The Furies. Katie Lowe

of autumn seeps into everything – the obvious occurs. It might simply have been a trick of the light.

      ‘Annabel, please,’ she said, without smiling. ‘Tell me, what would you choose?’

      I felt the class turn to face me, expectantly. Marie glared, her fury at Annabel boring into me. I thought of things I’d read about, seen, their names lost to me in my panic. Finally, I alighted on an image: women laughing, raving furiously, at a town far below; the wild-eyed devil gnawing limbs. ‘Goya’s Black Paintings,’ I said, the words catching on my tongue.

      She drew three circles in the air with her fingers, teasing out my meaning. ‘There’s just … There’s something about them I really like.’

      ‘You really like?’ Annabel said, eyebrow raised. ‘Surely you can go a little deeper than that.’

      I felt my heart tumbling in my chest. The truth was, I’d seen them in a book when I was five, maybe six years old, and felt a strange thrill at the horror of it all. Mum had ripped the book from my hands almost immediately, but the images had stuck. Years later, I’d stolen the book from a second-hand shop, too ashamed to admit how much I wanted it, cruel faces grinning deathly from the cover. Three days after that, wracked with guilt, I’d returned with a stack of my dad’s old books – a donation that would cover the cost several times over.

      ‘Well, it’s not really an aesthetic thing,’ I said, slowly. ‘But he painted them on the walls of his house, just for him. So, even though he was known for his portraits, which are nice, but … Well, kind of boring …’ At this a flicker of a smile crossed her face, willing me on. ‘When he was on his own, he wanted to paint these horrifying things, like the devil eating a man, or the descent into madness. It was like a release he could only get when he was alone.’

      She nodded, brushed a curl of white hair behind her ear. I almost felt as though she turned a little towards me, as though the better to hear something unsaid. ‘I assume you know The Sleep of Reason Produces Monsters?’

      I blanched. ‘Sorry?’

      ‘The etching. From a very similar period.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘No. I haven’t seen it.’

      ‘Look it up. You’ll like it.’ She turned away. ‘In fact, bring a copy with you next time, and we’ll discuss as a group.’

      As she went on, I felt the girl’s eyes on me; tried, but failed to resist the temptation to look back. The red-headed girl from my English class chewed thoughtfully at a thumbnail, grimacing as the chalk covered her tongue; catching my eye, she laughed, and I laughed too, an echo.

      She turned back to face Annabel, and I did the same, though the rest of the class passed in a haze, the fact of having met Annabel’s approval – a least briefly – leaving me dazed with relief.

      The bell rang, and I began to pack my bag, while the red-headed girl and her friends gathered by Annabel’s desk, voices lowered in hushed conversation. The tall girl glanced at me, pointedly lowering her voice further. When it became clear the three of them were waiting for me to leave (my cheeks flushing hot with the realization) I scooped up my bag and walked towards the door.

      ‘Hey, wait,’ a voice called after me. ‘Fancy a smoke?’ I turned to see the red-head grinning at me, slyly; the other girls – and Annabel – looked at me, their expressions blank, mask-like.

      I didn’t smoke, but – taken by surprise, I would later claim, though in fact merely desperate to make a friend – I nodded.

      In the corridor, we walked in step. ‘So how do you like Elm Hollow?’

      ‘It seems okay. Everyone’s been pretty nice so far.’

      She pushed the door, the fresh air outside exhilarating. I felt the sweat droplets freeze and dry on my brow as we walked in silence to a graffitied smoking shelter hidden behind the main building, away from the car park, and away from disapproving eyes. A cheer drifted by on the wind from the playing fields; swallows circled overhead in bursts, as though catching themselves mid-flight.

      ‘So … I’m Robin, by the way – thanks for asking.’ She grinned, waving away my clumsy apology, the words still unspoken. ‘Where are you from?’ she said, clicking the lighter repeatedly before giving it a firm shake. Finally, it lit.

      ‘Well, I was at the Kirkwood before,’ I said. ‘But last year I stayed home.’

      ‘Like, home-schooled?’ She raised a pencilled brow sharply, red pinpricks blooming beneath.

      ‘Kind of, I guess. But I sort of taught myself.’

      ‘No way,’ she said. ‘How come?’

      ‘I … Well, my dad died. They said take as much time as I needed, so …’

      ‘Hey!’ she said, brightly. ‘My dad’s dead too.’ She paused. ‘I mean, so, you know. I get it.’

      ‘Oh. That’s horrible. Sorry.’

      ‘No, no, it’s cool. I didn’t really know him. Mum says he was kind of an asshole.’

      ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Well … Sorry anyway, I guess.’

      She smiled, looked away. In the daylight, she was freckled and long-lashed, cheeks flushed feverish in the cool autumn air. ‘Shit,’ she muttered, flinching as the cigarette burned to her fingers. She threw it on the floor and stamped it out with a silver-toed boot. From inside the building, the bell rang.

      ‘Wanna hang out some time?’ she said, turning to me.

      ‘Hang out?’

      ‘Yes, dipshit, hang out. You know. Pass time. In company. Among friends.’

      I said nothing, dumbstruck. In my silence, she went on. ‘I’m going to assume that’s a yes, because anything else would be unspeakably rude. Bus stop. Friday. 3:15. Sharp.’ She turned and walked away without another word, a cluster of sparrows scattering as she strolled across the grass, while I stood, left behind, paralysed by the encounter.

      It couldn’t possibly be that simple.

      I’d never really had friends, though I hadn’t been entirely unpopular, either. I drifted in the background, a barely-noticeable side-player, while my fellow classmates turned rebellion into a competitive sport. I, too shy, too nervous, too slow, simply lingered behind, clutching books and feeling the soothing roll of my Walkman in my pocket, pretending not to care. It wasn’t that I was incapable of making conversation, or that I was disliked, per se. I simply couldn’t work out how one crossed the boundary line from classmates, to friends, as though there were some secret code or sign one had to give to join each little group.

      And yet, mere days after joining Elm Hollow – the new girl, late in the semester, with nothing special to recommend me, no gaudy quirks or stylish clothes – I had a friend. A friend, who wanted to ‘hang out’. I wondered if I was being set up; became convinced of this, over the hours that followed, when there was no sign of the girls, nor of Annabel, whose studio was empty when I passed, the following day.

      Finally, Friday afternoon arrived, and I began the march towards the bus stop, among the hordes of fellow students, who had already focused their attentions elsewhere, now seeming not to see me at all. At the top of the hill, an old playground stood silhouetted in the afternoon light: the younger brothers and sisters of those students being collected squealed and swung, ran circles around their weary parents. I imagined my sister’s moon-white face among them, the rubber texture of her swollen skin; shook my head, searched for Robin in the crowd.

      ‘Wasn’t sure if you’d show,’ she said, grabbing my shoulders from behind, callused fingers brushing my cheek.

      ‘Why?’ I stood, frozen. It had been a long time since I’d last been touched, though I hadn’t realized it until now. My mother’s collarbones pressed against my neck, days after Dad died. That was the last.

      ‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘You