There came a sigh of impatience. ‘I’ve had enough of this. I am taking you home.’
‘Miss Price won’t let me stay. I’m a boy.’
A moment of silence was followed by a smooth upwards movement, and the green points of light were suddenly far above, looking down on him. The voice, when it came again, was cold and firm: ‘I shall be taking you home, Matthew. Reconcile yourself to it. Cornelius or no, I shall not be denied.’
The green lights disappeared. There was a large movement in the cramped room – a heavy swish of cloth – and Joe realised it was Ursula Lyndon’s costumes being taken from their hangers.
Joe sighed. ‘Don’t be robbing stuff, mister. The auld wan hasn’t a farthing – it’ll ruin her if you take them dresses.’
The door opened, then closed. Dusty silence settled once again on the room.
Too tired to care, Joe shut his eyes, waiting for the next dream. There was a scuffling in the corridor outside, and the click of the latch as someone opened the dressing-room door. Oh, what now? he thought wearily. Can’t a fella get some kip?
A match flared and warm light filled the room. He opened his eyes to see Harry lighting the lamp. Joe was just about to whisper hello when Tina turned from shutting the door and her blood-smeared face sent him struggling to his feet.
Tina lifted a hand to halt him. ‘It wasn’t Harry’s fault.’
‘Wasn’t his…’ Joe rounded on Harry. ‘What the hell did you do to her?’
‘I didn’t do anything. It was the spirit board. Tina got scared and—’
‘A spirit board!’ cried Joe. ‘Tina shouldn’t be anywhere near a spirit board!’ This shout seemed to rob his legs of their power. Harry reached for him as he staggered, but Joe shoved him aside. ‘What were you doing making Tina use a spirit board, Harry?’
‘What was I doing? Now listen here, Tina was—’
‘I’m right here!’ cried Tina. ‘Stop fighting over me like two dogs with a rag.’
The two of them drew back, ashamed, and Tina shoved between them, stumbling to the sofa, where she sat and cradled her head in her hands.
‘You shouldn’t be using the board,’ murmured Joe. ‘You know that.’
‘It wasn’t her,’ said Harry. ‘It was the actress. She put on quite a show. Tina got scared and—’
‘Harry,’ mumbled Tina without lifting her head from her hands, ‘if you say I was scared again, I’ll kick you right in your arse.’
Joe sat beside her. Tentatively, he put his hand on her back. ‘Did you see something, Tina? Was there a voice?’
She squeezed her eyes tight. ‘The door opened again, Joe. I could see again – a kind of light, this time, all tangled up in those men.’
Harry crouched in front of them, his face vivid with curiosity. ‘What’s going on?’
Joe glared. Never you mind, Harry Weiss.
‘There’s something wrong with me,’ mumbled Tina.
‘There’s nothing wrong with you!’ insisted Joe.
‘Ah, Joe,’ she said softly. ‘You know there is.’ She looked up at Harry. ‘There’s something wrong with me. Up here.’ She tapped her temple. ‘I got a fever when I was small; it gave me fits. I heard voices. I saw things. I saw things for a long time after. People thought I was funny in the head.’
Joe turned his face away, not wanting to remember little Tina, thin as a twig, wrapped in a blanket on the front steps, smiling at nothing and following things with her eyes.
‘What kinds of things?’ asked Harry.
‘Threads of light …’ she whispered. ‘Animals that tumble. Big floaty things with arms like eels. They talk to me in feelings …’ To Joe’s horror she reached as if to touch something. He grabbed her.
‘Tina! Come back!’
She flinched and deflated, cradling her head again. ‘I’m only remembering, Joe. Don’t shout.’
‘Sorry.’ He lifted his hand, wanting to stroke her hair, not daring to. ‘I’m sorry.’
She moaned. ‘My mind hurts, Joe. I feel sick.’
Harry met his eyes. What do we do?
Joe shook his head, not knowing. Without looking up, Tina took his hand.
A soft noise out in the hall dragged Joe’s attention to the door. To his horror, he realised Harry had left the lamp sitting on the floor. The light would be seeping out through the cracks, making it obvious to anyone in the corridor that someone was in here. Joe cursed under his breath as the door swung quietly open.
You could have blown him over when Daniel Barrett stepped into the room.
The big man looked pained, his shoulders hunched with embarrassment. He opened his mouth to speak; then he caught sight of Tina’s bloodstained face, and his eyes went hard.
‘Miss Kelly!’ he said.
‘She’s there?’ whispered a voice from the hall.
Joe’s heart dropped. Oh God. Fran the Apples.
The little woman shoved her way past Daniel Barrett. Her face dropped when she saw Tina. ‘Oh, acushla!’
‘It wasn’t Joe’s fault,’ mumbled Tina.
Fran’s expression closed like a trap. Joe opened his mouth to say, It’s true! I didn’t do it. But Fran was already elbowing him aside and grabbing Tina. ‘I told you, Joe Gosling. I told you! I gave you your chances!’
Tina gasped as Fran pulled her to her feet.
‘No, Fran!’ cried Joe. ‘Don’t!’
Before he knew what he was doing, he had grabbed Tina’s other arm and tried to pull her from Fran’s grip. His only thought was, Don’t take her from me! but Fran wouldn’t let go, and Tina ended up caught between the two of them, her face screwed up in pain.
‘Say,’ cried Harry, ‘you’re hurting her.’
Tina’s nose began to bleed again.
Daniel Barrett filled Joe’s vision. He put a huge hand on Joe’s chest and bent to look into his face. ‘Stop,’ he said. ‘Now.’
‘It wasn’t me, Daniel,’ whispered Joe. ‘I didn’t do it.’
‘You let Miss Tina go, now, and we can discuss this in the morning.’
The soft fabric of Tina’s sleeve slipped from Joe’s fingers. He heard her moan as Fran hustled her to the door. ‘It wasn’t Joe, Fran. It wasn’t him.’ And then, just before her voice faded from hearing, she gasped, ‘Oh, Fran! I’m going to be sick!’
Daniel Barrett backed to the door, his hand up, his eyes on Joe. His expression was a conflict of pity and disapproval. ‘Miss Fran would never have let her stay out all night, Joe. Miss Tina should have known that.’
Joe, overwhelmed with the knowledge that everything was slipping away, lifted his empty hands.
‘I didn’t do anything.’
Daniel Barrett nodded, as if to say, Sure, sure. ‘Don’t be worrying, now,’ he said. ‘We’ll go out the way we came in. We won’t tell anyone you’re here.’
He shut the door. The click of the latch was as final as goodbye.
‘Say …’ said Harry uncertainly. ‘Say … it’ll be okay, Joe.’
Joe shook his head.
‘Why don’t you sit down, huh? You look like you’re going to fall. Sit down and I’ll … I’ll make us some tea!’
All false enthusiasm, Harry went to Ursula’s dressing table, where he filled the kettle and lit the stove, trying to kill the silence with bustle. Joe just returned to the sofa and put his head in his hands. After a while, Harry stopped pretending everything would be all right and came and sat by his side.
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ he whispered. ‘Tina. The blood. It just poured out of her.’
Joe groaned. ‘I know. I’ve seen it before. Fran will blame me.’
‘Don’t be dumb! How could she possibly—’
‘Because I bought Tina a spirit board, Harry. First time it happened, it was because I bought her a spirit board.’
‘In America we bring our girls flowers, Joe. You should try it.’
‘Would you just listen?’
Harry lifted his hands. ‘Sorry. Go on …’
‘When Tina and me were small, she and the Lady Nana and Fran lived across the street from me. If Tina stood in her window and I stood in mine we could see each other, and we used to play a kind of game …’ Joe paused, remembering his hand on the filthy glass, Tina’s tiny figure in the window opposite, suspended above the street. ‘It must’ve started when we were really tiny,’ he said softly, ‘because it was always just something me and Tina did … our own little thing.’
He glanced quickly at Harry. ‘Anyway, the game was that Tina would think of a word. She’d concentrate real hard on it, then I’d breathe on the window and draw a picture of what she’d thought.’
Harry’s doubt showed in his face, and Joe tutted.
‘Tina would think a word, Harry. I’d hear it in my head, then I’d draw it on the window.’
‘Joe,’ said Harry gently. ‘That’s impossible.’
‘When we were eleven, she wanted to see what would happen if we used a spirit board: if maybe she’d be able to hear my thoughts, or if she could put her words into someone else’s head. Fran was raging at the idea – everyone already thought Tina was peculiar, on account of, you know, the fits she’d had. Fran didn’t want them saying she was a witch, too. But Tina just kept begging me to bring a spirit board, and eventually I did, and …’ Joe shook his head.
‘She had another fit, Harry. We were on our own. She fell down. Her nose poured blood. I thought she was going to die.’ He met Harry’s eye, the horror of that moment still raw. ‘Fran wouldn’t let me back for three months. Three months. Tina persuaded her, in the end. But I swore to Fran – I swore, Harry – that I’d never do it again. She warned me … I won’t get her back, Harry. I’ve lost her.’
‘No, you haven’t.’
Joe dropped his head back into his hands. ‘Course I have. Fran’ll lock her up in that sweet little gaff. Tina won’t be able to see me again.’
Harry stood up. ‘Joe,’ he said softly. ‘You’ve gotta be the stupidest human being I ever met.’
Joe straightened. ‘Hey,’ he said, genuinely hurt.
Harry fetched Tina’s basket from where she’d left it by the door and laid it on the ground by Joe’s feet.
Joe gazed at it, puzzled. ‘This is full of food.’
‘Of course it’s full of food, you dumkop! Tina brought it for you. She risked her job for you. She was willing to defy that terrifying Apples woman and spend the night here for you. Do you really think she’s gonna let a stupid nosebleed stand between you?’
‘It’s not just a nosebleed, Harry!’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Harry nudged the basket with his toe. ‘Come on, I’m starved. Open the darned thing while I make the tea.’
Joe rubbed his mouth with his hand and frowned down into the crammed basket. Tina had put his purse there, nestled among the brown-paper parcels of sandwiches and cake. Gently, almost reverently, Joe touched it with his fingertips. He stayed like that for a moment, bent over the basket, his fingers resting on the purse, watching as Harry busied himself once again with the cups and kettle and tea.
Then he made up his mind.
‘I’m going to own me own cab, Harry.’ Harry looked around in surprise, and Joe felt himself blush, deep and hot and uncertain.
‘I … I haven’t told anyone that before. Not even Tina. The man I work for – Mr Trott – he’s up to his neck in gambling debts. He’s always behind on payments. They were going to burn his cab, as a lesson. But Saul knows the gougers who own the book, and he persuaded them that we can buy the cab. We’ve four months of saving left, and then I’ll own it. Saul’ll be me partner, but only a silent partner. I’ll be working for meself, Harry. I’ll own the cab.’
Harry just stared open-mouthed, until doubt and then horrible embarrassment flooded Joe’s chest. ‘Well …’ he mumbled, covering the purse and straightening. ‘I suppose that doesn’t seem like much when you’re going to be the greatest magician in the world.’
‘Why, Joe, it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard!’
Joe squinted warily at him.
‘I mean it! You’re going to be an entrepreneur, Joe! Heck, you are an entrepreneur!’
Joe smiled, pleased. ‘Don’t be daft.’
Harry began to pace. ‘You’ll have to get signs made!’ He made a sweeping arc in the air. ‘Giant gold letters: Gosling Cabs. Quality at your service.’
Joe gazed at the empty space Harry had just filled with words. ‘Oh, I like that. Gosling Cabs. Quality at your service …’ He settled his head back onto the sofa, his eyes focused on that bright spot in the future. ‘Yeah, I like that …’
‘Tell you what,’ cried Harry, ‘I’ll only ever use Gosling cabs when I’m touring here. You can paste advertising posters on the doors’ – he made that sweeping movement again, conjuring words – ‘The Great Houdini Uses Gosling Cabs. So Should YOU!’
‘The Great Houdini Uses Gosling Cabs,’ murmured Joe. ‘So Should … Wait, the Great Houdini?’
‘Sure! That’s my stage name,’ said Harry. ‘Houdini! In honour of Robert-Houdin, the greatest magician to ever grace the stage. It means “like Houdin” in French. That’s what a pal of mine told me. If you add an “ee” sound to the end of a word, it means “like” in French.’ Harry puffed up his chest, clearly very pleased with himself and his faultless knowledge of the French language.
Joe thought deeply for a moment. ‘An “ee” sound. I suppose that makes sense.’
‘Sure it does,’ said Harry, turning to fetch the tea. ‘Orangey – like an orange. Floaty – like floating.’
Joe couldn’t bring himself to reply. His eyes had drifted shut, and he was suddenly very comfortable sitting there with his head laid back and his legs stretched out. Even his chest felt better. Maybe Harry is right, he thought. Maybe everything is going to be ‘okay’. He heard Harry shifting things about in the basket of food.
‘Sneaky,’ he murmured without opening his eyes. ‘Like a sneak.’
‘Smelly,’ Harry retorted. ‘Like a smell.’
Joe smiled.
Friendly, he thought, as he drifted downwards. Like a friend.
A Matter of Persuasion
HARRY STARTLED AWAKE, sending sandwich wrappings and crumbs tumbling to the floor. Sheesh, when had he fallen asleep? The sofa beside him was empty, Joe nowhere to be seen.
Out in the dark corridor Harry found that the door to the alley had been left open. Maybe Joe had gone for a piss? The night outside was still. Snow drifted downwards, reflecting the gaslight of the nearby streets.
‘Joe?’
A muffled shout dragged Harry’s attention to a stark rectangle of light at the far end of the alley. The side door of the depot was open. Another shout came from there, and Harry ran towards the sound. He had no thought of what he expected to find, but as he slid in through the depot door and saw Joe felled by a punch to the belly, Harry’s vision filled with red.
He roared and leapt, knocking Joe’s attacker sideways with one blow. A shape moved behind him, and he had to duck as something whistled above his head – a staff or a walking stick, swung hard enough to kill. Harry spun. Something slammed hard across his shoulders, and he went down. The cobbles impacted his face. Horse piss and stale water stole his breath.
A man roared, ‘Who the fuck’s this bugger?’
Another answered, ‘Divil knows.’
‘Mickey?’ asked someone. ‘Do you know this shleeveen?’
Joe’s voice answered, breathless and thin. ‘He’s the theatre watchman’s pal – you’d better let him go. He’ll be missed.’
He was crouched in the dirty hay of the stall, his face the colour of chalk, glaring up at the broad, bull-necked man Harry recognised as Mickey the Wrench. ‘I’m telling you,’ he gasped, ‘you can let that lad go. He won’t say anything.’ He looked to Harry. ‘Sure you won’t? If they let you go, you’ll go right back in to the watchman and have your cup of cocoa, and you won’t say anything.’
Harry climbed slowly to h
is feet. Mickey the Wrench looked him up and down, a flat, dead expression in his eyes. He bounced a thick, black wooden staff in his hand.
Harry glanced sideways at the man who’d beaten him to the ground: Daymo, one of Joe’s other cousins. He held a similar heavy stick. The man Harry had punched was retrieving his own staff from where it had been flung from his hand. A fourth man, no doubt Joe’s cousin Graham, shuffled about behind Harry’s back.
Harry spat blood onto the cobbles. ‘Oh, you’re a real tough bunch, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘Four of you, armed with bludgeons, to take on one man.’
‘Jesus, Harry,’ groaned Joe. ‘Just go.’
Without changing his expression at all, Mickey the Wrench raised himself onto his tiptoes, swung his staff up and over, and brought it down full force on Joe’s back. Joe collapsed into the hay with hardly a sound and lay there gaping like a fish.
‘Shut up, Joe,’ murmured Mickey the Wrench.
Harry roared, and flew for Mickey’s throat. He was brought down with a numbing blow to the backs of his legs. The air was pressed from his lungs as someone knelt their full weight on him, and he was pinned, helpless. Mickey didn’t pay this so much as a moment’s attention. He just crouched by Joe and watched him struggle for breath in the hay. ‘Now, Joe,’ he said. ‘What’s this about money?’
Joe’s mouth opened and closed, his face turning scarlet as he tried to get his shocked lungs to work. Mickey regarded him with detached patience. After a moment, he tapped Joe lightly on the forehead with his staff. ‘Joe. Money, please.’
‘You bastard!’ wheezed Harry. ‘Leave him alone!’
‘Now, now,’ murmured a voice just above Harry’s head. ‘Show a bit of respect.’ Then this same person ground the butt of their staff hard into the hollow behind Harry’s ear.
Harry almost screamed. He’d never felt anything so painful in his life. At some point, the man’s weight lifted from his back and the staff stopped crushing his skull, and Harry was able to scramble to all fours. But the pain still splintered his brain, and it took a while before he registered the series of strange wracking barks tearing the air behind him. He turned and peered through watering eyes to where the four men were standing staring down at Joe with similar expressions of uncertainty.
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