in several years, and certainly never in the dark. Indeed, I haven’t been since, though the memory of the night still appears in view, clear and full-coloured, as though etched in my mind: a night I suppose I will never forget. The old spire groaned in the wind, fallen bricks lay scattered, haphazard, at its feet, and gulls drifted high above, circling like vultures. Underfoot, sand scratched on stone, while crabs skittered ahead, foxes hissing and yowling among the ruins.

  In the farthest dome, I saw a light flicker through an empty window. Voices echoed across the cove, caught on the wind; over the mound boys whooped and howled, and on the cliff above two old men sat, dirt seeping into their clothes, unconcerned as the rain began to spit and wind stir. Peering through one of the arches, I saw the girls (dressed all in black, as was I, on Robin’s instruction) pottering around a red fire in the centre of the room, which crackled and spat softly between them.

  Around the fire were piled mounds of flowers and shrubs, pulled from the earth: blue-tinged sea holly, horned poppies and sea kale, bittersweet and viper’s bugloss. Other trinkets gathered, too: candles of varying shapes and sizes, glass beads, bottles shaped by the sea. And around the fire, four gold torches, rippled with engravings, and four matching knives blade-down in the earth.