by Lucy Banks
Whichever it is, he will never have the chance to discover, as the woman rises, more swiftly than a person of her age and stature should be able to.
“Cursed creature,” she mutters.
That word, cursed. It rings through him, rendering him frozen and silent. Perhaps she meant herself, he thinks desperately. She cannot mean me. She does not know me. She may not even know I am here, it may all be a fancy of mine.
But she repeats it again, this time more loudly, with a twisted finger crooked in his direction.
“Servant of Satan, I sense you. Be gone.”
The ghost reels, not at the accusation, but the venom in which it was spoken. The darkness descends, the previous peace shattered with brutal, agonising force. He wants nothing more but to retreat, to push this woman from his memory, but he can’t. He must stay, must let the scene play out, if nothing more than to find out just how much she understands of him.
“I have no business with Satan,” he whispers, but can tell by her unchanging expression that she does not hear him. It would seem that she is only dimly aware of his presence, and that her actions are largely instinctive; an animal protecting itself against potential predators. If only she realised how harmless I truly am, he wishes, repelled by his own insufficiency. Even Satan wouldn’t take it upon himself to work with a lacklustre creature like me.
The old woman probes her loose collar and draws forth a simple cross on a chain. The ghost sighs, and realises that this is the way it will always be. Most will never even note his existence, and the occasional few who do will perceive him as a ghoul, to be expelled from the vicinity as swiftly as possible.
She is right, he thinks. I am cursed. I was cursed a long time ago, before I even died; I just didn’t know it.
A dull click startles them both. The woman lowers her cross and peers to the back of the church, to the plain door hiding in the shadows of the corner, which is now open.
Footsteps emerge into the church, firm and purposeful, before pausing.
“Good afternoon, is everything all right?” It’s an honest voice, firm and reassuring. The ghost glances back to see its owner; the priest, narrow-shouldered and earnest, his white collar the only interruption to the otherwise sombre black of his outfit.
The old lady slumps, the fight slipping from her like mud from a broken bucket. The ghost sighs and moves quickly away.
I need to be gone, he tells himself, with the word cursed still ringing through him. This is no place for me. He catches drifts of their conversation as he heads towards the door.
“I am well, Reverend.”
“Really, Mrs Thackston? This is the second time you’ve been in today, are you sure that—”
“—I am certain. I only come here for solace. I trust that’s not a problem?”
“No, no problem, of course not. Did I hear you speaking with someone, a few moments ago?”
The ghost pauses, halfway in the building, halfway out. He waits, as does the reverend.
Finally, the answer; slow and uncertain. “No. I wasn’t talking to anybody.”
“Mrs Thackston, that’s not the first time I’ve heard you muttering in here. It’s always the same worrisome words, about the devil. Would you like to pray with me, perhaps that might help?”
The ghost shakes his head and leaves the building; relief and bitterness jostling for place within him. So, she sees devilish creatures all the time, he realises, ignoring the bustle of people around him, the noise of horse hoofs and carts on the road. She is mad, and prone to seeing spirits around every corner. She didn’t sense me at all. Only the fictitious creations in her head.
Loneliness swells, harsh as a winter tide. The ghost lets it carry him, pushing him forward to goodness knows where, because he has no destination, no home to return to. This is life for him now, this terrible, pale existence, where he is unknown to everyone, and increasingly unfamiliar even to himself.
He drifts, for how long, he doesn’t know, winding through familiar streets that are made strange by his physical detachment. He passes old haunts; past pleasant theatres where he once enjoyed shows with his family, through well-trodden paths where he used to stroll with Eleanor. Every sight wounds him, every sound sirens a reminder of what he has lost. But agonising as these places are to behold, they are harmless in comparison to the sadness that rips through him. The pain is unbearable, yet he must bear it. He has no other choice.
Oh, Eleanor, he thinks, stopping his pacing, for just a moment. Arthur. Mother. Martha. Little George. How you all torture me.
Night comes and the streets adopt a different nature; less lively, more watchful. Now is the time for shadows and the people who operate in them, but also for the wilful, the wild, the lost souls seeking to sweep themselves away under the cover of darkness. Still the ghost wanders. Indeed, he dares not stop, because he doesn’t trust himself. He can only keep going, until some sort of solution presents itself.
The moon rises, gleams, then eventually falls, and still he paces, seeking oblivion in continual motion. Weak sunlight peeks over the tops of the surrounding buildings, like a nervous child. It settles on a poster, pasted haphazardly to a brick wall.
Captain Otto’s Circus of Wonders, he reads.
The ghost remembers that circus. It is contained within yet another memory; he and Eleanor, walking from stall to stall, watching the Strong Man bend a bar with his teeth. Arthur paying for him to get his fortune told, though he hadn’t asked for it.
The woman who’d turned over the Hanged Man card, he thinks, and stops for a moment, and wonders. Had she known? Might she be the one person who could sense his presence, who could actually speak to him?
And if so, could she help me get back to my wife?
He notes the current location of the circus. It is a desperate plan and he knows it will probably end in failure. For all he knows, the Fortune Teller may have left a long time ago, or even died. But it is worth trying, because there is now nothing else left for him to do.
She said a sacrifice would be made, he thinks, picking up his pace, a vague tendril of hope igniting his movement. And so it was. A far larger sacrifice than I’d ever imagined.
Let’s see what else she knows.
TWENTY-ONE
— 1878 —
ROSHERVILLE GARDENS, AS Arthur had told us, were charming. Eleanor and I had watched, enrapt, as Signor Gellini took to the tightrope, high above the crowds, his oiled torso shining in the firelight. Later in the evening, they had let off the fireworks, a profusion of sparkling showers and racing lights, which charged through the darkening sky. I had to confess, I spent much of the performance admiring my wife instead, and the way the illuminations set alight her tilted cheek each time a rocket soared upwards.
Her joy was palpable, an emotion so intense it seemed to colour the air around her, brighter than any firework. I don’t think I’d ever loved her as much as I did then, seeing her upturned chin, the smooth line of her neck, the gleam in her eyes.
She is beautiful, I thought, surveying the other men around us, and their partners. None gleamed with such light as Eleanor, who outshone them all. I pulled her closer, protective of my hard-won prize, proud of how I’d managed to secure her love.
After the fireworks had finished, we took a turn around the gardens. Some people were resting in deckchairs beneath a tree, although the sun had vanished some hours before. It made us laugh to see them, reclining lazily, faces open to the sky as though enjoying the heat. What a curious race we are, I thought, nodding at them all. And yet our idiosyncrasies are truly wonderful.
Of course, the evening stroll, delightful as it was, couldn’t last forever. The Princess Alice was due to set sail again in a few minutes, which brought about the natural close to our evening. I had to admit, Eleanor had been right about the trip. It had been a delightful time, and for a moment or two, I’d been able to put my worries aside and take simple pleasure in being with my wife, just as I used to do.<
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The boat loomed by the bank, bovine and squat in the water. It jarred with its surroundings, this mass of industry; all metal, paddles, and belching chimney. It was a hard-edged, man-made monstrosity, overshadowing the tranquillity of the natural surroundings.
Still, I clambered aboard, eager suddenly to return home. The river was ink-black between the slats of the gangplank. I kept my chin up and scrabbled to the safety of the deck.
“That was simply divine, wasn’t it?” Eleanor exclaimed, adjusting her hat. The muffled shouts of the men releasing the ropes that tethered the boat to the bank echoed behind her; a rough sound that contrasted with her gentle voice.
I wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “I really rather enjoyed it, you know.”
“I told you that you would.”
“You did.” Before she could reply, I pressed my lips quickly against hers. She stiffened, no doubt aware of the impropriety of the gesture, then relaxed against me.
It was a simple kiss, a mere meeting of the lips, yet something about the moment resonated within me. I will remember this moment as long as I live, I thought fervently, then, I hope I will, anyway.
“What brought that on?” she whispered, glancing around us.
I smiled. “The sight of you. That’s all. I’m so glad you had a lovely time, my dear.”
The bellow of the horn startled us both, not to mention the people around us. The last boatsman on dry land leapt aboard and pulled the gangplank away. A moment later, the paddles began to turn and the chimney resumed its relentless spew of smoke into the night sky. It was time to head home.
I longed for the warmth of our bed, for a chance to have Eleanor in her completeness, not tethered by corsets and endless fabrics. I wished for things that were not appropriate for a gentleman to yearn for, yet was unable to prevent myself from doing so. An image flitted unbidden in my mind; pulling the pins from Eleanor’s hair, letting the curls tumble upon her bare shoulders. Touching those curls with a hesitancy that verged on worshipful. Stroking that smooth, unblemished skin. All of it for my gaze alone, and no other man’s.
Eleanor’s veiled expression suggested that she knew my mind. She smiled, then looked away. I sensed she had some awareness of her power over me.
I am helpless before her, I realised, warmed by the notion.
In the semi-darkness, we could make out strange, lumpen shapes; the silhouettes of passing houses, bushy-branched trees, hedgerows, and even a horse chewing in the blackness, its long face pitched stoically over the fence. One could imagine, being out here at this time, how the ancient people were inspired to create their folklore. There was something magical yet menacing about the night-time landscape, as though all the secretive creatures had emerged at the sight of the moon, and were skulking the banks, watching us as we powered past.
It was an unusually fanciful thought for me, but then, on an evening like this, it was impossible not to be affected.
“Look,” Eleanor said, jolting me from my thoughts. “that’s a large ship. It looks almost too large to squeeze along the river, don’t you think?”
I followed her line of sight. She was right, there was a behemoth of a boat coming the other way, no doubt laden with timber or coal, and off to some far-flung place. We often witnessed ships such as these when we took our walks along the riverside, but somehow, from our position on the boat, it seemed much larger than usual; a hulking mass with a sharp, snout-like stern.
A stray curl had escaped from under her hat and was bouncing merrily in the breeze. I tucked it gently back, then touched her cheek with the back of my hand. “I’d rather take in the view in front of me,” I whispered, “than watch an oversized ship plough along the Thames.”
“It’s producing a wretched smell too,” Eleanor said, her gaze still fixed on the boat. “Do you think that’s the engine?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m no expert on these matters.”
She shivered, an involuntary action in the chilling air.
I gestured to the saloon. “Shall we go inside?” In truth, I’d have rather remained outside, but I knew that, as a member of the fairer sex, her constitution was weaker than mine. Through the windows, I could see people milling around within, deep in conversation.
Eleanor shook her head. “No, I think I’d much rather stay out here.”
“By the way,” I added, pointing to the river below, “I think that might explain the smell. Look at the state of the water, isn’t it dreadful?”
We both gazed over the edge. The Thames was clogged with sewage, its scent ripe and acrid. The surface of the water gleamed like oil with the effluence.
“That’s ghastly.” She shook her head. “You’d think they’d find a better way of disposing of such things, wouldn’t you? Think of the poor fish in there.”
“I suspect there aren’t many fish in this part of the river.”
“I say,” Eleanor said suddenly, head snapping up like a cat awoken from a nap. “That other boat is right in our path, look.”
I glanced up. She was right; the large ship was making a course directly for us. I frowned. Presumably the captains both knew the ways of the river, but it seemed needlessly reckless to veer towards one another in such a manner.
“I’m sure it will be quite safe,” I said reassuringly, sensing the tension in Eleanor’s posture. The irony made me chuckle, that she should be the nervous one now, and not I. “There you go, I think it’s steering to the right now, see?”
We both watched. The boat was steering to the side, but didn’t seem to be moving quickly enough. Behind us, an unearthly green lantern began to shine, no doubt lit to ensure the vessel was aware of our location.
“I’m sure the situation is under control,” I muttered. The sight was disconcerting, though I refused to let myself worry about it. The men steering these boats were undoubtedly of good repute, who encountered other vessels on the river on a regular basis. Presumably this was some form of common nautical practice, nothing more.
A cynical chuckle startled me, from somewhere behind me. “Lord, it looks like it’s coming straight for us, don’t it?” For a dreadful moment, I thought the voice belonged to Elizabeth Stride, who surely must have boarded the boat for the return journey. But turning, I saw that it belonged to a much older, shorter woman, who was clutching the railings and staring wide-eyed at the water beyond.
I gave her my most appeasing smile. “I’m sure everything will be perfectly—”
But my remaining words were cut off, interrupted by the sudden shouting of the boatsman, standing on the crew deck above the saloon. I didn’t like the sound one bit. His bellow was raw, unrehearsed, and full of panic.
The crowd around us began to murmur; a growing sound of apprehension and concern, before a single voice cried out, shrill and wild. “We’re going to crash into it!” Instantly, pandemonium broke out, like a river breaking its dam. Passengers pressed against us, momentarily sending me off-balance, and I grasped the railing, hastily reaching for Eleanor.
“What’s going on?” she gasped, staring at the chaos around us. “Do you really think we’re going to collide?”
I didn’t know what to say, only held her tightly and watched as the boat continued to glide inexorably towards us. Its grinding, roaring noise ceased, and I realised they had cut the motor in an attempt to slow the speed.
My God, I thought, unable to comprehend the manner in which the evening had turned. It was unthinkable, unimaginable, that we should have a collision. Things like this simply did not happen, not least to people such as ourselves.
What will happen if it hits us? Would it merely graze the side of the Princess Alice, or tear it apart like a knife through butter? Then another thought occurred to me, a darker, more dreadful thought that, once lodged in my mind, was impossible to shift.
I cannot swim. If we end up in those waters, I will not be able to swim to safety. And I won’t be able to help Eleanor.
> I swallowed hard, my collar uncomfortably tight against my Adam’s apple. It will not come to that, I thought, pulling my wife closer. The other boat will miss us, I am certain of it.
But a minute later, I knew my assertion was wrong. Impact was inevitable, evident from the harsh line of the ship’s prow, now bearing directly towards the side of our boat. Though it had cut its engine, the speed at which it progressed was still terrifyingly fast. From somewhere in the midst of the panicking crowd, a lady screamed; an unearthly noise that tore through my nerves. And as though a gate to hell had been opened, the rest of the passengers soon followed; a cacophony of shouting, wailing, some rattling at the saloon doors in an attempt to get in, or perhaps let people out, I couldn’t tell which.
Eleanor moaned, a low, animal noise that frightened me more than any of the screaming. “I won’t let anything happen to you,” I whispered in her ear. “I promise you, my love; whatever happens next, you will be fine.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but her answer was lost as the ship finally reached us, slamming into the boat with inexorable force. In a single moment, the entire deck tilted, wrenched upwards by the impact, and we tumbled with the rest of them, our backs crushed against the railings. To my horror, the boat continued to rise, as the larger ship bit deeper and deeper into the deck, splintering wood, causing metal to shriek in protest. A young woman screeched, lost her footing, then tumbled over me, before disappearing into the darkness below. It took me a moment to realise that she’d fallen into the water, and that the muffled, pitiful cries coming from the darkness were hers.
In the chaos, I saw Eleanor’s face, eyes wide with panic. Still, she gripped on to me, much to my relief, and I clasped her tightly, fighting to keep us from toppling over the edge. The larger vessel was now halfway through the deck, and I saw one of their crew, in a moment of peculiar clarity, throwing ropes towards us, shouting something that I could not discern over the noise.
It will be all right, I thought, amongst the sea of terror, the people thrown overboard, the relentless grinding of metal on metal. We will be safe, I am sure.
