Ghost Girls

by Cath Ferla

  Sophie searched her mind for the boyfriend’s name. He might be able to help. The memories of the night’s scents and textures were crisp but the name escaped her. Was he still friends with Wendy? Could he offer some explanation for the marks on Wendy’s skin?

  The revolutionary Mao Zedong clock on the mantle read six. Jin Tao would be preparing for dinner service.

  Sophie chucked the wheat bag on the coffee table and collected her helmet from the shelf by the door.

  The wind bit as she wheeled her bike into the night.

  Han Hong woke from a terrible dream. Someone had put her in a box, loaded her into a vehicle and driven her away over some very rough terrain. She’d been smashed against the sides of the box and the rough wood had splintered her skin. Scratchy hessian, damp and tied tight, rubbed at her eyes.

  She smelled eggy methane fumes mixed with the tangy scents of onion and garlic. She could hear music, dark and electronic, like something from a video game.

  ‘I’m at the restaurant, sorting supplies.’

  Han Hong stiffened, her mind rushing full throttle to complete wakefulness. This wasn’t a dream. Someone else was here with her in the darkness. She recognised the voice – it was one of them.

  ‘What time will she be leaving?’

  A one-sided conversation. Han Hong’s heart leapt. This meant a phone.

  Han Hong scoured her memory for details of her time in the box. The dream had prompted memories of her transportation here, to this dark place. Had the trip taken one hour or two? Or had they driven all night? She couldn’t remember. But they were obviously somewhere with mobile coverage. And that meant a chance.

  Fully awake now, Han Hong tried to assess her situation. She was cold, dressed only in a T-shirt and underpants. She couldn’t feel her arms. She forced her mind to seek out the different parts of her body, assess herself for pain and injury, discover whether she was still whole. Her hands were pinned behind her, tied together with some kind of thin cable. Her fingers ground into the concrete, mashed into the floor by her weight. Her legs were crossed and strapped at the ankles. She rolled to her left. There was space here, in this place that smelled like her dad’s cellar.

  At least she was no longer stuck in the box.

  Han Hong bashed her head against something hard and metallic. Ripples of pain washed through her temples and jerked down her spine. She groaned and rolled to her right. She felt more metal; it pressed into her forehead, its mesh pattern sinking into her skin.

  ‘Shut up!’

  The voice again, from somewhere ahead of her. Raised, demanding. Talking to her.

  ‘I wish it hadn’t happened.’ The voice softened again as the man returned to the phone. ‘But business is business and we need to clean this up. If they find the real girl and she talks, we’re done.’

  Han Hong struggled to make sense of the conversation. The real girl?

  And then he was beside her and she could smell the garlic on his breath.

  ‘It’s your lucky night,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some business to attend to. You get the night off.’

  She listened to his footsteps as he moved back across the room. Then the creak of a hinge and the slap of wood against wood as a door slammed shut.

  She was alone.

  Han Hong mustered all her strength and stretched her neck high. Her abdominal muscles screamed in outrage and her head felt heavy but, through the fuzz, she recognised the sensation of the top of her scalp touching a ceiling of some kind.

  Exhausted, she lay back against the concrete and allowed a tear to run down one cheek. It touched her mouth and she savoured the moisture, even though the salt stung her lips.

  So this is what it feels like, she thought, to be caged.

  The road shone slick with the evening’s earlier rain. Sophie hung a right into Victoria Street, cycling past her favourite gelato store and an enoteca exuding Darlinghurst cool. At the Cross, she admired the giant Coke sign in spite of herself. Kings Cross was no Siam Square, no Wangfujing Street, but something about the electronic billboard suggested good times, party times, ahead.

  She skirted down Darlinghurst Road, past the sex shops, porn shops, pizza joints and ragged junkies looking for a score. Around the corner was Blue Lotus. The restaurant sat on a leafy side street behind the main drag. Home to expensive real estate, a couple of exclusive clubs and some sophisticated dining options, this was where the trendy came to enjoy the sense of danger promised by Sydney’s seedy side without actually having to dabble in it. Blue Lotus served food inspired by the cuisines of China’s Yunnan, Sichuan and Guizhou provinces. In his role as head chef, Jin Tao used locally sourced ingredients, organic produce and only sustainably farmed fish. This marked his prices up but gave his restaurant an edge, allowing the cocktail set to indulge with a conscience.

  After decades of ginger-steamed scallops and sweet and sour pork, Sydney had begun its love affair with China’s sultry heart. Foodies flocked to restaurants specialising in the tastes of China’s peasant cuisine, relishing the tang of the Sichuan peppers, the punch of pickled chilli and the salty heat of fresh black beans. Blue Lotus matched this food with its atmosphere. The long, narrow dining area featured a single dark wood table and smooth benches running along either side. The no-reservation policy meant diners turned up early to bag a space at the communal dining table and indulge in a drink at the bar out the front. Jin Tao’s sommelier was famous for his detailed knowledge of Old and New World wines. And for his mandarin-infused vodka.

  Sophie chained her bike to a pole in the alley behind the restaurant. She scuffed across the cobblestones to the kitchen door. Through the window she saw benches laden with food: chicken breasts, shallots, baskets of dried chillis, giant carafes of brown sesame oil. She jerked open the door. Cooking scents hit her: garlic, star anise, cinnamon, chilli oil.

  The sous chef, Stu, nodded hello. His hands were buried deep inside a fish. He indicated the burners at the back of the kitchen where Sophie spied Jin Tao’s shiny head. ‘Go on through,’ he said. ‘He’s checking the pork belly.’

  Sophie strode over the tiles to where Jin Tao stood examining the contents of a clay pot.

  ‘You have to try this,’ he said. He held out a spoonful of glistening pork belly for her to taste. The skin gleamed black from a reduced soy glaze. A white sliver of fat separated the skin from the meat.

  ‘Hello to you too,’ said Sophie. She took the spoon into her mouth. The pork tasted like velvet. ‘That,’ she groaned, ‘is sensational.’

  Jin Tao winked. ‘I got it right tonight,’ he said. ‘The crowd is going to go sick. You want some more?’

  Sophie waved the spoon away. ‘Already eaten,’ she lied. ‘You’ll be a celebrity one day, I know it.’ She paused, watching a faint pink creep into Jin Tao’s cheeks. ‘Can I talk to you for a minute?’

  Jin Tao put the lid back on the pot and washed his hands at a basin. He jerked his head towards the storeroom. ‘Step into my office.’

  The storeroom smelled like garlic and shrimp paste and its shelved walls were lined with tins and jars: pickled tofu, deep-fried shallots, dried seaweed, nuts, peppers. Jin Tao slid the door closed. He picked up an open bag of sunflower seeds, shook some into his palm, and offered it to Sophie. ‘My secret stash.’

  She took a handful, putting a seed in her mouth and cracking the shell between her teeth. The kernel slipped out easily and she ground it to a paste. ‘Do you remember that dinner we went to a couple of months ago, with my student?’

  Jin Tao chewed thoughtfully. ‘More information. There’ve been loads.’

  ‘At the Sichuan place.’

  Jin Tao picked some more seeds from the bag. ‘The jellyfish salad,’ he said. ‘It rocked.’

  Sophie smiled. Jin Tao remembered anything, as long as he could associate it with food. ‘Do you remember my student Wendy?’

  Jin Tao nodded. ‘And the other guy, Tae Hun.’

  Sophie held out her hand for more seeds. ‘That’s it, I’
d forgotten his name.’

  ‘Lucky bastard.’ Jin Tao scowled. ‘That Wendy’s cute. Bit weird, but cute.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Jin Tao cracked a seed between his teeth. ‘She spent the whole night cacking herself, like she was stoned or something. She reckoned the walls had ears.’

  I don’t remember. I’ve forgotten the details.

  ‘All I really remember is the food,’ Sophie said. ‘And I wasn’t even drinking.’

  ‘You want to go out with them again? Have a night on the tiles with wacky Wendy?’

  In her mind, Sophie saw Wendy’s mangled face. Blood on the concrete. Her stomach lurched. Her legs felt weak. She dropped the sunflower seeds to the floor. Took a step back.

  ‘Soph?’

  Behind her, a bag of dried shiitakes provided support. Sophie leaned into it, feeling the sharp ends of the mushrooms stick into her back.

  ‘Wendy died today,’ Sophie said. Her words came out in a croak. ‘She jumped.’

  Jin Tao’s face was perfectly still, a sunflower seed perched neatly between his teeth. He blew the shell from his lips. Sophie watched it flutter to the ground.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he said. He rubbed a hand across his head. ‘Are you okay?’

  Sophie bit down on her tongue. Now was not the time to cry. ‘Actually, I can’t stop thinking about her.’ She brought her hand to her pocket, wanting to ram it in. For the second time in a day she felt raw, exposed. Jin Tao reached out and touched her fingers. Then he took her hand and pulled her gently to him.

  ‘You need a hug,’ he said.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. But Jin Tao’s arms were already around her, holding her.

  Sophie surrendered. In the fluorescent bright of the store­room, she actually felt safe.

  At the end of the long hug, Jin Tao stepped back. He lifted Sophie’s chin with a slim finger. ‘I should take you home,’ he said.

  She dropped to the floor to gather the spilled sunflower kernels. ‘I have my bike.’

  Jin Tao didn’t miss a beat. ‘I’ll dink you.’

  ‘It’s fine, you’ve helped me by giving me Tae Hun’s name.’

  Jin Tao retrieved a dustpan from the corner and squatted beside Sophie. ‘Poor bastard,’ he said. ‘You going to write him a note?’

  ‘I need to find him first,’ she said. They finished clearing the seeds. Sophie stood up and slid open the door to the kitchen. The sounds of the evening rush hour swept around them. ‘You’d better get back to your pork.’

  Jin Tao raised an eyebrow, held up a forefinger. ‘One minute,’ he said. ‘Wait here.’

  Sophie hovered in the doorway and threaded the toggles on her coat. Jin Tao reappeared and pressed a plastic bag into her hand. She didn’t have to look to know what it held: a container of rice, some sticky pork, probably some vegetables.

  ‘You’ll want to eat later,’ he said.

  Sophie left the warmth of the kitchen and headed back out into the night.

  A girl named Wendy Chan left the noodle shop at ten. Thoughts of a strange woman’s afternoon suicide sluiced through her mind’s eye. In the little restaurant across from Central Station she’d tried to enjoy a beef tendon soup, the broth thick and heady and almost as good as her mother’s. The flavours had made her homesick. What she wouldn’t give for an evening in her mother’s apartment, sipping tea, eating crackers and watching soap operas on the TV.

  Wendy pulled her coat collar closer to her neck. No matter how many layers she wore, the chill always found its way into her bones. She had thought Australia would be dry and hot. This had turned out to be a myth, along with the idea that the people were friendly. Wendy found that most people ignored her or stared impatiently at her mouth as she stumbled over her English when asking for directions. On the bus out to the beach, a woman in a tracksuit had shouted at her and called her a nipper. She’d looked the word up on the internet and found it meant surf lifesaver; odd, given she could barely swim.

  And then there was her job. Wendy marched on into the night, noting the tickle in the pit of her stomach that even the hot noodles hadn’t managed to calm. If her mother knew what she’d been up to, she’d probably collapse to the floor in tears. Her mum hadn’t slaved away at the factory all these years for her daughter to turn into a common prostitute. Not that she was quite there yet.

  But serving drinks semi-naked to leering men was almost as bad. She’d done it because of the money, cash in hand, and because so many other students seemed to be doing it too. She didn’t want to miss out. And it seemed a foolproof system was in place. Nobody had noticed her absence from school and her student visa remained intact. If this was the opportunity Australia offered, she needed to seize it with both hands.

  But it made her feel dirty.

  Wendy turned onto Harris Street and slouched past the ABC building. Streetlights bounced shadows along the deserted road. The postcard brilliance of Sydney Harbour seemed a long way from here. She had so looked forward to her trip to Australia. Space and freedom lived here, she’d been told. But, encaged in a small foreign-student world, excluded from the wider community, she felt trapped.

  That night at the Cheers bar. She’d drunk too many beers and decided becoming a waitress with benefits was a good idea. It seemed every second person she met there was talking about the same thing. She heard about the money they were making and the ease of flouting the visa regulations. Wendy had just wanted to fit in. She’d agreed to go to an audition, and the rest was history.

  Her apartment was close. It would be closer still if she cut through the TAFE. Wendy skipped through the campus gates and headed down the lane between two buildings. The walls formed a narrow passage. She increased her speed as she thought of her bed and her hot water bottle. Soon she would be warm. She would pull the blankets over her head and try to forget she was here in Australia, a long way from home and from everything she knew. She would try to forget she felt so terribly ashamed of herself and so terribly alone.

  The wind whistled through the tunnel and Wendy’s ears. Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t hear the footsteps behind her. She felt only a warm surge of adrenaline as a gloved hand closed over her throat and her nostrils filled with a chemical burn.

  Wendy’s last sensations before the darkness were not fear, but resignation and disappointment. It was all going to end here.

  This Australian adventure had not panned out as she’d hoped.

  Sophie emerged from the lift to the smell of burned toast. The school’s director of studies ran past her and down the corridor. She noted he wore a yellow fire warden’s hat.

  ‘Don’t worry, there’s no major emergency.’ Chuck smiled, falling into step with Sophie on the way to the staffroom. ‘The police were in early with Pete and he decided to eat breakfast here. Somebody should teach the guy how to use the grill.’

  In the prep room, people worked without the usual pre-class chatter. Teachers perched quietly behind their desks, correcting papers, assembling files, avoiding eye contact and conversation. The burnt toast had tripped the heating system. The air clung, cold and damp. Motion fell in time to the photocopier’s slow, grinding beat. Sophie’s lips prickled from dehydration and nervous energy. She walked slowly to her desk at the back of the room.

  Lenny, Sophie’s desk companion, cleared his throat. He wiped a grain of rice from the corner of his mouth. ‘They don’t know how to deal with this,’ he muttered, his voice laden with contempt.

  Sophie looked around the room. Several teachers sought to share her gaze, severity in their glances. ‘Deal with what?’

  ‘Life,’ spat Lenny. ‘This is the real world. Teaching English in a Japanese cram school can’t prepare you for it.’

  Sophie unloaded her shoulder bag. At sixty-eight, Lenny looked better than most men did at forty. He’d lived in seven countries. He spoke four languages and had forty-five years of teaching experience. And didn’t everyone else know about it.

  ‘Look at them,’ Lenny co
ntinued, between mouthfuls of California roll. ‘Shocked into silence for once in their lives. Oh, for this peace and quiet every day of the week.’

  Sophie opened her lesson plan and tried to concentrate. But all she could think of was Wendy. Her face on the concrete. A pink and red mash.

  ‘Lenny, did you know her?’

  He finished his breakfast and snapped his lunchbox shut. ‘Who?’

  ‘Wendy. The girl who died.’

  He stood up. ‘To tell you the truth,’ he said, opening his arms wide in a stretch, ‘I’m not interested in trying to remember.’

  Sophie watched him walk to his locker and stash the lunchbox.

  ‘Talk about losing it,’ whispered Chuck, sitting opposite. ‘The guy helps Pete with the timetables but he doesn’t know one student from the next.’

  Pete entered the prep room still wearing his fire warden’s helmet. Beside him stood an older man in a well-cut wool suit. The two of them scanned the room. From his chair at the front, Tim made a face and pointed at Pete’s head. Pete snatched the helmet away.

  ‘Some important information,’ Pete said. Sophie strained to hear. It sounded less like an announcement and more like the second part of a sentence. Pete spoke softly at the best of times; frailly, like an older person who’s lost their sense of self. More than once she had wondered how a bloke like Pete – shy, disorganised, unable to delegate – had made it so far in this business. Teachers like him usually got demolished in their first month in the classroom. But perhaps that’s why Pete had succeeded as an administrator: his job meant he didn’t often have to engage with people.

  He cleared his throat. ‘Firstly I’d like to introduce you all to a visitor,’ he said, indicating the man in the suit. ‘This is Michael Disney, from the Association of English Language Centres. He’ll be with us for the next few days, running an audit of the school’s attendance records.’ He paused. ‘I trust you’ll make him feel very much at home.’