Razorhurst (32 page)

“A typewriter, is it?” Father O’Brian said, looking at Neal as if he was asking to borrow money to buy the Taj Mahal.

“It’s for my stories,” Neal said. The father knew he wrote. He’d won best essay at St. Peter’s three years in a row and once for the whole district. “I want to send them out.” Neal paused. “For publication, for money. There are places, Father, that will pay for stories.” Neal wasn’t sure if the father would believe him. He was fifteen years old, and he found it hard to credit that anyone would ever pay him for a story, but it wouldn’t stop him trying.

The father didn’t say anything.

“But some of those places, they won’t accept my stories—not if I write them by hand.”

“Your handwriting is fair,” the father said.

“They’ll say they don’t look right if they’re not typed.”

“On a typewriter?”

“That’s right. It’s not professional.”

“Professional, is it?”

Neal nodded. “I’d pay you back. A pound a week.”

The father held out a wadge of money. Coins wrapped in notes. It looked to be closer to a brick than eight quid.

“Father, that’s too much.”

“You’ll be wanting paper as well, won’t you? And other matter to keep the machine running? Ribbons, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Neal said. He stared at the money as if it might turn into straw in his hand.

“You’ll pay me back when you sell one of your stories.”

Neal blanched.

“You can give me a little back with each story you sell,” the father clarified. “And that way you’ll remember to tell me of your progress.”

“But what if I don’t …?”

“I have faith, Neal Darcy.”

Neal bought the machine the next day instead of going home for lunch. He bought ribbons and two reams of paper. Then he took
it home, told his mother exactly where the money had come from, put the paper and ribbons high out of the littlies’ reach, and warned them upon pain of death not to touch the machine itself. When he was stern enough, they almost always listened.

He named the typewriter Lucy after the first girl he’d ever kissed. It hadn’t been much of a kiss. They were five-year-olds with dry lips and runny noses. Lucy was his best friend. Until she died of polio a year later. While she was alive, they’d held hands and played on the street with her older brother’s “borrowed” marbles and billycart, and there’d been that one kiss.

Neal hadn’t forgotten. Naming his new machine would keep him from forgetting. It would also keep his attention on this one girl he could never get in a family way, and that would—he hoped—help him earn enough money to leave the brewery but still look after his family.

Lucy was good for Neal Darcy. And he was faithful to her.

He sold his first story at sixteen and paid Father O’Brian back in full before his eighteenth birthday.

KELPIE

Kelpie woke with her head in Dymphna’s lap, her arm resting partly on Dymphna’s legs and and partly on Darcy’s knee.

Dymphna’s and Darcy’s quiet murmurs flowed around her. Kelpie kept her eyes closed and didn’t stir. She didn’t want them to stop talking. The way they’d been looking at each other had turned into a feeling that filled the room.

She felt warm and safe, but she knew she wasn’t. They could be found. Snowy could lead Mr. Davidson to them. Kelpie didn’t think he would, but she hadn’t believed he killed Jimmy Palmer either, and Snowy had lied to her.

Kelpie opened her eyes a crack. There was a ghost in the corner. An old man. He wasn’t looking at them. He was bent over examining something on the floor, poking and prodding at it, even though he was a ghost, and neither of those actions could affect anything.

Palmer sat cross-legged in front of them, wretched and grey.

Kelpie didn’t think she’d been asleep long. The sun still shone brightly. Her eyes still ached with how tired she was. She closed them again. This was her first chance to lie down since she’d met Dymphna. She tried to relax herself back into sleep. But she was starting to pick out the words amid the murmurs.

“Did you see Snowy kill him? Your man?”

“No,” Dymphna said too loud. Then more softly. “No. I just found the body.”

“Was it … terrible?”

Kelpie felt Dymphna’s nod.

“I’ve never seen a dead body,” Darcy said. “Not outside of an open casket. My gran. Two of me uncles. But that’s not the same as finding them dead.”

“There was a lot of blood.”

That was true. There had been so much blood on those walls, on that bed, on Palmer, it was hard to imagine it had all once flowed inside his body.

“How do you know Snowy killed him?”

Dymphna paused. Kelpie had wondered about that too.

“Good question,” Palmer said.

Kelpie opened her eyes a sliver.

“Snowy’s Mr. Davidson’s right-hand man. Like Palmer was for Glory. Seemed likely. He didn’t deny it, did he?”

“We could light out of here,” Darcy said. “I know shearing. We could go bush. I’ll work the sheds and—”

“What about your ma? Your brothers and sisters?”

“I’d send money back.”

“Is that what your pa does? I didn’t see any men’s clothes where your ma sleeps.”

Darcy stiffened. “I’m not like my old man.”

“I believe you. I’m not like mine either.”

“Where—” Darcy began.

“Does your eye hurt?”

“It’s okay. Just can’t see much out of it. It’ll go down.”

“Why didn’t you hit Bluey?” Dymphna asked.

“Didn’t seem like a good idea. He’s got a reputation. If I hit him, I’d have to kill him or he’d kill me.”

“But what about after he was shot? You could have knocked him out.”

“Didn’t seem fair. Besides, he wasn’t right, saying mad stuff.”

“Like what?”

“Dunno. He was whispering and that. He’s dead hard to hear.”

“Glory says his voice got like that ’cause someone tried to choke him to death when he was little.”

“Now there’s a surprise. How does Glory explain his dead-fish eyes?”

Dymphna laughed briefly.

“Someone’s coming,” Palmer said, his voice sounding like a dead man’s. No emotions.

Kelpie blinked her eyes rapidly, hoping to attract his attention, get him to tell her more.
Who’s coming?
she mouthed.

All she could hear were Dymphna and Darcy, the cooing of the pigeons above, a motor-car passing by on the street outside, wind blowing through the abandoned houses, the scuttle of insects, cockroaches most likely, but not people approaching.

“Might be Snowy,” Palmer said in the same flat voice. “Might not. Could be someone worse.”

Kelpie wanted to yell at him. Palmer had to know who it was. Why was he mucking about?

“You know what they call me? Angel of Death. You’re not afraid?”

“No.”

“You should be.”

“Very afraid,” Palmer whispered.

“I’m not.”

“You can’t be my man. Not ever.”

“I don’t believe that about them all dying because of you.”

“You should.”

“Well, I don’t. It’s superstitious.”

“You can kiss me if you like.”

Darcy didn’t say anything, but Kelpie could hear his breathing. She heard a soft sound. They were both breathing faster. She heard cloth move against cloth.

“How long did that take?” Palmer demanded. “I haven’t been dead a day, and she’s already kissing another man. And such a man! He’s a kid!” He stopped. “But then so is she.” He looked past them as if he’d heard something. “Getting closer,” he said and grinned.

Kelpie hadn’t known he could smile. Was he teasing her? She stared straight at him, willing Palmer to tell her more.

Is it Snowy?
Kelpie mouthed.

The room got warmer. It was like Darcy and Dymphna ushered summer in. Dymphna exhaled, and Kelpie knew she was smiling.

“Do you like it?” Darcy asked quietly. “The life you live?”

Palmer laughed. “Now he’s fucked himself. Never ask that question:
Are you happy being a whore?
Never.”

Dymphna didn’t say anything, but she drew away. Kelpie’s arm slid from Darcy’s knee. They didn’t notice.

“I …” she began. “I make a lot of money. That’s all you need to know.”

“I’m sorry,” Darcy said.

“Do you like working at the brewery?”

“No, and I don’t make a lot of money. I’m sorry.”

“Closer,” Palmer said.

Who is it?
Kelpie mouthed.

“Does it matter?” Jimmy Palmer said. “Eventually you’re all going to be ghosts like me, so why not now?”

Because
, Kelpie wanted to shout,
it’s too soon!

“You awake, love?” Dymphna asked her.

Kelpie closed her eyes, trying to decide whether Palmer was teasing her or not. Surely he was. He was devoted to Dymphna. Had been screaming for her to escape. Why would he change his mind?

Dymphna shifted. “When I was a kid, I loved to run. I was faster than anyone. Boys too. But girls weren’t supposed to run like that. They can now. I saw a girl I grew up with on a newsreel winning a championship. I was always faster than Suzy.”

“You’re sixteen. You could still run.”

Dymphna sighed. “It’s not like that anymore. I left that world behind. Oh, I don’t mind. This world’s better.”

Kelpie wondered what she meant. Some of the scariest people in the city were looking for them, not to mention the police. Why would Dymphna prefer this world to the one where she could run, and had parents looking after her, and didn’t have to fend for herself all the time? Palmer said she was from the North Shore. Everyone was rich over there.

There were more soft noises and sighs.

“I shouldn’t be jealous,” Palmer said. “I’m dead.”

Kelpie wanted them to stop, wanted their warmth and electricity to disappear. They were relaxing. This wasn’t the place to relax. Or the time for it. She should not have let herself fall asleep.

“This won’t end well,” Palmer said. “Knew I wouldn’t be the only one dead today. That copper’s not going to be the last one neither.”

That was it. Kelpie sat up. “I think someone’s coming.”

They all three stood slowly and eased away from the curtain hanging in the doorway.

A floorboard creaked. Kelpie couldn’t be sure if it was in this house or further away. Then another and another. Snowy wouldn’t be that careless.

Dymphna picked up a piece of broken wood. Darcy brought his fists up in front of his face and lowered his chin. A fighter’s stance.

Kelpie slid her hand into her coat pocket and gripped the handle of the knife.

Sex