The Half Killed

by Quenby Olson

  A glance over my shoulder to make sure that Chissick is a safe distance away, and I pull at my sleeve, rearranging the cuff until my arm is hidden. "What would you have me do? I can’t let go. I am the only thing holding them back."

  She snickers softly. "Oh, you think you're such a smart one, hmm? Such a clever one." She taps her bosom, where the bag of tiles is still secreted. "I don't need these to tell me things. And I know you can't hold them off for all and forever, not with them always having such an interest in you. And you’ve already slipped up once, haven’t you?" Her eyes fix on my wrists, on the poorly healed wounds hidden from her view. "You’re not as strong as you’d like, and they’ll find a way to break you down, if the one attemptin’ to have the run of them has anything to do with it."

  I feel my spine snap straight at her words. "You know who it is? Who’s behind this?"

  But already, her head shakes. "They’re all cloaked, like. I can’t see a thing of them, not with either of my eyes."

  "Is it Ryall?" I dare to ask, my voice as low as I can make it while still keeping it audible to her ears. But it’s my turn to shake my head, for I know Ryall’s sort too well. He’s the sort to dip his toe into the edge of mischief, but he would never wade in as far as this.

  "They’re a cunning sort, that’s all I can say." Her voice is a rush of air, nearly as low as my own. "And they’ll bring this entire city down on our heads if you’re not careful."

  I close my eyes, the better to avoid the fleeting look of sorrow that crosses her face. "I’ll be fine."

  "Then go home," she says. "And take a look in on Marta when you get a chance. She'll be mirin' herself into some trouble yet. I tell her that, but does she listen? Nah, she's near as bad as you. But don’t you be worryin’ about me," she adds with a wink. "I can take care of my own self."

  And there it ends. I drop another coin onto the edge of the tray, onto the pile of coins she makes a great show of ignoring until I've turned and taken several steps away from her. I look back in time to see her fingers dart out with the speed of a basilisk, the money gone, most likely already hidden away in some secret pocket of her dress.

  Go home.

  Her instruction repeats itself over and over, until I'm forced to obey by the simple desire to put an end to the iteration. It takes only a few hurried strides to catch up with Chissick, and soon we have made our way into another dilapidated alley, Sissy and her burdened stool out of sight.

  Chissick says little, only being polite, giving me ample time to gather my thoughts and form my next speech. When I finally put voice to my thoughts, I’m incapable of looking him in the eye.

  "She gave us some help." My bottom lip threatens to tremble, and I grasp it between my teeth until it goes still. "I don’t know how much, but there’s always something in everything she has to say."

  Chissick nods, though I’m not sure he understands. He takes my arm and easily steers me around a pile of rotting vegetables thrown out into the street. I feel his gaze upon me, searching, but I will not bite.

  "Take me home. I think I need some rest before tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  I manage a small smile, pained, but there all the same. "I owe Marta a favour. Nothing important."

  "Ah."

  A single syllable, containing every question fighting to flow from his mouth and spill themselves at my feet. But it is the last and only sound out of his mouth before he lowers his head and returns me to the uneven frame of Mrs. Selwyn’s front door.

  Chapter Eight

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  Mrs. Damant’s parlour is decorated in a singular style I’ve come to expect from every wife presently languishing between middle class and proper respectability. The entire room gives off an air of calculated antiquity. Nothing is too new, to begin with. New furniture might beg the question of the age of the money that purchased it. But neither is anything too old, as the tale of a chest of drawers passed down from a vague set of Tudor ancestors might be greeted as a fair bit of overreaching, as far as believability is concerned. Every colour is muted, every cushion is firm. There’s not a trace of ease or comfort to be found here. Leave that for the next generation, when Henrietta Damant’s existence as a coster’s daughter and her husband’s humble beginnings as a draper are long lost to the haze of good credit and poor memories.

  It’s here, in this very same parlour, I'm introduced to Lady Francesca.

  Offering up her right hand, she fixes me with a stare that crinkles the smooth skin between her eyes. Her other arm is held behind her back, as if she’s attempting to prove that she could turn away from me at any moment and thoroughly sweep her memories of me in the next. But the rest of her stance betrays her, and I know that she’d much prefer to stay right where she is.

  Her eyes flicker, and I catch a glimpse of red creeping in from the corners, tiny veins as thin as threads. I’m graced with a slow nod as I grasp her fingers—long and tapered, boasting a ring or two on every one—and I can’t help but assume that at this particular moment, she regards me as a threat to her newly acquired livelihood.

  She asks after my health, and follows this with a few other inquiries, all perfunctory. And at the end of this miniature interrogation, she raises a plucked eyebrow.

  "I have to say, you’re the exact picture of what Marta described to me."

  I could spend a lifetime musing over such a statement as this. My curiosity is piqued not only by the description that Marta must have composed, but also by the fact that I appear to match this portrait after the trade of a few pleasantries. And I'm aware of my current state, of the shadows of exhaustion that must linger in the dips and hollows of my face, of my hastily dressed hair, of the odours of sweat and refuse and the lingering scent of dead bodies that no cheap perfume can fully eradicate.

  But I waste no time attempting to piece together the dialogue that must have occurred between Marta and her newest protégée, because I'm currently distracted by this shining example of the former’s marketing skills.

  A young gipsy she is, complete with dark eyes and hair, beads and fringes and bracelets that clink against each other with every movement. And I could almost bring myself to believe in the authenticity of our Lady Franny, if it wasn’t for the soft hint of Yorkshire still clinging to her vowels.

  "I hear you’ve taken to hiding away," Lady Francesca says, smiling politely. "But it’s a difficult life for the likes of you and me. It’s only a shame that some of us are more…" She twirls a sparkling hand through the air, her fingers trawling for the desired word. "Equipped to deal with the trials involved."

  Her voice grates along the inside of my ears, setting my teeth on edge. I study the unlined planes of her face, no hint of shadow or strain but for those vivid red veins, staining the whites of her eyes. A step towards me, and that could be gin on her breath. If she’s ever been in contact with a spirit, it’s never been more frightening than one she could mix into her afternoon tea.

  "I’m glad you’ve accepted Marta’s invitation." Her bracelets tinkle as she secures a curled lock of hair behind her ear. "She was so determined to have you as one of this evening’s sitters."

  If it is sincerity I'm searching for, I will be hard pressed to find any here. Lady Francesca’s expression is too calculated, the mouth boasting a tepid smile that never completes the journey to her eyes. She tilts her head to one side, as if turning to hear me better. I raise my smile to match her own, and speak in a clear, concise voice that bears no hints of any latent mysticism.

  "Yes, well. As Marta has often said, everyone has their price. And it just so happens that she’s in a position to meet mine."

  Lady Francesca blinks at my candour, her jaw slack enough to allow me a glimpse of all her bottom teeth. From several feet away, Marta must notice this change in her charge’s expression, and so she puffs her way in our direction, brooding over us like a mother hen about to scold her fledgling chicks. As she steps up beside Francesca, her elbow makes solid contact
with the younger woman’s rib cage.

  "Here, Franny. Why don’t you go on over to Mr. Whorley and have a nice chat with him. And be sure to flourish it up like you do. Go on, now."

  Charged with this task, Lady Francesca turns to leave. But before she can take more than two steps, I reach out for her arm, my grip firmer than I intended it to be.

  "Tell him," I begin to speak, and I nearly lose my concentration as her eyes fasten on mine. But the ringing in my ears pulls me back on course, and the next words out of my mouth are sounded and lost before I can spend a moment to ponder their meaning. "Tell him that you're sorry for his loss. Tell him that, and mean it."

  The expression on her face is not what I would've expected to see. There's irritation tugging at the corners of her mouth, but underneath, I would swear that I recognise fear.

  "Just go," Marta says from behind me, and Lady Franny doesn’t bother to hide her relief at being so neatly dismissed.

  I stare after her for several seconds. Minutes, maybe. It feels as if time slows down while I wait for whatever Marta is about to whisper in my ear.

  "I have to say, I liked that. Very nicely done and all. You keep giving her little hints like that, and there’ll be no stopping her."

  I watch Francesca bow her head as she says something in a low voice to Mr. Whorley. "It was only a flash," I say. "Hardly defined. More a feeling, than anything. Something reaching out to him."

  She gestures towards the two people deep in whispered conversation on the other side of the room. "Mr. Whorley," she says, in her own rough approximation of a whisper. "Who died?"

  "His mother." I shut my eyes and look away.

  Marta nods, as if she should’ve known. "And when did she pass on? That is, if this little feeling of yours has made you privy to such particulars."

  "Not more than a few minutes ago, at the most. Three or four, maybe. Or she could be about to die. It’s… It’s very close." I shake my head, eyes shuttered as the truth becomes clear. "No, she’s gone. She’s dead."

  The final word casts a dismal pallor on our conversation. Neither of us looks at the other, Marta taking the time to examine a dull painting of hunting dogs that decorates the wall, while I attempt to clear my head, to reclaim power over my own thoughts. A few feet away, Lady Francesca is still in conference with Mr. Whorley, her expression a carefully constructed portrayal of the deepest sympathy. Franny’s attempt at flourishing it up, no doubt.

  "Any other insights you’d care to share with us?" Marta asks, after a suitable amount of time has passed. "If you could come up with something for Mrs. Damant herself, it would be a boon, a real boon. Always good to include the host in these things, you know. Makes ‘em feel important, singled out, as it were."

  "I’ll let you know," I tell her. But already, my barrier is slipping away, and other details, concerning Mr. Whorley, concerning everyone present, begin to come through. I could tell Mrs. Damant about her dreams of the last week, about what will inhabit her nightmares for the months to come. And there’s Mr. Jones, who lost his wife, Annie, two months ago. His wife, who shot herself in the head rather than bear another minute married to him.

  "And what about the séance itself, eh?" Marta says, pulling me back into the room, forcing my attention onto her and, thankfully, her alone. "What have you planned? Nothing too flashy, you know. But—"

  "No," I interrupt her. "I plan to be nothing more than an observer. You knew that very well when you asked me to be here tonight."

  "All right, all right," she sighs, momentarily defeated. "But I’m not too worried. I’ve never seen you sit at a circle where something not half unusual failed to occur."

  "Well, here’s hoping tonight will prove a break with tradition."

  Marta does little to hide her disagreement. A slight tilt to the upper lip, a deep fissure in the skin above her nose, and any words she might have to say are made redundant. But she doesn't speak, only reaches into her hidden pocket, so skillfully sewn into the folds of her skirt that I blink at the near illusion the disappearance of her hand produces.

  "I'll get this out of the way now," she says, without looking at me, her attention fixed on the small roll of bank-notes she slides between her fingers. "You met your end of things, showing up here, so..."

  I try not to count as she peels them, one by one, off the roll. As she presses them into my hand, I'm tempted—oh, so tempted—to press them back. Sever my ties with her, as it were. But instead, I fold the notes into my palm, allow the filth of them, the dirt from a thousand other hands, to mingle with my own.

  "There’s something else," I say before I tuck the notes away, folded and out of sight before any eyes from another part of the room are drawn towards me. "Something else I want for coming here this evening."

  Marta waves her hand, flicks my words away with a sweep of her fingers. "Well, you’ll not be getting another penny from me, so you know what you can do with that request."

  "It’s not money. It’s your help I find myself in need of."

  "I wasn’t aware the two could be separated."

  I pull at the ragged lace that edges my sleeve. "Are you still on speaking terms with Lord Ryall?"

  "With Ryall? Lord, I thought you were long finished with him."

  "And it’s not an acquaintance I am eager to renew. But there are circumstances…"

  "Ah, I see!" A clipped laugh, her chin raised an inch. The unabashed superiority ripples upward along her spine. Before I can explain, if that was ever my intention, she holds up her hands, barricading herself against any paltry argument I might feel inclined to make. "We don’t exactly take our turns in the same circles, times not being what they once were, but I could put in a word or three, depending on what it is that’s brought about this newfound respect for the man."

  "I never said I respected him. I only want to see him."

  "A private audience, then?"

  "No." I cough and lower my voice as soon as I realise that our conversation has piqued the curiosity of one of Mrs. Damant’s guests. "Something less personal. I’d also prefer access to his home, if you’d be capable of procuring such a thing. With some amount of freedom in which to move around."

  Her eyes narrow. It’s hard work to prevent my knees from buckling beneath such a stare.

  "Is that all?"

  "No. I’d also like the invitation to include an acquaintance of mine."

  "An acquaintance." Marta’s voice loads those three syllables with a heavy measure of suspicion. "And would I be familiar with this acquaintance of yours?"

  "I don’t believe that much is pertinent to my request."

  Stymied, it seems, she puts on an air of taking my request with a reasonable amount of seriousness. "Would you care to tell me what will happen if I don’t agree to your terms?"

  "Then I declare to everyone within earshot that your Franny is a fraud, I walk out the door, and I take your crisp bank-notes along with me."

  Now I must wait as she deliberates, weighing every option, attempting to out-manoeuvre me and still come out with the much coveted upper hand. Finally, her nose wrinkles, and she blows out of the corner of her mouth. "All right." She nods, and repeats the phrase. "I’ll do everything I can. But I’d like to know what’s changed with you, how you’ve come to be so bloody hard."

  I hope that these are rhetorical musings, and nothing to which she expects a reply. I can hardly tell her where I spent the previous evening, or that my company included a deceased prostitute and a man who absconded from his chosen career in the church under circumstances that I suspect are less than savoury. But time, it seems, has saved me. For here comes Mrs. Damant, nothing more than a whisper of silk and bated breath to announce her appearance at Marta's side.

  "The room is ready," Mrs. Damant tells her, this comment punctuated by a slow smile from Marta.

  "Then so is Lady Francesca," she replies. And with a sideways glance at me, she goes off to fetch her darling protégée.

  Chapter Nine

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  The table is round and sturdily built, the carved claw feet displaying scuff marks and several years’ worth of battering from a maid's broom. Constructed from a dark wood I'm unable to identify at first sight, the piece stands as an incongruity against the room's decor. But it's the cabinet that continually draws my eye. The size of a small wardrobe and tucked into the corner of the room, it seems to lure the shadows towards it, absorbing the faint light from the recently filled lamps.

  At Marta's instruction, the shades are drawn, the lamps turned down, and everything is cast into semi-darkness, an artificial twilight that vies with the street lamps shining brightly outside. Behind us, one of the servants closes the door, and now even the air loses its freshness, completely shut in as we are.

  A lack of noise seems to pulse outward from the center of our little group, until I suspect it could gain enough strength to push over whatever solid objects had the misfortune of standing in its way. Lady Francesca makes a small sound in her throat, but this prelude to speech merely puts a slight dent in the oppressive silence instead of breaking through it. So she tries again, this time managing to catch the attention of the other sitters, before she raises her face towards the ceiling and begins.

  "And it shall come to pass afterward, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, your young men shall see visions. And also upon the servants and upon the handmaids in those days will I pour out my spirit."

  Her voice fades and her chin lowers to her chest, her mouth murmuring a final word I discern more from the movement of her lips than from any sound that reaches my ears.

  "Amen."

  And with that, she sits down. The rest of us quickly follow suit, our change of positions accompanied by a chorus of shufflings, half-muttered apologies, and the muffled scrape of chair legs on the rug as we struggle to fit a dozen bodies around a table that appears to have been designed for eight.