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When Abby tells her the story of Bloody Belle, Sherrie is creeped out at first, of course she is. In fact she’s ready to let her lip wobble, to shout at Marcus for keeping it from her, to storm offstage. Worse than the fear and disgust at the story itself is the feeling that — well, nobody cared enough to tell her sooner. As if she didn’t have a right to know. Silly little Sherrie. Who would bother telling her anything?
But then she looks across at Vince, who rolls his eyes dismissively, and remarks that this story is even less convincing than the play itself, and that anyone who believes all that rubbish is a, no offence young lady, dribbling idiot.
And Sherrie giggles, and she starts looking forward to punishing him later for being rude, and all thoughts of the ghost go out of her head.
When Abby comes to her the next day to apologise for bringing it up, Sherrie laughs and tells her not to worry about it. The two of them end up going out for drinks, and Abby opens up a bit about some older guy she’s been seeing. He sounds like a knob. Sherrie, slightly tipsy, gives her a stirring speech in favour of chucking the creep. Older men are great, she insists, with a bang on the table, but you’ve got to know how to keep them in their place.
After that, the ghost is largely forgotten. Sherrie and Abby and eventually Lisa start using it as a menstrual in-joke: Bloody Belle’s in tonight, girlies. The theatre continues to be creepy and creaky and cold, but there’s nothing to be scared of. Anyway, Sherrie’s daily sessions with Vince keep her far too busy and far too cheerful to worry about silly old ghost stories.
Tonight, she’s in a particularly good mood. Suzette has kicked the bucket for the bajillionth time and Sherrie’s part is done, until she goes back on at the end to take her bow. She’s passing the time alone in her dressing room, touching up her makeup, looking forward to letting Vince mess it up after the show.
She can hear him, very faintly, from the auditorium. Hamming it up to the heavens while the ghost of Madame Goudron takes her grim, inescapable revenge. Again. Sherrie smiles at herself. She loves him playing scared and helpless and pathetic. She loves hearing the smugness go out of his stupid posh voice.
Sherrie hums to herself while she layers on some mascara. (Marcus doesn’t like her wearing it, but Marcus can’t get his way every time.) The song she’s got stuck in her head is one of hers — one of Lip Balm’s first big hits, actually. Sherrie’s never been sure what the words are supposed to mean, but she likes the tune.
And then, slowly, without her meaning it to, the melody changes. She doesn’t even notice, at first. She doesn’t know what the new tune is, or where it comes from. She feels certain she’s never heard it before, and yet it doesn’t feel like she’s making it up in the moment, either. It’s as if the music itself knows where it wants to go.
The next thing she notices is the smell. Not stage makeup or sweat or sex or perfume or flowers. All of them at once, but also… what is it?
Is it blood?
Is Bloody Belle in tonight?
And then she blinks, and when she opens her eyes, there it is, in the mirror: someone standing right behind her.
Sherrie tries to scream, but she can only gasp. She can’t run or turn around. She can only stare as the reflection becomes clearer: a shadow becomes a figure becomes a person becomes a woman. A woman in a bloodstained hospital gown, not completely unlike the one Sherrie herself is wearing.
Her eye sockets are deep shadows and her long, dark hair is matted with blood. God, it stinks. Sherrie trembles as the woman steps closer, close enough to feel the air move against her face.
Sherrie whispers, “What do you want?”
The woman slowly lifts one pale hand and lays it on Sherrie’s shoulder. Sherrie whimpers, but she can’t pull away.
The lights in the room don’t change, and yet the mirror darkens before her eyes. Sherrie watches, wide-eyed, as her reflection fades. It’s replaced by — it looks like an old film, a very old film, being projected onto the mirror like a screen. It’s black and white, only tinted red. It flickers and jumps and everything is running slightly too fast.
In the film, she sees the same woman again. Not drenched in blood. She looks sprightly and bright-eyed, and she’s wearing an old-fashioned little dress, much like the one Suzette wears. She’s playing a scene onstage, onstage here, at the Wyndham’s. Sherrie recognises it in an instant, as if it hasn’t changed a bit. And the scene she’s playing is familiar, too, even though it’s silent — it’s Suzette arriving at the clinic. The film jumps rapidly from beat to beat. Hugo’s musical number, Goudron talking about his wife, the hypnosis. The amputation.
All at once, Abby’s silly story pops back into Sherrie’s head. This is it, she thinks, like a lead weight in her stomach. Bloody Belle is about to show her how she died.
But instead of jumping next to the trepanning scene, to Sherrie’s surprise, they cut to a dressing room. Not very unlike this one. Film-Goudron — a lanky man with stark eyebrows and a twiddly bad-guy moustache — is backing Belle into a corner. Touching her.
Sherrie squirms.
In the film, Belle tries to push the man back. A title card comes up, old-fashioned white text on a dark red background: You promised me you would leave her! Then: I will, my sweet! These things take time!
They struggle. A red tear escapes one of Belle’s red-ringed eyes. I won’t do this anymore! The man’s tremendous eyebrows draw together, he grips her arms: Don’t defy me, Belle! Belle’s mouth opens and shuts furiously, silently: I’ve had enough! After tonight, I’m going to tell your wife everything!
Sherrie watches, hardly breathing, as the film follows the man out of her dressing room. It shows him creeping among the props, picking out the drill. Fiddling with it — removing some crucial screw.
She sees the ghastly death, the audience members cheering and laughing. Screaming and shouting and fainting when they start to realise what’s really happened.
She sees the trial, and the verdict. A Tragic Accident! Not Guilty!
It fades to red, and then the mirror is back to normal. Sherrie finally breathes in, a sharp gasp. Her head is spinning.
The room still stinks of blood, but Belle is nowhere to be seen.
With trembling fingers, Sherrie puts down her mascara. “I’m sorry,” she says aloud. “Can you hear me? … I’m so sorry. … That guy was a prick. I mean, that’s putting it mildly. I mean… total prick. I mean, I’ve had some bad boyfriends, but… sheesh.”
There’s no response. Sherrie nervously clasps and unclasps her hands. “Thank you for not hurting me,” she continues at last. “My friend said you might try to kill someone. But, um. The guy who did that to you must be well dead by now, yeah? And nobody here has done anything wrong. I mean, like, we’ve all done things wrong. But not bad enough to kill anyone over, right? So maybe just… sit this one out?”
There’s no response.
When Sherrie is taking her bow, she has to force the smile that normally comes so naturally. She finds herself squeezing Vince’s hand harder than usual, and she wonders if she should tell him what happened. She doesn’t want to keep it to herself, but — how could he ever believe her? How could she even begin to find the words?
Instead, she takes him back to her dressing room, sits in her chair, and has him kneel before her. This will help, she tells herself. Stick to the routine. Have a few nice orgasms to chase the creepy feelings away.
She kicks off her underwear, spreads her legs, and guides Vince’s head between her thighs. He goes willingly, eagerly, kissing her cunt before pushing his tongue up over her clit.
Sherrie moans softly and sinks down a bit in her chair, letting her head tip back. She runs her hands through his hair and cradles the back of his head, pushing his face closer against her sex. He growls and steps up his efforts to please her, licking and sucking, making butterflies of pleasure and power flutter up through her whole body.
It’s almost enough to make her forget what happened. When she has him like this, on his knees, serving her, worshipping her like the devoted, adoring little fanboy he is… there’s nothing better.
Suddenly, Sherrie feels a burst of something — something kind of — scary. Something from outside her body, something in her head that isn’t her. Her hands feel strong, like they could twist metal, and she has the sudden vision of herself twisting Vince’s head until his neck snaps. His body collapsing to the floor like, well, like a broken puppet.
It’s so vivid and so perfectly, horribly detailed that for a moment, she thinks it’s real. She squeaks in horror and snatches her hands away, clutches them to her chest just in case they try to act without her approval.
Vince stops what he’s doing and pulls back. He looks up at her with wide, puppydog eyes, clearly concerned that he’s done something wrong. Sherrie’s period is red and sticky around his mouth and in his moustache, but he doesn’t seem to care about that.
And then suddenly, like a trick of the light, there she is.
Sherrie and Vince both scream. Belle takes a step towards them in the tiny dressing room and raises one hand again, this time pointing her withered finger right at Vince. Her mouth is open in a snarl, revealing rotting black teeth, and her eyes are buzzing portals of static.
“Stop!” Sherrie cries, and flings herself up out of the chair. Heart pounding, she plants herself in front of Belle and holds up her hands, pleadingly. “Belle — please — Belle. Don’t — don’t hurt him.”
Belle stares at her, soundless, motionless. Congealed blood oozes down her hairline. Sherrie swallows hard and forces herself to continue. “I-it’s not what you think, Belle. He’s not the one who hurt you, okay? He’s not, not like that. We don’t need to kill him.”
Sherrie can feel Vince’s hands on her legs, clutching her calves as he cowers on the floor behind her. She reaches back and puts a reassuring hand in his hair. “He’s just a dog,” she says quietly. “He’s just my pet. He’s not going to hurt me. I promise. See? Look at him.”
Slowly, Belle looks. She seems to be taking in the scene: Vince, staring up at her from the floor like a terrified child; Sherrie, standing up bravely between them, her chin thrust out defiantly.
There’s a long, quiet moment in which Sherrie isn’t sure what Belle is thinking. Is she even capable of thinking anything, beyond her eternal quest for revenge?
Then the lights go out, plunging the dressing room into darkness. When they flicker back on again, Belle is gone.
Sherrie hears a whimper from somewhere near her ankles. She turns and drops to the floor, throws her arms around Vince, hugs him tightly. “It’s okay,” she whispers. “You’re okay. She’s not going to hurt you.”
“Wh-what was that?” Vince whispers, his voice shaking.
Sherrie wipes the blood from his face with her sleeve. Somehow, his fear just makes her feel braver. “Just a silly ghost story,” she murmurs. “Don’t be scared, sweetheart. Hush, I’ve got you.” She pulls him closer, guiding him onto her lap. She rocks him like a child and kisses his forehead. “I’ve got you.”
Gradually, he starts to relax in her arms. He mumbles, “Ghosts... ghosts aren’t real.”
“That’s right, babes.” Sherrie smiles and gently strokes across his back. “Just like you said, remember? Who would believe all that rubbish? Only an idiot, right? You're not an idiot. You're my big clever boy, aren't you?”
Vince makes a tiny noise of assent and nuzzles into the crook of her neck. Sherrie figures she's not getting those orgasms tonight, at least not for a while, anyway. She's surprised to discover that she really doesn't mind.