New Order (14 page)

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.’

‘They are not good people.’

‘I did not choose this life.’

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. It’s not like poor Maisie chose her life either. I’d bet my own soul that I’ve had it easier than her. She doesn’t seem to register the unintended slur, however, she just reaches towards me and lightly brushes my cheek. I feel nothing more than a frisson of ice on my skin that vanishes the moment she withdraws her hand.

‘You are unhappy.’

‘Have you,’ I swallow, ‘heard of anyone who changed? Who was a nightwalker and then went back?’

She shakes her head. O’Shea walks up. ‘Are you talking to a ghost? And is that what this is about, Bo? You’re trying to find a cure?’

I give an uncomfortable shrug. ‘Not exactly.’

‘There isn’t one,’ he says.

‘So everyone keeps telling me.’

‘I mean it.’ He’s very earnest. ‘I know a bit about spells, remember?’

I bite my tongue to avoid snapping that it was his use of spells that landed me in this mess in the first place. I turn away from him. ‘Maisie,’ I say, ‘I’m looking for Mother. Is he around?’

‘He’s at the shrine,’ she murmurs.

I start to thank her and ask her to wait but she’s already gone, melting into the rain.

‘Who’s Mother?’ O’Shea asks.

‘The guy with all the answers.’ I don’t look at him; I just stare at the spot where Maisie was. ‘Stay here.’

‘Confucius said to respect ghosts but to keep away from them,’ he shouts at me. I ignore him.

The gate is festooned with paper, material and colourful flotsam and jetsam left by well-meaning humans. Many of the scraps include names of the departed; they hang soggily and are difficult to read. It’s a much more impressive sight on a sunny day with a slight breeze blowing. The gate yields at my touch, although it still lets out a rusty squeal in protest. Several ghostly shapes turn in my direction, curiosity on their worn faces. When I stride in, hands reach out to me in supplication. Whatever it is they’re looking for, I don’t have it in me to give. Tentacles of cold wrap round my flesh. A flowery dress and a leather jacket are no protection against the touch of the dead.

I try not to flinch and incline my head in acknowledgment at each one. Some are faded versions of their human selves, wearing patched, old-fashioned clothes that advertise the date of their death. Others are more terrible to look at: ruined faces and caved-in skulls. Rather than diminishing with time and experience, it feels like my empathy for their situation has grown. I’m relieved when they finally move aside and I spot the familiar shape of Mother beside the oddest collection of bricks and knicks-knacks that ever made up a shrine. I walk up and stand beside him.