by Lucy Banks
For a moment, Arthur looked as though he would say something else. Then he shook his head, and stood aside, letting me depart the room. My jaw clenched involuntarily. Arthur had a way of making me aware of my own inadequacies, though of course, he never meant to do so. His good nature often made me look unfeeling by comparison; but then, I’d always been the rational, level-headed son, and it wasn’t my nature to be otherwise.
We headed downstairs, which was strangely silent without my mother and sister, who were already at the church. I wished I could rid Fred from my mind, just for this one day. Eleanor had been his sweetheart first, though he’d treated her badly. That was typical of him; possessive, casually hard to others, not to mention perpetually jealous of both myself and Arthur. Hardly surprising really, given how far we’d both come in life. Poor Fred, he’d ended up down at the Docks, just like Uncle Harold. A filthy, noisy, thankless job, with not much in the way of reward for all the hard labour involved.
Arthur stood, then patted my arm. “You look troubled, brother. Come on, no woeful feelings are permitted. This should be the happiest day of your life. Let’s get you to the church.”
The neighbours had turned out to watch the spectacle. Mr and Mrs Harding were hanging over their garden wall and waved enthusiastically as we passed. Even Mrs Jones from down the road had made the effort to hobble to the church gate. That was the thing with village communities, any event was an event for everyone, regardless of whether they were invited or not, a fact that warmed and irritated me in equal measures. It’ll be nice to move into London itself, I thought, straightening my shirt collar, aware of eyes upon me. In the city, anonymity isn’t nearly so hard to achieve.
Mother was waiting for us at the corner of the road, still fussing over Martha’s ribbon sash, which had drifted down over her dress like a stream. At the sight of us, she pulled a face; the light dappling on her bonnet from the tree above.
“I’m so glad you’re both here,” she said, without preamble. “Will you tell this young lady to carry herself properly? She refuses to listen to me.”
I laughed. My sister grimaced, then tugged at her skirt, looking every inch the reluctant flower girl. It wasn’t surprising. She loathed dressing up, and was never happier than when racing through the fields, climbing trees, or fishing in the local pond. No wonder Mother despaired so much, especially now that Martha was coming to an age where such behaviour was considered indecorous for a female.
“I feel ridiculous,” Martha muttered, then folded her arms.
Mother promptly sighed, patting down her cheeks, which had grown ruddy in the heat. “She’s been like this all morning. I honestly believe she’s more like a boy than you two put together.”
“Martha, behave,” Arthur chastised. “It’s a big day today, the first of your brothers to get married. Don’t ruin things by being a silly little prig.”
“I’m not being a silly little prig, don’t be so mean.”
“Well, don’t kick up a tremendous fuss over nothing, then.” Arthur’s eyes twinkled with merriment. He never could resist teasing poor Martha.
“See how you like it, being dressed in a big, silly—”
“—That’s enough, the pair of you!” Mother, normally so composed, looked set to collapse. She turned to me, then a slow smile broke out over her face, lighting her like a candle. “But enough of this nonsense. Look at you, looking so smart and handsome. Eleanor is a fortunate lady.”
“I’m a fortunate man,” I corrected. And it was true. While courting Eleanor, I’d constantly wondered what she’d seen in me, a man with an expression that I’ve been told looked continually harassed. Fred was far more handsome, inheriting the swarthy, sharp looks of our late father. But, as Eleanor often reminded me, it was the heart of the man that was the important thing, not the physical form that housed it. For all his good looks, Fred had lost her, and that was that.
I really must stop thinking about it, I thought. For today, at least.
Two local lads tittered as we passed through the church gates, threw their browning apple cores to the ground, then waved. Urchins from down the road, no doubt, their faces grimy with dirt. I winked at them, then delved into my pockets for a couple of pennies to give them. For luck, of course. It was always fortunate to be charitable on such a day as this.
“Come on,” Arthur whispered, nudging my shoulder. “Stop delaying and get in there. We need to make an honest man of you.”
Behind me, Mother sobbed, blowing her nose loudly on her handkerchief. Arthur and I caught one another’s eye and grinned. Still the same old Mother, I thought. Always so emotional about everything. I dared not turn to comfort her, for I knew it would bring about a fresh wave of blubbing, which wasn’t desirable for the ceremony. Thankfully, Martha took on the task herself, or rather hissed at Mother to calm down, before entering through the wide wooden doors.
The church was as refreshing as a cool bath, despite the number of people already congregated inside. I’d always loved the solemn, airy dimensions within; the simple wooden roof, the stained glass sending rainbows over the altar. A few friends smiled from the pews, some already with wives of their own, a few with babies, snuggled in linen and ribbon. I returned the smile, knowing that in the future, I would be sitting where they were now, with Eleanor by my side, and possibly a child or two, God willing. A boy, I thought, allowing my thoughts to drift. It would be wonderful to have a boy. What we would call him?
“What a turnout,” Mother muttered behind me, still sniffing. She fussed a little more with Martha’s dress, only to be batted away furiously.
“Let’s just hope the bride arrives.” Arthur laughed, ushering me down the aisle. “I wouldn’t blame her if she changed her mind.”
“Really, Arthur, do stop teasing your brother, it’s most—”
I waved her protestation away. “Don’t worry, Mother, I know he’s only joking.” To be honest, I’d hardly registered the comment. My nerves were rising, bubbling in my stomach like a whirlpool. Now, all I needed to do was compose myself while the crowds chattered and shuffled behind me. What if she doesn’t go through with it? Even imagining the crushing anxiety, the humiliation of waiting and wondering, was deeply unpleasant.
But of course, in the unlikely event that did happen, I would wait. I would wait until the world ended, if necessary. Some creatures mate for life, and I sensed, from the day I first kissed Eleanor, that I was one of those fortunate beings. I remembered the day with astonishing clarity. The breeze had lifted her on that afternoon, rendering her almost airborne; flickering at her skirt, sending a stray curl bouncing on her forehead. Her composure had been demure, much as it always was, but her eyes had gleamed with energy. I’d felt myself lost inside them, like a drowning man.
Fred’s loss is my gain. I wondered what he was doing today, at this moment. Brooding, no doubt, back in his hovel by the Docks. Angry? Vengeful? Possibly, I wouldn’t put it past him. Although he wasn’t a violent man, he’d been involved in fights in the past. Would he stoop so low as to hit his own brother? I wasn’t sure.
No, he wouldn’t, I reassured myself, nervously plucking at my cuffs. I do him a disservice to even imagine him capable of such a thing.
“Look lively, here she comes!” Arthur poked me in the ribs, just as the organ reached its crescendo, rippling through the air like rich butter.
This is it, I thought, my heart quickening. What I’ve been waiting for.
I turned, and there she was, framed by the arch of the doorway, flower girls and well-wishers trailing behind her, like small planets orbiting the sun. Time slowed, until each movement seemed a deliberate step in a dance that my heart already knew the rhythm to. She was radiant—seeing her took my breath away.
Martha raced up the aisle to join her, her grumpiness at her attire now forgotten in the excitement. The congregation stood, expectant.
I smoothed my suit and waited for the service to begin.
FOUR
&n
bsp; — 2017 —
FOR A MOMENT, he is drowning.
The dark slashes at him. Had he a body to feel with, he knows he would have felt brutal, unrelenting pain. As it is, the machinery’s energy soars and swoops through him with predatory power, until he feels himself breaking apart, coming loose at the seams.
The deed is done. That is his final thought, for better or for worse. It is finally over.
And yet, it is not.
Somewhere, from the deadened husk of all the darkness, a hand seeks him out. A lifeline, albeit a ghostly one, reaching for him, gathering his particles and pulling him back to safety. He resists, but the age-old instinct to survive overcomes him, and he allows himself to be yanked free.
Then comes the shock of light. The glare of seemingly endless screens, the wavering buzz of electrical energy, still sputtering and spitting in the aftermath.
He fights to compose himself, straining against the raging urge to combust and scatter himself once again. Energy crackles around and within him, sparking through the echoes of his limbs, motoring his heart. Again, the ghostly hand settles upon him, tender as a mother stroking a child, but he can feel its hesitancy and terror. He has transgressed, ventured to virgin territory, and upset the natural rule of things. He has frightened her.
The Fortune Teller’s face swims into focus, a transparent moon of horror.
Why did you do that? her expression screams, and it is too much for him to bear. He drifts away.
The boy is clutching his head. The ghost watches as a shining red line slides past his eyelid and over his cheek, glittering in the dim light. Blood.
“Did I hurt him? What happened?”
“The machinery exploded when you entered it. Some of the screen must have hit him in the face.”
I hadn’t meant to, he insists to himself, horrified by the unexpected outcome of his actions. I’d meant only to save him. And end myself.
The Fortune Teller moves closer to the boy, drawn by the essence of life itself, as it dribbles over his face. Perhaps she is mourning for the time she once had blood too, so long ago, he thinks, waiting for her to turn to him.
“I didn’t know that would happen,” he says finally.
She glances at him, knowingly. “Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
The room stills to a halt. The ghost steadies himself and assesses the situation with a more rational eye. He can see the smouldering wreck of the machine, screen gaping like a feral scream, black smoke seeping from the back. Something inside the mess still crackles, a hiss of threat lashes ceaselessly at the torn metal components. It is carnage, in modern-day form.
The proprietor of the internet café is now beside the boy, pressing a towel to his head, muttering the same words over and over: “I don’t know how this could have happened, I don’t understand it.”
Of course he cannot understand it, the ghost thinks. I fail to grasp it myself, and I’m the one who caused it.
The boy is numb to it all. It’s easy to tell from the absence of aura, the lack of friction in the air that surrounds him. It is for the best, the ghost thinks, knowing that the physical pain is easier to endure than the cacophony of emotions that came before. Still, he wishes that the boy had not been hurt. It is not in his nature to cause injury to any living creature. Even though he has forgotten himself, he is certain he was never a violent man when he was alive.
But my brother was, he thinks, then questions himself, wondering where the thought came from. He cannot even remember either of his brother’s names, let alone their character traits Who is he to say what they were like? And what does it matter now? They are long dead and buried in their graves, and if their ghosts wander the earth as he does, he has yet to encounter them.
“Let’s leave this place.” The Fortune Teller flits anxiously by his side. The event has disturbed her, he can tell by the wideness of her eyes, her skittish posture. Every darting motion reveals her panic.
“We can’t.” He points at the boy. “I need to check that he’s not badly hurt, and—”
“—you were far more badly hurt than he was. You nearly…”
The unsaid word hangs, unspoken, between them.
“I stopped him from sending his love that terrible message,” he protests, objecting to the weight of her judgement. “I stopped the darkness from falling on him. Doesn’t that make it worth it?”
She stares, then shakes her head, a tiny motion of defeat. “Come on. Let’s go.”
The Thames calls to them both, as it often does. The syrup-waters gleam under the street lamps, slurping at the muddy banks like a hungry animal. Why he is tied to this area, he doesn’t know; all he understands is that it’s here he feels most himself, yet also most afraid. The river is dark, and he wonders what is beneath the surface. What dead things hide below, undredged and forgotten? There are bodies down there, he thinks, and shivers.
Despite everything, there is a part of him that is glad to be back, looking out on the sparkling skyline of the city. London brings him peace, despite its continual motion, its never-ending pulse of people, pumping through the streets like arterial blood. All of the living, he thinks, with both fondness and a sense of loss, getting on with their lives, without appreciating that one day, it will all be over. Then, they’ll either cease to exist, or wander as we do, slowly losing their memories and their minds.
The Fortune Teller waits, pressed against the fence, fingers tapping the railing, before passing through it. Her patience with him is formidable, yet oppressive. He feels battered by her stoic ability to forgive, suffocated by her continuous, unrelenting support. Surely there is more for her than this, he thinks. It demeans her to linger after him, as though her existence had no other meaning. But anger is not the answer here, nor pity for her. He owes her more than that.
“You want to know why I did it,” he says finally, aware that he’ll find it difficult to justify, because the memory is already fading. He recalls an explosion, the dull whine of exposed electrical wires. Blood on the boy’s face. But all else is blurring, becoming fuzzy and forgotten. In a short while, he won’t remember it at all.
“Yes,” she says simply. “I want to know.”
The broken part of him that is still human aches, like an old scar. “I wanted to stop all this.”
“You wanted to come to an end?”
He nods. “I wanted to come to an end.”
“But what else is there for us, if not this?”
Nothing, he answers silently. And that was the whole idea, after all. Oblivion. Snuffing out like a candle, stopping the confusion of disconnected memories, finally finding some peace. The Fortune Teller cannot understand, because she still has her thoughts, her recollections, her knowledge of what happened and when. She doesn’t know what it feels like to lose yourself a little more every day.
He sighs, knowing he needs to give her something more. But what? No words adequately capture the despair that he feels. “It is torture to continue,” he whispers.
She winces. He can feel the echo of her sadness, rippling through the spectral cloth of her shawl. “Can’t you look to the future, rather than trying to grasp the past?”
Can’t I be your future? It’s the unspoken plea, always there between them. The neediness, the desire that he can’t answer. He can’t provide what he wants, because he cannot share this misery with anyone. It is his, and his alone.
“I had a wife,” he says finally, shaking his head. “I know I did, because I can feel it in my core. And I have lost her, so I must find—”
“Forget your wife! Don’t you remember what happened? Dear God, how can you have forgotten? We were both there! Don’t you remember how you felt, when you saw her?”
Her rage is hot as a furnace. It is out of character, and he recoils instinctively, turning back to the water, unable to stand firm in the face of her fury.
“I remember nothing,” he murmurs, knowing that is not quite true. There are feelings, leftover s
craps of instinct; subtle dregs of knowing. Something happened to his wife. Something happened to him. And there is a darkness, much like the darkness surrounding the boy and his screen, which clings closely to him.
The Fortune Teller shakes her head, her features solidifying for a second, before fading into fine mist.
She is sad, he realises. I make her unhappy. That wasn’t his intention. Perhaps she should leave me for good, he thinks, then imagines an existence without her, spanning for years, decades, centuries into the future. The thought of it chills him.
He waits. She waits. A lone rowboat passes, oars turfing the still surface of the river.
“I wish I could make you understand,” she says quietly. “You need to understand, then you can move on.”
“Understand what?”
Silence; a pause that could have lasted moments, or perhaps a cold, desolate lifetime.
Finally, she answers him. “You will never find your wife. Never.”
FIVE
— 1877 —
I ALWAYS TOOK great delight in watching her. It was never the grand moments that thrilled me, but rather the mundane, simple actions. A hair comb, slipped nimbly into her mass of curls. A sigh as the church bells disturbed her from her reading. Small, tender seconds that carried such weight in my heart. I knew I would never forget them.
Her bodice was causing her pain, I could tell. Yet despite this discomfort, I still revelled in that thrill of assisting her; of being at liberty to place my hands around her waist, to rest my chin upon her pale shoulder.
“You are the most beautiful woman alive,” I whispered.
Eleanor laughed, eyes still fixed on the looking glass. “I don’t feel it in this ridiculous garment. How I wish someone would invent a more comfortable thing to wear!”
I agreed with her, once again pitying females, with their elaborate dress codes and lengthy beauty regimes. Eleanor scarcely needed assistance in my opinion; her waist was already tiny, and her face quite splendid enough without powders or lotions.
