You have been missing for almost two days. I feel sick at the thought of what might have happened to you, but such emotion is an undesirable distraction: I need to think, I need to think damn clearly, if I have any chance of finding you here, in this lost place.

It must be around 5 am, as dawn has broken, although it’s sometimes hard to tell now as no bird song greets the arrival of the new day. Even the birds stifle their voices in this place. Like the rest of us, they’ve learned the necessity of silence, the value of keeping your head down. The last bird I saw was threaded on a skewer, roasting slowly over the fire which burns perpetually outside the shaman’s container. Pigeon, I reckon, although you would have known for sure. The smell of its meagre flesh cooking made my mouth water; I could almost taste its charred oily skin. It silenced the entire yard; all eyes turned on the shaman’s fire, all ears listened to the sounds of fat spitting in the flames. The shaman didn’t even have the decency to eat his prize inside his container. Instead he sat on an upturned bucket by the fire, in view of everyone, and picked clean the bones of the bird. No one else would have dared to act that way, anyone else would have been torn to pieces for such a display, but his position in the yard is now almost unrivalled. I’ve even contemplated asking for his help to find you, but I cannot abase myself, or us, like that, not yet.

This is the only time of day that I can bear, when everyone is locked away inside their containers, dreaming that the next shift will take them away from this place. Of course no one knows how it works; people have their theories, but it hasn’t been figured it out. I know it’s possible that you could have been bundled into a container and mugged for the change in your pocket or shoes on your feet and then your small part of the world shifted, taking you away, but I don’t feel that you’re far from me. You’re here, in the yard, I just know it. I cannot believe that you’re anything other than missing. You wouldn’t have left me here, alone.

I only half remember the last time I saw you striding with purpose away from our camp. We’d run out of water and it was your turn to take the 5 mile round trip to the nearest tap. In our previous life you would have been back in a couple of hours, laden with filled bottles, but everything takes longer now. There’s one tap per sector and as thousands of people call each sector home, the queues are long and hostile: everyone resents waiting in line for water, but it’s a fact of life now.

I was anxious when you didn’t show up after three hours. By the time five hours had passed, I knew something had happened, so I set out for the tap. I thought maybe there had been a food drop or a fight had broken out in the queue. Maybe the tap hadn’t been working so you’d continued to the next sector, hoping to have better luck there. When I neared the tap and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, I panicked. I searched the area, trying not to draw attention, before asking a woman whether the tap had been working all day. She eyed me with natural suspicion and then nodded: no problems today.

Assault, theft, rape, murder: all part of daily life now. But we’re so careful to avoid any trouble and I know that you wouldn’t have taken any stupid risks, no short cut back to our container was worth it, and there was really nowhere else that you could be. I asked what few friends we have whether they’d seen you and, apart from Old E who saw you on your way to the tap, no one could help me. I walked the few miles to the tap in the next sector, although it felt useless, but I didn’t know what else to do. Everywhere is the same now, but walking through the adjoining sector felt like entering a different world. The same thin, filthy faces, the same ragged clothes, everyone in the same position, all living each day in fear, but I was scared, more scared than I’ve been in months. I spoke with a couple of men there, broaching the safe topics of food and water, but all they could talk about were the rumours of plague which were spreading from the other sectors. The children told stories of a shift bringing into our world a giant rat which left death in its wake. They didn’t speak of monsters, but the adults were also preparing to face a nameless foe and the shifts were being spoken about for the first time as bringing pain and suffering, rather than ultimately alleviating it.

I returned to our container, hoping, without any real conviction, that you’d be there waiting for me, with a smile and ready with a joke about wandering off. You weren’t there. I couldn’t face being in the container alone, so I made up the fire and sat watching the flames until it was time to lock myself in for the night. There was a shift last night. It came just after 1 am. Two of the containers in the row in front of our own shifted and their new inhabitants fell noisily onto the ground. Spanish, I think; a family with three children (two boys and a girl) and a group of men in their twenties and early thirties. I couldn’t sleep, so I listened to them talking. They’ll learn not to speak at night before long, but everyone receives one night’s grace. Eventually they quietened and the night’s silence restored.

I’ll find you. I promise. Just keep strong. I know you will. I’ll search every inch of the yard and the yard beyond. I must. I cannot go on without you.

I’m a big fan of labels, but I like to get there first. If caught in one of my rare, gentler moods, I’d say I’m a bit of a black sheep, the odd one out; perhaps, if I was feeling particularly kind, a gifted free spirit. But otherwise, and to most, I’m a curse, a weirdo, an aberration, a freak. Actually, that last label was lovingly applied by my stepfather. Freak. Of course, I remember well the first time that it happened. I was eight years old and playing in the yard at the back of our house. My mother had brought us three baby rabbits, one each for me and my sisters, as an early Easter treat. They each had mottled brown fur and could only be told apart by the thumbprint sized white spots which appeared at random on their tiny, warm bodies. I christened mine Lucy, as I had spent the weeks before the event absorbed nightly in the adventures of the Pevensie children, and Lucy’s spot fell on her right flank, somewhere between her fragile hind leg and spine. I don’t remember the names of the others as we never spoke about them again after that afternoon. We were excited, but the rabbits were, with hindsight, petrified and kept running away from the grasping hands of my sisters and me. We were impatient for their attention, for them to do as they were told, but they wouldn’t obey our childish directions. My youngest sister, Susie, was quick to frustrate and had started to cry, so I willed them to stop moving. And they did. Just like that. There they were: lifeless on the just-cut grass. Susie’s tears turned quickly into a torrent which drew my stepfather out into the yard to discover what was disturbing his afternoon in front of the TV. I was in shock, I hadn’t meant it to go that far, and that first time had taken a lot out of me. I couldn’t hear what he was saying for the ringing in my ears, but my sisters told it as it happened, and then it came: I was a freak.

They’ve all moved on now, the rest of my kin. Grown up and gone, or dead. Makes no difference. Just me and Harper left around here and he ain’t much of a conversationalist, being a dog and all. I’ve sat on this porch every night for almost sixty years. Six. Zero. Count them on your fingers, all the way from one to sixty. That’s time for you, easy to count, but hard to define, that’s what I reckon. I’ll sit here now, like I always do, and watch the sun dip behind the house across the street; then I’ll smoke and watch the comings and goings until my eyes close and my head droops to my dusty chest. Then I’ll sleep. Maybe I’ll dream, maybe I won’t, but I never remember them when I wake anyhow. It wasn’t always this way: I dreamt strong when I was a young buck, but the dreams of the young are stronger than the old, no matter if they’re waking or sleeping, and that’s a fact right there.

Our goodbye at the station would have appeared perfunctory to the unbiased observer: a light kiss on the cheek before we both turned and walked in opposite directions, him to board the train, me back up the platform and onto the main concourse, immediately lost amongst the seething rush-hour crowd. We both knew there was no need for an overblown outpouring of affection in public as we’d said goodbye countless times in the weeks before. It had always been there, a ghostly bell hanging on a delicate chain between us which peeled at the slightest disturbance, the merest hint of our parting. I went directly home from the station and took out my writing set from the desk by the window in the room which I shared with a girl from the office and started writing the first of my unopened letters to him, even though it felt silly as he’d only just left, but I didn’t know what else to do. I imagined how the letter would find him, what he’d be wearing, where he’d be sitting as he read my words. I pictured him in his uniform, pressed, but dirty from the red sand; his face flushed from the desert heat, a few strands of his dark hair stuck to his forehead with perspiration. I watched him mouth the words as I signed off with love, as always, Eloise.

The opening was announced in the local paper, a small advert framed with a heavy black border and written in a bold gothic font: ‘WANTED: Photographer’s Assistant – not for the squeamish; interest in the occult preferred; applications in writing to Roland Delacroix Esq.’ I hadn’t been out of work for long, just a couple of weeks, when I stumbled upon the advert (I’ll leave it to you to decide whether or not this was merely a fortuitous coincidence). I was half-reading the job pages over a cup of thin coffee in a Turkish café close to where I was staying, trying to fill time and shake off a hangover. A couple of bar jobs, a receptionist position at the new gym, volunteers needed to help old dears with their weekly shop: a wealth of opportunity.

Then I saw it. At first I thought it was a joke, some gimmicky piece of advertising dreamed up by a local amdram group; then I focused on the name and something stirred. Roland Delacroix… I let the syllables play on my tongue and lips while I drank a second cup of coffee which I’d been shamed into buying by the owner’s wife’s constant attention. I had an uncle called Roland, a great uncle on my mother’s side if we’re going to get technical, but his last name was Jones: a big, bald man with a nervous stammer. Sold used cars. Wouldn’t know a lens from a tripod.

And then I remembered where I’d seen it.

Now, if your high-street is anything like mine, or any small town high-street across the country, it will be filled with familiar brands, your banks and your burger chains, but it may also contain a few curiosities, such as the ladies’ dress shop which displays proudly the same drab fashions year after year seemingly without any patronage, or maybe a shop which sells trophies, just trophies, you know the type, the ones handed out to school kids on sports day or to the winners of the local bowling league (lawn, of course, not ten pin).

Delacroix’s was one of those places. The shop was double-fronted and located at the quiet end of the street, with faded green signage and burnt gold lettering which was now, many years after its application, barely legible. The window display only hinted at the business within: a small selection of non-fiction books with no obviously discernible connection to each other, their covers dulled and obscured by a layer of dust; an antique ivory-coloured phrenology bust; and, several framed black and white or sepia tinted photographs of subjects with their eyes closed. I didn’t know it at the time, but these were Victorian death photographs, pictures taken of the recently deceased to be treasured by those who went on living. Memento mori. I’d never seen anyone enter or leave the shop. Delacroix’s had nothing to hold the interest of your everyday high-street window-shopper and, as a result, went unheeded by the town’s inhabitants.  

I was surprised to learn that a photographer worked behind Delacroix’s faded façade and I was intrigued by the job. As for the vague requirements set out in the advert, I’d never been the squeamish type; while other girls at school threw their hands up in disgust at the prospect of dissecting frogs or fainted at the sight of the nurse and her needle, I was resilient. My father’s daughter. And hardened by the experience of growing up with three older brothers. And, I confess, I had a rather naive interest in the occult. I once spent an entire school summer holiday devouring the occult section of my local library. Poltergeists, spontaneous human combustion, telekinesis: I was a little obsessed. My father was, understandably, concerned, but, hey, it was only a phase. Harmless, really. Any reading’s good reading. However, any cursory interest that I may have had in the supernatural when I was fourteen does not excuse what followed, that I had by continuing down this path I somehow waived my human right to say ‘whatthefuckgetmeoutofhere’. No excuse; no waiver.

Don’t get me wrong, the prospect of being a “Photographer’s Assistant” was interesting, but I had no long-term interest in being anyone’s sidekick, I was no man’s Debbie McGee. I was ambitious: I wanted my own studio, to make my own name. But I needed the experience. So I applied. There was no postal address for applications, so I put my covering letter and a bundle of prints into a brown envelope marked for the attention of R Delacroix Esq. and posted it through the letterbox of the shop door. The door was locked, but I stood outside for a while, hoping that someone would part the heavy drapes and retrieve my package. After ten minutes I gave up and went home.

A couple of weeks past and I’d almost forgotten about the job when I received a letter in the post. The envelope was delicate, like folded parchment, and my name and address were hand-written in a neat, cursive script. Inside was Delacroix’s reply:

“Dear Ms. Chamberlain,

I’d like to thank you for your interest in the role of my assistant. I hadn’t anticipated that anyone so young or, for that matter, female would apply for the position, but your prints show some promise (albeit immature) and, on that basis, I’m prepared to grant you an interview. Please attend the emporium promptly at the hour of 8:00 a.m. on Saturday 8th June. Light refreshment will be provided.

Yours faithfully,

Roland Delacroix Esq.”

Let’s just say that my response was animated. But the sad fact was that this interview was the best opportunity that I’d had in a long time, so I decided to go. 

The door stutters, slowly then open.

‘Tickets from Dore and Totley…’

Headphones on, two bag barricade; a tap on the shoulder, ‘Your ticket, please, sir?’

Trolley rolls, a girl stumbles, crockery rattling in its cage.

‘How do you take it, sir?’

Jug poised; a hand practised, steady.

‘White, but only a splash, ta.’

‘Madam?’

Absorbed, unaware, staring, field after field, a pile of books at her fingertips, and then, surprised.

‘Oh! Just two sugars for me, thanks, love.’

Smiles all round, maybe a word or two, then down to their distractions.

Inspired by a train journey from Sheffield to St Pancras. 

She was the first thing Scott saw as he walked out onto the terrace, after his eyes adjusted to the light of the more-or-less midday sun. He had been forewarned, but the sight of her, unclothed from the waist up, auburn hair loose and long, down to her naval, shielding her nipples, still came as a surprise. Her only item of clothing was a pair of cut-off stone-washed denim shorts. Her feet were bare. The woman sat in the centre of a manicured lawn, surrounded by scattered yellow rose petals, and before a small pool of amber-coloured liquid, which she was tending languidly with a wooden rod.

The tip of his tongue still stung from the hot tea which had greeted him at the front door of the mansion. He had been taken aback by the grandeur of the place, although, if he was honest, he hadn’t known what to expect. His task had been clear (at least in principal): collect an amulet from the address written on a folded piece of pink paper. His Fridays were usually spent collecting dry cleaning and finalising any travel plans required for the master’s weekend appointments, but these particular instructions had been communicated by the master in person, behind the locked door of his study, rather than, as was normally the case, in a tersely worded email. The master had held onto the message as he passed it across his walnut desk, forcing Scott to meet his eyes. ‘The woman who holds the amulet will be nude. This, amongst other things, will intrigue you, but don’t let anything which you may see there distract from your purpose. Get in and get out. Do as you are told, but it’s important that you don’t stay longer than an hour’, said the master. Scott nodded and started to pull again on the outstretched piece of paper. ‘I mean it, Scott. Don’t fuck it up.’

The rest of the garden came into view as he approached the edge of the pillared terrace. The central lawn was a preternatural shade of forest green, as if the contrast had been turned up high. The seated woman was framed by two towering rose bushes with trunk-like branches and blooms the size of footballs. The lawn was also edged with topiary unlike anything he’d seen before as the sculpted trees were shape shifting between wildly different forms. As he watched, a shooting star studded with tiny white flowers finished its descent, and then its points elongated and multiplied becoming a headless mass of writhing tentacles. This bizarre display was repeated up and down the verge at the edges of his vision. The place was awash with magic, but not the practical kind he was used to.

A set of stone steps curved down from the terrace to the lawn where a great white wolf sat, between him and the semi-nude woman, watching. There was fierce intelligence and, he reckoned, amusement behind the creature’s eyes. As he placed a foot on the top step, the wolf rose on all fours, as if summoned, and approached the woman, nuzzling the hand which she slowly presented to him. It circled her, rubbing its head and flank against bare skin, too much like a pampered cat than a wolf. The woman responded, grabbing handful after handful of its thick fur. The scene was oddly sensuous; at one point, Scott was sure that the wolf licked a nipple which was exposed, briefly. The scene was unsettling, but Scott was mesmerised.

The woman spoke then for the first time, in a voice soft but resolute: ‘You have come for the Amulet of Erya. I am disappointed that your master sent an underling rather than face me himself, but his cowardice is renowned. It is with some regret that I return the Amulet to its rightful owner. It has sadly been of no use to me, other than as a pretty trinket.’ She beckoned him closer. Scott glanced at his watch as he descended the steps; it seemed impossible, but it was already 12:45. The master’s words came rushing back: he had just 15 minutes to retrieve the Amulet and get out of there.

As he approached, the woman immersed her arms into the pool at her feet and drew out the Amulet of Erya. She stood and raised the Amulet to her lips, the amber liquid pouring down her arms, dripping from her mouth and running over her chin; the smell was sickly sweet and spiced. She whispered inaudibly to the piece of jewellery before offering it to him, ‘It’s his. Now go.’

Inspired by Laure Prouvost’s exhibition at The Whitechapel Gallery (Max Mara Art Prize for Women). 

At the dark end of the pier, beyond the clattering arcades, lies The Dressing-Up Box. A faded sign on the painted white door reads, ‘Cast aside the everyday grind and step into the shoes of another life’. So far, so good, right? Who doesn’t long to lose the humdrum, to escape, if only briefly, the shackles of daily existence? To those of you who responded with a resounding ‘Yes, sign me up!’ a word of caution: this outwardly harmless establishment isn’t all that it seems.

Under ordinary circumstances, the proprietess (rarely a proprietor) of a fairground fancy dress booth will relieve you quite happily of a tenner in exchange for a 30 minute rummage amongst the costumes. The clothes may be stale and a little moth eaten, but in the denuded wardrobe you can indulge your inner fairy princess or become the Egyptian queen of your dreams. Then, once the initial excitement fades and awkwardness descends, the moment is captured for posterity, all sepia-tinted and yours for just £7.99. After reluctantly parting with your cash, you leave the proprietess, her costumes, and perhaps your dignity, behind.

But not so at this establishment: the proprietess of this particular seaside shack not only wants your cash, she also wants your soul. Now, it may surprise you to hear that in the East Sussex area there is a rather buoyant market in the sale and purchase of living dolls. For the uninitiated among you, a living doll has every appearance of a regular child’s doll, but behind the glass eyes and within the stiff limbs lives the soul of a woman who has been tricked, trapped and then sold to the highest bidder. The proprietess on the pier draws her victims with promises of temporary escapism, a bit of a giggle, but her intentions are entirely evil.

Once the unsuspecting women hand over their money, they are led through to a deceptively cavernous wardrobe. The artificial light is kept low to hide fraying seams and unsavoury stains. The women spend a few minutes (their last as free souls) browsing the rails, looking for a costume which captures the eye or inspires the imagination. After they have chosen, the proprietess coaxes them out of their ordinary clothes while she weaves her spell over the selected garments. Once they are dressed, the curse is fixed, and the terrible transformation begins. First, the clothes and the women began to shrink until they stand no more than a foot from the ground. The next, and most unpleasant stage, is the hardening of the skin. The look and feel of plastic is important to her clients and the witch has refined the spell over the years, the only imperfection being a faint smell of burnt rubber which accompanies the whole process and lingers always afterwards. The final step, and the most difficult to behold, is the transformation of the eyes, a terrifying process of calcification. The spell is then complete. The proprietess gathers her victims in her arms and places the living dolls in boxes ready for sale, making room for her next hapless victims.

Inspired by a trip to Brighton Pier and my cousin, Christine.