Razorhurst (19 page)

Back in those days, the crème de la crème of the city’s society would barely admit to knowing the name of someone like Gloriana Nelson. To make such an admission would be to acknowledge reading a low rag such as
Truth
, which they would never. Nor would they read the unsavoury parts of the much more refined
Herald
.

Yet many of the city’s best people went to the nightclubs owned by either Glory or Mr. Davidson, and all too many of their menfolk made their entrance with Dymphna Campbell on their arm. In her working capacity, of course.

Dymphna had never liked the better sort of man. Her father had been one of them: respected, well dressed, powerful. She would never knowingly take one of them as her man. But she would sit and smile with them, drink their champagne, and dance with them—if they could meet her not inconsiderable price.

It
was
inconsiderable to them. For even though the rest of the city—no, the rest of the country—starved and searched fruitlessly for work and slept in a humpy in a park, society’s finest could still squander their money however they saw fit.

The unemployed, they would say, were lazy. If they worked harder, they’d do as well as Mr. Harry Moneypants was doing, who’d earned his vast fortune by having the foresightedness of selecting rich parents, who had, in their time, also cleverly selected rich parents.

Dymphna despised them almost as much as they wanted her.

She enjoyed taking them to Glory’s club on William Street where the punters were not only charged an entrance fee, but also a steeply rising price depending on how good the table—the most expensive being close to the band, but not so close that you couldn’t speak to each other. They were charged to order a drink, charged to receive it, charged when the glass was taken away. All of that on top of the charge for the actual drink. There was a charge to enter the gentlemen’s room, to be given soap and a fresh towel, and then another charge to leave.

The biggest charge of all, however, was for being allowed to leave the club.

Woe betide those who couldn’t pay at any point in the proceedings. If they were lucky, they were set to washing dishes in the kitchens.

Yet not once did the stupid rich boys complain.

Well, if money was nothing to them, it was something to Glory and all her boys and girls. And they were more than happy to relieve them of it, thank you very much.

Glory and her kind were grateful to society folk, who reminded them of why they kept their lives outside the confines of the law. Any law that protected the interests of such lazy parasites was an ass.

KELPIE

Kelpie turned to look behind her. The street was thick with people, living and ghosts, as well as motor-cars and trucks and trams.

“Don’t look back,” Palmer said, his voice getting louder and more agitated. “Go on, tell her. That Neal Darcy’s been following her ever since she left the Hills. He’s not a danger, but she needs to know. But Snowy? Snowy worries me.”

Darcy was back there? Kelpie craned her neck. She couldn’t see him. Why would he be following them? Neal Darcy was at the brewery, working, not here. The Darcys needed the money too much for him to skip a day’s work. Mrs. Darcy would be ropeable if he took a day off. Kelpie wondered if the shock of being dead had pushed Palmer clean off his pannikin.

“Tell her! While you’re at it, ask her why she’s heading to Glory’s. She needs to be heading the other way.”

“Is something wrong, Kelpie?” Dymphna asked.

Kelpie shook her head then turned to look again. If Darcy was back there, she wanted to see him.

“I told you, don’t look!”

She wanted Palmer to shut up. His voice was getting louder, and his orders were jumbling together as his face darkened. She wished he’d disappear again.

“Kings Cross isn’t as dangerous as they say,” Dymphna said.

Kelpie hadn’t realised this was Kings Cross. She didn’t trust Dymphna’s idea of what was dangerous. They’d met over Palmer’s corpse. Besides, everyone knew Kings Cross was dangerous. Even during the day. Old Ma had said it was full of bad men and bad women, who’d snatch a tyke like her off the streets and sell her to the Chinamen as soon as look at her.

Kelpie hadn’t seen any Chinamen today. She mostly saw them at Paddy’s Market buying and selling fruit and veggies—not kids. Then there was Mr. Sung and his family, who owned the grocery shop on the corner of Foveaux and Riley. They always accepted her found pennies. She liked them. Especially Mrs. Sung. She never yelled at Kelpie.

Kelpie looked back again. But there were too many people and she was too short.

“I said don’t look,” Palmer said. “Tell her about Darcy and about Snowy. Ask her where the hell she’s going. What the hell is she doing?!”

“What are you looking at, Kelpie?” Dymphna asked.

“Never been in Kings Cross before.”

“It’s not a place for children.”

“Thought you said it wasn’t dangerous.”

“No, I said that …”

Kelpie didn’t hear the rest.

A man whistled at Dymphna. Palmer bristled. “Not a place for ladies neither,” he muttered, speeding up. Palmer punched the man full in the face with such force that he went sailing through him and several other people—including Dymphna, who barely shivered.

If Palmer was still alive, Kelpie figured the impact would’ve killed that bloke.

Dymphna quickened her pace. “It’s quieter on the other side of William Street,” she said, leading Kelpie across.

“Why are we in Darlinghurst?” Palmer asked. “She can’t be going to see Glory, can she? Does she want to die? Tell her to turn around and head to the fucking harbour. Jesus fucking wept!”

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dymphna asked, wiping her hands on the sides of her skirt. “Not long now, Kelp. Be quicker now we’re in Darlinghurst. Quieter too. More like the Hills around here.”

Kelpie’d never thought of the Hills as quiet before. Or peaceful. But now she knew they were.

“I wish that Snowy Fullerton could fucking see me,” Palmer said. “I’d give him an earful. Why’s he still following her, eh?”

This, Kelpie believed. But it made her nervous. Why
was
Snowy following them? Did he still want to take her to the orphanage? Snowy had lied to try to get her to go with him. She’d thought he’d never lie to her.

Snowy’d betrayed her.

Dymphna was exchanging greetings with a brightly painted woman in a shiny blue dress.

“I don’t like it,” Palmer said. “You know who Snowy works for. Killed me, didn’t he? She’s not thinking straight. She’s got two fellas following her, and she hasn’t even noticed them, let alone given them the slip. It’s like she
wants
to die.”

Kelpie was pretty sure Dymphna didn’t want that. She looked back again. But she couldn’t see Snowy or Darcy.

“I’d best get going,” Dymphna said.

“Grand to see you, love,” the woman said, kissing Dymphna’s cheek. “I’m just around the corner. Why not come and have a cuppa? Or something stiffer. I’m all set up. You’ll like it.”

“I’m in a hurry, Cait. Perhaps some other time.”

“Glory can wait,” the woman said. Her hand was on Dymphna’s arm. “It’s not far.” She pulled Dymphna towards a narrow lane.

Palmer tried to grab Cait from Dymphna and roared with rage when his hands went through her.

“Let go, Cait. I mean it.” Dymphna pulled away, dislodging Cait’s hand.

“Come on, Kelpie.” Dymphna sped up, Kelpie’s hand tight in hers.

Cait slipped in front of them. She was holding a knife. She was holding it so tight her hand shook. “There’s money in it for you, Dymph. Lots of money. Mr. Davidson will look after both of us. He’s just round the corner.”

“Don’t, Cait,” Dymphna began. “You know what Glory will do to you. It’s not worth it.”

Kelpie kicked Cait hard in the shin. The toe of Seamus’s shoe made a loud sound on impact. She followed up the kick with a hard punch to the solar plexus like Stuart O’Sullivan had taught her. Cait dropped the knife and screamed.

Dymphna ran. Faster than she should have been able to in those heels. Kelpie snatched up Cait’s knife and ran after her, grinning at the look on the woman’s face. Her heart was beating too fast, she could feel it in her ears. She risked another glance back. This time she saw Snowy. He was leaning over Cait.

Kelpie slipped Cait’s knife into Seamus Darcy’s coat pocket. If she’d been wearing her old coat, it would have fallen through to the ground. If she’d been barefoot like she usually was, kicking Cait would have been useless.

“Good work,” Palmer said. “Now tell her to get to the Quay.”

“She’s not following!” Kelpie called to Dymphna, who was half a block ahead of her.

Dymphna sprinted around the corner. Kelpie followed. They were running past terrace houses, each with the same iron lacework and brown tiled roof, identical down to the flowerpots on the sills and red lights in the windows.

Dymphna stopped outside the second-last one. There was nothing to distinguish this one either, not even a number. She bent over, panting, looking back the way they’d come. “Used to run all the time. Not as fast as I used to be.”

Kelpie thought she was plenty fast, especially wearing them shoes.

Dymphna straightened, patting her hair. “You ready?”

“She can’t be serious,” Palmer said. “She can’t be walking straight into the lion’s den.”

The front door opened and a man with a scarred face leaned out, holding on to the door. “That you, Miss Campbell?”

“Hello, Joe.”

“She’s expecting you.” Joe hopped from the front door to open the front gate. He only had one leg, and the scars on his face weren’t from a razor. He was one of the broken men from the last war that Old Ma used to take in and feed. Kelpie wondered if he was a screamer. Probably not. She couldn’t imagine Gloriana Nelson keeping someone around who jumped every time someone dropped a cup.

“I’ll be right in.” Dymphna bent to whisper in Kelpie’s ear. “If Glory asks you any questions, don’t tell her ‘Dunno.’ All right?”

Kelpie thought about saying
Dunno
to be cheeky. It was fine to be cheeky to ghosts who couldn’t do anything to you, much riskier with the living.

“I’ll be good, Dymphna. I’ll smoodge my way into her heart.”

Dymphna laughed and put her hand on Kelpie’s still-damp head. “Thank you.”

Glory Days