The Curfew Circle

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The Curfew Circle Page 18

by Nina Dreyer


  ‘The courage of your convictions, for a start.’

  McSorley looked at him for a long moment. That look in his eyes, thought John, that look not of anger, but of pity and disappointment, it was the priest’s way of trying to get the final word. Why not let him? John sat patiently until the priest had finished his meaningful stare.

  McSorley took out a letter from his chest pocket. ‘Mrs. Hurlihy asked me to deliver this to you in person, with her earnest admonition that you give her the respectful attention she deserves after serving this organisation for so long.’ He propped the letter against the broken deer figurine. His hand was trembling. ‘She’s a widow now, Mr. Kilcoyne, and she deserves your consideration, if nothing else. After what you did to her late husband.’

  Pausing briefly, he turned and left.

  John watched the door glide shut behind the priest. The late afternoon sun slanted through the dusty air and illuminated the door and the wilting potted plant beside it. He lit another cigarette and tore open the envelope. He skimmed the letter, smiling slightly. Trust Eilis Hurlihy to send death threats on lavender-scented notepaper. The woman was such an amateur.

  He burned the letter in the ashtray, leaning back to watch it crumple into ashes.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dusk was settling in the clear sky, and the streets were emptying already. Cold stars glittered over shale roofs and thinning autumn branches. Marion stumbled down the streets, a cold hand pressed to her cheek. You’re sick in the head. Sick. Now get out of my house. Eilis’ words burned her face like the onset of an illness.

  Two policemen ambled down the road, side by side, faces guarded and watchful. Marion lowered her head and crossed the road, glancing over her shoulder every three steps until she reached the Salon door. Rotting autumn leaves covered the granite steps.

  She slipped inside, letting the door swing shut behind her.

  Pausing with a hand on the worn banister, she looked up the old staircase, listening for voices. Low murmurs sounded from the parlours above. Male voices.

  A clammy chill seeped under her skin. Oh, they’d laugh to see her like this. Those sneering mediums of Mr. Sidney’s old inner circle, Charlie Kavanagh or his smirking friend, or one of those men with precise little moustaches and shining grey suits. I can always tell a desperate woman. Plague crow. She raised a cold hand to her forehead and realised that her head was uncovered. She’d left her hat lying trampled on the floor in Eilis’ hallway.

  She dragged herself up the balding red carpets on the stairs, her pulse as thick and slow as treacle in her chest.

  In the outer parlour sat Charlie and George, huddled over a round table. Glasses and whiskey bottles and newspapers covered its gleaming surface. Curling wisps of smoke from a heavy ashtray rose in the triangle of light from a solitary lamp overhead.

  Marion knotted her fingers in her pockets and considered turning back before they saw her.

  ‘Miss Hahn!’ Charlie sprang up, brandishing a newspaper sheet. ‘Speak of the Devil, behold, the woman of the hour!’

  Marion hovered on the doorstep, frowning, trying to decipher his face. Was he being sarcastic?

  ‘Please,’ George rose, tugging at his waistcoat, ‘join us for a, um, a drink, why don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Charlie hurriedly poured her a glass of brandy, ‘please do join us, we’re dying to hear all about your famous exploits.’

  ‘Famous,’ agreed George as he pulled out a silk-backed chair for her.

  ‘I need to speak to John,’ said Marion.

  ‘Sure he can wait,’ said Charlie, ‘come, come!’

  Marion slumped down on the edge of the seat.

  ‘I was only just telling John,’ said Charlie, rustling a large stack of newspapers, ‘your prison seance has been reported everywhere, all the papers of note, and also that rag, the Freeman’s Journal, and we’ve been receiving callers all day, George and I, from all kinds of people who are most interested, most fascinated.’

  Marion stared at newspapers. Her cheeks burned. Have you seen this, Marion? Have you? You’re a disgrace.

  ‘Of course,’ said George, ‘there’s also been a few death threats…’

  ‘Yes well, very few,’ Charlie waved a hand dismissively, ‘really nothing to worry about. Some people just want to complain, that’s all.’

  George nodded, bobbing his head up and down. ‘To be sure, nothing to worry about.’

  They sat in silence for a moment, Charlie and George looking expectantly at her.

  ‘So, um, we felt that we should perhaps, um…’ George trailed off, glancing at Charlie.

  ‘Yes, right,’ said Charlie, ‘we were just saying to each other, just now before you walked in, that maybe,’ he cleared his throat, ‘maybe we haven’t quite made the right impression on you. In the past. You know, when we were joking around. That was all banter, of course. You know what banter means, don’t you? It’s all light-hearted fun, just a bit of ripping, a bit of playful… well.’

  Marion said nothing.

  ‘Sure we’re all friends now, isn’t that right?’ Charlie contorted his face into a sweaty grin.

  ‘Yes, to be sure, we’ve been looking out for you all day,’ said George eagerly, ‘all day we’ve been turning away journalists and curious well-wishers, saying our esteemed friend, Miss Hahn, is not available for comment, haven’t we, Charlie?’

  Both men turned to beam at her.

  Marion blinked rapidly, struggling against the rising thickness in her throat, the pressure welling up behind her eyes. I feel so stupid. I thought you were my friend. She mustn’t cry. She must not cry. Not in front of these men. Later, in the hush and darkness of her own room, then she could cry. A flicker of hope. Maybe Eilis would read the Tarot cards later. Maybe the Tarot cards would show her how sorry Marion felt, maybe she’d see Marion’s shock and grief in the cards, laid out there. The cards never lie. Eilis had said that when she’d sat, smiling faintly, reading the patterns and symbols of Marion’s heart. Eilis would never read the cards for her again. She’d would never let her into her parlour again. Marion burst into tears.

  ‘I say,’ said George, ‘are you feeling quite alright?’ He patted her hand awkwardly.

  ‘It’s the shock,’ said Charlie, nodding knowingly, ‘rough on the nerves, a bad business like that, very rough, to be sure.’ He nudged the glass of brandy into Marion’s hand.

  Marion wiped her cheek on her sleeve. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why don’t you talk to us about it, eh?’ George smiled hopefully. ‘Get it out of your system. Do you a world of good.’

  ‘Well,’ Charlie smirked maliciously, ‘at least he gave his life for old Ireland, didn’t he? Our Mister Hurlihy. Fat lot of good that’ll do him now.’

  Marion shot him a withering glare.

  ‘Ah now,’ said George, ‘don’t be a bollocks. He was Eilis’ husband, after all.’ He let out a damp sigh. ‘If I was married to Eilis Hurlihy, you’d not see me prancing around for old Ireland like that, widowing her like that…’

  Widowhood. The word sat in the back of Marion’s mind like a tumour. She tried not to picture Eilis dressed all in widow’s black, stripped of pearls and peacock feathers. Her eyes welled up.

  Charlie sloshed more brandy into Marion’s glass. ‘In any event, it must have been a frightful sight, arriving at a gaol like that in the middle of the night… so tell us, who did you meet? Anyone important? Any senior officers? Did you get their names?’

  Marion scowled darkly at her glass at the memory of those British officers creeping around in the bowels of the prison.

  ‘Was he scared shitless? Hurlihy?’ Charlie lit a cigarette. ‘Did he cry? I bet he mewled like a girl.’

  Marion fixed him with a cold stare. ‘No. He did not cry. He fell through the trapdoor and broke his neck in a metal hook. He kicked. It was a difficult death.’

  Charlie pursed his lips over his whiskey glass.

  George looked this way and that, brushing his shirt fro
nt with his plump little hands.

  ‘How do you do it,’ asked Charlie, ‘contact them, I mean, on the other side… without a Ouija board or anything, how…’

  ‘I was trained. For years.’

  ‘In… Belgium? I didn’t know they teach that sort of thing in, um, Belgium?’

  Marion closed her eyes tightly and rubbed her aching forehead. She’d spent most of her childhood in darkness, under the heavy black blindfolds and veils, the light of the red lantern glimmering faintly through the coarse fabric. No, Marion, that is still not good enough, Herr von Liebenfels had said again and again, each time with a sharp rap of a metal ruler on her fumbling fingers, no Marion, go deeper into the darkness, search deeper, down below all the filth of Christianity, down to the blazing rage and power of the sacred realm of our ancient Germanic…

  ‘Did you see the light,’ George said, wide-eyed, as if the thought had just occurred to him, ‘did you see the golden light on the other side?’

  ‘There is no light on no other side.’

  Charlie paled. The two men exchanged nervous glances.

  ‘That’s not right, I’d never believe that,’ said Charlie, his voice strained, ‘there’s light when you pass over, and people to embrace you, kin, ascended masters…’

  ‘John is always talking about the light,’ ventured George, ‘the light of heaven, on the other side of the, um, outer darkness.’

  ‘Trust me,’ said Marion quietly. ‘There is no light in the afterlife. Only darkness. Vast expanses of emptiness. And quiet, like being deep underwater. Liam Hurlihy is not bathed in light. There was nobody to welcome him into death. He is alone with his anger and his pain.’

  Charlie swept a hand over his forehead.

  George hugged himself and stared at the empty gin bottle in front of him.

  In the darkness behind them, a door creaked open.

  John sauntered towards them, his long shadow gliding over the cold fireplace and empty doorways. Marion’s heart kicked a beat too fast. ‘I must speak with you,’ she said, rising too quickly.

  John cocked his head. ‘I hope you haven’t been crying.’

  Marion wiped her cheek on her sleeve and stepped away from the light on the table. ‘I saw Eilis.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ He crinkled his forehead. ‘I’m sure I told you not to call on her again.’

  Marion threw up her hands. ‘We were there when the British murdered her husband! The least I could-’ She pressed her knuckles to her mouth. Eilis’ face gleamed in her mind’s eye, raw and red with rage. You’re sick in the head. You sick, craven vulture.

  Charlie and George sat in stony silence.

  ‘Ah here,’ John took her shoulders. ‘Here, don’t cry. Come now. What is this? She’s really gotten under your skin, hasn’t she? All this talk of British this and British that. It’s not right. That’s not what this is about.’ He gently stroked her tousled hair. ‘Of course Eilis is upset. Of course she is. But whatever she said to you, she didn’t really mean it. We just have to give her time. She’ll come round, Marion. You know that.’

  Marion suppressed a sob.

  ‘Come on,’ John said. ‘I want to show you something. You’ll like it.’

  He took her hand, locking her fingers in his and guiding her away from the small circle of light, through the dark hallway and into the room beyond.

  Old furniture cluttered the floor. A heavy chair with leather straps on the arm rests. A cracked globe, a stack of dusty old Ouija boards. Bookcases crammed with old occult periodicals.

  ‘Look,’ said John.

  Behind a faded Chinese screen stood a low black table. On the table stood a large wooden box, painted a sickly green colour and fastened with leather straps.

  John unhooked the straps and opened the front, bowing his head reverently like a priest over a shrine.

  Marion inched closer. It was a Marconi radio receiver.

  Military issue.

  Next to it stood the transmitter, encased in field green wood, its battery coil frayed. In front of it on the table lay two headphones. The leather cover of one ear piece had been blasted off, exposing the cold black metal speaker beneath.

  Marion felt the tips of her fingers grow cold. ‘What is this?’

  ‘The future.’ John nudged the aerial tuning valve and the scratched buttons and switches. The glass valves came to life, glowing dimly.

  Marion stared at it, trying to suppress the thought of the last men whose voices had been carried through these headphones, the sounds of shellfire thundering behind them. ‘Where did you get it?’ She reached out to touch it, but recoiled. ‘Is this a trench radio,’ she whispered, ‘what do we need a trench radio for? We don’t need this. What are you doing with this?’

  John picked up a headphone and pressed the cold leather padding to her ear. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Do you hear that?’

  A soft hissing, burst by crackling. A sound whispered behind it, ragged, like a continuous intake of hoarse breath. Marion felt all heat drain from her face. She dropped the headphone and took a step back. ‘What are you going to do with this, John?’

  ‘We are going to listen to the voices of the dead,’ he answered, running a pale finger over the dials, nudging them gently. ‘Sid meant well. So did Eilis, in her own way. But the future of psychical research is in scientific innovation, Marion. Ouija boards are useful for now, but they’re so hopelessly old-fashioned. Trance writing is a waste of time. And Tarot cards tend to inspire unhelpful occult connotations among the general public. I’m going to change that, and you’re going to help me.’ He smiled brightly. ‘Think about it. We can communicate with electrical telegraph cables across the vastness of the Atlantic. So why shouldn’t we be able to perfect an electrical device until it’s so fine-tuned, so sensitive that it can tap into the world of the dead?’

  ‘John, no.’ Marion curled her fingers around his wrist. ‘We don’t know who we would be communicating with, we might rouse something, especially with this military device, this relic of the trenches, it’s not-’

  ‘See, this is your problem.’ John winked and smiled crookedly at her. ‘You’ve spent too long worrying about hauntings and frights. It’s skewed your mind to darkness.’ He turned back to the radio, smiling beatifically. ‘There is no pain in the otherworld. They’re all at peace now. Each and every one of them.’ He trailed a finger over the buttons and lowered his voice. ‘And soon, we’ll be able to hear their voices again, across the void.’ His eyes shone strangely.

  Marion tried to swallow back that a rising taste of blood and iron at the back of her throat. She lowered her head and stared at the glowing glass valves in the radio until they burned green coils into her retinas.

  ‘Cheer up,’ John stroked her shoulder and smiled, ‘we’ve got so much exciting work to do. You and me. And don’t trouble yourself over Eilis. She’s wounded your feelings, I know. But I’ve got a feeling you’ll make new friends soon. Better friends.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Marion glanced up at him.

  He smiled. ‘There’s a party tonight. I want you to come. It’ll be a bit of craic, Marion. You’ve deserved a bit of craic. Come on. You’ve had a rough day, but all you need is a few drinks and some good company.’ He inclined his head and took her hand. ‘Please come. Let me take you out.’

  Later, as dusk slowly bled her bedroom of colour, Marion stood in front of a tall mirror, dressed only in her cotton shift. Darns and repairs puckered the worn fabric like scar tissue. Her hair hung limp down her shoulders. She began twirling it and fastening it, wincing as the hair grips dug into her scalp.

  She looked down at the dinner invitation that John had pressed into her hand at the Salon. Rimmed with gold, with her name printed in slanting script. Mr. and Mrs. Brockhurst request the pleasure of the company of Miss Marion Hahn. Blackrock. An elegant address. John had scribbled a note in the margin. Wear something pretty. You might meet new friends, remember?

  She took her gown from the faded silk paper
wrapping. Old sequins, blackened by soot and time. It smelled slept-in. Eilis had been right. It was her only party gown.

  The house sighed like an old wooden hull creaking in a storm. Marion paused and listened. No footsteps, no gliding shadows, no hush of dead breath. She glanced at the great mahogany wardrobe by the moonlit window. Maybe the former lady of the house had hanged herself there, from that metal bar. Eilis said she’d killed herself from grief. Widowhood. It was like a strange poison. It turned some rare women into saints. Others, it drove mad.

  Wind battered the windows.

  Marion glanced at long lace curtains swaying in the cold draft. Billowing, just like that evening long ago, when she’d laid in Erich’s arms under a window open to a May night, and the lace curtains had rippled over them on a wind scented with honeysuckle and hay fields. And she’d slipped out of their warm bed in the still hour before dawn to brush his uniform tunic, lovingly sweeping the brush over the coarse Feldgrau wool, straightening the hard gold-embroidered red collar, polishing the double rows of gleaming brass buttons as she’d imagined him riding at the head of his battalion towards a distant golden dawn.

  The memory sat in her chest like a splinter of glass.

  She dug out her cosmetics box. Cerulean enamel embossed with a silver dragonfly with wings the shade of starlight. Parfümerie Leichner, Berlin printed in gold letters. She opened it carefully, ran a little finger over the magenta gel and dabbed it over her lips.

  She gazed at herself in the mirror. A painted corpse. A corpse in a prison basement, cold on a slab. Angrily she smeared more colour on her cheeks, her lips, until she finally wiped it all off harshly with the back of her hand as the wind rumbled over the house, clattering the roof tiles.

  If Eilis could see her now, she’d laugh. That cruel little laugh at the back of her throat, giddy with the joy of ridicule. And whoever Mr. and Mrs. Brockhurst were, they would cast one look over her old gown, her cracked winter lips, her dry, bony hands, and they’d laugh, too.

 

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