I’ve failed as a critic. I’ve been so immersed in this experience that I’ve forgotten myself. For a moment there, I believed the girl was dead, that she’d been ravaged by animistic spirits, that she’d been killed for our entertainment.

But the truth is that Olivia Jouval can see into my soul and show me my desires and my fears projected into the real world. Like the best psychoanalyst, she has identified and shown me the parts of myself I needed to sacrifice. The experience of cutting that part of myself away and surrendering it has been profoundly cathartic.

In Elemental, Metamuse isn’t showing me their ghosts; they help me to exorcise my own.

16

16 Standing outside the red door on Brook Street on that blustery Thursday night, Petra remembered the day she first met Vincent. First he was up there, between the upper-floor window of the studio and her face, and then he was down here, crumpled on the pavement. How fanciful she’d been that first night, imagining him bowing at her feet in a funny, kinky way, as if she was a pop star in a music video. It felt like another life – so many impressions crammed into her quiet routine: the thrill of first contact, knowing how much they had in common, how much they had to learn from each other; the intensity of the sex; then the intimacy of the shows – and the horror. That second show was when everything went south. She hadn’t fought with a man for a long time, felt so bitter, so worried, so angry – she hadn’t felt so scared or disoriented. It felt like ages ago, but it was just less than a month.

And it felt like a different place, too. That day had been cold and sunny, a blessing amid the grey, like a crisp Highveld winter’s morning. Now the swirling squalls were driving dead leaves and litter around her feet, spattering icy drops into her face. Tree branches writhed around the stark LED street lights, making the walls and pavements undulate. Petra shuddered and tried to pull her fleece-lined hood tighter over her head, only to have it plucked away again by the fingers of the wind.

Again, she looked at the electronic door panel. She didn’t know which unmarked button to press to ring a bell, and didn’t want to wake any neighbours who may be connected to the system; so, feeling like a character in a Gothic novel, she battered at the door a second time, then fished her phone out of her pocket to check if he’d sent her any message.

Nothing.

She texted him. <I’m here.>