Girl of Shadows

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘We did, yes. In England. That was nothing like this, however. I never actually saw that ghost.’ He shuddered. ‘I couldn’t abide actually seeing one.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  The barest flicker of discomfort crossed his pale face. ‘My wife and I.’

  Sarah might have guessed he was married. She decided to rub it in. ‘I didn’t realise you’re a widower.’

  ‘I’m not.’ He went back to his eggs. ‘My wife remains in England.’

  It was time to test his mettle. And his intentions. ‘Well, it could very well get worse here. It was pretty grim last time. If you don’t like it you could always go back to your own lodgings.’

  Jared put down his fork. ‘Look, Sarah, I’m not completely stupid. I gather that this spirit of your dead friend has become offended by my treatment of you. Which, I admit, has been somewhat cavalier. But I’m not entirely to blame for that. You’re an attractive young woman and a man has certain needs and entitlements, and in the eyes of the law I am currently your master. I had hoped we might come to an arrangement — for which, I should add, I would have been more than happy to reimburse you — but it seems I am to have the shit scared out of me should I pursue that course of action. So I won’t. You may go about your business unmolested, by me at any rate. I assume, consequently, that this … Rachel will now go away and leave us alone, therefore I may continue to reside here in peace. Am I right?’

  Sarah held his gaze, not daring to look away. If any of the ghost carry-on were real, he would be correct. She thought quickly. ‘What if she suspects you mean me harm in some other way?’

  Again that flicker of unease on his face. ‘Then she’d be a very intuitive ghost, wouldn’t she? I don’t mean you harm, Sarah. I am managing Adam’s business during his absence, and there is nothing else to it. Why, what did he say to you when you spoke to him in the gaol?’

  Sarah had been waiting for this question, and knew it would be a mistake to lie altogether. ‘He told me you have a stake in the business, by way of money you lent him when he opened the shop. I thought he’d ask Bernard Cole to step in, but he didn’t. He said that wasn’t my concern, as long as the business keeps running.’ If Jared believed Adam thought she wasn’t clever enough to understand how the business worked, or was not entitled to know, so much the better.

  ‘Well, I intend to make sure it does. I’m not leaving.’ He picked up his fork. ‘Anyway, if I left you’d have to go back to the Factory. Have you thought of that? You’d lose everything you have.’

  ‘Not everything. As a married woman, even as a convict, I do have recourse to some rights.’

  ‘But no claim to Adam’s business, or his money, or the lease on this building. All you have is his name and possibly a few things he might have given you. It’s not much, is it?’

  ‘I certainly have the right to complain to the police about what a filthy-minded lech you’ve been.’

  ‘Well, do your best. You’ve no proof, and I doubt they’d believe you, you being what you are.’

  It was a deliberate little jab of unpleasantness, now he’d apparently accepted he wasn’t going to get her into bed. Sarah felt her temper rising dangerously because of it, and because he was right.

  ‘If Rachel doesn’t leave, I’ll know you’re up to no good.’ Shite, now she’d said too much.

  He didn’t respond this time, but neither did he look at all happy.

  That night Jared lay in bed, waiting for sleep to overtake him. He’d had several fingers of whisky and a good sip of opium to help him on his way, but was still very much on edge. Last night the awful pus-yellow light and the rapping had been deeply disturbing. He’d felt as though the noises and the thin, sickly shafts of illumination had been heralding the imminent arrival of that wretched dead girl. Her spirit was already here in the house causing mischief, and that was bad enough, but his worst fear was that she herself would appear to him and he would have to look upon her cold, dead face. It was true, what he’d told Sarah about the ghost in his home in England; he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes. To see the walking dead, he believed, would be to experience the greatest terror of all.

  He was facing a dilemma. He could simply pack up his things and walk out of this damned awful house, away from this horrid ghost business and Sarah bloody Green, who was turning out to be a lot harder to manipulate than he’d expected. She was clever, sharp-tongued, bad-tempered, and unexpectedly loyal to Adam, all of which were adding up to quite an obstacle. Adam clearly underestimated her — fortunately. If Adam had told her that he, Jared, had blackmailed his way into managing the shop, she could well have suspected him of framing Adam. But women — as Adam had obviously realised — couldn’t be trusted with matters of commerce, and were far better relegated to the cooking hearth or between the sheets. Though he had to admit Sarah was a damn fine jeweller.

  He still wanted her, however, despite his promise to keep his hands off her, and he most certainly still wanted Adam’s business. In a matter of months Adam and his new wife had somehow managed to turn a moderately successful jewellery enterprise into one of the most profitable in the town. Normally he, Jared, only bought up ailing companies at bargain prices, but Adam’s was so attractive he knew he’d sincerely regret not acquiring it. Adam himself, of course, had been the major impediment to that scenario, but thanks to the carefully planted coral brooch — happy wedding day! — Adam was rotting in Port Macquarie penitentiary and would be for the next five years. With any luck he might even die there. All Jared had to do now was run the business down by siphoning off the profits and declaring bankruptcy, after which he’d purchase it cheaply, then rebuild it.

  Sarah’s skills as a jeweller clearly contributed greatly to the success of the business, so it was vital she be kept on side and remain in the house and working. He’d done his best to court her favour, although several times, he knew, his behaviour had upset her. She seemed to have no idea of the natural order of things: he was her master and she was a convict assignee, and as such he had certain privileges. She’d wake up to the truth of her situation one day. He was confident she wouldn’t pack her own bags; she was far too stubborn, and that suited him just fine. And when she did wake up, when she realised her husband wouldn’t be back for years — if, in fact, he ever came back — she’d change her mind and choose him. After all, within the year he would outright own the jewellery business for which she seemed to hold such a passion.

  He scratched his belly under his linen nightshirt and rolled onto his side, wondering why the whisky and the opium weren’t working. Perhaps his head was too full of thoughts. Maybe he should have another drink. Or toss himself off? Yes, that was far more appealing.

  His hand closed around his cock and, thinking about when he’d had Sarah face down on the sofa with her skirt up, he rubbed and squeezed until he was erect. He’d just got a good rhythm going when a loud, flat banging came at the bedroom door. He stopped pulling, his cock shrivelling immediately.

  The banging came again and he sat up, almost too frightened to look across the room. With suddenly shaking hands he struck a Congreves match and lit the lamp on his night table, his eyes darting towards the door, noting with enormous relief that it was closed and the key was still in the lock.

  Then, with a surge of horror, he watched as the key began to move, bit by bit sliding out of the escutcheon plate until it parted company completely and fell with a clatter to the floor.

  ‘Jaared,’ a hollow, sighing voice came from the hallway. ‘Jaaaared.’

  Very slowly, the door opened.

  That hideous yellow light again, filling his room. And in the doorway, a ghastly apparition of a girl, her face as white as bleached cotton, bloodless lips, black shadows beneath sunken eyes, and long tangled hair as pale as her dead, dead skin.

  Jared let out a fear-strangled squawk.

  The figure glided into the room, feet concealed by the soiled hem of her ragged grave clothes, and came to a halt at the foot of his bed. He caugh
t a whiff of fresh dirt and a dark hint of something far more rank.

  It said nothing, but stretched out an imploring hand, as if to say, Come with me. Come with me down to where the soil is cold and the worms writhe and feed. Keep me company, Jared, for I am so lonely.

  He screamed again, loudly this time, and tried to move, but found his limbs were immobilised by terror.

  Sarah appeared in the doorway, clad only in her nightdress and with her hair awry, and ran across the room to his side.

  She touched his shoulder. ‘Stay still. I know what to do. She’s done this before.’

  Jared heard himself rasp, ‘Get it out! Just get it out!’

  ‘Go away, Rachel!’ Sarah commanded. ‘You’re not wanted here. Go on, go back to where you came from.’

  The figure retreated, gliding backwards. But in the doorway it halted and raised a small white hand, a black-nailed finger pointing directly at Jared.

  In a wispy, child-like voice it intoned, ‘You shouldn’t … have made me … angry.’

  Jared whimpered and a fear-propelled fart blatted out of him. At his side he heard Sarah gasp.

  But at last the thing turned and was gone; the sickly light faded and he could hear the creak of the risers as it slowly descended the stairs.

  ‘Oh God. Oh fuck,’ he said, his head sinking into his hands.

  A loud thump came from somewhere near the ceiling. Sarah hurried to the door and closed it.

  Jared pushed back the covers, his heart thumping wildly, and perched on the side of the mattress, shaking violently. ‘Will she come back?’ he asked.

  ‘Tonight? I’ve never known her to appear twice in one night. But who can tell?’

  God. She’d said that on purpose to scare him, he was sure of it. ‘Weren’t you frightened?’

  ‘Of course I was. I am frightened. Who wouldn’t be? But Rachel was my friend. I’m fairly sure she doesn’t mean me harm. And, as you just saw, she’ll do my bidding. You’re the one who should be shitting yourself, not me.’

  I bloody am, Jared thought, don’t you worry about that.

  But still not enough to leave.

  ‘I’m going back to bed,’ Sarah said. ‘I suggest you lock your door.’

  ‘It was locked,’ Jared replied.

  He eyed the bottle of opium on his night table. A few really good swigs of that, plus half a tumbler of whisky, would see him off to sleep without doubt. He’d be lying awake in terror the rest of the night, otherwise.

  ‘Good night,’ Sarah said, closing his door behind her.

  She crossed the landing, opened her own door and shut it again without going in. Then she crept downstairs, avoiding the ones that creaked, through the house and out to the back porch where young Jimmy Johnson from the Siren’s Arms waited in the shadows.

  ‘Was that you making all that noise?’ she whispered tersely.

  ‘I fell down them bloody attic stairs,’ he complained, holding up the lamp with the yellow mantle. ‘Just about busted this, too. Think it’ll still work, but.’

  ‘Come on,’ Sarah said, taking his elbow.

  With the moonlight guiding their way, they crossed the yard to the gate in the high back fence and slipped through. Jared Gellar’s bedroom window looked out over George Street so they had no fear of being seen.

  Friday and her friend Molly from the brothel loitered behind the fence, smoking their pipes. Molly looked a right picture. She’d wiped some of the rice flour off her face but it was still thickly caked around her eyes and jaw line, and all over her neck and hands, and was positively plastered through her normally yellow-blonde hair. In fact she looked worse than she had in Gellar’s bedroom, as though she were now rapidly decaying. Her white, mud-smeared nightgown still ponged, of course, as it would after rubbing gone-over meat all over it.

  ‘You did a great job in there, Molly,’ Sarah said. ‘Thanks ever so much’

  ‘My pleasure. Thought I was going to ruin everything when he farted, though. I had a hell of a job keeping a straight face.’

  ‘Christ, so did I. You did well, too, Jimmy,’ Sarah added, patting the boy’s arm. ‘Thanks.’

  Jimmy beamed with pleasure.

  ‘Here’s your key,’ Molly said, handing back the spare to Gellar’s room that she’d used to dislodge the key already in the lock.

  ‘Has it done the trick, though?’ Friday asked.

  Sarah shrugged. ‘We’ll have to wait and see, won’t we?’

  Chapter Seventeen

  May 1831, Sydney Town

  Harrie had at first been perplexed then disappointed by the failure of the others to see Rachel when she’d manifested at Sarah’s supper party. Very quickly, however, she’d realised that Rachel hadn’t wanted to be seen, not even by Sarah and Friday, and though she didn’t understand why, she knew there’d be a reason.

  Nevertheless, for an entire day she’d worried that Rachel might have moved permanently to Sarah’s house, perhaps to help Sarah, or — far worse — to punish Harrie for something she didn’t even know she’d done. But no, she hadn’t been abandoned, as last night Rachel had appeared in her usual spot in the rocking chair under the eaves, and Harrie had experienced such a sense of relief she’d almost wept.

  She could hear Hannah calling for her, and went to the top of the stairs.

  ‘What is it, Hannah? I’m up here!’

  ‘There’s a man at the door!’ Hannah shouted. ‘That Mr Downer! Will you talk to him?’

  Harrie froze. Oh God, what was he doing here? She’d have to go down — she couldn’t expect Hannah to tell him to go away. She handed Lewis to Abigail. ‘Would you tell your mother I’ve just gone downstairs? Tell her Dr Downey’s called?’

  Abigail wiped dribble off Lewis’s chin and nodded. Her mother and father were in their bedroom, arguing loudly.

  Harrie reluctantly trudged downstairs. James was at the back door, hat in hand, listening patiently to Hannah explain how it was her job to go around the yard every morning and pick up Angus’s turds and chuck them over the fence, as it always seemed to be her who trod them into the house on the bottom of her boots.

  ‘Thank you, sweetie. You can go up now,’ Harrie said.

  ‘I don’t want to. I want to stay,’ Hannah said.

  ‘Well, you can’t. Up you go.’

  Hannah didn’t move.

  James dug in his coat pocket and produced a shilling. Hannah took it and danced up the steps and inside.

  ‘You shouldn’t bribe children,’ Harrie said.

  ‘It was expedient,’ James said. ‘I’d like to talk to you, Harrie. Preferably not out here in full view of the neighbours.’

  ‘There’s nowhere else to go,’ Harrie said unhelpfully. She didn’t want a repeat of last time, when Nora had jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  James sighed. ‘Then out here it will have to be.’ He sat on the step, his back to the door.

  Hesitantly, Harrie drew her skirts around her legs and joined him.

  ‘I saw Friday a week or so ago,’ he began, ‘at the surgery.’

  ‘Yes, I saw her at the markets, on her way to an appointment with Dr Chandler.’ Harrie suspected she knew what might be coming next, and resisted the urge to put her hands over her ears.

  ‘Well, she saw me instead.’ James turned to her. ‘And she told me she and Sarah have been concerned about you.’

  Harrie studied her fingernails. They were ragged and could do with a good tidy. ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  Well, she wasn’t going to lie. Why should she? It wasn’t her who couldn’t see what was glaringly obvious. ‘They think I’m losing my mind because I’ve been talking to Rachel.’

  James was silent for a moment. He reached down and wiped a film of dust off the toe of his boot. Then he said, ‘And by Rachel, do you mean your memories of her before she passed away, or do you mean Rachel as in her ghost or spirit returned to the here and now?’

  ‘Her ghost here now, obviously,’ Harrie said. ‘Wh
at would be the point of talking to memories?’

  ‘And does her ghost talk back to you?’

  Harrie gave him a hard look. His tone was gentle and compassionate but something in his eyes made her suspicious. ‘Don’t make fun of me, James!’

  ‘I’m not, Harrie! I assure you I’m not.’

  Warily, she said, ‘Yes, she does talk back, actually.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘What do you mean, “In what way?” She opens her mouth and words come out.’ Harrie frowned. Was that what actually happened, though? Or did she hear Rachel’s words in her head?

  ‘No, that’s not what I mean.’

  Harrie could see he was struggling to put his thoughts into words.

  James tried again. ‘I mean do you, well, do you just chat to each other? Or do you ask her questions, or perhaps ask her for advice?’

  ‘Sometimes I ask her for advice,’ Harrie said, not meeting his eye now. ‘When I’m unsure about something. And it always helps. It really does. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  James took the longest time to answer, and now he wouldn’t look at her. ‘Harrie, the concern I have isn’t the fact that you think you can see Rachel’s ghost. Plenty of people believe they see ghosts.’

  ‘I don’t believe I can see her, I can see her!’

  He ignored the interruption. ‘My concern is why you feel the need to converse with an imaginary Rachel. And, perhaps even more importantly, the subject of those conversations.’

  ‘For God’s sake, I am not imagining her!’

  James met her gaze. ‘All right, let’s say you’re not. Let’s say for argument’s sake that she has manifested as an apparition. Why, Harrie, would you rather seek counsel from the ghost of a dead girl than from a living person? Why not from Sarah, or Friday? Or even me? Can you not see how delusional and morbid your behaviour is? Can you not see why Sarah and Friday are so concerned for you? Why I’m so concerned?’

  ‘You don’t understand,’ Harrie said flatly. And he didn’t, but then he couldn’t because he knew nothing about what they’d done to Gabriel Keegan or Bella’s blackmail or anything else, and she could never tell him.