New Order

by Helen Harper

  ‘You have destroyed my room,’ Maybe-Cheung states, keeping his eyes on mine.

  I gaze directly at him. ‘It was not my intention.’

  ‘I have no desire to antagonise the Montserrat Family. I have a long memory.’

  For a moment I think he’s threatening me. Then I realise he’s referring not to what he might do in the future but what Montserrat has done in the past. It’s a troubling insight.

  ‘As I said,’ I reply calmly, ‘I am not here in an official capacity.’

  ‘Just so.’ He looks away from me and glances at O’Shea. ‘It is a difficult concept for outsiders to understand, but “face” is very important to us. It is akin to losing one’s spirit.’

  I understand what he’s getting at and I don’t like it very much. ‘What would it take for you to retain face?’

  ‘A hand would suffice.’ He picks up a shard of broken glass and examines it thoughtfully. ‘Stealing is often punished thus.’

  O’Shea is intelligent enough to stay quiet. ‘That doesn’t work for me,’ I say.

  ‘I didn’t think it would.’ Maybe-Cheung tosses the glass on the floor. There’s something very odd about our conversation, the polite words and dulcet tones when we are discussing dismemberment.

  ‘Financial reparations…’ I begin.

  He shakes his head, interrupting me. ‘Face,’ he says, enunciating the word carefully, ‘demands more.’

  Maybe-Cheung lifts one hand and strikes me across my cheek. There’s little force behind the action and it’s not particularly painful. I doubt even my old human form would have felt much more than a sting. He raises his eyebrows as if waiting for something. I open my mouth and scream very, very loudly.

  ‘There is no terror in your voice, Ms Montserrat.’

  I swallow. ‘Actually, to be honest, it’s Blackman now.’

  If he’s surprised, he doesn’t show it. I scream again, then add in a moan at the end for good effect. To help move things along, I bend down and pick up the glass shard he’d been fingering. I use it to slash a line along my forearm and watch as blood drips down, pooling on the floor next to my feet. He smiles. It’s not very pleasant.

  ‘Are you Cheung?’ I ask, as the blood continues to fall in a steady stream.

  He nods almost imperceptibly. ‘Why are you really here, Ms Blackman?’

  ‘It’s about your accountant.’ I’m starting to feel dizzy. I turn my arm so it’s facing upwards. Connor’s willing donation from earlier is a big help; the wound starts to heal almost immediately. I scan Cheung’s face. A look of fleeting puzzlement crosses his eyes. Damn.

  ‘Which one?’ he asks.

  ‘Look, Jack, you know very well which one. Stop prevaricating.’

  His eyes narrow. ‘Eugene.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘My name is Eugene.’

  I blink. ‘Not Jack?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Is Jack your son?’

  ‘Ms Blackman, I grow tired…’

  I look at O’Shea who is watching the proceedings carefully. The only sign of tension in his face is a furrow on his forehead that trails down from his hairline. It looks as if he’s been sliced in half.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you what would happen if you made another mistake?’ I snap, stalking over to him.

  He catches on. ‘Ms Blackman, I only did what you told me to. You know I would never deliberately screw up. I admire you too much to…’

  I slam a fist into his solar plexus. He collapses to the ground. ‘Sucking up doesn’t compensate for fucking up,’ I tell his prone figure.

  I pat down his body and retrieve an inch-thick bundle of money, along with three playing cards which I hastily return to their hiding spot. Turning back, I throw the money in Cheung’s direction.

  ‘Again,’ I say formally, ‘I apologise.’

  He watches me with hooded eyes as I pick up O’Shea’s body and sling his arm round my shoulder. His feet drag on the floor as we lumber out. I wait for Cheung to change his mind about letting us off so easily, but our exit is unimpeded. We are, however, watched by several pairs of eyes. I pause several times to appear as if I’m struggling with O’Shea’s weight – and the pain from Cheung’s ‘beating’. My act seems to be good enough and, before long, we are outside with the rain thrumming down.

  ‘You do realise,’ O’Shea groans, ‘that you can kill me by hitting me there?’

  ‘I didn’t hit you that hard,’ I mutter. ‘How could you be so stupid as to cheat at cards?’

  ‘It was raining. I wanted to hurry things along in case you were getting wet.’

  ‘Right,’ I snort.

  ‘You gave him all my money. That was my rainy-day fund.’

  ‘And guess what?’ I say. ‘It’s still bloody well raining.’

  I drag him along. A car slows down. The window is wound down and a head pops out. ‘Hey! Do you guys need any help?’

  ‘No thanks!’ I call out sunnily.

  ‘Are you sure? Because you look like you do.’

  I turn my head to the driver. He obviously clocks that I’m a vampire because he blanches, mutters something and drives off.

  O’Shea barely blinks. ‘Who’s the accountant? Is it that guy with the funny coloured hair? And the weird French name? The one Montserrat doesn’t like?’

  I stop and stare at him. ‘Do you mean D’Argneau? How do you know about him?’

  ‘Lord Montserrat asked me to follow him around a few days last month and see what he was up to.’

  I frown as another trickle of water runs down my spine. ‘That guy’s a lawyer,’ I reply, shortly. ‘Not an accountant.’

  ‘Hey! Don’t shoot the messenger!’

  I let O’Shea go and he collapses onto the pavement. He scowls up at me.

  ‘What is it with you running around doing Michael Montserrat’s bidding all the time?’ I ask.

  ‘Darling, have you seen those muscles?’

  I roll my eyes. He sticks a hand up in the air and waves it around. ‘Help me up.’

  I watch him for a moment then give in and pull him to his feet.

  ‘D’Argneau has nothing to do with this.’ I consider O’Shea speculatively. He could be a worthy sounding board for my issues with Arzo’s former friend. ‘How good are you keeping secrets?’

  He scratches his head. ‘I’ll be honest, Bo, it’s not really my forte.’

  I laugh. ‘Fair enough.’

  I spy a short-skirted woman on the opposite side of the road. I can’t tell whether it’s the same prostitute I encountered previously but I start walking away, just in case. I have no desire to re-visit that humiliation. O’Shea follows me.

  ‘Whatever you’re looking for,’ he says, ‘that Cheung guy obviously isn’t it.’

  I sigh. ‘Sadly, no.’

  ‘He seemed alright for a human though. Except…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s obviously had dealings with Montserrat in the past. What do you think they were?’

  I’m glad I’m not the only one who spotted that. I shrug. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he murmurs, ‘it was a steamy love affair. Someone as sexy as Michael Montserrat can’t be completely straight. I guess it ended badly, though.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ I ask, playing along.

  O’Shea’s humour vanishes. ‘He was scared, Bo.’

  I have nothing to say to that because O’Shea is right. Cheung may be human but he’s the de facto leader of a large section of London’s Triads. He’s not someone who scares easily. We lapse into silence and keep walking, crossing several streets. The rain doesn’t let up but I’m so wet it no longer bothers me; instead I find I’m rather enjoying the stroll.

  After a while, O’Shea pipes up again. ‘Bo?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  I pause. ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘We’re just wandering aimlessly?’

  ‘Isn’t it great?’ I tilt up my face,
enjoying the sensation of the rain on my skin.

  He gives me a few moments, then interrupts softly. ‘It’s just gone four.’

  I don’t respond immediately.

  ‘It’ll be dawn in less than two hours.’

  I give him a half smile. He grins. ‘It’d be awkward for me if you burst into flames. I prefer to keep a low profile when I’m out and about on the mean streets. Do you need a place to stay?’

  ‘That’d be great. Could we make a stop first though? I could do with some help.’

  ‘I am at your service, Bo Blackman née Montserrat née Blackman.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  He smirks. ‘Where is it you want to go?’

  ‘The morgue.’ I hold up a hand. ‘Not to rummage through the belongings of corpses. I’m looking for someone in particular on the off-chance their spirit is still here.’

  ‘You can communicate with them?’

  ‘If I concentrate.’

  He purses his lips and shrugs. ‘Sure. Which morgue?’

  I falter. I have no idea. I may know more than most about the geography of London but I’ve never spent time hanging around chillers full of dead people. When my father died, I said my goodbyes to him as he lay cooling in his hospital bed. Even in my role as an investigator, I only spoke to coroners a few times and most of those were over the phone to confirm cause of death in the case of contested wills. Funnily enough, the police don’t take too kindly to PIs wandering in off the street and demanding to examine dead bodies. It would make sense to visit the morgue closest to the police station where Samuel Lewis breathed his last but his body may have been moved closer to where he lived to make the final arrangements easier for his family. I don’t have time to traipse across half the city. Then I remember the prostitute we avoided.

  ‘Scratch that idea,’ I say. ‘Do we have time to head to Crossbones?’

  O’Shea shivers. ‘Isn’t there somewhere else you’d rather go?’

  I shake my head decisively. ‘No, it’s perfect.’

  ‘I bloody hate that place,’ he mutters.

  Chapter Nine: Mother

  In many ways Crossbones Graveyard is indeed a horrible patch of land. It has a long and troubled history. Technically it’s not even a graveyard, it’s just a space near Clink Street that covers a pit of 18,000 densely packed bodies which date back to the twelfth century. It was a paupers’ cemetery, situated outside the old city walls in the shadowlands of London. John Stowe, a historian from the late 1500s, called it a ‘burial ground for single women’. There’s a euphemism, if ever I heard one. The truth is that nine hundred years ago, a less-than-charming man named Henry De Blois, who gained the powerful position of Bishop of Winchester, legalised prostitution in the area. Not so that he could help those downtrodden women whose only recourse against an early death from starvation was to sell their bodies, but so that he could tax the brothels that housed them. As a result, prostitution boomed in the area. When those unfortunate women died, they had to go somewhere. A consecrated burial ground was out of the question; thus Crossbones was born.

  There were some benefits to De Blois’ new law. Stringent rules and regulations were put into place to guard against sexual slavery and more obvious examples of exploitation. However, the women were forced to wear an item of clothing that openly advertised their profession, a rule nastily akin to the yellow star in Nazi Germany. Aprons were a big no-no because they were a mark of a ‘respectable’ woman. Often, girls who broke the rules were subject not only to fines but to the violently distasteful cucking stool.

  The authorities used ducking stools which forced suspects into water to seek out both black and white witches. If they drowned, they were innocent of witchcraft. If they survived, then they were deemed guilty and subject to even worse terrors. Witches on both sides of the spectrum cite those days as times of persecution for which they should receive reparations. At least witches didn’t have to undergo cucking stools, though. The prostitutes weren’t ducked into water – they were ducked in raw sewage.

  One aspect of the ignominy of being laid to rest, so to speak, in Crossbones’ pit, was that bodies were placed face down. I don’t know what it is about that fact, but for some reason I always feel it strips the Crossbones’ inhabitants of any remaining shred of dignity. Of course, it’s not just prostitutes who are buried there: it was also used as a convenient place to dump the remains of plague sufferers or, later, just about anyone who couldn’t afford to be buried in a churchyard. By the nineteenth century, it was surrounded by slums that reeked of disease. Even the police were afraid to set foot there. Unable to fit in any more corpses, the graveyard eventually closed. If it hadn’t been for the ghosts, it would probably have been completely forgotten.

  Humans, and tribers too, only use history as a reminder of an unfortunate past when they can blame someone else for the atrocities that went on. When they are responsible, it’s easier to pretend it never happened. For some reason, the spectres of Crossbones took umbrage at that.

  These days there’s an annual pilgrimage to the site when simple rituals are held and both locals and tourists pay homage to the poor souls who remain there. Although most have passed on by now, there are still far too many who linger, their decaying spirits unable to travel any further. They can often cause an inordinate amount of trouble and the small ritual services help to appease them. Both my father and grandfather encouraged me to join in ‒ it became a family tradition. We’d trip along and pay our respects then stop off for high tea somewhere on the journey home. After my father died, I no longer had the heart to keep up the visits and I’ve not attended a service for years. My lifespan, at least my human one, is a blink of an eye for most of these ghosts though. I’m banking on being remembered so at least one or two of them will be inclined to help.

  Now that we have a goal in mind, O’Shea and I find my car; thankfully it’s been neither clamped nor stolen. I quickly check Fingertips and Frolics before we drive off, but it seems undisturbed. Even the mouldy coffee cup I fixed over the camera is in place. I guess whoever receives the images isn’t bothered by what happens now in the empty store.

  With nothing more than a space where the passenger seat used to be, O’Shea is forced to sit in the back. He’s being driven around, chauffeur style, in the shabbiest limousine in the city and he’s not impressed. I think he’s almost relieved when we pull up outside the graveyard’s iron gates. Just like every other time I’ve been here, the surrounding streets are jam-packed with ghosts. It’s rare to have so many congregate in one area; most cemeteries only have three or four hanging around, and they are usually the newly dead. Few souls linger in this world and not many people have the ability to see them; even those who possess the skill naturally need a considerable amount of training. There are even fewer people who can talk to them. Thank you, grandfather. It’s been a while since I’ve tried communicating with the dead, but it’s a bit like riding a bike: once you’ve learned the knack, you never forget it. As long as you remember to stay calm and respectful and avoid looking directly at them, then you’re good.

  I’ve just put my hand on the gate when I’m approached.

  ‘Good day, Bo.’

  I turn and see a young girl and I’m both surprised and upset. I met her the first time I came here.

  Before that first visit I was bloody terrified and begged to stay at home. I think my father would have given in but grandfather, of course, was having none of it. I was dragged the entire way, kicking and screaming. Once we arrived, however, I fell into a terrified silence. I wasn’t as good at seeing the different ghosts as I am now, but I saw enough to make me want to run for the hills. I remember one sour-faced woman in particular who had a suckling baby attached to her breast. She wouldn’t leave me alone no matter what I did. The panic that I felt then is similar to the way I’ve felt during my recent hallucinations. Of course, I recognise now that desperate tragedy must have befallen the woman and her child for them to end up in such a state
.

  Anyway, the spectral woman terrified me. It wasn’t until Maisie stepped into her path that she finally gave up and left me alone. My gratitude was so immense that I forgot to be afraid. Maisie was intelligent and aware enough not to try and touch me; instead we sat down together on a small patch of balding grass and started to chat. My father found us there almost an hour later.

  Maisie and I bonded because of our ages; I was barely nine to her sixteen but her gentle manner won me over. It was like having an older sister, not one who bullied and taunted and teased or hogged the bathroom and made me wear her hand-me-downs, but one who listened and giggled and became a real friend. Until that is, I kept getting older while Maisie stayed the same. She is trapped forever as a teenage girl.

  It was a sobering realisation for me at the time, filled as I was with a belief in my own indestructibility. The day after I turned seventeen, I came to find her – and she simply wasn’t here. I returned several times, but I never saw her again and I assumed that she’d finally found peace. Not long after that, I said goodbye to my own father for good. His soul didn’t linger; I’m sad to see that hers has.

  ‘Hello, Maisie.’

  She’s holding a rose in her hands. Unfortunately it’s seen better days. Its few remaining petals are tinged with black and curling at the edges. Nonetheless, she smiles shyly and offers it to me. I give her a smile of both gratitude and friendship in return.

  ‘You are different now.’

  ‘I am,’ I tell her solemnly.

  ‘You are older.’ She stretches out a long thin finger and points to my eyes. ‘I can see it. There are shadows now where before there were none.’

  ‘Much has happened. Where did you go, Maisie?’

  She doesn’t answer my question. Instead she looks troubled. ‘You have joined the walkers of the night.’

  As much as I would like to deny it, I can’t. ‘Yes.’