I Am Dust E-Book

Louise Beech

• Herausgeber: Orenda Books
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Seitenzahl: 461

Beschreibung

When iconic musical Dust is revived twenty years after the leading actress was murdered in her dressing room, a series of eerie events haunts the new cast, in a bewitching, beguiling, moving and terrifyingly dark psychological thriller…'A delicate supernatural thriller of love, loss, murder and the dangers that come with getting what you wish for. Quite lovely in a dark, dark way' Sarah Pinborough'Dark and haunting … further cements Louise Beech as one of the most original and exciting authors of the moment' Claire Allan'Haunting, provocative, and true to Beech's style: packed with pain and heart' Jack Jordan_________________________________A haunted theatreA murdered actressThree cursed teenagersA secret that devastates them all…The Dean Wilson Theatre is believed to be haunted by a long-dead actress, singing her last song, waiting for her final cue, looking for her killer…Now Dust, the iconic musical, is returning after twenty years. But who will be brave enough to take on the role of ghostly goddess Esme Black, last played by Morgan Miller, who was murdered in her dressing room?Theatre usher Chloe Dee is caught up in the spectacle. As the new actors arrive, including an unexpected face from her past, everything changes. Are the eerie sounds and sightings backstage real or just her imagination? Is someone playing games?Is the role of Esme Black cursed? Could witchcraft be at the heart of the tragedy? And are dark deeds from Chloe's past about to catch up with her?Not all the drama takes place onstage. Sometimes murder, magic, obsession and the biggest of betrayals are real life. When you're in the theatre shadows, you see everything.And Chloe has been watching…___________________'A bold, original concept brilliantly executed … I adored it' John Marrs'Ghost story, murder mystery, romance. This mesmerising and entertaining book has it all…' Emma Curtis'A delicate and mesmerising thriller' Matt Wesolowski'Loads of twists and turns as the tension ramps up to breaking point' Gill Paul'This book is about believing in yourself and finding out that you had the power all along' Madeleine Black'It kept me reading until my eyes hurt and kept me thinking about it long after I'd finished' Fionnuala Kearney'A work of almost tangible atmosphere and authenticity … poignant and layered' S. E. Lynes'This book works magically, emotionally and psychologically' Carol Lovekin'With its cast of leap-off-the-page characters, solidly created settings and a story arc that will keep you guessing, all delivered in this author's trademark lyrical style, I am Dust is Louise Beech's best crime book to date and I advise you to grab a copy as soon as you can' Crime Fiction Lover'Haunting and provocative' Crime Monthly'Chock-a-block with chills, this supernatural thriller also beautifully evokes teenage feelings of uncertainty and how they travel with us into adulthood … While this is spooky as heck, it is also hugely considerate of emotional heartache and distress. Compelling, original, and unmistakably Louise Beech' LoveReading

Leseprobe

Contents

Praise

About the Author

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

1. The Game

2. The Dean Wilson Theatre

3. The Dean Wilson Theatre

4. The Dean Wilson Theatre

5. The Dean Wilson Theatre

6. The Dean Wilson Theatre

7. The Game

8. Chloe’s Room

9. The Game

10. Chloe’s Room

11. The Game

12. The Game

13. The Dean Wilson Theatre

14. The Dean Wilson Theatre

15. The Game

16. The Dean Wilson Theatre

17. Chloe’s Room

18. The Game

19. The Game

20. The Dean Wilson Theatre

21. The Game

22. The Dean Wilson Theatre

23. The Game

24. Chloe’s Room

25. The Game

26. The Dean Wilson Theatre

27. The Dean Wilson Theatre

28. Jess’s Bedroom

29. The Game

30. The Dean Wilson Theatre

31. The Dean Wilson Theatre

32. Chloe’s Bedroom

33. The Game

34. The Game

35. Chloe’s Bedroom

36. The Dean Wilson Theatre

37. The Dean Wilson Theatre

38. The Game

39. The Dean Wilson Theatre

40. The Dean Wilson Theatre

41. The Game

42. The Dean Wilson Theatre

43. The Dean Wilson Theatre

44. Chloe’s Bedroom

45. The Game

46. The Dean Wilson Theatre

47. The Game

48. The Dean Wilson Theatre

49. The Game

50.The Dean Wilson Theatre

51. The Dean Wilson Theatre

52. The Game

53. The Dean Wilson Theatre

54. The Dean Wilson Theatre

55. The Dean Wilson Theatre

56. The Dean Wilson Theatre

57. There and Yet Not There

58. The Dean Wilson Theatre

59. There and Yet Not There

60. The Dean Wilson Theatre

Acknowledgments

Copyright

PRAISE FOR I AM DUST

‘Not going to lie, I had a tear in my eye. A delicate supernatural thriller of love, loss, murder and the dangers that come with getting what you wish for. Quite lovely in a dark, dark way’ Sarah Pinborough

‘A bold, original concept brilliantly executed by an author who is unafraid to cross genres and challenge herself and her readers. I adored it’ John Marrs

‘Ghost story, murder mystery, romance, this mesmerising and entertaining book has it all … It’s very spooky!’ Emma Curtis

‘Running its cold fingers along your spine, I Am Dust is a delicate and mesmerising thriller’ Matt Wesolowski ‘Dark and haunting, this is another cracking read, which further cements Louise Beech as one of the most original and exciting authors of the moment’ Claire Allan

‘There are loads of twists and turns as the tension ramps up to breaking point. I raced through, incapable of putting it down, and strange things seemed to happen: gadgets broke inexplicably, and there were odd noises through the walls. It’s a novel that gets under your skin’ Gill Paul

‘This book is about believing in yourself and finding out that you had the power all along’ Madeleine Black

‘It’s a darn good tale is what it is. Louise can, I’m convinced, write in any genre, which makes her very special indeed. With I Am Dust I think she’s mastered the sense of place. I was in that theatre. I felt the breath on my neck … It kept me reading until my eyes hurt and kept me thinking about it long after I’d finished. A cautionary tale about being careful what you wish for, I loved it!’ Fionnuala Kearney

‘Beech uses her in-depth knowledge of theatre life to great effect, creating a work of almost tangible atmosphere and authenticity. The timelines were handled brilliantly, the chemistry of physical attraction and the pain of unrequited love actually hurt, and the loss of innocence was both poignant and layered’ S.E. Lynes

‘This book works: magically, emotionally and psychologically. There is meaning here – layers of it … Every word is nuanced – I love how the author drew me in’ Carol Lovekin

‘Haunting, provocative and true to Beech’s style: packed with pain and heart’ Jack Jordan

‘A captivating storyteller with the power to draw you into her fictional world and to make you emotionally invested in her characters … an enthralling novel about magic, murder, secrets, and unrequited love’ Louisa Treger

‘A floating, lyrical, almost mystical read that is simply stunning’ Jen Med’s Book Reviews

‘Atmospheric, haunting and sprinkled with magic – utterly breathtaking’ Literary Elf

‘It’s spooky, mysterious, chilling and emotional’ Off-the-Shelf Books

‘Unnerving, scary, creepy and heartbreakingly sad, this atmospheric ghost story blew me away’ Tales before Bedtime

‘The writing is beautifully evocative … Louise Beech clearly has a deep love of theatre and it just shines through on the page’ Espresso Coco

‘Beautifully written, evocative and powerful … sheer emotional brilliance’ The Tattooed Book Geek

‘A spine-chilling, yet emotionally charged story … the final scenes are heart-stopping in their beauty’ Random Things through My Letterbox

‘Immensely gripping, hugely addictive and fabulously atmospheric’ Novel Deelights

‘Louise Beech’s most atmospheric novel to date’ From Belgium with Booklove

‘Raw, emotive and powerful’ The Book Review Cafe

‘This novel is a real theatrical experience. Highly recommended’ The Book Trail

‘Its sheer power, beauty and emotion will stay with me for a very long time’ Being Anne

PRAISE FOR LOUISE BEECH

‘Tense, twisted and utterly compelling, written with such raw beauty and unflinching honesty’ Miranda Dickinson

‘As twisty and deadly as barbed wire, this book will leave you breathless’ Erin Kelly

‘Noirish psychological thriller with fascinating, disturbing characters. Compelling, twisty, and seriously addictive’ Will Dean

‘Psychologically unsettling and with a sting in the tail, it’s another cracker published by Orenda’ Russel McLean

‘Beech has used her unique flair to construct a crime story that will have you frantically turning the pages’ Michael Wood

‘Superb storytelling … claustrophobic, unsettling and intense’ Prima

‘A dark and atmospheric read which sends shivers down your spine’ Irish Independent

‘Part psychological thriller, part literary noir and part tragic family drama, its multiple strands slowly merge to reveal a captivating truth’ Heat

‘Twisty, addictive and completely compelling, this powerful story will keep you hooked and leave you haunted’ Best Magazine

Call Me Star Girl was winner of Best magazine’s Big Book of the Year 2019

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Louise Beech is a prize-winning author, whose debut novelHow To Be Bravewas aGuardianReaders’ Choice for 2015. The follow-up,The Mountain in My Shoewas shortlisted for Not the Booker Prize. Both of her previous booksMaria in the MoonandThe Lion Tamer Who Lostwere widely reviewed, critically acclaimed and number-one bestsellers on Kindle.The Lion Tamer Who Lostwas shortlisted for the RNA Most Popular Romantic Novel Award and the Polari Prize in 2019.

Her most recent novel,Call Me Star Girl,wonBest magazine Book of the Year. Her short fiction has won the Glass Woman Prize, the Eric Hoffer Award for Prose, and the Aesthetica Creative Works competition, as well as shortlisting for the Bridport Prize twice. Louise lives with her husband on the outskirts of Hull, and loves her job as a Front of House Usher at Hull Truck Theatre, where her first play was performed in 2012.

Follow Louise on Twitter @LouiseWriter and visit her website: louisebeech.co.uk.

Also by Louise Beech

How To Be Brave

The Mountain in My Shoe

Maria in the Moon

The Lion Tamer Who Lost

Call Me Star Girl

I Am Dust

Louise Beech

This is dedicated to the people who pick up the glitter.

And to a girl whowas glitter: Allia Jen Yousef, or simply Jen. I’ll now have to wait until after the dust settles to finally meet you.

I’m still here; I am dust.

I’m those fragments in the air,

the gold light dancing there,

that breeze from nowhere.

Dust – the Musical

Close my wounds,

keep me together;

give me strength

now and forever.

It stops.

The blood dries;

the panic stills;

the calm washes over me.

Saves me from my end.

Katy Beech

1

The Game

2005

YOU THREE

NEVER BE

UNDER ONE ROOF

This was one of the last messages before the three teenagers went their separate ways; one of the last messages of the game. Sitting cross-legged in a circle, Jess, Ryan and Chloe woreMacbeth costumes; Jess’s red velvet dress was damp beneath her arms; Ryan wore his crown, as if he was saying that he was the leader tonight; Chloe wore her long witch robes, but she had flung the itchy wig into the backstage cupboard.

Their final show of the season had finished hours earlier, to rapturous applause. Now it was time to play the game one last time. When they began over a month ago, Ryan had called it a ‘game’, and he had told them the rules. But along the way they had bent them to fit their needs. ‘We’ll shut it down if it gets weird,’ they had agreed. ‘We’re in control,’ they had said.

Chloe knows now that they all lied.

Not only to one another – by saying they would end it if necessary – but to themselves. Over that summer, morbid curiosity, youthful bravado and teenage love had joined them on a dusty stage in a church. Now autumn was a breath away. Now the dying August sun could barely penetrate the boarded-up windows and light the room. Ryan had left a lamp on in the nearby backstage room, and it filtered gently through.

‘Last time, then,’ he said, positioning the alphabet letters in a circle.

‘Last time,’ repeated Jess.

‘Last time,’ said Chloe softly.

Ryan lit the three candles. The third one wouldn’t ignite easily; he managed on the third match. Three, three,three. It had always been three. Chloe tried not to cry. So much ending. So much change. She wasn’t ready. They put their fingers on top of the upturned glass in the centre of the circle.

‘Is there anyone here with us tonight?’ asked Ryan, as he had so many times.

Nothing happened.

Chloe smiled, wondering if the spirits liked to tease, to make their audience wait. Eventually a slow, seductive scrape drew their eyes down – the glass moved from letter to letter, spelling out messages from beyond. Chloe smiled. She knew who was moving it so deliberately.

This was the one she most liked to talk to.

Then the glass stilled, but only for a moment, as though ownership had switched, and the new owner had taken a breath. She saw him. Like she had that first time, so long ago it seemed now. He was sitting behind Ryan. Cross-legged. A teenage boy. Grinning. Face bloody; the crimson flow from a ragged gash across his forehead pretty in the flickering light.

The glass continued moving. It spelled out the words:

YOURE READY

‘We are,’ said Ryan.

YOU ARE ETERNAL THREE

‘We are,’ said Ryan.

READY FOR THE POWERS

Chloe knew these words were the beginning of the end. The end of their friendship. The end of this. The end of childhood. Because they were all different now. She felt it as acutely as she had so many things this summer. Even though the spelled-out words were not spoken, Chloe heard them as though they had been. Many times, for her, the black-and-white letters somehow transformed into the voice of their creator.

YOU THREE

NEVER BE

UNDER ONE ROOF

It was only later – when Ryan and Jess had gone, and Chloe was speaking to the spirits alone – that she asked aloud why it was better they never meet again. And the answer made her realise they never should.

Then slowly, she forgot it all.

Like a jigsaw broken up, piece by piece, the memories died. Chloe eventually forgot that summer, and Jess and Ryan and their words, and the spirits. But the love she had felt remained in her heart, as a feeling more than a physical memory – an ache, a pain that compelled her to return to the dark, secret habits again and again, until they were an addiction.

2

The Dean Wilson Theatre

January 2019

There is a moment just before a show starts when the audience is united by a sharp intake of breath. A moment after they have turned off phones and settled comfortably in seats; a moment when darkness falls, and the stage is lit; a moment when they might wonder if they even exist anymore; when they forget everything for two hours.

In that moment, at the back of the auditorium, Chloe hopes over and over and over to experience the magic she felt when she first saw a musical with her mum; when she sang the songs to the brand-new show,Dust, here at the Dean Wilson Theatre, marvelling at the beauty of its lead actress and the passion of the story.

Now she works here as an usher and views the spectacle of the latest show each night, alongside up to five hundred patrons. She sits quietly in the shadows, her less-comfortable spot a flip-down seat near the technicians’ box. Here Chloe can easily see if anyone turns a phone on. Here she can slip out if another usher radios to say there are latecomers needing to be let in. Here she has one eye on the stage and one on the audience, one ear on the musical numbers and the other plugged with an earpiece that punctuates her shift with announcements and instructions to hand out the right flyer at the end.

Tonight, though, Chloe’s hope for the magic ofDustdied with the first song, just as it has every night since this show opened ten days ago.Forget Everything You Know is a new musical set in a dementia hospital. It has so far received mixed reviews.

This evening, the lead actor, George Dewitt, has a cold, which can’t be helped but means his song about childhood being more vivid than things from yesterday is raspy rather than haunting. The audience is small, their reaction muted. Chloe scans the backs of their heads, bored now in this second week of a show that the local newspaper has called ‘tasteless but full of enthusiasm and the odd laugh’.

A voice crackles through the radio earpiece. Chloe can’t make out the words, so she whispers into the mic, ‘Can you repeat that, please?’

Another crackle. Nonsensical static.

Then: ‘Never … be… one … roof…’

She frowns. What does that mean? Who said it?

Chloe steps out into the foyer and says more loudly into the mic, ‘I didn’t hear that fully. Can you repeat?’

Silence.

Bloody radios. Half of them don’t work properly, but they’re essential for communication between ushers, front-of-house duty managers, technicians and stage managers. Chloe is about to return to the auditorium when Chester comes out of the box office with six large posters under his arm. He was here when the theatre opened, as he happily tells anyone new. Slightly overweight and forty, he’s a ray of light or an annoying gossip, depending on who you listen to. To Chloe, he’s a joy.

‘Did you radio me, Ches?’ she asks.

‘Me? No. Busy putting these up.’

‘Who was it then?’

‘I didn’t get a message on mine.’ He plonks the posters on a table. ‘Maybe you’re hearing things.’

‘No, there was definitely some—’

‘O.M.G,’ interrupts Chester, his face bright with gossip. ‘Have youheard?’ It’s a face Chloe knows well. He loves it when he’s the only one with a nugget of information – some clandestine relationship among the cast or some scandalous sacking – and he usually strings out the sharing of it.

Chloe opens the theatre door to go back in, but can’t help pausing. ‘Heard what?’

Chester grabs her arm. ‘It’s coming back,’ he hisses, eyes aglow.

‘What is?’ Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. For some reason the words make the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

Then duty manager, Cynthia, opens the box-office door, clearly not amused. ‘Chloe, what are you doing outside the auditorium? How many times have you all been emailed about not leaving mid-show?’

‘Sorry.’ She sneaks back in and finds her seat in the dark.

The radio crackles in her ear again.

Chloe frowns, anticipating static and more curious words, but one of the technicians announces that there are five minutes until the interval. Thank God.

The cast start singing about incontinence. She wonders if this is a moment the local newspaper thought was tasteless, or funny. She can’t wait until the end, although she’s not looking forward to the bike ride home if it’s still minus two and raining. The song reaches a squeaky climax; the lights come up in the auditorium; there’s a spattering of feeble applause that fades into silence.

Chloe stands by the open door. Dressed in the customary black shirt, waistcoat and trousers – dark to blend in with the shadows – she holds out programmes and smiles at the patrons as they file past and towards the bar. Sometimes she feels like she doesn’t exist. That she is as invisible out here as she is at the back of the theatre.

No one smiles back. Snippets of conversation catch her free ear.

‘We should have gone to see bloodyPhantom at the New Theatre.’

‘Shall we escape and go to that place that does three-for-two on cocktails?’

‘I suppose you could say it was topical.’

Chloe is supposed to convey such comments back to Cynthia for the show report, but she’ll probably have forgotten them by the end of the shift. She has been an usher at the Dean Wilson Theatre for six years. Staff and regular patrons affectionately call it the DW: it was named after the playwright who created the very first show –Dust– which opened the then brand-new building twenty years ago. Ten-year-old Chloe had nagged and nagged her mum to take her, saying she simplymustsee it, that all her youth-theatre friends were going, and shehad to see what all the fuss was about.

She has never forgotten it, and still sings the songs.

Chloe’s earpiece crackles and one of the technicians speaks. ‘Three minutes until the end of the interval.’

Chester comes over and takes the remaining programmes and money pouch from her so he can cash up. Every night, three ushers sit inside the auditorium while one stays in the box office, dealing with latecomers, doing the timesheets, and any other job that comes up. Chloe likes to be inside the theatre, no matter how tiresome the show or how many times she has seen it.

‘It’s coming back,’ says Chester with a wink, and hurries away.

Chloe shakes her head, laughing, knowing it will no doubt be gossip about something trivial. When clearance is given on the radio, she closes the doors, the lights dim, and the show continues.

Maybe if things had happened differently, Chloe might have been up there. In the spotlight. Assuming a persona. Speaking lines learned for months. Singing her heart out. Drinking in rapturous applause. It wasn’t to be. She never believed herself quite good enough to pursue acting seriously.

Still, she often sneaks into one of the dressing rooms when the actors have left. There, Chloe stands in the dazzling mirror lights and imagines transforming into Fantine or Roxie Hart or Esme Black. There, she whispers the never-forgotten lines from her days at the youth theatre; from her days studying drama at university. There she sings lines from the title song of the first show she ever saw:

I’m still here; I am dust. I’m those fragments in the air, the gold light dancing there, that breeze from nowhere…

The hardest role Chloe has to play is the everyday woman she is – a woman once described as ‘girl-next-doorsy but versatile’ on a long-forgotten CV. Every actor learns early on where they fit in. There are those who can carry the iconic roles. And there are those who are forgettable enough to blend into a chorus line or crowd scene.

‘Am I forgettable?’ she often whispers in the dressing-room mirror.

She is scarred. Clearly. And not in some angst-ridden way. Not just emotionally. She is physically scarred. She could never play any roles that require her legs or stomach or arms to be on display. Never bare flesh. So instead she’s writing a script on her laptop, hoping to create lines for another actor to perform one day.

Now, in the darkness at the back of the auditorium, she fingers the ridges on the skin beneath her trousers. The scars. Her history.

The radio crackles in her ear.

She frowns.

More strange words in the static.

‘Never … be … under … one … roof…’

‘Who said that?’ she whispers into the mic.

‘Never … under … roof…’

The words stir something black in her gut; ignite some long-buried memory.

‘Never … roof…’

Chloe rushes to the door, stumbling in the shadows. Outside in the foyer, she speaks into the mic. ‘Is someone messing about on the radio?’

After a beat, Cynthia speaks. ‘Must be yours. Nothing on mine.’

Then Chester says, ‘Nor mine.’

Chloe wants to rip the thing out of her ear. But there are still twenty minutes of the show left. She goes back inside, returns to her seat. Tries to lose herself in the songs. Tries to concentrate on scanning the audience for illuminated phones.

Eventually gentle applause signals the end; a sitting ovation. Chloe hands flyers for an upcoming show about Brexit to the patrons as they quietly file out and escape into the night. The stage is lifeless without the lighting and action.

Once the auditorium is empty, she and the other two ushers – Paige and Nina – collect the rubbish and straighten up the chairs. Some bastard has left chewing gum on a seat.

‘What’s Chester going on about?’ asks Paige. She’s nineteen and a drama student, like most of the ushers here.

‘What do you mean?’ asks Nina. She’s forty-two and an out-of-work actress who also waitresses and walks dogs.

‘He’s been going on about something coming back.’

‘Bloody drama queen,’ cries Chloe.

‘Aren’t we all?’ laughs Nina.

‘Wonder what he meant though.’ Paige puts a coffee cup into the bin bag.

‘You know Chester,’ says Chloe. ‘It’ll be something and nothing.’

She takes the rubbish bags out to the skip at the rear of the building. To get there, she has to go backstage – an area reserved for authorised people; access is via a door with a keypad. It’s Chloe’s favourite part of the theatre. Here there are the four large dressing rooms. Here the actors bustle back and forth, speedily changing attire, hovering in the shadows until their cue. Here it smells of hot lights and sweat and old costumes.

Now the actors are removing make-up, enjoying after-show drinks and rushing off to greet families who have come to see the musical. Squeezing past the racks of costumes in the corridor, Chloe glances at the only dressing-room door with a name on it. The two words are etched inside a gold star; Morgan Miller. The room has been occupied by lead actor George Dewitt and as far as Chloe knows he hasn’t made any complaints about it.

‘Give him time,’ Chester said at the start of the run.

But clearly the dressing room that has had so many other actors requesting a different one over the years doesn’t faze George. He sneezes heartily as Chloe passes on her way back to the box office.

Cynthia asks the ushers how things were. Paige reports the comments she overheard. Chloe makes something up, since she has forgotten hers. Cynthia reminds them that they must checkallthe fire exits every single shift and says that there will be a big announcement next week.

Behind her back, Chester arches his eyebrows knowingly at them.

Chloe shakes her head at him.

She heads into the main foyer to escape. The red carpet is a little tired and the O on the Box Office sign keeps going out, but the pictures of the big actors who have been in shows here line the walls, fingerprints blurring their faces. Chloe recalls her first day, looking around at the posters and drinking in the atmosphere. She couldn’t believe that she would be working at the iconic DW theatre. That was six years ago. It doesn’t command quite the same respect today. Slumping sales and badly received shows mean audiences have dwindled and the décor needs a touch-up.

Chester grabs Chloe’s arm, pulling her from her reverie.

‘It’s—’

‘Don’t tell me,’ she laughs. ‘It’s coming back! OK,what is? Your sex drive? Your memory?’ She shakes her head. ‘Sorry, Ches. I’m just tired tonight.’

And a bit spooked, she wants to add.

‘I never thought they’d do it,’ whispers Chester.

‘Do what?’

‘Have it here again.’

‘Have what?’

‘Dust.’

‘Dust…?’ Chloe frowns. ‘You mean…?’

‘Yes, the musical,’ he says, squeezing her arm.

‘Here again?’ A shiver runs up Chloe’s back. She looks around, but the main doors are closed.

‘Yes. It’s coming in September.’

‘Surely not? Isn’t that … well, bad taste or something?’

‘How can they not?’ demands Chester. ‘Ticket sales have slumped so much recently. And how shit isForget Everything You Know? How shit was that one last month? This will be a sensation!’

‘I suppose. But…’

‘What?’ he asks.

‘Well, look what happened last time…’

‘That’s why they’ll all flock to it again, won’t they? That showmade this place.’

‘For all the wrong reasons,’ says Chloe, still cold despite a glimmer of excitement at the thought of maybe seeingDust again.

‘Who gives a crap about that. It was our first, our best, and if you think about it, it never finished its run.’

‘Because someone died,’ cries Chloe.

‘Well, I can’t bloody wait!’

‘Is it really coming, Ches, or is it just gossip?’

‘I saw it on Cynthia’s computer,’ he insists. Then more unsure, he adds, ‘Ithink. But you heard what she said about a big announcement. The press will go fucking wild. I bet we sell out in an hour. And we work here. We’ll see it all – bepart of it.’

‘It just feels so … I don’t know…’

‘Oh, you’ll change your mind when the atmosphere in here is electric again.’ He pauses. ‘You’reso lucky – you saw the original.’

‘So did you. You’ve worked here since the beginning.’

‘I was ill that week.’

‘Of course you were.’ Chloe recalls his often-shared tale of woe, of how he had flu whenDust opened the theatre.

‘You’re one of the few here who saw it. Aren’t youexcited?’

Chloe isn’t sure. She should be.

The songs have haunted her ever since.

But she can’t help thinking that those lyrics belong only in her head now.

3

The Dean Wilson Theatre

January 2019

When Chester has gone, Chloe heads backstage. She keys in the door code and then stands in the chilly concrete space between the dressing rooms; it’s eerily quiet now the actors have departed. She fingers the row of costumes on the rack in the corridor, imagines them coming to life when no one is around, like the dolls inThe Nutcracker.

Chloe smiles and shakes her head. An overactive imagination is a blessing when it comes to trying to write scenes in her room – here, it is a curse. And, oh, is she cursed with it. Her mum used to tell her frequently that she was born for the theatre – she used to say, when Chloe was younger and passionately performed her own little songs or skits, that she ‘glowed’. She would applaud vivaciously; smile proudly.

Now Chloe glances at the Morgan Miller dressing-room door. She can never help but look at it. It is shut now and the lower points of the gold star are tarnished, as if it has fallen from grace. Over the years, many ushers have reported seeing curious shadows moving on the stairs; exchanged frenzied tales of sounds coming from inside this dressing room.

Singing.

Crying.

Shrieking.

Chester loves to spook everyone with the story of how hedefinitely saw Morgan’s ghost here, dressed as the ethereal Esme, waiting to go on stage one last time. Some of the ushers don’t like to come back here when it’s empty, and persuade someone else to go with them. Chloe has no choice. Her bike is around the back. She makes hearty fun of those who need to pair up, but she can’t say she hasn’t felt things too: goose bumps when she looks at the Morgan Miller star; an icy draught on her neck when she passes this door; a soft rustle of movement that she can’t be sure she has imagined.

The voice on the radio earlier was spooky. The words about being under a roof unnerved her. Thoughts of the incident that occurred in Morgan Miller’s dressing room creep into her mind. She shakes her head to get rid of them.

She’s about to hurry down the stone steps to the fire exit where her bike is chained when she hears it.

The creak of a door opening.

Chloe frowns. Stiffens. Waits. She is too scared to turn around and look back.

So don’t, she thinks.Don’t.

But she does.

The Morgan Miller dressing-room door is open. Chloe blinks, hoping that when she opens her eyes again it will be shut, just as she knows for certain it was earlier. No. It is wide open. Inviting. Gaping like the mouth in the famousScream painting. She should run, but her feet are made of stone.

Another sound. A voice? Her name? Sung like the line from a musical? Why does the lilt of it stir something in her stomach? Some memory long gone.

No. She’s hearing things.

But the door is real. Still open.

She goes towards it, her heart screaming not to.

The dressing room is empty. George Dewitt’s things are scattered across the surfaces; ostentatious spectacles and scarves and make-up pots. The grey wig he wears in the show is perched on a mannequin’s head. Someone has drawn black eyes on its face, giving it an evil look.

Chloe steps inside.

She never comes into this dressing room to stare in the mirror and imagine being on stage. She can’t remember the last time she was in here.

Yes, you can, she thinks.

No. I can’t.

The original poster forDust hangs on the wall. It’s yellowed at the edges and torn where its weight has pulled it free from drawing pins. It’s forbidden for anyone to take it down. Chloe moves closer to it. A coating of dust on the surface traps the light, so it looks like it’s sprinkled with glitter.

‘I am Dust,’ she whispers.

Surely it isn’treally coming back. Chester has got things wrong before, like the time he told them all that Tom Hardy was going to be in a show and it turned out it was local actor Tom Hardling.

Dean Wilson wrote the show to open the brand-new theatre twenty years ago. It sold out in minutes. The lavish musical set in Victorian England told the story of Esme Black, a housemaid who fell for her employer, wealthy doctor Gerard Chevalier. But he loved Lady Louisa Pearse, a vivacious and flighty creature. While Chevalier and Louisa were kissing at a garden party in his house, Esme hurled herself from the balcony and died at his feet. After that, she haunted Chevalier day and night, until he succumbed, fell in love with her ghost and committed suicide to be with her.

There was a huge battle for the role of Esme; actresses slept with producers; agents paid money to those who might sway the decision; actresses made recordings of themselves crooning the melancholic songs and sent them to anyone who mattered. But after a two-minute, breath-taking audition that silenced the room, Morgan Miller won the role.

Chloe saw it the night it opened, snuggled up to her mum.

During the interval on the fourth night of the run – press night – Morgan Miller was found dead in her dressing room.

Hit over the head repeatedly with a heavy object.

The show shut down.

The killer was never caught.

The theatre stayed open, though, and became a place of macabre interest. Ticket sales flourished, and stayed high for a long time, even if the quality of the productions declined. Now though, nothing seems to bring audiences in, not even the exaggerated tales of how Morgan Miller haunts the shadowy passages backstage.

But Chester thinks it’s coming back.

Dust.

If it did, who would play Esme Black? Does Chloe have the versatility, the passion, or the ability to do it? Could she portray shy, desperate Esme; and could she evoke the ghostly enchantress Esme, on the other side? Even if she could … her body. Her damaged body.No. There’s no chance. But how amazing it would be tobecome Esme Black. To be part of the show that made her fall in love with the theatre.

Chloe looks at the two faces on the poster.

A lank-haired Morgan Miller looks into a mirror as the nondescript living Esme; but the reflection is the russet-lipped, golden-haired ghost who teases and taunts poor Dr Chevalier until he joins her in death. Chloe turns to the dressing-room mirror. She is also two opposing women. The one in the glass, with raven hair and neat eyebrows, smiles warmly and gives nothing away; the one with a heart beating too fast is afraid she will never be a success in the theatre.

But there is something else in the mirror.

On the mirror.

Small.

In the top corner of the glass, half hidden by one of the lights. How did she not notice before? Were they even there then? Chloe frowns at her own questions, wondering where they came from. They look like words written in black eye pencil. She moves closer, squints at the tiny capital letters. Then she gasps and leaps back:

YOU THREE NEVER BE UNDER ONE ROOF

What the hell?What three? It’s just her.

But isn’t that what someone whispered on the radio earlier?

Yes.

Again, a dark memory uncoils in her gut like a black ghost rising from a grave.

When did she last see those words?

Somewhere…

Buthoware they here on this mirror? Chloe looks wildly around.Whowrote them? When? She suddenly sees her friends from the youth theatre. Jess and Ryan. Jess Swanson and Ryan … She can’t remember. But she hasn’t spoken to either of them for at least fourteen years. And why have they popped into her head? Why here? Now? What is it about these words?

YOU THREE NEVER BE UNDER ONE ROOF

Chloe has no clue what they mean.

You do, you just don’t want to remember…

4

The Dean Wilson Theatre

January 2019

Chloe opens her eyes.

Where is she? A floor, hard, cold. What’s that? A dark shadow shimmers, moves closer. Someone leans over her, their face elongated, ghostly, menacing; their mouth moves around some words, a song, one she knows; a hand reaches for her throat.

No. It’s just … just Chester. Reaching to help her sit up.

‘What are you doing down there?’ he asks.

Chloe looks around. She’s in the Morgan Miller dressing room.

‘Must have been one of my blackouts.’ She rubs the back of her head.

‘Again?’ Chester’s face comes into full focus, his forehead creased with concern. ‘You’ve had two this month. Shouldn’t you see someone?’

‘Ches, Ihave. They can’t figure it out; said it’s not gonna hurt me.’

‘Unless it happens when you’re high up somewhere … or in water.’

‘I never swim. And I hate heights.’

Chloe gets up, wipes herself down. She has been having blackouts for as long as she can remember. She thinks since she was a teenager, though she can’t be sure. Experts call it syncope – a temporary loss of consciousness caused by a sudden lack of blood flowing to the brain. Chloe has had all kinds of tests to ascertain what causes it in her case – including an ECG – but the doctor say she’s perfectly healthy aside from slightly low blood pressure. She can go months without passing out; then it can happen three times in a week. She’s never out for longer than a minute or two.

‘I’m fine,’ she insists to appease Chester.

Then she remembers.

The mirror.

The words.

YOU THREE NEVER BE UNDER ONE ROOF.

Again, the sickly feeling of something she can’t quite explain engulfs her. She pushes Chester aside and approaches the mirror. Leans closer and squints at the top corner. Nothing there.

‘What are you looking for?’ asks Chester.

‘I…’ Chloe doesn’t know what to say. She definitely doesn’t want to say those creepy words aloud. Did she imagine them? Did she imagine the door being open? No. That was real. But the words? Can she be absolutely sure?

‘Chloe?’ Chester is studying her.

‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she asks, shaking her head.

‘I forgot my headphones and the front doors are locked now. Let me get them and we should go. It’s late.’

They leave the dressing room together. Chloe looks back one last time. For a fleeting moment she is sure the words are there again, in the top corner of the mirror, the small letters as menacing as tiny drops of blood leading to a body.

But she blinks, and they are gone.

5

The Dean Wilson Theatre

January 2019

The following evening Chloe finds herself at the Morgan Miller dressing-room door again, fingers around the handle, as if she might go inside. With a gasp, she pulls her hand away, shaking it as though to waft away a fly.

It’s deathly quiet. The show must be over. She looks behind her and cries out: something ghostlike is floating mid-air at the end of the corridor.

But it’s just a white dress hanging from the costume rail.

What the hell is she doing here?

She came to get her bike. Yes, that’s it. But she must have been standing here for twenty minutes. She looks at her watch. 11.15. How did she lose track of time like this? It makes no sense. The shift earlier was an easy one. Chester was quiet; no more mention ofDust. The audience was small, as usual. And the radios only broadcast messages about the intervals and latecomers. Nothing out of the ordinary and yet, standing here alone, Chloe feels fingers of icy dread scrape sharp nails down her spine.

No; the cold is real. The air is as chill as when she opens the upstairs freezer to get ice creams for the interval. Her breath mists the air like the effects in a bad horror film. She needs to get a grip.

And then she hears it.

Footsteps on the stairs.

Someone is coming down from the rehearsal room.

An actor?

‘Who’s there?’ Chloe calls, still unable to move.

The sound stops.

‘Is that you, Chester?’ she cries, sure he’s left already.

Are you though? You don’t even know how long you’ve been here.

Silence.

Chloe moves away from the dressing-room door, towards the stairs. As she does, the footsteps begin again, this time hastily retreating.

Angry that someone is taunting her, Chloe chases them. But as she ascends the concrete steps, a choking cloud of pungent, lavender perfume engulfs her. Launching into a coughing fit, she has to grip the metal rail until she can breathe properly again.

When she finally reaches the top of the stairs, the corridor is empty. The nearby green room and rehearsal space are dark. But the essence of lavender lingers.

Chloe retraces her steps.

It must beher; it must be Chester mentioningDustthe other day combining with the overactive imagination she has had since she was small. She remembers at school when a group of popular girls laughed at her portrayal of Cordelia inKing Lear. One of them – cocky Carrie Meadows – ended up with broken arm after hitting a wall. She swore Chloe did it. When her mum grounded her for a week, Chloe insisted she hadn’t even touched Carrie. She hadn’t. She was sure of it.

Wasn’t she?

Now, Chloe stops in her tracks, aching at a sudden, vivid memory. Grandma Rosa had come to her bedroom one night after the broken-arm incident. She had kissed Chloe’s head and told her she was a magic girl. Though she didn’t say it in words, Chloe heard, ‘You should always contain your anger, only ever lash out for love.’

She and Grandma Rosa often spoke to one another without words. Thinking of it now, Chloe realises it is odd, though it had felt so natural at the time. At a crowded Sunday lunch table, Grandma Rosa would ask Chloe to pass the mint sauce without opening her mouth. Only Chloe heard, and would hand it over.

Hadn’t her grandma worn lavender perfume?

Yes. Is that why Chloe has just smelt it? She is missing her. Thinking about her.Yes. That could be it.

She looks around and realises that she is now on the stage. How did that happen? Chloe looks back, at the open stage door she can’t even recall opening – almost expecting to see herself walking through it.

She walks to centre-stage and faces the rows of empty seats, gentle rays from the night lamp, which is always on, flickering over them. She looks behind her at the swathes of black curtain shrouding the brick wall – rows of tall, still witches waiting to cast a spell. There is nothing like it, being on stage. That gut-churning fear before going on; the buzz from an appreciative audience; the feeling of being bigger and brighter than any star in the galaxy; the relief afterwards. Chloe has only experienced it on an amateur set – only stood here and imagined it in a theatre like this.

How must Morgan Miller have felt? The weight of that expectation on opening night. The thrill of being the chosen one. The fear of forgetting those infamous lines. The relief at those early rave reviews. The glory of success.

And then it was over.

Then she died.

Chloe looks at her watch That can’t be right. She looks again. It’s 01.32. Almost the middle of the night.How the hell did that happen? She should go. She turns but something stops her. Something turns her head. Something drags her gaze upwards, to the back of the auditorium.

There’s someone there.

There, as real as Chloe, yet as ethereal as a ghost: a woman – milky dress fluid, golden hair cascading, face obscured by a netted veil.

I’m still here…

Chloe imagines that the eyes beneath are grey but colour as she speaks. Imagines that the mouth beneath opens and familiar words pour out.

I am dust…

It’s Morgan Miller.

And Chloe thinks:I’ve seen you before.

Then she blinks and Morgan is gone. No. Not gone. She was never there.You imagined it.

Chloe realises her trousers are damp and touches her thigh with disgust. Has she urinated in fear?

No. She can smell it. It’s blood.

Blood?

Her scars are bleeding. Her wounds are open.

Then the night lamp goes out.

Blackness.

Chloe runs towards the light in the corridor.

She looks back just once and is sure for a moment that the lamp flickers back on – and that a large, black bird is standing on the ledge above it, feathers as sleek as oily water.

6

The Dean Wilson Theatre

January 2019

As promised, a week later, Cynthia holds a meeting in the upstairs rehearsal room. Props fromForget Everything You Knowlitter the half-white-half-mirrored room; walking sticks, dressing gowns and worn slippers form small, random piles as though left by a group of elderly swimmers. In contrast, a glitter ball and two cheap fur coats have been abandoned on a table, possibly items from upcoming show,Bright Lights, Bright Life. White tape crosses mark the wooden floor, so actors know where they have to stand when they’re on the real stage.

The ushers drag chairs noisily from the stack at the back of the room.

Nina grumbles that she’s missing an important audition for this. ‘I hope it’s just aboutDust,’ she says glancing at Chester, ‘and not redundancies, like six months ago.’

He hasn’t mentioned the show for days, perhaps worried he had got it wrong after all. ‘If they’re getting rid of staff, it won’t be me,’ he whispers as they line their chairs parallel to the mirrored wall, doubling their number.

‘What I’d do to play Esme Black,’ sighs Nina, sitting down between Chloe and Chester.

‘You’re too old,’ sniffs Paige.

‘I’m only forty-two. My acting CV says I can do thirty-five to forty-five. Anyway, you’re way too young. Esme is thirty inDust.’

‘Chloe would be perfect then,’ smiles Chester.

‘I doubt that,’ she says, her chest tight at the thought of it. She knows every line; the original script book is on her shelf, dog-eared and yellowing. But after the other night with the lost hours and footsteps on the stairs and a woman (just a woman,notMorgan Miller) in the theatre, she doesn’t want to think about the show.

‘You’ve got that vulnerability,’ says Paige. ‘I never sawDust, I wasn’t even born, but I’ve always thought from the pictures that Morgan Miller lacked a softness. Yeah, she was magnetic and beautiful … but in the script Esme issensitive.’

‘You can’t diss Morgan Miller,’ cries Chester, hand dramatically clutching his chest.

‘Because shedied?’

‘No,’ he hisses, ‘because it’s bad luck.’

‘Oh, fuck off with your superstition,’ laughs Paige. ‘Nothing’s gonna happen cos we bitch about her! Thereis no bloody ghost.’

Chloe nods more vigorously than she intends. Is she trying to convince herself? Since that strange night on stage, she’s decided it was Chester mentioningDust’s return that triggered her imagination. She was tired. She was spooked. The lights went out because there was a fault. That’s the only explanation.

‘They’d want a big star to play Esme,’ she says. ‘They wouldn’t want a nobody like me.’

The door opens, stopping a united cry of ‘Don’t be silly!’

Cynthia comes into the room, her customary court shoes clacking on the wood, followed by a middle-aged woman with bright-orange hair and matching nails, who sits on the chair at the end of the row. Chloe is sure she has seen her here at the theatre a few times, her hair changing as often as an experimental teenager’s.

‘First of all,’ says Cynthia, all business. ‘This is Beth and in three weeks she’ll be starting as an usher.’

‘Hi, Beth,’ everyone choruses.

She nods briskly at them all.

‘We’ll be interviewing for more ushers in the coming months,’ Cynthia continues. ‘You’ll understand why when I tell you what’s happening in September.’

Chester looks at Chloe, eyes wide; she shakes her head.

‘Well, guys.’ Cynthia smiles at them, clearly enjoying their rapt expressions. ‘This is exciting stuff, it really is. I doubt a single one of you doesn’t know about the show that opened this place– Dust.’ She says it softly, with reverence, the way many do. ‘There have been discussions for a good while about this, but I can now tell you that this year, on the twentieth anniversary of its opening,Dust will be returning.’

The ushers give an exaggerated‘ooohhh’.

Despite everything, Chloe’s first reaction is excitement. She pushes away any niggling doubt … simmering dread.

‘I know, I know.’ Cynthia laughs. ‘It’s going to behuge. This is why we’ll be taking new staff on. The official announcement will be tonight at nine pm across all media platforms. Tickets go on sale first thing tomorrow. We anticipate them selling out in hours.’

‘How long will it be on for?’ asks Chester.

‘Four weeks,’ says Cynthia. ‘Then it goes to the West End.’

‘It’s coming here first?’ asks Chloe.

‘Yes, it’ll premiere here.’

‘Wow.’ Chloe knows it is usually the other way around.

‘What date does it start?’ asks Chester.

‘The first show will be Thursday, the fifth of September. Press night will be Tuesday the tenth. The cast will be here rehearsing from mid-June, so the meet-and-greet will likely happen then too, and you’ll get the usual chance to meet the actors.’

‘Do we know who they are?’ asks Nina.

‘Yes,’ says Cynthia. ‘They’ll be announced tonight too.’

‘Who are they, then?’ asks Chester.

‘I don’t know myself,’ Cynthia admits. ‘They want social media to go wild later so it’s been kept very hush-hush. Only those at the top know.’

So only Edwin Roberts, the artistic director, thinks Chloe.

‘There’s not much more I can tell you,’ admits Cynthia. ‘Just that we have some very exciting times ahead. It’s going to be hard work. The press will be all over this, especially in light of … well, the show’s history. Some may think … well, that the show should not come back. I want you to remain professional at all times. Journalists may try and get inside stories from you, but send them straight to me. In the meantime, make Beth feel welcome. She saw the originalDust…’

‘I actually auditioned for the role of Esme,’ says Beth, a little smug.

‘Maybe,’ whispers Nina in Chloe’s ear, ‘but she didn’tget it.’

‘Did you meet Morgan Miller?’ asks Chester, eyes wide.

‘I did.’

‘Wow. What was she like?’

‘It was only briefly. For about five minutes, before she went in and did that killer audition that got her the role.’

Interesting choice of words, thinks Chloe.

‘She looked like she knew,’ says Beth.

‘Knew what?’ asks Chloe, thinking of her murder.

‘That she’d get the role of Esme. She was pretty arrogant.’

‘I thought she was absolutely mesmerising,’ says Chloe.

Beth shrugs as though to saywhatever. Then adds, ‘I don’t see how can anyone compete with an actress who literally died for her art.’

‘I’m sure the new actress will be tremendous in the role,’ says Cynthia. ‘Anyway, while I have you, I want to talk about the new radios.’

Remembering the eerie words she heard on the airwaves a week ago, Chloe asks, ‘Has anyone else been getting interference on theirs?’

No one answers. A couple shake their heads. Maybe she imagined it after all?

But then what about the words on the mirror?

What about the footsteps on the stairs?

The woman?

That horrible bird?

Chloe shakes away the questions and tunes out. She closes her eyes and hums in her head the chorus of the mainDustsong:Forever, together, we are dust. Pieces of everything; pieces of all of us. For a moment she is sure it drifts in through the open door behind them, from the corridor where stone steps lead down to the dressing rooms, a haunting, lyrical, female voice. One she knows, first heard twenty years ago on stage. Chloe feels a whisper of breath on her neck and glances at Chester, but he’s absorbed in whatever Cynthia is saying. Beth looks at Chloe and that’s when she smells it.

Pungent lavender perfume. On Beth. Exactly the same as she smelt backstage the other night.

The song dies.

‘I think that’s it then,’ concludes Cynthia, pulling Chloe back into the room. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Who do you think killed Morgan Miller?’ asks Beth as they pack up.

‘How wouldwe know?’ says Paige. ‘I wasn’t even born then!’

‘Did you work here back then?’ Beth smiles at Chester. ‘I think Cynthia did, didn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ says Chester. ‘But I had flu that first week. I dunno who killed Morgan. They interviewed the caretaker – can’t remember his name. He wasn’t arrested. Ruined his life though. Shit sticks and all that.’

Chloe moves closer to Beth, trying to smell her scent. ‘Why are you checking if Ches worked here then?’ she demands.

‘Just being friendly. I’ve been coming here a while, you know.’

‘Thought I knew you,’ says Chester.

‘I always thought her boyfriend, Clive, was an odd one,’ says Beth. ‘I read about them. They were the golden couple until she got the role inDust. Apparently, things got a bit fierier after that, and they fell out. Jealous maybe.’

‘Best theory I read,’ says Nina, ‘was that she was into some sort of witchcraft and made a deal with the devil to get the role of Esme Black; she hadn’t realised the price she would have to pay.’

‘Silliness like that had better not make it to the newspapers,’ calls Cynthia on her way out of the room.

‘Were you backstage the other night?’ Chloe hisses at Beth when Cynthia has gone.

‘Me?’ Beth frowns.

‘Yes,you. I smelt the perfume you’re wearing now.’

‘No, I wasn’t.’ Does Beth sound like she is protesting a little too heatedly? ‘And lots of people wear this perfume.’

‘I doubt it,’ whispers Chester.

‘Why wouldI be backstage?’ asks Beth.

Chloe shrugs, realising she is interrogating a new usher. She walks out.

Chester follows her down the stairs, and she’s glad.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘What was that about? You sound … I dunno, upset. You OK?’

‘Yes,’ she snaps.

‘Sure?’

‘Yes,’ she sighs, more gently. ‘Just tired.’

‘Don’t you wish you could have auditioned?’ he asks as she unlocks her bike. ‘ForDust?’

‘No.’ It’s the truth. She couldn’t audition, even if there was the chance. It’s a role where her arms would have to be on display. ‘I wouldn’t have a hope in hell. It’s going to be someone big, not for a failed actress who has to usher just to get near a stage.’

She is safe as an usher though, in her long-sleeved black shirt and trousers.

‘Oh, Chlo,’ sighs Chester, squeezing her arm. ‘Don’t say that; you’re a beautiful actress. I saw yourLes Misérables audition for that amateur group. You were so … understated.’

Chloe smiles. ‘Understated doesn’t cut it these days. And I didn’t get the part, remember.’ She had been glad, knowing she would have turned it down anyway. She had just wanted to see if she could do it. And it turned out she couldn’t. ‘I prefer to write now. I’ve nearly finished the first draft of my script.’

It’s a lie. It’s barely an idea. And she hasn’t looked at it for a while. But she doesn’t tell Chester any of that.

‘Really?’ he says. ‘I’dlove to hear it.’

‘Maybe when it’s done.’ Chloe feels shy.

‘What’s it called?’

‘I don’t know,’ she lies.

‘What’s it about?’ asks Chester.

‘Lost love.’ She laughs, embarrassed, and wheels her bike outside.

‘LikeDust,’calls Chester, as she rides away.