The Red Slayer

Olga was right about female superhero costumes. I always knew they weren’t always practical, but only when researching them do I realise how deep the rabbit hole goes. If I was old enough to drink, I’d make a game out of the boob windows and exposed stomachs. Not all of them can deflect bullets, don’t you know how painful it is to get shot there? Was it Mr Fantastic’s idea to give his wife a bathing suit while he gets to wear a bodysuit? It’s worse for villains. Why is Harley Quinn walking around crime-ridden Gotham in lingerie? She’s sadistic, not stupid!

I nearly throw my computer out the window at the sight of Red Sonja’s chainmail bikini. I’m just saying, you might want a chest plate or something.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ Olga says, scrolling through her phone. ‘All these giant boobs and not one sports bra. Don’t they know how painful it is to just go downstairs when you’re larger than a C cup?’

‘Of course they don’t,’ I say. ‘No one who had boobs designed these women. Check this one out.’ I switch between two different fan-arts of She-Ra. One is of the original: all cleavage, doesn’t even have her sword. The other is new She-Ra: she’s clearly well-dressed for battle, no matter how gay.

It soon occurs to me that I’m looking in the wrong place. What were superhero costumes originally based on? Athletes. Gymnasts. With bulletproof material, flexibility won’t be a problem. It’s finding the line between practical and aesthetic. I still want to look good in a fight to the death. Coming out of a burning building in the tattered remains of my school uniform will always haunt me.

***

It’s a long September, alternating nights between training for MI5 and sitting at a sewing machine. Meanwhile, the school is bustling to prepare for the school prizegiving in October. You’re weird if you don’t participate. Every band has a number, the dancers do their bit, and even the drama kids help out with backstage and serve as ushers. But the penultimate and final numbers are the largest spectacles. The latter being a combination of every band in one big song, the former is where the school chooses a pupil to perform solo. They tend to choose someone whose out-of-school work has boosted the school’s reputation or taken a great stride in their performing career.

‘They’ll make their choice soon,’ Tara says on September 28th. ‘Less than a month to go and all the other numbers have been sorted’ She waits for my response, only to see me staring out the classroom window. ‘Iorwen?’ She shakes my shoulder.

‘What?’

‘I was just saying, they’ll choose their darling soon. I bet it’ll be you.’

‘Oh…why?’

She stares at me with her mouth and eyebrows at different angles. ‘Because you were Hamlet, silly. And you’ll be doing a TV show soon.’

‘Yeah…I guess…’

‘What’s up with you?’ she demands. ‘You’re acting all distant.’

‘It’s one of those days…’ I sigh.

I don’t handle September 28th well. It’s meant to be my baby sister’s birthday. Kayley would be eleven if that night never happened. It must hurt Dad more, but the idea of a birthday cake that’ll never be baked and a present never to be unwrapped eats away at me all day, incapacitating my own ego for the near future.

Halfway through this History class, which I’m barely tuned into, someone knocks on the classroom door. Ms. Elliott doesn’t even wait to be allowed in and hurries up to our teacher.

‘I need to borrow Irene for a second,’ she says.

‘I don’t have an Irene in my class.’

‘Yes you do.’ And she points to me. I feel it poke me in the chest, despite the twenty-foot distance.

‘Her name’s I-or-wen,’ the History teacher whispers.

Ms. Elliott ignores him and asks me loudly enough for the rest of the class to look ’round, ‘I-or-wen, could you step outside with me for a moment please?’

I haul myself up, lumbering past the desks to the classroom door.

‘Are you all right?’ asks Ms. Elliott once we’re in the corridor. ‘You look a bit down.’

I nod.

‘Maybe I can cheer you up. You know it’s the prizegiving next month?’

I nod again.

‘Well, the teachers’ committee and I would like you to do the solo song this year. You can choose the song, so long as the committee approves of it.’

‘All right,’ I say. ‘Thank you. I’d enjoy that.’

‘Okay then. If you choose a song tonight, I can give the sheet music to the orchestra.’

I don’t tell Tara until after school has ended and we’re walking out the school gates together. The second the words are out of my mouth, she bursts out laughing. ‘Called it!’

‘Thanks,’ I say, ‘But now I have to choose a song they’ll approve of.’

‘I’m sure it’s a low bar. They just don’t want anything inappropriate.’

'Well, bugger, there goes half the Avenue Q soundtrack.’

Tara shrugs. ‘Never mind. I’m sure Andrew Lloyd-Webber has something you can use.’

‘D’you want to come over and help me choose?’

‘I can’t,’ she says remorsefully. ‘I have a curfew.’

I gasp. That word isn’t in my vocabulary. ‘A what?’

‘Mum’s boyfriend moved in over the summer and he’s added in all these stupid rules. Kyle’s got one too, even though he’s nearly eighteen. Now he can’t practice with his band or see his girlfriend.’

‘What about weekends?’

‘I’m allowed out, but I have to tell him where I’m going and call the landline every hour. I actually overheard him tell my mum he doesn’t want me bringing boys back.’

We start giggling, but this brief joy is interrupted by the noise of a car horn. Tara’s smile fades once she sees the silver BMW parked across the road with blackout windows. ‘Crap. He’s picking me up at the gates now?’

'Nolite te bastardes carborundorum,’ I say.’ Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’ I lean in and kiss her on the cheek. She smiles and turns reluctantly across the road, getting in the back of the car. I’m surprised she doesn’t have a booster seat too.

***

‘A curfew,’ I tell Dad while at the sewing machine that evening. ‘Can you believe it? Like she’s some sort of criminal.’

‘I never went in for ridiculous restrictions because I trust you to be responsible,’ he says, sat in his armchair and writing code on his laptop.

‘Yeah, but Tara isn’t irresponsible. She wouldn’t nick a jellybean from a pick-n-mix.’

‘I’m sure she won’t have to endure it long. You said her mother’s boyfriends change all the time.’

I shrug. ‘I suppose. But I can’t help being angry on her behalf.’

‘Any ideas what you’ll sing for prizegiving?’

I shake my head as I change the thread in the machine from white to black. ‘I wish they could have given me a list to choose from. Tara suggested a Lloyd-Webber song, but everyone will be expecting that.’

‘You go with whatever feels right. What’s your favourite song?’

I purse my lips. 'I’m Still Standing by Elton John.’

‘That’d be perfect. Go with that.’

I tilt my head, trying to picture it. I’d need an amazing outfit. Maybe the girls’ choir can do backing vocals. I’ve seen it done before. I’ve never admitted that this was my favourite song. According to everyone at school, my favourite is God Is A Woman by Ariana Grande, which is in my top ten, but Sir Elton overrules all.

I go to Ms. Elliott the next morning and tell her which song I want. ‘I really have my heart set on it,’ I say.

‘Hm,’ she says sceptically. ‘I’m sure the prizegiving committee will approve it.’

But…? I know there’s a “but” coming.

'But, wouldn’t you rather sing something from Phantom of the Opera instead? I thought you loved that musical?’

‘I do…’ I hesitate in search of an excuse. ‘But I’d have to learn to sing soprano.’

'Oh, you’d pick that up easily with your mother’s genes. I’m sure Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again could be a very touching tribute to her.’

I take a sharp breath and stand up straight. 'I’m going to sing I’m Still Standing. Will that be a problem?’

Ms. Elliott bites her lip and nods. ‘All right. I won’t force you.’

But…?

'But you should at least consider something from Phantom.’

I frown and leave at the sound of the bell.

***

I try not to let Ms. Elliott annoy me. The whole school knows by lunchtime and pupils I’ve never spoken to come say congratulations. At the end of the day, I part with Tara again at the school gates with a kiss on the cheek before she gets into the blacked-out BMW again.

On the way home, though, left to my own thoughts, the very idea of singing anything Phantom related brings back the emptiness of yesterday. It’s runs so deep, I barely have it in me to greet Luke and Olga when they catch up to me on the street. I head straight for the kitchen once we get there while they follow and sit at the centre counter.

‘Are the costumes ready yet?’ asks Olga, ‘If not, can we see what you’ve done so far?’

‘I want to see if the jacket fits now so you don’t have to take it apart later,’ adds Luke.’

I slam a can of coke onto the countertop, startling Luke and Olga while I spread my arms and torso over the surface and deflate.

‘Iorwen?’ says Olga cautiously.

Luke pats me on the back empathetically. ‘You okay, mate?’

I reply with a Chewbacca noise and a long sigh.

Olga gasps. ‘Oh dear, is she having a panic attack?’

Luke shakes his head. ‘She’s just being stroppy.’

‘Oi,’ I say. ‘I’m annoyed with good reason.’

Luke crosses his arms and grins. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. I’m singing at prizegiving next month.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’ asks Olga. ‘You’re a great singer.’

'My drama teacher wants me to sing Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again from Phantom.’

‘Ah,’ say Luke with understanding and explains to Olga, ‘Iorwen’s mum sang it. It’s about wanting a deceased parent to be alive again, more than anything.’

Olga gasps. ‘That’s so insensitive. You should complain.’

‘She’s right,’ says Luke. ‘I imagine it’d strike a nerve with Jason too.’

I shake my head. ’The final decision is mine. But now I know how Liza Minelli feels when she has to sing Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’

‘Who?’ asks Olga.

‘Judy Garland’s daughter. I’ve seen the covers. Always being introduced as Judy’s daughter and only singing it because it’s her mother’s most famous song. At least she won an Oscar for Cabaret.’

‘You’ll stand out on your own soon,’ says Luke ‘You’re the Teenage Hamlet, remember?’

‘Yeah,’ I sigh. ’But perhaps I should stay with heavy drama and avoid doing the same musicals she did. Beautiful Sins will get musical numbers, but I’m looking forward to those.’ I get a large bit of bun stuck in my throat and wash it down with my last sip of coke.

‘Anyway,’ I hiccup. ‘Let’s—cheer—up. Have a look at the costumes.’

‘Are they ready?’ asks Olga.

‘I still have the gloves to do. And then there’s Luke’s waistcoat. Dad’s said he’d finish my cape today before and Elisa go out tonight.’

‘Can we see?’ asks Luke.

‘Let me do the final items, then we’ll call Dante over. He should be off training tonight.’

Olga and Luke do their homework in the living room while I whir away at the sewing machine once again. Two pairs of gloves are already finished by the time Dante arrives.

‘Should I tell my parents I’ll be back for dinner?’ he asks me as I make a start on the third pair.

‘Nah,’ says Luke. ‘Mum’s going to a dinner at the University of Westminster tonight and taking Jason with her. We’ll have the house to ourselves all evening.’

‘Plenty of time to strut about,’ adds Olga.

‘I could do with a night off,’ says Dante, settling onto the sofa with ease.

The gloves are finished in the next hour. Anger makes me efficient. It’s only half-five when I’m stitching the seams of Luke’s double-breasted black waistcoat. While the three of them aren’t looking, I slip upstairs to the four dummies in the middle of my room and add the final touches.

‘They’re ready!’ I call down the stairs. ‘Come up and see!’

The three of them scramble over the threshold into my room.

I’ve never seen three jaws drop at once.

Olga goes to hers first. I figured she’d appreciate practicality more and gave her black-skin-tight leggings, knee-high white boots and a high-necked leotard with white stripes. Her gloves are elbow-length gauntlets, with a pair of upper-arm bracelets to complete the look.

Dante goes to admire his costume next. A hooded red and black jacket with a zip-up face cover over a red undershirt. His trousers are also black, with red slashes down the sides. His ankle boots plain black. His gloves are red on the palms and black everywhere else.

‘I love it,’ says Dante. ‘Great use of the colour-scheme’

‘Of course,’ I say. ‘You need a colour scheme, no matter the occasion.’

Luke lets out a happy gasp at his, running the fabric of his jacket through his fingers. ‘This is excellent!’

Luke requested a Sherlock Holmes look. It’s a dark-brown tweed suit with flexi-Kevlar sewn into the lining. Tie is optional. With this ensemble, he has a pair of plain black gloves, ankle high combat boots and, yes, even a deerstalker with flexi-Kevlar woven into the fabric.

‘Go ahead,’ I say. ‘Try them on.’

‘Put yours on too,’ says Olga. ‘Yours is awesome.’

My costume is the one I’m proudest of.

I smile and look at mine. This is the costume I’m most proud of. The boys go into the bathroom to put on theirs, leaving Olga and me with ours. Like her, I’m also have a leotard, but with long sleeves hooking onto my thumbs. On top of it goes a micro-miniskirt and a black and silver corset.

‘A corset?’ Olga remarks as I hook it on.

‘It’s not real,’ I say. I show her a series of secret compartments for weapons. ‘Even with a superhero costume for females by females, I couldn’t make pockets work.’

'Where are my secret compartments?’

‘In the forearms of your gloves.’

She checks them now and gasps. ‘Wow! You thought of everything.’

I smile at her as I zip on a pair of thigh-high purple boots and a matching pair of gloves.

The boys come out of the bathroom, beaming and scrambling to see themselves in my full-length mirror.

‘The jacket fits perfectly,’ says Luke. A second later, he spots my reflection and turns around with a start. ‘Holy crap, Iorwen!’

‘Woah!’ says Dante when he sees me. ‘You look so sexy.’

I smile. ‘Ah, you’re too kind.’

'You look like you should be in Chicago,’ adds Olga.

‘Now there’s an idea. Next time I stake a vampire, I can say, “He had it comin!”’

We walk with a deliberately dramatic stride downstairs towards the lab where we’ll find out masks.

‘How did you make the shoes?’ asks Luke.

‘I didn’t,’ I reply. ‘Dad commissioned someone in MI5. I’m not that good.’

Down in the lab, we exit the lift to see Dad dressed in navy overalls, protective goggles raised to his forehead, and putting away a collection of pointy, hooked tools into a roll of fabric. He performs a double-take the moment he sees us, realising what we’re wearing. Although, the length of my skirt, or lack thereof, makes him frown.

‘That’s a little short, isn’t it?’ he says.

I shrug, ‘It’s ornamental and kick-friendly. Would you rather I wear a pencil skirt?’

He shakes his head. ‘Do as you please.’

‘We came for our masks,’ says Olga. ‘Are they ready?’

‘Indeed they are.’ He goes to the computer desk and pulls out a long drawer. Four pristine masks sit within, begging to be worn. He picks up the first, a gold domino mask with my curly vine pattern on the edges in silver. ‘Luke.’

The next mask is plain black, save once again for the silver vines. Its shape would look more common at a masquerade ball on a mysterious woman. ‘Dante.’

The third has the most unique shape. When I was designing it, I thought, What if the Phantom’s mask covered the left eye too? It’s coloured black save for a pearl-white heart over the right eye. ‘Olga.’

And finally, the largest of the four, covering everything but the mouth. While it is mostly black, it’s decorated with more silver curls and vines, with a giant silver heart on the forehead. ‘Iorwen.’

Each of us slips them on, allowing our faces to become accustomed to them while Dad opens the upper drawer and takes out a bundle of grey fabric. It unfolds in his hands, revealing itself as the cape I requested. I turn around so he can fasten it onto the small hooks on my shoulders. I swish it proudly three or four times.

‘A cape?’ laughs Dante. 'Haven’t you seen The Incredibles?’

‘Of course I have. It’s detachable.’

‘What if you’re in a situation where you can’t detach it?’ asks Luke.

‘It’s designed to break off against a force greater than twenty-five newtons,’ says Dad. ‘That’s about two-and-a-half kilos.’

Olga runs her hands over the edge of her mask. ‘Hey, what’s this switch here?’

‘Don’t touch it yet,’ Dad says quickly. ‘That’s the night-vision setting. If the lights are on when you flip that switch, it won’t be comfortable.’ He quickly walks over to the giant panel of light switches by the elevator doors. ’Press the switches on the left side in three…two…one!’

The lights go out. Once I find the tiny switch, the room lights up again, but everything is toned green, the only exception being Dad’s eyes which glow bright white.

‘It’s like those ghost-hunting shows,’ says Luke.

‘Check out the switch on the right too,’ Dad calls over.

I turn off the night-vision and press the other switch. The room is bathed in garish colour, from bright blue and lime green, to neon orange and deep red. ‘Infrared,’ I say.

‘I’m switching the lights on again,’ Dad says counting to three before he does so. ‘What do you think?’

‘They’re amazing!’ Olga squeaks. ‘I wish we could go and try these out.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ says Dad, walking back to the desk and removing his overalls, revealing he had his evening suit on underneath. The blazer and tie are hanging on the back of his chair. ‘Keep the masks for now, but I want to see all four of them upfront when I get back tonight.’

We all sigh and shuffle back to the lift.

‘What a tease,’ Luke mutters, ‘Trying these on but not doing anything with them.’

‘Patience,’ I whisper, along with a sly wink. He catches on, as do Olga and Dante.

© Alice of Sherwood, April 2020