The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  “Good night,” Arthur said quietly. “Give my regards to your wife.”

  I watched him go, then closed the door with a quiet click. The house loomed around me, rich with anticipation and foreboding.

  Pull yourself together, I told myself sternly. Now was not the time to fall apart, not when Eleanor needed someone to support her.

  Superstition was never something that had bothered me in the past, and I would do well to remember that.

  TEN

  — 1922 —

  THEY KNOW THEY should be used to all of this now, but it’s still shocking. The ghost sees his own horror, mirrored on Agnes’s expression like curdling milk. This is an era he will never acclimatise to, and he can tell she feels the same.

  People call it the roaring twenties, and he can see why. Everything is brash, ostentatious, designed to stun and titillate. Watching them all, these young, hedonistic revellers, limbs jerking to the crass bellow of the brass instruments on stage, he cannot stop himself from comparing to the behaviour of his own past. How times have changed, he thinks with dismay. In his time, even touching an unmarried woman’s hand would have been indecorous. Now, they grope and stroke without care, exposed legs, unbuttoned collars, sweat glittering on every forehead.

  “It is a pit of depravity,” he mutters, wishing he could order himself a drink. Indeed, the barman is scarcely able to keep up with the shouted orders, the calls for more champagne, more cocktails, more wine. The alcohol flows like water from a smashed dam, and none of them care. It is excessive, in every sense of the word.

  Agnes laughs. “You said that yesterday. And possibly the day before.”

  “Did I?” He can’t remember now, but does recollect being here last night, glued fast to the gentleman who captivates him so much. Georgie, they call him, or Georgie-Porgie, from time to time. Limp, flop-haired, with heavy-lidded eyes that struggle with focus. Not a character the ghost cares for much, but then, he seems to have no control over whom he becomes attached to anymore.

  “Your memory is becoming quite terrible,” Agnes comments, and he cannot tell if she is in earnest or not. She has a fair point. His ability to recollect things, particularly events that happened while he was alive, is becoming unreliable. Memories enter his head, linger for a brief time, then slip away, and it’s not always guaranteed that he can seize them back.

  A shrill laugh, barely inches from where they float, makes them shrink away instinctively. The woman in question looks like a child, a voluminous headscarf trapping her curls. Her hair reminds him briefly of Eleanor’s, but that’s where the similarity ends. The painted lips, the low-cut dress, it is the attire of a harlot, he thinks; and wishes the girl would cover herself.

  “Look,” Agnes says, pointing over the woman’s shoulder, to the other side of the dance floor. “It’s Georgie. You were wondering where he was.”

  The ghost looks and immediately sees. Indeed, it is impossible to miss the man, with his dislocated gait and clumsy footsteps. Georgie has already consumed most of the contents of the wine bottle in his hand, if his glazed expression is anything to go by. He saunters into a dancing man, apologises in entirely the wrong direction, then staggers onwards, laughing, then wiping his lips.

  The ghost feels the sense of his own imagined lips tightening in disapproval. A drunkard, he thinks. He remembers working with a man who couldn’t hold his drink, before he’d been unceremoniously dismissed for being late to work on one too many occasions. It had caused a scandal, or at least, he thinks it had. It is difficult to recollect the precise reactions at the time; all he has a sense of is a generalised atmosphere of disapproval. Or perhaps it had been a dream, he wonders. These sorts of thoughts disturb him, in a way he cannot quite pinpoint. It concerns him that he no longer seems able to grasp the truth of his memories; that they have become slippery as fish, sliding through his fingers.

  “Look at him now,” Agnes says, drawing his attention back to the dance floor.

  The insufferable Georgie has stumbled and is already close to hitting the ground as the ghost turns. The noise of the impact is muffled by the ruckus, the disturbing sight softened by the surrounding feet, stamping and twitching ceaselessly around Georgie’s head.

  He will feel the pain of it tomorrow, the ghost thinks, watching as the man hauls himself to his elbows, reaches for his bottle, then rolls to the floor again, laughing.

  “Poor creature,” Agnes mutters.

  “In what way? All I can see is a useless man who seems intent on drinking himself into the grave.”

  She gives him a strange look, but says nothing. He sets his gaze to the man on the floor, wishing fervently that he would pull himself together, that he could somehow find some shred of dignity within himself, and rise to his feet. Why do I feel somehow responsible for his actions? he wonders. The urge to scold Georgie is strong and unexpected, and impotent, of course. His ability to chastise anyone disappeared a long time ago.

  “Good heavens, Georgie old boy, do get up!”

  Thank heavens, the ghost thinks, watching as a familiar face strides through the throngs, reaching down and seizing Georgie firmly under his armpits. This man they have seen before; dapper and rat-smart, with beady eyes and a pointed moustache, but a not-unkind expression. Harry, the ghost reminds himself. His name is Harry. And he owns this nightclub. The nature of their relationship is perplexing; almost like father and son, rather than companions. They talk often, in hushed tones, away from prying ears. The ghost senses that these conversations don’t bring happiness to either of them.

  Georgie continues to laugh, even as the man hauls him to his feet. “It’s only a jape, Harry, nothing to concern yourself with…”

  “This isn’t a jape. And I don’t believe for one second you’re enjoying yourself. Now, come into the back office, let’s get you cleaned up.” Harry glances anxiously around them, not that he need worry. Most of the dancers have already forgotten about Georgie’s existence, and are too busy resuming their complicated dance steps, or giggling inanely at nothing in particular.

  “Don’t be a bore, Harry. You’re always such an infernal stick in the mud.”

  “Now isn’t the time. Come on, let’s get you sobered up.”

  Georgie stumbles, lurches to the side, and laughs; a superficial, too-high trill that ends in a cough. “What if I have no desire to sober up, eh? What then?”

  “I won’t take no for an answer, I’ve a responsibility to your father. Now please, come with me.”

  Georgie sighs in defeat, and they make their way through the crowd, before disappearing through a door at the back of the room. The ghost turns to Agnes, who shrugs.

  “We may as well follow them,” she suggests, then gestures to the crowd surrounding them, the beads of her shawl momentarily catching the light of the table lamps. “It’s not like we’ve anything better to do.”

  The door is covered in velvet; a sumptuous yet ostentatious gesture, in the ghost’s opinion. But then, this is the attitude of the time, everything in a glut of abundance, without care for humility or restraint. It amuses him that the other side, the side that’s unseen from the dance floor, is plain wood, without adornment. All for show, he realises. It’s all meaningless.

  At the end of the corridor, Harry holds open the door to his office, hurrying Georgie through. His jaw is rigid, and his expression humourless. In this featureless, businesslike space, Georgie seems even more out of place, flopping into the chair like a discarded sack. Thanks to the warm glow of the desk light, the ghost can now see the moisture on his shirt, a vague, beige stain of wine and grime from the floor.

  “The man has no shame,” he mutters, to no one in particular. “He is an embarrassment to his family.”

  “He is unhappy,” Agnes replies.

  “How can you tell?”

  She looks at him, before saying simply, “All drunken people are. They drink to forget, or else to forgive themselves. You of all people should be more kind towa
rds him, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t see why,” he says, though the comment niggles him, stirring up emotions that he’d rather keep buried. Sometimes, forgetting is better; he does not wish to recollect the full details of his association with this shameful man. “Anyway, excessive drinking is a sign of weakness, surely?”

  “I suppose some weaker people may use drink as an excuse to blot the world out.”

  Like Ernst, he thinks, understanding her thoughts. Her Strong Man. Whiskey had been his choice of drink, if the ghost remembers rightly. Or had it been vodka? Ernst had been Russian, he’s sure of it, so vodka would have been the natural choice. He cannot ask her, he’s embarrassed to admit to his lapses of memory.

  A slap of fist against the desk draws their attention back to the living people in the room.

  “Georgie, this has got to stop,” Harry begins, working himself into a full-blown lecture. “Every night you come in here drunk, and every night—”

  “—It’s not every night, old man. Come on, don’t exaggerate. I only come on—”

  “—Every night that you’re here, Georgie, you’re completely inebriated. There’s only so long you can keep doing this to yourself. You can’t simply drink away your father’s money!”

  Georgie waves his hand, before sinking lower into the chair. “Ah, Father. Why bring him into this, eh?”

  “I happen to be a friend of your father’s, and I naturally feel some responsibility towards your welfare, and—”

  “Is that what you call it? I’d hardly call what you did to me responsible behaviour.”

  Harry’s cheeks are reddening. The ghost feels for him; after all, he’s only trying to help. “That’s damned unfair, Georgie,” he splutters, “and you know it. I—”

  “—You seduced a young boy, and—”

  “—You were nineteen, for goodness’ sake, don’t make this sound more sordid than it is!”

  The ghost winces. Their emotions are whipping at the room, tearing it to shreds. There is darkness here too, soft but full of menace, lurking close to Georgie’s head. The man is on a path to self-destruction, he thinks. And, of course, he is a sodomite. He remembers hearing of men like that, back in his living days. Mollies, the people called them. But I knew this about Georgie already. How could I have forgotten?

  Agnes touches his arm briefly. “I can tell what you’re thinking. But times are different, you know; and love is still love, regardless of who does the loving. Don’t be so stern in your judgement.”

  Can it be love? he wonders. Perhaps it can, maybe Agnes is right. But certainly not like this. This reeks of secrecy, deception, seduction. The older man, Harry; his love stains the room like tobacco, it’s overwhelming, painful to behold. His love is certainly not reciprocated, for Georgie idolises a very different sort of creature. As far as the ghost can tell, his beau is not a gentleman that deserves any sort of love, especially not the desperate desire that Georgie has for him.

  He waits patiently, curious to see where the conversation will end. Harry rustles the papers on his desk, arranging them into a neat pile on the corner. Only the flit of his eyes reveals his anxiety.

  “Harry,” Georgie says finally, “what do you want from me?”

  “I don’t want anything from you. Can’t you see that?”

  The sound of the wine bottle, slamming against the desk, echoes flatly off the walls. Harry winces, then continues. “I’m worried about you, that’s all. You used to have a respectable position at the school, a place to live, now look at you! And there’s your health to consider, you know what the doctor said about your heart.”

  The ghost senses the sincerity of Harry’s concern, but doubts the truth of the statement that he doesn’t want anything from his former lover. Harry wants a great deal, that much is obvious. He wonders at the school comment; he wouldn’t have taken Georgie for the type to be a teacher, or indeed capable of holding any position of responsibility over children. But now it has been spoken aloud, it sounds familiar. He strains to recollect; but aside from a vague memory of a musty classroom, he arrives at nothing.

  “For heaven’s sake, what are you wittering on about?” Georgie stands, teeters, then falls back into the chair, graceless as an upended tortoise. “This is intolerable. You’re not my father, Harry. You’re nothing to me. Stop all this… controlling. I’m not your puppet, and you don’t own me.”

  “Christ, I never once suggested that I did—”

  “You do! Every word you speak, every move you make, it indicates ownership. It’s disgusting. I don’t love you anymore, Harry. You were a bit of fun, that’s all. An escape from the dreariness of living with my parents. How many times must I tell you this, before you get it through that thick skull of yours?”

  Harry does not reply. The air is thick with the unsaid; recrimination, guilt, misery. It is agonising, being surrounded with such emotion, and the temptation is to simply depart, float through the door and leave the two men to it. The ghost is certain that it is getting worse, that he’s becoming more sensitive to negativity; though he can’t recall what it was like straight after he died. Perhaps it has always been this painful.

  “Oh, dear,” Agnes murmurs, and edges closer to the wall, before fading out of sight. He can see why, as Harry has started to weep, and it is embarrassing to witness. In his time, such a flagrant display would be unthinkable. Yet the emotion moves the ghost, despite his mortification. I know what it’s like to suffer from unrequited love, he thinks, then wonders why. He doesn’t remember Eleanor ever not loving him, and he’s fairly sure he’d not been in love before her. Why had such a thought come to him?

  “Shall we leave them?” Agnes suggests, drifting back into view. “There seems little point remaining.”

  “I suppose so.” He studies Georgie, whose face is as pursed and blotched as a petulant child. For a man in his forties, there is something surprisingly immature about him; a quality that can be appealingly playful at times, and horrendously childlike at others. He has innocence, the ghost thinks, as they pass back through to the corridor, towards the bar. But that innocence is spoiled with privilege and overindulgence. Goodness knows how his parents raised him.

  “How about we visit your old house?” Agnes suggests. “You might find it restorative, after witnessing all of that.”

  Is it near here? the ghost wonders, then reprimands himself. Of course it is near here. They are close to the Thames, not far from the Docks, and that is where his house was, the home he’d once shared with Eleanor. Sometimes, he feels he needs to repeat these facts to himself, to ensure they don’t slide away from him.

  “Why do you want to see my house?” he asks, curious.

  She shrugs. “Perhaps it’s good to remind yourself of happier times.” And so, they pass through the door, back into the deafening chaos of the dancing, the pungent odour of spilt alcohol and sweat. “It is interesting to see something of your living life,” she replies finally. “And besides, there’s nothing more for us here. Georgie will be unconscious soon, as he always is. And Harry?”

  “Harry will no doubt continue crying,” the ghost finishes, then adds, “but at least Archibald isn’t here tonight.” Archibald. Even the name is vaguely repugnant, he thinks. Georgie’s lover, a hulking ape of a man, who looks peculiarly squeezed into his suits, as though ready to erupt out of them at any second. Although he’s younger and more handsome than Harry, he’s less human somehow. More instinctive, brutal, and mindless. The ghost doesn’t approve.

  They move silently down the stairs and out to the street below. A man and a woman are conversing outside, heads nearly touching. The ghost cannot tell if they are fighting or whispering sweet words to one another. It is often the way with relationships in this era; there is none of the restraint or dignity that he remembers from his own time.

  “It’s a nice night,” Agnes comments. A hint of a smile twitches the corners of her mouth, glittering in the dark.

  He laugh
s. “You say that as though it affects us, which it doesn’t.”

  “Why not? We can still appreciate a full moon, without feeling its glow on our skin. The warmth of the night might not touch us anymore, but we can still imagine the sensation.”

  The ghost says nothing. He believes she has a far more fanciful notion of their existence than he does. “Shall we carry on?” he suggests instead. The idea of seeing his old house has grown on him, there’s something about being back there that triggers memories for him, makes them flow like liquid, rather than coming in halting fits and starts.

  “I wonder if that family still live there?” Agnes says.

  For a moment, he’s confused, then remembers. A family, he reminds himself. A man, his wife, a baby, young enough to still be at his mother’s breast, but old enough to walk a little. But when had they been living in his old house? He cannot recollect if it was a mere year ago or a decade, and he doesn’t like to ask.

  The street looks as it always has, lined with beech trees, stretching parallel to the sluggish river. He can remember pacing the road, briefcase in hand, on his way to work, and strolling along at a leisurely pace, with Eleanor’s arm linked in his. He also recollects a rain-storm, soaking both him and his brother, on the way back from goodness knows where. The memories return, as clearly as photographs, and it reassures him, because it means his mind is still functional, and can still operate as it should.

  There is a sign outside the house. For sale. All enquiries, contact Fraser and Sons Estate Agents, Berner Street, Whitechapel.

  “I suppose that answers our question about the family.” Agnes points to the black windows.

  The ghost looks instinctively to the window at the top of the house, just above the porch. Eleanor would have slept there, he reminds himself. That was our bedroom.