Friday shouted up to one of the lumpers, ‘Oi, I think there’s a floater down here!’
The man stopped what he was doing. ‘What?’
‘A corpse. A body, in the water.’
The man swore and fetched a boat hook. ‘Show me.’
Friday did.
Wading into the sea up to his knees, the man hooked the body, tugged violently until it detached itself from the barnacle-encrusted pile on which it had become snagged, and dragged it out from beneath the wharf and up onto the wet sand.
Sarah said, ‘You’ll have to find him first. No one’s seen him since Rachel’s ghost scared him into confessing he set you up. She was, er, manifesting as a bat at the time.’
‘What?’ Adam looked horribly confused. ‘Sarah, what on earth’s been going on?’
So Sarah summarised what had occurred while he’d been away, though she left out the advances Gellar had made towards her; that would only hurt him and he would blame himself.
When she’d finished he pulled her to him and they hugged once more, but this time the embrace was less frantic, and weighted with the knowledge of how close they’d come to losing almost everything that mattered to them.
He pulled back and cupped her cheek with a cold hand. ‘Thank you, Sarah. I owe you an enormous debt.’
‘You don’t owe me anything. I think we’re even now, don’t you?’
He kissed her forehead. ‘Sarah, we’ve always been even.’
A raucous bellow floated up from the beach: ‘Hey, you two lovebirds!’
‘Is that Friday down there?’ Adam squinted against the rain.
They walked arm in arm to the edge of the wharf. Below them, on the sand, a small crowd had gathered around a tangled heap of rags and seaweed lying half in and half out of the water.
‘What is it?’ Adam asked.
Sarah shrugged. Then the wind changed direction slightly and they cursed and covered their noses.
Friday shouted, ‘Come and have a look!’
They did. The corpse was in a dreadful state. Bloated to the extent that buttons on the remaining clothing had burst and seams had ripped, the skin was bleached to a spongy, whitish-green. The corpse’s dark hair lay in wet fronds across a pallid forehead and the eyeballs, parts of the lips, eyelids and nose had been nibbled away by hungry crabs and fish. As they watched, a small eel slid out of the mouth.
‘Ew,’ Friday said, fascinated.
In fact there were two mouths; one where you’d expect, and another gaping slash across the throat. No little sea creature had done that. The smell was appalling, now they’d got it out of the water.
‘Anyone recognise him?’ someone asked.
Sarah, Friday and Adam said absolutely nothing.
Friday arrived at Argyle Street feeling, and no doubt looking, like a drowned rat, but she knew Mrs H would be eager to hear how the reunion had gone. The girls would be, too. It had been the talk of the brothel. Everyone thought it was so romantic: Sarah, a lone, determined figure, waiting on the wharf in all weather for her beloved to return from exile. No matter that he’d be hopping with lice, four stone underweight and suffering the shits from the rubbish food. That wasn’t the point.
She stuck her head into the parlour, noting the presence of Connie, Molly, Vivien and, unfortunately, Lou. The fire was crackling away invitingly and she was very tempted to stand in front of it, damp skirts hoisted, warming the backs of her legs.
‘Is he back?’ Connie asked excitedly.
Friday nodded.
The girls all clapped and hooted with delight, even Lou.
‘Was it lovely? Did you cry?’ Vivien demanded.
‘I did.’
‘Oh, that’s so nice,’ Connie said, watery-eyed herself. ‘A happy ending.’
‘Where’s Mrs H?’ Friday asked.
Molly said, ‘Office, I think.’
Friday knocked and let herself in. ‘He’s back,’ she said.
Elizabeth closed her ledger. ‘Well, that’s wonderful news, isn’t it? And not too worse for wear, I hope?’
Friday made a see-saw motion with her hand. ‘Nothing a few decent feeds and some time with Sarah won’t fix, though. But something else a bit odd happened. When the ship docked at Campbell’s it dislodged a body from under the wharf. Quite a rotten one.’
Elizabeth put down her pen. ‘Whose, dare I ask? Could you tell?’
‘Jared Gellar’s.’
‘Really?’
‘His throat had been cut.’
‘I can’t say I’m bothered.’ Elizabeth poured fine sand from a porcelain sandbox onto the fresh ink in her ledger. ‘Serves him right, in fact. Poor Sarah. She was by herself in that house and he was stalking her and wearing her down and thinking he could just help himself. It just isn’t right. Who did it, I wonder?’
‘I don’t know.’ Though Friday knew exactly who’d killed Gellar.
‘It wasn’t Sarah, was it?’
‘Honestly, Mrs H, what a thing to say.’
‘No, you’re right. He did push her, though, didn’t he? But I don’t suppose it matters who murdered him, as long as he’s dead. All’s well that ends well.’
‘I bloody hope it’s ended. His stuff’s still mouldering on Sarah’s porch, so I wouldn’t be surprised to see the cops poking round.’
Elizabeth blew the excess sand off her ledger. ‘Well, all I can say is bloody good riddance.’
July 1831, Sydney Town
The police did knock on Sarah and Adam’s door. Someone had come forward to identify Gellar’s body, and to advise them that for the past four months Mr Gellar had been living at the home of his associate Mr Adam Green, a jeweller in George Street, having agreed to manage Mr Green’s jewellery business, and supervise his convict wife, while Mr Green was serving time in the penitentiary at Port Macquarie.
Sarah told them that approximately five weeks earlier, after writing a confession to the effect that he had framed her husband, Jared Gellar had left her house and had never returned for his belongings. Yes, she had been extremely shocked by his confession: no, she did not know where he’d gone after that. She had been as horrified as everyone else to learn he’d been fished out of the harbour.
And yes, since Mr Gellar had gone she’d been supervised by Dr James Downey, who had been living with her — in separate quarters, naturally — and she had the papers to prove it. As Captain Rossi — yes, that Captain Rossi, superintendent of police and police magistrate — had personally arranged for her husband’s release from Port Macquarie on the grounds of unlawful conviction as the result of fraud perpetrated by another followed by unlawful imprisonment, Mr Green was now home and Dr Downey had returned to his own residence. Was there anything else she could help with? Only she didn’t want Mr Gellar’s belongings on her porch any longer. Would they please take them away?
Friday had just finished telling Leo all this when Harrie arrived at his shop with a set of flash she’d recently completed. Angels, this time, with bats’ wings, all looking suspiciously like Rachel, and based on the very first sketch she’d done for Leo before he’d hired her. Friday, visiting Leo to begin the outline of a new tattoo to cover the scar on her calf, decided on the spot that was what she wanted.
‘In that case, Harrie can draw it,’ Leo said.
‘On Friday’s leg?’ Harrie asked, startled.
‘Why not?’ Leo replied. ‘You drew it on paper.’
‘I’m not sure I can.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a lily liver.’ Friday lay face down on the bench. ‘If you go wrong just rub it off and start again.’
Harrie glanced hesitantly at Leo, who nodded. ‘Go on. I have to duck out. Seem to have run out of tobacco.’
‘Send Walter,’ Harrie said. She could hear him in the other room, scraping dishes and sloshing things about in the washing-up basin.
‘He’s busy. Back soon,’ Leo said cheerfully on his way out the door.
Harrie dithered for a minute, then finally asked, ‘Just the o
utline?’
Friday nodded, her head on her arms.
‘Which one?’
‘Number three,’ Friday said, referring to the numbers on the new series.
Harrie sat on the stool, glanced at the flash once, selected a pen, dipped it into a pot of India ink, and began to draw. To her surprise, drawing directly onto skin was as easy as it was on paper. In no time at all she’d finished. The image extended from just below the back of Friday’s knee to about three inches above her ankle, the outstretched wings wrapping around her calf and almost touching on her upper shin.
‘It’s quite big,’ Harrie said. ‘But it has to be, to get in all the detail.’
‘Good.’ Friday sat up.
Harrie warned, ‘Don’t smudge it.’
Friday lifted her skirt above her knees and extended her leg along the bench, slightly bent, keeping the fresh ink above the cracked and worn leather. ‘You’re not going to see Matthew soon, are you?’
‘Matthew? Why would I visit Matthew?’ Harrie tapped the excess ink off the pen’s nib and carefully put it down.
‘I don’t know. But we need him to go to the bank for us.’
‘God, it’s this Sunday night, isn’t it? Do you want me to come with you?’ She desperately hoped Friday wouldn’t say yes but she had to offer. She didn’t like the idea of Friday being all alone with that horrible man.
‘Actually, strangely, I don’t feel like facing Furniss by myself,’ Friday said, ‘especially not in a stinking graveyard on the stroke of midnight, but there’d be no point you coming. Last time I just handed the money over, he said something smart-arsed about saving for the next lot, and I left. It only took about two minutes. And the graveyard’s just up the street from the police office. I can always scream my head off if he tries anything. Very brave of you to offer, though. Sarah offered, too.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive. Two hundred pounds, though. Fucking Bella. We’re going to be left with just about nothing.’
‘I know. It’s Janie and the babies I feel bad for. They’re the ones who are going to miss out.’
Friday scratched her armpit. ‘Well, we’ll all just have to work even harder, won’t we? I don’t mind giving more. It’s only money.’
‘That’s easy for you to say. I give just about everything I earn as it is. And I’m happy to do that, I really am, but I can’t give what I haven’t got.’
‘Try not to worry, Harrie.’
‘I do try. But sometimes I can’t help it, Friday. I really can’t.’
Sunday, 10 July 1831, Sydney Town
Friday hurried up George Street, the little bag containing two hundred pounds in English tenners tucked safely inside her jacket. The night was cold and the wind just this side of bitter, though at least it wasn’t raining. There was no moon at all, however, and she’d stumbled badly on the uneven footway twice. Insipid light spilt from the occasional house window, lamps shone at the barracks gates and farther up the hill at the gate of the police office, but the market sheds were as black as coal, rearing up to her right and blocking the scatter of stars in the velvet sky. Somewhere not far behind her a dog barked. She had a lantern but dared not light it, not here on the street where someone might follow her into the burial ground, and rob her.
Ha, that would be funny, wouldn’t it? Getting robbed of two hundred pounds when she was on her way to hand it over to Amos sodding Furniss?
She would light the lantern, though, once she was behind the high stone wall that bordered the old graveyard. Nothing — nothing — would tempt her to wander around in there in the pitch dark.
She ducked down Druitt Street and followed the wall until she came to a gate hanging half off its hinges. Pausing to wrap her woollen scarf around the lower half of her face against the smell, she lifted the gate to one side and stepped inside the abandoned burial ground.
It had been declared full ten years earlier, closed, and thoroughly neglected since. Sydney Town’s more recently deceased were now interred in the Devonshire Street cemetery, leaving behind in George Street two thousand corpses gouged into two acres of unyielding clay. Effluvia seeping up through the ground brought with it an appalling stink, especially in summer, as though the dead themselves were protesting their abandonment. Passers-by used the grounds as an open privy, stray animals wandered among the graves, and vandals had smashed headstones and monuments, broken open vaults and tombs, and, according to gossip, robbed them. The old graveyard was a foul place, and nobody went there — unless, it was said, they were up to no good.
Friday crouched in the shelter of the wall and lit her lantern, adjusting the darkened mantle so that only a thin beam escaped, just enough to light her way. God only knew where Furniss would be waiting. The burial ground was huge, particularly in the dark, and she had no desire at all to go plunging into some poor, rotting soul’s open grave. He would probably sneak up and scare the shit out of her, just for the fun of it. She was starting to wish now that she had brought someone with her. Not Sarah or Harrie — especially not Harrie, not here — but perhaps Jack, like last time.
She set off for the centre, picking her way around yawning black holes and sunken troughs in the mean, patchy grass, grey and dead in the lantern light, heading for the outline of a vault, a crumbling black shape against the night sky. Furniss would see her coming; let the bugger come to her.
Feeling a tickle of awareness on the back of her neck, she spun around. Was he behind her? She raised her lantern, but saw no one, only shades of black blending into one another. Prick. He was playing with her. Then, off to her left, she heard a whistle.
‘Hey, girlie!’
She turned again and there he was, a shadow materialising from the darkness, his hat pulled low so she could see little more than his leering, gap-toothed smile. But she knew it was him. She could smell the arseholery coming off him.
He held out his hand, palm up.
She withdrew the bag containing the money from her jacket and hurled it at him. He caught it and laughed.
‘Bastard!’ Friday hissed.
‘Slag,’ he shot back.
‘Who told Bella about our money?’ Friday demanded. ‘It was bloody Lou, wasn’t it?’
But Furniss was already turning away.
‘Oi!’ Friday shouted after him, her voice echoing eerily across the burial ground. ‘Oi!’
He’d gone, dissolved into the darkness again, like pond scum.
Shaking violently, Friday swore and made herself unclench her fists. The handle of the lantern had cut into her palm, and, now that she thought about it, it hurt. She stood very still, her head down, arms slack, and took several deep breaths to calm herself. She couldn’t afford to go berserk here — she’d fall into a grave or something and hurt herself.
Slowly and carefully she made her way back to the gate and let herself out. The money was gone and that was that.
She sighed again, a great, ragged heaving in and out of breath, and told herself things could be worse. Adam was back, Gellar was dead and this time they weren’t guilty, Harrie was talking to James, and she … well, she was just the way she always was. Not happy, not sad. Just Friday.
She’d have a few drinks. That would make her feel better.
From his hiding place behind a crooked headstone he watched as she left, her lantern scribbling a skinny beam of light across the ground at her feet. His heart was still thudding madly with a mix of nervous anticipation and raw, simmering rage, and when the bastard had been talking to her he’d wanted to leap out then and there. But he’d made himself wait, because he didn’t want to get her into even more trouble. He didn’t want to get any of them into trouble, but especially not Harrie.
Now, though, he could do what he liked.
He made a gesture of quiet, made sure the message had been received, and set out after Furniss, darting on fleet, bare feet from stone to stone, ducking behind the ruins of tombs and low vaults, and quickly reached the far wall bordering Bathurst Street.
Furniss was almost at the gate, whistling to himself as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
Walter slid the knife out of his jacket pocket and stepped up onto a lurching gravestone, his toes gripping the edge like a monkey’s.
‘Furniss, you rotten bastard.’
Furniss spun around, eyes wide.
Walter launched himself, driving the knife as hard as he could into Furniss’s chest. Furniss grunted once, staggered and crashed against the wall, his arms flailing wildly as he fell on his side. Clifford bit into the man’s ankle as Walter rolled away, the knife still gripped in his hand, then he leapt to his feet and stabbed again. And again and again and again, until Furniss stopped moving.
‘Clifford, drop him.’
The little dog backed off, taking a mouthful of cloth and flesh with her.
Furniss’s hat had come off and his eyes were open, but no longer saw anything. His blood, bubbling and oozing out of his chest, looked black. Like his heart. While Walter watched, the filthy flow slowed, then finally stopped altogether.
He hoicked up a good gob and spat on the dead man’s face.
Then he wiped his sticky hands on Furniss’s trousers, went through his pockets until he found Friday’s money, and slipped the little bag into his own pocket.
He hesitated, then bent over and vomited.
Suddenly feeling very shaky, he wrapped his arms around himself.
After a minute he said, ‘Come on, Cliffie, let’s go.’
Author’s Notes
The characters in this story are all fictional, except for the ones already in the history books.
To my knowledge, the real Francis Rossi, police magistrate and superintendent of Sydney’s police, never had anything whatsoever to do with any brothels or madams during his time in New South Wales. Also, that Francis Rossi should not be confused with the Francis Rossi in Status Quo.
The subtitles for parts one, two and three of this story come from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem ‘Haunted Houses’.
A note on ghosts, as readers might wonder at the gullibility of some of my characters. While the British public’s belief in fairies and the like may have faded by the nineteenth century, and witches had in general been downgraded from the devil’s handmaidens to wise women, there was still, apparently, an enduring acceptance by a good number that ghosts were real. Perhaps it was because death was ever-present. The infant and child mortality rate was very high, and diseases we don’t have to worry about now could take loved ones in a matter of days. The occasional reappearance — real or imagined — of those snatched so suddenly and unfairly from life may have helped to lessen the pain of such loss.
Girl of Shadows Page 45