The Ghost Club

by William Meikle

  “You will want to know more than why. You will want to know how. I cannot tell you that. None of us has ever known, only that the place is important, and the sigil and token are needed.”

  “Sigil? Token?” I asked.

  “The sigil is the marking of the flesh—by knife or tattoo, it matters not. The token is something of the dead that you remember them by. Return when you have both and you will see her again—you will see each other again.”

  And at that precise moment, Lizabet stroked the back of my hand, and whispered my name in my ear.

  She is there, Brian. My Lizabet is there, and I mean to go to her tomorrow.

  Your good friend, as always,

  George.

  ***

  From the journal of Brian Mulrooney, Oct 2nd 1889

  I got George’s letter first thing this morning, and it disturbed me so greatly that I decided not to go into work but to make my way posthaste to the house in Beckenham. I was fully intent on stopping my friend before he made a damned fool of himself and handed his money to a charlatan.

  I arrived on his doorstep, ready to remonstrate loudly with him, but I got no answer to my knocking, and when I checked round the back it was to find the house locked tight and no sign of anyone inside. I walked back to High Street, unsure where to look for him, when who should I see but the man himself. He looked deathly tired, but he had a broad grin on his face as he spotted me, and an even broader one as he guided me into the nearestpublic bar, which was just opening up for the day.

  I did not even get a chance to get a word in edgeways, for off he went, twelve to the dozen, telling me everything all over again that he had already covered in his letter.

  “It was her, I am telling you straight, Brian, and damn me to hell if I tell a lie. I know the touch of my own wife’s hand if I know nothing else. And I know her voice, and the timbre of her whisper. It was her—and I shall see her tonight.”

  “Please, for me,” I said. “Take some time to think on it before going and doing something rash.”

  He smiled again.

  “It is a tad late for that, boyo,” he replied, and rolled up his sleeve to show me the inside of his left forearm. There is a new tattoo there, still red and livid, but clear enough—a white rose, and a name inscribed below it: Lizabet.

  “I am going tonight,” he said after hiding the tattoo again. “I have her necklace, I have the tattoo, and I have the fact that I found my way there without even thinking about it—I was called—she called me. I am going, Brian. I cannot do otherwise and remain sane.”

  “Your sanity is what concerns me,” I replied. “And not for the first time.”

  But my poor attempt at humor fell flat, and his grin faded, to be replaced by the infinite sadness I had seen at the funeral.

  “I need this, Brian. I cannot live and not know. Will you come with me?”

  I knew the question was coming, and I dreaded it, but I could not, would not, indulge him in this fantasy. It was one thing I was not prepared to listen to, and I told him so, in no uncertain terms.

  We parted badly, each angry with the other, and I sore regretted it as soon as my train pulled out of Beckenham Junction station. I can only hope he comes to his senses sooner rather than later and sees the error of pandering to this madness.

  But I worry about my friend. And yes, I worry for his sanity.

  ***

  From a letter, sent 3rd October 1889, George Calhoun to Brian Mulrooney.

  I am right sorry to have parted so angrily yesterday, Brian, and I can only hope you do not think badly of me for it, but I have seen her. I have seen my Lizabet. And she has seen me.

  I know you cautioned me against this very course of action. But I can only tell you that if I had not gone back to Whitechapel I would have been as miserable as sin for however much time is left to me. As it is now, I feel hope stir in me again—hope that all is not merely shadows and dust.

  But I am getting ahead of myself. I intend to explain this to you in person over a drink, but it will help me to set it all out in writing here—will help me make sense of it to you without the booze getting in the way, so to speak.

  My feet found their way back to the Whitechapel house with no trouble at all, and the concierge seemed to know exactly when I would approach, and had the door open and ready on my arrival.

  She showed me upstairs to a room on the first landing. If I didn’t know better, I would swear that whoever had decorated it had been inside my head, so fitting was the furnished accommodation, down to the large bed, heavy armoire and even the bottle of Bushmill’s best stuff on the bedside table.

  “What happens now?” I asked of Mrs. Greenling.

  She smiled—sadly again.

  “Now you do what you do best, sir. You talk. And if she hears you, she will come, and all will be well.”

  So I talked—as you well know, Brian, it is indeed the single thing I do better than all others. I talked, I drank the Bushmill’s, and I played with the necklace I had taken there with me. I talked as if she was lying in the bed beside me, and I told her of my grief, and of the joy she had brought me, and of my fears for the future and of the shadows and dust in my head.

  And now comes the hard part—the part where I have to convince you of the weight of reality in that room. I cannot express how I felt when she stroked the back of my hand, when she whispered in my ear—when I looked in the armoire mirror and saw her, standing there, smiling sadly as she spoke my name.

  The tears blind me as I write this, but they are tears of joy at the memory. I was so filled with raw emotion that I stumbled toward the mirror, thinking that I might embrace my love there and then, but even as I approached her reflection wavered and dimmed, as if a fine mist had come between us. I blinked, and when I looked again she was gone. But I remember just fine how she looks—she is radiant and merry, Brian—and, I believe in my heart, still with child. I remember her whisper and the touch of her hand.

  Mrs. Greenling says that it is a good start—I have been invited to stay in the townhouse to see how things progress, and I am of a mind to take her up on the offer. We shall speak more of it when I next see you, but for now, I am as happy as I have been for a week.

  Lizabet is still with me, and I am with her, and all is well.

  ***

  From the journal of Brian Mulrooney, Oct 4th 1889

  George’s second letter had me more than ever determined to put a stop to his nonsense. However, I could not in all faith take myself away from my work for another day for fear of losing the job completely, so I only made my way south of the river late in the evening, taking the train from Charing Cross and arriving in Beckenham after six. I was worried that I might have missed him completely, that he might have headed up to Whitechapel again, but I found him at home—although he was intent on packing a suitcase for himself even as I arrived.

  He smiled, and took my hand most warmly, but he looked more ill than ever—his cheeks were sunken, and his eyes merely dark pools hidden in shadow. He seemed thinner somehow, as if his clothes had suddenly become too large for his frame, and he looked ashen in the gaslight that flickered and sputtered in the house.

  I pleaded with him, calling in any favor he might feel he owed me for our friendship, berating him for his foolishness, and finally threatened to knock him on his hind end if it would prevent him from leaving. But all he did was smile sadly at me, and I knew then that my cause was lost—he was set in his purpose.

  All I could do was keep a close eye on him and hope that his disappointment when he found that he was being misled was not going to crush him completely. I did manage to get him to promise that he would not overextend himself financially, and I ensured that he took nothing of any great value with him in the suitcase or on his person. I even had him leave his father’s silver pocket watch in my care, for I knew it was of some value, both monetary and emotional, to him, and I could not bear to see him lose it.

  It is the best I can do, for the moment. I a
ccompanied him north as far as Charing Cross again, and at least this time we parted amicably enough, although my heart almost broke at the sight of my frail friend dragging that heavy suitcase along the Strand in search of a carriage to Whitechapel.

  ***

  From a letter, sent 7th October 1889, George Calhoun to Brian Mulrooney.

  I have seen her again!

  Despite your protestations, Brian, I really do believe that I have made the correct choice in staying here these past nights. Each sleep brings her closer, and the concierge says that now the room and I are attuned, she will be here as long as I am present.

  And she talks to me now, Brian—things that only a man and wife can know about each other. There is no subterfuge here that I can see, and no possibility of any trickery. It is my Lizabet, as sure as eggs are eggs.

  The concierge is keeping me fed—steak and potatoes if you can believe it, and good strong ale, so you should not fear for my wellbeing, although I am mighty tired. I put that down to the hours I am keeping, for she is stronger by far at night, and I find I can will myself to stay awake as long as she is with me.

  But that is not the full sum of my news, Brian.

  Lizabet tells me that, wherever it is she is now—and she knows no more than I do on that matter—wherever she is, the child is most definitely still with her, and it is kicking, getting ready to be born.

  I shall be a father, Brian. After all of this, after all the sorrow—I can still be a father.

  ***

  From the journal of Brian Mulrooney, Oct 8th 1889

  I made my way to Whitechapel immediately on receiving George’s final letter, but I was too late—far too late. Maybe if the concierge had not seen fit to bar my entry at my first attempt, maybe I might have saved my friend. But I fear I was always going to be late. I fear it was too late as soon as he received that blasted letter even before the funeral.

  I had to find a policeman to help me gain entry to the townhouse. I had the devil of a job persuading him that I feared for the life of my friend—he thought I was just another drunk Irishman, that being his usual lot when confronted with an accent such as mine. But I finally persuaded him, both of my sobriety and of the seriousness of my intent, and it was he who finally convinced the concierge to allow us access

  I made my way immediately to the first floor landing, and did not even have to ask which room George had taken for the door lay open, and I saw that he lay on top of the bedclothes. An empty bottle of Bushmill’s lay on the carpet below an outstretched hand that looked too limp—too pale. The shirtsleeve was rolled up, and I saw the white—too white—rose tattoo.

  I stepped forward, fearing the worst. George smiled up at me from dead, cold eyes—there was no life left in him. I do believe I sobbed then, my own grief welling up. And I was answered, from somewhere in the room. A child cried out, and was shushed immediately by a soft whispered voice I almost recognized. I turned—the mirror in the armoire seemed misty and clouded, although that may well have been the tears in my eyes. Two shadows, close together, seemed to move in the mist beyond the glass and I heard soft, cooing sounds—the kind you use to soothe a babe.

  “George?” I whispered.

  “Will you wet the lad’s head with me, Brian?” a voice I knew only too well said in my ear.

  The next thing I remember is standing back out in the hallway, attempting to find my breath and trying not to look back at George’s dead body.

  Having seen that there was a dead man in the room, the policeman was suddenly all business, taking charge and seeing to the particulars. He took a statement from me that I hardly remember a word of, then I made to leave.

  The concierge stopped me on the stairs.

  “You can see him again,” she said softly

  I pushed her roughly aside, went out the front door and headed round the corner—there was a bar there—George had told me that, among many other things.

  And while I sit here writing this and getting the first of what I intend to be many drinks inside me, I have taken out his pocket watch and started to think.

  God help me—I have started to think about getting a tattoo.

  On first meeting, I will readily admit, I thought Samuel Clemens to be a bit of a boor and rather too full of himself for my liking, but I quickly realized that this was his armor, his protection against the vagaries of the critic, and indeed the world. Once he had some good food and even better liquor inside him, and the pleasure of good honest men as company, he settled into much more of a real personage and less of a character of his own making—more Clemens, less Twain, if you catch my drift.

  Indeed, in the act of realizing he was in more pleasant company than he had first expected, he decided to change his story—I have at hand a partial manuscript of another tale entirely. It is a scathing, somewhat bawdy romp that is set in the Regency period in Bath and is rather rude about an august British literary personage who I shall not name here, for I am not in the slightest in agreement with the man as to that author’s abilities.

  The story he settled into over port and cigars is much more of his usual milieu—and it is all the better for it in my opinion.

  Here is his tale.

  ONCE A JACKASS

  Mark Twain

  Thomas Johnson was a great jackass, almost the greatest that has ever been seen on the river, and that is a bold statement indeed. The fact that Johnson would be in complete agreement with everyone’s assessment of him did not in the slightest diminish the full extent of his jackassery. In fact, it only served to amplify it.

  Johnson had been gifted with a mind like a steel trap, an asset that could have taken him almost anywhere he desired . . . and his chosen profession was to work as something big in insurance, which should tell all reasonable men the measure of the man without too much further explanation. But if you have never had the pleasure of the company of such a fellow, let me just say that he was a man who knew the cost of everything and the value of nothing at all. If there was no money to be made in it, it barely existed in the calculating machine that passed for Johnson’s mind.

  I did not know this at our first meeting of course. Johnson was a necessary evil that I had to negotiate before I could get my newly built paddle steamer, The Princess of the River, out of the boatyard and onto the water, and I already had more than enough money worries without the added weight of insurance. But big Jock Walters had lost his shirt, his wife’s inheritance—and his life—just last week when his own steamer blew its boiler in twenty feet of water. I wanted at least a modicum of assurance that I too would not leave my family to penury and an all too soon pauper’s grave should my Princess succumb to such an accident.

  Hence my need to spend time with the jackass.

  As soon as I shook his hand—and that is rather too grand a word for the limp, cold thing I felt in my palm—I knew I did not like him in the slightest. And when he opened his mouth and emitted that peculiar New York sarcastic whine of his, I knew I hated him. But we did not need to be pals, we did not even need to be acquaintances, I just needed him to value my boat at a reasonable figure that would not bankrupt me in attending to the policy.

  I had expected him to be thorough, but I had expected him to be thorough in the boatyard, and was therefore most surprised when he insisted on seeing how The Princess performed out on the river. I supposed he was worried that the whole dashed thing had been built purely as a means to collect insurance from what would be a very profitable fire—it would not be the first such conflagration after all. But on one thing we did agree, it was indeed long past time that my Princess saw the river and the river saw her.

  I put out word along the docks that we would be heading down to the Delta on the next tide. I had to herd up a crew from the saloons along the boardwalk, but there was no shortage of takers—and no shortage of passengers; Jock Waters’ calamity turned out to be a blessing in disguise—at least as far as my finances were concerned. A quick mental calculation as everyone—and a fine, almost f
ull cargo—was boarded and set away told me that I was more than covering fuel and crew costs on the trip, and that was all I could have hoped for on this first sailing.

  Johnson stood at my side on the bridge as I watched the ropes being cast off. The big boiler roared, we sent up a whistling jet of steam and the paddles started to clatter. The first voyage of The Princess of the River was underway, but somehow the presence of the insurance man at my side had tainted the joy I should have been feeling. I needed a drink, several drinks, and headed for the main bar, but even then I could not rid myself of his baleful presence. He insisted on joining me for several glasses of bourbon, although I noticed he was never sharp in coming forward when it came time to pay for it.

  I was starting to think that I would be saddled with him for the duration of the trip when the Grand Salon opened up for business and Johnson—much to my relief—excused himself from my side and headed for the blackjack table. I was glad to see the back of him—and more than a little surprised that a man with such a rigid view of the value of money above all else would be so keen to lose it all on a game of chance.

  But that was his problem now, not mine. I left him to it and went to do my Captain’s duties, as they mostly involved eating and drinking at that point in the evening I did not find them overly onerous at all. The night got even better when the lady to my right at the table made it clear that she was available should I wish to avail myself of her voluptuous charms. I was called away from the table to deal with a matter in the Grand Salon just as I was starting to believe that this first sailing was going to be a great success.

  ***

  Deep down I think I already knew who it would be I had been called to deal with—Johnson had the look of a zealot in his eyes when heading for the tables, and that can go one of two ways for a man.