The Furies

by Katie Lowe

  The task of writing up, then, became a way of brushing fingers up against the past and finding life still there: my secret, my own living history. But today I couldn’t concentrate. The text swam on the page, words incomprehensible, crawling black; I blinked, but couldn’t focus, or make sense of the creeping letters. Nothing made sense.

  ‘Everything okay?’ the Dean said. I turned, and saw him watching, chair rolled close to mine; felt a shiver as I wondered how long he’d been there.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said, weakly.

  He rolled a little farther forward. I wondered how he’d got the trickle scar that arched beside his eye; caught the outline of pockmarks in the hollow of his cheek. ‘Violet,’ he said, softly. ‘You look like you’ve got something on your mind.’

  I looked down, ashamed to be caught. ‘I’m fine, sir.’

  ‘Is it about Emily Frost?’ he said, fingers squeezing the arm of the chair. I felt myself grow hot, cheeks flushed; knew he would take that as a yes. And in a way, it was, as all things seemed to be: everything, always, about Emily Frost. I was jealous of a dead girl. Again.

  ‘I think the whole school has been rather shaken by it,’ he said. ‘I know you didn’t know her, but still … It’s okay to be upset. For your friends, if nothing else.’

  ‘Honestly?’ I said, softly.

  He looked hopeful, relieved I was at last opening up – imagining, perhaps, that we might talk openly again, me laughing politely at his stories, ludicrous, and inaccurate, as they were. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I really couldn’t care less.’ The words fell, almost of their own accord; the endless tap of his pen stopped, and he leaned back, slowly.

  I turned away, though I felt his eyes still fixed on my back, and began writing again. He looked at me a little longer, drew breath as though about to speak, and stopped. The silence seemed to swell, to fill the space; I felt my cheeks burning, blinked away tears. Finally – after what seemed like several minutes – I heard the chair roll thick across the carpet, a sigh; a flick of paper, and the scratch of his pen at last.

  I stared down at the page, furious with myself, my inability to keep my thoughts inside. For it was true: I didn’t care that she was dead; if anything, some part of me felt something like relief. She wasn’t coming back, as I’d feared, to usurp my place in the group. Or at least, I thought, bitterly, she’s not going to do so alive. And yet, still, the discovery of the body had made them leave me behind, a third wheel to their grief; just as Mum had done after Dad died, they’d pulled away from me in favour of the dead, the ones whose memory was more vivid than my living presence.

  I knew I was being childish; cringed as the thoughts passed (still do, in fact, as I write them here). I was ashamed, too, that I’d shown the Dean this silliness, the strange and pointless envy I felt for the dead girl dripping in my tone. I wondered what he was thinking, as we sat in brittle silence. Before, he’d paused from his work from time to time, to show me some strange engraving, or read a passage he found particularly illuminating, chuckling at the curious deaths and imagined spells with an almost childlike glee.

  He’d listened as I ventured my own ideas, attention that I relished, in spite of myself; I felt heard, a flash of the potential I might have had, had I devoted my energy to my studies, rather than the attentions of Robin and the girls. Now I’d lost that, too.

  The clock tower gave its low chime, and struck nine, long rings. The Dean turned heavily from his position, hunched over an open book, and looked at me. ‘How on earth did it get so late?’ he said, thumb pressed against temple, turning. ‘How are you getting home?’

  I had wondered that myself, having missed the last bus an hour ago. The car park was empty, my fellow students having long since left.

  ‘I … I figured I’d walk,’ I said.

  He raised an eyebrow, tapped his fingers once on the desk. ‘Don’t you live in town?’

  I nodded. He turned, glancing out at the Quad, finger and thumb rubbing, slowly, at his chin.

  ‘No, no,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t let you do that.’ He rose heavily from his chair. ‘Not given everything with …’ He trailed off. ‘Give me five minutes. I’ll give you a lift.’

  ‘You don’t have to—’ I began, voice strained and thin. I hadn’t been in a car since the accident; had strategically avoided doing so, choosing the boxy safety of the bus to the intimate danger of a car, so easily crushed under wheels.

  ‘I won’t hear a word otherwise,’ he said, gathering his notes and stuffing them haphazardly into his bag. ‘I should’ve let you go sooner. It’s entirely my fault.’ He rifled through the chaos of his desk, glancing back at me occasionally as I stood in the doorway, watching. It seemed, when he looked, as though he were about to speak, some thought lingering unsaid. But each time he caught my eye, he pulled back, looked nervously away.

  We walked out of the building in silence, a ribbon of tension between us. His was the last car on campus, and I climbed into the passenger seat, kicking coffee cups and crisp wrappers aside as I did so. The back seat was piled high with an array of abandoned items, details of a life; books and boxes filled with papers mingled with rucksacks and camping equipment, a winter coat and a hiking pole.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not all that organized, I’ll admit.’

  The car wheezed into life, and as the headlights flickered I blinked, eyes adjusting to the beams. Figures floated in my vision, white shards falling through the light, the grass crawling in the breeze. He tinkered with the radio, and a song whistled through the tinny speakers; he flicked from one station to another, murmuring under his breath.

  ‘I like this one,’ I said, finally, desperate to get the journey over with.

  ‘You like this?’ He chuckled, offering a smile for the first time since I’d told him how I really felt about Emily. ‘I didn’t know Barry Manilow was back in fashion.’ He put the car in gear, and reversed out, slowly. ‘I must be hip again.’

  I gave a stage laugh, overwrought. ‘Very hip, sir.’

  We drove in quiet company, the speakers rattling as we ran over bumps in the country roads, through the darkness to the town. Occasionally he would ask how my studies were going, which classes I liked, and so on; I responded to each with a noncommittal but positive answer, a smile, a balm. I tried to keep my hands from reaching for the wheel, a nervous tic, and begged my heart to still with silent sighs and deep breaths.

  As we reached the town, street lamps gave way to the bright lights of the promenade, with its shabby arcades, Golden Ticket, Caesar’s Palace, Lucky Strike all burning bright.

  ‘You know, Violet,’ he said, slowly, eyes still fixed on the road. ‘I do worry, sometimes. I know you’ve been through rather a lot, and …’ He paused, choosing his words carefully. ‘I sometimes wonder if it might be good for you to open up a little bit more. To someone you can trust.’

  I stared silently out of the window and tried not to listen, focusing instead on the people outside. A couple walked by holding hands, his eyes cast down, watching her feet; an elderly woman with matted hair in a filthy coat swayed, eyeing them with suspicion. A group of girls only a few years older than me tottered in vertiginous heels and neon skirts, stumbling from one bar to the next; and cross-legged on the sea wall, wiping her nose on her sleeve, was Robin, staring glassy-eyed at the crowd. I placed a hand on the door handle, squeezed it tight. It was locked.

  ‘It’s just not healthy to keep things pent up,’ the Dean said, staring forwards, chewing thoughtfully at a thumbnail. ‘It’s okay to be angry, or sad, but you shouldn’t feel like you have to deal with those feelings alone—’ I grabbed my bag, pulled the lock as the car stopped, and jumped out, the Dean’s voice drowned out by the blare of a car heading towards me, driver growling a complaint as he passed. I ran breathless, back to the promenade, but she was gone.

  I sat in the spot where she’d been, as though I might somehow be able to follow her thoughts; and when the night grew cold and the casinos dimmed their light
s, I walked home, footsteps heavy on the cracked pavements.

  ‘There you are.’ I spun around, caught paces from home by a hand that reached from between the trees.

  ‘Oh my god,’ I hissed. ‘I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  Robin gave a smile, the usual high-watt grin a little diminished, her eyes a little bloodshot, raw with recent tears. ‘It’s been a pretty shitty week.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Emily,’ I offered.

  ‘Don’t be. We all know she was …’ She trailed off.

  I turned to look at my house, the living room still flashing with the TV light. ‘Do you … Do you want to come in?’

  ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Yeah, just …’ I glanced around again. ‘I’ll need to distract Mum. Make sure she doesn’t see you.’

  I let myself in, leaving the door a little open behind. My shoes sighing on the carpet, I peered round the corner, into the kitchen, where a dinner plate sat covered in silver foil, glittering in the light; in the living room, I saw her head turn. Of all the times for you to be awake, I thought, jaw set tight.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said, her voice still thick with sleep. She rolled herself up from the sofa and walked – a kind of apelike walk, the stagger of one whose sadness is too heavy to bear – into the kitchen. I hadn’t seen her in weeks – at least, not in anything but dim light. I prayed Robin wouldn’t see her, her eyes yellowing and cracked with blood, skin blue-white and translucent, like curdled milk.

  She placed a cold hand on my arm, and I flinched. ‘Sweetheart … What are you doing to yourself?’

  ‘Nothing, Mum. I’m fine.’

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ she said. ‘Honey … Are you taking drugs?’ I looked behind her, catching Robin’s eye for a split second as she passed. ‘It’s just … You’ve lost such a lot of weight. And you look so pale.’

  ‘I’m just tired, Mum. I’m working really hard.’ I tried to breathe, to stay calm, but an itch of irritation grew in my chest. ‘I can’t believe you’re accusing me of being on drugs.’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything,’ she said, a nervous crack in her voice.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re acting like I’m the one with the problem. You’re such a hypocrite,’ I said, my voice low, calm. ‘When was the last time you left the house? Fuck – when was the last time you wore anything that wasn’t pyjamas? It’s embarrassing. You’re embarrassing.’

  She stared at me, wide-eyed with hurt. ‘Violet …’ she began, stepping back.

  ‘No, Mum. You don’t get to pick a fight with me about who’s got their life together. I know what I’m doing. I’m in control. But you’re a mess. I’m not listening to you.’ I pushed past her, and she said nothing as I climbed the stairs; as I closed the door to my room I heard a sob, a moan ill concealed, and I felt nothing.

  ‘Are you on drugs, honey?’ Robin said as I closed the door. ‘Do you need help, sweetheart? Honey boo? Babycakes?’

  With a halfhearted laugh, I threw my bag on the floor. I followed her gaze around the room, the same look as before, examining pieces of the skin I’d long shed. The same faded bedspread, prickled with age. Same posters torn from magazines, blu-tacked to cover the lily-print wallpaper, indigo on dusky pink. Same catalogues, books I’d read once, then again, piled beside the peeling chest of drawers, open, spilling over with clothes I’d never wear. Not now. I wasn’t that girl any more, hated the idea that she might think I was.

  ‘So what happened?’ I said, sitting on the bed and kicking off my shoes. I poked a hole in my tights, making ever-wider circles around the point. When the nylon snapped, I carried on, nail scraping at skin.

  She stretched her legs out across mine, toes pointed, calves softening as she relaxed. ‘We’ve been back and forth between the police station and her parents’ house all week. It’s been fucking awful.’

  I put my palm on a seam of stiff hairs by her ankle, rubbed two fingers around in a figure of eight. ‘Missed a spot,’ I said, willing her on, resisting the urge to ask her why she hadn’t thought to call.

  ‘We were the last to see her, you know? So they think we know something.’

  I looked at her. ‘Do you?’ Silence. ‘Know something, I mean.’

  She stared at me for a moment, chewing her lip. ‘I need a cigarette,’ she said, rolling over to crack open the window with one hand, rooting through her pockets with the other. ‘Got a light?’

  ‘In my bag,’ I said, pointing to the pile beside the door. She climbed off the bed and crouched down, digging around among the mass of coats and shoes.

  ‘Aww,’ she said, turning to me with a grin. ‘Did Mummy make you a packed lunch?’

  ‘What?’

  She held a stained lunchbox high overhead, a half-eaten salad sweating inside. ‘Very appetizing.’

  I shuffled forward on the bed. ‘That’s not mine.’

  ‘Whatever, Violet. I mean, it’s totally fucking lame, but you don’t have to lie about it.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ I said, plucking the box from her hands. ‘This isn’t mine.’ I crouched down beside her. ‘That’s not my bag.’

  ‘Then whose is it?’ she said, her tone sceptical.

  ‘I think it’s the Dean’s.’

  ‘How the … What?’

  ‘He gave me a lift,’ I began, the words trailing away. I turned it over, tipped the contents on the floor. It looked like my bag – a dull, brown satchel with faded brass clips – but the leather was soft to the touch, unlike the stiff, fake pleather of my own. Inside were papers, miscellaneous: essays half-marked, post-its folded over, caught. Pens in red and green; nasal spray, tissues, a foil of aspirin, half-spent. A notebook, and a tape cassette, half-wound.

  ‘Bingo,’ Robin said, plucking the tape from the pile. ‘Let’s see what he’s into. I bet it’s terrible.’

  The rewind whirred; I opened the notebook, perched on the edge of my bed, feet tapping the air, alive with curiosity. Instantly, I slammed it shut. Was that …? I looked at Robin, who was absorbed in the whirring tape, and peeled open the notebook again. A newspaper cover, folded inside. ‘Our Darling Emily,’ the headline read. ‘Her Killer Must Be Found.’

  ‘Ready?’ Robin said. I nodded, and she clicked play, staring down at the rolling tape.

  Minutes of rustling passed. We sat in silence, glancing at each other, then back at the tape player.

  ‘It’s blank,’ I said.

  ‘Shhhh,’ she replied.

  ‘Emily,’ the Dean’s voice boomed from the stereo. We froze, stared at each other. ‘Right on time.’

  ‘Hi, sir,’ a girl’s voice said. Clipped. A little huskier than my own, her tone deeper, more resonant. Of course.

  ‘You know you can call me Matthew,’ he replied. There was another rustle, the sound of fingers brushing the mike. ‘How’s my favourite student?’ I shuddered, the words familiar, known, directed at me. Robin looked up, eyes flashing dark, as they had on the night of the rite – I felt my breath sharp in my chest, felt myself accompanied, a flight, a memory of horror – then back at the tape.

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ Emily’s voice said, the tone hollow – a shade of something I couldn’t place.

  ‘Good, good. Glad to hear it.’ A cough. Nervous. ‘So, have you had a chance to consider what we discussed?’

  A silence, long and still. I looked at Robin, goosebumps on the white flesh of her neck and arms. ‘Robin …’ I said. She mouthed something that looked like ‘Don’t’, though to me or to Emily I didn’t know.

  ‘I can’t do it, sir,’ Emily said, at last. ‘I mean … I don’t want to.’

  I heard the dull rattle of the reception gate closing, recognized the time – 6pm, the familiar sound that signalled the beginning of our research sessions. The Dean coughed again, cleared his throat. ‘Might I ask what’s changed your mind?’

  ‘It’s just … It’s inappropriate.’ Another silence. ‘And to be honest, I don’t think it’s fair of you to ask.’ I thoug
ht I heard the click of Mrs Coxon’s footsteps in the hall outside, but couldn’t be sure. Perhaps I simply knew the routine so well, knew his tone, the cosy chatter he’d employed with me.

  ‘Oh, Emily. That’s such a shame. I was hoping—’

  The microphone brushed again, and then nothing. Absolute silence, a reel of empty tape. The two of us sat, staring, as the tape wound through, and ended with a deadly click.

  Robin – hands shaking, skin porcelain-white – flicked the tape to the other side, and found it blank, rewound both sides, and played them again. She picked up a half-empty glass, raised it to her lips, but didn’t drink. I recognized the gesture, the logic behind it – to hide a trembling lip, swallow away tears.

  I reached out a hand, and she flinched, as though burned. ‘He was—’ she began. She looked at me, eyes helpless, willing me to understand.

  ‘He was … What?’ I whispered, though I thought I knew.

  She looked away, at the stereo; then back at me. ‘Stupid bitch,’ she said. ‘Stupid, stupid bitch.’

  I gripped the edge of the bed, and closed my eyes. I hate you, I thought; and then thought, too, Perhaps she’s right.

  Chapter 13

  I glanced across at Robin’s sketch, copied from a page torn from an old medical textbook, a head rolled slightly back. I’d always liked anatomical words, medical terms – or at least, I’d loved them since I’d sat in the hospital, listening to the medical staff whispering them to one another determinedly, as though the terms themselves could provide a cure – and this one was filled with the best of them. I pinned them down, one by one: subclavian, laryngeal, brachial plexus. Jugular. Carotid. Dissect. Her sketchbook was filled with these drawings (‘good practice,’ she said) but missing their labels. I listed the words in my diary, as though filling in the gaps.

  ‘Where are they?’

  She looked up, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. ‘They’ll be here.’