In Lonnie's Shadow

by Chrissie Michaels

  The door sprang open. He slipped inside, feeling his way forward with one hand. His fingers seemed to disappear into the dark world. Ever so slowly he edged along a hallway. His steps felt heavier, more clumsy than usual for the weight of his small frame. Each footfall was a trespass. Lonnie was only a shrimp of a lad after all, but every noise, even the wooden floor itself, seemed to cry out a warning that an intruder was here.

  Barely able to see, he entered the parlour towards the front of the house. Why hadn’t he thought to bring a dark lantern? What a mug. He could just make out a fireplace. He touched the blackened chimney stone. Cold. There was a heavy staleness in the room and an odour of musty linen. A kind of certainty fell over him about what lay ahead.

  Unexpectedly, a yellow circle of light flooded in through the open curtains. A sudden fear of being caught ripped through his body. He sprang back and jerked his head towards the source, fully expecting to see the owner returning to the house, or worse, a white-helmeted constable ready to march him off. Outside, a street lamp fizzed up in fury at the rain. Lonnie followed the tapping of the pole as the lamplighter made his way through the winter evening towards the next lamp. He should have known, for it was as common a sound as a blind man’s cane. There was nothing untoward to worry him after all.

  Lonnie stared out at the evening streetscape and cursed himself for being so jittery. A yellowish haze now embraced the double-storey terraces. With the rain and the shadowy reflections from the leadlight panels, their iron lacework dripped like chains of coloured gems – amber, green, red. Jewels. The thought of treasure nudged Lonnie back to why he was here. He forced himself to breathe more evenly. Sharpen your wits, mate. All’s well.

  The circle of light was both a blessing and a curse as he edged away from the window. At least up until now the house seemed to be unoccupied. Even so, he knew no good would come from prancing and bounding around like a larrikin on a street corner. The lamplighter might not be the only witness around, innocent or otherwise.

  All about him strange shapes covered in pale dustsheets formed into outlines of ghostly grey. The room was filled with household goods; more furniture and belongings than would fit into the entire row of houses in Casselden Place. They were arranged higgledy-piggledy, as though someone had been moving house, stacked them all together, then been interrupted. He could only guess where the rest had come from. No mercy for even the poorest of the poor.

  One by one he picked out the items. A high-backed chair. Bedstead. A table with drop down sides whose cloth reminded him of a shroud on an undertaker’s slab. Lonnie flung away the cover. From underneath he picked out several forks, one silver-plated; a sharp, bone hatpin; a blue cup patterned with a boy fishing. He flicked through a wad of pawn tickets. Odds and sods, all pouring out their story at the same time.

  Another dustsheet he pulled aside laid bare a timber and glass cabinet. Imprisoned behind the panelled glass was a stash of jewellery – lockets, studs, bracelets, necklets, rings, pins, gents’ and ladies’ watches. At the sight of all the simple wedding rings he thought his guts would turn over. Payne had no common decency. Wouldn’t that be the last thing to demand, payment owing or not? How could anyone ever believe he was a gentleman? When Lonnie studied all the personal belongings stashed here – all the life treasures, all the heartbreak involved – he wished he could give everything back to everyone. If only he had the power to fix things.

  He tore a strip from the dustsheet, wrapping it around and around his right hand like a boxer bandaging for a bout. Clenching his fist, he smashed through the brittle pane and cursed as the broken edges of the glass tore into his unprotected forearm. He drew slivers of glass from the gash, flinching as he did so. Quickly, he unwrapped the material, tied it around the wound to stem the flow of blood and reached back inside the cabinet. From the rear he took a horseshoe pin, flecked with gold from the diggings, which he slipped inside his jacket pocket. He nodded to himself. Satisfied. A job well done. Give or take a drop of blood. Time to move.

  But a feeling deep in his belly prevented him from leaving. Later he tried to explain the feeling. How a sense of foreboding crept up on him there and then. Whispering in his head: Not yet, mate, reach back inside. How all he needed to do was open his eyes and snatch the pocket watch. He knew the inscription well enough before he’d even flipped open the spring lid. But it cut him sharp as a blade to see the watch physically in his hand, here in this house owned by Henry Payne. He snapped the cover shut, hurriedly shoved the watch into his pocket and stormed wild as a young bull out of the house, back the way he had come.

  Auntie Tilly’s horseshoe pin was one thing, but he had found more than he had bargained for. He swore out loud. How could he not have figured out what had become of the watch?

  There is an indifference which comes with anger. It was here with him now, sitting like a spiteful imp on his shoulder. Lonnie stormed to the back lane, searching for bluestone and large chunks of it. Like the Push, he knew exactly how to put it to good use. He picked out a fist-sized chip and hurled it smack at a window, wounding the glass good and proper. So what if the sound of the smashing glass was heard by dogs, lamplighters or neighbours’ ears? His makeshift bandage was sopping from the blood and the rain, his arm ached, but he’d be damned if he was going to be silent or try to curb his temper. Payne deserved a good beating and his house would do for a start.

  It didn’t take long before the mongrel dog was going berserk, barking for blood. Run! – a cautionary voice yelled in his head. Rage, however, had taken control. Armed with more bluestone, he shot back into the house and pounded the hallway fanlight, then the leadlight border of the front parlour window. A shower of amber, green and red fragments arced out onto the street, smashing to smithereens. Recklessly, he picked up a shard of glass, waving it around like a dagger, promising himself that if Payne should come along right now he would slash his throat and delight in it. Back in the yard. Breathless from his own fury. Taking aim at a narrow window. Flinging the bluestone. Watching it fly through the air and bang the glass hard. Served Payne right if he brought down the whole house.

  Timber creaked and groaned as the frenzied dog pushed against the gate. The cautionary voice warned Lonnie once more. Run!

  ‘Wait till I get hold of you.’ The bellow from a neighbouring window finally shook Lonnie out of his dark, destructive mood.

  He realised with a jolt what damage he had done. It hadn’t been his intention. He had only come for the horseshoe pin. Still, it served Payne right.

  ‘I’ll break your neck, you snivelling larrikin,’ the neighbour threatened again.

  Why do they always do it, Lonnie thought, call out to you first about how they’re going to get you? Didn’t they ever reckon it would give you a head start? He was glad he was only sixteen and still thinking at times like a tacker. Catch me if you can, you and your flea- bitten mongrel. But I reckon you’re too slow.

  Tucking the jemmy under his good arm and with his bounty stashed in his pocket, Lonnie backtracked and tore off down the nightcart lane.

  PICKAXE HANDLE

  Item No. 4929

  Hickory shaft from a cutting tool with a heavy double-pointed head. Used to break rock or hard surfaces. Imported from Europe.

  True to his word, the yelling neighbour came after Lonnie armed with a pickaxe handle. By his side was the leashed dog, growling ferociously and impatiently pulling to be free.

  The warning had given Lonnie valuable time. He sprinted onto the wider street where the flaming gas lamps spread their light more evenly. A stolen look behind told him the man was powerfully built and well up for the chase.

  Lonnie shot into the shadows. As long as he kept out of sight he knew he had a good chance of escape. No way was he going to be caught. If Payne found out what he’d done, leastways he’d be beaten up, left black-eyed and bruised.

  Lonnie was intending to head straight back to Casselden Place, when a worry about his mam crossed his mind. If he turned up home in a sor
ry condition, there’d be a lot of explaining to do. His eyes darkened at the thought of the watch; some explaining from both sides. By now that slavering mongrel would have picked up his scent. A dog’s sense of smell was many hundreds times more sensitive than that of a human’s. This beast would arrive only seconds behind. No, it wasn’t safe to go home.

  He had to throw the mutt off his trail. What he needed fast was some water. Too bad the rain had eased. There was the river, but he’d never make it that far. Not that he fancied wading through those shallows. Too many things underfoot. The river was always spewing out muck, and worse, drowned souls, all bloated and stiff with holes as big as fists you could hear the wind through. Lonnie wasn’t going to risk the winter river. Besides he couldn’t swim too well.

  But the grand exhibition building and the city gardens across the road were giving him the nod. It was a colossal building, a great hall that dominated the landscape, with its ornamental towers and pavilions and portal entries built to show off the wonders of the industrial world. As the moon broke out from behind the clouds, the roof ’s silver-slate dome seemed to fill the sky like a guiding beacon, offering the escape route he was looking for – the stone fountain in the courtyard filled with water. Say he paddled around the edge then made a quick retreat? Could give him a fair chance of distracting

  the dog. With this in mind, he turned sharply and made a beeline for the gardens.

  The clatter of a bell made him spin around. For an instant Lonnie thought he was done for. Seated high on the hansom cab, it took all of the driver’s strength and horsemanship to wrestle the shying horse away from the lad who had stumbled and fallen in their path.

  ‘You nearly killed me, mister,’ Lonnie bawled at the cabbie, as he hauled himself to his feet. His chest was heaving, his heart nearly jumping out.

  The driver cussed at him. ‘Yer dolt, leaping out like that. Watch yer step or yer’ll end face up on a slab.’

  The threat was more real than the cabbie knew. Lonnie’s pursuer was gaining ground, his dog thirsty for blood.

  Lonnie quick-footed off. As he shot around the corner of the great building, the fountain in his sights, he heard a wild shout from the cabbie. ‘Keep yer mongrel away!’

  The dog was following his scent all right, snarling and snapping too close to the horse, which shied and kicked out. Lonnie heard the crack of the driver’s whip. Ordinarily the sound would make him cringe, but right now it was fine by him if the men squabbled. The few extra moments would put more precious ground between him and them.

  He’d only been a tacker when the throng of people pushed their way through the great hall to see all the new inventions – the hydraulic lift, the mechanical motor for cutting the grass, the typewriter and calculating machines. He could have done with the likes of that crowd here and now to hide amongst.

  He reached the fountain to find the water shut off for the night, although there was still enough of a lake to wade through. A sudden flaw in his plan struck him. The dog would simply run around the fountain until it found his scent on the other side. He shuddered at the thought of what would happen if the mutt caught up, imagining the pain of those jaws locking around his leg, the gnawing and crunch of those teeth. That mutt would feast on him like a marrow bone from the butcher’s.

  The only certainty was that he needed a lot more water. He wished the heavens would open and create deep puddles for him to splash his way through. Of course! The roadside gutters of Spring Street were already swollen with winter rain. They should be running like a river. Now he was thinking.

  He sprinted over the empty flowerbeds, spread for replanting with black soil and looking like a row of newly turned graves. An avenue of elms, laid bare by the season, led through the lawns. Still running hard, he began ripping the bloodstained bandage from his arm and threw it high into the nearest tree. Maybe the heavy scent of blood would fool the dog. A dog barking up the wrong tree! He managed a half smile at his own joke. Every second gained was a bonus.

  One more road to cross and only a few strides left to cover before he reached the wide stormwater-filled drains. This time he was more alert to the passing traffic and easily dodged a drayman rumbling along with his barrels of grog.

  True to form the gutters were flooded. The risk of typhoid was ever present; it was a dirty disease, as he and his mam knew sadly enough. He plunged knee- deep into the filth, splashing and slopping through the sickly mess with his mouth clamped shut, his only other choice being whacked bloody-eyed with a pickaxe handle or savaged by a mad dog.

  A young girl stood by the wall of the Governor Burke Hotel, idly plucking at loose threads on her garishly patterned dress. As he ploughed through the water almost upon her, she looked up and chuckled.

  ‘Hey Lonnie, what’s the rush?’ The sight of his bloodstained sleeve quickly wiped the laughter from her face. ‘You’re hurt.’

  Lonnie pulled up short and tried to drag in breath. He was stinking like a dead horse. ‘I’m in deep trouble, Pearl.’

  ‘Up to your knees in it from where I’m standing.’ He glanced back towards the gardens and made

  out the silhouette of the dog clawing at the tree trunk. ‘There’s my trouble,’ he puffed out. ‘If they see me, I’m dead.’

  ‘Too late, yer chump, they already have.’ Pearl pointed down the street. ‘Head for the Wesley. Leave them mugs to me.’

  With the chase on again Lonnie blindly obeyed her directions. He swung around the corner, the spire of the Wesley Church in his sight. Avoiding his own home, he shot past the hotels, shop fronts and tenements that jostled each other for room on the crowded street. A high brick wall surrounded the back of the churchyard. He followed the unflinching line – no curves, no bends, no corners.

  Catching sight of the mob of men by the rear gates immediately reminded him of what Pearl had obviously not forgotten. His spirits lifted. She was a cracker, quick thinking enough to remember that the ordinary, working class men of Little Lon were holding a meeting in the church hall. About now he bet she would be stepping out in front of that mad man, ignoring the snarls of the vicious mutt, as she tried to delay him with an offer. Anyone could easily be misled by her milky, china doll face to think that Pearl was washed out and too delicate; when like the rest of them in Little Lon she had the guile to take care of more than herself.

  Lonnie nearly collided with a freshly-painted banner, on which the words Work not Charity were daubed in red. The men gathered here were in the thick of the struggle for a living wage. Come the next day, they were planning to march to the steps of Parliament House and make their demands in a loud but peaceable protest.

  ‘Quick, hide me,’ he gasped, gulping in the life- sustaining oxygen. One hand clutched the jemmy as though it were a weapon. His other pressed the place in his side that hurt so much, his fingers searching for the knife he felt must be embedded between his ribs – so much pain it couldn’t be only a stitch.

  On recognising Lonnie, several of the tough faces softened, not immune to the humorous side of the young lad seemingly running for dear life, almost too out of breath to speak. Their mood twisted bitter when they spotted who was after him.The mob closed ranks. A murmur passed along like a Chinese whisper. ‘Payne’s man.’ Lonnie was shuffled through the gates and hidden like a wild card in a deck. Many of the men were Payne’s tenants, their own belongings stashed inside the Carlton house as payment for arrears. They stood shoulder to shoulder, a column of centurions holding out their placards like shields, forcing the man and dog to a sudden halt.

  Payne’s man glared at them. ‘Tell that ruffian you’re hiding away – and I reckon from his flamin’ crop it’s that lad McGuinness from Casselden Place – if I ever can prove what he’s done tonight he’ll be locked up quicker than he can say his worthless name.’

  ‘You’re mistaken, my good man,’ came a voice, ‘’tis not young Lonnie you chased. He’s here amongst us and has been for over an hour.’

  A second voice chipped in, ‘Did you eve
r see the face of the poor soul you turned that beast on?’

  The man’s eye twitched uneasily. ‘No, I didn’t. He hid in the shadows away from the light, the way all common thieves do.’

  ‘We know well enough who the thief is around here and it’s not McGuinness.’ The speaker turned to the crowd. ‘Did ya know this dimwit of Payne’s been chasing Lonnie’s shadow halfway across town?’ There was a loud roar of laughter. The man’s face pinched over. Baring its teeth, the dog let out a slow growl. But the mob wasn’t finished. ‘We’ve had all the threats we’re going to take from the likes of you. Get lost while you’re still in one piece. Before we lose our tempers, and you and your mongrel dog find

  yourselves cooling off in the Yarra.’

  Lonnie had disappeared behind the mob and dropped to his knees while he listened to the goings- on. Thankfully because of this army of friends, not even the dog would be able to locate his scent mixed in with theirs. He double-checked the contents of his jacket pocket, relieved his treasures had not fallen out during the chase. His thumb traced over the horseshoe pin, but it was the gent’s watch that troubled him the most. Wondering what he should do next, he flipped it over and over with uncertainty.

  ALABASTER FIGURINE

  Item No. 47

  Victorian replica. Grecian style alabaster figurine (white lady). Located at a site known to have operated as a backstreet brothel in the late nineteenth century.

  Madam Buckingham, who fancied herself as the queen bee of Little Lon and had crammed her overblown figure into an amber- and black-striped dress for such an occasion, was not taking too kindly to anyone trying to muscle in on her territory. It was as if all her body parts were wriggling and buzzing on the verge of temper, the seams of her dress pulling like lurid lightning strikes across her cleavage with each heaving threat.