Razorhurst (42 page)

DYMPHNA

Dymphna nudged Glory to look in Bluey’s direction. Everyone along the street was slinking into their houses or flattening themselves against a fence—anything not to be in Bluey’s path. Neal and two other men slipped into a house three doors up.

Bluey strode with the urgency of someone who wanted to kill. Dymphna prayed he hadn’t seen Neal.

“Well, shit,” Glory said.

Inspector Ferguson turned. “I take it Bluey Denham’s another interested party?”

Dymphna felt an urge to laugh. She would not have credited the inspector with a sense of humour.

“You could say that,” Glory said.

“Bluey’s yours, isn’t he, Glory?” the inspector said. “Can you call him to heel?”

“I can try, but he’s a bit cranky today. Ropeable, even. There was a bullet in his shoulder.”

Dymphna wondered at Glory admitting that. The inspector had to know it was the dead constable who put it there. Perhaps Glory had decided to cut her losses. That Bluey Denham was no longer worth the chaos and death that followed in his wake. Dymphna hoped so.

“I can get him plenty of rope,” the inspector said. “If he killed Constable Lewis, he’ll hang. Either way, he’ll be in gaol a good few years for carrying that banned weapon.”

“He might, at that, but I suspect he’s planning to go down fighting, taking as many of us with him as he can, which would be”—Glory paused—“unfortunate. Maybe I should have a word with him first?” She started walking down the street towards Bluey without waiting for the inspector’s permission.

The inspector told one of his constables to go with her.

“No,” Glory said. “Not wise.”

The constable looked back at his boss, who gestured for the constable to stop.

Dymphna felt the skin prickle along her back.

“Will he kill her?” Kelpie whispered.

Dymphna shook her head. But what she really meant was that she hoped not. If Bluey shot Glory, then no one was safe. Glory was the only person alive he’d ever paid heed to.

Dymphna took a few steps away, pulling Kelpie with her, glad to have the inspector and his two constables between them and Bluey Denham. The inspector signalled to his men in the paddy wagon. She wondered if it was one of the motor-cars with a radio in it. She hoped so. For once in her life, she would be glad to see more police.

Glory stopped in front of Bluey. He didn’t lower the shotgun, but he did stop.

Whatever they were saying was impossible to hear.

Snowy’s hand was on the inside of his coat. Dymphna doubted he had a gun. But a razor should be enough to do Bluey. The damaged shoulder undid the advantage of a shotgun.

“Hope you’re not thinking of disappearing, Dymphna,” Inspector Ferguson said.

“Of course not, Inspector.”

She was, though.

Bluey raised the gun. Glory was yelling at him. He fired it over their heads and let out a scream. The kick must have been too much for him with his buggered shoulder.

Shoulder or not, Bluey was lifting the shotgun again. Double-barrelled—he had another shot.

The inspector and constables were running towards Bluey and Glory.

Dymphna tugged Kelpie into motion, and they took off in the opposite direction. Dymphna heard someone running behind them, but she didn’t look back. They’d turn at Riley Street. Or … Christ, where was there to hide around here?

“This way,” Kelpie said. “There’s a lane.”

Behind them the footsteps were getting closer.

“It’s me!” a man shouted.

Dymphna turned. It was Neal.

A motor-car pulled up ahead of them. Two men jumped out. Mr. Davidson’s men. Kelpie wheeled around. Neal almost ran into Dymphna. They started back the way they’d come, but Snowy stood there with a razor in his hands.

“We can still—” Neal began.

Mr. Davidson leaned slightly out of the window. “You’ll join me
now, won’t you, lovely Angel of Death? Your two friends are most welcome.”

Snowy walked forward and opened the back door. There were two glossy, long, black leather seats facing each other. Nothing but the best for Mr. Davidson. He sat on the one facing forward, his legs crossed, revealing shoes as glossy as his car.

Opposite him sat the ghost of a well-dressed young woman, her clothes only a year or two out of date.

“We’re not getting in,” Dymphna said.

“I think you are, Dymphna darling,” Mr. Davidson said, patting the seat where the beautiful ghost sat. “Plenty of room. I think Inspector Ferguson was quite likely to arrest you. You have been awfully close to rather a lot of violence, haven’t you? Not only today, either. Consider me your guardian angel.”

“If we go with you, I’ll see even more violence.” Dymphna turned to walk past Snowy. “Come on, Kelpie.”

Snowy blocked her path, putting his hands up so his razor was in the air. “Mr. Davidson won’t hurt you.” He lowered his voice. “I’ll see to it.”

“What about Big Bill?” Dymphna asked. “He was all set to hurt us.”

“That had nothing to do with me—” Snowy began.

“We’ll go with Snowy,” Kelpie said.

Dymphna felt her heart speed up. “No.”

“I trust Snowy. He’s always looked out for me. Coppers will hand me to Welfare. Snowy won’t do that.”

“I won’t.”

“You won’t let that man hurt us?”

“I promise,” Snowy said. “On my life.”

Dymphna thought about arguing, but Kelpie’s face was set. Walking away meant walking away from Kelpie. She couldn’t do it. “Neal, you can go now. This is not your business.”

“I’m staying with you.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Davidson, who’d stepped out of the motor-car. “I think your young man would do much better joining us, rather than, say, having any sort of conversation with the police.”

He slid back into his vehicle. Snowy pocketed his razor.

Dymphna looked down at Kelpie. “Are you sure?”

Kelpie nodded.

Dymphna slid across the leather upholstery, holding her breath as she moved through the beautiful ghost, and over to the far window.
Kelpie sat beside her, barely shuddering at her contact with the ghost, and Neal slid in after. Snowy climbed in beside Mr. Davidson and shut the door.

Jimmy slid through Mr. Davidson to sit between him and Snowy. “I’ve got a bad feeling.”

The beautiful ghost smiled. “You should do. Mr. Davidson blew my head off in here. Couldn’t even clean all the bits of my brain from the creases in the lovely leather. Had to have all the leather replaced. Any other man would have bought a new car.”

“Thought he didn’t like doing his own dirty work?”

“He made an exception for me. Nasty temper, that one.”

“You’re Annie Darling, aren’t you?” Jimmy asked.

“You’re one of the Angel here’s dead men, aren’t you, Jimmy Palmer?”

Both ghosts laughed.

Dymphna felt sick. She knew about Annie Darling: she’d been the most expensive chromo in the city, Mr. Davidson’s best girl. The city’s too. Dymphna had never seen her up close, but she’d admired Annie’s style. She disappeared not too long after Dymphna went to work for Glory.

For the first time that day, she truly believed that she was going to die.

“Nothing but bad feelings for everyone from here on out is what I reckon,” Annie told Jimmy, who agreed. “Nothing feels good about being shot in the head. It is quick, though. I’ll give it that. As I’m sure they’ll all find out soon enough.”

“If he doesn’t have them razored. That weren’t quick.”

Mr. Davidson leaned forward to tap the glass between them and the driver. The motor-car drove away.

Behind them Dymphna heard a shotgun blast. Then sirens.

Perhaps, if she survived this, there would be no Razorhurst for anyone to rule over.

Family

Dymphna had loved her mother. She had loved her sisters too. Twins they were, Vera and Una.

Her father was another matter. She never spoke of him. She hardly ever thought about him. He was in the closed-off part of her mind. The part she’d bolted and nailed shut and locked and thrown away the key.

Her mother taught her how to sew and cook and balance accounts. Her mother made little sugar biscuits with a lattice pattern of icing on top. They melted in your mouth like butter. Her mother’s garden was arranged around the house to attract as many butterflies as possible. Her mother loved butterflies, even though they came from caterpillars that ate up her vegetable patch.

Dymphna taught Vera and Una to dance. Barely three years old and twirling around the garden with flowers in their hair. She taught them every song she knew. But they loved the kookaburra song best.

When Dymphna thought of her home, she thought of the sea of flowers surrounding the house, making the other homes in the street seem far away. The sound of birds singing. The scent of honeysuckle and roses and her mother’s cooking.

She did not think of the violence. She did not think of the way it had ended. Or of her running away.

In her memories, her mother and sisters were still alive.

In her memories, her father was buried long ago and far away, and no one remembered his name.

KELPIE