The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  Inside, the house looks different. Every time it is different, a little more distanced from the home he remembers. The floorboards are now covered in carpet. There’s a stain by the living room door, only faint, but the spectre of a spilled glass of red wine, by the looks of it. The kitchen cupboards have been replaced; they’re simpler, starker, less personable. He looks around, and feels a sense of loss, for yet another part of himself has been erased. This may once have been his home, but it isn’t any longer. Now, it’s just an abode for others to inhabit.

  “Modern fashions are strange, aren’t they?” Agnes drifts to the centre of the living room, staring up at the light fitting. It is made of some sort of frilled glass, stained an unnatural colour, suspended by chains. In his opinion, it looks like some sort of aquatic creature, hung out to dry.

  “I cannot picture myself here anymore.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  But it is worse than that. He cannot picture Eleanor here either. Where has their old fireplace gone to, the one she used to sit beside, reading her books in the evening? Why have they replaced the glass in the windows? Is it a deliberate attempt to distance the property from its roots? And if so, why?

  Agnes continues, glancing back at him as she glides up the stairs. “I can’t imagine living in a house like this,” she says, smiling as he follows her. “But then, I cannot imagine living in a house at all.”

  A caravan, he reminds himself. When he’d first found her, she’d lived in a caravan, one of those Romany creations, decorated with gaudy paint and peeling letters. Part of the circus troupe.

  “A house can be very pleasant if you have a family to share it with,” he says, then wishes he hadn’t. She makes no reply, only moves towards the master bedroom. It has a new door, he notices, far plainer than the old one, and painted a cold, brutal white.

  Her hand hovers close to the doorknob, and the word falls from his mouth almost of its own volition.

  “Stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to go in there.”

  She pauses. “You said this last time. What is the problem with this room?”

  He shakes his head. He doesn’t know exactly, the only thing he’s sure of is the confusing flood of memories that hit him when they stand here, out on the lonely corridor floor. Blood. Plenty of blood. Eleanor, crying. And his brother. Why my brother? he wonders. What business would my brother have in my matrimonial bedroom? “We mustn’t enter,” he says urgently.

  Agnes sighs. “It may be good for you to go in. Perhaps you need to face whatever memory you have of that room.”

  “No.” The protest comes out sharper than he’d intended. “I don’t. Let’s leave, there’s nothing here for me anymore.” They’ve finally spoilt it, he realises, and is surprised to find the knowledge doesn’t hurt him as much as expected. The house has moved on, but that is acceptable. That is what time does, after all, carrying everything along with it like detritus in a flowing river, and it is pointless to rail against it.

  An owl whistles as they leave; a mournful wheeze that reminds them of the late hour. Aside from the ruffle of breeze through the trees, it is a still, silent night, devoid of human life, a world away from the commotion of Georgie’s club.

  “Have you finally given up searching for Eleanor?” Agnes asks. The moonlight shines through her, illuminating the ancient remnants of her skirt, her beaded shawl, the unruly mass of curls on her shoulders.

  No, he thinks, with sudden ferocity. I will never stop searching for her, even though I have no idea where to find her.

  Agnes waits, then links a wisp of an arm through his. “You know,” she says, “you have to let Eleanor go. I keep reminding you of this, your desire to be with her is—”

  “—Don’t say pointless,” he interrupts. “You only say that because you don’t understand. Eleanor’s love… that alone would have kept her here, searching for me. Don’t you see?”

  The moon passes behind a cloud, and Agnes’s face likewise dims. “It isn’t like that, I can promise you. You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “What would you know about it?”

  She gasps, exasperated. “Because of what we’ve seen, and because you told me things! Back when I was alive, and since then. Not all of it, admittedly, but enough to suggest that—”

  “Stop!” He holds out a hand, and is not sure whether it’s to silence her or to hold her at arm’s length. Certainly, her words are creating a gulf between them, a chasm of unsaid words, of unresolved emotion. She has no right, he thinks, surprised at his own sudden fury. They are my memories to pick through, not hers.

  He can tell she wants to say more. There’s a torrent of accusation and confusion, bitten back behind her lips, and he cannot bear it. The only thing to do is move away, towards the river; the thing in this city that draws and repels him in equal measures.

  The water is flowing slowly, the waters edging along surreptitiously, dragging the occasional branch on a ceaseless trajectory. I swam in it once, he thinks, then shakes his head, as that cannot be right. Some people used to swim in it, among the oil and the mud, but he was not one of them. The mere thought of being submerged in that dirty, oozing water makes him shudder. Perhaps it was Eleanor? He sees her hand, moist, dripping, then sighs. He knows where that memory comes from, and it is not from a cheerful paddle in the river. But what led to that moment, when her hand reached for his, when her eyes disappeared beneath the tossing line of the water?

  It’s true, he realises. I am losing my memory. I can’t delude myself any longer. Things are slipping away from me, as surely as those twigs, bobbing out to the sea.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He turns. Agnes is beside him, a hand hovering close to his shoulder, reluctant to commit to touching him.

  “No, it’s me who should be apologising,” he replies. “I know you are only trying to help me.”

  “I shouldn’t have pressed you. The past is painful, I know.”

  Isn’t it for both of us? He remembers something of her experiences with Ernst, the distant twist of his eyes after drinking, the brutishness of his fists. She’d feared Ernst, and the ghost had told her to leave; that much is certain. But he hadn’t meant for her to do what she’d done. Leave him, he’d said, without considering the consequences. Guilt rises, swelling in what once was his throat. How I wish I could take that conversation back.

  “You’re a good person,” he says finally, and squeezes the ghostly remnant of her hand. “Even though I sometimes feel my mind is going, I will not forget that.”

  Together, they drift back to Harry’s bar. Though the hour is late, they know the music will still be playing, the people still dancing; though with less coordination and even more abandon. Alcohol will have taken hold and become the ruling force, as it does every night. A fight may break out. A woman might weep, pushing a man from her with damp, sticky hands. It is the time when depravation is at its height, and they know that Georgie will be amongst it, drowning in the chaos.

  It is worse than expected. A lamp has been smashed, flecks of coloured glass glitter the floor like drops of water. There are two people, slumped across the stage, though why, it is impossible to tell. They are breathing, they seem unharmed, but their expressions are pained, eyes pressed tight against the surrounding mob.

  And there is Archibald, Georgie’s beau; hulking by the bar, pouring himself a generous measure of whiskey. The barman has wisely edged away, leaving the bottle to the man’s mercy.

  Where is Georgie? the ghost wonders, then sees him, slumped awkwardly on a stool, back propped up against the mirrored wall. His misery is evident, radiating from him like turpentine fumes. They have fought, he thinks. Always, he and Archibald fight, before falling into one another’s arms. It is the pattern of their relationship. Again, he finds himself wishing that Georgie had stayed in love with Harry, who, though older, has none of the visceral cruelty that Archibald possesses. But that is the
nature of love, he thinks. It is never balanced, never fair, and seldom ever sensible.

  “Pour me a drink,” Georgie whines, a reed-thin sound above the noise.

  Archibald ignores him and pours the remains of his whiskey down his throat. The slam of the glass echoes above the screech of the brass band.

  “I said, pour me a drink. Why won’t you pour me a drink?”

  “I’m not pouring you another drink, you damned fool.”

  The ghost winces, glances at Agnes. It is painful to watch.

  Georgie’s lip curls, even as he almost slips off the bar stool. “I’m asking for just one more damned drink, Archie. It’s not a lot to ask.”

  The ghost cannot stand the wheedling tone, nor the plaintive plead of his gaze. It is the expression of a man with no pride left, who cares nothing for appearances or the opinions of others. He will end up on the streets if he isn’t careful, he thinks, and remembers those poor souls who skulked around Whitechapel, late at night. The drunkards, the criminals, the destitute; all muddled together in a featureless, broken heap.

  Archibald lurches closer, bringing the whiskey bottle with him. “I’m not giving you another drink,” he hisses, face pressed close to Georgie’s own, “because you’re disgusting, you hear me? You’re revolting. Look at yourself.”

  There is a vague darkness, troubling the air around them. The ghost has seen it before, he recognises it as the accumulation of pain, rage, and misery. At present, it’s centred over Georgie’s head, a personal cloud of shame and sadness.

  “Don’t say that,” he bleats. “You know I love you.”

  Don’t be so weak, the ghost wants to shout, then wonders why it matters so much. After all, this man is nothing to him, only another person to attach himself to.

  “Well, I don’t love you. At the moment, I can’t even bear to look at you.”

  Agnes sighs. She knows this cruelty, it transports her back to a place she’d rather not revisit.

  “Why are you with me, then?” Georgie straightens. “Why is it you’ll come home with me tonight, even when you hate me?”

  Archibald pours himself another drink, raises the glass in mock salute, then consumes it. “I have no idea,” he says finally. “I really don’t. Probably because I worry about you, which does me no good at all.” He turns, leans against the bar, surveys the room with an unsteady, furious eye. “I say,” he announces suddenly, in a tone quite different to before. “Why is your father here, Georgie?”

  Georgie’s chin rises like the prow of a ship, and his hands instinctively rise to his chest, pulling his jacket defensively across his chest. “Where?”

  “By the door, see? He doesn’t look happy.”

  The ghost follows the line of their gaze, but cannot see who they’re talking about. There are too many people, leaping and spinning and laughing before him; a brash swirl of dress-suits, sparkling skirts and waxed hair.

  “I don’t believe it.” Georgie rises, teeters, and grasps the bar. “Of all the nights to come here… Christ, Archie, why didn’t you give me that drink when I needed it?”

  “You’d best go and speak to him; he’s obviously looking for you.”

  “I refuse to!” The febrile fist against the bar does little to emphasise the sudden, bright rage within him. “I refuse to let him run my life for me! I’m a grown man, for goodness’s sake!”

  Archibald smirks. “Go on. Run to daddy. I’ll catch up with you later, no doubt.”

  And then he is gone, sliding through the crowd with serpentine ease, surprisingly graceful for a man of his stature. Georgie watches him leave, and the ghost watches Georgie, waiting to see what will happen next. This is new to him. The father has been referenced many times; portrayed as draconian, controlling, yet so far, he’s been nothing more than a fiction; a much-derided character in Georgie’s spiralling narrations. Unless he has encountered him before, and forgotten. It’s hard to be sure, these days.

  He can tell Agnes is as curious as he. She flits close to him, trying to see beyond the crowd.

  “This is completely bloody unfair,” Georgie mumbles, and waits like a condemned man, turning his back to the world. The crowds ease apart, making way for the man approaching the bar, and finally the ghost catches sight of the man Georgie dislikes so much, the one who fathered him.

  The sight is like a blow to the head; shocking, all-encompassing, and it sends him reeling.

  I know him, he thinks. My God, I know him so well.

  “Are you all right?” Agnes is beside him as always, eyes turned to his. “What happened?”

  “The father,” he croaks. “I cannot believe it. I know this man.”

  “Who, this man here?” They watch Georgie’s father, dapper in his well-cut suit, as he rests a disapproving elbow on the bar beside his son. “Of course you know him. Why? Had you forgotten who it was?”

  Yes, the ghost thinks, with growing desperation. The music sounds tinny, ringing with tunnel-like fluidity, and suddenly, none of it seems real. I could peel back this scene, he thinks, sensing the room start to spin, and there would be nothing behind it. Nothing. We’re all of us completely meaningless.

  “You surely can’t have forgotten this man,” Agnes presses him, wrapping a spectral arm around his shoulders, trying to anchor him in the moment. “Or if you have, things have become worse than I thought.”

  The ghost studies the older man carefully; the trimmed grey beard, the hint of a paunch straining over his belt. Those eyes, he thinks. I know those, I’ve seen them countless times before. Though the rest of him has changed, I’m sure of it.

  He strains to remember, knowing how important it is that he recollect this man, who he is sure was once a vital part of his life. But he has no recollection of who this person might be, only the impotent knowledge that he should know, and that his lack of knowledge shows how much he is fading.

  “I cannot tell you who he is,” he says finally, and drifts across the room, away from them all.

  ELEVEN

  — 1878 —

  “YOU MUST GO and see him.”

  The tone of Mother’s voice was final, absolute. She wasn’t going to let this drop.

  The mantelpiece clock chimed; a single melodious note, disturbing the silence. We’d only arrived at Mother’s cottage an hour ago, but it felt like longer. How the hours drag in times of disharmony, I thought, wishing things were different. “Mother,” I said gently, not wishing to agitate her further, “I fail to see what good our presence would do there, especially at present. Why don’t we—”

  “—Fred needs to see his family, for goodness’ sake! We can’t just leave him in a cell to rot!”

  Arthur and I sighed simultaneously. From her cosy position in the armchair, Eleanor gave me a sympathetic look, then wandered to the kitchen, presumably to make some tea.

  Fred’s arrest was still something of a shock, even though we’d had over a day to dwell on it now. The news still defied belief. Fred was many things; belligerent, arrogant, as mulish as any man I’d known, but extreme violence was something new. Certainly, beating a fellow dock worker, then stealing his money, was a novelty. Thank goodness Eleanor got away from him when she did, I thought, then chastised myself for my lack of charity. Fred hadn’t even been tried in court yet, and here I was, his brother, casting judgement upon him. Shame fired through me, though perhaps not as strongly as it should have done.

  “I’ve heard it’s a terrible place,” Mother continued, eyes wide, fingers wrestling in her lap. “I can’t comprehend it. A son of mine, in a prison like that… what would your father have thought?” And then the tears started again, more earnest and abundant than before. Arthur and I glanced at one another, both discomforted by the tension in the room.

  “Clerkenwell probably isn’t too bad,” Arthur said eventually, straightening his tie. “I mean, it’s only while he’s awaiting trial, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a gaol!”

  “I know th
at, Mother. But if he’s innocent, he’ll be out soon, I can guarantee it.”

  She sniffed, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. “But you know what trials are like. It won’t be fair, they’ll—”

  “Look, Mother, if you’re worried, I can afford to get him a solicitor, it’s only a guinea.”

  “Only?” I said with a dry chuckle, then straightened my expression at the sight of Mother’s face. “But yes, quite. Arthur can afford to get Fred some assistance, so you needn’t worry.”

  Mother gulped, clasping a hand against her chest. “It isn’t just that. It’s the shame of it. What will the neighbours think? It’s already mortifying enough that Mrs Heddingley knows about Fred working at the Docks. When this gets out, they’ll—”

  “—They’ll probably prattle about it for a few days like all good villagers, then forget about it,” Arthur finished. “Come on, Mother, you know what they’re like. The people of Battersea, they’re decent enough at heart. They’re not going to mock you.”

  “Only talk behind my back,” she said gloomily.

  Curse Fred, I thought, leaning back against the plump cushions. Even if he didn’t do it, what was he up to, lurking around the Docks late at night? I always suspected he was in with the wrong crowd.

  Martha’s head popped around the door frame, curls more tousled and unkempt than usual. “Eleanor’s made some tea,” she announced, looking solemn. “Do you want to take it in the garden? It’s ever such a nice day.”

  She was right. Spring had finally arrived, bringing with it one of those delightfully balmy, mellow Sunday afternoons, which seemed almost divinely designed to luxuriate in. Except not for us, I thought ruefully, standing up and straightening my trousers. No, we’ve got to worry about Fred, yet again. Always the same old story, though this time, he’s gone even further than usual.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Mother said, rising to her feet. “How can I enjoy my tea, knowing that my eldest boy is locked up in a dreary cell somewhere, wondering if he’ll ever see the light of day again?”