Ghost Girls

by Cath Ferla

  Sophie tapped her glass. ‘I’m okay.’

  ‘You’re an Aussie who doesn’t drink?’

  The image of Su Yuan, so perceptive, flashed through Sophie’s mind. ‘It doesn’t agree with me,’ she said. She took a breath. Fuck it. ‘It’s an Asian thing.’

  The boy looked puzzled. ‘But you’re not Asian.’

  ‘Buy me a beer and I’ll blush rose for you.’

  Tae Hun pushed off his stool. ‘It’s fine,’ he said, uninterested. ‘I think it’s good when girls don’t drink.’

  Sophie watched him – a skinny kid trying to act like a man.

  After his third beer, Tae Hun began to open up. He played with a coaster as he spoke.

  ‘After Wendy broke with me, I didn’t know what to do. I really liked her, you know?’ He looked into his drink. His voice became a mumble. ‘I went to a dancing club.’ His face turned a shade of red.

  ‘It’s okay, Tae Hun,’ said Sophie. ‘Whatever you tell me, I won’t repeat it.’

  ‘This club, it’s a place where girls dance without their clothes.’

  ‘You’re not the first man on the planet to do that, Tae Hun,’ said Sophie. ‘It’s not that big a deal.’

  An impatient scowl crossed the young man’s face. He pushed the hair out of his eyes to give Sophie a deliberate stare. ‘Yeah, I know it’s okay,’ he said, with a sudden sarcastic drawl. ‘We do this in Seoul, too. I have no problem with it.’

  Sophie felt her own blush creep. She’d patronised him and he’d called her on it. ‘What’s the problem then?’

  ‘At the club I saw a friend from school.’

  ‘In the audience?’

  ‘No. A woman. Dancing on the table.’

  Sophie sat back. ‘Is this a classmate from our school, the place where I teach?’

  Tae Hun shook his head. ‘No, my new school. I go to Central English. It’s cheaper. She’s not a classmate but just someone I know from the school. This woman, her name is Han Hong. She didn’t see me, but I took a photo of her. I went back to the club the next night and I saw her. And again and again. It was like I was keeping an eye on her. Making sure she was okay.’

  Sophie sipped her drink and regarded him. ‘You’re a nice guy, Tae Hun.’

  He waved away the compliment. ‘Not nice,’ he said. ‘I liked Han Hong. I could not understand why she would do this job. Could she need the money that bad? I decided I would speak to her. I’d find her a job in my restaurant. She would never have to work at the club again.’

  ‘Told you. What a nice guy.’

  Tae Hun leaned closer. ‘But then our term changed and she didn’t come back to school. I saw her at the club a couple more times but then she stopped turning up there, too. At first I thought she’d moved into another class at a different time, but I looked and looked and I didn’t find her.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  He pulled off his baseball cap and placed it on the table, scraped a hand through scruffy dyed hair. ‘Something’s wrong but I don’t know the details,’ he said. ‘She’s been working at this place and it’s illegal… I didn’t want to draw attention, get her into trouble.’

  ‘Maybe she’s taking a break.’

  He shrugged. ‘Maybe. But I went back to the club and she didn’t arrive there, either. She’s disappeared.’

  ‘When was the term change?’

  ‘Two and a half weeks ago,’ he said. ‘There is something strange going on and I’m worried.’ He peered out the window onto George Street. ‘Maybe she has done to herself like Wendy. Maybe she’s killed herself.’

  Maybe she’s become a junkie. Sophie kicked her feet against the narrow rail running under the table. ‘Why are you telling me this, Tae Hun? A regular person would just contact the police.’

  ‘No.’ His voice was defiant. ‘These kinds of places aren’t legal. I cannot tell the police I went there.’

  ‘If you really cared about Han Hong, you would tell someone.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tae Hun. ‘So I am telling you.’ He pulled out a phone and scanned the menu. He pushed the screen across the table to Sophie.

  ‘This is the picture I took,’ he said. ‘This is Han Hong.’

  Sophie glanced at the picture and took a breath. A chill settled between her shoulder blades. Not because the girl in the photo was naked or because the girl’s make-up was smeared and smudged. But because the girl in the photo looked so young: a teenager, seventeen at best.

  Tae Hun had lowered his eyes to the table. ‘I don’t know what you think I should do,’ he mumbled. ‘But I really don’t want you to go to the police.’

  What to say? If Tae Hun was telling the truth and the club was illegal, then a normal person would take both Tae Hun and his photograph down to the nearest station to make a report. But what of Han Hong then? Would she be charged, imprisoned, fined and deported? And would it stop anything? Would it really make a difference to a trade so long established that the average punter turned a blind eye to the suspect goings-on? It was far better to find the girl and talk to her, try to convince her to turn her back on the seedy world, coax her back to the classroom, offer some friendship and support.

  She wrote her number on the back of a coaster. ‘Message me the picture and give me time to think about it,’ she said. ‘I won’t involve the police, you can trust me on that.’

  Tae Hun smiled something like appreciation and drained his glass. ‘Thank you,’ he said simply. Then he picked up his baseball cap from the table. ‘I should go.’

  女孩

  Gliding down the hills of Liverpool Street, Sophie couldn’t shake the image of Han Hong. It was something about the eyes. She’d read something in them, an emotion she recognised but couldn’t quite recall. Not fear, or loneliness. Those eyes communicated something subtler, but equally powerful. Sophie bent her head against the wind and pedalled hard on the incline towards Glenmore Road. The cold air scoured her cheeks and the hill beneath her wheels made her thigh muscles scream. Then Sophie realised it. In Han Hong’s eyes she’d recognised a state she’d seen and experienced – in her students, when language difficulties overwhelmed them; in her dear friend Li Hua, on that dreadful day when everything had changed forever; in herself now, as she rose to the challenge of Liverpool Street. Resignation. The girl in the picture gazed out with dead, fatalistic eyes, resigned to her role, as dancer, entertainer, stripper, naked woman. Maybe she’d resigned herself to her fate.

  But surely she hadn’t travelled all the way to Australia for that?

  By the time Sophie wheeled her bike into the hallway, it was a few minutes past midnight. She moved swiftly to the kitchen to brew a pot of oolong. There, leaning against the bench, she sipped the warm brown brew and let the tea leaves soothe her. She placed the terracotta teapot on a tray with a cup and padded up the steep carpeted stairs to her sanctuary.

  The room glowed warm from the bamboo-shaded lamp on the dresser. Sophie cast her eyes around, relishing the immediate nourishing effect on her. She loved this space, not for the high ceiling or the intricately carved ceiling rose or the wide window that looked out onto the slanted roofs of Paddington. She loved it for the objects it contained, each of which held meanings and memories of different places, people and experiences. She loved the soft lines of the sculpted stone woman she’d watched being shaped on a beach in Vietnam; the red teacups passed down from a beloved grandmother; the glass jewellery dish that glowed orange in the lamplight; the intricately woven pink, purple and indigo wall hangings that she’d bought in a mountain village in Yunnan; the framed photo of her mother; and the shrine to David.

  Sophie went to the wooden cube in the corner. She dusted its motley surface and emptied the ash collected at the bottom of the incense holder into the wastebasket. Then she lit the candle positioned in the middle of this makeshift altar and watched its flame flicker beside the framed picture of a little boy in full bloom. Before the candlelight and David’s beaming smile, Sophie knelt and closed her eyes, her head bowed in s
ilent prayer. This was her ritual. She imagined taking it with her throughout her life, wherever she wandered, until the time arrived when David returned home.

  When she finished, she considered her bed. The turned-back quilt revealed cream flannelette sheets beneath. It invited her. Her body ached with fatigue but she couldn’t sleep now. Not with a mind cluttered with images of Wendy’s pink brain seeping onto the concrete and Han Hong, naked and dirty, in some backstreet lap-dance bar.

  Sophie opened her MacBook and uploaded the image of Han Hong. The girl’s face filled the screen. Enormous eyes, clear skin, full lips. Han Hong’s youth seemed magnified. What was it that she had seen and how had she come to be involved in the seedy underworld of a foreign city? Surely Sydney had signified a new beginning of sorts: a place for Han Hong to find her independence, come to a new understanding of cultural differences and relationships and to think and dream in a language different from her own. How had this girl’s overseas adventure turned so sour?

  Sophie’s thoughts turned to Wendy. The track marks on her skin.

  Wendy had been hiding a secret pain. Maybe she’d been involved in a similar scene. Sophie shivered. If students were resorting to lap dancing to pay their passage to Australia, no wonder they wound up depressed.

  ‘Hey, stranger.’

  Sophie turned to see Jin Tao leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in his chef’s whites. He held a small porcelain teacup in one hand. ‘Another brew left in that pot?’

  It was a habit they shared, popping in to each other’s rooms, stealing cups of tea and conversation. Jin Tao always drank from the floral-patterned porcelain he held out now. Tea bonded them.

  Sophie poured the last of the oolong into Jin Tao’s cup. He folded himself onto the woven mat beside the bed.

  ‘You want to tell me what’s up?’

  Forget reading the tea leaves afterwards, Jin Tao could read her mood by her choice of brew: oolong was for the weight of the world. The dark amber hue and the burnt bitterness of the leaves worked as a catharsis, helping Sophie clear her mind and refocus her senses.

  She stared at him, admiring not for the first time his perfect wide eyes, deep pools rimmed with black. Jin Tao had a way of staring into her; his gaze never felt like an interrogation – more like a caress.

  Sophie flipped the computer screen closed. She would sleep on what Tae Hun had told her, pick through the details of the conversation and allow her thoughts to ferment until clarity arrived.

  ‘Nope,’ she said, and slid down next to Jin Tao on the mat.

  He motioned to the candle flickering in the corner. ‘You thinking about the kid?’

  Sophie reached out to the candle, dipped a pinkie finger into the hot wax. She felt it burn and tighten, a smooth and perfect green cap.

  ‘You know I don’t tell just anyone about what happened to David,’ she said.

  ‘And I’ve promised to keep your secret safe.’

  Sophie held her capped finger out. ‘A pinkie promise,’ she said.

  Jin Tao touched her pinkie with his own. ‘Even deeper than that.’

  Sophie leaned against Jin Tao’s shoulder. She twirled the wax cap between two fingers. It crumbled. Gone.

  ‘How was work?’ she asked.

  ‘Full-on.’ The usual response. ‘Stuart decided to nick off at a quarter past nine, leaving me a man down. Reckoned he had a hot date and he’d told me about it.’

  ‘I’m sure you had everything under control.’

  ‘You kidding me? We were only halfway through the sitting. Total nightmare.’

  ‘At least Stuart’s getting lucky.’

  Jin Tao nudged her gently. ‘You in need of some loving, lovely?’

  ‘Are you offering?’ She regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

  He drained the last of the tea from his cup. ‘I certainly am,’ he said. He disentangled his warm body from hers. ‘A lovingly prepared breakfast for you first thing in the morning. You can have it in bed.’

  Sophie grinned through her relief. ‘Make my eggs runny,’ she instructed.

  ‘Yes, chef.’ He planted a kiss on her cheek. ‘Sweet dreams.’

  ‘Goodnight.’ She watched him go. The skin on her cheek burned from the touch of his lips, and continued to tingle long after he pulled shut the door.

  Han Hong blinked and tried to see. He’d removed the blind­fold but she remained in darkness – in here it was as dark as shit. She was out of her cage, she knew that much. He must have moved her while she slept.

  The soup. From the throbbing in her temples, she guessed he’d laced it. She didn’t know how long she’d been out for, or what had happened while she was down for the count, but at least she was out of the cage.

  She tried to stretch her arms. They were behind her. As she jiggled her wrists, she realised they were secured loosely to a thin post. She tried to think straight, assess her position. Bare legs, no underpants, cold concrete chafing at her bottom. Irritation trickled through her, threatening to overpower fear. She wished she were clothed, not for modesty’s sake, but for comfort and warmth.

  She’d thrown modesty out the window a long time ago. The first time she’d made a video, she’d let it all go.

  Han Hong shifted and discovered that her neck was held flat against the post by a thin cord. It bit into her skin and drew tighter if she turned her head to the side. Her captor was forcing her to stare straight ahead. She’d made videos for them before – why the sudden change and the imprisonment?

  The light flashed on.

  She closed her eyes against the brightness. Her mind registered patterns, all orange and red, the blood vessels in her head.

  When she opened her eyes she saw a man in a mask, a simple black stocking stretched tightly across his face. It distorted his features, but she could tell that he was thick-lipped and pudgy. He sat on a camp stool, his belly bulging from under his windcheater to hang over his tracksuit pants. Just behind him was a light. It looked like a professional cinematography lamp, thin and straight. It had a powerful burn. The man held a video camera. She saw the red light – it was on. This, at least, was grotesquely familiar. But she’d not yet made a film in this room, before a man in a mask.

  Han Hong crossed her legs. She tried to scan her sur­roundings, but the cord around her neck prevented movement. He’d tied her to her mark.

  ‘Smile for the camera, baby,’ he said. The voice came thick and slightly muffled through the stocking. An Australian accent.

  Nausea built in Han Hong’s stomach. She fought to control it. If she vomited she would choke.

  ‘Come on, you’re a movie star.’

  She wanted to scream. She tried to think clearly. Where was she? What was this?

  ‘I said smile.’ Her captor sounded in no mood for games.

  Han Hong had no option. She stretched her mouth into a thin grin, cringing as the dry skin on her lips cracked.

  Justin Holmes’s wife tucked him into bed and kissed him on the top of the head. She zipped her bag, gathered their daughter and hauled her out the door. An average day, the school run followed by work. On the bedside table, she’d left a tray holding a glass of orange juice, a plate of buttered brown toast and a pot of tea. In the fridge she’d left a plate of chicken sandwiches, in case he felt up to eating something more later.

  Justin settled back under the covers and allowed his head to sink deep into his pillow. Relaxed. He hadn’t pulled a sickie on his wife in a while. And she’d bought it, smothering him with kisses and back rubs and goodwill. He deserved a day in, she’d told him. He worked so hard, after all.

  Justin’s hands felt clammy with the hot anticipation of what might unfold in the hours to come. For a while he lay there, savouring the possibilities. Then he leaned over and opened the drawer in the bedside table. From the coin jar, Justin fished out the slip of paper. On it was scrawled a mobile number. Justin licked his lips, picked up his mobile and dialled.

  ‘Wei?’ A curt greeting,
as though Justin had interrupted something important.

  He hesitated. ‘Uh, I think I have the wrong number.’ He took the phone from his ear, and moved his finger to the end-call button.

  ‘You want DVD?’

  Justin caught the words just as he pressed disconnect. He dialled again.

  ‘Yes?’ the voice said in English.

  Justin swallowed. ‘You sell DVDs?’

  ‘We sell DVDs and private appointments. What do you want?’

  Justin massaged his wedding ring. A private appointment sounded interesting. But he supposed it would involve sex. That would mean cheating on his wife.

  ‘DVD,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, DVD. What kind?’

  He thought hard. How to put it? ‘Something… uncon­ventional.’

  Peals of laughter carried down the phone line. Justin forced himself to release his grip on the handset. He watched as the blood flowed again under the skin of his knuckles. He took some deep breaths, willing calm to return.

  ‘Unconventional?’ the voice said finally, between squeaks of laughter. ‘We only do unconventional. What do you want? Naughty or nice?’

  This time he didn’t hesitate. ‘I want the naughtiest you’ve got.’

  ‘Depends how far you want to go.’

  Justin felt an erection stir against the flannelette of his pyjama pants. He glanced at the snatch of sky visible through the chink in the curtains. The storm clouds had gathered grey and black. If he was going to go through with this, he may as well go hard.

  ‘I want to go all the way,’ he said, surprised at the nervous tremor that crept into his voice.

  At the end of the phone line, more laughter rang out.

  When Justin finished on the phone, he slipped into a dressing gown and some slippers. He took the tray of toast and juice into the kitchen, binned the toast and took a bottle of vodka from the freezer. He added a generous splash to the orange juice. Rain shot darts against the windowpane. Justin sipped his drink. From the kitchen he could see the driveway and the road. He would wait here for the delivery. For a split second, he wondered whether handing over his home address had been a good idea. His wife and child lived here. What if a delivery arrived when he wasn’t at home? But the anxiety slipped away as the vodka penetrated his bloodstream and left him basking in its warm glow. He watched the rain beat down outside and decided it was a good day for curling up in front of the telly.