Razorhurst (40 page)

The room was thick with cigarette smoke. A few more hours and it would almost obscure the swirling mass of ghosts.

All the men were in tuxedos. Aside from Glory’s men, there were lawyers, respectable businessmen, three senior coppers, two politicians, a judge, and a mining magnate. The tuxedoed men who had never paid for Dymphna’s time were uninterested in women.

Glory’s waiters weaved their way through the crowd with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres.

Dymphna wished this was one of Glory’s girls’ parties. No men of any kind, not even standover boys. Those were always the best. Parties of friends. Even when Dazzle was there.

This party was almost all men. Of the worst kind. Old society men. Not that their sons were much better. But at least some of them were pretty.

Dazzle was playing the piano. Lettie turned the pages for her with one hand, playfully fending off one of the respectable businessmen with the other. She winked at Dymphna and gave Kelpie a cheerful wave.

Dymphna couldn’t help noting, once again, that it was the society men who were free to venture into the dragon’s lair, the den of iniquity. Society women almost never attended Glory’s parties, and when they did, it was the beginning of the end. The sure sign that they were losing their grip on the upper echelons and sliding into a far less salubrious life. Only men could cross between the worlds and return unscathed.

There were a few of Glory’s old mates from back in the day, their hair as gaudily dyed as her own. Some with husbands, some not. Those not seemed particularly keen on toasting Glory’s excellent judgement in finally getting rid of that parasite Bill. “Changes your life, it does, getting rid of your husband. Haven’t had a shiner in years,” Peggy O’Hara told her.

The woman in question had painted her legs brown to make it appear that she was wearing stockings. It had been many years since the dress she wore was new. It dripped with deteriorating lace, too many layers, all of it concealing corsetry so tight it creaked. No
one had dressed like that since before the war. She wore no jewels, having likely hocked even her paste jewellery.

This was how most of the girls wound up. It was only Glory’s generous heart that let an old chromo like Peggy attend her parties. The old girl was painfully aware of it too. The sight of her made Dymphna cringe. She knew Peggy’s was the more likely trajectory for her kind than Glory’s riches.

Dymphna would not allow that to happen. She forced herself to give Peggy a hug, though she was none too clean and smelled like bad gin.

“Who’s the wee one?” Peggy asked.

“This is Kelpie, my niece. I’ll be looking after her from now on.”

Peggy drew a breath and lowered her voice. “Did the poor thing’s mother pass?”

“She did.”

“Oh, I know what that’s like. Me old mam died before I was ten. Never recovered. None of us have. Well, those of us what’s alive. I had six brothers and four sisters once.” Peggy sniffed. “What about you, little one? How many brothers and sisters have you got?”

Kelpie didn’t respond.

“She’s shy,” Dymphna said as the judge pinched her arse. It hurt, but she didn’t flinch. She turned to him smoothly and said, “How are you, Your Honour?”

He slid his arm around her waist and squeezed hard. “Very well, my dear, and you are as beautiful as ever.”

He was not. He reminded Dymphna of nothing so much as a warthog. She wished men of this kind spent their time killing each other at the rate that the men from her world did. Or that she could set Bluey loose on the lot of them.

For half a second she saw the room splattered with wide arcs of blood. Dripping down the walls. Red, still many hours from turning brown. She tried to imagine how much blood there’d be if she took a razor to each and every one of their throats. The blood from Jimmy Palmer had splattered across three walls.

Jimmy had shown her his razor. Taught her how to hold it. How to wield it if she had to. Had given her one of her own. She kept it in her handbag just in case. She’d never had to use it. Not even to talk a bloke down. Dymphna had been lucky with her customers, not a one had ever smacked her around. Though many had wanted her to hurt them. That was fine. That was easy.

This was not.

She did not want to talk to these men.

They weren’t all bad. The butcher smiled at her. He was a decent man. Even though he had butcher shops all across the city and was richer than he’d ever dreamed. He was still a butcher, and he did not forget it. He was one of those who turned to women like her because his wife was an invalid. Not all these men were terrible. Just the truly powerful ones. And the Mr. Davidsons of the world, who golfed and lunched with these men. They recognised each other, smelled the corruption, smiled. Dymphna wanted to be teaching Kelpie and spending time with Neal. She didn’t know much about him. Neal Darcy had no reputation. She hadn’t known he existed until she saw him sitting on his back steps smoking a cigarette.

She’d heard all about all her boyfriends long before she met them. Knew who they worked for, who they’d killed, who they’d robbed, how long they’d been in gaol, how they’d received most of the scars on their faces, who their previous girl was. They went after her because they knew who she was, what having Dymphna Campbell as their woman meant: Glory’s best girl was only ever with the toughest man in Razorhurst.

Maybe one day, they all figured, she’d find one tough enough to stay alive. Maybe
they
would be that bloke.

Every time one of them died, another one stepped up. As if being with Dymphna was the official trophy for their masculine domination of the worst parts of the city.

But they were also her protectors. When she didn’t have a man, she was propositioned by all comers. Her arse was pinched. Her breasts fondled. She was their prize, but they warded off all the other hard men. It was a fair deal.

Neal wasn’t like that. He wasn’t tough. He wasn’t scarred. He’d never killed anyone. He was never likely to kill anyone. He didn’t even want to hurt anyone. At least, she didn’t think so. He could have taken several shots at Bluey and hadn’t taken a one.

Their kisses had been soft, lingering, the sensation travelling from her lips to her toes, making her face warm, her heart speed up. Bad-men kisses were bruising. Their lovemaking fast. As if the violence of their lives left them with no other way of being. They did everything that way: fast and brutal.

Then they were dead.

She couldn’t be with Neal. He couldn’t protect her. He couldn’t
protect himself. She couldn’t protect him. He’d be dead quicker than Jimmy.

Little Stuey Keating slipped
into the room and lingered at the doorway, contorting his face at Glory.

“One moment, sirs,” Glory said to the tuxedoed men.

Dymphna pretended to sip at her champagne but drank nothing, her hand in Kelpie’s. She tried to force herself not to look across at Stuey and Glory. Whatever it was, they’d deal with it. Glory was smart and well armed. The house was surrounded by her men. Nothing could happen here.

Dazzle and Lettie looked up from the piano.

Glory patted Stuey on the shoulder, then walked over and whispered to Lettie. Dazzle quickened the tempo of her song, while Lettie went to the judge and asked him to dance. Four other couples formed and began hauling themselves around the floor. Peggy and the butcher were particularly enthusiastic.

Dymphna declined a lawyer’s invitation to dance. “Perhaps later.”

Glory leaned in to whisper in Dymphna’s ear, “Inspector Ferguson is outside. He wants to talk to you. He’s threatening to raid the house despite all the exalted persons in our midst.”

Dymphna pretended to take another sip of her champagne. “Can we get out the back way?”

Glory shook her head. “I can hide you upstairs.”

“Hide?” Dymphna said, louder than she intended.

Kelpie squeezed Dymphna’s hand. Dymphna couldn’t help agreeing. Bad enough hiding in places not infested with ghosts. She was not going to hide again.

If they arrested her, Glory would pay her bail. It would not be so bad. She would not wind up in gaol. They couldn’t charge her with prostitution. This was not a brothel; it was Glory’s home. No one here had paid for Dymphna’s services. Not recently. Nor could they charge her over Jimmy or the constable. She hadn’t killed either one, and besides, the constable’s body had been disposed of.

Not that the police were above charging an innocent. But she was sure they couldn’t make anything stick. Not this time.

Dymphna bent to Kelpie’s ear. “I don’t want Jimmy to know that I can see him. Don’t give me away.”

Kelpie gave a little nod.

“Next time we come here,” Dymphna whispered, “if there’s no avoiding it, you’ll know more. It won’t be so bad. You can learn to ignore them. I promise.”

She stood and smiled at Glory. “We’ll talk to the inspector.”

“You’re sure, love?” Glory asked, squeezing her arm.

Dymphna wasn’t, but she had no idea what else to do.

When They Died

All four of them had thought about what would happen to them when they died.

Neal Darcy dreamed of having written the great Australian novel. Many of them, in fact. When he died, he wanted to be an old man of letters, to have travelled the world, to have married a woman like Dymphna Campbell, strong and smart, and for them to have had children of their own. Three or four would be plenty. He wanted to have seen all his brothers and sisters find their own successes and have families of their own. He dreamed of having long since ended his mother’s long, hard days of constant drudgery. When he died he wanted his obituary in the paper, three columns wide, with the headline
FAMOUS LOCAL AUTHOR DIES
. There’d be a huge funeral at St. Mary’s, with so many flowers they overflowed onto the street.

Snowy Fullerton hoped to die an old man in his bed. But most days this hope was not strong. Mostly he kept his dreams smaller: to be buried in a plot with his name on the gravestone, leaving someone behind to mourn him. He hated the idea of a pauper’s grave, but even that would be better than a concrete-booted plunge into the harbour. Being a practical sort, however, he didn’t expect it would much bother him how his body was disposed of, what with being dead and all. Snowy did not believe in the afterlife.

Kelpie didn’t care about funerals, or graves, or people remembering her; all she cared about was being the right kind of ghost. She wanted to be like Miss Lee, free to roam. Or even Jimmy Palmer or Tommy. If she had to be a ghost, she wanted to know who she was, to remember having been alive. She wanted to find one of the living, like herself, like Dymphna, and help them as she had been helped. She did not want to be stuck on the one narrow lane, or tram, or motor-car, or stuck haunting a person who could not feel, or hear, or see her. Most fervently she did not want to be trapped in a grey, swirling mass of ghosts. Kelpie would rather pass straight from death to oblivion.

Dymphna Campbell did not want to die. Did not want to think about dying. Did not want to be a ghost. Did not want to go to heaven, or hell, or the void, or nowhere at all. Dymphna Campbell did not want to ever not be.

KELPIE