Never Tell. Claire Seeber

Square, dark hair falling across her beautiful but angrily contorted face, a black boy with short dreds behind her, partially obscured. Licking marmalade from my fingers, I pulled the paper closer and looked again. It was the girl from the petrol station.

      UNIVERSITY, NOVEMBER 1991

      The River of Oblivion rolls … whereof who drinks, Forthwith his former state and being forgets.

      Paradise Lost, Milton

      I didn’t see or hear from any of them again until the middle of November. There were vague murmurings on campus about the incident in the cathedral, and one mention in the Oxford Gazette; and sometimes I wanted to shout, ‘That was me’ – but I never did. Life went on as normal. I immersed myself in my work, but I found myself searching streets, bars and crowds longingly to see if Dalziel was there. He never was, and there was a part of me that was relieved. Once I saw Lena and the beautiful dark girl in the King’s Arms but they looked through me in a way that made me shrivel. I wanted to do well at Oxford and I had a feeling deep in my bones that these boys and girls, this group, were never going to be good for me. I asked a few people about Society X but no one seemed to want to talk about it. Some just smiled and looked away; lots had never heard of it – and a few looked faintly appalled when I mentioned it, so eventually I stopped; I started to forget about them all.

      But one evening there was a folded note sealed with scarlet wax in my pigeonhole, my name in flowing black italics. For some reason, my fingers fumbled with the seal as I tried to open it.

      ‘X MARKS THE SPOT’ the note proclaimed, giving a time and an address, which later turned out to be one of the best streets in town, instructing me to ‘dress dangerously and bring something intoxicating’. I wasn’t exactly sure what the latter two meant – but I did as I was told, spending the last of my grant on a black velvet catsuit and the highest black heels I could find.

      On the night in question I bought a bottle of Lambrusco for Dutch courage, and opened it in my room. I slicked my hair back, painted my eyes with kohl and my mouth with scarlet lipstick, splashing myself with Chanel No. 5 that I’d nicked from my mother. I was excited. Overexcited at the thought that I had an invitation into the elite.

      And then I sat on my narrow bed and decided I couldn’t possibly go. I was terrified. I didn’t know anyone. They’d think I was an idiot; a country bumpkin. They’d laugh at me. I heard the other students on my floor come and go, the laughter of a Saturday night, music fading and increasing as doors opened and closed. Only I was alone, apparently. I reapplied my lipstick for the fifteenth time. I drank a bit more wine. I changed my mind, then changed it back again.

      In the end I was there just before midnight, as instructed, clutching the Jack Daniel’s I’d bought because I’d read that Janis Joplin had drunk it, at the door of the tall town-house on Lawn Street. My belly squirmed with nerves. The lights were all out as I rang the doorbell and I thought for a horrid second they’d forgotten me – or perhaps it was all a nasty joke to get me stumbling around town in killer heels like a drunken fool.

      The door opened a crack.

      ‘Password?’

      ‘Pardon?’ I said.

      ‘Password,’ the voice drawled impatiently.

      ‘I don’t know the—’ I began, and the door started to close.

      ‘No, wait.’ I had a flash of inspiration. ‘X?’

      The door hovered – and then opened just wide enough to let me in.

      ‘That’ll do.’ Black-tipped fingernails grasped my arm, and pulled me through. The door slammed behind me. I was in.

      I followed the tall girl called Lena, whose hair was now pink and who wore nothing but a bra and bondage trousers, down a white hallway into a very minimal room. The floorboards were painted black, the walls red, and there was no furniture at all apart from a red velvet divan, a black granite coffee table and long white curtains. It all looked like a stage-set, particularly as a hundred candles flickered and guttered in the breeze from the French windows. The room was terribly hot and music swelled from the expensive stereo in the corner, some kind of opera I didn’t recognise. A few people I didn’t know stood round the corners of the room, drinking, smoking, mostly silent. Everyone seemed to be wearing black and it was clear everyone was nervous, although there was a certain loucheness to most of them. They eyed me with feigned disinterest and chose to ignore me. Lena lit a chillum and handed it around.

      James appeared, and I headed towards him gladly. He was wearing a dinner suit that rather drowned him, despite his stocky frame, and he too seemed on edge. His nervousness surprised me, and made my own heart thump more.

      ‘This is all a bit weird,’ I whispered. ‘What’s going on? Where’s Dalziel?’

      ‘He’ll be down in a minute.’ He eyed me warily. ‘You look nice.’

      ‘Nice?’

      ‘Good, I mean. Very good. You look like one of those girls in that Robert Palmer video.’

      ‘Do I?’ I was flattered. ‘Just need a guitar to get me going.’

      ‘You’ll need a bit more than that tonight,’ James said, producing a hip flask. ‘Drink?’

      ‘Thanks.’ I took a swig and choked. ‘God. What the hell’s that?’

      ‘Hell is right, you innocent,’ he scoffed. ‘Never tried the green fairy?’

      ‘Fairy liquid?’ I was confused.

      ‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ he laughed. ‘Absinthe.’

      I obviously looked blank.

      ‘All the French Impressionists drank it.’ He was impatient. ‘Toulouse-Lautrec lived on the stuff.’

      ‘Toulouse who?’

      ‘Painter. Very short man, Paris, turn of the century. Dancing girls? Fucking genius.’

      ‘Oh, I know.’ I was relieved. ‘Cancan dancers?’

      A church clock nearby struck midnight. James took another swig and pocketed the flask. ‘It’s time,’ he whispered reverently.

      ‘Time for what?’ I giggled nervously. ‘Are you going to turn into a pumpkin?’

      ‘Shh,’ James’s brown eyes were dilated in the candlelight. ‘He’s coming.’

      The door opened slowly and Dalziel walked in. He looked ridiculously sophisticated in a tight-fitting black suit, a pristine white shirt, his blond hair sleek, his long bony face deathly pale apart from two spots of high colour on his cheeks, his eyes ringed with kohl. When he turned I saw he had attached to his back a pair of beautiful angel wings that looked like they were made from swan’s feathers. He really was quite unlike anyone I had ever met. Five or six beautiful boys and girls, all wearing black, all in varying states of undress, followed him into the room. He regarded us all, then turned off the music and, placing a cigarette in an ebony holder, lit it languidly. He was captivating to watch; I couldn’t tear my eyes away. We all waited.

      ‘Good evening, my lovelies. It’s wonderful to see you all here at the witching hour. Thank you for coming.’

      We waited as he blew a perfect smoke-ring.

      ‘Now,’ we were treated to a smile, ‘if you could deliver your intoxicating materials for the good of one and all, that would be much appreciated.’

      One by one we deposited our booty onto the table. James had a whole bottle of absinthe, but I noticed he kept the hip flask well hidden. I looked around for the beautiful peroxide girl who had always been with Dalziel before, but she wasn’t there. Lena put down a small plastic bag of white powder, another boy a couple of paper wraps, a tall girl a clump of straw-looking things, which I later discovered were magic mushrooms. More bottles and potions followed. Then Dalziel tipped a bottle of white pills into a small china bowl in the centre