Ghost Girls

by Cath Ferla

With a slim fingertip he traced the line of the woman’s jaw, imagined how it would look in a bridle.

  He punched a name into the dash, stared across the road at United English.

  It made perfect sense. She was an English teacher and she taught at the school where the suicidal bitch made her last stand. He could watch her now.

  ‘Need to arrange a meeting,’ he said, when the call connected. ‘There’s some rubbish that needs dumping before it starts to smell.’

  鬼

  The lolly selection arrived late afternoon. Justin pushed back his chair. The baskets on the table contained a variety of cheap sweets, the type he used to find in twenty-cent bags as a boy. He selected some strawberries-and-creams and a couple of milk bottles. With two fingers he pulled the strawberry cap off a lolly and chewed it slowly. The sugar worked on his blood and his mood.

  Justin took in the trading room filled with hard-faced men, heavy drinkers and gamblers full of confidence and cock. All except Salvo, the guy stockpiling pink musks by his hard drive. He’d eat them later, four at a time in sets of five. Twenty musks an afternoon seemed Salvo’s only vice. The guy was a serious weirdo, what with his lolly habit and love for pink shirts and jewellery. He also brought in his own salami and occasionally butterfly cupcakes, complete with cream and wings. Salvo insisted his wife made them, but Justin had met Salvo’s wife and she didn’t seem the baking type. He suspected Salvo liked to whip them up himself after work. Seriously strange. But genuine. And perhaps just a little too innocent for his age.

  Justin had better things to do in his non-working hours. Last night, though, he’d been unable to sleep. The images he’d viewed on his day off had seared his mind like a torch. It had all seemed so real. The thought brought acid to his throat. He had a wife and a daughter and he absolutely loved them both. But love changes. In recent times, Justin’s lust for his wife had turned to platonic affection, which had since turned to mutual boredom and distance. It seemed they both agreed to tolerate their marriage for the sake of convenience and their daughter. It wasn’t difficult to play-act happy families; how many of the men in the trading room did the same thing? Justin watched Salvo head out into the corridor, his newspaper in his hand. Perhaps the only guy on the floor who didn’t pretend. The guy was heading to the bathroom to hang a dump. He’d taken the paper with him and he didn’t care who knew.

  Salvo and Justin had very different relationships with toilet cubicles.

  Justin recognised a familiar stab of jealousy. Salvo appeared so full of hope: new job, new wife, new goals. No kids. It would only go downhill from here. Soon enough, Salvo would find himself locked into the never-ending cycle of debt repayments, supermarket shopping, nappy changing, kick-to-kick in the park, sock folding, bed making and night after night of reality television. Suck the soul out of you, suck the life out of your marriage, suck the sex out of your bed. That is what happens.

  That was why Justin needed another outlet. Why he’d found himself turning to movies. His wife was the mother of his child – he couldn’t ask her to fulfil his fantasies. How could he look at her the same way if she did? No. What he needed was unknown, unnamed bodies; canvases for his dark desires. He needed escape from the reality of this dull, dogged life and the chance to find some peace.

  He had to get some more.

  The afternoon before a term break meant chaos in the staffroom.

  Sophie scanned the class lists pinned to the noticeboard. Teachers occasionally bagged the same class two terms in a row, but not often. While continuity benefited both learners and teachers, Pete argued that it didn’t please everyone. Younger students liked change and, in the competitive language teaching business, student satisfaction drove revenue. ‘We give them what they want to pay for, and hopefully they learn something along the way,’ Pete had informed Sophie when she interviewed for her position.

  This was why Pete worked as the director of studies, a glorified administrator, and not as a teacher.

  Sophie checked her class list. Disappointment settled. A new class and Su Yuan was gone.

  The line by the photocopier was six deep. Sophie avoided it and headed for the library.

  Chuck stepped out from behind a bookshelf. ‘My favourite time of the month,’ he said, his voice booming with enthusiasm.

  ‘You sound like a sanitary pad commercial.’

  Chuck pulled a face. ‘You know what I mean. A new term! New class! It’s exciting!’

  ‘I’ve got elementary students,’ Sophie said. ‘Need to teach them how to speak.’

  ‘That old challenge.’

  ‘I’m going to miss my favourite student.’ Sophie flicked through the books on the shelf. ‘You know how there’s one person who brings the whole class together?’

  Chuck nodded. ‘I know it, sister. That student is the lifeblood. Without them, the class is dead.’

  ‘Well, I’m missing my lifeblood,’ said Sophie. ‘Her name’s Su Yuan.’

  Chuck picked up his selection of books. ‘Oh good,’ he said. ‘I’ve got her.’

  Sophie stared at him.

  ‘I already memorised my list,’ he said, a touch defensive.

  ‘Lucky bastard.’

  Chuck held up two fingers in peace. ‘You want to get a coffee or something? Hear about my Pattaya plans?’

  Sophie checked her watch. Joy Lin would be rapping her knuckles against the front door in an hour. ‘Tute night at my place,’ she said. ‘I’m biking home and my student’s never late.’

  ‘You work too hard,’ said Chuck.

  Sophie shrugged. ‘Stops me from thinking too much.’

  女孩

  The first shades of evening had painted the streetscape pink. Sophie pulled her scarf tight, tucked her collar against the wind. She dodged afternoon shoppers balancing bags against blown-out umbrellas and splashed along a footpath shiny with water and headlights. It took only ten minutes to reach Central English. Her body glowed warm from the afternoon exercise.

  Then she saw her bike.

  Tyres slashed, deflated rubber pooling against concrete like wax. Somebody had bothered to drag a knife right through each tyre, slitting the rubber in two clean, slim arcs.

  Fuck me.

  Sophie looked around, hoping to spy a laughing street kid or lounging student who might have seen something. But the language school had emptied its classrooms an hour ago and the few stray pedestrians scuttled through the weather like sand crabs.

  Sophie removed the lock. Leaving the bike now would be a mistake; she’d have nothing to collect in the morning. Water dripped down her coat collar, mingling with the cooling sweat on her skin. Sophie hauled the bike slowly along the pavement. Spokes cackled. Bare wheels rasped. It was going to be a slow journey.

  But I’ll make it.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Jin Tao held the gate open wide as Sophie limped her bicycle into the garden and over to the front steps. ‘You look like you went swimming with your clothes on.’

  Sophie shivered hard. A fierce cold pierced her. ‘I thought you were supposed to be at work?’

  Jin Tao examined the bike. ‘Ducked home for some cloves,’ he said. ‘Shit, someone really went to work on your tyres.’ He picked up the bicycle and carried it up the steps.

  Sophie followed him into the hallway. He leaned the bike against the wall. ‘You got any enemies?’

  She tugged at her jacket. ‘Not that I know about. Maybe next time they’ll leave me a note with an explanation.’

  Jin Tao rubbed his head. ‘You don’t think it’s a bit weird that it happened outside the English school?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You were there this morning, asking after Han Hong. Maybe somebody saw you poking around.’

  She pushed past him. She needed the hot pins of the shower. ‘You’ve been at my Trixie Belden collection, haven’t you?’

  He broke into a grin. ‘You’re right. It’s probably just a case of wrong place, wrong time. But are you OK?’

  ‘Yep,’ s
aid Sophie. ‘And I know a bike-shop guy. No worries. I'll sort it.’

  She jumped up the stairs, hit the landing and turned. Jin Tao stared back at her. What was that she saw? Concern or suspicion? For the first time in a long time, Jin Tao’s face was unreadable.

  They met as they always did, high above a butcher shop in Haymarket. The room smelled faintly of old blood.

  He surveyed the men in front of him. The Butcher sat cross-legged on a spring mattress on the floor, like a monk in contemplation. The other guy lounged in the leather armchair; with careful accuracy, he worked on painting his fingernails black.

  The Chef would arrive soon. He’d pant and blame his tar­diness on a busy night at the restaurant. The usual.

  He considered the two men. Things weren’t going to plan and the stakes had changed. He’d asked them to take Wendy Chan’s life and they’d done it. No questions asked.

  A familiar pinch in his belly, clammy hands, the twitch of the muscle above his lip.

  Why no questions? He’d ordered the murder to protect his business, but why had these guys jumped so quickly into action? The money?

  Or did they also have something they needed to protect?

  Rushed footsteps on the stairs. The door flew open. The Chef barrelled in. ‘Sorry I’m late.’ Little more than a mumble.

  He nodded to a wooden chair beside the wall. The Chef collapsed onto it, mopped his brow with a handkerchief.

  ‘Busy night ahead?’

  The Chef pulled a flask from his backpack. ‘The restaurant’s fine but the traffic’s a shocker.’ He flipped the lid on the flask, took a long drink.

  ‘Scotch?’

  The Chef raised his drink in a mock toast. ‘Pu-erh,’ he said. ‘Scotch of teas.’

  The other two men laughed but as usual he’d missed the joke. He hated tea, only drank water or booze. In this room right now he was supposed to be the leader, but as usual it was clear he remained on the outside.

  A thought made his skin creep. These men were killers now. What if they decided to turn on him?

  He opened his briefcase and removed a manila folder containing the photos he’d snapped in the early afternoon.

  ‘I’ve called you together to alert you to a potential problem,’ he said.

  The men stirred, curiosity piqued.

  ‘Two problems actually,’ he said. ‘First, another one of our ladies, a beauty called Han Hong, has disappeared.’

  He looked at each of the men, hoping to read something in their faces. The three sets of eyes gave nothing away.

  ‘The last I know is she finished a shift two weeks ago and went home,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t been seen since and I want to know where she is.’

  Bored expressions. They either didn’t know and didn’t give a shit, or they had some information they weren’t sharing.

  The Chef yawned. ‘Sounds like she’s done a runner,’ he said. ‘Not much point sending the substitute in for her any more, if she’s not bringing us in the bucks.’

  True. But he needed to protect the system. If the girl had done a runner, they’d need to officially withdraw her from study. He’d need to talk to his contact at Central English.

  ‘The second part of the problem is that a young woman has started nosing around asking questions. She’s someone we need to deal with before everything unravels.’

  The men sat up. He had their attention now. This was good. He passed around the photographs.

  ‘She’s an English teacher whose care and concern for her students can only be commended.’

  The Butcher, sitting on the mattress, caught his eye and smiled.

  ‘Our problem is she’s a little too caring and a little too concerned,’ he continued. ‘She visited Central English this afternoon, looking to speak with Han Hong. Somehow this teacher has become aware that Han Hong is missing and she’s taken it upon herself to find her.’

  The man with the nail polish blew on his left hand. ‘Did she find the substitute?’ he asked, as though talking about a point on a map.

  ‘I spoke to the substitute,’ he said. ‘Somehow this teacher had obtained a picture of our Han Hong and realised that the photo didn’t match with the girl in front of her. I can only guess that she’s suspicious.’

  The Butcher stared deep into the photo. ‘Where’d you take this?’ he asked.

  ‘Outside United English. The scene of the suicide.’

  At this, the Butcher flinched.

  The Chef raised a hand. He’d looked at the picture only briefly. He leaned in to the group.

  ‘I know this woman,’ he said, his voice soft. The others stared back at him.

  ‘You have an idea how to stop her?’ Finally, luck on his side.

  ‘I know her weakness,’ said the Chef. ‘I know how to get right under her skin and drive her sick.’

  The best thing about sharing a house with a chef, Sophie decided, was the leftovers. She’d spied crispy skin duck in the fridge earlier. It would go down a treat with some salad once she’d ushered Joy Lin out the door.

  The schoolgirl slipped her mountain of a bag onto her shoulders. ‘I’ll write the essay again, another two or three times,’ she said.

  Sophie snapped to attention. ‘That sounds a bit much.’

  ‘I want to get it right.’

  She had to give the girl points for stamina. Joy Lin had a voracious appetite for study. Already a whiz with numbers, she also maintained a B+ average across the humanities; she hoped to push this to an A, with Sophie’s help. They’d spent the last hour analysing Monet’s House Among the Roses.

  ‘It doesn’t always pay to practise things too often,’ said Sophie. Joy Lin stood lopsided, the heavy schoolbag dragging one shoulder down.

  ‘Practise makes perfect, don’t you know?’ she said as Sophie adjusted her straps.

  ‘Some things have to come from the soul.’

  Joy Lin snorted like a horse. ‘That sounds like something from the horoscopes!’

  Sophie laughed. ‘I think the best writing happens when you forget all the rules,’ she said. ‘The question is asking you to interpret a particular painting series. You can know the technical and historical details, but if that’s all you include in your writing, it won’t be very interesting, will it?’

  Joy Lin frowned. ‘It will be interesting to people who don’t know those details.’

  ‘But your examiners do. You need to give them something more. You need to convey emotion and passion. How can you express these things in your writing if you’ve planned every word before you even begin?’

  Joy Lin shook her head. ‘I couldn’t write an essay without planning.’

  ‘I’m not saying don’t prepare,’ said Sophie. She turned to the bookshelf, an idea sparking. ‘Know how you plan to proceed, but you don’t need to memorise every word.’ She scooped a pair of earrings from the dish on the bookshelf and held them in her palm: roses, perfect red buds. Perhaps a little quirk would catch Joy Lin’s inner spark.

  ‘Here.’ She held the earrings out to Joy Lin. ‘I never wear them. Take them on loan as a good-luck charm.’

  Joy Lin picked the earrings out of Sophie’s hand. ‘They’re pretty,’ she said. ‘Cheers, I’d love to borrow them. But good-luck charms are as useful as reading tea leaves. I prefer facts.’

  Sophie smiled and opened the bedroom door. ‘Which is why you’ll probably make a very successful scientist.’

  Joy Lin grimaced, slipping the earrings into her pocket. ‘Couldn’t think of anything worse,’ she said. ‘Sitting in a lab all day, peering through a microscope stinking of mould and chemicals for hardly any money? No thanks.’

  Sophie followed the girl down the stairs. ‘Career plans, then?’

  Joy Lin stopped by Sophie’s bicycle. ‘My parents want me to do medicine,’ she said. ‘They are the ultimate Chinese cliché.’ She ran a hand along the ridge of one busted tyre. Her fingers brushed the jagged flaps of split rubber. ‘Be careful, Sophie,’ she said, her voice husky. ‘I thin
k someone has it in for you.’

  A chill snaked across Sophie’s shoulders. She pulled her cardigan tighter. ‘Pardon?’

  The faintest trace of a smile played on Joy Lin’s lips. ‘Your tyres got slashed,’ she said. ‘I’m doing what you said. Interpreting the facts.’

  Sophie tugged at the latch on the front door. The heavy wood swung open. Outside, rain fell. She picked up a polka-dotted umbrella from the coat rack and handed it to Joy Lin. ‘Your interpretation is very creative, Dr Watson. But I think it’s more likely this tyre attack was random.’

  ‘Probably,’ said Joy Lin. ‘But that wouldn’t be very interesting.’

  Sophie leaned against the doorframe and watched the spotted umbrella bob down the street, tightness in her shoulders, a circus in her belly, a sudden urge to drink something stronger than tea. She’d dismissed the slashed tyres as a piece of random vandalism, a case of rainy-day bad luck. But both Jin Tao and Joy Lin had seen something sinister.

  Sophie climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She stood quietly on the carpeted step, her eyes drawn to the wooden shrine in the corner. The small boy in the photograph smiled at her. What was it about the missing? No matter where she ran, they haunted her still.

  It’s all connected. Li Hua had taught her that and Su Yuan had echoed it, her hand clutching Sophie’s fingers like a clamp.

  Sophie lay down, closed her eyes. In a moment she was back in Beijing.

  Neither of them spoke as Li Hua drove through the construction site that would one day become the Olympic Village. Sophie watched the shop-fronts of her neighbourhood slip past the window: a shoe store next to a shop selling guitars; a kebab stall next to a barber; a merchant selling sixty varieties of cigarettes.

  The sky billowed grey and blended into the concrete. And then they were at the underpass that turned onto the fourth ring road. Sophie had watched the underpass birth itself. In Australia, construction projects moved slowly, took months or years. But China had felt like a living time-lapse movie. Whole freeways, skyscrapers and transport terminals could appear in a matter of weeks. The pace was frenetic, the air choked with dust. But things got done.