Ghost Girls

by Cath Ferla

  Students filled the space around them. Time for class. Chuck leaned in.

  ‘My advice is to let this one go,’ he said. ‘Forget about Su Yuan and get on with things.’

  Get on with things. That was how Wendy had met her death. She’d been hiding something and no one had noticed. Every­body had been too busy getting on with things. Sophie knew this pattern like a favourite tune. Move on and make a ghost.

  She couldn’t let it happen again. Not to Su Yuan. Even if Chuck was partly right and Pete had pulled a few dodgy strings, surely the records department had some checks and balances. The people pulsing through the classrooms, corridors and stairwells of this language school had paid good money to be here. Intelligent and ambitious, they would revolt if they knew their language learning accreditation could be so easily hijacked. Sophie pushed back her chair.

  ‘Keep the girl here. I’m going to talk to Pete myself.’

  Chuck grimaced like he’d just lost a race. ‘Sure, Soph,’ he said with a tight smile. ‘Whatever you say.’ He got up, turned towards his classroom.

  Sophie gathered her books. The door to Chuck’s classroom was thrown back. Sophie whipped her head, caught a glimpse of a tall student pushing out over the heads of others. Su Yuan’s imposter was making a dash for it.

  ‘Stop her,’ said Sophie, lurching forwards, shoving her hand into the small of Chuck’s back.

  Chuck grabbed for the girl’s arm. ‘Honey, you have to stay here.’

  The girl twisted free and spun away. She burrowed through the students in the corridor. They parted for her, sealing the passage again with their lazy trundle.

  Sophie searched the sea of bobbing heads for another glimpse of the girl. But she’d disappeared.

  鬼

  Chinatown at midday. Sophie arrived in a sweat. Dirty rain rushed down the gutters. The red-brick monstrosity of Paddy’s Markets loomed large, its doors welcoming her into the darkness like a great, yawning mouth.

  Inside, tourists rammed the space. The whole place pulsed and heaved. Asian tourists and suburbanites from western Sydney shopped for cheap souvenir T-shirts, Harbour Bridge tea towels, kangaroo-skin purses, fake Gucci handbags and shiny knock-off pearls. Sophie slipped in to the throng and inhaled the stench: spring onions and overripe fruit, damp, incense, body odour. Her ears pricked to the sound of Mandarin all around her. She tuned in to snippets of conversation: animated discussions about the best noodle soup, the benefits of royal jelly, the state of the weather.

  And she was back there, wandering the old Dongzhimen marketplace in Beijing, Li Hua slipping a hand into hers, feeding her vocabulary, giggling as Sophie attempted to barter. She saw Li Hua’s face before her: clear-skinned, strong-jawed, eyes alight. Sophie’s heart throbbed.

  ‘Are you following me?’ A woman spoke in a low tone.

  Sophie turned, cautious. The young woman, a girl, fingered the satin purses on display at the stall beside them. Sophie recognised her hands: the imposter.

  ‘I think you were following me but I found you first,’ the woman said.

  Sophie dropped her voice. ‘I came here looking for you,’ she said. ‘I need to talk.’

  The girl pulled away into the crowd. ‘I want to talk to you too,’ she said as she moved. ‘But in private. Come on.’

  They pushed through the streams of people, the thin girl melt­ing between souls like a spirit. Sophie elbowed her way past the mum-and-dad shoppers, did her best to keep up. They rounded a corner and headed deep into the back of the marketplace. Here, it was darker, the stalls less densely packed. Ahead of them stood a filthy orange dumpster. A row of rubbish bins, overflowing with paper and rotting fruit, lined the wall. The girl stopped and turned around.

  Sophie wrinkled her nose. ‘You want to talk here?’

  The girl nodded. ‘You don’t have very long.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve told my friend Zhou you followed me,’ she said. ‘He’s coming to collect me and he won’t be happy to see us talking.’

  Sophie looked over her shoulder. No one. ‘Are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

  The girl flashed a crooked smile, cocked her head. ‘First, you need to relax.’

  Relax. A strange instruction. ‘I’m concerned about Su Yuan,’ Sophie said. ‘Where is she? And why are you pretending to be somebody you’re not?’

  ‘I am Su Yuan,’ the girl said.

  ‘You’re not.’

  The girl eyeballed her. ‘You need to relax.’

  ‘Stop saying that.’

  ‘Listen,’ the girl said. ‘You don’t know what it’s like to be us. To be students here in a strange country. Some foreign students are rich but lots of us have very little before we find ourselves here among people who have everything.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with Su Yuan?’

  ‘There are many opportunities here.’

  ‘You mean for work?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We can make money. The things we do to make money, they may not be so moral, they may not even be legal, but we don’t care. We’re… how do you say…’ she paused, searching for her words. ‘We’re twenty-first-century kids; you should try working retail here. We send the money home and we support each other.’

  ‘What kinds of things do you do for money?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘Waitressing, escorting, stripping, sex, whatever.’ Her eyes shone with defiance. ‘We look out for each other, cover for each other. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘You’re saying you’re covering for Su Yuan?’

  ‘I’m saying you need to relax. There might be something going on but that doesn’t mean anybody is in trouble.’

  The girl’s eyes flicked away, focused on something behind Sophie, who turned to look. An open palm pushed her firmly and sharply against the dumpster. Her head hit its metal edge with a crack. A man in grubby chef’s whites gripped her firmly by the arm. She felt his long fingernails curl into her jumper, scratching at the skin above her elbow. She rode a surge of adrenaline, twisted to free herself. But it was no good. The man’s grip held firm and his other hand rested against her mouth. In her peripheral vision, Sophie saw the girl lingering. She relaxed back against the dumpster, willing herself to ignore the germs, trying hard to ignore the pounding in her head.

  ‘What are you doing with my friend?’ A pair of sharp black eyes, set wide on a narrow face, stared through her. She registered high cheekbones, the thin whisper of a moustache, thick lips parted in a strange smile. Just ten steps beyond them, business carried on. But even if she screamed, her voice wouldn’t carry above the din. For all the people, Sophie felt invisible here in the shadows by the rubbish, the imposter out of reach, a strange man clasping her arm.

  ‘I guess you must be Zhou,’ she said, when the man removed his hand from her mouth.

  He raised his eyebrows in greeting. ‘My friend tells me she’s being harassed,’ he said. ‘She told me she was followed here by a teacher.’

  Sophie twisted again under the man’s grip. ‘Your friend is pretending to be somebody else,’ she said. ‘She’s stolen another student’s identity.’

  The man pulled on Sophie’s arm, bringing her closer. She smelled something sour seeping from his skin. He brought his mouth to her ear.

  ‘Who is this somebody else?’

  ‘A girl named Su Yuan. My student.’

  Zhou released Sophie’s arm. ‘Our business is none of your business,’ he said. ‘But may I introduce to you my friend, Su Yuan.’

  Sophie turned. The girl had gone.

  ‘She’s not Su Yuan.’

  ‘Then who is she?’

  ‘A stranger,’ Sophie said.

  ‘It’s probably better you keep it that way.’ The man gave her a prod. ‘My friend tells me you’re an excellent teacher. Don’t even think about reporting this to the school. I’ll find out and, who knows, I might just drop by your home sometime for a lesson.’

  Again Han Hong felt the li
ght. This time it crept softly around the edges of her blindfold. It filtered through the blackness, bringing with it coloured shapes that merged and swam. A relief. Tracing the patterns provided a brief distraction from her predicament; a glimpse of colour in a world that had become incredibly black.

  But the peace, as it settled, was short-lived. Her captor broke it, his voice menacing.

  ‘Don’t worry, baby, you’ll do fine, you’re going to be a TV star.’

  He untied her wrists and then he was upon her. His rough hands grasped her shoulders and pulled her up. She yelled out, took a stab at a fight, and stumbled on weakened legs. Her captor ignored her and half dragged her away from the wall towards the light.

  Han Hong struggled, struck a hand out and touched skin, felt stubble: a face unmasked. A change in routine, an identifiable face – it could only mean they had something worse in store for her. And that perhaps her time was running out.

  Fear shot through her, charging her body with a strength she thought she’d lost. She thrashed hard against her captor, twisting her shoulders in an effort to escape his grip.

  ‘Shit!’

  Hang Hong hit the floor with her face. White pain streaked through the side of her jaw to her neck. But she’d had a win. She’d got her fingernails into his face and dug in hard. She tasted the sticky blood dripping onto her lips from her nose and felt the beginnings of a smile. She hoped she’d made him bleed.

  ‘Bitch.’

  Rough hands removed the blindfold. Han Hong blinked, momentarily blinded. He knelt beside her, a deep scratch on his cheek. In his hands he held a leather whip. She’d seen it before; the welt on her thigh stung with the memory.

  ‘Okay, babe,’ he said. ‘You smile for the camera while I work at making you scream.’

  Sophie reached the intersection of Liverpool and Victoria streets and took a left. Despite the bite in the air, a crowd gathered outside the gelateria. Sophie thumbed a hello at the girl serving the cones. She padded along Victoria Street, head down against a wind that danced at her neck.

  If Chuck had told her anything it was that Pete was up to his neck in dodge, and maybe Michael Disney too. If so, how broad was Disney’s reach? There were language schools all over the city; a couple of students swapped in and out of classes at each could add to twenty or more. She should confront Pete, make him tell her what was going down. But if her own hunch was right, and Su Yuan was in danger, then opening her mouth would be a bad move. Zhou had made this point very clear.

  She saw him as she passed Kings Cross Station. He sat in the driver’s seat of a white ute on Darlinghurst Road, a passenger in a hooded windcheater beside him. She’d noticed the cigarette first, watched him flick the still-smouldering butt onto the pavement. She’d raised her eyes to the driver’s face, recognised him immediately.

  Zhou.

  She ducked to the pavement, fiddling with a lace on a shoe.

  You suck. Get the fucking details.

  Sophie looked up. The lights had changed. The ute had moved on.

  She stood and scanned the street. Had he seen her? She cast an eye over Darlinghurst Road. The street hummed with end-of-day commuters scurrying north to Potts Point apartments and early bucks-night revellers trawling pavements for strip joints and beer. A bustle to be lost in.

  What had Zhou been doing in the Cross? Was it a coincidence that she’d seen him a second time on the day he’d threatened her? Sydney was a small city compared to some she’d lived in, but not that small. Sophie pulled her coat closer, the late afternoon chill digging in.

  女孩

  A lonely paper bag danced a slow jig in the deserted laneway behind the restaurant. The ginger alley cat, usually seen scouring the bins for dinner, was nowhere in sight. With only the grey skies and rubbish for company, Sophie actually felt cheered. A fine way to end the day.

  A crash behind her.

  Sophie spun around, sure of someone else in the lane. A fine way to end.

  The green garbage bin lay on its side on the cobblestones. Dead leaves and spilled rubbish filled the space to the road. No one there. She turned and pushed into the Blue Lotus kitchen. She really needed a cup of tea.

  ‘You missed him.’ Stuart stood at one of the workbenches trussing a duck with a length of twine.

  Sophie took in the kitchen. Two other cooks worked quietly at their stations. The remaining stainless steel benches gleamed, cleared of the rubble that usually indicated kitchen prep. The clock on the wall said four.

  ‘We’re understaffed and stuffed for tonight’s service,’ said Stuart. ‘Half the crew are off with the flu and the agency guys haven’t shown up. I’ll be peeling potatoes for the first time since my apprenticeship.’

  Sophie smiled and pulled off her duffel coat. ‘I can give you a hand,’ she said. ‘Where’d Jin Tao go?’

  Stuart snorted. ‘He said you were coming and then he took off all of a sudden. I’m hoping he’s out finding more workers.’ He bundled the duck into a tray, swivelled to the sink.

  ‘You went hunting for that duck?’ She indicated the scratch on his face.

  Stuart touched it, winked. ‘See, I had this hot date last night…’

  Sophie rolled up her sleeves. ‘Enough. Show me the way.’

  ‘Catch.’

  Sophie snatched at the plastic potato peeler as it flew through the air. Her thumb collided with the handle. The peeler clattered to the floor.

  ‘Better not put you in the slips,’ Stuart joked. ‘After you’ve washed up, try to make quick work of the rest of those spuds. I’ll put you onto the onions next.’

  ‘You make that sound like a reward.’

  Stuart lifted his arms in mock defence. ‘Hey, whoever said a chef’s life was glamorous never stepped into a kitchen.’

  In the small mirror above the basin, Sophie caught a glimpse of her reflection. Grey crescents below her eyes. During the past few days in her feverish state, she’d conjured David’s ghost drifting above her bed. He’d smiled, a shy attempt at connection, and held out a gloved hand. She’d grasped it, felt David’s touch firming like wax. She’d tried to hold on but the boy faded back into the darkness, leaving Sophie with only a glove to embrace.

  Sophie dried her hands on a paper towel. The pile of potatoes would take her mind off the day. She glanced at the clock. It was so unlike Jin Tao to take off when the kitchen was under pressure.

  鬼

  When Sophie finally kicked the front door shut behind her it was after eight. She’d peeled potatoes until five, and then Stuart had got her started on the onions and garlic. When three burly chefs in agency uniforms had lumbered through Blue Lotus’s back door, Stuart had seemed considerably less stressed, although he’d cursed when she’d again inquired about Jin Tao.

  At a Korean cafe on her way home from the Cross, she picked up some bulgogi and kimchi soup. The warmth radiated from the brown paper bag as she hiked home against the wind. She took the bag into the kitchen and placed the containers of food on the bench. She unbuttoned her duffel coat and threw it onto the table before she began flinging cupboards open. She collected a saucepan, salt and a jar of rice. She never understood why people bothered to pay for cooked white grains.

  Because, by the time you make your own, the rest of the food is cold, Jin Tao told her every time she did this. He’d say it with a smirk and follow with the tease: Tight-arse. But Sophie didn’t care. She didn’t pay for things she could make or do more easily herself. That’s just the way it was.

  With the rice on and the food making warm condensation on the benchtop, Sophie took her satchel through to the living room and scuffed up the stairs to her room.

  She flipped on the light. Something was wrong.

  She’d had a housemate at university who swore she could sense spirits. The house they’d shared in Melbourne had been a newly renovated Victorian, far too expensive for two young students on casual wages. They’d scrimped in other ways so as to enjoy ducted heating while their classmates lived in share ho
uses with rotting carpet and holes in the walls. Sophie had known, even then, that it was better to ride a bike to university than waste money on a tram ticket if it meant coming home to a warm house with a decent kitchen. While other students lived on hamburgers and pizza, Sophie and Caitlyn had cooked feasts.

  She’d thought Caitlyn had been taking the piss when she first said the house was infested with ghosts. But Caitlyn had insisted that she sensed them; that a presence in the house needed acknowledgement. She’d placed tea light candles down the hallway and a bowl of water by the front door. To welcome the spirits, Caitlyn said: ‘And to prevent them from turning nasty.’

  Sophie had said nothing. But, in the middle of the night, when Caitlyn’s silence suggested sleep, she’d crept into the hallway to extinguish the candles in a bid to prevent the house from catching fire. She’d never felt the presence of the spirits, even though she’d tried tuning in to all her senses while lying on her back on the hard wooden floor. She’d felt nothing. The soot from the candles left black stains on the walls and had cost them their bond.

  What Sophie felt now was not so much a presence as a strong sense that her room had been disturbed. The window gaped open like the entrance to a blast chiller. The bedspread had been straightened badly, as though by somebody in a hurry, and was gathered heavily at the foot of the bed, exposing the slip of her pillowcase at the head. A distinct depressed spot suggested someone had been sitting there.

  She went to the side of the bed. Directly in front of her sat the little shrine to David. The intruder had looked at this, she was sure. The frame tilted outwards, angled in a way that made it impossible for Sophie to see David’s face from her pillow.

  The incense stick had burned to its butt and the ashes spilled and curled from the holder onto the wooden frame. Sophie tried hard to remember whether she’d replaced the stick this morning. If so, then somebody had lit it and let it burn to the base during the course of the day. She searched her memory. The morning’s events had been catalogued somewhere far behind the more ferocious memories of the imposter, the marketplace and Zhou.