The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  The wind hit me full in the face, reeking with the scent of the Thames; rotting seaweed, muck and sewage. Indeed, the river was full of the latter, which immediately made my eyes water. Eleanor seemed not to notice, only clutched the railings until her knuckles whitened, eagerly leaning out to take in as much of our surroundings as possible.

  “Please,” I muttered, squeezing next to her, “do be careful. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  She turned to me, then without warning, kissed me on the cheek. The moisture of her lips chilled in the breeze.

  “Don’t worry, nothing will happen to me,” she replied, snuggling into my shoulder.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  She smiled. “Because you’ll always be there to protect me, won’t you? I mean, that’s what you do best.”

  I considered her statement. Was that how people saw me? As a protective figure, first and foremost? I supposed there were worse things I could be.

  She took my silence for agreement, and stood beside me, silently enjoying the experience. Around us, passengers chatted, laughed and moved around, some retreating to the interior because of the autumnal weather, others keen to endure the wind and make the most of the unique view of the outskirts of the city.

  “Why did you ask your Mother if she wanted to join us?” The question was sudden and unexpected. I scanned her face, trying to determine the root cause of it. In truth, I’d only invited her last weekend as she’d been complaining about being stuck in the house all the time, but at the time, I’d noticed a twitch on Eleanor’s features, as though she hadn’t quite approved.

  “Well,” I rubbed my nose, struggling to think of the right words. “I suppose I just feel sorry for the old girl sometimes, that’s all.”

  “Yes, but it’s strange that you’d invite her and not Arthur, when you knew how much he wanted to come.”

  I stiffened at the comment. “If I’d invited Arthur along,” I said eventually, “then it would hardly have been a romantic trip, would it?”

  “What, and it would if your mother had been with us?” She laughed, causing the family behind us to look over with open curiosity.

  “No, of course not. But if I’d invited Arthur, I would have ended up inviting everyone else anyway.” And it would have cost a small fortune, I finished silently. Or even worse, Arthur would have offered to pay and I would have been entirely humiliated.

  “At least Arthur is always good fun.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing, of course.” Her gaze sidled away from me like snow sliding off a branch. “Only that you do take things terribly seriously all the time. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying life, you know.”

  “Isn’t that what we’re doing now?”

  “I suppose so.”

  Awkwardness lingered between us, where there had only been affection before, jarring us apart, making me feel dislocated, cast adrift. I studied her out of the corner of my eye and was surprised to see her smiling.

  “Let’s not bicker,” she whispered. “After all, this is meant to be a special occasion for us, isn’t it?”

  I nodded, though the feeling of disquiet remained. The river suddenly seemed threatening; a living thing slithering beneath us, waiting for an opportunity to pounce. I loosened my collar, sweating despite the coolness of the air.

  Eleanor nodded across the deck to a group of women, laughing gaily and pointing to the other side of the Thames. Their skirts were slightly too short to be decent, and I could even detect a glimpse of bare ankle. Hastily, I looked away.

  “I say,” Eleanor whispered, leaning close to my ear. “Do you think those women are…”

  I waited, but she let the full meaning hang silent, instead raising her eyebrows and nodding.

  “You mean of ill-repute?” I studied the women more closely, making sure to keep my gaze limited to the head and shoulders only. “Surely not, not on a boat like the Princess Alice.”

  As though to contradict me, one of the women cackled loudly, slapping her companion’s back. Her hair was a garish shade of red, which contrasted sharply against her pale, pasty skin. I cringed.

  “They let absolutely anyone on this boat,” Eleanor said, still in the same low voice. “You can tell by the clientele.”

  One of the women, whose back had been to us, turned so her face was in profile. I gasped, scarcely able to believe it. “My goodness,” I hissed, nudging Eleanor a little too hard in my surprise. “Look, that’s—”

  “—Good heavens, you’re absolutely right, it’s Elizabeth Stride.” Eleanor’s eyes widened. “Isn’t it uncanny to see her again, twice in one month?”

  “Well, I suppose we must live in the same area. Those must be her friends,” I said, keeping my eyes fixed upon them. Fortunately, we hadn’t yet been noticed.

  My wife chuckled. “Or her work colleagues.”

  “Eleanor, really. It isn’t decorous to say such a thing.”

  She sniffed. “I think we’re both perfectly aware what sort of creature Mrs Stride is. After all, she was married, and said nothing to poor Fred.”

  Poor Fred, I noted bitterly. Why the sympathy for him? He’s hardly a saint either. “I rather think Fred deserved everything he got,” I said, aware how unkind the words sounded, but unable to stop myself.

  Eleanor looked at me with alarm. “Really?”

  “Yes. He’s proved himself to be a wastrel, beyond redemption.” The sentiment choked me, shutting up my throat, but I continued, nonetheless. “He’s a different person to the one that used to court you, you know.”

  “My goodness, is that what this is about?” Eleanor’s eyebrows raised to two perfect peaks. “Are you jealous of your brother?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You have no reason to be jealous of Fred. It was only a brief romance, it never would have led anywhere.”

  “Are you certain?” Again, my words sounded harsher than intended.

  She sighed, smoothed a stray hair, which had escaped from under her hat. “Of course. Fred would not be the brother of my choice. He’s positively beastly at times, so filled with anger and righteous indignation.”

  Really? It wasn’t how I’d envisioned him, but it was interesting to hear her opinion expressed aloud. Her comments also reassured me, soothed the envy that had been bubbling in my chest for far too many years.

  “Well, I wasn’t jealous anyway,” I said for clarification, then caught her eye and beamed, aware of how ridiculous it must have sounded.

  She giggled and reached for my arm. “You did a very convincing job of pretending.”

  I patted her back, then glanced back over the other side of the deck. Elizabeth Stride and her companions had disappeared, which was probably for the best. The last thing I wanted was another awkward encounter with her, especially after the last time. I wonder if I will continue to meet her in the future? Surely twice in one month was enough of a coincidence for anyone, let alone a third time. No, I was confident this would be the last time I saw the unfortunate woman. She’d cast enough of a dark shadow on our family as it was.

  “How do the other boats pass us?” Eleanor said, startling me out of my thoughts.

  “With great care, I hope,” I replied, looking at the width of the river. It scarcely seemed wide enough to accommodate one large boat, let alone two.

  “Perhaps they have special passing places, do you think?”

  I smirked at the thought. “I doubt that very much, having seen some of the boats that travel this river. It’s more a case of blaring one’s horn as loudly as possible and hoping the other vessel moves out of the way.”

  Eleanor laughed. “I suppose they know what they’re doing. These are men that have been sailing the Thames for years, aren’t they?”

  “I’m certain of it. We’ve absolutely nothing to fear.”

  She giggled, covering her mouth. “That’s exactly what I’ve been trying to persuade yo
u of for months, my love.”

  “Well, you were absolutely right,” I replied, with more conviction than I felt. I cast a final, hesitant glance up the river. An enormous boat was lumbering along in the other direction, its hull gleaming dully in the setting sunlight. It really doesn’t seem possible that it could squeeze past us, I thought, then shivered as a strong breeze flared from the north. But then, as Eleanor said, I’m sure it will be fine. I need to be less serious, if only for one night, show my wife that I too know how to have fun.

  TWENTY

  — 1889 —

  THE GHOST IS lost. Not geographically speaking; in fact, he’d wager few people knew this area of London as well as he did. Rather, he’s become anchorless, a creature without a home, like an abandoned dog, left to roam free. Only a few years as a ghost, and look at him now, what he has become.

  There is no pleasure in freedom, rather, this liberty is a burden worse than any chain or restraint. And how he loathes this spirit form. As a living, breathing human, he might have fancifully imagined there to be a certain freedom to not being tethered to a body. The reality is far different. As a ghost, he has no power, no voice to express himself. Situations unravel, and he cannot change them. People move on, and he cannot prevent them from doing so.

  And how they have all moved on, he thinks bitterly. How short that period of grieving seemed to be.

  The Thames revolts him, with its syrupy, stinking waters, its cloying banks. He watches two dirt-splotched children wading through the mud, searching for goodness knows what; urchins ready to be swallowed up by the fetid mess of the river, of the greedy city itself. No matter how closely he follows them, they remain oblivious to him. He is of no importance, a redundant being that casts no shadow and leaves no echo in the air.

  What is the point of all this? He wonders, feeling more wretched than before. And that is perhaps the worst thing of all, that a human always has the ultimate method of escape, whereas he has nothing. He can only drift aimlessly, think futile thoughts, and hate his own paltry existence.

  He wanders, forcing his thoughts into a vacuum. Because that is what he desires, more so than anything else. To forget. To not feel this pain anymore. To not have these memories, raging through him, one after the other, like whiplashes across his back.

  Billingsgate Fish Market is busy as ever, people surging in and out of the arched entrances; flat-capped, frowning men wheeling carts of crates, the silvery shimmer of fish upon fish, piled up for sale. He remembers the building being constructed, standing on the road, watching with fascination as the builders teetered on shaky scaffolding, shouting orders at one another. It’s still relatively new, only a few years old now, though already, the thick fumes of passing boats and the stench of the river have tainted the brickwork, given it a weathered, weary appearance. It seems more fitting like this, somehow. After all, selling fish shouldn’t be glamorous. It involves slippery guts, slimy scales, and glassy, staring eyes; the baldness of death itself, staring back at every customer.

  This is good, the ghost thinks. Amongst these surroundings, he can lose himself. The ceaseless motion, the urgent heat of all these people, it dulls his thoughts, stops them wandering where he does not want them to. He winds further into the cavernous space of the market, instinctively following certain figures; those who seem more morose than their jovial, raucous comrades.

  Their sadness reassures me, he realises, with a sense of shame and exhilaration. Their misery somehow softens mine, makes it more bearable.

  He spies an old woman, leaning heavily on a gnarled stick, back twisted as a light-starved seedling. Immediately, he is drawn, magnetised by the sense of darkness that hovers above her. He doesn’t understand what it is exactly, only that it lurks over some people and not others, and that a few attract it more strongly. This woman’s darkness is so thick it’s almost solid; churning the air, boiling with something like rage around her bonnet.

  It isn’t wise to get too close. The ghost knows this from experience; stray too near to these afflicted people and it results in disorientation, nausea, even blackouts. Instead, he follows at a distance, focusing on her faded pink hat, bobbing haphazardly through the crowds. Interestingly, the crowds seem aware of her darkness too, instinctively veering away from her, like water bubbling around a troublesome rock.

  Her fish is already purchased, he can tell by the paper-wrapped slab protruding from her basket. A single fish, he notes, observing the one small loaf of bread, the modest cabbage. A small meal for two, or perhaps just for one, it is difficult to tell.

  Yet she lingers, perhaps relishing the comforting press of other bodies, the noise of conversation. If he ventures closer, he can sense a hint of her existence; a lonely, threadbare armchair by a fireplace, the painful missing of others in her life. She’s lost her husband, that much is clear, though he also suspects she’s lost more; children perhaps, and friends. Either way, her grief is palpable. She wishes only to die and be done with it, he realises sadly, then winces at the irony. For some of us, it never ends, he mouths, filled with desire to warn her. However, she may be one of the lucky ones. He’s witnessed a couple of deaths, one of them being Mother’s old neighbour Mr Harding, who simply vanished with a beatific expression on his face.

  And how I hated him for it, he thinks with sudden ferocity. How I wished that I’d had his life and death, and he’d had mine.

  From a neighbouring aisle, a man drops a crate of fish, sending a slippery wave of salmon over the floor. The swearing and shouting bring the ghost back to reality, and he swerves to avoid the mess, forgetting that it wouldn’t affect him in the slightest. The crowd close around, keen to survey the chaos, and he loses the old woman behind a wall of curious faces. This matters more to him than he imagined it would, for he needs to follow her, to find out what has caused her so much distress. He suspects that it has become an appetite, a need to consume sadness, in order to maintain his own feeble existence. If that is the case, what a pathetic creature I have become, he thinks.

  Finally, he senses her; the bloom of bad feeling, now close to the exit, like a noxious gas escaping a room. Sure enough, above the milling heads, he spots her tiny, shrunken form, now out in the open, the wintry light hitting her hunched shoulders.

  She moves faster when out in the open, scuttling crablike along the side of the river, stick rapping in time with her disjointed steps. Her basket rattles on her hip, the contents jostling within, but she seems not to notice. Whereas before, she’d seemed comforted by the crowds, now she seems only to want to escape them, to create as much space around her as possible.

  The sky is leaden, a dead weight set to drop on the city. The ghost wagers that there will be snow before the day is out. The old woman’s only defence against the cold is her ancient shawl, and the thick cotton top beneath it. No overcoat, no scarf to protect her, he thinks, and reflects on his own wardrobe as a living human, how he’d thought it paltry at the time, and how mistaken he’d been. His old collection of jackets, waistcoats, shirts and trousers were abundant, humiliatingly decadent, and he’d been too much of a fool to appreciate it.

  Yearning for his old life bites him, hard as winter frost. He pushes the thought aside, concentrating only on the woman. I have to focus on her and not my own miserable existence, he thinks, floating behind her. There is no alternative.

  Laden carts clutter by, wheels bouncing on the road. Bowler-hatted gentlemen jostle for space against a continual press of aproned tradesmen, pushing piles of crates. The occasional beggar lurks in shaded alleyways, one clutching a weeping baby, attempting to rock it to silence. The city’s heartbeat seems to throb down Lower Thames Street, yet the old woman fails to notice any of it, only teeters forward, head pressed down, stick clacking mercilessly at the pavement.

  It is no surprise that she veers left, towards St Magnus the Martyr. He could sense the devout on her from the start, the staunch faith that radiates from her like steam from porridge. This is all she has left, he r
ealises, looking up at the brick tower, topped with its thready pillars and needle pinnacle, poking at the clouds above.

  She bows her head, tightens her shawl, then presses through the wooden doors. Inside, it is much as he remembers it, and the ache of it strangles him, dragging him down to the nearest pew. How he wishes he could feel its solid, reassuring smoothness beneath him, or breathe in the calm, cool air. We used to sit at the back, he thinks, choking on the memory. Whispering, whenever we thought we could get away with it. We never were the most devout of worshippers, Eleanor and I.

  He wonders if Eleanor ever finds herself here, resting on the pew, remembering those days. Does she ever search for me, as I did for her? Or has she forgotten too, like the rest of them?

  In his misery, he’s misplaced the old woman, but soon spies her at the front; a hunched sack of fabric, motionless as a statue. The darkness surrounding her has eased, retreating to a vague fuzz, hovering a distance above her head. It is because this is where she knows some sort of peace, the ghost suspects, if only for a short while.

  Compelled by a sudden force, he rises, quite without realising it, and wanders towards the altar, the two gold candlesticks, the wooden angels, heads tilted to the ceiling.

  He settles beside her, ignoring the swirling darkness above them both, and reaches for her hand. Perhaps we can offer one another comfort, he thinks, even though one is dead, the other alive.

  The old woman’s reaction is startling and immediate. Her hand stiffens then retreats, with rodent speed. Her head spins, and for a moment, her eyes meet his.

  She sees me! the ghost thinks, with exhilaration and terror. Her pupils seem fathomless, empty holes that capture and pin him in place, helpless as a butterfly. But what does she see, exactly? Can she make out a vague form of the man he once was? Does he appear as mist or disturbance in the air? Or is it just a sense of death that she detects, clinging to her with limpet determination?