by Lucy Banks
Eleanor screamed. She tumbled backwards, perhaps pushed by the press of so many other bodies, perhaps not. I reached for her, and in those last, desperate moments, I thought I had ahold of her, her forearm within my fingers, before my feet slipped from beneath me.
And then we fell together, Eleanor and I. The world flipped, cascaded and dropped before my eyes, then came the inevitable slap of the river, forceful as a rifle-shot. Water bubbled at my ears like chattering, gobbling birds, then all was darkness; cold, dreadful darkness, as I sank further and further. My fingers slipped from Eleanor’s and I scrabbled them back again, desperate to find her amongst the black.
Somehow, I managed to break the surface. Although I’d taken care not to inhale under the water, my chest was on fire, my breath ragged with the shock. To my relief, Eleanor was beside me, curls smeared across her forehead. Her hat bobbed a little distance away, an incongruous flash of colour, mocking us with its frivolity.
I cannot swim, I remembered.
At the realisation, I felt myself start to sink. No matter how hard I kicked my legs, I couldn’t keep my head above the water, and down I went, up, then down, then up again; a helpless cork bobbing in the water.
“You need to use your arms!” Eleanor screamed, then choked as a wave of fetid water hit her in the face. “Paddle with your hands!”
I tried, but the turbulent waters made it near impossible. We drifted closer to the Princess Alice, which was now impossibly high above us, as though soaring from the water, ready to take flight. Because it is. Even greater panic hit me. She’s rising, because she’s about to capsize entirely.
I tugged at Eleanor’s hand, then went under again, losing myself in the rank murk of the river. Confusion became my only sense of being, as my world tossed and spilled. Swirling water bruised my ears, filth flew past my eyes, and all of it filled my mouth.
Don’t breathe, I told myself furiously. But the desire, as any man knows, is always going to win in the end. I inhaled, just a little, and water burned through my throat.
Is this what it’s like? I wondered, still fighting, despite my growing hopelessness. Is this what it means to die?
I closed my eyes and waited. Then sound erupted around me, a hellish burst of crying, splashing, and desperate screams.
“Stay afloat! Don’t go under again!”
I bobbed under, then back up. Noise, no noise, then noise again. It disorientated me more than the cold, making my reactions slow and stupid. All the while, the boat rose higher, towering above us both. I stayed afloat for a minute or two, though how, I wasn’t quite sure. My chest was livid with needle-pain and I could scarcely breathe, but I was alive, for now. Eleanor’s face was only inches from mine, smeared with filth, her hair fanning the water around her.
“Did you hear me?” she screamed, spitting out water. “Keep kicking! You must keep kicking and paddling, don’t let yourself sink!”
I clutched to her, helpless as a baby, knowing that in this terrain, she was the strong one, not I, although her swimming wasn’t proficient. A few feet away, an elderly woman cried out, held a hand to the air, then went under. She did not emerge again.
This is about surviving, I told myself, trying to ignore the agony in my chest. It felt as though a torch had been lit within, burning me from the inside out. That is all we must focus on. Surviving. Nothing else matters now.
The river roared behind us, and the boat finally flipped, its underbelly naked to the sky, streaming rivulets of water. Then, without warning, it fell to the other side with an unearthly crash. The Thames heaved and surged, resisting this unwieldy object, and battering us, its passengers, with vengeful force. Eleanor and I were swept further up the river, along with the multitudes of others struggling to stay above water.
“They’re throwing ropes!” A man hollered, from somewhere in the distance. But no matter how hard I strained my eyes, I couldn’t see a single helping hand. Our landscape had become a scene from a nightmare; a sea of desperation and dying.
I saw a woman, her bonnet still clinging to her head, paddling urgently for the banks, and realised at once who it was. Elizabeth Stride. Her strokes were powerful, confident and sliced through the water with ease. Anger swelled within me, that she should somehow survive this terrible ordeal, and we should not. To my satisfaction, a man beside her, struggling to stay above water, lashed out a foot and caught her in the mouth.
When did I become such a mean-minded spirit? I chastised myself, watching as she went under. To my relief, she emerged only a second later, clutching at her jaw.
“We need to reach the bank!” Eleanor shouted, grasping my hand more tightly. “Do you think you could kick your arms and legs, if I led the way?”
In truth, I wasn’t sure. Already, my limbs were aching with exertion, and no matter how hard I increased the intensity of my thrashing, I still found myself continually bobbing under the surface. Without her hand to raise me back up, I knew that I would have undoubtedly sunk much earlier on.
A sense of hopelessness washed over me. “I do not think so,” I gasped back.
“But we must try!” She looked at the underside of the Princess Alice, which protruded from the water like a monstrous belly. “It is too cold, I cannot keep us both afloat for much longer!”
“Someone will help us, surely!” I said, then choked as my head went under again. More water roared into my mouth and I retched, bile and foulness pouring over my chin.
“They won’t, we’re too far away. We must do something!”
The next moment only lasted a second or so, but it seemed to stretch for an eternity. Her wet face shone in the dim moonlight, and it was as though I was seeing her for the first time; not the friendly, joyful creature I’d married, but the real her, full of beauty and resilience.
You will survive, I thought. Because I knew it to be true. I knew.
Because a sacrifice will be made.
As though answering my thoughts, the tossing waters of the Thames closed over me again, sealing me up in the dark. And what darkness it was. Blacker than any winter night, bleaker than any tomb. But this was how it had to be. For the first time since falling into murky water, I could see clearly, as though the script had been written centuries ago, with the only thing remaining being my part in the performance. This time, instead of clutching her tightly, I released her.
I let Eleanor go.
Her hand slipped from mine, as easily as a child’s, and she was gone.
TWENTY-TWO
— 1878 —
LITTLE GEORGIE IS aware of him, the ghost is convinced of it.
For close to an hour, he has drifted closer to the crib, then retreated. In and out, as soft as the tide. And all the while, Georgie gurgles, hands outstretched, eyes focusing as the ghost hovers above him.
“You see me, little one,” he whispers.
Georgie chuckles in response, a fulsome, throaty sound that reminds the ghost painfully of Arthur, even of his father, when they were all young lads. The family laugh, he thinks ruefully, and wonders if his had sounded the same, when he’d been alive.
This baby fascinates him. Such bright, flickering eyes, surveying every inch of the nursery, reluctant to miss a single moment. The room seems apt for him, somehow; with its rich cornicing, velvet drapes and thick, welcoming rug. Like a little prince’s room, almost. He is destined for great things, the ghost thinks, and reaches down to touch him.
Of course, he feels nothing, only the dull sense of his fingers slipping through something, in another place and time. Georgie, on the other hand, seems to relish the feeling, clawing his hand up quickly, keen to grasp the ghost if he can.
I’m afraid that’s impossible, the ghost thinks, and moves sadly away.
The reality of death still torments him, even after several months, or over a year now, perhaps. He cannot tolerate the futility of it, the sense that he is nothing of any consequence, and that every moment spent floating aimlessly from room
to room is another moment wasted.
And of course, being here is torment too, though where else can he go? He knows no one else and has no other place to wander to. So, he must remain. Each day, hope ignites, that they might notice him, or even briefly feel his presence. And every evening, it is snuffed out as unceremoniously as a candle.
Still, they talk of him occasionally. Stilted, laboured conversations, where the silences seem frequently richer and more meaningful than the words that are spoken aloud. So much is left unsaid, so many sentiments remain hanging. He longs for them to speak them aloud, but they never do. He is starting to think that they never will.
Georgie cries out, just once. His gaze is still fixed on the ghost, chin tucked tightly against his pudgy chest, peering down the length of his helpless, kicking body. The ghost considers returning, continuing their endless game of back and forth, but there seems little point. Besides, the child needs his sleep. Babies must have rest, he reminds himself sternly, as though this is a fact that should concern him.
Arthur’s house is grand, even in the dark. The ghost slips through the nursery door, along the hallway, with its rows of watchful portraits. The rug is luxuriant, Persian, and he wishes he could sink his toes into it, just once. He would give anything to feel something again, even if it was as mundane as a piece of material against his feet.
The door to the master bedroom, at the front of the house, is far more grandiose; a set of double-doors in fact, each with its own shining doorknob. The ghost pauses, the lingering mists of his fingers hovering above the wooden surface.
It is tempting to enter.
Don’t do it, he tells himself. Don’t cause yourself more needless pain.
A noise downstairs makes him pull his hand away sharply; a sharp clatter, something metal striking the floor perhaps. He hadn’t realised anyone else was awake with him, aside from little Georgie of course.
The staircase sweeps to the entrance hall, and the ghost sweeps along with it, letting himself drift downwards like a falling feather. He immediately identifies the location of the noise, as the door to the study is ajar, and a soft light casts a long strip of amber across the floorboards.
Arthur is in there. He knows this before he enters. After all, who else would be? No one else has the key, and besides, it has been firmly identified as his space, and his alone. His inner sanctum, he’s referred to it before, to Mother, to Martha. To him too, he believes, a long time ago. Arthur’s inner sanctum. Whatever is he doing in there? the ghost wonders, curious. The face of the grandfather clock shows that it’s already past midnight.
Arthur is at his desk, much as the ghost anticipated. The oil lamp lights his cheeks, catching the sheen of sweat. An empty whiskey glass rests beside him, and a half-empty bottle. Judging by his glazed expression, he’s already drunk a considerable amount.
The ghost glances at the paperwork without much interest. The numbers are mostly gibberish to him, complicated columns filled with sums; something to do with work, it would seem. Arthur himself doesn’t seem to be reading them either, though keeps tapping at the documents with his pen. His thumb is covered in ink, as are his first two fingers, but Arthur seems oblivious.
They make his hand seem diseased, the ghost thinks with fascination. This is not the Arthur I remember.
Of course it isn’t. The Arthur he recollects is someone different, almost a fictitious character. This individual here; this pallid, vacant mess of a man, this is the real Arthur.
You are more like Fred than I’d realised, the ghost thinks bitterly.
Arthur coughs, raises his hand to his mouth, then groans quietly. He pours another drink. The ghost watches, motionless in the corner, as his brother tips it cleanly down his throat, then places the glass carefully back down again.
Why are you anaesthetising yourself with whiskey? the ghost wonders, watching with interest. After all, Arthur has everything he wants. He has made sure of it.
A muffled cry echoes from somewhere upstairs, muted by the sheer excess of space in the house. Georgie. Georgie is calling out for me to return, the ghost thinks irrationally. At least somebody wants me. Silence resumes, then the baby’s cries start in earnest, first hesitant, as though testing out the sound in the darkness, then louder, more insistent.
Arthur groans, buries his head in his hands, then mutters, “I cannot give you any more of myself.”
“Whatever do you mean by that?” the ghost replies, though he knows his brother cannot hear him. It is often like this; him responding to Arthur, quite without the other being aware. It is a way to pass the time, and it gives him some sense of belonging.
It had sometimes been the same when they’d been children, ironically; when the ghost had lain awake, scared of the shadows, and whispered to Arthur in the darkness, despite knowing he was fast asleep. I always trusted him more than Fred, he thinks, even back then. If only I’d known.
Georgie’s screams increase in volume. The ghost can imagine his face only too well, the reddening rage at the knowledge that no one is coming. He’s seen it before, and respects the baby’s anger, his decision to choose vitriol rather than sadness. It’s far wiser to fight against the world than to miserably accept it, he thinks. I should know.
Finally, Arthur rises and drops the pen to the desk, ignoring the splash of ink on impact. He teeters, staggers, grabs the back of his chair for support. The ghost can tell it will take a few seconds for him to find himself again, to stop the room from swaying this way and that, like a boat at sea.
“Why can that woman not hire some help, like I told her to?” he mumbles, to no one in particular, before advancing to the door. “Why must it be I who has to deal with this?”
The ghost frowns, irritated by the self-piteous tone to his brother’s voice. “Go to your baby, you drunken fool,” he murmurs.
Arthur departs, still muttering under his breath. The ghost can almost convince himself that it was a gesture of obedience. Slowly, he follows, curious to see what his younger brother will do. One thing is certain, Arthur’s no natural with children. It’s surprising, given his affable, enthusiastic nature. The ghost would have wagered good money that he would make an excellent father.
Maybe it’s the manner of the child’s conception, he thinks bitterly. The guilt must weigh on him dreadfully. The snake.
Arthur is in no hurry to reach Georgie, though it’s possible the alcohol coursing through his system is slowing him down. The ghost finds it difficult to keep composure, watching him stagger this way and that, all the while fumbling for the bannister, using it to anchor himself to an upward trajectory. His footsteps are surprisingly silent, though. It seems Arthur is well practiced at moving quietly through his own home, regardless of how many tumblers of whiskey he’s consumed.
The upper hallway is darker than before. The moon has stealthily edged behind a cloud, and the delicate glow that previously lit the rug is now gone. An unseen body rustles in the master bedroom, before settling again.
A deep sleeper indeed, the ghost thinks wryly. Like the dead. She should attend to her baby instead of lying in there, all alone.
Georgie’s howls have softened to the occasional whimper; either because he’s aware of their approach, or has given up hope of anyone coming. Arthur hovers outside the door, hand poised against the wood, frowning.
“You should let me go to see him instead,” the ghost says aloud. “I sense that his uncle might have better luck than his father.”
It’s a cynical, brutal comment, and one he regrets, even though no one can hear him. He knows he should be more gracious. He understands that his brother, that all of them must move on with their lives. And he appreciates that he is dead, and that there is nothing that can be done about it.
But still, it stings. Every moment that he exists, it stings.
“The little fellow’s asleep,” Arthur whispers. For a breathless moment, the ghost believes he’s addressing him.
The soft whining fro
m within contradicts the comment, but the ghost can tell by his brother’s expression that Arthur wants to believe it. He needs Georgie to be asleep, because he is unable to cope with a crying child at present, so that is the version of events that he will select. The one that works in his favour.
“You were never this selfish when I was alive,” the ghost mutters, and brushes through his brother’s body, right through the door. He fancies that Arthur shivers a little as he passes, though it could just be the chill of the night.
Georgie’s room is warmer, cosier than the austere corridor outside. The cot is jerking slightly with the force of the baby’s kicking, the blankets in a tangled heap at the bottom. The ghost smiles.
“You’re not asleep at all, are you?” he coos, and the baby looks at him, alive with interest.
He can see Arthur in Georgie’s face, or at least, he thinks he can, though Arthur is fairer than this child here. Perhaps he takes after his uncle instead, he thinks, remembering Fred’s swarthy colouring, or indeed his own dark brown hair, as it had been in life. It is perhaps a shame that the baby didn’t inherit Arthur’s blonde locks. He was always fussed over as an infant, thanks to his rosy cheeks and curly, buttery hair.
“Still, I think dark rather suits you,” the ghost whispers, then regrets it. The sentiment sounds far more ominous than he’d intended it to. Despite everything that he’s discovered since his death, he wishes the child no harm. He is an innocent, and furthermore, he’s part of his family, for better or for worse.
And nothing matters more than family, he thinks sadly, smiling as the baby reaches a hand towards him, desperate to grasp at him.
He remains with the child for a while, an hour, or perhaps two. Georgie seems reluctant to settle, thrashing out suddenly every time his eyelids droop, and whimpering again if the ghost attempts to move away. It is touching that Georgie is so comforted by his presence, but exhausting too. Such neediness, it’s beyond the ghost’s ability to respond to it. He cannot be relied upon, because he is unable to rely on himself.
