The Hanged Man and the Fortune Teller

by Lucy Banks

  “Are you there?” Her whisper is nervous, yet desperate. She needs me as much as I need her, he realises, both thrilled and weighted by the responsibility.

  “I am.” He hears his voice as she must do; thin, distant, fuzzy. They stand together, yet life forms a chasm between them, forcing them apart.

  A hint of a smile touches her face, though there is no happiness in it.

  “I wanted to see if you were still with me.”

  “Of course,” he replies, hoping she can hear the fondness in his words. “I won’t leave, not if you need me.”

  “You’re a kind person,” she mutters. “Or were, perhaps I should say?”

  He chuckles. “I hope I still am.”

  “I sometimes think you are the only person I can talk to.”

  “What about your husband-to-be?”

  “Stop it. You know what he’s like.”

  “Why are you marrying him?” He cannot understand why Agnes doesn’t leave; anything other than stay here, letting her life fall into tatters.

  “I have to, I’ve told you before. It’s not the same for us circus folk as it is for others.” Agnes draws a deep breath, leaning forward on her elbows, eyes still glued to the tall flame. “Are you still looking for your wife? Or have you finally decided to let it go?”

  The bite in her voice is unmistakable; the snap of a wounded animal protecting itself. “I can’t let it go,” he replies.

  “But after what you’ve told me…”

  “I need to find her and I wish you would help me.”

  “But I can’t. I read tarot cards, but they only work if you touch them. You’re dead, so—”

  “—I know that. But there are other ways.”

  She lifts her head, eyes still fixed on the steady flame of the candle. “It’s not healthy for you to be like this, you know.”

  He doesn’t want to discuss this, even though the yearning within him is as strong as ever. He has a thought, a vague, dislocated notion that it would not be good for him to think more about his wife at present, that dwelling upon her would bring about sadness. Why is that? He wonders, frustrated by the meagreness of his memory. It’s her that I long for the most, yet I’m terrified of finding her. What am I frightened of?

  “What are you going to do?” he asks instead, diverting his thoughts from subjects that discomfort him.

  To his distress, she starts to cry. Not silent tears, but full, weighty sobs, which ripple through her shoulders like turbulent waves. He’s never seen her like this before, so raw, so exposed. It is flattering and disquieting in equal measures, that she should trust him like this, but also rely on him so heavily.

  “I’m sorry,” he says impotently. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

  At last, a vague smile twitches her lips. “Don’t you see? You’re the only person that doesn’t make me sad. I wish…”

  “Yes?”

  “I wish things were different.”

  But they can’t be, he finishes for her. He was born several decades before and died when she was just a girl. Everything separates them, societal expectations, conventions, time itself. There is no escaping the futility of it all.

  “You need to leave him,” he blurts suddenly, surprised at himself.

  “Who, Ernst?” The pupils widen a fraction. The candle sputters briefly, a reaction to her intake of breath.

  “Yes. He is no good for you.” There, I’ve said it, he thinks, feeling both exhilarated and concerned that he’s overstepped the mark.

  Agnes chuckles. “I know he’s no good for me. But in the circus, you obey your parents, your family. And Ernst has been chosen for me.”

  “He’s a brute.” The ghost finds that the words tumble out, quite of their own volition, like water spurting from a broken dam. So long he’s harboured these thoughts, it is a relief to finally give them voice. “He’s not a good person. You deserve more. Why don’t you escape from it?”

  That tantalising word, escape, it fills the small space like an ever-expanding bubble, and he can see her mulling it over, envisaging the results of taking such a step.

  “How could I escape?” she mutters bleakly. “There’s no way out for people like me. What other life could I possibly build for myself?”

  He shakes his head and wishes he could shake her, make her see how much possibility there is in the world, when you have two living lungs to breathe with, and a heart that still beats, and still cares. “You can leave all this,” he says firmly, knowing that if he’s ever going to persuade her, now is the time to do so. “You can be free.”

  Agnes’s eyes soften. “Now there’s an idea. Would I be with you? Would you stay with me?”

  Again, that burden of responsibility, combined with the excitement that someone needs him, after all this time. Someone he cares for, with whom he likes spending time. It is intoxicating. “Yes,” he says softly, “I would be with you.”

  “Do you promise?”

  “I do.”

  She nods, satisfied, and turns from the candle. At once, the communication is gone, the line severed. He retreats to the shadows, hoping that he’s said enough to make the difference, because she is worth more, more than all the others put together, and if anyone deserves to be happy, apart from his Eleanor, it is her.

  After a while, she stands, pats down her skirt, and returns to her caravan, where Aunt Esme lies snoring in the darkness. The ghost waits by the step, watching the slow passage of the moon as it presses through the night sky. I have done something good today, he thinks. I have eased Agnes’s pain, and that makes my existence more worthwhile.

  The night passes. Stars glare fiercely then sigh into dimness, silenced by the oncoming sun. The ghost takes it all in, wondering why he never appreciated such beauty whilst he was living. The senses are wasted on those who have life, and only death brings true wonderment at the world. Somewhere in the distance, a cockerel crows, hoarse and broken in the dawn light. He wonders if it is still the same farmer who owns it, over by the inn on the outskirts of the village.

  From within the caravan, a body finally stirs. Feet settle on the floorboards, and a creak announces the awakening of a previously sleeping person. Aunt Esme, he guesses, turning instinctively to the door. He hears a murmur, the low groan, presumably grimacing at the stretching of ageing muscles.

  Then, a gasp. A breathless shriek. Silence, hasty and rushed as a stab wound.

  The ghost feels dread, tomb-dark, blossoming within him, though doesn’t know why. He rises, alert. Then the scream comes, as he feared it would, a terrible, hollow sound that rents a passage through the peaceful morning air, followed by a low howl, bovine and bereft.

  He knows what has happened. He knows.

  “Agnes,” he whispers, and rests the memory of his fingers against the cool wood, wishing he could draw strength from the solidity of the surface. “No, I didn’t mean for you to do that, I didn’t.”

  He ventures inside, though every part of him rails against it. He doesn’t want to see, he would give anything not to witness this. But he needs to know.

  Within the dim interior, he spies Aunt Esme, collapsed on the floor, still screaming into her shapeless nightdress. Then, hanging over the top bunk, he sees the hand, outstretched, blood congealed across the wrist. That is all; a single hand, but such a sorry sight, along with the puddle of blood beneath it.

  My fault, he thinks blindly, retreating instinctively from Esme’s ferocious unburdening, and the sight of that lifeless arm. I told Agnes to leave all this. But I didn’t mean in this way.

  “What have I done?” he wails, knowing that his misery will be heard by nobody but him.

  A spectral hand passes before him, then rests gently on the mists of his forearm. He looks down, knowing immediately who it is, but too ashamed to meet her gaze.

  “You can look at me.”

  “I can’t,” he whispers back, filled with horror at the sight that awaits him.

&
nbsp; “It will be all right.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Because I am with you now,” Agnes’s ghost whispers.

  SEVENTEEN

  — 1878 —

  IT WAS A fine evening, the sky still pleasingly light, especially after the otherworldly darkness of the theatre. I offered Eleanor my jacket, though there wasn’t much need; the air was still balmy, with only the hint of a summer breeze.

  Martha scampered past me with a shove that was bordering on impertinent, and seized Eleanor’s arm. “What did you think of it, then?”

  “What, the performance?”

  “Of course the performance, silly! I just loved Josephine and Ralph, didn’t you?”

  Arthur trotted to catch up, with Mother following closely behind. “Martha, I knew it!”

  “Knew what?” She stared at her brother, perplexed and irritated in equal measures.

  “That you’re growing up to be a romantic,” Arthur replied, eyes twinkling. “Did you think the man playing Ralph Rackstraw was dashing?”

  “Of course I didn’t, what a ridiculous thing to say!”

  “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

  I chuckled at the sight of Martha’s face, reddening by the second. She was far too easy to tease, always had been, even as a toddler. Poor her, I thought, giving her shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. It must have been challenging, growing up with three older brothers.

  “What did you think of it, Mother?” I asked, falling back to keep her company. Her hip was aching, I could tell by the slight limping of her left foot.

  She smiled, sidling her arm through mine. “I wasn’t sure I’d like it at first, I’d heard HMS Pinafore was rather bawdy, but actually…”

  “…You enjoyed it?”

  She laughed. “I did. It was a splendid idea, we’ve all had such a pleasant evening, though I do wish Fred could have joined us. My only concern is at you paying for it all, my love. Are you sure the expense wasn’t too—”

  I held up a hand, stopping her mid-sentence. It was as much to prevent myself from having to think about our financial situation as anything else. “Don’t worry about any of that,” I replied, with as much sincerity as I could muster. “It was my pleasure.”

  “Can we go to the theatre more often, Mother?” Martha raced back, skirt billowing around her. “Every month or so?’

  “Absolutely not, you silly girl.”

  Arthur grasped Martha by the arm and spun her around, oblivious to the disapproving looks of the crowds milling around them. “I shall take you, little sister,” he announced, before whirling her to a halt. “Because I am a truly marvellous brother, am I not?”

  Eleanor stifled a giggle behind her glove. “Arthur, you are funny.”

  Passing Mother over to Arthur’s waiting arm, I caught up with my wife, and placed a hand around her waist. “Well, the HMS Pinafore was hardly Shakespeare, was it?” I whispered, giving her a wink.

  She gave me a look that I couldn’t decipher. “Not everything has to be highbrow, you know.”

  That wasn’t what I’d meant, but I wasn’t sure how to explain. It seemed that Eleanor had been especially brittle towards me as of late; keen to misinterpret my words, no matter how kindly they were meant. I wondered if perhaps she might be with child once more, and the exertion required had tested her nerves. Mother had explained to me, in delicate terms, that this was what happened, when women fell pregnant. However, Eleanor had said nothing to me on the matter, and I felt it imprudent to ask, in case the question caused her suffering.

  “Why don’t we take a stroll through Westminster?” I suggested, gesturing to the street before us. “Arthur can take Mother and Martha home. It might be nice to take in the evening air, just the two of us.”

  She softened immediately. “That’s a wonderful idea. We could walk to Oxford Street and have a look in the shop windows.”

  It wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind, but if it made her happy, then so be it. I nodded, then conveyed our plans to the others. Martha’s face immediately fell. I could tell by her expression that she was hoping for an invitation to join us, but the prospect of her exuberant chatter whilst I tried to converse with my wife wasn’t terribly appealing. I appeased her as best as possible, then left it to Mother to take over. Mother always knew what to say to make things better, thank goodness.

  We bid them farewell, waiting as they disappeared into the crowds in the opposite direction.

  I patted Eleanor’s arm affectionately. “Are you happy to walk? It’s some distance, you know.”

  “Nonsense, it’s no distance at all, a brisk twenty-minute walk, if that.”

  I felt sure she was incorrect, but chose to let it pass. It wasn’t worth bickering over, not on a calm, warm night like this. “Did you know the late Dickens used to live around here?” I said, gesturing to the elegant buildings that surrounded us.

  “Did he really?” Eleanor looked up, smiling. “He wrote about the poor so much, I presumed he lived in a less well-to-do neighbourhood, like ours.”

  “Ours isn’t that bad,” I protested, guiding her across the road. A hansom cab swerved to avoid us, wheels clattering against the pavement. I ignored the expletives and fist-shaking that ensued from the driver, wishing that the good people of London weren’t always quite so eager to lose their temper over such trivial matters.

  “Oh, come now,” she continued, stepping neatly in time with me. “If we were better positioned in life, we’d live somewhere like your brother, wouldn’t we?”

  “I quite like our little home.”

  Eleanor sighed. “So do I,” she said softly, pressing her head briefly against my shoulder. “But we won’t be living there forever, will we?

  I didn’t quite know what to say. I’d imagined that we’d reside there quite happily for several years, and her reluctance was unsettling, leaving me feeling somewhat anchorless. Anxiety gnawed inside my stomach, panic that I wasn’t living up to her expectations, fear that she might consider that she’d selected the wrong brother, that she should have stuck with Fred after all.

  “Darling,” she said gently, waiting for me to meet her eyes. “Why the long face? This is meant to be a lovely evening out, let’s enjoy it properly, shall we?”

  I nodded, then stepped aside for another couple to pass us. To the rest of the world, we were a well-heeled pair; she with a grand velvet hat and full-skirted, well-tailored dress, I with my smart suit and cravat, which she’d recently purchased for me from Liberty. So why was it that I felt a failure; a charlatan, dressed in attire that didn’t reflect my true nature?

  We walked in silence, each deep in our own private thoughts. After a while, Eleanor laughed nervously. “I think you were right.”

  “About what?”

  “About it taking longer than twenty minutes.” Her giggle was infectious. I couldn’t help noticing that as she laughed, she held a hand over her stomach, just as she had done before, when there had been a baby there, growing within her. My hopes soared, though I knew it was unwise to let them.

  “You weren’t that wrong,” I replied gallantly. “Perhaps only by quarter of an hour or so.” I paused, then raised my eyebrows. “Or maybe half an hour.”

  A playful slap on the elbow was the reward for my comment. The sun eased gently behind the buildings next to us, forming a hazy halo that cast long shadows across the street. I felt happier than I had done in weeks. Months, perhaps. What more could a man want? Here I was, with a beautiful wife, a steady job, a comfortable home; admittedly not as grand as desired, but still, what else did one need in life?

  “You seem deep in thought,” Eleanor said eventually.

  “Deep in happiness,” I replied. “I am a lucky man.”

  We reached Oxford Street just as the sun had finally set. The sky was a myriad of colours; rich navy, spreading to a peaceful blue, with pink clouds settling in the distance. Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, I thought i
nstinctively. Father had always said that, believing it to be an unshakeable truth, no matter how many times the weather proved to the contrary. It had been a red sky in the morning on the day he’d died. Arthur and I had been present. Fred had refused, unsurprisingly. Strange, how such a detail should remain with me, though in all honesty, I didn’t dwell on his death much, nor any person’s death, for that matter.

  “Look at this display,” Eleanor said, pointing at the nearest store. “What fine fabric, don’t you think?”

  “I suppose so.” It looked much like any other velveteen material I’d ever seen, though admittedly, the waning light cast a soothing gleam across it. “Why, are you considering it for—”

  My attention was suddenly diverted by a commotion, further down the road. Someone cursed, a raucous, shrill voice that jarred with the surroundings. Squinting, I immediately identified the source of the disturbance, a man angrily gesturing at a single woman, his wife nervously hanging on to his arm. Likewise, Eleanor’s grip upon me tightened.

  “I say, what’s going on down there?”

  “Some sort of argument, perhaps?” Eleanor peered down the street, jaw clenched. “Whoever it is, she looks rather out of place. That bonnet is at least three seasons old.”

  “Hang on a moment.” I narrowed my eyes, focusing on the woman as she marched urgently towards us. “That lady, she looks an awful lot like—”

  “Goodness, it can’t be, can it?”

  But it was. Elizabeth Stride, unchanged from the last time we’d seen her, chin still as defiantly set as ever. Eleanor hadn’t been wrong about her attire; her skirts were faded and rough with washing, her bonnet crooked on her head.

  She met my eye, and to my horror, stopped before us, brow lowered in a manner that was positively simian.

  “Were you looking for me?”

  “Excuse me?” I stuttered, thrown by the strangeness of her question. I’d forgotten how heavy her accent was, glottal and rolling, the English vowels weighting her tongue like ball bearings.