Razorhurst (41 page)

Outside Glory’s house, Kelpie could breathe again. No ghosts nearby except Palmer, who reappeared beside Dymphna, looking the way a ghost should: opaque, separate, himself. He was scowling, and Kelpie almost wanted to hug him. None of the ghosts in that house had had expressions of their own.

There were two policemen on the footpath, standing next to an older man in a suit and heavy coat and hat. Though he wasn’t in a uniform like them, it was clear that he was their boss. One house down a paddy wagon was parked with two more coppers sitting in the front.

Glory stood beside Dymphna on her front steps. Behind them were Johnno from the kitchen and four of Glory’s other men. All of them strong and scary looking. Scars on all their cheeks except Johnno’s. Kelpie had to hope there was enough of them to keep the coppers from taking Dymphna away.

On the front lawn, the beer kegs lay on their sides, not even a trickle flowing out of them. Hardly anyone was left outside Glory’s, just a few drunks slumped against the fence or asleep in the gutter. It was night. Despite the sun setting, Kelpie had half expected to walk outside into daylight, into this day that would never end.

Kelpie turned to look back at Glory’s awful house. The place glowed at night the way Central did. Ghosts flitted past every window, like giant moths. Though moths never looked at her, never tried to fly inside her, to infect her with death. Kelpie shuddered.

“What was it like in there?” Palmer asked. “All those things crawling around.”

Kelpie grimaced.

“That bad?”

She didn’t want to be standing there knowing they were swirling around and through each other a few feet behind her. She didn’t want to die and become like them.

But Dymphna was right: it hadn’t been as bad after she’d told her what to do. Standing in that room with the chandeliers and the men in their strange suits, all of them drinking yellow liquid full of bubbles … Kelpie had kept her gaze on Dymphna and not the ghosts,
watching her, making her the centre of what she saw, giving her her entire focus. Somehow the ghosts had faded into the background.

Her stomach still turned when they went through her. She could still hear their sibilant whispers, but it wasn’t close to as horrible as it had been upstairs.

Dymphna bent to speak into Kelpie’s ear. “Not a word.”

Kelpie wondered how Dymphna was going to keep her secret from Palmer. He haunted her. How was Dymphna going to be able to teach Kelpie anything when Palmer was always around? Or was Dymphna planning on teaching her at Glory’s house or at Central Station? Kelpie really hoped there was some other way.

“What’d you say, Dymphna darling?” Glory asked.

“I told her it’s going to be all right.”

“It will be,” Glory said. “Though I cannot say I am entirely happy to see Davidson sitting in the back of that Rolls over there.”

Kelpie turned to where Glory indicated. It looked like the same big, black motor-car Mr. Davidson had been riding in that morning. The window was rolled down. Mr. Davidson was in the back, and someone else was beside him. Kelpie couldn’t see who.

“Good evening,” the man in the suit said, taking his hat off briefly. “Lovely night, isn’t it?”

“Beautiful, Inspector Ferguson. You come to join the party?” Glory asked.

If the man in the suit was the boss of the other two coppers, Kelpie wondered why he didn’t wear a uniform.

“It’s been quite the knees-up. Not every day a woman celebrates being shot of a no-good, low-down, sneaking mongrel of a husband, is it? I believe there are still some canapés left. Aren’t there, Johnno?”

“Some of the prawn ones, Glory,” Johnno said.

“Oh, I do like those. Very fresh, Inspector. Sweet and succulent. Would you like to come in and try? Loads of champagne and all. Or beer if you prefer.”

“Thank you, Miss Nelson. I appreciate it, but I’m on duty. Just wanted a word with young Dymphna here.”

Dymphna stood tall. “I told you everything this morning, Inspector.”

“Indeed you did. However, a few events have unfolded since then.” Ferguson took a step towards them, his two men moving with him.

“Should we be discussing important matters like this with all of Surry Hills listening, Inspector?” Glory asked.

She wasn’t lying. Glory’s neighbours on either side were leaning over their fences, almost falling into her front yard.

“I agree,” said Ferguson. “Better we go back to the station.”

“Am I under arrest?” Dymphna asked.

Ferguson considered Dymphna’s question.

“Because I haven’t done anything.”

“It’s true, Inspector,” Glory said. “Dymphna here is an innocent. Wouldn’t hurt a fly. I have a feeling that me and my boys would not be the only ones upset if you insisted on taking her to the police station.”

Lansdowne Street was filling with Glory’s neighbours. Kelpie saw one man holding a shovel, another a cricket bat. More of Glory’s men joined them on her front porch.

Leaning against a fence two houses up was a man who looked a lot like Neal Darcy, wearing a cap pulled low. Kelpie felt Dymphna’s grip on her hand get a little tighter.

“We don’t want this to get out of hand,” Ferguson said.

“Too right,” Glory said. “My neighbours are mostly true believers. Still angry about the Big Fella. Longing for that revolution that never bloody comes.”

“Are you threatening me and my officers, Miss Nelson?” The copper took a notebook out of the inside pocket of his coat and started writing in it.

Glory laughed. “I really am touched that you remembered to call me miss. Dead polite of you, Inspector. Much obliged. I would never threaten such a polite man. ’Course not. I was merely making an observation. I myself ain’t political at all. Can’t tell a Trotskyite from one of them, whatcha-may-call-it, Flabby-anns? I’m a law-abiding citizen, I am. But I do know some of my neighbours are less peaceable than meself.”

Kelpie didn’t think the boss copper believed her. “There are already two dead today. None of us wants the truce to be broken. Or for anyone else to die.”

“Too right,” Glory said. “Blood on the streets isn’t good for business. Anybody’s business. We could talk inside.” She gestured behind her. “In my home, if that would be acceptable.”

It wasn’t acceptable to Kelpie. She was not ready to return to the swarm of ghosts. Dymphna didn’t say anything, though Kelpie was longing for her to protest, suggest somewhere, anywhere else they could go.

“That will do,” the inspector said.

Across the street a horn sounded. Mr. Davidson lifted his hat. Glory nodded. Neither one of them smiled. On the other side of the motor-car, the door opened. A man stepped out. Snowy. His hair looked bright yellow under the street light. He crossed the street.

“Good evening, Inspector,” Snowy said. “Glory.”

Ferguson wrote something else in his notebook.

Snowy gave Kelpie a quick smile. “Mr. Davidson wonders if you are discussing today’s events. If so, he believes that he is an interested party and wonders if he might join your conversation.”

Sounded like Snowy was quoting Mr. Davidson word for word.

“How does he reckon that will work?” the inspector asked, looking up. “Because I don’t see how this affects him. Unless he’s admitting
he
killed my constable? Or Jimmy Palmer? Or that he runs the other half of the crime in this town?”

“Who said anything about running crime?” Glory said. “I’m a respectable businesswoman.”

“Of course,” Ferguson said.

Snowy held his hands up. “Mr. Davidson is also a respectable businessman. He believes he can offer another perspective on this conversation.”

Palmer laughed. “You know, we’re only missing Big Bill. If he shows up, we’ll have the full set. Can you smell it, Kelpie? Blood in the air. That’s what that is.”

Trust Palmer to be annoying again, though Kelpie was worried that she
did
smell blood. The inspector had a gun, his men too. The ones on the street as well as the ones in the paddy wagon. Snowy and all of Glory’s men would have razors.

Kelpie’s hands were in her pockets, the knife gripped tight. If anyone tried to hurt Dymphna, she’d stick it in them. Right through the coat so they never saw it coming.

“What is Mr. Davidson’s interest?” Inspector Ferguson enquired.

Several of the neighbourhood men crept closer, Darcy with them. It
was
him. He smiled, looking directly at her.

“He knows who killed Jimmy Palmer,” Snowy said.

Dymphna and Glory looked at each other.

Palmer laughed. “Of course he bloody does. He ordered it and you did it, Snowy! Not that I hold a grudge.”

Kelpie marvelled at how Dymphna gave no sign that she’d heard Palmer. She hadn’t given a sign all day.

How did she do it?
Why
did she do it? Did she tell
any
ghost she could see them? Kelpie figured she’d be dead by now if it hadn’t been for Old Ma and Miss Lee. Even Tommy had helped her. Well, not today he hadn’t. She wondered again what would have happened if she hadn’t fallen for Tommy’s false tale of apples.

“Who killed him?” the inspector said.

“Mr. Davidson will tell you privately.”

“My arse he will,” Glory said. “Jimmy was my right-hand man. Your Mr. Davidson will be bloody telling me and all.”

The inspector held up his hand. “All right, then. Mr. Davidson may join us.”

“Mr. Davidson wants me present as well,” Snowy said.

Kelpie could tell he wasn’t enjoying any of this.

“Does he? Why is that?”

“I also have information you need.”

Kelpie watched the inspector make more notes. She could almost see him figuring out what to do, how violent this was likely to get. Already been one copper done for that day.

Kelpie didn’t trust Mr. Davidson, but she did trust Snowy. Ferguson looked at Snowy and probably saw a big, bad razor man. If Snowy wanted, he could break the inspector in half. The coppers looked like boys next to Snowy. But they looked like boys next to Mr. Davidson too. Not a one of the coppers had much hardness to him. Their eyes looked capable of tears.

Kelpie couldn’t help but think of how that copper’s hand had shook when he’d pointed the gun at Bluey.

Glory’s men would eat them for breakfast.

The inspector clearly did not like his odds. But he could hardly back down either. Backing down was the worst thing you could do in Razorhurst.

Palmer laughed even harder. “You know, it isn’t the full set. I mentioned Big Bill, but I forgot one!” He slapped his thigh and continued laughing. Kelpie followed his gaze.

Bluey Denham strode down the street towards them, a double-barrelled shotgun over his undamaged shoulder.

“Blood,” Palmer said. “Lots of blood.”

Old Ma’s Death

Kelpie had been too young to realise it, but she watched Old Ma die. Kelpie hadn’t known how to read the signs of illness and decline, because everyone in Frog Hollow was ill and fading away, whether they were alive or ghosts.

Old Ma’s skin was yellow. She coughed so hard her phlegm turned red. She shook. She was breathless and easily tired. But so was everyone else.

When Old Ma took to her bed, Kelpie wasn’t alarmed. She’d done it before. For weeks at a time.

Then one day Old Ma stopped moving, and then she wasn’t breathing, and then she was a ghost.

Kelpie was by her bed drinking the glass of milk Old Ma insisted she drink each day with a slice of bread spread thick with butter, chatting to Old Ma about the new ghost in the back of the lane who didn’t yet understand that she was a ghost.

Then Old Ma was in the bed unmoving, her cheeks sunken, her eyes bloodshot, but she was also on the bed smiling at Kelpie, grey all over.

Kelpie did not know Old Ma was dead until her ghost self was attempting to pat her head, to hug her, and then Old Ma had led her away from her dead body to her last few coins, motioned for Kelpie to put on all her clothes, grab a warm blanket, and then taken her to an abandoned house on Little Riley Street to hide.

That was the last Kelpie saw of Old Ma’s body. The last time a living person took care of her every day. The beginning of Kelpie’s life among ghosts.