The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  Fred sneers, then pushes the man aside. “Not anymore, she isn’t. You’ll talk to me now, Elizabeth, or I swear I’ll murder Michael Kidney, I’ll find him now and gut him like a fish. I’ll throw him in the docks.”

  The ghost shudders to hear his brother talk so callously. It is as though something has possessed him, taken ownership of his body and driven him to madness.

  “You leave Michael out of this, I’m n…not with him anymore—”

  “—Not what I heard. I heard you were living with him.”

  She takes a deep breath, straightens, then threads a thin hand through the moustached man’s arm. “Do excuse this man,” she says deliberately, glaring in Fred’s direction. “He’s an…an old acquaintance.” Pressing a finger on Fred’s waistcoat, she hisses, “we’ll talk later. Don’t you d…dare follow.”

  Fred watches, open-mouthed, as she pushes through the crowds, dragging the man with her. Then she is gone, the door swinging wildly in her aftermath. The crowds resettle, as though the path she walked through them never existed.

  My brother, the ghost thinks, scarcely daring to move any closer. This man is achingly familiar, yet frighteningly alien. Strings of memories dance before him; making a wooden sleigh in Father’s shed, sliding in the mud on the little path behind their house. He remembers Fred then, a handsome boy, tall for his age, dark eyed, swarthy as an Italian peasant. Always ready for a jape, eager to laugh at a situation, rather than let it get him down.

  Then Father died, and that changed everything. He remembers the day well and wishes he didn’t. Mother’s solitary wail, vulnerable as a child, muffled as she pressed her face against the bed-sheets. His father’s hands, folded too neatly across his chest. Fred had left the house, simply opened the front door and walked into the distance. He’d returned late in the evening and had refused to speak to anyone.

  What did Father say to him, before he died? Fred had never said. It’s certain that he’ll never find out now. The secret will stay within his older brother, for better or worse.

  Now, Fred’s features have somehow depleted, folding in on themselves, like poorly risen batter. Years of smoking and drinking have started to weather him already, turning his skin to tanned leather, though his eyes remain as shrewd as ever.

  He wonders if Eleanor has seen him like this. If she could reconcile the wretched, haggard figure here with the good-looking, irascible young man he’d been back then.

  Oh Fred, he thinks, wishing he could touch his brother. I wronged you. I didn’t know it at the time, but I did. If it’s any comfort, I’m suffering for it now.

  They remain like that for a time, brother beside brother, though the fibre of life forms a chasm between them. It is comforting, on some level; the pair of them, washed with misery, fighting to run from their memories.

  Fred drinks an ale, then another. His eyes glaze, and for a moment, the ghost is certain that his brother senses him, that he is aware of his presence in some vague, semi-drunken manner. He reaches across tentatively, and touches him.

  His brother’s expression softens, for a second or two. The ghost dares not move. Then, without warning, Fred pulls his hand away, slams the empty glass on the sticky bar, and presses his way to the door, just as Elizabeth Stride had done before him. The ghost wonders where he is going. Home, perhaps. Or just to pace the streets, as he himself does so often. Maybe it runs in the family, he thinks with a rueful smile. Hastily, he follows, remembering how fast Fred is when he sets his mind to it. An elderly couple lurch through the door just as he’s exiting, and he moves aside instinctively, before chastising himself for forgetting. Old habits die hard, it would seem.

  The pavements outside glow with the warm light from the pub, before reaching into darkness. He scans the street, gaze moving from one pool of light cast by the street lamps to the next, but none of the figures look like Fred; they’re either too stout, too short or too feminine. Finally, he makes out a silhouette in the distance, pacing furiously, shoulders hunched. It must be him, he thinks, swiftly drifting closer. There’s no possibility that he could have walked any further in such a short space of time.

  The figure moves alarmingly fast, head down, hands shoved deep into trouser pockets. Wherever he’s going, he’s going there with purpose, that much is clear. The ghost wonders if Fred is heading towards Elizabeth Stride’s dwelling. Where had she said she had a room again? Berner Street, that was it. The same street he used to work on. Funny how the passing of time seemed to tie him so often to this place, almost like it had been scripted long ago, and he is merely a player in a larger piece, acting out his turn.

  The man turns a corner, and the ghost hurries to catch up. Anxiety is building within him, though he doesn’t understand why. After all, what is the worst that Fred could do? Find his old flame and shout at her again? Try to locate this Michael Kidney, whoever he may be, and beat the living daylights out of him?

  He’s not a violent man, the ghost reminds himself, even though he’s unconvinced. He remembers Fred as a child, holding his head a fraction too long underwater in the river. Or pushing Arthur against a wall after an argument, so hard he’d dislocated his shoulder bone. He has the potential to hurt people, he admits. But never maliciously. Never intentionally. He’s not a bad person, regardless of what Father said that day.

  The ghost reaches Berner Street and cannot see his brother anywhere. Perhaps he went a different way, he thinks, looking behind him, though deep down, he knows this is where Fred is. The only question is, which abode is Elizabeth Stride’s? She made no mention of a house number.

  A group of skull-capped men pass him, loudly discussing something to do with the rights of Jews. He watches them pass, then notices the quiet after they have gone. By day, the street echoes with the bangs and thuds of the cartwright’s hammer, or the steady footstep of a businessman, on his way to work. By night, its inhabitants stick to the shadows; nothing but gleaming, watchful eyes from alleyways and doorsteps. Occasionally, the ghost has moments when he is glad he isn’t alive, when death provides him the gift of invulnerability. This is one of those times.

  The Cartwright. He looks up. The familiar cart-wheel still hangs on the wall, marking the entrance to Dutfield’s Yard. The ghost stops, then wonders. After all, there’s nowhere else that Fred could have concealed himself on the street, unless he’s darted down one of the alleyways, though no-one in their right mind would do so in this area.

  It’s the darkness that he notices first. Not the natural shadows created by the surrounding buildings, but the blackness, the soupy mist that he’s come to associate with danger, misery and despair. This is a bad place, something terrible is happening, and instinctively, he moves close to the reassuring solidity of the wall, reluctant to peer too far into the deserted yard.

  He doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary at first, only the stairs to the workshop, casting staggered shadows on the cobbled ground; and the door to the outhouse, swinging half-open like a slack mouth. Then his gaze travels naturally downwards to the bundled shape, haphazardly strewn on the floor beside the iron grating.

  Feet, he observes dumbly, noting the protruding shoes, pointed primly to the wall. Then, he spies a hand, fingers outstretched. Something about that naked palm, still touching a paper bag, spilling what looks like nuts across the ground, is more pitiful than he can stand. The darkness shifts around the body, palpable as a living creature. Despite himself, he looks to the face, knowing that he must see. For him, it is as unavoidable as existence itself.

  It’s her, as he knew already that it would be. Elizabeth Stride. He notices the silk handkerchief at her throat, a strange pattern decorating the fabric, which he realises is spreading blood. The gash at her neck glistens in the low moonlight.

  Instinctively, he scans the area, though it takes him a moment to appreciate what he’s searching for. Her ghost. For she is undoubtedly dead or dying fast; no-one could survive a wound like that. The puddle around her head still sp
reads, casting a halo of darkness around her splayed hair.

  He does not have to wait long.

  Her spirit rises from her body, hollowed and greyed by death. He watches, fascinated, as she pauses, studying her own lifeless form with clinical disinterest. How unsurprised she seems, he thinks, amazed by her composure. Almost as though she anticipated this moment.

  She looks up, the thin light catching what was once her strong nose, her low brow.

  “You?” Confusion wrinkles her features. “Why? Why you?”

  “Why am I here, you mean?” The ghost is lost for words, uncertain how to explain his presence. He can detect her quick mind making the links, connecting himself and Fred, and suspecting the worst.

  “Did he do it?”

  “No.” The ghost replies before he allows himself a chance to think. “No, he never would.”

  She sneers, and he shrinks back.

  “It doesn’t matter now, anyway. I knew I’d get it in the end.”

  And with those words, she vanishes, shockingly passing from existence to nothingness.

  Goodbye, Elizabeth Stride, he thinks, studying the sky with something like sadness; not because of any warm feeling towards her, but for the sense of what she could have been, had she lived a different life. But now it is too late. She has gone, and like him, her life has ceased to have any meaning anymore. How swiftly it is all over.

  Now, he searches for something different; for someone. The deed was done only a few minutes earlier, the murderer may still be here, lurking in the shadows, or concealed behind the lavatory door.

  It wasn’t Fred, he tells himself, still haunted by Elizabeth Stride’s final, defeated words. He remembers the rumours, the mumbled stories of murderers lurking in dark shadows, gutting unwary women like helpless fish. No, he reassures himself, wishing he could summon more conviction. It can’t have been him. Some other man did this, I’m certain of it.

  He ventures further down the yard, knowing that he’s safe, that he cannot be seen, but filled with fear, nonetheless. It’s because of the evil that is here, a sharp spice that thickens the air around him. He’s reluctant to turn his back on the body, even though he understands well enough that it’s only a vacant shell now, nothing more.

  The stables at the end of the yard are empty. The dark space beneath the wooden stairs is deserted. No-one’s here, he reassures himself. The murderer, whoever they may be, has fled.

  A shout, some distance away, freezes him. He hears a clatter of metal, a tool being disturbed perhaps, then sees a silhouette, racing away, out of the yard. The shouting swells, a suspicious voice that turns to alarm. Someone has seen her, he realises, rooted in place like a guilty creature. The crime has been discovered.

  He is relieved when the man appears at the entrance to the yard, illuminated by the neighbouring lamplight; even more relieved when he starts to shout more loudly, braying for attention. And relived most of all that he is no longer solely responsible for watching over her body, for in truth, he cannot bear the sight of it. It’s not only that the murdered body belongs to someone he briefly knew, nor that the foul darkness still swirls around her. It’s the misery of knowing that her life was unhappy, and her death even more so.

  There is no justice in this world, he thinks, staring at the night sky overhead, willing it to take him, to rid him of the strain of feeling like this, day after day, night after night. But he understands that wishing is useless. Prayers are futile.

  Unlike Elizabeth Stride, whose sadness has now come to an end, his seems likely to continue. It is an unendurable thought.

  NINETEEN

  — 1878 —

  THE NOISE WAS intolerable, the crush of bodies even more so. Although the Princess Alice’s ticket-men were doing their best to manage the crowds, the surge of person after person was proving too much for them, resulting in a continual press of warm hands, shoulders, and bellies against us.

  Eleanor seemed not to notice. Every time I glanced down to her, I noticed how bright her expression was, how she was absorbing every moment of this, storing it for future memories. I also noticed the loving clutch of her hand against her stomach. I’d asked her, tentatively, a few days ago, whether she was with child again, but she’d only shook her head, casting her eyes coyly to the kitchen sink. From her expression, I’d presumed the answer was negative, and hadn’t liked to press her on the matter.

  “I had no idea there would be so many people joining us,” I muttered, as we shuffled closer to the gates.

  “Whatever did you imagine, then?” She pointed at the deck, which was already filling with those fortunate enough to have already clambered aboard. “We often watch the ships go past, and they’re always heaving with people, aren’t they?”

  I conceded the point with a non-committal shrug. Just because it was to be expected, didn’t mean I liked it. I detested the invasion of my personal space, and found it hard not to push back against those who surrounded me. Sometimes, I wished Mother hadn’t raised me so well, that I might jostle and shove like the rest of them.

  Finally, we reached the front of the queue, such that it was. The poor ticket-officer looked half-dead, his eyes appraising the people behind us with open exhaustion.

  “Two, is it?”

  Eleanor smiled at me. I grinned back. “Yes, that’s correct. How much?”

  “Four shillings.”

  Not as much as I’d suspected, but still enough to make me inwardly groan. I paid, and we shuffled our way through, tiptoeing along the gangplank. The muddy waters glugged and lapped at the bank beneath us, clearly visible through the wooden slats. Eleanor strode forward confidently, oblivious to my anxiety, and I had no choice but to follow, herded sheep-like onto the boat by the trail of passengers behind me.

  We ventured inside first. The interior was impressive, even I was forced to admit it. Polished panelling lined every wall, and already, the plush seating was filled with people, all wearing near identical expressions of excitement and merriment.

  “Isn’t it lovely?” Eleanor exclaimed, beaming at the couple next to us, who were far more shabbily dressed than us. Indeed, the ship seemed to attract people from all walks of life; from waxed-moustachioed gentlemen to women with drab shawls and even drabber dresses.

  “It is very fine indeed,” I agreed, momentarily enchanted by the décor. I peered out the window to see a few people still scuttling up the gangplank, then pointed. “They really do pack them on, don’t they?”

  “Well, if you wanted something exclusive, you’d have to pay far more.”

  “This was costly enough.” I gestured to the door. “Did you want to stand on deck and take in the sights? Or did you want to visit the dining area?”

  “I’d imagine the dining room will be full to bursting at this time, wouldn’t you?” We looked around, bewildered and enthused by the sea of faces that surrounded us. I’d only been on board for a few minutes, and already I was longing for the moment we could disembark at Gravesend, and take a turn around the Rosherville Gardens, which had been highly recommended to us by Arthur. By night, they were illuminated with hundreds of brightly coloured lights, which was quite magical, or so he’d told us. Regardless of whether he’d been exaggerating or not, the description was enough to send Eleanor into fits of excitement, and to double her efforts to convince me to take her.

  “Shall we look for a place to sit down?” Eleanor said, clutching me tightly. “I’m quite eager to rest my legs, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps later?” The last thing I wanted was to jostle with people for a seat.

  “How about exploring the rest of the boat, then?”

  Before I could answer, a loud roar cut through the hubbub, followed swiftly by a ponderous thudding noise, which I soon realised was the paddles, whirring into action through the water. Sure enough, a moment later, the boat lurched into motion, cutting through the river like a prehistoric beast wading through a swamp. It was magical and disconcerting in equ
al measures, though despite my reservations, I couldn’t help but appreciate the experience. It felt safer inside, somehow; completely removed from the watery world that enveloped us. I wondered how many people aboard could swim.

  “Do you think they have lifeboats?” I asked nervously, much to the amusement of the elderly woman beside me.

  Eleanor shook her head in disbelief. “Oh, darling, everything will be fine. Don’t worry. And yes, for your information, I saw a lifeboat attached to the side.”

  “Just the one?” I nodded around the room. “There are hundreds of people on board.”

  “Stop worrying. Nothing bad will happen. Now,” she continued playfully, waving a hand at the door closest to us, “shall we take a turn around the boat, see what other rooms there are?”

  “I’m not sure,” I replied, peering through the bevelled glass. “It looks awfully crowded in there. Why don’t we stand outside?” I gestured out of the window to the banks beyond. Already, the boat was maintaining a good speed in the water, with houses, trees and people passing us at a rapid rate. A lone man walking his dog waved at us, and Eleanor waved back, her satin glove gleaming in the autumn light.

  “Go on then,” she said generously. “Let’s have a breath of fresh air.”

  I peered out of the main doors. The decks were already filled to the brim with passengers pointing at the passing landscape, or conversing with those around them. “I doubt we’ll be able to see anything, though,” I said, ensuring that Eleanor and I kept close to the reassuring solidity of the boat’s wall, rather than the flimsy railings. “We’ll never get through the crowd.”

  She groaned. “Come now, don’t be a spoilsport. We’ll just do what everyone else does.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Push our way to the front.”

  Before I could protest, Eleanor had launched towards the rows of backs lining the sides of the deck, muttering ‘excuse me’ and ‘I do beg my pardon’ so many times, I couldn’t help but laugh. I followed in her stead; ever her quiet shadow, willing to bathe in the gloriousness of her sunny demeanour. Eleanor was at her finest when she was like this; exuberant, daring and joyous.