Razorhurst

KELPIE

Tommy was a talker and didn’t much like the other ghosts, so he was forever talking to Kelpie. That’s how she divided them up: talkers and silent ones. Most ghosts were silent. Most ignored the living. Kelpie thought that was just as well.

She wished Tommy was a silent one. She wished she hadn’t listened.

Most ghosts haunted a person or a place. Pimply Tommy had Belmore Lane. He didn’t like the word haunt because it implied he had a choice, but no matter how many times he tried, he could not leave. Tommy had been born in that lane, he had been killed in that lane, and that kept him there for eternity, looking at the backyards of houses and the rear entrances of warehouses and factories, unable to set foot in either.

It made him cantankerous and tricksy.

Barefoot again, eh? Tommy said, his voice cracking on the word barefoot. And this the coldest winter in forever.

Tommy’s world was so constrained he noticed all the changes. Because he was a ghost, he could see in the dark, and though he could not leave that all-too-small lane, he could hear and smell farther than a human. All ghosts could. Tommy knew everyone’s business.

Where your shoes?

Kelpie’d taken them off once she was sure Miss Lee had faded. Miss Lee was a ghost too.

Had been a ghost. She’d looked after Kelpie, which was why Kelpie’d worn shoes—to please her. They pinched Kelpie’s toes, and besides, the soles of her feet were tough as any shoe. Cold didn’t bother her as much as shoes did.

Here to see your boyfriend? Tommy asked. You do know every girl in the Hills is after that ugly mick, don’t you?

Neal Darcy was not ugly, and he was not her boyfriend. Though she was there to see him. She hadn’t once since Miss Lee had gone, and he’d promised he was going to show her how to use his typewriter. Her stomach growled.

Hungry, eh? Darcys’ ain’t got no food. Piles of apples in there, though. Tommy pointed at Mrs. Stone’s boarding house.

Mrs. Stone’s was not what Miss Lee would have called respectable. It was what Kelpie’s other living friend, Snowy, called dangerous. Hardly a one of the men who lived there didn’t have an L- or an X-shaped razor-etched scar on one side of his face. Hard men, Snowy called them. He’d know. You’d have to be mad to venture in uninvited.

Or invited, for that matter.

I never seen such shiny apples. Reckon they’re for that Gloriana Nelson’s party. Lot of her boys live at Mrs. Stone’s.

Kelpie wished her stomach were quiet. She would not listen to Tommy. Miss Lee never had. No one has ever lied as much as that young man, she’d told Kelpie. Just because sometimes he leads you to a meat pie. Well, a stopped clock is right twice a day.

Kelpie wished Tommy told the truth that often.

All you gotta do is climb in the back window. The one off that side.

Kelpie couldn’t help looking past Mrs. Stone’s fence, which sagged in the middle like an old horse. The window was open. A tattered curtain fluttering over the sill looked silver in the moonlight.

Back door’s always locked. Kitchen’s second door down past the room you’ll climb into. And there’s your apples. Dead shiny, they are.

Kelpie knew better than to go in. Apples or no apples.

She wasn’t even sure she remembered their taste. A bit sharp, a lot sweet. Or was that plums? Hadn’t had one of them since Old Ma was alive. They were softer, juicier. Apples were the hard ones. Like cricket balls. She felt the water enter her mouth.

Never seen so many apples, Tommy said.

Why do you want me to eat? Kelpie asked instead of walking on like she would have if Miss Lee hadn’t faded. They poison?

Tommy grinned.

If Miss Lee was still here, Kelpie wouldn’t be talking to him. She wouldn’t be hungry either. Miss Lee found food for her and safe places to sleep.

She’s gone now, ain’t she? You talking to me again and no shoes. No one’s looking out for you. He paused and then said, ’S not right. Almost as if he cared.

That should’ve been Kelpie’s warning. Tommy didn’t care about anything. If he wanted her to go into Mrs. Stone’s, it weren’t for any good reason.

Ghosts couldn’t hurt you directly. They couldn’t push you off a cliff, but they could lead you off one, if you were stupid enough to follow.

But Kelpie was hungry. Hard to think when you’re hungry. She had to scrounge food where she could, because Miss Lee was gone, because Snowy was still in gaol and no one else living looked out for her, because she had no money to pay for food, and because she couldn’t beg. Kids who begged got swept up by Welfare.

Tommy nodded at Mrs. Stone’s. Ain’t none of them home. Too early for that lot. And you know Mrs. Stone’s deaf as a post.

The sun wasn’t up. For the razor men, the standover men—all of that mob—their working day ended at noon. Didn’t start till after the sun went down.

I used to love me some apples.

Tommy kept showing teeth. Happy as a pig in shit, Old Ma would have said, with no approval at all.

Go on then. Tommy pointed at the gap in the collapsing grey fence, edged with splinters longer than Kelpie’s thigh. You’ll fit through easy. He leaned back, arms folded, all nonchalant like he owned the lane.

Kelpie was hungry.

She slipped through the gap, crept past the pile of bricks that was the dunny leaning against the fence. Smelled like the night-soil men had missed this one. She threaded her way past a broken curved-backed chair and a rusting bicycle without seat or handlebars or wheels. Weeds growing high between paving stones brushed the backs of her calves.

Kelpie tried the back door, not putting it past Tommy to make her enter through a window when she didn’t have to.

Locked.

She stood on her toes to look through the window. The dirty curtain brushed across her nose. An empty bedroom. Narrow unmade bed in the corner. A pile of clothes on top of suitcases and a side table covered with old newspapers, an overfull ashtray, and empty bottles. One was filled with desiccated brown flowers. Kelpie wondered at a razor man having flowers, even dead ones, and then hauled herself over the sill.

Outside she could hear the clip clop of horse and cart, the clatter of a truck down Foveaux Street, further away raised voices. The house creaked, settling in the wind. The place smelled damp and dank and dusty. She heard no movement inside the house.

Kelpie peered out the open door. The carpet along the corridor was so worn the floorboards peeked through. Near the front door empty hooks protruded from the wall. On an afternoon, they’d hold hats and coats. Behind her the back door’s bolt was thick and heavy.

As Kelpie crept along, a board groaned. She stilled. Listened hard.

Nothing.

Her skin tightened, as if her body heard something her ears didn’t. Kelpie could slip out the way she came. Go to Paddy’s Markets. There was sometimes fallen fruit and vegetables, provided she wasn’t run off before she could lay hands on any of it.

These apples were closer.

Kelpie went up on her toes, making herself lighter. She’d spent so long among ghosts she’d become almost as quiet.

Something smelled worse than damp. The closer she moved to the kitchen, the worse the smell grew.

The first door on her left was closed, but the second was open.

It wasn’t a kitchen. Tommy’d lied.

It was another bedroom.

A lady in a fancy blue suit with matching hat was leaning over a dead man on the bed. Her hands were shaking. She held a card. She handed it to Kelpie.

Mr. Davidson did it, she said. See?

Razorhurst

Nineteen twenty-eight had been a banner year for blood. Throughout the east of the city—Surry Hills, Darlinghurst, Woolloomooloo, Kings Cross, Paddington—blood flowed. Razors cut up faces, sliced off ears, opened up chests and bowels; went in through the eye, the ribs, the throat. They maimed, crippled, and killed.

Why razors?

Because they banned handguns at the beginning of the twenties, didn’t they? To keep them out of the hands of the Commies. To stop the much-promised revolution. The one that never came.

Not that banning guns made them go away, but it did mean if you was caught with one, they could arrest you without you even pulling the trigger. Catch you with a razor, and all you had to do was point to your none-too-smooth cheeks: Was gunna give meself a shave first thing, wasn’t I, constable? A very close shave. That’s why it’s so sharp, see?

The razor men became artists of the blade. Where was the artistry in squeezing a trigger? In the rough outlines of a bullet wound? Nowhere. Not like the L you could carve on a man’s face.

You didn’t have to kill your enemies. Just let them know you’d been there and weren’t never going away. That scar lived on a mug’s face for the rest of his life. He would always be marked, broken, less than.

Or not.

The hardest razor men had the biggest scars.

Get cut up like that? And live? Now there was a man.

Angry Carbone, Snowy Fullerton, Razor Tom, Jimmy Palmer, Bluey Denham. Real men with real scars and real razors.

Proud inhabitants of Greater Razorhurst. Dubbed so by Truth, a newspaper that never lied, in the bloody year of 1928—when Frog Hollow had only just been torn down, Old Ma was barely dead, and Kelpie was being raised by ghosts. Dymphna Campbell was beginning her first year in her chosen profession, and those gang bosses, Gloriana Nelson and Mr. Davidson, were crawling to the top of the bloody remains of Razorhurst and brokering the peace that still held.

And could well hold for a while longer on this cold winter morning in 1932.

Or not . . .

KELPIE

Kelpie didn’t look at the card between her fingers. She could feel it there, but she was staring at the red splashes on the walls, on the mirror of the wardrobe, across the two paintings. At the blood sliding down in thin rivulets. Her nostrils flared at the smell from the dead man, and she wished she could close them.

She did not see or smell apples.

She had to run. This was trouble. This would bring police, Welfare.

Her feet would not move.

That’s Mr. Davidson’s handwriting, the woman said, as if handwriting mattered while a man lay dead. Newly dead.

Kelpie knew who Mr. Davidson was: the boss of all the crime in the Hills and beyond, him and Gloriana Nelson. She ruled where he didn’t and vice versa. They did not like each other.

The man’s face was all cut up, his throat slashed open. Kelpie saw something white in the midst of all the red. The bones of his neck?

Kelpie couldn’t help touching her own throat.

Blood had soaked into the top of his trousers, his jacket, his shirt, the pillows under his head, the sheets. There was blood across the ashtray and magazines and books and empty glass on the bedside table. On the coats hanging from the hooks on the wall. Blood dripped from the dead man’s shoes hanging over the edge of the not-big-enough bed.

Kelpie wondered how his blood had hit the wall behind him. She tried not to imagine his body spinning.

She’d seen dead bodies before. But not like this. She needed to get away. Fast.

Why wasn’t she moving?

Davidson did this, the woman said. Her voice caught on his name. Do you understand? Look at the card.

His eyes were as open as his throat, staring up at the ceiling as if that’s where his killer was. Kelpie looked up.

The ceiling sagged, the plaster rose in the centre mostly gone, damp brown stains spreading out from where the rose had been, but no killer. No blood either. The splashes didn’t reach that high.

One of his hands lay palm up on the bed, scored with deep cuts. The other hung over the edge.

Can’t you read? the woman asked. Her voice was as posh as her clothes.

Kelpie blushed and looked at the card. There was blood on it, and neat handwriting:

For you, Dymph

That was when Kelpie knew who the woman was: Dymphna Campbell. She was famous in the Hills. Most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen.

Kelpie had never seen her this close. She was prettier, shinier, cleaner than Kelpie had imagined. The cold didn’t seem to affect her: Dymphna’s eyes weren’t red or running. Her blue suit was matched by her hat, by the small bag jutting out of her pocket, by the shoes on her feet. The silver watch on her wrist sparkled in the moonlight spilling through the window. Her hair was almost the same colour.

Kelpie half disbelieved Dymphna Campbell was real.

She didn’t have a drop of blood on her.

There was blood everywhere.

The card was on top of Jimmy. A warning for me.

Kelpie could hear Dymphna breathing. Dymphna worked for Glory Nelson. But the card was from Mr. Davidson. This was worse than trouble.

I thought he’d last longer, Dymphna said, her voice shaky, looking down at the body, one hand covering her nose. Now what? Shit. She glanced at the card in Kelpie’s hand, breathed in, and straightened, stepping away from the bed. Kelpie, isn’t it? Dymphna asked, as if they’d been introduced on the street, as if there wasn’t a dead man in the room.

Kelpie nodded without meeting her eyes, surprised Dymphna knew her name. She lowered her head, saw drops of blood by her feet. Everyone in the Hills called Dymphna Campbell the Angel of Death. All her boyfriends died. Not one had been with her longer than a few months.

Snowy told me, Dymphna said. I saw him give you peanuts.

My Snowy? Kelpie asked. Why wasn’t she running?

Snowy Fullerton.

Snowy was one of Mr. Davidson’s men. Why would he be talking to Dymphna, Glory’s best girl? Their people were not friendly with one another.

A jarring thud made them both look away from the dead man.

Shit, Dymphna said, grabbing Kelpie’s hand and pulling her from the room. Kelpie’s feet finally cooperated.

The thumping came from the front door.

Dymphna dragged her along the corridor, dropping Kelpie’s hand to pull at the bolt on the back door. It didn’t budge. She pulled harder, her knuckles going white.

The banging grew louder.

In here, Kelpie whispered. She shut the bedroom door behind them as wood splintered at the front of the house. The room looked different from this angle. The dead flowers cast a shadow the shape of a twisted hand.

The house shook.

Christ, Dymphna breathed. Sounds like they’ve ripped the door off. Not the cops. It can’t be the cops.

Kelpie swallowed. Cops. Cops meant Welfare. She pulled Dymphna towards the window, scrambling onto the sill and over, silent as she could.

Behind her Dymphna hitched her skirt up and slung a leg over, ducking her head.

A ghost appeared beside her. A big bloke with a scar on his cheek. Kelpie didn’t startle. She’d expected there to be ghosts. Most houses had at least one.

There’s worse things than cops, Dymphna love, the ghost said. He tried to pat her shoulder. His hand went straight through. He stared at it. Why does my skin look wrong?

As if she’d heard, Dymphna whispered, Though Davidson’s men are as bad as coppers.

Kelpie didn’t think so. Mostly the hard men left her alone. Coppers though . . .

Dymphna dropped to the backyard, breaking a flowerpot.

They both froze, crouched low beneath the sill. Kelpie crept to the gap in the fence, hoping Dymphna realised the noise from inside drowned out their pot shattering.

Dymphna, the ghost began.

Kelpie slid through the gap into Belmore Lane.

Dymphna turned sideways, fit one leg through, sucked her belly in, and pushed with both hands. She didn’t shift. But the wood groaned.

The ghost tried to pull one of the boards from the fence. When his hands went straight through, he bellowed.

Here, Dymphna said. Take my hat.

Kelpie took the small, blue-veiled thing that wouldn’t keep rain or sun out of your eyes. It looked like something you could eat.

Her arse is too big, Tommy said. She’s gunna break the fence.

He was leaning against the warehouse opposite, not grinning now, laughing. Good apples, eh? He slapped his thigh. "That was a corker. Don’t think I’ve ever done better. Heard the coppers coming, didn’t I? I seen her watching you, see? Plenty of times. Reckoned it might be fun to see what’d happen."

Kelpie ignored his stupid blather. If he weren’t already dead, she’d do for him herself. Not another word to the rat-featured little bastard, she vowed.

Tommy grinned widely. Looker, ain’t she? I never seen a chromo look as good as her. Most of them hard-faced sluts’d make a rat look good. She almost glows.

The other ghost shot Tommy a poisonous look and tried to help Dymphna. Kelpie was sure now that he was the dead man—what had Dymphna called him? He didn’t know he was dead yet.

Hard to imagine her killing anyone, Tommy said, though he was doing just that. She’s too pretty.

Kelpie wasn’t going to correct him. Whoever killed that bloke would be covered in blood. Not shiny clean like Dymphna Campbell. Kelpie put the hat down, grabbed Dymphna’s hands, and pulled, both feet braced against the kerb. Fabric tore.

Harder, Dymphna said. Don’t worry about the skirt.

Don’t hurt her! the ghost cried.

Leave the fat cow! Tommy yelled. Save yourself! He laughed harder. Pity you ain’t invisible, like us. Stupid breathers.

Kelpie heard metal on metal. Louder even than Tommy’s maniac laugh. The bolt on the back door. She strained so hard tendons stood out along her arms, so hard it felt like her eyes would pop.

Dymphna ripped through the fence, knocking Kelpie over. Kelpie scrambled out from under her and onto her feet. Dymphna grabbed Kelpie’s arm and used it to stand up. The back of her skirt was torn. She bent to pick up her squashed hat.

You have to stick with me, she whispered harshly in Kelpie’s ear, gripping harder as Kelpie tried to shake free.

Why did she have to stick with Dymphna? That dead man had nothing to do with her.

Dymphna staggered a few more steps away from Mrs. Stone’s. It was obvious she had no idea where to go.

Behind them Kelpie could hear shouting. They must’ve got the back door open.

They’ll kill us both, Dymphna said. We’re both in this.

No, they weren’t. It wasn’t Kelpie’s name on that card what’d been on a dead man’s chest.

Tommy snorted. Jeez, sounds like there’s an army after you! Don’t fancy your chances, Kelpie. Wonder where you’ll haunt. Right here on the lane with me? Won’t that be cosy?

This way, Kelpie said, Tommy’s comments deciding her. She pointed at the Darcy place. No one would be awake but Neal Darcy, and he’d be too focused on his writing. Let’s go.

Dymphna complied but kept a grip on Kelpie’s arm. Kelpie dragged them three doors up past leaning fences covered in choko vines that were still months away from fruiting.

Kelpie pushed the loose board aside and scrambled into the Darcys’ backyard on hands and knees, landing next to the dunny. Dymphna scraped through behind her. Kelpie turned to stop the board from swinging. They were both breathing too hard.

The ghost of Dymphna’s dead boyfriend appeared next to her. Cripes but he was a huge bugger.

It’s me, Dymph, he said. I know it’s all gone bung, but we can fix it.

His hands pawed uselessly at Dymphna’s side. Kelpie shuddered. She hated when ghosts touched her.

Why won’t you answer me, Dymphna?

Kelpie could hear men on the lane stomping and yelling.

I’m sure it’s the cops, Dymphna breathed. Her gloved hands shook. They weren’t shiny clean anymore.

Someone cleared his throat.

Kelpie turned to see Darcy sitting on the back steps, cigarette in hand, staring at Dymphna.

And who the fuck are you?

Miss Lee

Miss Lee had been dead wrong about Kelpie’s age when they first met. Not that she ever knew that.

Miss Lee had a heart as soft as bitumen on a stinking hot day and thought it a disgrace that Kelpie had been abandoned on the streets to fend for herself. What was the world coming to? The little girl was skeletal, dressed in rags, and all alone. When Miss Lee had discovered Kelpie could see ghosts, the little girl wasn’t even wearing shoes! Miss Lee had determined at once that she would find the poor child food, clothes, and shelter; she would protect her.

Miss Lee would have been even more shocked had she known that Kelpie was not a child. When they had met, Kelpie had been about to turn fifteen. Malnourishment had stunted her growth and prolonged her childhood. If you could call it a childhood, out on the streets, ignored by all but ghosts and that hardened standover, Snowy Fullerton.

But Miss Lee did not know how old Kelpie truly was. How could she when Kelpie herself had little idea? If she had, Miss Lee would have seen it as her duty to prepare Kelpie for womanhood. How would the child know what to do when her monthlies began? Kelpie knew nothing of what her body had in store for her. Miss Lee would have taught her.

Miss Lee liked to teach. It had been both her profession and her vocation.

Kelpie was grateful to have found Miss Lee, for the prim ghost had the run of the Hills. Miss Lee was one of the few talkers who could move around. She spent her time going from house to house looking for open books or, best of all, someone reading.

Could be looking at anything, Tommy grumbled. "Anything. A picture show. Could go to one of Glory Nelson’s houses. Watch them girls. I’d like to see that."

Miss Lee ignored Tommy, something Kelpie all too often failed to do.

Can’t turn the pages, Miss Lee explained. Have to peer over their shoulders and hope they don’t put the book down right when it gets exciting.

It was spring when they met. The first hot day. Miss Lee had been so thrilled to find someone alive who could see her that she’d urged Kelpie all the way to the public library. Kelpie had let herself be bullied because she liked Miss Lee. She was enthusiastic. All most talkers did was complain or be mean.

Not Miss Lee.

Besides, a ghost who could travel without haunting someone was a novelty.

Kelpie had had to sneak past the woman at the front desk. Kids weren’t allowed, and even if they had been, it was school time—still a few more weeks before they were released for the summer. The librarians would have handed her to Welfare if they’d caught her.

She’d never been inside a library before. It was dark, full of dust, and echoingly quiet, but it wasn’t damp, and nothing was rotting.

Over here, Miss Lee yelled. "Get down Great Expectations. She clapped her hands. Finally. Died less than halfway through, didn’t I?"

Kelpie reached for where Miss Lee was pointing. She wasn’t quite tall enough. She pulled out a big volume from the bottom shelf and stood on it.

Oh no, not on a book!

Won’t hurt it, Kelpie said, quiet as she could. It’s thick as a brick. Which one d’you want? This one?

"Great Expectations."

Kelpie slid a red volume from the shelf.

"No, no. Didn’t you hear me? Great Expectations. The one next to it. Oh, Miss Lee said. You can’t read, can you?"

Kelpie’s face got hot. Miss Lee thought she was stupid. She wasn’t. She wasn’t!

Kelpie ran.

Bolted out of the aisle of books, past the librarian with her mouth wide open, and onto the footpath, almost knocking over a pedlar’s wheelbarrow full of several-days-old fruit and veg most likely scrounged from the ground at the markets. She ran hard and fast until she pulled up in Moore Park, scrambling up the nearest fig tree.

Miss Lee appeared beside her, and Kelpie was less charmed by her ability to go wherever she wanted. She screamed at her to Bloody bugger off!

Miss Lee disappeared. That sudden vanish all ghosts could do that never stopped making Kelpie’s skin crawl.

Though worse was the slow fade. Because then they never came back.

Next morning Kelpie woke to Miss Lee whispering in her ear. Kelpie had kipped down in what had been Frog Hollow, inside a broken packing crate on a pile of discarded fabric, wishing Old Ma was back.

Miss Lee whispered a story about a selfish giant. Kelpie pretended to be asleep until she was finished. When she opened her eyes, Miss Lee was smiling.

I’ll teach you to read, she said. It’s easy.

DYMPHNA

Dymphna Campbell smiled at the handsome young man smoking on the back steps. She held a finger to her lips, curving them as charmingly as she could, meeting his eyes, willing him not to betray them, trying to slow her breath, the beating of her heart, all while the ghost of Jimmy Palmer begged her to stop ignoring him.

Please, she whispered to the young man, who almost smiled back at her.

Jimmy Palmer dead. Jimmy Palmer a ghost.

Dymphna did not glance his way. She kept her eyes on the young man. Watching him watching her.

She had plenty of practice not looking at ghosts. Most of her life she’d concealed her ability to see and hear them. Unlike Kelpie she knew ghosts could drive you mad.

She could even ignore a ghost like Jimmy—a man she’d known, a man she’d tried to love—while he loomed over her, taller than a house, stronger than an ox; big, Jesus, he was big. Take two of that young man to approach the size of Jimmy Palmer. Though the boy was much prettier.

Jimmy waved his hand back and forth in front of her face. Dymphna didn’t blink.

He tried to put his arms around her. They slid through as if he were separating Dymphna’s body from her soul. She didn’t shudder, though it made her guts quail. She was already quailing—huge Jimmy Palmer, robbed of heft, light and airy as any ghost half his size.

Much harder than not looking at him was not asking him what had happened. How did Mr. Davidson know they were going to kill him and take over Razorhurst? Who else knew?

How did he get to Jimmy first? Was Mr. Davidson going to kill her too? Did Gloriana know? If Glory knew that Dymphna and Jimmy had been planning to take over from her, then Dymphna was twice dead and would end her days haunting the bottom of the harbour.

Between Mr. Davidson, Glory, and the coppers, Dymphna couldn’t see a way out.

But at least her blood was still inside her, not like Jimmy Palmer. Walking in on him like that . . . she wasn’t going to forget it any time soon. So much blood. Almost as much as . . .

Dymphna gulped.

If she’d arrived a little earlier, would she be dead too? Had she missed death a second time?

How had Mr. Davidson found out about their plans? There was no one to tell him. Jimmy and Dymphna had kept it all to themselves. But he would not have had Jimmy killed without knowing for sure. For more than three years now, Gloriana and Mr. Davidson had respected the truce. Each sticking to their own slice of Razorhurst. None of their men going after each other except when it was personal. It would take something big for Mr. Davidson to break the truce. Something as big