Den of Stars. Christopher Byford

have to give it a try sometime. There’s plenty that I would love to leave behind in an empty grave. Not that I need to explain that to you …’ Corinne’s smile dropped.

      The conversation had struck too raw a subject, so Misu guided it back to work. ‘Good performance tonight. For a moment I honestly believed you were going to sink a knife into Colette’s skull. As did all of our onlookers.’

      With a flex of her fingers, Corinne seemed to be recalling every detail of her exhibition, remembering the weight of the blade in her palm. ‘I’ve never missed a throw before. That little one worries too much. Like I say every time, as long as she keeps still there’ll be no accidents. She just fidgets when nervous.’

      ‘On the account of the sharp objects flying in her direction no doubt. It makes one a tad touchy. I can’t imagine why.’

      Misu produced a silver cigarette case from her inner jacket pocket and a matchbox, offering a smoke to the kindly woman beside her whose company was appreciated. Both were lit and the pair leant on their backs, staring at the fissure of night sky between the tall gothic buildings that enclosed the station. Stars sparkled, with the merriest hint of the moon painting its lustre across a line of roof tiles.

      Nothing was said. Gentle, patient puffs of smoke wafted between them in turn, carried on by the warm breeze that drifted across the train tracks. It was a tranquillity that scrubbed the grime and the effort that the show inflicted. Muscles didn’t seem so aching, bones not as sore. For the shortest of moments, the dangers and difficulties that this life brought Misu – and indeed all on board – felt non-existent.

      And then Corinne had to go and ruin it all.

      She withdrew her cigarette between scissored fingers, its butt painted with red lipstick, and she squinted at the stars. ‘You’re doing good, you know? Franco would be proud.’

      There was never going to be a good time to draw attention to any of that, now maybe less so than any other. Simply hearing his name caused her heart to sink to some dark sea within her, struggling with the thoughts, the feelings, the memories, every facet of the circumstances that had brought about her being the Morning Star’s caretaker. It rightfully belonged to another, one more suited to the theatricality, who had made a life of doing so and most importantly knew what he was doing. She was lucky – lucky to be here at all, let alone to have stewardship of such a spectacle, and she was damned if this would be an opportunity wasted. It would be easy, preferable even, to simply draw the whole show to a close and pack it up for good.

      But Misu owed Franco a tremendous debt. Some debts, he once informed her, can’t be repaid. It doesn’t mean that one should stop trying to do so, though.

      Misu drew a touch longer on her vice before responding. ‘Let’s hope he sees it that way.’

      Corinne nodded, swinging herself up after giving a minute for the mood to pass. ‘I’m going in. I miss that bed of mine too much, little luxury that it is.’ She moved to the carriage side and took a foot to each rung over and over, pausing to say her last piece: ‘I’ll be sure to mention to Ferry that you’re up here tonight. We wouldn’t want him mistaking you for a prowler now, would we?’

      Misu’s throat closed up momentarily, refusing a decent reply any sort of momentum. Instead, she swallowed the words away and gave substitutes. A wetness that coated her eyes was blinked away and her gaze remained fixed on the black void high above. ‘Goodnight, Corinne.’

      ‘Aye, goodnight to you too.’

      The carriage doors shunted to a close leaving Misu truly alone. Once upon a time she would have been content with that.

      But Franco had convinced her otherwise.

      * * *

       Misu protested in the strongest terms at this idea. She had turned back more times than she could count, forcing Franco to convince her and take her by the hand in an attempt to share his courage. It wasn’t working of course. Her stomach danced around as if somebody was playing a drumbeat upon it. The sun-drenched streets of Windberg were far from busy at this early hour but still there were enough people to give the pair suspicious glances. Almost all assumed them to be partaking in some lovers’ quarrel, a good-natured one but a quarrel nonetheless.

       ‘This is the very height of ridiculous ideas,’ Misu protested, hiding beneath a large-rimmed hat that protected her from the sun, as well as other things. Her dyed blonde hair had been tucked up beneath the hat, its owner paranoid that somehow those passing could easily identify her. This wasn’t the case of course but for someone classed as deceased, the possibility of recognition was always a concern.

       Franco did his best to ease her worries once again. Unlike her, he walked confidently to their destination, smartly dressed in a plaid suit, waistcoat, and tie, with his eyes hidden behind green-lensed sunglasses.

       ‘Last night you said it was good. Perfect, even! You’re changing your mind now? I said we both had to be completely in agreement. You agreed. I distinctly remember you agreeing.’

       ‘I remember the bottle we emptied, not necessarily any decisions being made.’ Misu pouted.

       ‘We’re here now. There’s no turning back.’

       They both stared at the front of the establishment. Sandstone pillars forged high archways, the patio beneath lined with well-polished square tables. Behind the glass to the inside, glowing lanterns could be seen, hanging high above lines of bigger tables, congregating around the kitchen that was positioned in the centre of the room. The kitchen itself was enclosed by the bar, making it a communal centre, where patrons would watch meals being prepared, converse with the staff and drink bar-side if need be.

       Fastened to the wall was a perfect metal sign, embossed with the name of the restaurant itself: Blue Sky.

       ‘Yes there is,’ Misu contested, turning on her heels once again. ‘There’s the opportunity to turn back right this very moment. See, I’m doing it now.’

       Franco snagged her arm and pulled her beside him. ‘Back you come – come on. We’re doing this.’

       ‘What if they’re angry?’

       ‘They undoubtedly will be.’

       ‘You left that part out when convincing me this was a solid plan.’

       Franco led her slowly to the door, one step after the other until reaching out and placing his hand on the handle, despite the closed sign hanging on the glass. ‘You never asked. Ready?’

       From inside, figures went about their business, quite content to go about the daily routine, unaware who was about to stroll through their door.

       ‘No?’

       ‘That’s a shame.’

       Franco heaved the door ajar. The gentle tinkle of a bell caught the attention of the women inside, especially the one in the middle of the kitchen who was jabbing at something boiling in a large pot. In a flurry, Colette advanced on them, waving the pair out.

       ‘The sign says closed. Did you not see it? Out please, there’s another hour to go until …’ Her eyes squinted in thought at the man and the woman who meekly hid herself beside him. This simply wasn’t possible. ‘Oh no. There is no conceivable way you … you …’

       By now the others had taken notice of the confusion and they too questioned what it was they were witnessing. Someone dropped a glass in shock. The woman in the middle of the kitchen fainted in disbelief, taking a pan to the floor with her, which was, thankfully, not hot.

       ‘Kitty!’ someone cried out and rushed to help her.

       Collette