The Furies

by Katie Lowe

  ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Wow. Okay.’ She took a step back, then forward; looked over my shoulder to the kitchen. I watched as she passed, heard the drawers slide open, one by one, trying to find the words to fix it – to fix us. The look in her eyes, the way her breath caught as I said the words, made me doubt them; made me question how, in fact, I’d ever believed them in the first place.

  ‘Robin,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t …’

  The noise stopped. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, appearing in the doorway. She was clutching a black-handled knife, its blade reflecting the streetlight glow, silver and gold. I froze. She smiled, and walked past me, her shoulder brushing mine.

  Silhouetted in the light, she kneeled on top of Mike, carefully, settling herself on his lap. It seemed rehearsed, somehow; a little too much, like playacting, macabre and unreal. She turned to me. ‘You really think I murdered my best friend?’

  The word hung in the air a moment, the absence of euphemism clotting and heady. Murder, I thought. It was the first time any of us had said the word aloud.

  ‘I don’t …’ I began, weakly.

  She looked down at Mike, then back at me. ‘You honestly believe that I wanted that to happen? You think I’m that shitty a friend?’

  ‘I didn’t say you wanted to. I don’t know what happened. Nor did he. I didn’t …’

  ‘You didn’t what?’

  ‘I didn’t read that far.’

  She stared at me, blankly. ‘How much was there?’

  ‘A whole book. It was all there. Everything from the ones who killed Margaret, right through to …’

  She took a deep breath, collecting herself. ‘You’re right. You don’t know what happened. You don’t know anything.’

  ‘Then tell me.’

  ‘If you’ve been thinking that this whole time,’ she said, wiping the knife against her thigh, ‘why are you friends with me now?’ There was a note of the little girl in her voice, a hurt that made my chest tighten with guilt.

  ‘Robin, I really didn’t mean …’

  ‘Is it because you’re stuck with me? Because you think I’ll what – tell on you for being there when we killed him?’

  ‘It’s not—’

  ‘Because if you want out, I won’t tell. You can just go. I won’t tell anyone.’

  ‘No,’ I said, my voice shaking. ‘It’s not that, at all. I want to be your friend. I am your friend.’

  ‘Or is it that you like it?’ She paused. ‘Maybe you want it to be true, because it’d make your sad, pathetic life a little bit interesting.’ As she said the word again, she pressed the flat of the blade against his neck, the skin turning white around the edges. ‘Maybe that’s it,’ she said, thoughtfully. ‘That’s why we’re friends. Maybe this is what you want.’

  ‘Robin, please … I don’t. Please … Please don’t.’

  And yet, despite the words of protest, the hissing, cringing prissiness of my voice, still some part of me knew she was right. I wanted her to do it, wanted to see what came next. I wanted to see the insides of his throat, the rhythmic spurt of blood in little firework plumes; the wide-eyed horror, the absolute stillness.

  I knew it was illogical. I knew it was wrong. And yet there’s a thrill to it – a kind of killer’s high, I suppose, a distant cousin of that touted by runners and lovers yet to be disillusioned – which I’d been experiencing since the night at the Dean’s house. Textures too brittle, colours too bright, every sea breeze perfumed with some audacious, sweet-blossom smell … There was a kind of gorgeous, blooming immensity to it all.

  Put like this, of course, it seems like madness. I know that. I’m ashamed to admit it, of course. But in the moment, when all was potential, it was a longing experienced at gut level.

  ‘Robin,’ I said, at last. ‘Let’s just go. Please.’

  She turned to me. ‘Go search the place. Look for anything worth having.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Go look around. Look under the mattress, or whatever. See if he’s got any cash hidden away.’

  ‘You’re not—’

  ‘Violet, for fuck’s sake. Get on with it.’ In the dim light, her skin glowed with sweat, burning hot. I sighed – an exaggerated, over-the-top sigh – and began my reluctant search of the bedroom, gripping surfaces to steady myself.

  I flicked the light switch, and found a sad, boxy room. The bed was unmade, the smell of unwashed sheets tart and overwhelming; three posters hung faded on the walls, two of women in various states of undress, one of some speeding car, the mountains blurred behind. On the side table, a stack of pornographic magazines sat beside a mystery novel, splayed half-read, spine cracked; a lamp with no bulb sat, abandoned, by the bed, beneath an ornamental sword. I opened the wardrobe, where rows of identical, faintly creased suits hung alongside cheap sports jackets and faded polo shirts, and rooted around in the back. I found a stack of videotapes, old football matches scrawled on the labels; a broken Walkman, crushed cover; shoe boxes, filled with old playing cards. I put them back.

  Under the bed, too, I found nothing but junk – a sad, dejected collection of lost things, the secret possessions of a boy who couldn’t grow up – and under the mattress, I found only more pornography, pictures of girls who looked younger than me. I dropped the mattress down, disgusted, and went back into the living room.

  Robin was still straddled over him, knife poised, her face close to his, skin almost touching. ‘He doesn’t have anything,’ I said, sitting on the arm of the chair beside them.

  ‘He’s got something,’ she said, turning to me with a half-smile.

  ‘What?’ I looked around, briefly, my eyes drawn back to Robin, her hair down her shoulders like spilled ink.

  She pressed the edge of the blade slowly into his skin, as though daring it to split; I held my breath, the warm froth of anticipation rising, my skin tingling, bones tightened, muscles free. She leaned in and whispered something in his ear. I felt my legs unsteady, my arms ache with the need to reach out, touch; a tug of envy, indulgent and bitter.

  ‘A hard-on,’ she snorted. ‘Fucking men.’

  Outside, the street lamps flickered, a split-second break in the light; I heard footsteps, a laughing woman screeching as she passed. Do it, I thought, a voice I hadn’t realized I possessed. Do it, Robin. I dare you.

  ‘You want a go?’ she said, finally.

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you think I’m a murderer, and you still want to be my friend, maybe you’ve got a touch of the ol’ bloodlust yourself – hmmm?’ She shifted a little, flexing her toes to loosen a cramp, and climbed down, pirouetting off his lap, knife still shining in her hand. She wiped it, roughly, on her skirt, and held it towards me, blade first. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Yeah, you can. It’s easy.’

  I looked down at the knife, the air electric with the threat. Take it, I told myself. Take it so you’re safe.

  ‘Atta girl.’ She grinned. The handle was damp, plasticky, toylike. It seemed impossible that it could do anything; a kitchen knife, blunted with use. She tipped her head towards the body, the faint rise and fall of his chest. ‘Go on.’

  This, I suppose, is the point at which I could’ve said no. Could have told Robin I wouldn’t (a bold, brave refusal) or couldn’t (nervous, afraid; much closer to the truth). But the frisson of the previous moment still rang in my bones, a dull ache – a what-if. After all, I thought, he’s a pervert. He brought us here, even though he has to know we’re … I stopped. Just girls, I’d thought. Just girls.

  I stepped towards him, heart thudding, froglike. I steadied myself on the arm of the chair, my head still aching, eyes dry and chalky, and settled. Climbed astride him, lowered myself around the weird, comical stiffness, that sad, useless, male thing; giggled, Robin’s laugh an echo in response. I squeezed the knife’s warm handle, rubber soft against fingertips, and lifted it, imitating Robin. Pressed the blade against his neck, to the side of his Adam’s apple, the ski
n turning white at the point. I could do this, I thought, a cool and gorgeous thrill. It’s so easy.

  ‘You can do this,’ Robin echoed, catching the thought. ‘It’s easy.’

  I looked down at his face, blood and mucus pooling, fat bubbles on his lip; the shadow of a beard poking through, blackening pores. Eyes flickering underneath closed lids, a tremor. I pressed the knife harder, a tiny knot of blood rolling down the blade, leisurely, thick.

  What was it that compelled me in that moment? As I look back, now, still I wonder: Was it the fear of discovery, the pursuit of oblivion? Was it power, the violence of my – our – potential? Or was it the shadow of Emily Frost, eyes hollowed black, looming over us – Robin’s perfect friend, the beautiful, tragic victim?

  The ringing phone shot through the silence, and I pitched back, jumping upright in an instant. ‘Fuck,’ I said, turning to Robin, who bent double, elbows skyward, gripping her stomach.

  ‘Oh my god,’ she said, without looking up. She breathed slowly through her teeth, a hiss. ‘I thought you were actually going to do it.’

  ‘I was,’ I said, a little hurt. ‘I was just about to—’

  She rose up, and I caught a flash of something in her eye I barely recognized; hadn’t seen, before, in Robin. A glimmer of something burning out. Was it fear? Was she scared of what I’d do?

  ‘Robin,’ I said, nervously. ‘I was—’

  She stepped forward, took the knife from me again, Mike’s jeans smeared quickly with his own blood. ‘Let’s go,’ she said, dropping the knife with a clatter into the sink.

  I ran the tap until it disappeared beneath the water (imagining washing away prints, though – I supposed, turning back for a moment to watch the slow rise and fall of his chest – we hadn’t committed a crime. Not much of one, anyway). And then, we left, closing the door behind us with a soft click and running down the concrete steps, through the silent streets. Back, always back into the night.

  Chapter 15

  ‘Ruinenlust,’ Annabel said, tapping two fingers in the dust. ‘The beauty in ruins; the bliss found only in decay.’

  I looked at Robin, her eyes fixed on the pencil in her hand, trembling. She pressed it onto the page, the lead crumbling with the sheer force of her, willing herself still. I nudged her, gently, but she ignored me – didn’t seem, in fact, to notice I was there.

  Alex, too, was watching Robin through narrowed eyes. She reached out a hand, and pulled the pencil from Robin’s grip, turning to face Annabel with a grim, determined expression. Outside, the sky was white-blue and blinding; I pressed my fingers to my temple, a dull ache ringing in my ears.

  After we’d left the flat, we’d wandered the streets, the lamps flickering; Robin had dropped another pill on my tongue, pulling me towards her by the collar of my coat.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said, feeling her fingers creep from shoulder to neck, nails leaving imprints in the hollows. She’d pressed down, a little, for the briefest of moments, thumbs sharp and hot against my windpipe, and for a split second I’d wondered if this was what Emily had felt, in her last moments: that crush of love and hate, the cruel and rotten bliss of friendship.

  She leaned in, slowly, I stood perfectly still; a little lightheaded, my pulse quickening against her thumb, afraid to pull away. She brushed chapped lips at my cheeks, breath hot and damp, and let go; walked away, stumbling towards the closed pier.

  Annabel pulled the blinds with a sharp tug. ‘What is it about collapse that inspires in us so sweet a nostalgia? Why are we drawn, so irresistibly, to what we most fear?’

  I’d left, then, brought sharply and cruelly to myself; the tang of sweat (the boy’s, Robin’s, mine, all mingling on my skin), the acid burning in my throat, nauseating. Halfway, I turned back, the guilt brief and consuming, but when I reached the pier she was gone, the tide roaring at my feet. I wondered if she’d jumped or fallen; felt ashamed at wondering if that might be a relief.

  ‘The bricks of these very buildings are susceptible to destruction. It might be immediate, whether through forces natural or man-made: the storm, the flood, the bomb. But it might, instead, be gradual, a slow process of decay that may already have begun. The rot in invisible beams, the wearing away of cement, the stone floors beneath worn down by your feet, and mine, and the feet of those who trod these paths before us.’

  She paused, glancing briefly at the four of us; brushed a strand of hair from her face, revealing skin cracked like frozen leaves. Grace smiled, as though to distract from Robin, who’d lowered her head to the desk, eyes staring blankly at the page below. I saw Nicky peer over, brow arched, a slight smile on her face.

  ‘It seems to me that the experience of Ruinenlust, then, is a form of haunting. As we walk through ruins, the shadows of the dead stroll along beside us, their surroundings gleaming anew. One wonders if they, too, imagine us – if they simply cannot help themselves, aware as we are that all these structures, these so-called solid foundations, legacies left in stone, are simply ephemeral, and fleeting.

  ‘And with that revelation – the revelation of ruin, of entropy, of endless decay – we are left to ask … What remains?’

  She sat, slowly, on the edge of the desk. ‘Diderot, I believe, puts it best, when he says: “Everything comes to nothing, everything perishes, everything passes, only the world remains, only time endures.”’

  The class watched her as one, the room still, breath held in our throats, waiting. She looked up, briefly; blinked, as though remembering herself. ‘That’s all, ladies. Essays due next week.’

  She stood, stooping to glance at the Campanile beneath the blinds, and left, the class slowly coming to life as the door closed behind her. Nicky glanced at Robin again, then at me; she mouthed ‘Is she okay?’ It was an exaggerated gesture, too much; the few girls who hadn’t noticed Robin’s behaviour looked over, eyes narrowed as they watched.

  ‘She’s fine,’ Alex said, coldly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Nicky stepped towards the four of us, a look of false concern on her face. ‘I mean – should we call the nurse? She looks awful.’

  Robin turned to face Nicky, eyes wide and bloodshot. ‘You know, your brother’s a shitty—’

  ‘Robin, leave it.’ The force of Alex’s words, the shock of her tone, made Robin flinch; she gave Nicky a sweet smile, and leaned onto her elbows, face in her palms.

  ‘Hey, Nicky,’ I said, desperately. ‘Can we … Can we talk?’

  She smiled. ‘Sure. Now?’

  I nodded, and we stepped outside, the girls watching me with suspicion. I didn’t have a plan; simply wanted to distract Nicky, for a moment. To pull Robin from her glare.

  ‘What’s up?’ she said, sweetly. ‘You look kind of tired.’

  ‘I’m fine. I just … Do you know what the reading was for English? I didn’t get it down.’

  She stared at me, blankly. I blushed, the lie hanging in the air between us. ‘You couldn’t have asked me that in there?’ she said, finally.

  I shrugged. ‘You know what they’re like.’

  ‘I …’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Whatever. I get it. It’s Kafka. The one about the bug.’

  As she turned to walk away, she paused, as though about to speak. I waited, willing her not to ask anything, to require me to think. She glanced at me, briefly, and walked away, footsteps cracking on the stone hall floors.

  I slipped back into the studio, where Grace and Alex stood on either side of Robin, whispering between themselves. ‘What’s wrong with her?’ Alex said, as I closed the door with a click.

  ‘It’s just a hangover,’ I said; the words hollow, unreal. ‘We went to the fair, and …’

  Alex looked at me, blankly. ‘It doesn’t look like a hangover.’

  ‘It’s a really bad one.’

  She sighed. ‘We’re … Well, we’re worried.’

  Robin sat up, slowly, a smile spreading on her face. ‘We’re worried,’ she echoed, coldly. ‘You’re so thoughtful, Alex. Thanks so much.’ She stood, grip
ping the desk for balance, and slid her notes into her bag. ‘Come on, Vivi.’

  I looked at her, nervously. There was a coldness in her eyes, a dark, brittle glare; the trembling of her hands continued, a violent, cruel thing. She caught me looking; gripped the frayed sleeves of her blazer, fingers turning white at the nails.

  ‘Do you think …’ Grace began. She looked at Alex, who nodded. ‘Do you think you should maybe get some help again?’

  Robin’s mouth fell open, a little, stunned; the four of us still, trapped like the stone figures held in despair, the instant of their greatest pain. She looked at me for support. I closed my eyes, searching for something I could say – some way to tell her I loved her, desperately, and yet the girls were right. The bluish shadows beneath her eyes, the sweat pooling in the hollow of her collarbones, the breath visible in the strings of her throat, her decay, the threat of her doing, or saying, something to reveal what we’d done, was all too much to bear.

  I saw, too, her vacant expression in my own, caught in the split second before I’d look away from the glare of my reflection; wondered if, perhaps, her so-called sickness were treated, my own might be soothed, too.

  Or at least, this is how I justified it to myself at the time. I wonder, now, whether some shameful part of me – some rotting, blackened spot – knew that, while I’d never leave her of my own accord, her forced removal might provide my way out: my escape from the horrors that our friendship had made.

  ‘I don’t …’ I began, weakly. I looked at her, watched the shiver of goosebumps on her skin, the flame in her eyes. ‘I don’t know what to say. Maybe they’re right.’

  She stepped back, the words a physical thing, and looked down at the floor. I glanced at Alex and Grace, who looked back helplessly. Her shoulders rose and fell with her breath, and she looked up, eyes livid. ‘I cannot believe you. You absolute bitch.’

  ‘I’m not saying—’

  ‘Do you know what she tried to do last night?’ She pointed a trembling finger at me, Grace and Alex staring, open-mouthed. ‘Of course. Of course.’