Ghastly

The house was vast, so Gemma had to pick her battle. As soon as she heard the shower come on, she slipped into the upstairs hallway and made a beeline for what she believed was the master bedroom. She was desperate for more information about her host, and had to balance it against both unbelievable pain and Caroline’s unusual temperament. There was something simmering under the surface of that girl, and Gemma was not keen to find out what it was first-hand.

What she found, for now, was a room that seemed to have been abandoned. The furnishing was ridiculous yet typical for this house: a mix of generic period styling, a spacious four-poster bed, twin dressing tables each with their own distinct accoutrement, and a massive two-sided closet that hung wide open.

What the fuck, Gemma muttered as she stared past the open closet doors. One side was rammed top-to-bottom and side-to-side with a rainbow assortment of dresses, jackets, shoes, and hats. And the other was bare. Empty hangers littered the hardwood at the bottom, and a few laid on the bed as well.

The dressing tables told a similar tale. One seemed as if it was ready for use with an assortment of makeup, jewellery, deodorants. The other was a bit of a mess, and seemed to have nothing useful. She ran her fingers through the dust, tracing the faint rings and ovals where perfume bottles and jewellery boxes had once sat.

She was far more taken with what she assumed was Caroline’s mother’s table. The large mirror was covered with photos, with only a narrow space left open to use. Gemma grinned as she studied them. They were small and grainy, as if taken by one of those Instax cameras that were hot when Gemma was a kid. Some were of Caroline, others of the garden, and of her CD collection. She recognised a few shots of the West Brom high street where she’d been playing every week. Quite a few were of urban decay—closed shops, piles of rubbish, defaced signage. Gemma’s personal favourite was a well-framed shot of the words “FUCK MAGENTA” spray-painted across some old brick wall.

On the table itself, amidst the jewellery and knick-knacks, sat a small white box with a printed label and the purple M of the Magenta Corporation. She picked it up and strained to find a distance that let her old eyes focus on the tiny print. Underneath a barcode, she could just make out: ALICE NEWMAN.

Gemma took the box between two fingers and shook it until the lid slid off. Inside, tucked into a perfect form-fit piece of foam, was a silver ring. It left the container with ease and seemed to almost beckon her to slide it on her finger.

“What are you doing in there?” Caroline’s voice shouted from the hallway. “That’s my parent’s room!”

“It’s fine,” Gemma shouted as she spun around to face the door. She thrust the ring into the pocket of her jeans. “I’m an adult. So are you, best I can tell.”

Caroline stayed in the hallway, but permitted herself a narrow peek through the crack. Her eyes lurked in the darkness. “You better come out.”

“Who is Alice Newman?”

“What?” Caroline gasped, then composed herself. “Where did you see that?”

“Saw it on some post.”

“Right, yes.” She let out a sigh. “That’s our neighbour. We take in her post when she’s away.”

“Can I meet her?”

“N-no, miss, she’s away. That’s why we’ve got the post.”

Gemma narrowed her eyes, and the tension rose in her voice. “Why is she away? Where’s your family? Why is everyone bloody away?”

“They’re not, miss! Not all of them. There’s plenty of people in town. My family’s just in Saudi Arabia on business.”

“What business? You said your mum’s an estate agent.”

“She goes with my dad sometimes… on his business trips.”

Gemma scrutinised her through the crack in the door. It didn’t tally, but nothing tallied. She fidgeted with the box in her pocket, which bulged in a very obvious way.

“That’s what I was coming to say,” Caroline said. “I thought we could into town today.”

“Sure, yeah. Just give me a moment.”

“Are you not going to come out of there, miss? I really think you should.”

“Don’t you need to go get ready?” Gemma was terse. She had no desire to explain herself.

“Y-yes, miss. But…”

“I’ll meet you downstairs, okay?”

Caroline’s voice shook. “Okay.” Her shadow grew long and disappeared as she slinked back down the hall.

A quick dash back to the guest bedroom, and Gemma had deposited the mysterious box in her guitar case. She’d fidget with it later, she thought. A walk through town might help her make enough sense of things, and then she could focus on sorting out what was going on.

Caroline had spent the better part of the next hour managing Gemma’s expectations.

“It won’t be like what you remember, miss. It’s a bit of an interesting town.” She was totally shot through with anxiety over what Gemma might think. It set Gemma on edge, which seemed to make Caroline even worse. The two of them couldn’t be worse of a match, thought Gemma. But she was determined to make it work. At least until she recovered a bit more, and understood a bit more.

“I don’t even know what I remember.” Gemma sat on the edge of a chaise lounge and rubbed her wounded ankle. It had a fresh wrap, courtesy of a follow-up visit from the RapiMed folks, who seemed to resent being called to tend to such a vile creature as herself. Her perception of their tone might’ve just been her inherent disdain for anyone from the Midlands, but there had been no hiding the eye-rolls. To their credit they had managed past their hatred of itinerants, topped up her meds, redid her bandages, and used a minimal amount of slurs. Most you can ask for. Class, professionalism.

“What you mean, miss? Don’t know what you remember?”

“I mean, I spent years imprisoned in a work camp, and then the last couple in the colony. There’s no normal, love. There’s nothing.”

“Right, sorry. Sorry, I really am.” Caroline picked at her eyebrow. It wasn’t the first time Gemma had seen her do it. It seemed to be some kind of nervous habit. “Maybe you’ll like it then. The high street, that is. Always something fun on the go down the high street.”

“Lead the way, m’lady.” Gemma had agreed with herself to only mock Caroline’s whole deal once per hour, and she’d accidentally used it up there. Pity, especially given she’d descended the stairs in her most lavish Victorian cosplay yet. “I might trail behind you.”

Caroline’s vague repeated warnings had done little to prepare Gemma for what awaited her on the high street. Far more than posh housing laid behind the iron gates. It was an entire community. Beautiful cobblestone with a tactical amount of tarnish comprised the street, wide enough for two carriages, though closed to traffic at both ends by concrete bollards, with an automated car park stationed nearby and ready to receive. The pavements were unbroken and seemed to glint in the sunlight, with shadows cast by the protruding window boxes of the shops that lined both sides. And the shops, Gemma thought, were the most ridiculous part. A butcher, a baker, a café with an actual barista, more than one antique dealer. Not a kiosk in sight. No smashed windows, no steel shutters. It was awesome in the truest sense, and Gemma could scarcely find the words to describe how it felt to see.

“Fuck off, are you serious?”

“I know,” Caroline sighed and spun round. “Dreadful, innit?” She looked completely at home in this scene. Her dress, her hair, her complexion, placed here in this dreamed-up image of a street that had never existed, filled with people that had never lived, framed and hung on the wall of some fictional home.

“What… the fuck?”

“Ghastly,” came the muttered response from a passerby headed the opposite direction. A bald man in the twilight of his life who was nearly a head shorter than Gemma, yet felt compelled to put his own life in jeopardy by remarking on her.

“Oh my,” Caroline gasped as she swept back to Gemma’s side. She felt their fingers intertwine as she stared a hole through the wretched man’s back. “Perhaps you’d better come with me miss, it’s…”

“What?” Gemma seethed. “It’s what?”

“I’m so sorry, it just might be a bit easier if you didn’t, well…” Caroline looked her up and down. “If you didn’t stand out so much.”

The mirror in the changing room revealed two truths. Perhaps, not that she needed to mind, but perhaps she had gone a bit hard on the food supply at the colony. Her blue University of West London hoodie strained and stretched an inch above her hips, and her belly protruded a fair bit more than she remembered. She told herself she was never one to worry about such things, and she still felt that was the case. Nevertheless, it had caught her out. The second was a bit harder to cope with. Her eyes drooped and sank, her cheeks puffed, her crow’s feet had entrenched, her skin resembled a salt flat, and her hair was an absolute fright.

“Caroline?” She called out to her gothic caretaker on the other side of the curtain.

“Yes, miss?”

“I see it.”

“I’m glad, miss.”

The curtain slid open and there stood Caroline, arms piled high with what she considered fashion. Gemma could feel the bile creep up her throat as she stared at some sort of Victorian day dress in a putrid green. Just above the dress was Caroline’s beaming face, the lid on an infinite well of pride at having picked this out.

Gemma cursed under her breath as she snatched the dress. “If you step in here with a corset, I’ll bloody beat you to death with it.”

“It’s not for everyone, miss.”

Caroline gave a curt nod as Gemma emerged wearing the dress, her eyes doing a judgemental scan head to toe. Her faded white trainers somehow passed muster, even as filthy as they were, but Caroline added an assortment of underthings to her bag before walking out of the shop. Gemma stood just on the other side of the door and held one arm in the other. The dress felt alien on her skin, and she hadn’t paid for it. As best she could tell, neither had Caroline.

“You coming?”

“I’ve not paid? I don’t…” Her stomach groaned and her throat burned from the acid. “I can’t bloody afford it. Even if it’s a quid, it’s a quid too much.”

“Blimey,” Caroline said as she jumped back across the threshold. “I’m so sorry. Please, let me.” She placed her hand on Gemma’s back and nudged her forward.

Gemma scrunched her face and shot a look. “Oi.”

“Please, it’s for me, really. I’m happy to get it.” Another nudge, with a bit more force, sent Gemma forward and Caroline close behind. Her hand stayed fixed to Gemma’s back. As she crossed the threshold of the shop, she could feel a slight vibration, almost imperceptible. Caroline let her hand drop.

“This town.” The sun cut through the cloud and struck Gemma in the face, leaving her slouched and gawking at the pavement. A breeze served as yet another reminder that she was in this stupid outfit. She sighed. “Great, so now I’ve changed, men won’t find me reprehensible.”

“Heh.” Caroline rubbed the back of her neck. “I was thinking we could get a coffee, if that’s alright?”

Gemma followed down the pavement in a daze. She was relieved the dress granted her anonymity, though it had added to her confusion. The shop-lined street was reasonably busy and almost everyone wore these bizarre costumes. Men dressed as dandies, boys like urchins in their flat caps, women in their bodices and petticoats. And all of it slightly wrong, someone’s drunken misunderstanding of a documentary. Her would-be captor bobbed along, posture forced by wire and tight lacing, but with a smile that was freely given. She was greeted by name, or given deference by, everyone they passed, and the same tended to either give Gemma an absent nod or avoid her gaze entirely. So it’s not all bad, she thought. Being ignored by strangers was the first meal her inner Londoner had enjoyed in half a decade.

The intoxication of anonymously mooching around a high street had taken her mind off both the dress and the pain in her ankle. Before long Caroline was stood facing her in front of what seemed to be their destination: an imposing stone building on a corner, its various entrances guarded by ornate columns, with a carved wooden head sign that read The Town Centre.

“You’ve brought me to the pub? I underestimated you.”

“N-not quite, miss.”

“I’d curtsy if it wouldn’t shatter what’s left of my ankle.”

Gemma hurtled through the doors and threw herself upon the bar. Her thirst for this experience, a proper pub experience, was immeasurable. And The Town Centre appeared to rise to the challenge. Ornate mouldings topped the spacious bar room, which had a high ceiling, a dozen or so tables, and ample custom. It’s important, Gemma thought, for a pub to have enough punters that you’re able to disappear into a private conversation if you need, but find community if you prefer. The crowd seemed to span the gamut of boisterous and circumspect, though it was almost entirely men. And all in this atrocious period-adjacent attire, which she now also wore.

“Yes, miss.” A friendly chap behind the bar glanced back from his position at an elaborate espresso machine.

Poor sod, she thought. They hate it when people order an espresso drink. “Just a pint, please. And another for my friend who’s just behind.”

“A pint?”

Caroline had caught up, and her hand once again laid upon Gemma’s back. “Miss, please.”

“One second, love,” Gemma replied. “Pint of whatever lager you’ve got, please.”

The man behind the counter seemed to hiss. A chorus of groans echoed behind her. Gemma flinched. Her eyes scanned around. Was this a real ale pub or something? But she didn’t see any cask handles. In fact, she didn’t see any taps either.

“You won’t find a pint of what you’re looking for here, madam.” A gregarious dandy in a tailcoat rose to his feet from a nearby table, his voice more affectation than accent. A cacophony of creaks rang out as everyone turned to face the man.

Gemma closed her eyes and shook her head. Fucking perfect.

“She didn’t know, Mr. King.” Caroline slid artfully between Gemma and the man. “Dreadfully sorry.”

“This is not some den of ill repute, full of dull men with duller senses, made low by their love of the drink. This, madam, is a coffee house.” The man had begun to pace between the tables, and he held the gaze of the crowd as he moved. “A place where men great and lesser can come together to discuss the topics of the day, to do business, to be with each other and themselves regardless of status or position.”

Gemma’s head started to throb. She put a finger to her temple and rubbed. A cold spike went through her like a dagger: she’d nearly thrown away a year of sobriety for a pint of lager. “Who are you?”

“Madam, my name is Alastair King.” He gave an elegant nod. “And this is my penny university, The Town Centre. It’s a pleasure to welcome you in, provided you follow the house rules.”

“She will,” Caroline interjected. “She absolutely will, of course. It’s my fault sir, I didn’t tell her where we were going.”

“Shh.” Gemma shot a look at Caroline, then fixed her stare to Mr. King. “Uh, thanks, Alastair. And I’m…”

“Tut tut,” Mr. King bellowed, “now now. You’re free to stay anonymous in this coffee house, madam. Only your ideas matter. And of course, the fact that you’re in the company of this town’s own daughter, the lovely Miss Caroline.” His grin widened as applause rose up around them from the seated patrons.

Fuck’s sake, Gemma thought. She only just managed to suppress an eye roll. Caroline seemed worried, so she’d play it as safe as she could for now. “Of course, sir.” She managed a short bow, and Caroline curtseyed in turn. It was all, to understate it, a bit much.

“Let’s sit over there, miss.” Caroline’s hand seemed to be attached to Gemma’s back. She guided the two of them to a free table in a disused corner, then returned after she’d fetched a pair of cappuccinos.

Gemma sipped the coffee and looked around. The furore had died down, and everyone returned to their respective conversations. She put on a half-cocked smile. “Thanks. For this, and for that.”

“Oh it’s my pleasure miss, I’m sorry again.”

“The town’s daughter?” Gemma blurted out the question, then gave herself a quiet tutting. She’d told herself she’d wait until dinner to bring it up.

“You heard that, did you? Gosh.”

“‘Course I heard it. Everyone heard it. It got a round of applause.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“But what does it mean?”

“It’s nothing.” Caroline stared into her cappuccino. “My family were one of the founding families of the town. It’s barmy, calling me the town’s daughter just cause of that.”

Gemma nodded. “So that’s how you got me out of the arrest at the train station.”

“No, miss.” Caroline demurred. “I gave the security guard fifty pounds.”

“Oh. Right, the founders of Moseley, that must have been centuries ago.”

“It was around twenty years ago, I think. It started around a school, a private school. I went there. We moved here so I could attend. But slowly we bought up all the land, I suppose. Us, and some other families. And together they founded the town.”

Gemma leaned back and slumped down in her chair. There was rich, and then there was this. Blimey. “Was this an algo thing, then? Trying to get away from the evils of technology?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. My mother loves to talk about it all, why we did it, how it all came to be, but I don’t really love to listen. Wish I did.”

“Right. Well, it has charm.”

“Honestly, I hate it here.”

“Bit shit, yeah. The outfits, mostly. Why don’t you leave?”

“I do, sometimes.”

“No,” Gemma chuckled. “I mean move. Leave leave. Go, go far away.”

“Like where?”

“Liverpool. That’s where I’m going.”

“My father always said Scousers were drunken, ungrateful louts who got what they deserved.”

“Well, it’s a nice enough place. Where’s your father from?”

“Stratford.”

“East London? Alright love, well done.”

“Stratford-upon-Avon, actually.”

Gemma groaned. “Twat.” She pushed her empty mug into Caroline’s and made a satisfying clink. “Another round then?”

“If we’re doing rounds, you’ll need a ring.” Caroline tapped Gemma’s bare ring finger. “It’s mad you don’t have one.”

“A ring?” Gemma smirked. “I’ve got these.” She pulled the chain and displayed the two graphite rings that hung around her neck. “I’m not going to wear them, though.”

“No,” Caroline smiled. “You know what I mean.”

“Like a partner? You proposing, love?”

Caroline burst out laughing, and Gemma was stunned by her smile. Wide, radiant, disarming, and the appropriate amount of gorgeous white teeth showed through. She must have taken smile class in finishing school. “A ring! Like, a Magenta Ring?” She held up her hand and pointed at her ring. “We use ‘im for everyfing now.”

“Right… no, I had a phone, back when we were in the work camp. Hasn’t worked in years. I guess I kept it for nostalgia but it’s dead.”

“A phone!” Caroline cringed. “No, that would never do.”

“I don’t know if you noticed…” Gemma dropped to a whisper. “But I don’t really have access to funds.”

“Oh, if it was about money that would be easy. You have to prove your identity to get one, there’s a background check, it’s all very involved, quite a bit of paperwork.”

“I’m right fucked.”

“We didn’t used to need them, or use them… but the council, they’ve brought in all this security… we use them for everything now. Paying for things, getting in and out of town, our cars, trains…”

“Liverpool isn’t like this, you know. I won’t need one because I’m not staying. I’m going to Liverpool.”

“Well, you’ll need it for the train.”

“Not if I drive.”

“Well, but, the car…”

“Not if you drive.”

“Miss… I can’t leave. My family… my mother…”

“How old are you, anyway?”

Caroline batted the air with her hand.

“Look, doesn’t matter, you’re old enough to make your own bloody decisions.”

Caroline’s face fell. She shifted in her seat. “Miss, please.”

“And how are the two of you getting on this afternoon, if I might enquire.” Mr. King’s unnatural lilt stirred a primordial anger in Gemma. He leaned down and brought his face level with the table. “Miss Caroline, I’m not sure I’ve had the pleasure of making your friend’s acquaintance before today. Is she new to Moseley?”

“Oi.” Gemma had spent the last of her patience. “Fuck off mate, private conversation.” Caroline’s gasp joined the choir of almost everyone in the room. “See two women, need to toss yourself in there yeah?”

The barista shouted from afar with an air of obligation. “I’m afraid it’s against the house rules to use vulgar language.”

Caroline slapped her hands against the table. “Gemma, stop.”

“Are you fucking joking, mate? It’s bloody Birmingham, can hardly describe it without using vulgar language.”

“Miss Caroline.” Mr. King made a show of ignoring Gemma. “How did you say you know this person?”

The barista coughed and pointed a finger at Gemma. “I’m afraid you need to leave. Miss Caroline, I think it’s best you stay put.”

Gemma was indignant. “If you care to lose that finger, I’m happy to break it off.”

“STOP!” Caroline shouted, and her voice seemed suited for the task. Everyone fell silent by her command. Her foot stomped the ground to emphasise her point. “We’re going.”

The maddening silence followed them from the car to the dining room, settling over their dinner of ready meals and giving it a grim portent. Would Caroline explode? Let it go? Gemma felt as if she was waiting to be called to the headmaster’s office. But she was too stubborn, and too self-aware, to speak first—even she knew when she’d done enough speaking for one day. It was only once they’d both taken their last bites that Caroline decided to settle matters.

“You can’t do that,” she started with a stern tone. “You can’t do what you did.”

Gemma’s skin crawled. She felt a fire kindle inside her and she prayed it would not light. “I’m sorry, but I can. It’s still a free country… somewhat. They can’t throw me in jail for being boorish and unseemly.” She took in as much air as she could. “I understand you don’t like it.”

“This is a town of rules!” Caroline screamed. Gemma lurched backward and stumbled out of her chair. It crashed onto the floor as tears flooded Caroline’s eyes. “And of courtesy, and of decorum! Okay!” Caroline likewise stood straight up. “You are going to remember that, and abide by it! Okay?!”

“Right, so.” Gemma cracked her neck. The fire was ablaze. “All of that? Can fuck all the way off. And so can you, frankly.”

“Unbelievable. You are unbelievable! And you are ungrateful!”

“I didn’t ask for any of this!”

“You didn’t have to, because I am nice!” She leaned forward and shrieked. “I am a nice person!” Gemma’s eardrums rattled. She took another step away from this terrifying girl.

“Okay,” Gemma lowered her voice. “Okay. You’re very upset. I see that.” She started to move toward the door behind her, and Caroline seemed to match her step. “All of this is why taking you to Liverpool will be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

“I’m not going to Liverpool!” Caroline very much did not lower her voice. “And you can’t leave town without me letting you out! So… you need to think about that, okay?! I’ve been so nice to you! And you weren’t very nice to me today!”

“Christ!” Gemma punched the wall and let out a guttural roar. “You sheltered little posh cunt!”

“AHHHHHHHHH!” Caroline stomped out of the room and up the stairs. Gemma stood dumbfounded in the dining room. She panted and wheezed as she doubled over, her hands flat on the table, her head ready to burst from pain. Her ankle cried out and the rest of her jolted as Caroline slammed a door upstairs.

It was about an hour of stunned inaction before Gemma worked up the courage to follow. She half-expected Caroline to be stood at the top of the stairs, knife in hand. But she found only darkness and closed doors, aside from one: the room Gemma had slept in the night prior.

She shut the door and paced a groove in the floor. On the nightstand sat a fresh bottle of her pain medicine, rushed over from RapiMed at some point while they were away. And Caroline had placed a glass of water there as well.

Why is this cunt being so nice to me? And I’m just being myself, she thought as she lowered herself onto the bed, still in full period regalia. Her ankle throbbed, and with how swollen it was, she had zero chance of even getting her socks off.

The lid of the pills popped open with ease. Just one or two, Gemma noted. They’re strong. The bottle tipped, and five tumbled out onto her palm. A small sip of water sent them all down with ease.