Razorhurst (15 page)

Kelpie didn’t see why Dymphna liked her or why she wanted to look after her. Dymphna was like a creature from a different world. A cleaner, shinier place. Neal Darcy hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her, and Darcy wasn’t easily impressed. Dymphna’d been looking at him too.

Palmer walked beside Dymphna, and his greyness made her colours more vivid: she was all blues and golds and creams. It felt good to be near someone that beautiful, as if somehow her magic could rub off on Kelpie. She would love a world where Dymphna and Darcy were together and looked after her. But this wasn’t that world. Dymphna’s magic got people killed. She was the Angel of Death, wasn’t she?

Palmer reached out to touch Dymphna’s hair. His hand went straight through. “Don’t you think she’s gorgeous? She glows.” He sighed and then turned to Kelpie, all the softness gone from his face. “You can tell her about Mr. Davidson and Snowy soon. We’re almost at her place.”

Dymphna patted Kelpie’s head as if she hadn’t just stopped her from running away. “Why does no one look after you? Where are your people? Are they all dead?”

“Dunno.” Why did it matter? Dymphna of all people knew that everyone dies.

“I want to help you. I’m not …” Dymphna trailed off. Kelpie could feel her looking at her. “I know things that … I can help you. Really help you in ways no one else can. You need me. I know you don’t believe it, but you do. I could look after you—if you want. You could be my little sister. I’d get you decent clothes. Pretty clothes from David Jones. You’d always have a safe place to sleep. What do you think?”

“Orright,” Kelpie said, though she still planned to scarper and didn’t see how Dymphna could guarantee a safe place to sleep for herself, let alone anyone else, what with two gangsters and the police after her.

“Good.” Dymphna gave her a little squeeze. “Your parents are dead, aren’t they?”

“Are they ghosts like me?” Palmer asked.

“Dunno.”

Dymphna snorted. “Liar.”

Standover Man

Not all the standovers were like Snowy Fullerton or Jimmy Palmer, working for someone like Gloriana Nelson or Mr. Davidson. Some worked for themselves, leaning on individuals rather than a whole establishment.

Stanley Leatherbarrow was one such. It was admittedly a name that did not evoke a hard man—it would have been better suited to an accountant. But Stan was hard indeed. Also strong and fast and persistent.

Also polite.

His usual method was to go up to the person he suspected of having money. Usually bookies, but he also put the touch on the florist at Taylor Square and the elderly sisters Smith in the mansion next to Old Man O’Reilly’s. He would smile, make conversation about the weather, and then he would observe that they seemed to be a bit off balance, and perhaps it was the weight of their wallets weighing them down. He would then offer to relieve them of part of their burden. His target would comply, knowing that Stan did not go anywhere without brass knuckles in his right-hand pocket and a razor in his left.

But knowing, too, that he was most reluctant to use them.
Blood is the last resort
, he would always say mournfully, shaking his head.

Until the day pale-eyed Bluey Denham walked into Molly’s Flowers on Taylor Square and demanded five pounds. The girl didn’t hear the actual amount, but she knew who he was and handed over ten pounds quicker than blinking.

Then she sent a boy out to find Stan, which the boy did. Then Stan found Bluey. At which point, well, no one knows what happened after that except that Stan disappeared.

Stan’s four bookies and one florist—but not the Smith sisters; for some reason Bluey didn’t know about them—were now paying Bluey—guessing as to the amount because no one wanted to get close enough to actually hear what he said. Bluey was acting on his own, and he kept the lot, until Glory found out and penalised him with unconsciousness—courtesy of a conk to the head—at which
point he commenced handing over the 70 percent that he should have been passing to her since day one of his takeover.

That was the standover ecosystem: they took from you until someone put them out of the taking business, at which point you gave to the new standover. Every so often the powers that be—Glory or Mr. Davidson or whoever was the current monarch of Razorhurst—co-opted the independent standovers or put them out of business, at which point the take went up. Usually the big bosses’ protection lasted longer than the independent standovers. You lost more money, but you had less headaches.

What Stan’s targets minded most was not so much the money—they’d lived in the Hills all their lives, they expected to pay such local taxes—but that Stan had been a gentleman. Why, half the time he’d stood them a pint out of the money he extorted. So at least they got a small part of it back.

Bluey’d never bought anyone anything in his entire life.

DYMPHNA

Dymphna led Kelpie into her apartment building. A thicket of flowers crowded the lobby. White lilies among them. The perfume was overpowering.

“Mr. Davidson,” Raymond the day doorman said in lieu of good morning. “Bit more of them than usual.” He handed her the card.

Flowers for my flower

“Those are funeral flowers,” Jimmy said. “The bastard.”

“Cops been looking for you,” Ray said. “And two of Davidson’s men.”

Dymphna didn’t say
shit
out loud. She didn’t want him to see how rattled she was. Ray was one of Glory’s. As was everyone who worked in this building. Most of the tenants were too. Glory owned the entire building with the exception of only one or two flats. It was the first of her legitimate holdings.

“Thanks, Ray,” Dymphna said, pointing her chin towards the stairs.

“No one there now. But I reckon they’d be watching the building. They’ll be here soon.” He nodded at the flowers. “Send them to St. Vinnie’s?”

“Find a funeral for them.”

She’d made it this far without Mr. Davidson, or one of his men, or one of Glory’s men, or the coppers snatching her.

She couldn’t help but look behind her. No coppers stormed the entrance. Instead Jimmy stood amongst the flowers, shaking his head.

Less than twelve hours since she’d seen him alive. Less than twelve hours since they’d been preparing to make themselves King and Queen of Razorhurst.

“If anyone else shows up, you’ll ring me, won’t you?”

“If they let me. Couldn’t have earlier. One stayed in the lobby and give me the devil’s eye when I reached for this ’phone here.”

“I understand.” She hoped Ray didn’t notice her hands shaking. “Thanks.”

“Who’s the kid?”

Dymphna patted Kelpie’s head. “My nephew.”

“Looks like a girl.”

Dymphna half expected to
find her door ripped from the hinges. It wasn’t. She led Kelpie in then closed it, locked it, pocketed the key, and drew the bolt across for extra security. The bolt was Gloriana Nelson’s idea.

She leaned there a moment, catching her breath, looking around. She didn’t think anyone had come in. Nothing looked disturbed.

Dymphna’s heart beat too fast, sending blood to pound in her temples.

Jimmy was badgering Kelpie to tell her about Snowy. Kelpie hissed at him.

Jimmy hadn’t been much of a talker when he was alive. He’d been more like that Neal Darcy, though nowhere near as handsome.

She’d never get used to how much some of them changed between breathing and being a ghost. Or how much some of them stayed exactly the same. Her father being the worst. She shook her head, pushing the thought of him far away.

Dymphna slipped her jacket off and went to hang it on the coat rack. She missed. Tried again. Missed again. The tremor that had been in her legs was now in her hands. She concentrated on stilling them, hung her coat properly, and thought about how to get everything she needed without Kelpie seeing.

Her hands started shaking again.

“You see?” Jimmy said. “She’s shaking.”

Trust bloody Jimmy to haunt her. None of her other dead boyfriends had. Why couldn’t he not have been a ghost? Or haunted where he fell? Or where he was born? Or any damn place as long as it was far from her.

“It’s dead nice,” Kelpie said, looking around.

“Thanks.”

Dymphna
was
proud of her place. She’d removed herself from living in one of Glory’s houses within months. None of the other girls had managed that. They were still stuck living in a brothel while Dymphna owned her own flat in Kings Cross with built-in wardrobes in the bedroom, an indoor toilet, and water that flowed from the taps clear and odourless. She was not stuck in a rat-infested hole in the Hills.

Like where Jimmy had died. Not that it mattered if you died somewhere squalid. The point was to put off dying for as long as possible.

She had to focus, grab what she needed, ring up Glory.

“Tell her now,” Jimmy said to Kelpie. “About Mr. Davidson. About Snowy. Why’s she even here? Ask her. Tell her to get a move on. Coppers were here before. They’ll be back. Tell her!”

Kelpie looked away.

Dymphna’s hands were still shaking. She hadn’t decided where to go. Jimmy was right. She wasn’t moving fast enough. She
had
to calm herself.

“There’s two rooms and my own telephone,” Dymphna said, pointing with pride at the telephone resting on the hall stand, which had a cord so long she could talk on it while sitting on her chaise lounge. She should be using it right this second to ’phone Glory.

She didn’t know why she was telling Kelpie any of this. It was like the words were shaking out of her to match the tremors in her hands.

But the girl’s eyes widened at the ’phone. Perhaps that was why. To impress Kelpie. Next she’d be boasting about having her own bathroom and toilet to a girl who, as far as Dymphna knew, had never lived indoors. A broken shack in the remains of Frog Hollow would impress Kelpie. Dymphna’s kitchen, with its two burners, sink, icebox, and cupboard against the wall, would seem grand as Buckingham Palace.

It seemed that way to Dymphna too. Her own place! It was almost brand new, and no one had died during construction, which meant no ghosts to speak of.