The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  The ghost knows that she cannot keep going like this. Her life is untenable, unsustainable, and with every bit of brutality inflicted upon her, she shatters a little more. She is alone, solitary despite the ceaseless din of the circus surrounding her. Her Aunt Esme has some knowledge of what Agnes endures, but chooses to stay out of it. It is the circus way, he understands that. What occurs between a courting couple is nobody’s business but their own.

  Eventually, Agnes climbs to her feet, unsteady as a colt, and starts to collect the pieces of mirror; pressing each to her heart as though willing it to weld itself back together. He senses her urgency; her aunt will return soon, she only grants limited private time for Ernst and Agnes, enough as is appropriate for a pair of young lovers.

  Aunt Esme could put a stop to this, the ghost thinks bitterly. She could end the relationship, and let Agnes be free. However, that is the nature of betrothal. Ernst’s father and Agnes’s father made an agreement many years before, and their word remains unbreakable, in spite of everything. Agnes and Ernst must marry, and it must be a circus affair.

  The mirror shards are discarded into the bucket next to the oven. Agnes touches her eye, winces, then smooths down her skirt. The ghost notices that it has been ripped at the bottom, possibly after snagging on something after she fell to the floor. He doubts Agnes will care, though; she is only intent on escaping the tiny confines of the caravan and stepping out into the cool autumn evening.

  Most of the circus folk are gathered by the fire, eating from tin plates, deep in conversation or laughing at some bawdy joke or other. The ghost can see Aunt Esme’s silhouette even from this distance away; a small, slope-shouldered back, hair tied neatly in a high bun. She doesn’t notice her niece, stealing down the stairs of the caravan, heading out to the dark of the surrounding trees.

  He follows, unable to stop himself. Though his focus is on finding Eleanor, he is concerned about this waifish, shawled creature. In the years that he has remained with the circus, he has grown fond of her. After all, she is the only one who has ever spoken to him, since his death.

  And her eyes are beautiful, he thinks, then chastises himself. As a married man, or at least, a man who was married before he died, he shouldn’t be thinking such things. However, it is undeniable, from a purely aesthetic point of view. Agnes’s dark eyes are fathomless, deep as wells; sometimes sparkling with amusement, at other times, filled with the misery of the world. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen such emotion contained in one person. It moves and distresses him in equal measures.

  She heads to her favoured spot, as he suspected she might; a park bench beneath an aged oak, almost entirely shadowed by the overhanging leaves. Weeds clump around the base; this is not a place that is visited often, much less tended to. Humans have given up here and let nature take over. As Agnes settles amongst it all, she looks almost organic herself; her curls mingling with the surrounding undergrowth, her shawl as mottled as the soil beneath her bare feet.

  For a long time, she says nothing. Minutes stretch, falter, and die, and still she waits, eyes fixed on her hands, placed neatly in her lap. He sits beside her, and without quite understanding why, lowers the ghost of his hand on hers.

  “It will be all right,” he whispers, knowing she will not hear him. Her mind is elsewhere, wearily ploughing through the tatters of her life. And worse still, he believes his statement to be a lie. Agnes will not be all right. There is no future for her like this, or at least, not one worth looking forward to. He senses it; that tragedy clouds before her, smothering out any chance of happiness like a damp cloth over a candle.

  Hatred for Ernst, with his mercurial nature, his lack of control, flares within him; combined with hatred for himself and his inability to change things. It is the worst aspect of being a ghost, he finds; the emotional responses to those around him are the same, but he no longer has the physical presence to be able to make a difference. He’s nothing more than a dim echo of a bell, a feather in the wind, a picture drawn in the sand. Fleeting and useless, he thinks, and takes his hand away.

  The next morning, Ernst finds her, though has the decency to blush at the sight of her darkening eye. The ghost notes how he flexes his fists instinctively, as though the previous night’s actions still reverberate through his fingers. It always starts with his fists, the ghost realises. This is the man’s language, the words that he understands. Brute force. Strength. Feeling through touch. By contrast, his eyes see virtually nothing of the reality of things; much less the pain he’s caused the woman he’s supposedly meant to love.

  “Are you set?” he asks, nodding across the field, which is filled with the sound of hammers, men shouting, the voluminous thud of tents being dismantled. “The horses, are they fed and watered?”

  Agnes shakes her head. “I’ll do that now.”

  “Let me do it for you.”

  “No, it’s best if I do it, they prefer it.”

  Ernst stiffens, sensing the slight. He looks somehow diminished in his flat cap and faded sepia-brown shirt, as though someone has deflated him, taken the battle out of his body. And again, his emotion descends to those fists, flexing involuntarily, before being stuffed into baggy pockets, placed in storage for a later date.

  “At least we are not travelling far, eh?” He kicks at an imaginary pebble on the ground.

  “No, that’s true.” Agnes looks up, shielding her eyes from the sun. “I remember Battersea well from last time. It’s a pretty little village.”

  It is, the ghost agrees silently, warming at the mention of his childhood home. It will be good to go back, to visit his Mother’s old house, even though she’s no longer in it. He wonders who lives there now; it has been a while since he’s visited.

  Ernst coughs, then spits on the ground. “It will not be a village long, let me tell you. This city, it is growing by the day. One day, all those villages, they’ll be swept away by it.”

  Agnes laughs, and for a moment, there is a spark of togetherness between them; a sense of what could be, if only Ernst would stop corroding their relationship with his abuse, and she with her protracted silences. “I don’t think that would ever happen,” she says softly. “A city will only grow as big as people let it, won’t it?”

  The ghost isn’t so sure. In fact, he rather agrees with Ernst on this occasion. Already, London is a different place to how it was; it sprawls lazily outwards like an ever-unravelling rug. And other things have changed too. Automobiles have become a more common sight; though of course, only the wealthy drive them. Now, some households even have remarkable machines called telephones, polished black boxes with numbers on the front, and a strange, handheld contraption on the top. He’s heard people talking into them, and believes their voices are transported to other places, far away. It astounds him, how much is shifting. Humanity never rests, he thinks. And it is never satisfied.

  She leaves Ernst to other chores, then finds Aunt Esme, who is carefully packing her candles and crystal ball, even though they both know the items are only for show. For them, the truth of the future lies in tarot cards and nothing else, though they both know without the appearance of more, they wouldn’t earn the trust of their customers.

  The caravan is dark. Aunt Esme prefers to keep the door closed, even on a bright autumn morning like this. Only the barest hint of light creeps through the tiny window, lighting a pale path across the top bunk. She looks up as her niece enters, then grunts.

  “You need a cold compress on that.”

  Agnes touches her eye reflectively. “It’s too late for that now.”

  Esme sighs, then closes the lid of the box, smoothing her fingers over the polished wood. “You shouldn’t let people see you like that. It is unseemly.”

  You make it sound as though it’s her fault, the ghost thinks furiously. He’s never warmed to Aunt Esme, even when he first met her, back when he was alive. He’d asked her to tell him his fortune once, not that he remembers exactly what she said. Only that one
card, turned over hastily at the end. The Hanged Man. Why can’t I recollect more about that meeting? he wonders, not for the first time. It seems odd, to have so hazy a memory of such an event. Sometimes, it worries him, this lack of memory, though it’s comforting to think it only occurs sporadically.

  “Shall I feed the horses?” Agnes stands by the oven, fingers pressed against one another over the smooth planes of her skirt.

  “I’ve done it already.” Esme looks up, then pats the stool beside her. “Sit for a while. You look as though you haven’t slept.”

  “I slept well enough.”

  “You were tossing and turning as though you had the Devil inside you. Now sit.”

  Agnes pauses, then obediently rests by her aunt. She seems too tall for this caravan, yet the ghost notices, as he has done before, her knack of merging with her background, fading into the shadows almost as successfully as he does. She would make a superb ghost, he thinks, with a wry smile, then wishes he hadn’t. The thought of Agnes dying disturbs him greatly, more than he’d like to admit.

  “What occurred between you and Ernst last night?” Esme eyes Agnes shrewdly, then places some bread on top of the oven to warm it through. “What made him angry?”

  Agnes looks down at her lap. “He is always angry, Aunt Esme. All it takes is the slightest spark to ignite him.” Although her eyes are downcast, the ghost can see the sudden blaze of impotent rage within them, before it is gone, concealed behind her usual unreadable expression.

  “You don’t think your father made the right choice for you?”

  “You know what I think.” This time, the accusation is clear.

  Her aunt tuts, rearranges the bread to heat it better. “It’s not your place to think, my dear. That’s not how it’s done. We women must know our place, after all.”

  “Yes, Aunt Esme.”

  Silence. The ghost shifts awkwardly, aware that this is a private moment, yet unable to tear himself away. He finds himself magnetised to this dark, shadow-eyed woman, more than any other living creature. Perhaps I am just attached to misery, he thinks, flickering sombrely in the dim light. And her despair is greater than most.

  Esme looks up, eyes squinting. She’s done this before, suddenly focusing on him, as alert as a hunting dog. It seems likely that she senses his presence but doesn’t know what to make of it.

  Be kind, he whispers. Otherwise, I don’t know what will happen to her.

  Agnes breaks the quiet, leaning forward, making herself visible once more. “Shall I make some broth for lunch? We have some potatoes and carrots left over.”

  “I’ve prepared something already, girl.” Esme casts a final, suspicious look in the ghost’s direction, then smiles. “You tend to that eye, quickly now.”

  “I will, Aunt. Not that I think it’ll do any good.”

  “You must try.” The bread, when poked, leaks a path of acrid smoke, which dissipates into the air. “After all,” she adds, reaching for the butter, “we wouldn’t want Ernst to lose interest in you, would we? You need to keep your looks and keep our family from shame. Yes?”

  The ghost’s spectral chest constricts with loathing, for the one person in Agnes’s life who could make a difference, were she just a little less blind to the despair that rages in her niece’s heart.

  Agnes only nods, then looks away.

  The day passes. The sun rises softly, then falls. At last, the circus is ready to move; a slow procession of bright caravans and rickety animal enclosures. The elephant follows last, leathery in the afternoon light. The ghost wonders if the poor creature remembers Africa, or whatever wild continent it was born on, and whether he mourns for his old homeland. Things always become more valuable after you’ve lost them, he thinks, and falls into step with the tired beast.

  It is a relatively short journey to Battersea, and the crowds are already lining the main street, waving and cheering; small children weaving through adult legs, straining for a better view. The ghost sees faces, familiar faces; Mrs Makepeace from the post office, the reverend, so much greyer than he remembers. A few names evade him, a fact he finds frustrating. As a living man, his memory was sharp as cut glass, now it feels dulled at the edges. Perhaps it is a side-effect of being dead. Probably nothing to worry about, he reassures himself. It will come back in time, I am sure.

  Agnes sits behind the reins, whispering to the horse. She shrinks from the attention, as she always does; people in abundance cause her distress, he can tell. That is why she’s well suited to fortune telling. It’s only ever one person at a time, in safe, predictable surroundings.

  The ghost plods on in time to the sway of the elephant’s trunk. It is not far now, he knows the field that they’re heading to.

  It doesn’t take long for the circus to establish itself, taking root and sprouting around the nucleus of the garish big top. Poles hoist fabric to the air, colourful signs rise like flags, shouting their wares. Agnes assists her aunt, assembling their humble tent, placing all ornamentation in the correct positions; the crystal ball, the battered table, the monkey skull, showcased on a couple of musty books.

  It is Agnes’s shift tonight, a chance for her aunt to rest in the caravan, in the dark, clutching her chest, as she so often does. The ghost presumes she has some sort of respiratory problem, but as Esme has never mentioned it, it is difficult to confirm. Her attitude to health is like the rest of her clan; tight-lipped, close-eyed, self-stern. Whatever she’s got, it’ll probably kill her, he thinks, without much compassion.

  The calliope trills into a tap-dance of soaring notes. Darkness wraps the circus in its own private realm; an alternative reality of amber light, bellowing voices, the crack of rifles from the shooting range. Business as usual, it would seem.

  Agnes goes through the motions, sitting quietly behind her table as customer after customer tiptoes hesitantly through the flaps of the tent; eager yet repelled by the prospect of knowing what’s to come. The ghost can see that her heart is not in it. She barely shuffles the cards, reading pasts, presents, and futures in the same monotone. By the time the third dark stranger is mentioned, he even detects the hint of a weary smile, flickering across her face. She no longer cares about this, he thinks, standing at her shoulder, resisting the urge to move closer, to feel the warmth of her body. The realisation alarms and excites him in equal measures, because it shows that Agnes is changing, though quite how, he isn’t sure.

  At the end of it all, Ernst pokes his head through the entrance, a red-faced slab of meat, invading an area of quiet contemplation.

  “What a night, eh?”

  Agnes nods slowly, then returns the tarot cards to their weathered box.

  “It’s always the provincial folk though, isn’t it?” Ernst continues, scrutinising her closely. They’re the ones hungriest for a bit of excitement.”

  Again, she doesn’t answer. She wants him to go away, the violent desire oozes from her like smoke. The ghost wishes he would disappear too, simply vanish without trace, and leave them both alone. His presence is disturbing and unnerving, like a bull in a small field. It’s impossible to know when he will next charge.

  “Well,” Ernst says finally, pushing a shoulder through the opening, forcing further entry. “Why don’t you join the rest of us, eh? Bernard has got the guitar out, Greta’s already started dancing. You could even have a drink or two, Esme will never know.”

  “Esme will know.” The words ring flat, deterring further response.

  It seems Ernst is oblivious to the hint. His brow drops, and the ghost notices how tiny his eyes are; deep-set and shining, like currants pressed in dough. Like a rat’s, he thinks, and instinctively moves closer to Agnes, who shivers, as though sensing his presence.

  “You cannot live like a little girl all the time. You are soon to be my wife, that means growing up, you know.”

  She nods, and each movement of the head is sadder than any gesture the ghost has ever seen. “I know that,” she says quietly.
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  “That means you giving me more than a kiss too.”

  “So you say.”

  Ernst glares, then sighs. The air seems to heat with every breath he takes, as he hogs the available air and boils it in his combustible lungs. The ghost recoils in loathing, wondering how such a creature can continue to exist unimpeded, when people like himself die young every day. This world isn’t fair, he thinks bitterly.

  “You will learn to like me. Your father would want it that way. Why can’t you be like the other girls?”

  The ghost is close enough to see the shimmer of a tear, hidden in the corner of Agnes’s eye. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I am sorry.”

  Don’t you dare apologise, the ghost thinks furiously. You owe him nothing, least of all that.

  Ernst studies her a while longer, then shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he mutters, fingers tightening around the fabric of the entrance. “Other women can do what you can’t.”

  And so he departs, with the cruel words dawdling in his absence, like stench on a still day.

  The ghost waits. It seems that the atmosphere has darkened, that time has rushed past them both, letting decay settle in without them noticing. He imagines them suddenly, him and her both, remaining still and silent, while the earth changes and dies. Why is it that we seem to have a sense of permanence, while everyone around us is so fleeting? he wonders, then questions why such a thought would come into his head. It is strange, unreal, like so much of his existence these days.

  She reaches to the candle and draws it nearer, hugging its base like an old friend. The ghost freezes, knowing what will happen next. It has been so long since they have conversed, he had started to worry that Agnes no longer valued their discussions, stilted and discordant as they so often are. His heart leaps at the prospect, of having someone to hear him, and acknowledge his existence. He waits, breath held, as her pupils engorge and unhitch themselves from the world around them. Her breathing deepens. The tent constricts, tightening around the two of them, warm as a lover’s embrace.